Original Submissions of type 'Stories'

The Story of Muk Utep by Belenos
Added on Dec 4, 2012

c.400 -- A hitherto unkown warrior named Muk Utep sacks the twelve tribes at Gol Krathu with an army of terrible barbarians out of the northwest. The tribes called the Elves of Mallok and the Twin Warlocks are among the conquered. The city-state of Tuluk begins to rise under Utep the Sun King.

"There is something depressing about the ending of these battles," Muk Utep
thought as he stared out over the canyon below. Thin trails of smoke curled
up from the ashen remains of numerous fires as a couple of physicians worked
their way through fallen warriors. Muk crossed his arms and let out a slow
sigh as he surveyed the ruins of the battle scene before him. "How many times
has this played out before?" Muk thought as a hot desert breeze stirred up the
sand beneath his feet.

Muk was a large man. Near eight feet from head to toe, he stood well above
most men. With a musculature borne of a lifetime of battling, Muk was easily the
most impressive warrior on any battlefield. His thickly braided hair shone
with the color of a Zalathan sunset, a deep crimson not dissimilar to the
blood he had spilled so many times during battle. Crimson is a color he knew
all too well. Muk's prowess in the art of war was unparalleled. It was known
far and wide that no one could defeat the massive warrior, no matter how small
an army he wielded.

Muk turned his attention from the battlefield and watched as a man by
the name of Ameit, a wiry man with greying hair the color of withering numut
vines approached from below. This man, a lieutenant falling directly under
Muk Utep himself, paused then offered a shallow bow to Muk. Muk barely tipped
his head in a return acknowledgment.

"Sir," stated Ameit, calmly with the quiet self assurance of a victor,
"The last of the tribe has scattered. They are no longer a threat to our men."
Muk shrugged with a casual movement, as if the news held no more importance than
announcing that the evening meal was ready.

"They have contacted your mind have they not Lieutenant? Agreed to the
meeting of the twelve?"

"Yes, Warlord," Ameit stammered, unsure of where to continue. It was
unsettling when Muk Utep seemed to know things before they happened.

"We will meet in a month's time, here in the Gol Krathu," Muk continued on,
"We will meet at the site of the final battle. There is much we need to do,
tell the men to start preparations."

Ameit drew himself to attention, nodding quickly at Muk, "Yes, Warlord."
Ameit paused and looked to Muk with a tired tone in his voice. "Will this work,
Warlord? I mean, can the twelve tribes really be brought together in this
vision of yours? It is so hard to tell what will happen in the future. Our
luck could simply just run out."

Drawing himself up to his full eight feet, Muk Utep shifted his gaze to Ameit,
allowing the tone of his baritone voice to ring out over the canyon. "We will
succeed, as long as everyone does exactly as I direct them."

"Yes, Warlord." Amiet recoiled at Muk's words. "I'll not doubt your
directions again." Amiet quickly scrambled down the path toward the canyon
below, leaving the large man behind.

Muk Utep closed his eyes and took a deep breath, allowing the visions to
spill before him. Before him lay crystalline threads, each stretching off
into the distance. There were only a few threads close to him, yet as they
stretched out in the distance they branched off numerous times, becoming
tangled and indistinct. Muk took one of those threads and rode it, traveling
along as he watched future events unfold.

You see, Muk Utep's prowess in battle lay in the simple fact that Muk could
see the future that lay before him. Muk could travel paths that would show
defeat and victory. As long as he chose the correct path, he was unstoppable,
for who could ever stop a foe who always knew what you were going to do
before even you did?

Muk knew this particular thread well, he traveled it often, yet no matter
how often he traveled it, he could not grasp its meaning. This twisted path
led to an unimaginable strangeness, to a world with familiar elements to it,
yet other elements so utterly bizarre he could not fathom their purpose. He
backtracked into more familiar territory, away from the strange future. The
threads that lay closest to the present were much more comforting. The closer
they were to now, there were fewer threads, and each vision was clearer.
To dwell too long in the far future would risk madness.

Muk once again opened his eyes and felt the hot desert wind upon his skin.
He turned his attention to the canyons below, and the fallen warriors he had
so readily defeated. He shrugged his shoulders and walked the path to the
battlefield. He would do what he could to tend to his defeated enemy and
prepare for the upcoming meeting. The troubling dark visions would as always
need to wait for another day.

"There is something depressing about the ending of these battles," Muk Utep
thought as he stared out over the canyon below. Thin trails of smoke curled
up from the ashen remains of numerous fires as a couple of physicians worked
their way through fallen warriors. Muk crossed his arms and let out a...
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Harmless Old Woman Mugged by Templar by Thunkkin
Added on Jul 25, 2011

A harmless old woman, who was just minding her own business, is accosted by a Templar for something that was a *complete accident* and would never happen again (on purpose).

Wehga:
This withered old crone stoops with the weight of a harsh lifetime.
Calloused, long-fingered hands and wobbly knees accompany a frame that is scrawny in the extreme. Dark spots and blotches pepper her nut-brown, leathery skin which has something of the texture of erdlu jerky. Lank locks of flint-grey hair hang limply from her head, framing a puckered, hollow face. A sharp chin and nose are offset by her sunken cheeks and completely toothless mouth. Alone of her features, the lively spark in her deep-set, pale blue eyes speaks of a certain keen alertness.
The withered, leathery crone is in excellent condition.

You are using:
[worn in hair] a multicolored leather cord
[worn in left ear] a dangling tooth earring
[worn in right ear] a cloth-threaded ceramic earring
[worn about throat] a crude jozhal-shaped pendant
[worn across back] a red-dyed hide backpack
[worn on torso] a ragged linen smock
[worn on arms] a frayed lace shawl
[worn around wrist] a bracelet of ceramic shards
[secondary hand] a knotted agafari cane
[worn as belt] a stained yellow linen sash
[worn around body] a hooded rat-skin drape
[worn on legs] a pair of patched sandcloth pants
[worn on feet] a pair of half-rotted sandals

Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
Meleth's Circle [NESW]
A human soldier of Tektolnes stands guard here.
The short-haired, umber-hued man is standing here.
A half-giant soldier of Tektolnes walks along here.
A brown inix stands here, carrying the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping on his back.
The burly, long-haired bouncer stands here, guarding the inn's entrance.
An aged human beggar sits cross-legged against the wall of the inn here.

As he saddles up on a brown inix, the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping looks down at you.

The withered, leathery crone flinches.

You think:
"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit."

Dipping his head up and down in a simple nod, the short-haired, umber-hued man says to the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Yes, Lord Templar. The sands do not bother me as much as some. I grew up in Menos. Not so well protected from the sand as the Highlord's City."

The tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping winces behind the black silk covering his face, his imposing glare shifting towards the towering obsidian building to the northwest.

[Hidden Emote] A faint mist seems to waft after the withered, leathery crone.

[Wehga quickly walks a few blocks]

Terrible, biting sand whips around you.
Tradesmen's Street [NS]
This street flanks the west side of the Merchants' Quarter, and is where most merchants from outside the city go to sell their goods. Oddly-decorated caravans and wagons are parked along the edge of the street, which bustles with activity, as traders carry their goods into the chaos of the Main Bazaar. Here and there, traders stop members of the passing crowd, trying to convince them of the miracle of Jathlir's Sand Tonic or the wonders of a trinket discovered half-buried in the desert sands. Tradesmens' Street extends as far north as one can see, and Meleth's Circle is directly to the south, the noise there growing even louder.
A tall, spindly half-elf stands shouting the price of his wares.
A one-eyed blue-faced dwarf squats next to a small mat laden with wares.

The tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping has arrived from the south, riding a brown inix.
The half-giant soldier has arrived from the south.
The short-haired, umber-hued man has arrived from the south.
A human Allanaki soldier has arrived from the south.

The short-haired, umber-hued man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Stop. Now."

In a smooth motion, the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping draws a dragon-etched obsidian longsword out of a long, black leather sheath.

The tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping brandishes his dragon-etched obsidian longsword.

The short-haired, umber-hued man begins guarding the north exit.

The withered, leathery crone freezes, clutching her cane.

Sliding his dragon-etched obsidian longsword to his side, the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping turns stiffly in a brown inix's saddle, watching the short-haired, umber-hued man from afar.

Bobbing her head, you ask the short-haired, umber-hued man, in sirihish:
"Ah, wha's th'problem?"

The short-haired, umber-hued man moves to stand in the way of you, his large body taking up alot of room.

The withered, leathery crone's eyes rake over the short-haired, umber-hued man, lingering over his crotch.

His voice muffled, soft-spoken behind the black silk scarfing his head, the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"If she tries to run, pin her to the ground."

With a grimace and a wave of his hand towards the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping, the short-haired, umber-hued man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I believe the Lord Templar wishes you to stop and talk with him now."

With a simple nod towards the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping as he looks down at you, the short-haired, umber-hued man says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Running would... not be smart."

To the short-haired, umber-hued man as she gulps and turns toward the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping, you say, in sirihish:
"Ah, 'ight sweetie. Ya can pin me any time, though."

Lowering her head and bowing, you ask the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping, in sirihish:
"Wha' may a 'umble old woman do fer ya, Lord Templah?"

His voice emotionless, the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Sit down."

The tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping swings his legs over and jumps off of a brown inix.
A brown inix curls up on the ground.

Easing herself down, her joints popping and cracking loudly, you sit down.

Approaching swiftly with a swish of his robes around his ankles, unlatching his leather waterskin, the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping

asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Want some water, wench? Hmm? Are you thirsty?"

The tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping stops using his leather waterskin.

The withered, leathery crone glances out of the corner of her eyes at the tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping.

The tall templar wearing a sheer, black silk face wrapping kneels over a bit as he clenches his leather waterskin, lips twisting crookedly under his hooked moustache at you.

Tugging the silk off slowly as he speaks, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar stops using his sheer, black silk face wrapping.

Stuffing it away, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar puts his sheer, black silk face wrapping into his glossy, black leather swordbelt.

Licking her lips, you say to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"Ah, I wouldn't presume t'drink ya watah, Lord Templah."

You feel nervous.

Lifting his dragon-etched obsidian longsword's tip, pointed at your throat, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"And I wouldn't presume to drink yours...Vivaduan."

You think:
"Does he know? How can he know?"

The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar's eyes widen as he glares down malevolently at you.

Gasping, you ask, in sirihish:
"Wha'? Me? A witch?"

You think:
"Fuck."

You feel suddenly resigned.

Placing his dragon-etched obsidian longsword's razor sharp obsidian blade closer to your neck, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Do you deny it?"

The short-haired, umber-hued man moves to stand behind you, one of his meaty fists clenching with an audible creak.

With a rasping cackle, you say, in sirihish:
"Eh... ah ... no, not as such, no. It, ah, just happened sudden-like, Lord Templah. All mah life, nevah happ'ed afore."

Straightening her shoulders with a hint of pride, you say, in sirihish:
"Outlived mah no-good husband and seven brats. Finally free o'them and I'm cursed wit' this all o'sudden. Like bein' preggers, but worse."

Over the noise of the crowd, a tall, spindly half-elf shouts, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Your lil' templar feeling a lil' wilted lately? Sand Tonic'll stiffen your wick, just 40 sid!"

Snapping, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar exclaims to a tall, spindly half-elf, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Shut up!"

The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar turns his dragon-etched obsidian longsword over towards a tall, spindly half-elf with a swoop away from you.

The withered, leathery crone eyes the retreating blade with relief.

Hopefully, you ask the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"I's just mindin' mah lil' business at home in th'rinth. Ain't botherin' nobody, eh?"

Swinging his dragon-etched obsidian longsword over his shoulder to his long, black leather sheath, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Nobody's bothered by your presence in the alleys?"

The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar sheathes a dragon-etched obsidian longsword into a long, black leather sheath.

Glancing around and licking her lips again, you say to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"Well, nobody knows, like, eh? Just happened, like I said."

Holding up her wrinkled hands, you say to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"I ain't evah do it again on purpose, I promise."

Shaking his head back and forth a few times with a deep sigh, the short-haired, umber-hued man says, in southern-accented sirihish:
"It's what they all say, I bet. "

Peering southwards down the street, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"So what were you doing down southside then?"

As if it were obvious, you say, in sirihish:
"Lookin' fer good stuff in th'trash."

The blonde, beak-nosed young man has arrived from the south.

With a frown, the short-haired, umber-hued man looks down at the blonde, beak-nosed young man.

The blonde, beak-nosed young man edges around the crowd, looking on curiously.

The withered, leathery crone coughs, the loose phlegm in her throat rattling.

Grabbing his glossy, black leather swordbelt's buckle, giving it a twist around his waspish waist, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You must wear the gem, or you are a rogue. You have two paths right now, child, and two paths only."

The blonde, beak-nosed young man looks down at you.

The withered, leathery crone's face puckers sourly.

Pointing northwards with his crooked finger, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Go there, and you will die, like your family. Like all others who have tried. Bear the gem of the Highlord, and you will serve a better purpose."

Turning his glare from you, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar looks at the blonde, beak-nosed young man.

Pointing north, you say to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"Eh, so, ah, ya'd let me go, eh? If'n I promise t'be good? Or, ah, does rogue mean ..."

The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar turns his beady eyes back down to you.

The withered, leathery crone draws a finger across her throat and makes a gurgling noise.

Dipping his head once, lifting his spidery fingers to his medallion of Tektolnes, clenching it tightly as his other fist curls out rapidly in the stirring breeze, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"...it means game over. Lights out."

The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar calls out the name of the Highlord.

The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar utters an incantation.
Your vision goes black.

Someone lowers his fist from you, taking a step back.

Someone moves swiftly to someone's side, weapons drawn.

Someone watches with wide eyes.

Someone bends down and quickly snatches up his knotted agafari cane with a deep frown.

Someone nods once.

Someone snatches you up off the ground harshly, and onto his shoulder.

Someone glances toward someone, with a single, silent nod, you over his shoulder.

The withered, leathery crone's mouth flops open, a not particularly pleasant smell wafting out.

Someone walks along, carrying you on his shoulder.

A thin thread of drool slowly extends from the withered, leathery crone's mouth.

[Lots of walking]

Someone drops you on the floor with a *thud*.

The withered, leathery crone sprawls in a jumble of thin limbs and knobby knees and elbows.

Someone kneels down near you and grimaces, turning his head slightly and bringing his small bone vial to your nose.

Someone rests his hands on the hilts of his cross-etched obsidian longsword and his dusty bone hawkblade, watching quietly.

A pungent odor fills your senses.

The short-haired, umber-hued man closes his small bone vial.

Small Room in the Barracks [S Quit Save]
This appears to be a small room within the barracks of Vivadu's temple. Stout stone walls protect this room from the crime of the outside city, as does the stout wooden door that seals the chamber off. The walls have been painted a deep, calming blue, the principal color of Vivadu, and a small mural covers the northern wall.
A thickly quilted bedroll is neatly rolled up near the cradle.
A rocking, baobab cradle stands next to the head of the cot, blankets tucked inside.
A brittle, crystalline flower rests on a small shelf.
A pale, luminescent fungus sits on a small shelf.
A bone sided chest sits at the foot of a padded cot here.
A large wall closet is embedded in the westmost portion of the south wall.
A sandstone carving of two lizards stands in the middle of the room, one of the lizards missing the tip of its tail.
Covered with irregular splotches of red, an oversized, padded cot is tucked against the wall.
Nestled into a corner near the chest is a small white-boned footlocker.
A burned large, rough wooden barrel is tucked into one corner.
The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar is standing here.
The short-haired, umber-hued man is standing here.
The tall figure in a dusty black, hooded militia dustcloak is standing here.

The short-haired, umber-hued man pushes up from the ground and moves back towards the doorway, almost completely filling it with his body.

Snorting and coughing, you exclaim, in sirihish:
"Help! Help!"

The withered, leathery crone blinks a few times, looking around.

Features hidden within the shadows of his hood, the tall figure in a dusty black, hooded militia dustcloak silently watches you, standing rock-still in front of the door.

Turning a blurry gaze toward the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, you say, in sirihish:
"Ah, I choose th'gem, Lord Templah ... ah ... "

Holding it out and frowning down at you, the short-haired, umber-hued man gives his small bone vial to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar.

Wiping a trickle of snot from her nose, you say, in sirihish:
"I's just a poor lil' old woman. Not meanin' harm."

Eyeing you, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar puts his small bone vial into his glossy, black leather swordbelt.

Securing the leather strap, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar hangs his leather waterskin on his belt.

The withered, leathery crone rubs her shoulder, sitting in a heap on the floor.

Pointing at the closed door, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"There are over fifty people in that intersection who would be over-joyed at the death of a magicker, rogue, or gemmer. It's all a matter of principle..."

Gesturing his hand at a rocking, baobab cradle near a cot, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"...if I let you roam around the alleys ungemmed, then other rogues would do the same."

Lifting his brows, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar looks at a rocking, baobab cradle.

The withered, leathery crone peers suspiciously at a rocking, baobab cradle.

Sliding his beady dark brown eyes away from the cradle, lips twisted at one edge under his curly beard, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"How did you say your children died, again?"

The tall figure in a dusty black, hooded militia dustcloak drums his claw-gloved fingers lightly on the hilt of his cross-etched obsidian longsword.

With a shrug, you say to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"Eh, well, Dmitro caught tha' spittle coughin' thing. Heaved up a lung, I tell ya. And then Elsia, she nevah came back when I sent her t'buy some wine fer mah husband ..."

His eyes shifting momentarily, the tall figure in a dusty black, hooded militia dustcloak looks at the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar.

Continuing in her raspy voice, you say to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"And then o' course th' third one, nevah could remembah his name. He turned out bad, tha' one. Just buggered off one day. Think he joined th'Byn or somethin'."

The tall figure in a dusty black, hooded militia dustcloak absently reaches up and brushes back his hood.

The stocky, smokey-eyed man lowers the hood of a dusty black, hooded militia dustcloak.

Approaching with swift steps, planting his feet softly on the ground as he stoops forwards, hands clasping behind his back, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"A tragedy. You will thank the Highlord this day, that you were not born in Tuluk."

Cackling, you say to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"And then Rodgy, he was allays a sickly child, ya know, Lord Templar? One day, just passed away in his sleep. And then Turva, she ..."

Lifting his hand over your head, waving a hand to silence you, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar asks you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"What is your name?"

Pausing, you say to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"Ah, right. Yah. I thank th'Highlord I warn't born in th'otha' place. Mah name's Wehga. Some's calls me Grandmother Wehga, but they ain't no brats o' mine. Least, not tha' I knows."

[Hidden Emote] A sour smell drifts from the direction of the withered, leathery crone.

Nodding softly, peering downwards, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"You may have a difficult time wandering around the alleys with a gem on."

The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar frowns minorly at you as he rummages around in his thick, blue silk robes.

The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar pulls a dull black gem out of a blue, hooded templar's robe.

Wrinkling her nose, you say to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"Eh, I don't think they'll be too keen on me on th' west side, Lord Templah."

Suddenly catching sight of him and favoring him with a wide, toothless grin, you look up at the stocky, smokey-eyed man.

Holding his dull black gem over, dangling from a dainty string, the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"I was just about to say that."

The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar gives you his dull black gem.

With a sigh, you stop using your crude jozhal-shaped pendant.

The stocky, smokey-eyed man gazes back toward you with emotionless eyes, simply watching.

Holding up your dull black gem, you exclaim, in sirihish:
"Well, tha's it fer me. Bettah'n dead, though, eh? I survive 'em all!"

The short-haired, umber-hued man looks down at you with brooding, half-lidded eyes, a frown creasing his face deeply.

With a touch of defiance as she slips it on, you tilt your head forward and fasten your dull black gem about your throat.

Turning from a rocking, baobab cradle, glaring over it with his beady, eyes and hooked, aquiline nose turned down as he frowns, the skeletal, sharp-bearded

templar says to you, in southern-accented sirihish:
"Well, at least now you know where to get your baby stock..."

The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar turns for the southern door, nodding to the stocky, smokey-eyed man militantly.

Scowling, you say to the skeletal, sharp-bearded templar, in sirihish:
"Eh, don't want no more babies . Nothin' but trouble. Don't evah have 'im, Lord Templah."

The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar opens the door.

The withered, leathery crone pushes herself to her feet awkwardly.

The skeletal, sharp-bearded templar walks south.
The stocky, smokey-eyed man walks south.
The short-haired, umber-hued man walks south.

You suffer from use of the Way.
You contact the short-haired, umber-hued man with the Way.

You suffer from use of the Way.
You send a telepathic message to the short-haired, umber-hued man:
"Ya steal mah feckin' cane? Wha's this city comin' to?"

You dissolve the psychic link.

Wehga:
This withered old crone stoops with the weight of a harsh lifetime.
Calloused, long-fingered hands and wobbly knees accompany a frame that is scrawny in the extreme. Dark spots and blotches pepper her nut-brown, leathery skin which has something of the texture of erdlu jerky. Lank locks of...
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Biography of a Bynner: "Join the Byn!" by Zoltan
Added on Jan 22, 2011

A scrawny teen begins his journey towards his ultimate destiny and it only costs him three hundred coins!
    It was evening and the Gladiator and the Gaj was beginning to really fill up. The barkeep Vennant taciturnly poured booze as dusty patrons slapped obsidian coins onto the bar. The air smelled of vomit and poor decisions, but the pungency had yet to reach its nighttime zenith. The tavern was stuffed with a slapdash selection of old and battered tables. In one corner was a broad stone one carved in the shape of a coiled dragon, and at it two men were holding a conversation.

    “So if you agree to those terms and rules, cough up the three small, kid,” drawled the one in a brown aba. He was an ugly, scarred up hunk of a man with greasy black hair and a mustache. He lounged comfortably in his chair despite being coated with heavy chitin and leather armor, and adorned with heavy blades and dangerous-looking daggers. The left breast of his aba bore a hand-sized purple dragon patch, matching the design on the table. The studded leather armor on his arms had the same insignia on the right sleeve and two black bars on the left.

“I agree,” impatiently muttered the other man, a short, thin-limbed youth with long, stringy brown hair. He produced a bulging sack of coins from beneath his cloak and pushed it across the table.

    “I agree, sir. Or Sergeant Streen, Sarge, or Ender of Lives and Fucker of Mothers,” corrected the mustachioed man as he weighed the sack of coins in one gauntleted hand. “Welcome to the T'zai Byn, runt.”

    The younger man bristled and Streen casually ignored him, tucking the coins into his pack. They both rose and Streen led the way to the exit. He batted aside the threadbare tarp that served as a door and then they were out on the dusty street. The foot traffic was still thick even so late in the day. The setting sun was bloated and crimson-colored, silhouetting the massive dragon statue at the end of the road. Streen took a right, putting the sun at his back. He shouldered his way through the crowds, avoiding pockets of black-clad militiamen and the occasional wagon drawn by enormous lizards. The youth followed in his wake.

    “A kid of your stature is probably just useful as fodder, but you dug up that three small after all,” Streen called back, “Maybe you think you're actually serious. Either way, I don't take kindly to lazy freeloaders, so I better get some real fucking work out of you.”

    The sergeant's off-hand barbs stuck in the teenager. He was sixteen and filled with frustration and stunted, confused pride. He was constantly the butt of jokes due to his scrawniness and height. His own family never took him seriously, and he was utterly eclipsed by the military successes of his older siblings. His folks just laughed when he stormed off to join the T'zai Byn, the largest mercenary company in the Known World. Their laughter still rang in his ears and infuriated him, and now there was this pompous sergeant to suffer. He kept his brooding silence.

    They stepped out into a vast plaza, Meleth's Circle. It was choked with masses of travelers and beggars. The center was dominated by a temple to the Highlord Tektolnes, and it housed the primary source of water for the citizens of Allanak. Piles of corpses - fresh ones as well as desiccated husks – were strewn near its doors, baking in the heat. The air stank of death; it was the heart of the city. Streen motioned the kid to the left and they circled the temple.

    “Learn this route well, Runner Runt. A real Bynner can walk it true while sloshed. In a night darker than Drov's armpit. With the skies as sandy as... eh, a really sandy thing.”

    “I told you, my name is Raul,” the kid growled in the most menacing tone he could muster. “Sir,” he added grudgingly after a glare from Streen.

    Streen smiled viciously. “You're name's whatever-the-fuck I decide it is, Runner. You better learn some respect now before you have to learn it from the lash.

    “Now let's say we go on and enjoy a companionable silence for the rest of the trip,” Streen concluded flatly. There was no more talk.

    They left Meleth's Circle and cut across the expansive bazaar. Before long they were on a street heading due north off of the better-maintained Merchant's Road. It was called Warriors' Way, and the traffic was markedly less than most other places. The lawless slums of the Labyrinth weren't far off. Suffering and despair taste something like what the winds sent roiling down the road at the Byn sergeant and his recruit. Their destination was just short of that gloomy, miserable pile of squalor. The gates of the T'zai Byn Mercenary Company's headquarters stood before them. In the detachment of guards posted there, Raul had never before seen such a convincing display of utterly disinterested malice. It was very impressive.

    “Fresh meat!” Streen bawled laconically as he took Raul's shoulder and hurried him up to the gate. A guard pulled it open and then they were in. Raul's skin tingled as he took in the stone walls that flanked the path. It was only upon entering the gates that it truly felt real to him. He knew that his new life would be dirty and dangerous, but it was his life. And his family wouldn't see a damn coin from him. As Streen lead him through the drill yard into the compound's mess hall, Raul could already feel the frustrations of living at home dissipating.

    “Wait here,” Streen said, “get some stew or whatever. I'll get you your uniform and sparring weapons. Speaking of which, what sort of weapons are you planning on using?”

    Raul hadn't really thought of that. He just looked at what Streen had strapped to him and said “A sword. I mean, two of them.”

    “True Nakki style, right?” said Streen with a smirk, and he left. Raul looked around from where he stood near the entrance. He garnered a few disinterested glances from mercenaries hunched over their bowls of stew. There were a couple of elves sitting together and they each offered him a slow, malign smile. It made Raul uncomfortable. He hadn't had to be around too many elves before, but he heard stories and knew to keep an eye on his possessions. Suddenly, Raul was elbowed heavily in the back and nearly sent sprawling.

    “Get the fuck out of my way, meat,” a husky feminine voice growled behind him. Raul caught himself on a nearby stone table. He brushed his stringy hair out of his face just in time to watch the owner of the voice pound past. She was human, tall and muscular. Her coal black hair was short and utilitarian. She bore the two black stripes of a Byn sergeant as well as scars that said she had been with the company for years. Her black, beady eyes were further darkened by the incredible scowl she briefly directed at him. He didn't get much more of a look before he received a gratuitous shove from a dwarven Bynner trailing her.

    “Krath, that breed's whining was priceless, Sarge,” the dwarf laughed, not even looking at Raul. “Just blubbering 'Oooh, am I gonna die, Sarge, am I?'” he quoted, screwing his broad, hairless face up with mock pain and sadness.

    “Yeah, yeah, real hilarious,” the sergeant woman said tiredly. She was handed a bowl of stew by a cook.

    The squat dwarf barked a laugh like stone cracking. “He had three gith arrows in the chest, what did he think was gonna happen? And did you see that other runner start crying? The humie? I bet she was kanking that no good half-elf! Can you believe that, Sarge?”

    “There's no accounting for taste, Trooper,” she said, heavily dropping onto a bench at a table.

    “Disgusting, sir, just disgusting,” and the dwarf joined her.

    Moments later, Streen arrived with a brown bundle in his arms. “Here's your shit,” he declared to Raul and dumped the bundle on him. “Wear that aba at all times. And try to wear it with some pride, runt. The patch sewn on near the shoulder there puts you in my unit, the Black Jakhals.”

    The patch was a black,stylized and snarling reptilian creature on a stone gray background. Raul passed his thumb over it before unrolling the bundle and barely catching the crude bone swords concealed within.

    “You're clumsier than fingerless dwarf on Tho,” chided Streen. “You'd better keep good track of those things, because those are the only sparring sticks you're going to get from me. If you lose them, I'm taking some flesh from your back. Now get that aba on nice and proper. There's one more thing to do.”

    Raul slipped the practice blades into his belt and quickly threw on the aba. It smelled like shit and it had a ragged, old blood-spattered tear in it. Clearly, he wasn't the first runner to have worn it.

    Streen stood up straighter and planted his right fist against his breast. “This here is the Byn salute. If you see a sergeant like myself, or one of our officers in black, you better pound out one of these real quick. Got it? Give it a shot.”

    Raul squared his shoulders and wordlessly emulated his sergeant. The thudding of his fist on his chest echoed the internal sealing away of his old doubts. He was in. It was only a matter of time and patience before he would outshine his militiaman brother and Tor Scorpion sister. Not that it would matter anyway, because he knew that he would never seek out his family ever again. He was his own man.

    “I guess that works,” Streen sighed. “Anyway, welcome to the Byn.”

    He scanned the tables and caught sight of the female sergeant and the dwarf. He motioned for Raul to join him as he strode up to their table. “You may as well start meeting some of the other Bynners in the warband, Runner.”

    The woman and dwarf ceased their conversation as Streen stopped before them with his hands on his hips. “Against my better judgment, I scooped up this kid out of the Gaj,” and he indicated Raul with his thumb. “Say hi to Runner Runt, guys.”

    “It's Raul,” he protested quietly with a scowl. The dwarf snorted. The woman smirked broadly and wiggled her fingers at Raul in greeting.

    “This here's Sergeant Talia,” Streen went on with a grand gesture towards the woman, “of the Limp-Dicked Jozhals unit. Get used to her ugly mug, because you're going to be seeing a lot of it.”

    “Sergeant Dipshit meant 'of the Screaming Hawks,' but he's always been easily confused,” Talia said to Raul before narrowing her eyes at Streen. “You better start getting it right before I make you eat that goofy mustache.”

    Streen laughed and wiped a finger under his nose. “Fucking true love, kids. Anyway. Runt, explore the compound and then get yourself some sleep. Training begins tomorrow.”

    Raul saluted the sergeants and wandered out into the darkening drill yard. He found his way to the barracks after some exploration and picked out a cot as far from everyone else as he could find. He was just stowing his scant belongings under it when a couple of men approached him.

    “That's my cot, new guy,” one growled at him. The second man, clearly the first's lackey, stood by with vile, pent-up excitement. Raul knew trouble when he saw it.

    “Fine,” he muttered and gathered up his pack. When he began to rise, he was shoved down. Raul loosed a surprised grunt and glared up at the first man.

    “Show some respect, new guy.”

    “You tell him, Mal,” laughed the lackey.

    “Shut up,” Mal shot back. The other man obeyed promptly. “Now where were we?”

    “The part where I tell you to fuck yourself sideways,” Raul couldn't stop himself from saying.

    “What did you say?” Mal demanded, his gravelly voice carrying a threat. He was much older and larger than Raul, who was beginning to regret his words.

    “I said... I said that I'm sorry I'm on your cot,” he replied and hated himself. “I'll just get out of your way.” He rose and was shoved right back down again.

    “It's too late for that. What kind of shit is that, talking like a tough guy and then running off like a jozhal?”

    “Yeah!” the lackey butted in, raising a fist. “Ain't room for cowards in the Byn.”

    “Just leave me alone,” Raul said coldly, his eyes frantically scanning the room for any possible supporters. There were none in the oblivious groups of chatting mercenaries.

    “Maybe after you apologize for being such a fucking wuss, you runty little shitstain,” Mal spat down at him.

    Something snapped in Raul then. The Byn seemed like his only chance to rise above being stepped on by everyone who entered his life, and there he was fitting into the same patterns all over again. He paid no mind to the fact that the frenzy he was entering was just playing to his antagonists' desires. There was no more time for reflection or feeling sorry for himself, and from that moment onward there wouldn't be much of either for a long time.

    Raul moved as fast as he could, trying to get his feet under him even as he drove a fist into the lackey's groin. The man fell, clutching his crotch and gasping for breath. Mal was on Raul the next instant, knocking him down and driving his face into the dirty floor with a fierce blow. Raul strained as hard as he could to try and wrestle Mal to the side and gain the advantage, but the older man was too strong. Raul raked at his opponent's eyeballs in desperation. His arm was almost casually brushed aside and then pinned under Mal's grip. He straddled Raul and started pounding him methodically in the face with his free hand. The beat down was beginning to draw some spectators, and the hall echoed with laughs and goading cheers.

    A murderous fury barely kept Raul conscious, but it wasn't going to hold back the darkness for long. He reached out frantically around on the floor with his free hand even as his head rebounded again and again off of the ground. His groping fingertips found a hunk of stone partially shaped into the form of a kank that some amateur crafter had abandoned. Loosing an inarticulate scream of rage, he smashed the thing against Mal's skull with a sickening thud, immediately losing his grip on it.

    Mal fell to the side without a sound. Raul tried to get up, but he only managed to lurch along the floor a few inches, laying on his side. His eyes just wouldn't focus and his strength was failing him. Mal's lackey had gathered himself, and he didn't bother looking to his friend before savagely kicking Raul in the side, rolling him onto his back.

    “You bastard!” he snarled at Raul, slipping an obsidian dagger out of his belt and raising it above his head.

    “What the fuck is going on in here?!” a voice thundered, leaving the hall silent in its wake. Everyone turned to observe a very pissed-off looking Sergeant Streen. He strode towards the combatants.

    “Runner, put that gith-sticker away before I bury it in you,” he growled. Mal's buddy complied immediately.

    “This new guy up and tried to kill Mal!” he stammered, pointing at the bleeding and half-conscious Raul.

    “Yeah, I'm sure that's exactly what happened,” Streen snapped sarcastically after taking stock of the scene. “Drag these two over to Sergeant Sawbones. And there had better be peace in here for the rest of the night, or I swear on Tek's wrinkled nutsack that I'll be breaking some bones.”

    Streen glared at the mercenaries in the barracks and they promptly dispersed. Raul and Mal were soon laid out on blood-stained cots before a peg-legged, bored-looking medic.

    “I need these two to be able to at least hold a sparring blade tomorrow,” said Streen.

    “These boys are hardly scratched,” the medic answered with a smirk, casually prodding Mal's battered skull with a finger.

    Streen merely grunted in response, and made his way up the stairs to the upper levels of the barracks. “Dipshit runners,” he muttered to himself.
It was evening and the Gladiator and
the Gaj was beginning to really fill up. The barkeep Vennant
taciturnly poured booze as dusty patrons slapped obsidian coins onto
the bar. The air smelled of vomit and poor decisions, but the
pungency had yet to reach its nighttime zenith. The tavern...

Continue Reading...

Hunger by BuNutzCola
Added on Nov 23, 2010

Senior Agent Markua Kadius is standing in front of a mirror in his apartment. A curse has left him craving for raw meats, amongst a host of other psychological and physical problems, culminating here.

*Mark's standing in front of the mirror in his room, having just undressed*

The gaunt, henna-maned man runs the fingers of his left hand along his right arm, lips pursed deeply.

The middle-aged figure before you rises nearly four and a half cords
in height, his spindly frame sporting little musculature. His body is well
proportioned, broad shoulders and evenly toned arms ending a slender left
hand, the fingers calloused and slightly dirtied. His right arm ends in a
cleanly severed stub, dark, jagged lines extending to the forearm. A wild
mass of tangled, henna-toned curls falls to his lower back, some grey
beginning to manifest about his temples. His skin is weathered and tanned
from exposure to Suk-krath, olive in complexion and marred by numerous small,
slash-mark scars. When his lips part, clean whites are exposed, the canines
protruding almost imperceptibly. His gaunt features are otherwise well-
defined: a thin jawline resting beneath darkly-stained lips, and high
cheekbones surmount a stubbled face. Beneath thin brows rest hazel eyes,
deeply set and slightly ovoid. Overall his appearance would depict an
otherwise handsome figure, though obviously aesthetics are not first priority
for this individual.
The gaunt, henna-maned man is in excellent condition.

Health: 99/99, Mana: 6/109, Stun: 88/92, Stamina:110/114, Speed:walking, (standing) (unarmed)

You think:
"Krath Mark, you're gettin' on in time."

You think:
"Y'look like shit, y'know."

The gaunt, henna-maned man shifts his pose in front of a polished obsidian mirror, a sour expression his features.

You think:
"Maybe if you ate more you'd fill out"

You think:
"Only time y'eat now is when the cravings come."

You think:
"How long's it been since y'dick was hard?"

The gaunt, henna-maned man glances down at his package, frowning deeply.

You think:
"Fuck...the last time I remember fucking..."

You think:
"Had t'be..."

You think:
"Hmm.."

You think:
"...man I only remember almost gettin' with Zaea that once, an' Bleys fuckin' essence'er whatever was watchin' over us."

You think:
"So couldn'a been then."

You think:
"Oh..s'pose maybe that lovely handjob in the MIDDLE OF A FREAKIN' SANDSTORM might count."

You think:
"Fuck I was chaffed for weeks."

The smell of rich, pure earth and freshly growing moss clings to his skin.

You are starving.
Your health worsens from lack of food.
You are a little thirsty.

The gaunt, henna-maned man lowers his nostrils to his arm, inhaling deeply.

You think:
"I love that fucking smell."

You think:
"If I lose it..."

You think:
"If I could smell nothing?"

You think:
"Already what..taste...touch..it's all gone."

A Forest Green Apartment [S Quit Save]
Every textile in this room is dyed in varying scales of forest green.
The walls are covered with thick green weaves that have been embroidered to
depict forest scenery with trees, hunters, halflings and other elements
known from the Grey Forest up north. The only other color present in the
chamber is the dark maroon of baobab wood, as the ceiling and all furniture
is crafted from that expensive material. Baobab bars protect the northern
and western windows from possible intruders, and a thick, gwoshi-wool carpet
of dark green covers the floor.
A bone-sided obsidian-handled chest sits here.
Hung above the bed, an unlit glass-sided purple lantern reflects a dim violet glow.
Seemingly growing out of the floor, a long-stemmed, basalt mushroom rises here.
Stacked with food, a large, silvery pymlithe tray rests near the doorway here.
Lying at the foot of the bed, a plain baobab chest rests here.
Resting on the nightstand, a polished marble jewelry box glints in the available light.
Reflecting darkly, a polished obsidian mirror is hung on the back of the southern door.
Set against the northern wall, a sturdy agafari dresser rests here.
Some carved shelves of fitted agafari hardwood stand here.
A compact baobab wardrobe is here , pushed against the northern wall.
Set beneath the expansive windows, a heavy baobab desk rests here.
Silken coverlets draping, a heavy baobab bed rests against the eastern wall.

You think:
"Wish I had some spice."

You suffer from use of the Way.

You think:
"There's some down in the runner..but I'd have to get dressed."

You think:
"And it's been so long since I was really naked."

The gaunt, henna-maned man reaches a hand down, idly fondling himself.

You suffer from use of the Way.

You think:
"Feh..nothing."

You feel annoyed as you try to envision various naked women, but feel no arousal.

You are starving.
Your health worsens from lack of food.
You are a little thirsty.

You think:
"Could jus' cut the fucker off and not notice a thing., c'ept it'd be weird when time comes t'be ipissing."

You feel curious enough that you start to envision naked men.

Feeling even more annoyed, you think:
"Nope, s'not that."

The gaunt, henna-maned man looses a deep sigh, resting his forehead against a polished obsidian mirror.

You think:
"Hmm.."

The gaunt, henna-maned man purses his lips, looking about the room.

You suffer from use of the Way.

The top of this desk has a smooth, clear surface that lacks any
adornments, but that fact is considerably outweighed by the intricate,
elegant carvings on the legs and borders of the desk. The side of the small
drawer under the surface- board of the desk is also carved in fine-lined,
swirling patterns, with a small knob that has been carved to look like an
erdlu's head. The dark maroon baobab hardwood seems to be of a fine
quality, polished smooth and glossy.
A couple of heavy baobab chairs are drawn up to it.
There is one space at it.

On a heavy baobab desk (here) :
a green and pink striped bloom
a four-petaled ishra flower

Plush pillows lie on top of the thick silken bedspread covering this
wide, sizeable bed. A broad and high-set headboard resides at its upper
end, carved with a few simple, but elegant lines that follow the wave-like
shape of the board. Thick, rounded legs taper down to sturdy feet, carved
to resemble the clawed feet of a mekillot. The dark maroon baobab hardwood
seems to be of a fine quality, polished smooth and glossy.
On a heavy baobab bed (here) :
a stained black vestric-quill pen
a small leather pouch
a stained silvery woven, black silk wrap
a pair of brushed, sienna-hued knee pants
a soft, amber-tasseled suede quiver
a couple of amber-edged, sienna leather bracers
a maar hand-crossbow
an emblazoned purple patch
a set of leaf-patterned, tembo-hide sleeves
a leaf-patterned, tembo-hide vest
a black silk shoulder bag
a tight-fitting, black leather beret
a clawed bone scimitar
a ruby-studded crystal shortsword
a broad, obsidian-buttoned black silk belt
a pair of ebony-dyed, gwoshi-hide boots
a hooded, moss-green and ivory leather overcoat
an ivory-buttoned, black silk longvest
a pair of billowy, white silk pants
a pair of voluminous, ivory silk sleeves
an ornate black silk choker
a flowing white gown set with temboeye buttons
a hooded, amber-fringed leather shoulder cape
a green-tassled hide pillow

Padding over, snatching it up, you get your stained black vestric-quill pen from a heavy baobab bed.
It is very light.

You suffer from use of the Way.

You think:
"Ok lesse.."

In a compact baobab wardrobe (here) :
a stained blue-streaked, purple wrist-sheath
a silvery, blue-trimmed silk sash
a small wooden box
a rugged white shirt
a tightly-woven sash of dark sandcloth
a pair of high, polished black leather boots
a pair of deep blue, purple-trimmed silk trousers
a snug, deep blue silk vest with purple trim
a pair of deep blue, purple-trimmed silk sleeves
a pair of grey sandcloth sleeves
a darkly-stained leather and sandcloth hat
a couple of white and flame-red pouched leather belts
a pouched purple leather belt
a leather-strapped, rich purple satchel
a smooth, black-silk jacket

The gaunt, henna-maned man scratches at his cheek, glancing between your stained black vestric-quill pen and his package.

You suffer from use of the Way.

You think:
"Nothing really adhesive...could hold it up maybe."

Grunting as he tosses it aside, you drop your stained black vestric-quill pen.
Shown to the room as:
A stained quill-pen fashioned from a long black vestric feather lies here.
A Forest Green Apartment [S Quit Save]
Every textile in this room is dyed in varying scales of forest green.
The walls are covered with thick green weaves that have been embroidered to
depict forest scenery with trees, hunters, halflings and other elements
known from the Grey Forest up north. The only other color present in the
chamber is the dark maroon of baobab wood, as the ceiling and all furniture
is crafted from that expensive material. Baobab bars protect the northern
and western windows from possible intruders, and a thick, gwoshi-wool carpet
of dark green covers the floor.
A stained quill-pen fashioned from a long black vestric feather lies here.
A bone-sided obsidian-handled chest sits here.
Hung above the bed, an unlit glass-sided purple lantern reflects a dim violet glow.
Seemingly growing out of the floor, a long-stemmed, basalt mushroom rises here.
Stacked with food, a large, silvery pymlithe tray rests near the doorway here.
Lying at the foot of the bed, a plain baobab chest rests here.
Resting on the nightstand, a polished marble jewelry box glints in the available light.
Reflecting darkly, a polished obsidian mirror is hung on the back of the southern door.
Set against the northern wall, a sturdy agafari dresser rests here.
Some carved shelves of fitted agafari hardwood stand here.
A compact baobab wardrobe is here , pushed against the northern wall.
Set beneath the expansive windows, a heavy baobab desk rests here.
Silken coverlets draping, a heavy baobab bed rests against the eastern wall.

The gaunt, henna-maned man paces about the room in the buff, rubbing the back of his neck, massaging the muscles.

You think:
"..Why do I even bother scratching..just out've habit? S'not like it ever helps anything."

You think:
"Don't truly get tired, 'er hungry...sure the craving..but s'much of it is just habit, s'pose."

You feel stressed .

Snatching the silken length, you get your stained silvery woven, black silk wrap from a heavy baobab bed.
It is very light, and more than half full.

Unfurling the blade, you get your ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk from your stained silvery woven, black silk wrap.
It is very light.

Tossing the limp cloth back onto the mattress, you put your stained silvery woven, black silk wrap onto a heavy baobab bed.

Wrapping his fingers about the hilt as he moves over to a polished obsidian mirror, you brandish your ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk.

You think:
"Can't fucking eat now, no fucking meat."

You think:
"Need somethin' to take the edge off though."

The gaunt, henna-maned man gazes at himself in the mirror, baring his teeth as he draws the edge of your ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk in a curving gash along his right bicep, a thin line of ruddy brownish blood trickling from the wound.

You feel a numbness creep along your right bicep.

You feel your craving for meat only intensify at the sight of your own blood.

Feeling frustrated, you think:
"Fuck! S'posed to help! Not make it worse."

A Forest Green Apartment [S Quit Save]
Every textile in this room is dyed in varying scales of forest green.
The walls are covered with thick green weaves that have been embroidered to
depict forest scenery with trees, hunters, halflings and other elements
known from the Grey Forest up north. The only other color present in the
chamber is the dark maroon of baobab wood, as the ceiling and all furniture
is crafted from that expensive material. Baobab bars protect the northern
and western windows from possible intruders, and a thick, gwoshi-wool carpet
of dark green covers the floor.
A stained quill-pen fashioned from a long black vestric feather lies here.
A bone-sided obsidian-handled chest sits here.
Hung above the bed, an unlit glass-sided purple lantern reflects a dim violet glow.
Seemingly growing out of the floor, a long-stemmed, basalt mushroom rises here.
Stacked with food, a large, silvery pymlithe tray rests near the doorway here.
Lying at the foot of the bed, a plain baobab chest rests here.
Resting on the nightstand, a polished marble jewelry box glints in the available light.
Reflecting darkly, a polished obsidian mirror is hung on the back of the southern door.
Set against the northern wall, a sturdy agafari dresser rests here.
Some carved shelves of fitted agafari hardwood stand here.
A compact baobab wardrobe is here , pushed against the northern wall.
Set beneath the expansive windows, a heavy baobab desk rests here.
Silken coverlets draping, a heavy baobab bed rests against the eastern wall.

an etched, amethyst key-ring

Throwing it away as he looses a frustrated yell, you drop your ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk.
Shown to the room as:
A finely crafted dirk lies here, its obsidian blade set in an ivory hilt.
The gaunt, henna-maned man grumbles to himself, pacing about the room, blood trickling down his right arm.

You think:
"Makes me wish I kept a pet..."

The gaunt, henna-maned man licks his lips, looking about the room with a rather crazed expression.

A Forest Green Apartment [S Quit Save]
Every textile in this room is dyed in varying scales of forest green.
The walls are covered with thick green weaves that have been embroidered to
depict forest scenery with trees, hunters, halflings and other elements
known from the Grey Forest up north. The only other color present in the
chamber is the dark maroon of baobab wood, as the ceiling and all furniture
is crafted from that expensive material. Baobab bars protect the northern
and western windows from possible intruders, and a thick, gwoshi-wool carpet
of dark green covers the floor.
A finely crafted dirk lies here, its obsidian blade set in an ivory hilt.
A stained quill-pen fashioned from a long black vestric feather lies here.
A bone-sided obsidian-handled chest sits here.
Hung above the bed, an unlit glass-sided purple lantern reflects a dim violet glow.
Seemingly growing out of the floor, a long-stemmed, basalt mushroom rises here.
Stacked with food, a large, silvery pymlithe tray rests near the doorway here.
Lying at the foot of the bed, a plain baobab chest rests here.
Resting on the nightstand, a polished marble jewelry box glints in the available light.
Reflecting darkly, a polished obsidian mirror is hung on the back of the southern door.
Set against the northern wall, a sturdy agafari dresser rests here.
Some carved shelves of fitted agafari hardwood stand here.
A compact baobab wardrobe is here , pushed against the northern wall.
Set beneath the expansive windows, a heavy baobab desk rests here.
Silken coverlets draping, a heavy baobab bed rests against the eastern wall.

You think:
"...Might be rats in this ol' mansion, if only a few."

A Forest Green Apartment [S Quit Save]
Every textile in this room is dyed in varying scales of forest green.
The walls are covered with thick green weaves that have been embroidered to
depict forest scenery with trees, hunters, halflings and other elements
known from the Grey Forest up north. The only other color present in the
chamber is the dark maroon of baobab wood, as the ceiling and all furniture
is crafted from that expensive material. Baobab bars protect the northern
and western windows from possible intruders, and a thick, gwoshi-wool carpet
of dark green covers the floor.
A finely crafted dirk lies here, its obsidian blade set in an ivory hilt.
A stained quill-pen fashioned from a long black vestric feather lies here.
A bone-sided obsidian-handled chest sits here.
Hung above the bed, an unlit glass-sided purple lantern reflects a dim violet glow.
Seemingly growing out of the floor, a long-stemmed, basalt mushroom rises here.
Stacked with food, a large, silvery pymlithe tray rests near the doorway here.
Lying at the foot of the bed, a plain baobab chest rests here.
Resting on the nightstand, a polished marble jewelry box glints in the available light.
Reflecting darkly, a polished obsidian mirror is hung on the back of the southern door.
Set against the northern wall, a sturdy agafari dresser rests here.
Some carved shelves of fitted agafari hardwood stand here.
A compact baobab wardrobe is here , pushed against the northern wall.
Set beneath the expansive windows, a heavy baobab desk rests here.
Silken coverlets draping, a heavy baobab bed rests against the eastern wall.

Snatching it up with a wide grin, you pick up an ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk.
It is very light.

The gaunt, henna-maned man heads to the doorway.

A Short Hallway [NEW Save]
Thick, deep blue raw silk draperies cover the entire walls of this
short hallway. Doors lead in all directions but south, all crafted from a
polished, high-gloss baobab wood. A thick deep blue carpet made of soft
velvet has left no piece of the floor uncovered, and in the low ceiling,
lines of all shades of purple swirl their way across a blue foundation. In
the southern wall sits a tall window, its glass seems thick, though not more
so than to let in a trace of moonlight from the outside, and is protected
from intruders by several sturdy wooden cross-bars.

Wrapping his fingers about the hilt, you brandish your ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk.

You are starving.
Your health worsens from lack of food.
You are a little thirsty.

Gazing down the hall, his chest heaving in excitement, you look east.
A door to the east leads to a Cramped, Silk-draped Office.
The door is open.
[Near]
Nothing.

You think:
"We'll check Jubs' old room, no one's been in there in ages."

Ok.

A Red, Velvet-walled Chamber [E Save]
Soft, plush red velvet drapes over the walls, floor and ceiling of
this elegant chamber. A scent of sweet incense lingers in the air, and
several candle-lit lanterns have been affixed to the walls to spread a dim
light in the room. Footsteps are quiet over the velvety floor, and thin
black swirling lines have been woven into the textile. To the east, a low
door of crimson-painted wood opens to the hallway, and small glass-covered
windows sit in the southern and northern walls. To the west, a larger
window opens, displaying a crimson and transparent mosaic, and with a deep
windowseat resting beneath it.
Here near the western wall, a heavy baobab bed is under some windows overlooking the wagonyard.
A heavy desk of black-stained baobab has been planted here firmly.
A compact, octagonal baobab wardrobe has been deposited here.

The gaunt, henna-maned man lingers near the doorway a moment, before leaping in the room, landing spread-feet, gaze sweeping over the dusty, velveted chamber.

Waving your ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk about in a shallow motion, you say, in cavilish:
"Heeere mousy mousy."

You suffer from use of the Way.

The gaunt, henna-maned man strains his neck, head tilting to the side as he falls silent.

You start trying to listen.

You feel anxious as you listen for the slightest sound of scratching or squeaking.

You start trying to listen.

You think:
"Hmm, might've heard me coming in, will have t'try'n be more quiet about it in the other rooms."

The gaunt, henna-maned man drops down to a knee, sweeping the drapings of a heavy baobab bed aside and peering beneath.

You suffer from use of the Way.

The gaunt, henna-maned man grumbles, slowly rising to his feet, your ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk clenched in his hand.

You are starving.
Your health worsens from lack of food.
You are a little thirsty.

The gaunt, henna-maned man quietly pads towards the doorway, taking special care in his steps.

You slow down and start moving carefully.

The gaunt, henna-maned man moves quietly down the hall, gaze wandering along the floorboards.

A Cramped, Silk-draped Office [NWUD Save]
Thick, light blue masses of raw silk drape over the walls of this
chamber. Despite the relatively generous size of the office, it gives a
cramped impression due to the surprising amount of furniture and containers
stored here. The light color of the walls serve to add some air to the
chamber despite its crowded state, and a similarly dyed, elaborately woven
gwoshi wool carpet covers most of the polished baobab floor. A trapdoor
sits discreetly under a cut-out flap of the carpet in the southeastern
corner, and just above it, a narrow staircase leads upwards. Above the door
that leads to a short corridor west hangs a remarkably finely crafted
embroidery about three inches wide and half as high, depicting the Kadian
emblem: a blue gemstone on a purple field. Another door sits between two
high shelves, leading through the northern wall.
A distinguished baobab desk with carved facets stands here.

The gaunt, henna-maned man slows as he pads into the office, gaze sweeping over the carpeted floor.

You feel the hunger for meat nearly consuming your every thought.

You think:
"Need..t'fucking...eat something.."

The door is closed.

The gaunt, henna-maned man moves quietly across the office, carefully turning the knob on the northern door.

It seems to be locked.

an etched, amethyst key-ring

You are carrying:
1851 obsidian pieces
an etched, amethyst key-ring

A Short Hallway [NEW Save]
Thick, deep blue raw silk draperies cover the entire walls of this
short hallway. Doors lead in all directions but south, all crafted from a
polished, high-gloss baobab wood. A thick deep blue carpet made of soft
velvet has left no piece of the floor uncovered, and in the low ceiling,
lines of all shades of purple swirl their way across a blue foundation. In
the southern wall sits a tall window, its glass seems thick, though not more
so than to let in plenty of sunlight from the outside, and is protected from
intruders by several sturdy wooden cross-bars.

A Forest Green Apartment [S Quit Save]
Every textile in this room is dyed in varying scales of forest green.
The walls are covered with thick green weaves that have been embroidered to
depict forest scenery with trees, hunters, halflings and other elements
known from the Grey Forest up north. The only other color present in the
chamber is the dark maroon of baobab wood, as the ceiling and all furniture
is crafted from that expensive material. Baobab bars protect the northern
and western windows from possible intruders, and a thick, gwoshi-wool carpet
of dark green covers the floor.
A stained quill-pen fashioned from a long black vestric feather lies here.
A bone-sided obsidian-handled chest sits here.
Hung above the bed, an unlit glass-sided purple lantern reflects a dim violet glow.
Seemingly growing out of the floor, a long-stemmed, basalt mushroom rises here.
Stacked with food, a large, silvery pymlithe tray rests near the doorway here.
Lying at the foot of the bed, a plain baobab chest rests here.
Resting on the nightstand, a polished marble jewelry box glints in the available light.
Reflecting darkly, a polished obsidian mirror is hung on the back of the southern door.
Set against the northern wall, a sturdy agafari dresser rests here.
Some carved shelves of fitted agafari hardwood stand here.
A compact baobab wardrobe is here , pushed against the northern wall.
Set beneath the expansive windows, a heavy baobab desk rests here.
Silken coverlets draping, a heavy baobab bed rests against the eastern wall.

Health: 90/80, Mana: 6/109, Stun: 60/60, Stamina:108/108, Speed:sneaking, (standing) (armed)
Cause they were totally not in his inventory, you put your pile of allanaki coins onto a heavy baobab bed.

You suffer from use of the Way.

Neither was this, you put your etched, amethyst key-ring onto a heavy baobab bed.

A Short Hallway [NEW Save]
Thick, deep blue raw silk draperies cover the entire walls of this
short hallway. Doors lead in all directions but south, all crafted from a
polished, high-gloss baobab wood. A thick deep blue carpet made of soft
velvet has left no piece of the floor uncovered, and in the low ceiling,
lines of all shades of purple swirl their way across a blue foundation. In
the southern wall sits a tall window, its glass seems thick, though not more
so than to let in plenty of sunlight from the outside, and is protected from
intruders by several sturdy wooden cross-bars.

Feeling annoyed, you think:
"Damn, locked."

The gaunt, henna-maned man pats himself down, as if looking for something.

You think:
"Hmm..where'd I put my keys?"

You think:
"Eh fuck it, we'll check there later."

The gaunt, henna-maned man moves about the office, gaze sweeping over the floor, until he reaches the corner.

Set into the floor is a trapdoor, covered with a cut-out flap of the
carpet and difficult to discern.
The trapdoor is open.
[Near]
Nothing.

A Velvet-walled Office [NWU Save]
Soft, deep blue velvet drapes over the wooden walls of this elegant
office. A thick, burgundy carpet muffles footsteps and protects the glossy
baobab floor beneath. A set of shelves stands to the eastern wall, and a
desk with one chair behind it, and two before it, rests in convenient
proximity to the shelves. An unusually finely-polished crate has been
placed in the north-eastern corner of the office, and in the opposite side
of the room, a staircase winds its way up to a trapdoor in the ceiling. Two
regular, if low, doors allow departure from the chamber to the north and
west.
A massive, jet-black obsidian-adorned chest sits here.
A red jasper urn sits here.
A winerack, made of carved bone, sits here.
A few large, etched wooden casks are here.
A couple of large blue wine casks are here.
A baobab desk of compact proportions rests here.
A large purple cask, bearing the symbol of House Kadius, rests here.

You are starving.
Your health worsens from lack of food.
You are a little thirsty.

The gaunt, henna-maned man winces and haults every few steps, a groaning *Squeeak* emitting from the floorboards.

Feeling as though there was nothing else, you think:
"Meat meat meat meat meat meat meat."

A Blue-padded, Narrow Hallway [NESWD Save]
Thickly woven wool-carpets of dark blue pad the walls and floor of
this narrow hallway. A sky blue pattern of irregular, surreal lines and
images has been embroidered onto the thick weave in places, and the padding
makes way southwards for two narrow doors of glass mosaic. The doors are
set with a blue and purple pattern of small, diagonally placed square
glass-tiles, half of them colored, and the other half transparent. A
pleasant amount of light spills in through the glass, lifting the cramped
atmosphere of the hallway. Three blue-padded wooden doors rise to the east,
west and north, and the ceiling, the only visible surface not clad in the
dark blue, consists of polished maroon baobab planks. A small wooden
staircase leads downward.

The gaunt, henna-maned man sniffs at the air, gazing about the hallway with a wild look in his eyes.

Health: 70/70, Mana: 6/109, Stun: 49/50, Stamina:107/107, Speed:sneaking, (standing) (armed)
The middle-aged figure before you rises nearly four and a half cords
in height, his spindly frame sporting little musculature. His body is well
proportioned, broad shoulders and evenly toned arms ending a slender left
hand, the fingers calloused and slightly dirtied. His right arm ends in a
cleanly severed stub, dark, jagged lines extending to the forearm. A wild
mass of tangled, henna-toned curls falls to his lower back, some grey
beginning to manifest about his temples. His skin is weathered and tanned
from exposure to Suk-krath, olive in complexion and marred by numerous small,
slash-mark scars. When his lips part, clean whites are exposed, the canines
protruding almost imperceptibly. His gaunt features are otherwise well-
defined: a thin jawline resting beneath darkly-stained lips, and high
cheekbones surmount a stubbled face. Beneath thin brows rest hazel eyes,
deeply set and slightly ovoid. Overall his appearance would depict an
otherwise handsome figure, though obviously aesthetics are not first priority
for this individual.
The gaunt, henna-maned man is in excellent condition.

a blue and purple inked band
a bone charm on a leather cord
a pale tattoo of an angular gem
an angular, crescent shaped scar
a large, blotchy burn scar
a purple ring tattoo
a cleanly severed right hand
an ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk
several pale, faint looking scars
a lapis lazuli signet ring with an evening stone
)
Through a doors to the south is On a Blue Balcony.
The doors are open.
[Near]
Nothing.

You think:
"Hmmm, THE KITCHEN!"

You think:
"If there were rats anywhere, they'd be there."

Glancing furtively down the stairs, you look down.
Down below is a Purple-walled Lobby.
[Near]
Nothing.

A Purple-walled Lobby [NEWU]
Light purple tapestries cover the walls of this comfortable chamber.
Lavender embroidery trickles over their surface, adding an attractive
shimmer to the soft linen. A low, finely made oval wooden table sits in the
middle of the room, with six armchairs surrounding it. On the glossy maroon
surface of the table rests a wooden bowl, and the chairs are luxuriously
wide and padded with deep blue cloth. A dark blue carpet covers most of the
floor here, thickly woven from escru wool with a discreet, swirling purple
pattern in its texture. The soft cover muffles the sound of footsteps from
people moving towards the doorways that rise in the western, eastern, and
northern walls. To the south is a painted glass window, with flowery
patterns of blue, purple and white adorning it. Through the few transparent
spots on the window, the wall of another building is visible, and only a
sparse amount of light spills through the glass. A small baobab staircase
leads upward.
A low table sits here, made of maroon baobab wood.

A slim, maroon baobab door sits in the eastern wall.
The door is closed.

West of here is an Airy Entrance Hall.
[Far]
Nothing.
[Near]
The swarthy, muscular man stands post here.

A baobab-framed, arched doorway leads northwards to a maroon-panelled
dining room.
[Near]
Nothing.

The gaunt, henna-maned man flits his gaze about the lobby, gazing westwards along the hall.

A Baobab-panelled Dining Room [ES]
Smooth, dark maroon panels line the walls, the floor and the ceiling
of this room. The baobab wood has been cut in long, regular planks, their
fine gloss reflecting the light from the lanterns on the walls to create a
warm, dim atmosphere. A rectangular table rises in the center of the
chamber, with eight high-backed chairs standing around it. The table is
made of maroon, oiled baobab similar to the walls, and its surface is etched
with swirling lines along its edges. The chairs match the table, and their
seats are padded with comfortable, deep blue linen pillows. A long,
purple-blue silk tapestry hangs on the northern wall, displaying flowery,
surreal patterns with silver highlights. An arched doorway leads
southwards, while a small door opens to another chamber east of here.
A rectangular table made of baobab wood stands here, its surface etched.

A low, baobab door leads eastwards to the kitchen.
The door is open.
[Near]
The short, blue-haired cook stands here, hurriedly serving up some food.

The gaunt, henna-maned man inhales sharply, moving behind an etched, rectangular baobab table.

A White-bricked Kitchen [W]
Glazed, white ceramic bricks cover the walls of this kitchen. A
brick-oven leans against the eastern wall, with a fire burning under it.
Next to the oven is a large roasting pit with a blackened bone stick sitting
above the hot coal of the pit, meat and fruit hanging from it. The floor is
tiled with blue and white clay bricks placed in a checkered pattern, and
linen towels hang from a set of wooden pegs on the northern wall,
conveniently close to the hot oven. Above the pegs sit an open window that
looks out onto a high wall, separating the Kadian estate from the Salarri
grounds north. A barrel of water has been placed in the northwestern
corner, and opposite it, next to the door, rests a small crate with a few
pieces of garbage and rotten food inside.
The short, blue-haired cook stands here, hurriedly serving up some food.

The gaunt, henna-maned man spies the short, blue-haired cook working over the stove, and carefully moves along the wall .

Crouching behind a wooden water barrel, calling out in a hushed whisper, you say, in cavilish:
"Psst."

Your new ldesc is:
The gaunt, henna-maned man is here, crouched behind a wooden barrel, naked.

Just an intsy bit louder, gripping your ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk tightly at his side, you ask, in cavilish:
"Pssst, Cirwen! You have any rats?"

You think:
"Hmm...he can't hear me. Don't want to startled him though, might chase away any rats that be hidin'."

The gaunt, henna-maned man lowers himself to his stomach, slanting his gaze along the floor.

Your new ldesc is:
The gaunt, henna-maned man is crawling on his stomach here, naked.

The gaunt, henna-maned man slowly pulls himself along the tiled floor, biting down on your ivory-hilted, obsidian-bladed dirk to hold it in his teeth.

The gaunt, henna-maned man freezes in place as the short, blue-haired cook turns away from stove, moving over to a counter to chop up some fresh vegetables.

You think:
"Shiiiit."

You think:
"Careful Mark!"

A deep, crate-like construction of sandstone makes out this roasting pit.
Inside the crate burns a low fire, the flames licking the sides of the pit
but not reaching all the way up to the stick hanging above it. Hooks sit on
the stick, meant for meat to hang on when being grilled, and a few smaller,
sharp pieces of bone stand out from it, where one is able to pierce fruit
and other goodies needing a turn over the fire. Coal and dried manure make
out the fuel for the fire.
On a large roasting pit (here) :
a couple of grilled scrab steaks
a few grilled chalton steaks

You think:
"Damnit! She must keep a clean House, n'fucking rats anywhere!"

In a small, blue bone crate (here) :
a rotten petoch-fruit
a small mass of bloody guts
a battered piece of scrab shell

The gaunt, henna-maned man tugs himself along the floor, drawing near to a small, blue bone crate.

You think:
"Oh yeah, the fucking jackpot!"

Reaching his arm up over the lip, rummaging about the refuse, you get your small mass of bloody guts from a small, blue bone crate.
It is very light.

Grasping them in a finger, you look at your small mass of bloody guts.
This bloody gore comes from the entrails of an animal. The guts look
distasteful and carry an unpleasant smell. The gore makes up for about a
handful of strings and guts clinging together in a stomach-turning mass.

The gaunt, henna-maned man sniffs at your small mass of bloody guts, glancing to the short, blue-haired cook, who's attention is elsewhere.

The gaunt, henna-maned man grins impishly, carefully crawling across the kitchen back towards the dining room.

The gaunt, henna-maned man pulls himself up onto the carpet, carefully, quietly rising to his feet.

The gaunt, henna-maned man holds your small mass of bloody guts up in a triumphant pose, his wild eyes only adding to the crazed image of his naked self.

You think:
"Meat meat meat meat meat"

You are Markua, Trader/Overseer/First Hunter of the House Kadius.
Keywords: maned henna gaunt man Kadius balls Mark Agent Senior
Sdesc: the gaunt, henna-maned man
Objective: Planning Mal Krian Expedition
Long Description:
Code Generated Long Description.
You are 29 years, 0 months, and 229 days old,
which by your race and appearance is adult.
You are 68 inches tall, and weigh 7 ten-stone.
Your strength is below average, your agility is good,
your wisdom is very good, and your endurance is poor.
You are starving and a little thirsty.
Your health is 70(70), you have 107(107) stamina, and 50(50) stun.

You have been playing for 45 days and 16 hours.
You are standing.
You are currently speaking cavilish with a southern accent.

Your encumbrance is very light.
You are:
Trader/Overseer/First Hunter of the House Kadius, jobs: recruiter | leader | banker |
Relationship to the land is neutral.
You are currently speaking cavilish with a southern accent.
Your mood is neutral.
You are standing.
Your mind is in contact with the short, burn-ravaged woman.
You are refusing saves on: arrest.
You are not being merciful.
You aren't watching anything in particular.

The gaunt, henna-maned man looks about, wiping your small mass of bloody guts over his lips as he stalks towards the stairwell, ascending ever so slowly.

A Short Hallway [NEW Save]
Thick, deep blue raw silk draperies cover the entire walls of this
short hallway. Doors lead in all directions but south, all crafted from a
polished, high-gloss baobab wood. A thick deep blue carpet made of soft
velvet has left no piece of the floor uncovered, and in the low ceiling,
lines of all shades of purple swirl their way across a blue foundation. In
the southern wall sits a tall window, its glass seems thick, though not more
so than to let in plenty of sunlight from the outside, and is protected from
intruders by several sturdy wooden cross-bars.

)
A door to the north leads to a Forest Green Apartment.
The door is open.
[Near]
Nothing.

A Forest Green Apartment [S Quit Save]
Every textile in this room is dyed in varying scales of forest green.
The walls are covered with thick green weaves that have been embroidered to
depict forest scenery with trees, hunters, halflings and other elements
known from the Grey Forest up north. The only other color present in the
chamber is the dark maroon of baobab wood, as the ceiling and all furniture
is crafted from that expensive material. Baobab bars protect the northern
and western windows from possible intruders, and a thick, gwoshi-wool carpet
of dark green covers the floor.
A stained quill-pen fashioned from a long black vestric feather lies here.
A bone-sided obsidian-handled chest sits here.
Hung above the bed, an unlit glass-sided purple lantern reflects a dim violet glow.
Seemingly growing out of the floor, a long-stemmed, basalt mushroom rises here.
Stacked with food, a large, silvery pymlithe tray rests near the doorway here.
Lying at the foot of the bed, a plain baobab chest rests here.
Resting on the nightstand, a polished marble jewelry box glints in the available light.
Reflecting darkly, a polished obsidian mirror is hung on the back of the southern door.
Set against the northern wall, a sturdy agafari dresser rests here.
Some carved shelves of fitted agafari hardwood stand here.
A compact baobab wardrobe is here , pushed against the northern wall.
Set beneath the expansive windows, a heavy baobab desk rests here.
Silken coverlets draping, a heavy baobab bed rests against the eastern wall.

Clenching your small mass of bloody guts in his fist, lifting them up, you exclaim, in cavilish:
"HA! FOOD!"
Summarily sinking his teeth into the bloody mess, ripping away a piece, you eat your small mass of bloody guts.

The gaunt, henna-maned man noisily scarfs the mass down, blood smearing all over his hands, lips, and chin.

The gaunt, henna-maned man's hand, that is.

You feel rather unsatiated, but no where near the desperation you did before.

Feeling much more calmed and collected, you think:
"Need...t'go see Midge..I promised. Plus..she had meat, an' I could fill myself up."

                                                                     
                                                                     
                                             
*Mark's standing in front of the mirror in his room, having just undressed*

The gaunt, henna-maned man runs the...

Bako Pt. 1 by Is Friday
Added on Feb 14, 2010

A militia Corporal thinks about her bad decisions in Red Storm.

Bako stared at the dirty stones of the alley lifelessly. It was pure
speculation at this point if she was going to die or not, but she
certainly felt as though she deserved to.

Her blink came at a dead-hang, the slow struggle of a fluttering pair of
eyelids that would just not keep open without a brutal fight. Soldiers that
went to sleep when they were bleeding out did not wake up, and Bako was not
about to become one of them. And speaking of brutal fights, oh how the alley
reflected what had just taken place. She thought she'd fucked those necker
bitches up worse than she had gotten it. They was the dead ones, after all. 
(Or maybe they was just bleeding out where she couldn't see, like she was.)

Bako thought about how stupid she'd been to come to Storm. The fuck was in 
Storm, anyhow? Spice. Shit, spice you can -get- in nak! Just have to ask. But
no, you wanted Sergeant, you stupid shit. You wanted Sergeant so you decided
to "play it safe" by coming to Storm to sniff your good fuckin times,
Corporal. You even -thought- it was a bad idea halfway here, and look, not
trusting your gut got you crammed up the ass like a rinthi whore.

Putting all of her strength into a push against the grimy, reddish mud that
had developed the tinge with compliments of her tattered body, Bako slowly
rolled over onto her back. Shuddering and clumsy hands attempted to unstrap 
her breastplate, missing the clasp several times before finally gripping it
with some certainty, and then expending her easily exhaustable burst of
energy by twisting it unlatched. Instead of pushing the breastplate off of
herself, she slipped her quivering hands beneath it to her gruesomely
impaled abdomen, where a jagged knife had slipped up and under the shell.

Bako clenched her teeth and gripped the hilt of the knife with a whine
growling out from her wheezing throat. She knew what she had to do, but she
fucking hated it. She hated herself, and she hated her weakness to find a
knife in her gut when there was only three neckers. Should have fucking
yanked it out during the scuffle and stabbed that bitch longneck in the
throat with it. Maybe bleed out like a real big fucking hero with some
dignity, instead of this pathetic bullshit.

The wound was torn anew as Bako tightened her grip around the knife and
yanked it from inside her, the small jagged edges along one side of the
blade carving through her like a raptor's teeth. She wailed like it was the
last thing she could do, her voice cracking and strained. Her body buckled
as though it wanted to convulse; to offer one last twitch and give in. 
Vision blurred, darkness crept up, the sky was spinning (without the 
assistance of spice,) and she felt at peace for once in her life.

Fuck that, she thought. Out from her lips poured a whispered incantation 
that might have been the appropriate words, and as though the Suk-Krath had
landed in the pit of her stomach, the hand over her gushing wound ignited in
a ball of furious flame. Bako screamed bloody flaming murder, and at once 
the fire vanished in a plume of smoke around her body, slowly drifting up 
toward the sky where the Suk-Krath might be waiting tomorrow morn--prepared 
to accept some offerings of her burnt flesh.

Exhausted and drained, she probed at the burn with a finger gingerly. She
could not feel it very well, but she assumed the wound had shut. At least
she was no longer taking in any of the dirty necker sand that would be the 
end of her with this wind.

Bako had kept this a secret for entirely too long a time, but that was all
right. She also kept stupid shit like sniffing spice in Storm a secret.
Secrets were easy.

Bako stared at the dirty stones of the alley lifelessly. It was pure
speculation at this point if she was going to die or not, but she
certainly felt as though she deserved to.

Her blink came at a dead-hang, the slow struggle of a fluttering pair of
eyelids that would just not keep open without a...

Bako Pt. 2 by Is Friday
Added on Feb 14, 2010

Introspective whoring. *This story contains sexual themes and references*

It was hard to think clearly when in the middle of a good fuck, that much
was certain. A mediocre fuck, you could ignore what was going on for a
while, come back during the brief yet relatively lackluster &apos;better&apos; parts,
and then continue your conversation with yourself.

Bako liked this whore because he didn&apos;t talk much, unlike all the other
whores she&apos;d dealt with in her time in the militia. Most thought that
because you were a woman, you loved to talk before and after--well bullshit
on that, all Bako needed was some dick, not a bard. If she wanted some song 
and dance, she&apos;d have gone to the tavern, not that certain part of the
bazaar. Now a nice kiss and some touching, that was nice. Bako considered
herself quite sexually cultured nowadays, compared to how she started out.
Used to be that she got right to it. Enjoying the finer things in life was
an acquired taste, she supposed, and she was slowly appreciating a few more
things.

Another thing she liked about this whore is that he never wanted his dick
sucked. That was one thing Bako never felt comfortable doing, being on her 
knees. You never knew what you were going to &apos;get&apos; with some of the poorly 
made mul mix some of these cheap whores were buying. Not that this
particular whore was cheap, but some gut feelings had convinced her to make
it a &apos;rule&apos; to not suck any whore dick. A lot of women she knew liked doing
it, but Bako could never figure out why. Anyway, she preferred being on top,
but might settle for other things every once and a while, if she was feeling
rather drunk or tired, (like now.)

Bako&apos;s head suddenly swam with a dizzy excitement as she panted, unable to
do anything in her helplessly blissful state but squirm. Black curtains 
pulled over her vision.

"Bako?"

A hand nudged her back into consciousness, and she blinked a few times. 
Staring at the ceiling for a moment, before turning her head toward the
voice, she saw Grek beside her on the cot. He was just as beautiful as he
had been before they started fucking and she was slobbering drunk--which was 
the terribly addicting part of his services. (She did take note that he bore
the physical signs of strain and exhaustion, with a healthy coat of sweat 
over his pretty dusky skin.)

Still feeling slow and drowsy, Bako reached out toward Grek&apos;s ear to give a 
faint tug.

She said to him, "Grek?"

Grek reached up with a much larger hand, (a shame he had not become a
soldier, for he had the build to be a small mul,) and clapsed it around 
hers. He stroked her casually, regarding her with barely seen brown eyes in
the perpetual darkness that came with the sandstorms. (She was lucky that
they had managed to get inside just before this one had kicked up.)

Grek whispered, "You passed out again?"

Bako nodded her assent, biting her bottom lip. It had happened quite a few
times, now. She did not know why, but this man... this man was capable of so 
much it sent her right back to being a recruit smashed on the head by the 
Corporal--knocked out cold. Naturally, she had to have drank a little most 
times, but it happened regardless without the firebreather at times.

"Ya, I&apos;m fine, ya sissy fuck," she reassured affectionately, words holding 
no malice in them despite her gruff choice in them.

"Eh. Time for ya to be goin, Sergeant?"

She was to be taking the helm of Sergeant next month, so she quietly and 
privately enjoyed the title spoken to her. He was right though, there was a 
slowly creeping dawn upon them.

As she was finished getting dressed Grek approached her, still bare-assed. 
She held out a hand to halt him bluntly, narrowing her brow at him with a 
quick clench in her jaw.

She sharply told him, "I&apos;m wearing the cloak, ya silly fuck. Ya aint touchin
me. We talked bout this shit last time, Grek."

Grek gently pushed aside her hand, which seemed a routine and easy maneuver 
because of his greatly underappreciated strength. He stepped toward her, 
tracing a finger down her cheek. This sent her in a conflicting storm of 
emotion. She wanted to fuck him senseless, but also wanted to shove her 
thumbs into his eye sockets for disrespecting her. (She was nearly a 
Sergeant!)

If she stayed, she would surely be late again. Her Sergeant that she was 
supposed to replace would likely beat the shit out of her. Again. She might 
lose Sergeant.

She thought, Fuck that, I&apos;m going to hit him.

And she did, but then she couldn&apos;t help but grab at his dick, and the choice 
had been made in that single lustful motion. There wasn&apos;t any going back,
she was halfway out of her cloak and shoving him onto the cot. They wouldn&apos;t 
miss her at morning drills--she could come up with some bullshit excuse 
about wall duty, anyway. They sometimes bought that. It was a pretty decent 
gamble.

It was hard to think clearly when in the middle of a good fuck, that much
was certain. A mediocre fuck, you could ignore what was going on for a
while, come back during the brief yet relatively lackluster 'better' parts,
and then continue your conversation with yourself.

Bako liked this...

Bako Pt. 3 by Is Friday
Added on Feb 14, 2010

Corporal Bako serves one of her punishments.

Bako rushed through the courtyard, dragging a bag of obsidian slag as
best she could manage. The burden crunched loudly with each shift in 
weight, a bulbous deformation to her form--which could be somewhat 
similar to a mutation. It certainly set her apart and held her in a 
discouragingly disgusted regard to the rest of the unit.

The Corporal took her first step into the training yard, hunched over 
and struggling. Her legs quivered like a necker's in front of some 
cruel templar with each movement. She was often called a few 
favorable things during a morning of training for her brutality and 
strength, but she was at the last dregs of her endurance as she 
slowly staggered to her destination. She felt pathetic--she felt 
weak--she felt humiliated.

Sergeant Bace stood with his arms crossed, watching her with a 
particularly bored stare as she approached. His expression did not 
change as she dropped her load, and began the series of formalities 
required of her.

Bako straightened her crushed form, a cracked and worn series of 
limbs with a tangled mess of hair. She saluted her Sergeant wearily, 
barely able to bring a loose fist to her breast before sputtering the 
rest of it.

"Necker whore slime Corporal Bako reporting in with one more bag of 
obsidian, Sergeant!"

With that, the impeccably dressed and groomed Sergeant snapped his 
fingers. Two large Corporals moved in on her, shoving her to the dirt 
again. This was the... thirteenth time today. With each load of 
obsidian, she recieved a beating. Bace wanted to use Corporals from a 
different unit, in order to make it as emotionally painful as 
possible, and so he called upon the two Corporals who had proven 
themselves early in their careers--just as Bako had.

The stark difference being that these two Corporals, (who were laying 
down strikes with their knees and elbows to Bako's writhing form,) 
were at the very beginning of their careers. In different units they 
were going to become Sergeants soon, and possibly Lieutenants. They 
were like Bako was, before she had found out her terrible disease. 
She was a great fucking Corporal before she found out she had been 
born a disgusting wiggler. Fuck you if you think that finding that 
out was easy to deal with, or hide. (Oh how difficult it was at times 
to hide.)

Sergeant Bace, who had been her Sergeant for ten... (or was it 
twelve?) years now was tired of his Corporal. His Blue Robe would not 
assign him a different one, citing that it was the Sergeant's fault 
his incredibly promising Corporal turned sour. Bace had been denied 
promotion quite a few times because of Bako, she was sure. No one 
stayed a Sergeant that long if they were as good as Bace was. (As 
good as she was, if not for her affliction.)

The punishment ended, possibly to begin again later after the next 
bag. Gripped roughly by her filthy mat of bloody-streaked hair, eyes 
half-lidded as she fought passing out, Bako was held upright on her 
knees. Her form swayed and would have surely toppled if not stretched 
to proper form by the consistently agonizing pull on her hair. She 
bled from her face, her neck, her gut, her limbs, (and she certainly 
felt as though she bled inside. She was hoping she might cough up 
blood, to give her a sign that it would all be over so very soon.)

Sergeant Bace squatted down in front of her, cold gaze narrowing. The 
both of them were terribly conflicting sights. He was organized, 
trimmed, freshly sand-bathed, and refreshed. She was torn apart, 
messy, smelled of sweat and piss, and nearly dead.

"You've cost me a lot, you piece of shit. You are lucky I cannot kill 
you." Bace drew a knife, holding it out to one of the future 
Sergeants. "Needless to say, you are not making Sergeant. Again. I am 
done with you." He turned a placid gaze from her to the one holding 
her. "Give her a hair cut."

The simplicity of his words troubled her, and she had to think on it 
for a dreadfully long time before her thoughts processed. Bace cannot 
kill her, she lost her chance at Sergeant, (again,) Bace is done with 
her--wait, what does he mean by 'done'? What was he doing? Was he 
leaving the militia, now? Was he getting rid of her somehow?

The dull blade scraped across her scalp. The knife was more of an 
annoyance than anything. This was a new trick for reducing her. She'd 
seen it done before, but it normally was reserved for those being 
punished severely--as with lashings.

Bako suddenly smiled as her drenched locks fell past her sight, the 
red along her teeth causing Bace some pause in his expression. The 
Sergeant opened his mouth as though suddenly distressed, seeing the 
severity of her wounds all at once. She wasn't about to be sent to 
the Sawbones before she endured the worst of his punishments, so Bako 
thought quickly and attempted to form some course of action that 
would keep her from being cared to.

Bako's throat gurgled for a moment, and she spit on Sergeant Bace. 
The drool and blood trickled down her own form, but she did not care. 
She had landed a good amount on Bace, and that was pleasing enough to 
see his reaction. Unfortunately, he was having none of it, and 
instead of continuing to call for Sawbones, he simply knocked her the 
fuck out.

Oh well. At least she'd have a full haircut by the time she woke up, 
instead of half of one like she might have if she had been given to 
Sawbones. She considered herself genuinely successful.

She just had a really great fuck, a decent bit of wine, and stuck her 
fist up Bace's ass all in one day. It was a fairly decent day to die. 
(Krath, if only she were ever that lucky.)

Bako rushed through the courtyard, dragging a bag of obsidian slag as
best she could manage. The burden crunched loudly with each shift in 
weight, a bulbous deformation to her form--which could be somewhat 
similar to a mutation. It certainly set her apart and held her in a 
discouragingly...

Behind Thrend Lyksae by Tarx
Added on Dec 29, 2009

Biographies of Thrend Lyksae, edited to remove some IC information that probably should not be shared. Hopefully this will give some insight into a noble role.

Initial Background

It was late morning on Cingel, the 70th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Drov's Agitation, year 35 of the 21st Age

Thrend has been raised up in the war-like House of Lyksae, trained in
warfare and in commanding soldiers for the majority of his life. A shrewd
man, he is more intent on finding long-term solutions to problems rather
than short-term, temporary fixes. He prides himself on his ability to think
through situations and use his mind, even though he is (what he considers,
at least) an ample combatant. This, coupled with the Lyksaen dislike of
writing, has led him to pick up what languages and cultural knowledge that
he could--knowing the mindset of possible opponents (and allies) would be
invaluable, in his opinion. A self-proclaimed strategist, he is entirely
open to unconventional means of fixing problems--whether they be in battle,
in treaties, or in everyday life. He does have a quirk of personality: he
is always conscious about fashion and keeping himself looking proper, clean,
and unruffled, almost to the point of being effeminate. In fact, some of
his flamboyant gestures have, in the past, put people entirely too
comfortable with a person that has no compunctions with sliding a blade
between ribs himself.

Diplomacy and Tact

It was late morning on Huegel, the 30th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age

After more than three years serving as one of the primary representatives of
House Lyksae, Thrend has accomplished a great deal. He is the current governor
of the Southwestern Scrub and the Red Sun Commons. He has orchestrated the start
of several peace / alliance talks with different tribes of the Northlands.
Thrend is now on good terms with the Jul Tavan, the Benjari, and the Tan Muark.
Part of this is due to his skill at understanding differing cultures and their
languages, as well as how they perceive threats. His chief problem now
is the threat of the (information removed by author).

Thrend has also managed to deploy a Horde of Lyksaen Warriors to
operate out of Ayun Iskandir. Soon, he will begin using these forces as leverage
to put pressure on the regions thereabouts (Tan Muark homelands, Elan Pah, etc).
He is working fervently to increasing the influence of his House and himself
both within and outside the walls of the Ivory City.
(next entry will show details)

Influence and Intimidation

It was late afternoon on Huegel, the 30th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age

Thrend has begun to amass support amongst the commoner populace of the Northlands,
portraying himself as a noble figure in one sense, but as a charismatic commander
as well. He takes great care to be calm and cool about any decisions made publicly,
and keeps up with his training of personal combat, tactics, and reviews of strategy.
By doing all of this, he hopes to create a strong support base of commoners outside
of House Lyksae. Some will hopefully respect and listen to him out of his considerable
diplomatic and economic influence (alliances, treaties, influence he -can- hold over
Merchant Houses by taxing any goods sent out of the Commons or Scrub).
The rest? They should respect and listen to him because he tries to be intimidating.
(Whether or not they do remains up to them, of course.)

Stance on Magick?

It was dusk on Huegel, the 30th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age

House Lyksae has a strong stance against magick--in fact, rumored to be one
of the most anti-magick groups in Zalanthas. As such, Thrend has lived most
of his life in a very black-and-white world in which all magick should be
destroyed, whatever the cost, as soon as possible. However, Thrend's work
with the Faithful and continued reports from the field have led him to begin
compiling at least a working understanding of how abominations "work." He
still hates the thought of even dealing with 'gickers, but he has lately taken
a slightly different viewpoint. Magickers will be killed and destroyed--on
his own terms, at a time and place of his choosing...not when they are ready
for such an attack. Needless waste of life, he has determined...
Interestingly enough, (information removed by the author). This naivete to
how the world really is may end up causing him problems one day.

Ritual of Fire

It was high sun on Nekrete, the 126th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age

Thrend has only given scant thought to any forced confrontation against
the (information removed by author) and anything they can summon. While this
may be surprising, he has been far too busy trying to gather forces
and strategy to consider the event in question itself. Only recently
has he paused to consider the War that the Sun King has foreseen.
What will his House do? Undoubtedly, against a foe like (removed) they will be called upon to participate in some
dangerous and costly missions, resulting in many dead Warriors,
and likely his own death. To prepare himself for this, he has
decided to participate in a fire ritual to prove his loyalty and his
dedication to leading forces against the force of (removed).

Foe, or...foe?

It was late morning on Cingel, the 158th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age

Thrend took it upon himself to visit the Elan Pah and discuss terms of
dealing with (removed) with them. Unaware that he would be
facing so many magickers so blatantly, it took an excessive amount of
self-control for Thrend to sit through the meeting, and frequently he
bit his tongue before saying anything potentially dangerous.

While the trip was not entirely without gain, Thrend admitted himself
that he did not think of the risks involved. Had he been killed, it
would have severely set back any agreements or treaties with the
Elan Pah. By committing himself to a dangerous trip, though, he
learned several things:

While the Templarate frequently worked with Thrend and expected
him to tell them everything he heard about, they did NOT
reciprocate this information. Much of what Thrend set out to
discuss was already determined among the Templarate. Having
previously viewed Serilla and Elithan as friends, Thrend is a
bit more cautious around the two of them, for they were very much
against the trip and adamant about his importance.

He does feel that the trip made a difference if only that in
recent memory, none of His Chosen or His Faithful have been
to visit the Pah directly.
The question: will Lyksae accept the Pah's proposal for a
more direct alliance? Likely not. Thrend hates the thought of
being allied with a magicker, especially after seeing what they
do in person. Their talk of peace and love and compassion
grates so much against Thrend that he is willing to go along
with it as a complete deception and launch an attack at the
most opportune moment.

(title removed by author)

It was late morning on Dzeda, the 174th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age

Wars have not been fought or lost over weapons, as far as Thrend knows,
but they sure do help. The (removed by author) has been missing for many years. 
A fine weapon in its own right, Thrend has recently developed an obsession
with finding it and restoring it to the House (and hopefully his own hand,
fitting his ideals of attempting to become the -next- (removed by author)). 

With the silver from the medallion of Tektolnes that he currently "owns,"
Thrend believes he has a good bargaining chip for finding (removed by author).
He's mentioned his interest in finding the original, and knows its last
location was (removed by author)...

New Priorities

It was late afternoon on Dzeda, the 141st day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age

After some time spent figuring out his plans, Thrend is once again
pushing for agents working outside of His City, people that can be at least
marginally trusted to bring in useful information. It appears that the Lady
Tor wishes to meet up with him down in Luir's... While the offer looks
legitimate, Thrend is wary of making the journey.

Affirmation: The Pah Alliance

It was high sun on Abid, the 91st day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age

The Elan Pah proposed their alliance some time ago. Thrend has
grudgingly accepted on behalf of the House. He has sent Utakr Ehrick of the
Lyksaean Warriors to secure this alliance with Kija. His conditions will be
to only work directly with the non-magicker scouts, and just trade
information otherwise. This alliance will be in effect only until whatever
confrontation with the Dragon is met. Beyond that point? Thrend has darker
interests in mind... The Elan Pah court alliance with magick and magickers.

They must all be destroyed.

A Magicker killed

It was high sun on Abid, the 91st day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age

 (removed) was her name. An innocent face, a loyal facade put forth to
sway me, to make me see past the obvious taint she had. 
She was, of course, tainted by abominable magicks. 
We deceived her, to be sure--but I have learned that the best way to
destroy those that use such dangerous arts is to choose the time and place
of destruction appropriately. They have weaknesses. Utakr Ehrick is
determining what those are even now, among them. A truly detestable job... 
I will be surprised if he is not promoted for simply maintaining such
composure and self-control among such adverse conditions. 
We beat her head in after confronting her in the Estate. Our Kaffter
Kahs were stained by her blood. 
The Sun King is once again victorious.

The Alliance for the Grey Hunt

It was early morning on Abid, the 25th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st Age

I never expected him to REALLY win the Grey Hunt, but he had the best
chance. Rokov-da Kurac, we knew, was a favored choice... So we sponsored
him, quietly. Lyksae put their full political backing behind this candidate
for the Hunt. I met with him and he agreed to the alliance in exchange for
predetermined spice discounts along a broad range for House Lyksae. In
return, we offered any help that we could that would not cause harm to our
interests. I met personally with His Faithful and others of His Chosen and
mentioned how favorably I found this person to be. I only told His Faithful
of the official stance of Lyksae, which was "unofficial" and not publicly
known.

Defensive agreement with the Tan Muark

It was early morning on Abid, the 25th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st Age

I heard from Utakr Ehrick that Zharal, one of the Tan Muark, had greatly
impressed him--and he had greatly impressed her, I later found out. It was
unexpected. We rarely let on the tribal nature of the House, and for her to
discover it may have been a boon. I am beginning to reconsider my stance on
the tribes... Maybe I should have approached them from the beginning to
appeal to their tribal nature and show them our roots, if only a scant
amount of them. The Pah are a hopeless cause, but the Muark are
interesting. Ehrick thought it wise to broker a tentative agreement of
defense between himself and any Warriors, slaves, or partisans he took on
patrol and the Muark that may be out on patrol. I find it equally wise, and
I will push to make it more widespread and include all within my
Sept--perhaps all within the House, if the elders so choose. If we run into
trouble, we can call them for assistance. If they run into trouble, they
can call us for assistance. I hardly expect them to do so, and I hardly
expect any of the Warriors to readily ask for assistance, but the appearance
of such an agreement is what matters.

His Glory Shines on Us

It was late morning on Abid, the 25th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st Age

The Sun King filled my thoughts with love, devotion to me, and
determination. I knew before that He cared for His people, but now... I
have laid eyes on Him myself. I know it to be true beyond faith. This
truly is a momentous time for the House, for He Chose Rokov-da and Zharal
Himself, before all. He spoke of His prophecy, and I took it to heart: I
must gather the tribes. I must gather them... And if they are unwilling, I
will have to persuade them of the best course of action. It seems as though
every person will matter. If it comes down to it, we will have to push
aside those that stand in the way of His Will.

Lyksae's Victory: The Grey Hunt

It was late morning on Abid, the 25th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st Age

 The largest victory that our House has had, and few will ever know. 
We supported Rokov-da. We had an agreement with Zharal beforehand,
though not for the Hunt. I even personally endorsed Thiza al'Seik, who
trusts me enough to die for me. Her trust and devotion is similar to that
of the Warriors, though she is unblooded. I plan to make her a citizen, and
officially, a Warrior in training. I trust her more than the others... 
The point? We hedged our bets, and all of them turned out well. Rokov
was Chosen by HIM, and it cannot be mistaken that He knew that Chosen Lord
Rokov would choose Zharal as his consort, which I did not expect. 
I think that our King must have known the work I put into this. He has
seen that we made the right choice, to support those that He would Choose. 
I met with the Chosen Lord and Lady only last week. They were in
agreement: Lyksae is going to be a great ally to them. Perhaps I will bring
it before the elders to marry them into the House at a later time. For now,
it is good that they enjoy their newfound status. Any that He Chose Himself
are good people. I told them so, and have pledged my Sept to protecting
them.

And thus begins my mistake: Uaptal

It was early afternoon on Yochem, the 205th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st Age

 Soon after He showed His face... She showed hers. I fell for it. 
Uaptal women. Let it never be said that they are not beautiful, nor let it
be said that they are not crafty. Shara Uaptal certainly wasn't the first
of His Chosen that I've been enamored with, but she certainly was the most
recent. 
A brief fling it was, and she was interested in a relationship with no
political ties. I won't deny that the prospect was interesting, and I even
went along with such a notion with this in mind. She was nice enough, and I
could stand to be around her.

The alliance plan

It was late afternoon on Yochem, the 205th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st Age

 Only a brief month after things began to escalate between the Chosen
Lady and I, the ruthless line from the point where I was to the point that I
wished to be became clear. 
I saw it now. The North and South had allied, and I couldn't be less
annoyed by it. He had called for it, to be sure, but I never expected that
it would ever occur. It is inevitable that ambassadors would be sent. I
thought to hedge every possible bet. Oh, my plan was exquisite and lacked
any flaws! 
A permanent marriage between her and I. She would join with Lyksae, and
bring her territories with her. It would increase our prestige in exchange
for whatever it was that Uaptal would wish for children. The crux of the
power play came with this: if one or the other of us were to be sent to the
South as an ambassador, the other could manage the qynar and striasiri, and
keep things going in the North.

The unknown variable: stupidity

It was dusk on Yochem, the 205th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st Age

 The only variable I had no control over was the woman herself, and an
unexpected, unforeseen development: she was a complete idiot. 
She lacked any political savvy. Her intentions were greedy, and her
ideals were such that would damage the Ivory's relations with everyone. The
first mistake she made was not even acknowledging my political experience. 
Rather than listening, she forged on stubbornly, deciding on licensing any
hunting within the grasslands in order to "prevent overhunting." A stupid
move: she has no force to patrol the grasslands. However, I thought to
move forward and press the issue--after all, I have Warriors under my
command that could easily enforce these regulations. 
Her second mistake? Preventing the Warriors from patrolling the
grasslands by Qynar law. Oh, it was more complicated than that, but at this
point, my desire to enter in a marriage contract had faded and had been
replaced by a desire to rid myself of her...

The Final Mistake

It was late at night on Yochem, the 205th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st Age

 She no longer wanted to go through with the marriage contract. 
Besides acting like a bitch in general, she had turned into some greedy,
selfish creature that was only interested in her own wants and needs and how
she looked to the rest of the world. 
Unfortunately, how she looks to the rest of the world is not how she
thinks she looks. She is a complete fool politically. I forced her to make
the decision. She chose to make Qynar law that borders on illegality with
the Qynar Authority, and then I instructed my own Warriors and partisans to
be aware of the law, but ignore it in seriousness. She has no one to
enforce even a law that prevents the Warriors from patrolling the
grasslands. 
My answer to this will have to be political sabotage and subterfuge,
something the Chosen Lady has little skill in. She believes that she can
disagree with me and still be a "friend," and have a relationship. 
This was the mistake that broke me. My interests are to protect His
City, to protect the striasiri as I have always done, and to make sure that
we are working against (removed). She is impeding this. 
If His Chosen can be so naive, then they must be tested by fire. Only
the loyal will withstand His Burning Light.

Surrounded by fools

It was late at night on Yochem, the 205th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st Age

 I'm surrounded by fools. Shara Uaptal is more concerned with learning
about animals than about defending His City. Analyse passed out from using
the Way whilst IN Allanak. Leisara put the entire delegation in jeopardy. 
Cammul Kassigarh is insane, and a borderline heretic. Aylishia Tor tries to
order me around, as though I were a pet kurtok. Mallor Tor pretends to know
things I've known for months. 
What is the answer? Why has the Sun King put me through such a trial? I
am weary of the stupidity of others. I take heart in spending time among
His Faithful, for they know the Sun King's true will, and they have not
failed.

Chosen Lady Shara's Death

It was high sun on Dzeda, the 174th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of King's Reverence, year 41 of the 21st Age

 I wasn't surprised. It removed the thorn from my side. The Sun King
watches over me, and protects me--and has poured out His wrath on those that
would come against me, either openly or covertly. May His Radiance shine
down on those that serve Him, and burn up those that are heretics.

Leisara: The Chosen Consort

It was early afternoon on Dzeda, the 174th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of King's Reverence, year 41 of the 21st Age

The gypsy Chosen. Adept, yet unskilled in the subtleties of His City.
I wondered about this one originally. I threw my support behind Rokov-da,
and also behind Thiza al'Seik. Rokov won, but sickness has taken him. He
is a weak man, physically. His ties to Kurac have strengthened my ties with
Kurac, but he is scarcely able to leave his bed and Estate.
The problem with her is her ambition. She is not controllable, not docile.
In many ways, her stubbornness reflects what I saw in Shara--only in a more
reasonable light. She seems to enjoy company with me, as we share many
things in common...yet I know the truth of her ways. I trust her. I trust
her to be herself, and her nature is one that looks out for her and her own
folk. She is still Muark at heart.
I've put on airs that I am disconcerted by her, and possibly interested.
This was only helped by one drunken evening spent talking about things. If
she thinks I am easily swayed by feminine wiles, she will be caught
off-guard when it does not succeed. She is pleasant enough, I suppose, and
something of a Chosen, but still a commoner in many ways. Until she refines
herself, I can't see myself pursuing anything other than business relations
with the woman.
She's damn infuriating.

Â Luirsfest: Relations with the South

It was late afternoon on Dzeda, the 174th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of King's Reverence, year 41 of the 21st Age

I hate Southerners.
I really do. They're uncouth, dull-witted, and the majority of them do not
command any respect from me. The only one I've seen of any sort of decency
has been the Great Lord Samos Rennik, and him only because of the influence
that he wields so well. I respect him, at least.
Unfortunately, he did not come to the Festival. The only people to show
from the South's "highblood" ranks were Mallor Tor, Aylishia Tor, and
Sedarin Oash. 
Aylishia Tor I rendered a fool within moments of meeting her
face-to-face. She kept harping on about the "alliance." There is no such
thing. I made it painfully clear to her.
Sedarin Oash was, simply put, far outmatched. He should have stayed in
Allanak until he was old enough to speak more eloquently and with more
intelligence.
Mallor Tor...I thought him to be repugnant. I nearly challenged him to a
fight within the Kuraci Fighting pits, which would have been magnificent.
However, Faithful Lady Serilla interfered, as she always does...

Â Luirsfest: Relations with the North

It was late afternoon on Dzeda, the 174th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of King's Reverence, year 41 of the 21st Age

I am beginning to despise the Lirathan Templarate. Specifically, the
Faithful Lady Serilla Uaptal. She has meddled in my affairs before, and I
have remained cautiously optimistic that she was not dangerous.
She seems to think that an alliance between the North and the South is
what we need in order to (removed). I am of a different mind: I think
that we should let (removed) destroy the South, then sweep up the remains of
both in a glorious conquest afterwards.
While that seems far-fetched, so is the thought of Tuluk and Allanak
working as allies. If any such thing officially comes to pass, I will
be -very- irate.

Death of Vraj Dasari

It was early morning on Dzeda, the 152nd day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Lirathu's Peace, year 44 of the 21st Age

 He was a great man for the short time I got to know him. Vraj
Dasari... Interesting fellow, to be sure. I respected him, even though he
was much younger than me. He respected my experience, and that made me
pleased. The week the biters took him, we were holed up in the Fortress,
fending off the biter attacks. I dragged a Legion soldier back down the
road with my own strength, warding off the biters with my mace. 
I killed several of the biters...(removed by author) There will be vengeance against them. We
held Vraj's memorial service aboard the Araba, deep, deep in the grasslands.
I have the full support of three Jihaen Templars and Faithful Lady Serilla
to do what is necessary to defeat these halflings.

Belinta Lyksae's death; a new (removed by author)

It was high sun on Dzeda, the 152nd day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Lirathu's Peace, year 44 of the 21st Age

 We've hit a bit of a snag, it seems: one of my kin, Belinta Lykase,
was killed in the Grey Forest on scouting missions. As one of the (removed),
she was directly over me, though I usually report to my uncle, Lirst Lyksae.
Belinta was replaced by Arisu Lyksae, my firebrand of a cousin. 
The woman is a terrible creature to behold. Her beautiful features mask
insanity, I'm sure. I fear for my life when the daughter of the (removed)
is in the room with me. Not only is she completely spastic, she is half my
age and lacks experience in leadership, in my opinion. 
I've learned from Shara, though: never trust beauty, and never trust
first impressions. She may very well be a boon in the future.

Forging Ahead

It was late morning on Cingel, the 37th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Suk-krath's Defiance, year 54 of the 21st Age

My House has given me the task of scouting out the Grey Forest for the 
purpose of a protracted Lyksaen campaign in the area. I understand that 
this likely will be something the House will push for, with or without the 
support of other Houses or the Templarate. Those who fail at their 
accomplishments in Lyksae typically do not get pushed ahead to delve into 
more, so I relish the chance to prove myself.

I have spent nearly all of my political capital gained over the years of my 
life in garnering support for this scouting party. I pulled in Kurac for 
their renowned fieldcraft. I pulled in the Jihaen Templarate, citing (removed).
I secured a map from the Lirathan 
Templarate, generic as it may be. Kadius was willing to join in for the 
sake of Morin's Village. I even pulled in a contingent of Bynners to act as 
targets.

My plan was not complicated. However, it was completely insane, and likely 
to produce casualties. No other sort of plan would work against the biters 
in their own territory. The plan? I divided our forces into two groups. 
One would harry the biters at the south end of the Grey Forest, near the 
Span. The other would plunge into the Grey, heading towards (removed). The scouts would leave the second group at this point, 
(remainder removed by author).

The Aftermath

It was high sun on Cingel, the 37th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Suk-krath's Defiance, year 54 of the 21st Age

We were successful.

The plan did not go as intended, but the goal was still achieved. However, 
we took on casualties. I estimate that we left with three quarters to four 
fifths of the forces we entered the mission with. The Byn took on losses, 
as did Kadius, but the ones I noticed most were the Legions and my own 
Warriors. We lost Faithful Lord Aupholt Negean to a halfling dart, and I 
lost my protege partisan-turned-Warrior, Caprice.

The biters did not act as I predicted. They were much more ferocious, and 
seemed to be more aware of my scouting party than I expected. They were not 
long fooled by the diversion to the south, and had the numbers (apparently) 
to aggressively take on both forces.

I pushed my forces into the Grey. Once we arrived, I sent off 
the scouts. We were determined to hold position there, but the biters were 
beginning to wear on us with their darts and arrows. I made the decision to 
pull back, trusting to the work of the scouts to keep themselves hidden in 
their work, and rejoined the other group of soldiers. At some point, the 
Jhinya Ake appeared to harass us, but we managed to fight them off as well. 
I awaited reports from the scouting party.

Meanwhile, it seemed that some rogue magickers were actually helping the 
biters--if not directly, then by somehow passing information. Eventually, 
my scouting party reported to me via the Way that they had achieved their 
objective of scouting the area, and saw many halflings, but were worried 
they'd be cut off (removed). That was all I needed 
to know--that a dedicated team COULD (removed).

I made one last push with the whole of our forces. We managed 
to secure our end, but Faithful Lord Aupholt fell. Then I heard the 
chilling news that Caprice had fallen, and that the other two scouts, Kaliya 
al'Seik and Sergeant Nahkt of Kurac were separated and in need of 
assistance. I left about half of the forces and 
took the rest--including Faithful Lord Elithan--to rescue the scouts. We 
succeeded, and managed to return relatively unharmed to our beleaguered 
defensive force. We then extracted ourselves.

Uncharacteristic Reactions

It was early afternoon on Cingel, the 37th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Suk-krath's Defiance, year 54 of the 21st Age

I wasn't expecting the Templarate to call the mission a failure. By all 
accounts--well, by my accounts--we achieved the goal we set out for. We had 
scouted the (removed) Grey Forest, and knew it was possible to (removed).

If warriors and soldiers are not ready to die when they enter into a mission, 
then they have not been trained well enough. I emphasized this point to the 
Templarate, but it was no use. High Templar Serilla was displeased with the 
way things had turned out, despite my explanations that casualties were 
expected in advance.

It was a sore blow to lose Caprice. I had grown very attached to that woman, 
and her work over the years was invaluable.


The next biography has not been included.

Initial Background

It was late morning on Cingel, the 70th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Drov's Agitation, year 35 of the 21st Age

Thrend has been raised up in the war-like House of Lyksae, trained in
warfare and in commanding soldiers for the majority of his life. A shrewd
man, he is...

The Warriors of Faith: Part IV: "To Be Born into Greatness" by Ghost
Added on Apr 27, 2009

The armies clash over and over in the desert as two templars try to beat the other. Meanwhile, chaos and troubles brew in the Allanak.

CHAPTER 14

Dzeda, the 42nd day of the Ascending Sun, year 19 of the 21st Age, King's Defiance.

It has been 53 days since the beginning of the campaign. The storm that raged throughout the evening started to calm at midnight. My soldiers are resting for the moment, for the day may call their strength.

It has been 53 days, as I noted, and the campaign has been going stale as of late. I have chased Sulach through the wastes of Abi li Pah into the depths of the gith lands. The armies clashed four times in total, save for the minor skirmishes of smaller groups when they crossed paths or Sulach's night raids when I was unconscious of the injuries I received in the first battle. Though, the chase started again as soon as I was able to walk.

As soon as I recovered from the wounds in the first battle, I chased Sulach through the land of crumbling roads and broken grounds, all the while closing his escape to south. On the morning of the third day we were hailed by a rain of arrows and spears from Sulach's hidden archers. We responded with a charge that set them on the run for half a league and there I saw the rest of his force. They were taunting us to continue with the blind charge to reach them for a front battle. This was a trap. I ordered my soldiers to stop and search for pit falls and Sulach started to retreat immediately. In a manner of half an hour, my scouts found the traps ahead of us. We moved through the snaking path to catch Sulach's force and we only managed to catch his final column, fifty men and women. They stood their ground as we butchered them, and the rest of Sulach's soldiers retreated. Such a display of loyalty, yet it is wasted with the barbarians of Allanak.

We marched for a day but we lost sight of Sulach by then. I cut the resting times to catch up with the enemy in the second day. We rationed on the march and kept moving even after the dark. We caught the enemy off guard by the fourth day at noon. Sulach did not have time to move his men into position as we closed in. He sounded the retreat soon after and the whole army started to move away at the double. My legions were tired over the continuous march but we could still catch them if it was not for Sulach's half giants. For the first time, I witnessed what a destructive force half-giants could be, using spears and massive rocks at range. The rocks and spears were taking several men at a time sometimes and they even started to break the formation. I ordered my men to stop. For the morale would go down quickly if they kept dying in numbers, since they were also tired. We lost a good number of soldiers that day.

We kept following his tail the very same afternoon. He was cutting his way in a speed that showed how much he was familiar with the land. If we have the higher numbers and the abundant supplies, he has the knowledge of the terrain and veteran warriors that are result of his previous campaigns couple years ago. He had been here, he fought here on the very same ground against another enemy just two years ago. But I would not let that take the upper hand from me.

We caught sight of them in two more days at the skirts of a series of hills, a splash of black over the sea of yellow. I gave the order to close in immediately, before Sulach could move out of reach again. I realized too late that Sulach made no intent to move to the top of the hills, the higher ground as it would provide a strategically better position. Then I saw it that they were not Allanakki force at all, we were charging into a pile of rocks and straw, deceptively positioned to imitate a waiting army. I called the stop and to reposition, but it was too late. Sulach sprinted from the back of the hill in an instant. They descended upon us in a fury that carried the revenge for days of running. They smashed from our flank and we lost many good soldiers in the initial onslaught. I saw my soldiers buckle and shatter with the sudden force of Sulach's army. If they could break our flank, the rest of the army would be hit from their flank s as well before they could take position, and they would fall one by one. For the first time, I felt we were on the verge of defeat.

Yet my soldiers stood. These were the same battalion that lost their banners in Sulach's raids, they knew too well what happens to runners. They responded with an anger and pushed the enemy back. I saw my opportunity to move the rest of the army to face Sulach's attack. The units changed their formations and were moving in and by that time I heard Sulach's order to pull back from the front. I was frustrated that in such a short time we had such a blow. Higher ground or not, we had the chance to destroy him there. My soldiers were burning with anger and I gave the order to charge. We ran uphill to engage the enemy but the abomination once again caused a quake that shook the entire hill. The sands moved beneath us and I saw a wall of solid stone rise up and separate us from the enemy. Still uphill, Sulach had the advantage of using his half giants to rain stones upon us. He forced us back from the hill, and soon enough he was on the run again. We lost hundred and eighty four soldiers that day and many more were wounded. The barbarians’ tricks cost us dearly.

It was still a victory on our side. Sulach had the upper ground and had us by the flank completely. We were surprised and we did not even have time to react to the battle formations. Sulach had the best opportunity that he could ever get, yet he had to pull back. I was never this proud of my soldiers to give me such a victorious moment, or rather, to steal the victory from the enemy's very hands. It was clear by then that no matter what Sulach brings, we could take it. The victory would be ours eventually, and I was glad to feel that.

We had many wounded soldiers and were forced to camp there. Sulach moved further north and thus stepped deeper into the gith territory, and we could not chase him there. I sent units of scouts and hunters after him soon after. In the following few days, they came back with reports of skirmishes between Sulach's scouting parties. In the second day, Lyksaen group returned with the head of the cursed abomination, and I was glad to have yet another victory against the barbarian army. We also lost some good scouts but neither army gained the upper hand in those small scale fights.   As of today, we have one thousand two hundred and thirty seven soldiers in total, of which two hundred and eighty five of them still have not recovered fully. Our cavalry outnumbers Sulach's by two to one and we have slightly more number of half giants than what they had in the last battle.

The days passed and we were not able to move due to the heavy number of the wounded soldiers from the last battle. Sulach moved further into the gith region, and my scouts were not running into Sulach's parties anymore. He was moving away from us, and we were unable to follow him. But then again, we did not have to. The territory we are in now expands to the sides as it moves towards the north where it is home to many gith tribes. It has only two exits and I am holding one of them. Sulach has to run through us, or has to destroy armies of gith many times vaster in number to cut a path open. It is possible, he is moving there to find supplies, since the land is rich enough to support thousands of gith. I even had my Faithful Sister Neodyn to control the gith to push him out. Sooner or later the gith will push him back and he will have to come down to test our strength.

And I will be waiting for him.

*        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *

CHAPTER 15

The streets were deserted by the time the sun was disappearing in the horizon. Those who had survived the onslaught were no doubt hiding in the alleys or disappeared into the crowds, away from the vengeful eyes of the militia patrols. Lord Templar Risac Valika looked out over the streets to see a sluggish smoke rising from a nearby street, residue of the civilian riot from a few hours ago. Scorched buildings stood stark and bare, and the burned bodies, soldier and citizen alike still smoldered in the skeletal wrecks of the buildings.

It was a strangely peaceful scene, with even the street hawkers being silent. The violence and emotions of the day were somehow distant when you were able to look across the empty streets. Risac rubbed his face for a moment then turned to walk down the steps toward the Arbaretum.

Brown stains spattered every wall and surface. Pools of blood congealed in corners and obscene smears showed where the bodies had already been shifted, dragged to the pile at Meleth's Circle or loaded to the carts to be taken to Arena to feed the beasts. The defenders were laid in clean clothes in shades, their limbs arranged for dignity. The rioters were simply thrown onto a growing pile with their arms and legs stuck at different angles. Risac watched the work and in the background he could hear the screams of the wounded as they were stitched or made ready for amputation. It would take a long time, Risac thought grimly, for anything to return to normal.

Especially with a Highborn being dead in the riot.

The entrance to Arboretum was well guarded by the city soldiers. They bowed in respect and stepped out of his way as Risac approached, he simply ignored them. He walked in through the curtain to see several highborn and their escorts taking shelter inside. Their faces turned to him as his armored boots clattered across the tiled floor. The riot clearly left its mark of fear on them, especially with the fragile purple figure lying in a pool of blood by the fountain. The dagger was removed from her throat, Risac noted as he approached. He saw the precision of the thrown dagger on the fragile neck, it was not an accident she was dead. She was assassinated by an opportunist.

Risac did not notice the soldiers rise from their bowing state, one of them was holding out the bloodied dagger that was retrieved from the body. He was rubbing his bloodied hand vigorously on his filthy cloak.

“Be careful soldier” spoke a voice nearby, Risac turned to see it was Lord Cadra Borsail. “Your hands have the blood of Lady Ansche Fale on them. A little respect is due, I believe” Lord Cadra continued.

The soldier gaped at the noble Lord, unable to comprehend. He took a few paces away, holding his hand away from his body.

Cadra smirked at the soldier’s reaction then turned to Risac: “So few understand, do they my dear? Just what it means to be born into greatness?”

“Good to see you safe, Lord Borsail” Risac dropped a nod of acknowledgement to Lord Cadra

“We have some matters to discuss. It seems I need the list of everyone Samil infiltrated in the city.”

“Then you shall have it” Cadra replied and snapped a few orders to his slaves to have his carriage readied at Arboretum’s entrance.

“Sergeant, you said you have information for me” Risac said to the Sergeant Varaq standing by.

“My Lord,” sergeant bowed as he began, “the mobile squads were only partially successful. We broke them in the Miner’s and Stonecarver’s road, and did a lot of damage on the first hours. We took them in hundreds in the first skirmishes.” Risac nodded as he listened to the report.

“But then, word must have gotten out, we found ourselves being tracked in the streets. Whoever took the lead, knows the city very well. Some of us took to the rooftops, but there were men waiting up there. I saw some of our soldiers being brought down by women or children coming out of the houses with knives. Soldiers hesitated to kill the civilians, and were cut to pieces.” Varaq hesitated to continue for a second, and Risac waited patiently for the sergeant to gather up his thoughts.

“We were ambushed in the north of the stonecarver’s, just before the Caravan road. We had been chasing them for a while and they cornered us in an alleyway. I…”

“It was clear from the beginning the mobile squads would not be successful in quelling the entire riot” Risac cut off the sergeant. “I sent them anyway to create chaos and fear in the rioters, so they could be hunted down once broken. But it seems they still have a semblance of discipline, which means there is a leader coordinating them. They are probably planning to disappear from sight and regroup to strike one last time. Did your men see any sign of this?”

“Yes Lord Templar, in the alleys around the Caravan road, they were bringing more men quietly. I do not know when or where they will attack, but it seems there will be a skirmish soon.”

“Whoever is directing them must have given them the right motivation” Risac added as he looked at the fountain in the middle of the well decorated room. “They are coming for water. They will strike here and the Temple” he turned to the sergeant sharply: “Request a full unit to be deployed at the entrance of the Temple. I myself will lead the defense.”

Varaq reached to his temple as he dropped a sharp nod at Templar Risac.

A crimson clad servant came running, his sandals cluttering on the stone floor.

“My Lord, your carriage is coming” he reported breathlessly to Lord Cadra.

“Very well” Lord Cadra said, “Lord Templar, I will deliver the list to you in a couple of hours. Let me know when you are done here.”

“We will meet tonight, Lord Borsail” replied Risac, and with that Cadra Borsail moved to the curtained exit, and outside with his escorts accompanying him. A nervous smile was on his lips. The riot was a bold move, but so far it worked out well. Templar Risac of the blue was already quelling the riot. The fact that he asked for Cadra’s direct help proved how much the troubled times could speed up the politics. And more importantly, Lady Fale was dead. Another point how fruitful the riot was. Now all he had to do was to make sure the killer of the Lady would put to death before he could spill his tale to anyone.

The dusk was setting as he stepped out. He spotted his carriage and was moving there, as suddenly the skies grew dark with arrow shafts and spears, a stinging humming swarm of death. Cadra watched them fall. He clenched his fists and tightened his jaw as they whirred towards his position. Men around him threw themselves down, but he stood straight and unblinking with eyes glittering. One guard finally stood up in front of Cadra, trying to shield him with his own body.

The shafts rained and shattered around Cadra, but he was untouched. He turned and laughed at his scrambling officers and aides. One was on his knees, pulling an arrow out of his chest and spitting blood. Two others stared glassily at the sky, unmoving.

The guard shielding the noble Lord took a step back: “My Lord, are you harmed?”

Cadra dismissed him with a flick of his meaty hand: “Highlord protects his beloved. Escort me to my carriage, quickly.”

They hurried into the inix drawn carriage. Cadra was seated inside and ordered for the driver to move when an enraged Risac came out of Arboretum. He snapped the orders and the units of soldiers responded harshly, steeling themselves to crush the final resistance that threatened the city.

Cadra’s carriage moved forth, ignoring the chaos and violence they left behind. Everything was falling in place, Cadra thought. He had to get rid of Lady Fale’s killer before Risac could get his hands on him to cover his tracks.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

The night covered the city in its dark sheets, veiling all the violence and stains of the riot. Serpent lay crouched on a rooftop, overlooking the Caravan’s road. He could see most of the Commons from his position, and notice which parts of the city were heavily guarded. The riot killed the night life in some sections of the city as the templarate and the militia took heavy measures to crush down any semblance of disturbance before they resurrected the riot once more. Thousands were killed in the riot; the streets were littered with corpses of citizens and soldiers alike. Houses were burnt down and the scars of the city would remain a long time before they healed completely.

His plans had worked nearly perfectly, with the exception of the death of Lady Fale. He still did not understand how it happened, since none of his men did the deed. His instructions were to lead the crowds toward the Temple and disappear quickly if met with resistance from the militia. With disguise, his men would not be identified as leading figures, and if they manage not to get caught, they would get away without being charged with treason. Still, the death of Lady Fale ruined everything. The templarate would not let this go easily and the following months, every business he conducted would be impinged by this. He needed a templar’s favor at least to keep the business as usual.

Still he did the best he could, and he would get paid for it. Whatever reason Lord Cadra wanted this riot for, he got it in the end. None of his men were captured yet, and if they were as careful, they would not be.

He felt the presence of another mind contacting his through the Way, and he calmed down all his thoughts and emotions, waiting patiently for the intruding mind to speak first.

“My employer is very pleased with the way you performed your part” said Sergeant Idenu from House Borsail. “Did you cover all your tracks? Nothing will come in our way?”

Serpent contacted to the mind in a second:

“Not because of me, I covered my part.”

“Then there is one more thing my employer wishes for you to do.”

Idenu’s thoughts came with a hint of nervousness, which was expected if the man never took part in a crime like this. Serpent waited patiently for him to make the offer.

“There is someone that needs to die. It must be done tonight.”

Serpent was irritated at a deadline so soon after a riot, not to mention the soldiers crowding the city.

“Your employer must be willing to pay very high amounts then” Serpent replied, after calming his thoughts.

“You will be paid what you ask for. I will give you the looks of the man, and where he is currently. Can you do it?”

Serpent thought about it for a moment. They would not give a deadline like this unless it was someone knew about their involvement with the riot. Perhaps something they slipped, or something they have done during the riot, and they do not want the man to be found. Anger spun in Serpent’s mind as he thought about covering up someone else’s mess after such a short time, but given the position of the man, he knew he could do it.

“Alright, go ahead” he replied, and Idenu gave him the job.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

The night life was picking up in the Plaza of the Commons after the riot of the day. Many sections of the city were guarded by soldiers, to crush any more resistance before any damage can be delivered, but not the plaza. It had more soldiers on duty than a regular night, but commoners still could keep the Bard's Barrel's traffic alive without being questioned by the militia.

Ksint stood across the bench in the center of the Plaza. At a short distance, the Bard’s Barrel was full with citizens, cheering up for the defenders. Barbarians, lot of them, Ksint thought, for applauding the very people who slaughtered their own. Though, he did not care one bit for them, being one of the few people Samil planted into the city, he was waiting there tonight for an entirely different purpose.

He was one of the six people Samil planted into Allanak as slaves of the militia, who would seek any opportunity to strike at key figures in the city to create chaos. They were all trained for years, and this was the perfect opportunity to show their purpose for the Faithful. None showed itself though, not until last night.

Last night, after another day of backbreaking work, he was returning to the slaves' quarter, exhausted. Perhaps that was the reason to why he could not hear someone sneaking up on him, and why his combat reflexes failed him in dodging the crushing blow. He was incapacitated with a single blow, without a chance to fight back.

When he regained consciousness, he was in a dark room, hands and feet tied and his head was forced to face the wall. Someone else was in the room, he could hear the breathing clearly. He thought this was the end, he was discovered and would be tortured to death. If he breaks, perhaps death would come easier, less painful. But he would not break, he promised to himself and the Faithful and the Sun King, and readied himself for the excruciating pain.

Though, things developed in a way he never expected.

His capturer knew him, why he was sent to Allanak and by whom. He knew how he was planted into the city, as well as each and every one of the servants of the Faithful that were planted along with him. But still, he did not proceed to torture, or death threats. He asked the only thing that could compromise him: Cooperation.

He explained that there are a number of people, important people, that need to die for the greater good, and they would work towards the same end, together.

They talked for over an hour in that dark room, Ksint could barely make it to the slave quarters. When he finally sprawled over the filthy covers to get some sleep, he found the peace at last. His first mark was given to him, Lady Ansche Fale. Ksint could not ask for more, for he could very well pick her as a target anyway. Now he had someone cooperating with him, who informed him that Lady Fale would be in Meleth's Circle in the following day and there would be a commotion which Ksint could take it to his advantage easily.

And there it happened. Ksint did not expect the “commotion” would actually be a riot as big as this. He took his timing and joined the crowds, only to kill his intended target and then disappear. He would not stay in the crowd and risk getting captured. He doubled back to the slave quarters, and reported that he ran away as soon as the riot started. The slaves were left alone, as most of the militia was sent to quell the riots. Just before the dusk, he slipped out to the city and came to the Plaza as instructed by his capturer. He would see him for the first time and get his new target there.

A rotten fruit offered to him brought his attention back to his surroundings. A small bare-chested child, so skinny that his ribs could be counted, carried a bag of fruits and offered one to him. Ksint noticed the child was a fruit seller, and now he was offering one to him without asking for coin. He surveyed his surroundings quickly, before looking back at the child.

“Who sent you kid?”

The child did not reply but looked over his shoulder. Ksint followed his gaze only to meet someone watching them from the streets stretching to the Stone carver’s road. The man turned quickly and disappeared at the corner, his cloak whipping with the sudden movement. Ksint roughly pushed the child away and started walking after the figure. He did not want to lose him, not when he was so close to see him face to face. He picked up in his speed as he turned the corner of Stone carver’s. There were several people on the street here, many more staying in their homes or hiding away from the militia. Dark red stains covered the walls and the street here, with broken shards of obsidian and bone scattered everywhere. Smears of soot covered some buildings, residue of the fire that was set during the riot. But Ksint paid no attention to them. He saw the man a few blocks away and caught him slipping into the alleyway, and Ksint found his temper rising. What with playing games like boys, they could very well ask him to come to the alley.

Heads turned in his direction as he started to walk even faster, he did not care being spotted or not, he would catch the man and they would walk together then. He came until the entrance to the alley and looked in. The heavy stink of urine washed over him and he could not help but cover his mouth in disgust. Still he looked on and could see no one in the darkness. Did he not see him get in here? Or maybe he walked into a building next to the alley and his eyes failed him in the dark street? He could not be sure. He looked around, unsure of what to do. The people in the street carried on with their business: a whore standing by, calling up at mercenaries and soldiers passing by, militia men walking in pairs exaggerating their deeds of the day; servants rushing up in the streets carrying errands.

As he stood there, doubt struck Ksint of what he was doing. Maybe he followed the wrong man here, or maybe there was no man after all, it could very well be a set up. What if his capturer did not need him anymore and wanted to get rid of all the witnesses?

“Sir, please… I am so hungry, just a few coins. Sir...” Ksint heard a beggar pleading to a couple of mercenaries just a few feet away. The mercenaries looked tired of listening to his bickering, and one of them roughly shoved him away. The beggar stumbled away and into Ksint, nearly knocking him off his feet. Reflexively, Ksint tried to balance himself, but his legs lost their strength as he felt a sharp pain in his chest.

“Nothing personal, but someone paid a lot of coins to see you dead” the beggar whispered into his ear, and the pain increased as he twisted something in his chest. The beggar fell sideways, and Ksint was knocked down on his back. The world became a blur, and Ksint did not even have strength to cry out for help. He heard the beggar shouting curses at the mercenaries as he got up and run away, but he could not make words. It happened so quick, and so casual, no one even realized the beggar stabbing Ksint in the heart.

Bony fingers reached out from the alleys and grabbed Ksint by the shoulders, pulling him into the darkness of the alley before someone could realize him dying.

Serpent moved down the street, the dagger already slipped into his wristsheath. It was done well enough, and so far he did not hear any yells down the street of someone dying. He let out a breath of relief and contacted to the mind of his man in the alley, who already dragged the corpse in.

“He died in the riot. Make sure to frame it that way” he sent through the unseen Way, and was comforted at the thought that his man would not fail him.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

A light wind was breezing as Lord Cadra walked through the empty city flanked by his guards. With dawn at horizon, the streets should have been filled with workers, servants and slaves, bustling along on a thousand errands. The cries of vendors should have been heard, coupled with the din of a thousand trades. Instead, it was eerily quiet.

Soldiers stood at every corner in small groups, ready to break any possible riot, Lord Templar Risac’s orders demanded so. The whole city was nervous, and Lord Cadra felt a prickling suspicion if everyone covered their tracks. The Lady’s killer had been silenced earlier in the night, and Serpent said he did his part well, otherwise he too would be charged with treason. Lord Cadra shook his head slightly at his own thoughts, everything went perfectly as planned. There was no point in going over again.

A wind that had been blocked by the rows of houses hit him as he passed in front of the Trader’s Inn, making his cloak snap out behind. There were soldiers at the entrances to the inn and the Dragon’s Temple but no lights showed within. The templars had lit flickering torches for those who prayed, but Lord Cadra had no business with them. As he passed the temple down the Templar’s road, he muttered under his breath to the Highlord to be able to go through this tangle he had created.

He strode quickly walking down in the Templar’s path. The flat stones kept him clear of the sluggish filth of the road below his feet. In all his life, he never saw so many soldiers guarding every corner of the city. Two soldiers held station at the gates to the Templar’s quarters, absolutely still in the moonless night. As Lord Cadra and his escorts approached to the great gates, one of them stepped forward, bowing in respect before addressing the Lord as well as the escorts.

“My Lord, may I ask what business you have in the Templar’s Quarter?”

“I need to see Lord Templar Risac Valika” Cadra replied. “Where is he?”

The two soldiers glanced at each other for a moment, trying to decide whether it would be right for tem to volunteer the information. Too tired and impatient to wait for the soldiers to come to a conclusion, Cadra felt his temper rising.

“I was asked by Lord Valika to come see him before the daybreak. I am here, where is he?”

“The jails, my Lord” the soldier answered. He opened his mouth to say more, but then thought better of it. He sent a call to the gates, and resumed his position as the great gates opened. Once again, the soldiers were like twin statues at the gates.

Lord Cadra moved quickly without a word, passing the gates to the quarter. He followed the Night’s path down into the Morning’s road. The wind was growing in strength as the dawn approached. Lord Cadra was tempted to start running, but his meaty frame was not fit for it. The city jailhouse was a small building. There was no need to have big jailhouses, as execution and banishment prevented the need for them. The very fact that the Lord Templar would be in the jails told Lord Cadra what he would find and he prepared to face it without flinching.

Another pair of soldiers guarded the outer door of the jailhouse. As Lord Cadra approached to them, they nodded as if expecting him and threw open the locking bars. Lord Cadra’s and his escorts’ cloaks carried the insignia of House Borsail, and they were not questioned until they reached to hallway leading to the holding cells. Three soldiers moved apart as Cadra announced himself and a half giant jail keeper ran down the hallway. Cadra waited patiently as he heard his name being announced somewhere, and Risac’s answering rumble. He was able to smile when Lord Risac returned with the half giant.

“That is Lord Borsail” Risac confirmed.

“Is there still a threat in the city” Lord Cadra asked, hiding his tension.

“It is ended. Come along with me, Lord Borsail, you should be part of this” Lord Risac said.

As he spoke, he wiped sweat from his forehead and Cadra saw a smear of blood on his hand.

They walked down the hallway, passing several holding cells with no light coming from within. There was a sickly wail coming from one of the cells, but they paid no attention to it. Finally, the half giant jail keeper opened the doors to one of the cells, and fumbled to put a lit torch in place to light the room.

There was a sickly smell in the air and at first Lord Cadra tried not to look at the figures bound to the chairs in the center of it.

“A pity,” Lord Risac said as they both entered into the room. “These creatures named someone called Ksint as their leader, but they know nothing of the riot or the assassination otherwise. They would have told us by now.”

Cadra looked at the men and repressed a shudder at what had been done to them. Risac had been through and he too had doubted the men could have held anything back. Four of them lay as still as dead, but the last rolled his head towards them with a sudden jerk. One of his eyes had been pierced and wept a shining stream of liquid down his cheek, but the other peered around aimlessly, lighting up as he spotted Lord Cadra.

“You! I accuse you!” he spat, then cackled weakly, dribbling blood over his chin.

Lord Cadra fought the rising gorge as he looked down at the broken bodies of the conspirators.

“He has lost his mind” he said softly, and Risac nodded.

“Yes, though he held out the longest. They will live long enough to be executed. My soldiers found the body of their leader, Ksint. Possibly he died during the riot.” Risac shook his head a few times, before looking at Lord Cadra “I must thank you, Lord Borsail, for bringing this matter to me. I wish we could have moved in time, but regardless, we stopped it after all. It was a noble deed, and worthy of your title” Risac spoke lightly.

Cadra stood silently, trying to gather his thoughts. He could always sport the vicious ending, though he never saw the brutal ending of a torture so close before.

Risac continued again as Cadra did not say anything “The two of us, we should work together for Allanak.” His mood lightened as Lord Cadra nodded to him. “Though, we can talk about it another time. The stink of this place is in my lungs. I have to report to the Red Robes at sunrise and I intend to take a bath before that.”

“Dawn is here” Cadra said and Risac swore softly.

“It is night always in this place. I am finished with these.”

He gave the orders to the torturers to have the men cleaned and made presentable before turning back to Lord Cadra. “I will set the execution for the noon” Lord Risac promised, leading him out to the hallway and out of the jailhouse.

The red light of dawn had taken a lighter tint as Lord Cadra and his guards stepped out of the Templar’s Quarter. The wind had ceased and the city was awakening late, as the soldiers were relieved from their posts and the normal tone returned to the city. Away from the sickening scenery of the jailhouse, Lord Cadra could finally think clearly. The riot was gone, Lady Fale was dead, and all his tracks were covered. Most important of all, Lord Templar Risac Valika was his supporter. With Sulach gone, Allanak would be his.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

CHAPTER 16

It was dark in the tent and the scribe slave had only a single candle to give him enough light to write. He sat in perfect silence as Sulach lay sprawled on a pallet, one arm outstretched to be bandaged, for he had refused the magickal healing. Sulach grunted as the physician made a knot and pulled it tight. For a moment, his eyes opened with pain, and the slave saw they were dim with exhaustion.

The physician left then, letting a blast of air into the stuffy interior that made the candle flicker. The slave looked over the words that were recorded, and wished Sulach would sleep. They were all hungry, but the last few weeks had burned flesh from the commander as much as any other men. His skin was tinged with yellow and there were dark hollows underneath his eyes that gave him a look of death.

The slave thought The Lord Templar slid into sleep and began to gather his scrolls to steal away without waking him. He froze as Sulach scratched at the sweat stains of his tunic and then rubbed his face.

“Where did I finish?” Sulach asked without opening his eyes.

“Gith mesa. I was writing about the second battle before the physician came in.”

“Ah, yes. Are you ready to go on?”

“If you wish it, Master. It might be better if I left you to get some rest”

Sulach did not respond to that, but rubbed his face.

“We reached the gith mesa soon after the rukkian mage and his escorts were killed by the gith raiders. Are you writing this?”

“I am” the slave whispered. To his surprise, he felt a sting of tears begin as Sulach forced himself on.

“We stormed the camp. I could not hold the soldiers back after what they saw of the mage’s body, I did not want to” Sulach paused for a moment to open his eyes and look at the slave directly.

“Fifteen survived us. Record the truth for me. Out of five hundred gith, men, women and children, only fifteen could escape us. We burned the entire camp around them and stripped whatever food or water they have. Still, I could count the ribs on my soldiers. There were more gith to fight of course, and Untturi took the command of them. But I am telling you now, without the stores in the mesa we would have been finished.”

“We routed them over and over whenever we caught them in the open, but many tribes of the gith joined to Untturi and they outnumbered us everytime. Lieutenant Zakhis was killed in an ambush in the second week or the third, I can not remember now. His unit saw him being dragged off his mount. We did not find his body.”

Sulach lapsed into silence at the thought of the young Lieutenant. He was a decent man and it had been a great loss. When he spoke again, his voice carried his weariness.

“The gith kept gathering in the north and blocking our way through and I could not break them there.”

The slave looked at Sulach and saw his lips twist in anger. Still, he was lying on his back, his eyes closed against the candle light:

“We lost two hundred soldiers over these battles, and as the food was low, I saw my soldiers eat grass until they vomited. Still we destroyed the gith who dared to take the field against us. Strian, Itina, Vate, and Kann did well with the banners there, but the numbers…” Sulach fell silent for a second then.

“I could not cut a path open toward the north there and was forced to move west, deeper into the tablelands to find a way through. Untturi sent his generals and we fought all the way while we marched day and night. I have tried every route possible. I have seen death walk with me.”

“But now you have sent him back toward the gem” the slave dared to add.

Sulach struggled to sit up and leaned over his knees, his head sagging.

“He is gathering more gith by the minute over there, more tribes are joining him every moment. We starve down here while he gathers more men to destroy us.”

“You raided enough grain and meat and water in the last battle to feed the army over a week. The worst is over” the slave spoke again.

Sulach shrugged so slightly, it could have been a breath:

“Perhaps. Write this for me, we built fortifications and trenches over three leagues to north. We have built a hill from the earth so great to allow us build watchtowers on it. Untturi can not come down here as long as we remain. We have already cut them down in hundreds and we will cut them down in thousands if need be. We will stay until we find a way to break Samil in south, or until Samil comes up here.”

The tent flap was opened and Lieutenant Itina and someone wearing no uniform came in.

“Lord Templar?” Itina asked.

“I am here” came the voice, barely a whisper.

“The man you wanted, I brought him. As instructed, no one else knows.” Lieutenant Itina spoke.

Sulach looked at her with red-rimmed eyes, looking more dead than alive. He stood, and swayed from exhaustion, Itina reflexively reached out to help him stand. He reached to the pocket of his robe and pulled out a sealed scroll. The scribe slave looked curiously at the paper, as he was not the one writing that one.

The man who dressed up with a simple armor and a bow, stepped forward as Sulach handed the rolled parchment to him.

“You will give this scroll to the man you are told, and ask him to deliver to the Lady. He himself must see to it that it is delivered to her hand alone. Can you do it?”

The man simply nodded, as he slipped the parchment into his cloak.

“I will ride at full gallop to arrive the city at daybreak my Lord, and I will simply pass as a regular hunter.”

Sulach nodded wearily at the man’s understanding of the task he had.

“Ride back here as soon as you deliver it.”

The man nodded, slipping out of the tent and into the night. Itina looked at the tired form of Sulach for a moment, her expression showing her concern.

“What is the plan, Lord Templar?”

“The plan?” Sulach asked sitting down on his pallet exhaustedly. “We will crush Samil, and then we will crush his army” he spoke tiredly. His lay down on the pallet, his eyes closing. Itina watched him without moving an inch.

“And then we will go home?” she asked.

“If we survive” Sulach answered without opening his eyes, “then we will go home.

CHAPTER 14

Dzeda, the 42nd day of the Ascending Sun, year 19 of the
21st Age, King's Defiance.

It has been 53 days since the beginning of the
campaign. The storm that raged throughout
the evening started to calm at midnight. My soldiers are resting for the moment,...

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Motivation by Ajm
Added on Feb 11, 2009

A Byn sarge's speech to his runners before battle.

Motivation

A grizzled, stocky Dwarf paced in front of his crew with authority. He was a Byn Sarge, looking approvingly over the assembled group, the brown stained cloaks and patches that donned their shoulders. A little under a small of men, Dwarves and Elves all stood alert, their hands proudly up to their chest in salute. All eyes were trained on the leader in front of them.

“Listen up feckers!” ordered the commanding Dwarf in agruff voice. He makes sure to hold the gaze of each individual as he speaks. “One day dere was a man. Dis man was da bes’ feckin’ runner ya woul’ eva’ meet. He coul’ take down a ‘alf-giant as if et were a kank fly!” His gloved hands slam together, creating a heavy, sudden noise, and squishing a bug is simulated.

“Dis man wen’ ta the lactrine an’ had a shit. The man was so feckin’ grea’ that his shit go’ up and started talkin’. Just then a Git’ comes outa the sewer catching the man with his pants down!” His mouth twisted into a half smile, while is eyes glared at an elf.

The watched Elf shifted uncomfortably, breaking the gaze by bowing his head. With a smirk, the Dwarf continued speaking and moving down the line.

“The Git’ may have killed da man bu’ da shit caugh’ da Git’ in his hand and broke da Git’s neck with his thumb. That Shit became stronger dan anytin’ in all o’ zalanthas. That shit coul’ take down a mekk’ sittin’ an’ one time he did jus’ that.” He paused, eyes briefly scanning the crown for any inattentive behaviour before starting again.

“Eventually that shit go’ old and knew et was time. The shit wen’ to da lactrine and too’ a shit of his own. The second Shit was so big it too’ everything from da first shit so that da firs’ shit was not’ing more den roach foo’”.

A lanky brown-haired man scrunched his nose as he watched the Sarge pace by.

“Da secon’ shit was so fast, dat et feckin’ stole da sarge’s club an’ killed ‘im before anyone coul’ blink. That second shit lead the Fist for many years withou’ even one death! One time a Kaduis wagon fell o’ da wall. They say da second shit jumped down afta’ et. Down da feckin’ wall! An hour lata the shit came back up wit da Kadian still alive. The silker said dat da shit ran so fas’ dat he ran righ’ up da wall carryin’ him on his back!”

One of the younger men in the back scratched the back of his head. He froze as the Dwarf landed a glare on him, then snapped back into attention. The Dwarf gave a low grumble and continued on.

“When dat shit was rea’y to go et had a shit. Da thir’ shit was so smar’ that et learn’d evert’ing dere was to learn. Dat thir’ shit killed a half giant jus’ by explainin’ somtin’ to et. They say the giant’s head exploded from too much knowledge enterin’ et at da same time.” He looked up at two half-giants in the back, slitting his eyes.

“Da Shit’s ‘ad a reputation now. Nobles an’ Templars resp’cted da whole shit family. Da thir’ Shit knew da meanin’ o’ life an’ everytin’. He ‘ad a plan. Dat thir’ shit Swell’d, he began ta grow. He grew bigger dan a half-giant. He grew bigger dan a Mekk. Den he grew more. When he finished growing… He took a shit.”

“From de thir’ shit came for’y shits!” His gruff voice was now raised in a yell, words echoing off the back wall. “An’ you feckers are dem for’y shits!”

He stops to scan the crowed, looking each of them over, before staring at a bulky dwarf, declaring, “You are feckin’ shit, runner!” Eyes looking over the group, his voice booms out, “You ‘er all feckin’ shit!”

Once the words finish echoing, he continues into the silence, “Forty o’ de bes’ feckin’ shit in all Zalanthas. So we es goin’ ou’ dere an’ we es goin’ ta feckin’ kill an’ feckin’ win. Don’ let yer sarge down! Don’ feckin’ let yer family down! In HIS SHADE WE MARCH!”

~AJM~

Motivation

A grizzled, stocky Dwarf paced in front of his crew with
authority. He was a Byn Sarge, looking approvingly over the assembled group,
the brown stained cloaks and patches that donned their shoulders. A little
under a small of men, Dwarves and Elves all stood alert, their hands ...

Continue Reading...
A Raiders Recounting by The Shadow's Pen
Added on Dec 24, 2008

A grizzled man from a raiding family gives his rendition of a traumatic event in his life.

I am a man who's life can be summed up in two words: truly tragic. You may be wondering, "Why is this stranger starting a story this way?" Well, I'll tell you why. Name's Bardiel Kasien'da, Former Chief of the Red Desert Riders. You may not have heard of us, since we're unofficial, but you may have heard of at least a few things. For instance, we're a raiding party that has family values (shocking, I know).

Anyway, our hierarchy goes like this: my family runs the top, with others supporting them. You can vie for a higher position, but unless you're really skilled, you may just lose a hand. Those that aren't in families form the general makeup of the clan, and have an equal opperotunity to be a high rank in the clan. What do we do to keep our members supplied with clothes, armor, supplies, and weaponry? Simple: we raid, we hunt, we trade, and we kill to survive.

We were, at one time, one of the greatest targets on the list for the Templars. We attacked caravans with such coordination, skill, and daring, we were feared in the desert. Twice a week, me, mom, and the siblings went out for "family bonding", much to the ire of nearby merchants. One time, however, our family bonding cost us dearly. This is a record on that time.

My younger brother was a special kind of guy, always reporting to us on visions he had seen. He never reported directly, because he was born mute, but when we wen on raids, he wore special cloaks. He had a black one for death, a red one for crippling injury, a blue one for mental scars, and a white one for a reular old raid. Most of the time, these were just cloaks, and just solid colors. However, during the planning of one raid, he came to the meeting tent with a unique creation.

Honestly, I can never find out how he got the time for this: a full robe, with one arm red with a small bar of blue, the other arm with a large, blue splatter, with traces of red on it. The hood of his robe was white, but as it descended towards his feet, it began to turn red, and finally, patches of black. Embroidered on the chest of the robe was an open ginka fruit, framed in black around the red. We might have stopped planning if we had understood what the robe meant. However, we simply continued, dismissing my brother's robe for a wierd taste.

"Why did we ever do that?" I keep asking myself, to this day. We continued, however, and we went on with the raid as planned. As we met our target -- a large shipment of obsidian weapons, easily worth their weight -- we began a final discussion on what to do. Unfortunately, just as this discussion was going, someone turned traitor and leaked our location to the merchant and his guards. A bolt whizzing passed clued me into that.

We were good at raids, but with the element of suprise gone, the guards easily picked off much of our numbers. As I was strafing the arrows, one archer got the timing right and an arrow started whizzing near, aimed towards my belly. Just as I was about to get the hit, my brother rides past and takess it, instead. We could have pulled the arrow out and dressed him at home, but the kank he was riding on reared forward and trotted on, smashing his skull underfoot. It did, in fact, look like a ginka being juiced.

With the death of my brother, we broke off the raid, and the guards chased us for about a few seconds before breaking it off. My sister -- who, before then, was a very nice girl -- got her arm lopped off, and the incident traumatized her. My mom and dad retired, leaving me as the chief, but after a few more raids, I disbanded the clan. I still see the chaos when I go to sleep, and yet again, when I wake up. After that incident, which effectively shortened my life by a decade, I can just say this: my brother had a very dark sense of humor.

I am a man who's life can be summed up in two words: truly tragic. You may be wondering, "Why is this stranger starting a story this way?" Well, I'll tell you why. Name's Bardiel Kasien'da, Former Chief of the Red Desert Riders. You may not have heard of us, since we're unofficial, but you may...
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Legends of 'Nak: The Four Orders by Taven
Added on Nov 26, 2008

Four Orders to serve His Will, four colors of the Robes. This is a legend or story a commoner might hear or speak about what the roles of His Templarate are, and explain their existence in ways mere commoners might understand.

There are four orders to serve the will of the Golden Tower, four orders
that enforce His will upon the sprawling sands of civilization; the realm
and city of Allanak. Four orders to hold His will:
   The Keepers of His Gifts. The Black Dragon spread it's wings across the
sky, enveloping the worthy. He Who Saved Us vanquished the defilers of His
Will, tearing from them the Gift they abused: Not only life, but existence
itself. The Templars of the White bequeath unto His City water, source of
all, the toll they take a reminder of the cost of His Gifts.
The Speakers of His Voice. His Gloriousness, like the Golden Tower He resides in, is far above the puny affairs of His Citizens. Unending, He sees a year as but a
moment, a King's Age as a mere day. The Templars of the Blue are entrusted
the Judgment to speak with His voice on all matters. Their word is His
Will: Their word is Law and Truth.
   The Bearers of His Blood. In His City, citizens might first convey an
order by voice, and then enforce it with brutal and precise force. To
comprehend in small the orders who serve him, this example will serve. The
Great Templars of the Red are His Blood, and to them is given unimaginable
gifts, to obliterate any who try to defy or rise above the speakers of His
Voice.
   Those formed of His Shadow. His Shadow encompasses all. White are for
Gifts, Blue for the Voice, Red for the Blood. Those who are of His Shadow
don robes as black as the Dragon's very scales. The High Templar Lords of
the Black are unseen, unspoken. It is they who set the cast, the mold for
His City to follow in, as the Shadow of His Gloriousness wills.

There are four orders to serve the will of the Golden Tower, four orders
that enforce His will upon the sprawling sands of civilization; the realm
and city of Allanak. Four orders to hold His will:
   The Keepers of His Gifts. The Black Dragon spread it's wings across the
sky, enveloping the...

Continue Reading...
Never look up. by Staggerlee
Added on Sep 29, 2008

In the shadows of the rinth a desperate young man is offered a once in a life time opportunity.

Catori knelt at the edge of the roof, hunched over himself like a vulture as he stared down into the alley below. He knew that he couldn't be seen from down there, the buildings around him were too high, the sky too dark to allow a silhouette.

   Tired and edgy he took a slow breath of air, held it, and released it. It smelled of rot and filth, but that was nothing new. He didn't like where he was, the sounds of the bar beneath his feet were disconcerting, there were too many people around.

   The kid's thoughts were bitter, tired, uncomfortable. “The things I do for a fucking coin or two.” He narrowed his eyes and he leaned closer to the crumbling edge of the roof as a figure moved by in the street below in one of the signature dark, shit-stained cloaks that were worn like a uniform in the rinth. “There's no accounting for fashion. Wish I could see a damn face, wish I knew exactly who I was even meeting.”

   Caught unawares, his stomach lurched at the sudden grating noise behind him - something scraping against stone. Catori didn't move, he fought down the fear and tried to ignore the sudden dampness in his armpits, the way the rough fabric of his shirt was suddenly sticking to his skin. He held his breath, waiting for another noise, and his hand dropped slowly into his cloak, reaching for the broken chunk of obsidian he used as a weapon.

   “Good boy. Now don't look up, I don't believe I need to tell you what happens if you see my face.” The voice was calm and smooth, with none of the coarse alley talk he'd expected. Catori didn't move. His hand was shaking on the chunk of stone in his pocket, but he wasn't going to let go of it. “Awh fuck. He talks like a southie, but I know he ain't. I know better than to even wonder who he is, what he is, knowing who he's gotta represent.”

   “Catori. Elvish for 'spirit'. Tragic, I might not have realized you were a breed otherwise – I'm sure it does you no service.”

   There was no wave of stubbornness or pride within him, but his eyes screwed shut for a second and his lips twitched as he winced. “Fuck. Is he shitting me? That can't be... I've been going around telling everyone? I'm never using that name again. Never.”

   “Speak. Do you still want this job? This is your final opportunity to walk away.”

   “Yesh.”

   “Good.”

   There was a rustle behind him, the soft sound of cloth - his ears were sharp or he would never have heard it over the clank of glasses and loud voices from the room below. Catori licked his cracked lips and waited, there was a cramp building in his thigh but he was afraid to even move his feet, afraid to shift his stance.

   “When you leave this place, there is a turn to your left. After some footsteps it will take you to a dead end, a blind alley. There is an old door there, hidden in the gloom and rubble. It will take you further. Do you know of it?”

   Catori felt a brief swell of pride, a chance to show what he knew of the alleys, what he'd learned in his meagre years. “Yesh I do. Goesh out to da long road, da leash to da orphanage.” Behind him there was silence followed by a long, patient intake of breath and finally a voice again. “A yes or no will suffice.”

   His stomach lurched again, and the word came out slow and thick. “Yesh.”

   “Good. Beyond that door, there is another intersection, and another wall. This with a crack, it leads out of the alleys and into the city proper. Do you know of that as well?”

   “Yesh.” He tried to swallow, but it stuck in his throat. He wanted water, but knew better than to think he could get any. Not until the job was done.

   “Fuck I need this. I really need this. And maybe more work after this. Regular food, maybe a way out of this slum some day.”

   “Good. Do as I say, and you will not regret taking this job. Not at all.”

   There was a thump as something hit the rooftop beside him, knocking against his boot. Catori flinched but didn't look down, his hand tightened around the chunk of obsidian in his pocket until his knuckles whitened beneath the filth coating them.

   “Look down. Take it. That is yours, for the job and to keep when you've finished.”

   Catori took up the crude sheath, drew free the bone blade enough to see the sharpness of its edge, ran calloused fingers over the taut leather wrapping the hilt. “This must be worth at least a dozen loaves of bread. This on top of the coin he promised me... I'm going to be rich.” His stomach was tight, and he still couldn't breath properly.

   “Good. You'll go to that spot now, and you'll wait. Before the day is out a dwarf will pass through, armed with an ivory mace and wearing clothes too rich for these alleys. You'll bring me his body.”

   “Yesh.” Catori stared down at the dagger in his hands, concentrated on breathing and waited.
Some minutes later he was still waiting. It took him nearly the span of an hour to steal the first look over his shoulder and see that his new employer was gone, the roof barren except for broken ceramic, mold and crumbling stone. Slowly and shakily he climbed to his feet, wiped the sweat from his palms and stowed his weapon within the folds of his cloak.

   It didn't take long to follow the route he'd been given and the young halfbreed barely noticed where has going as he hurried through the darkness, his mind caught on the promise of coins and food. Catori was lucky that time, the alleys were empty and his carelessness was forgiven – on another day he may have been robbed, killed or worse. The place for his ambush was easy to find and from beneath the tall, crumbling wall he could hear the boots of guards, the laughing of a child and the shouting of two men in argument.

   Catori pulled the hood of his cloak lower over his pale features and looked around, considering his options. “Dwarves are strong. I need to strike first, if he sees me I'm dead. But he'll be crawling through a hole in a wall, it should be easy enough to catch him before he's prepared.”

   A pile of garbage and feces provided him refuge for a few moments, but he was nervous, jittery, and before long he'd moved again. Catori's second hiding place was a nook in the wall where half the stones had been knocked out, it was an easy enough climb and stood perhaps a meter above the crack his target would be climbing through. Nestled in his cramped hiding spot, Catori licked his cracked lips and imagined the dwarf crawling through beneath his feet, unsuspecting, weapon far from reach. “Easy money.”

   His legs cramped and he itched to move again, but Catori forced himself to wait, to be patient. He knew that patience could save you as easily as curiosity could kill you in the alleys. “Easy money.”

   Some time later his ears perked. From the other side of the wall there was a sound, a shuffling and grating as whatever covered the crack was moved. “It's him. He's here.” Catori's heart was pounding, his hands shaking. Reaching into his cloak he drew out the dagger, slipped it free from the sheath, stared at the blade, marvelled at how straight and true it was in his hand.

   Almost lovingly he reached down to caress the blade, raised it to his thumb and tested the edge against his skin. The blade pierced the ball of his thumb without resistance and left a long ruby trail in its wake. Catori winced and shook his hand then drew a breath and held it, waiting for the his target to move through the hole. The shuffling was getting louder.

   The cut didn't hurt, he was used to far worse pain, but he felt the burning begin in his hand just as the head of the dwarf appeared through the hole. High above the unsuspecting target, the would be assassin stuck his thumb into his mouth and chewed at it with crooked teeth, but kept the dagger raised in his free hand. The burning was spreading through his body and he could feel his face flushing, his breath quickening, but he forced himself to concentrate, to remain silent. Catori held his breath and did not make a sound as he waited.

    On the ground below the dwarf passed by without incident, vanishing into the darkness of the alley. He did not hear a sound, never knew what was lurking above him, what threat he'd passed beneath. Within the day rats found the body of the half elven child hunched in an alcove on a decaying wall of brick and mortar, a bone dagger clutched in a hand tightened by rigor mortis.

Catori knelt at
the edge of the roof, hunched over himself like a vulture as he stared
down into the alley below. He knew that he couldn't be seen from down
there, the buildings around him were too high, the sky too dark to
allow a silhouette.

   Tired and edgy he took a slow breath...
Continue Reading...
A Lost Warrior; Part II by Glantimere
Added on Aug 29, 2008

There is no rest for the weary, and allanak, under Malenthis Jal's leadership, tries to prove its tenacity in a bold siege after a recent defeat and loss of a commander. (note) I apologize for anything astray in the story itself, it was a long time ago for me, and I had very little in the way of logs to work with, but I did tell a few individuals I would post this before long)

A lost warrior: Part II

I awoke to hushed murmurs about my tent, and sat up groggily. I reached over, grabbed my sword, and crawled out of my tent slowly. It was dark, I had slept the whole day away. On dark nights like this, without Lirathu or Jihae in the sky, one had to be very careful about wandering too far east of our camp. One misplaced foot would send you over the edge of the chasm.

I wiped my eyes with a tired hand, and gazed about the army quietly. Over two-thousand, and all of them looked nervous. I stood for a moment, wondering what I had missed that had them set on guard, until my eye caught sight of three templars near the wagon up against the western cliff wall.

There stood the high faithful lady Eunoli, and at her side was the faithful lord Durathar and Faithful lady Felysia. Clearly, something big was happening, and I spotted a jet-braided half-giant not far from me.

Crog was a good find. We had found him in the sanctuary on our last trip home to the ivory. Smart, strong, funny. He made life at the camp a lot easier for me. I had helped show him around camp initially, and he was already excelling at his duties.

"Crog, we moving out?" I asked quietly, stepping up to his side. He turned his head and lifted a hand shortly in greeting, and shrugged. I nodded once, resting a hand on my sword hilt as I looked around.

Shoulder is still stiff…Need to get my shield off it…

I rolled my right shoulder back, letting the strap fall down my arm, and kneeled down, leaning on my shield for support. A cold breeze drifted out of the cave mouth just east of the camp, and I shivered slightly in the night. The air was heavy with the scent of spice, a peculiar spice favored among the soldiers for its enhancing effect. I had never tried it. I had no need to.

I saw young Zeiri, and sighed.

I disapproved of his age, but, he knew how to survive. He had even been the one to introduce and show me the camp. I couldn't say anything to him. Sometimes I got the feeling he resented me, even before Curachek died. He had every right to defend his home, the enemy had no mercy or cared what age their blades felled down.

In the dark distance, I heard drums. Faint, but they were there. It was drums, or the approach of another one of those cursed lightning storms that had twice assailed our camp now. I glanced over to Eunoli, and frowned, her expression told me all I needed to know.

Eunoli opened her mouth to speak, and stopped, her facial expression showing a hint of shock. At that moment, I felt something in my mind, a familiar presence I welcomed.

"Brothers and Sisters, the enemy marches to meet us with a massive force." I heard echoing through my mind. The ringing in my mind faded quickly, and the other soldiers murmured softly.

So it finally draws to a close. We will face the allanaki force at these gates…We will determine the course of the war here.

I heard Durathar speaking faintly, but I missed what he said. When he finished, our archer battalions rushed up the catwalk in a strict formation, bow at the ready. I glanced towards our southern gate, where a reserve unit came up to bolster our main force.

"Form up!" I heard shouted, from a faithful or captain, I am not sure, but orders were orders. Myself, and our main army fell into formation, facing the northern gate. I stood in the vanguard right behind the half-giants. I would be the first to fight.

The sun rose slowly, illuminating the camp between the canyon and chasm. It was a glorious sight, seeing our mighty army in such a formation. Durathar marched up and down the foremost line of soldiers, giving them an appraising gaze. I straightened up as his gaze swept over me for a brief moment, and held my head high.

Khalise, be with me through this coming battle…If you could ever forgive me for not being with you in your own fight…

"Half-giants, to the front!" I heard Durathar shout as a few half-giants in the back instantly hustled forward from the rear. Crog lumbered past, straightening up infront of me.

My ring, I can't let them have it back…Ah, Crog.

"Crog," I said quietly. Crog grunted softly, glancing over his shoulder a bit. "I wear a ring, a witches ring. The only thing they would care to get back from me. If I fall, do not let them have it. Can you do this for me?"

Crog frowned, but nodded nonetheless, and turned back to face Durathar. The faithful were speaking in their tongue for awhile, and the sun reached it's highest point in the sky.

I wiped my brow, tilting my crimson-winged great helm back a bit. I unbuckled my water skin from my belt, and drank deeply from it.

Half a skin left…I can make this last through the fight…refill it later.

I wiped my lips with the back of my gloved hand, re-buckling my skin to my belt. We stood in formation for a horribly long time, the heat only seemed to increase as time drew on. I began to tire, my legs felt like stone. Finally, Durathar returned to the front line, and turned to face us, pacing up and down the line.

"Soldiers of Tuluk, We stand against a massive force! But we will fight, and we will show these bastards their place! If they lose here, they care nothing of it. If –we- lose here, what is going to stop them from turning north!? What is going to stop them from marching on our city!? Fight! Fight for our home, Fight for your loved ones! Fight for our living god the sun-king!" Durathar shouted, his voice reverberating through the camp.

The entire force cheered, and I could not help but join them. I drew my sword, raising it high into the air.

"For the ivory! For the sun king!" I shouted loudly. My voice was loud, and still it was drowned out by the hundreds of others echoing off the canyon wall. As I gazed up at the dark sky, I thought, for a brief moment, I could see the ivory pyramid above us.

As our shouts died, so did the first night of our siege, and the enemy drums boomed in the northern canyon. The sounds of marching and officers shouting orders could be heard echoing over our gate.

They come, at last.

I felt my blood growing hot, knowing the enemy was so close, and both of our armies wanted a fight. Durathar narrowed his gaze at the wooden gate, and paced back over to Eunoli and Felysia. Eunoli's gaze grew distant, and Felysia closed her eyes, remaining still.

"They have reached the traps…" Felysia said quietly. Almost as soon as she spoke, screams rang out in the canyon north of us, but there was also shouting, it sounded as if they had forewarning of the traps. Durathar turned, and marched up the catwalk to the wall.

"Fire!" I heard faint shouts echoing from the wall. More screams, and the whistle of arrows filled the sounds of this terrible morning. Suk-Krath was clouded from vision as a volley of arrows came over the wall, and I raised my shield above my head, as did many others.

Bastards…I won't be falling that easily!

A soldier next to me dropped down to the ground, two arrows in his chest. I gritted my teeth, looking away. The shouting from the others side of the wall came again, much closer now, and it was clear there was confusion among the enemy ranks.

Wish I could see what the hell is happening…

Larke coughed near me. I hadn't even noticed him before, not until I smelled the spice. He was puffing on his pipe next to me.

"Ho..shit…They're not gonna get me now…" He said, coughing a few times. I grunted, turning my attention back to the wall. A tuluki soldier shouted out, and flipped back over the wall, his body burned and mutilated.

The abominations… I have to face them all eventually. I knew Dran would only be the first.

The day lingered on, and not much changed, despite the constant exchange of archer fire. Finally, as the sun slowly lowered behind the dunes and canyons, it seemed the enemy would break through, as I noticed our archers falling back onto the catwalk itself, as if in retreat. Then, I noticed the fiery glow on the wall, illuminating the dark of night.

What is that…?

I stepped forward out of the line, gazing at the wall, trying to make out this new threat, this hulking inferno that approached the wall slowly. It almost looked like a Braxat.

I saw Durathar standing before the inferno, shouting and pointing. A few archers rushed forward, throwing barrels of water at the monstrous braxat, and a roar rocked the canyon, as the light faded quickly. It was soon after this our first glimmer of hope came.

"It seems they are retreating…" Felysia said quietly, her voice strained. The soldiers relaxed a bit, lowering their shields further as the enemy drums did indeed seem to grow fainter.

The army never dispersed, but we talked quietly, tired, and hopeful. It had been over an hour now, but time was passing slowly, the anticipation was gnawing at my mind.

"Easy enough, we showed them." A soldier near me snickered. I frowned, shaking my head a bit.

It can't be that easy…Why bring they're entire force here for one failed charge…?

I saw the masked bard, Jochebed as they called him, move up into the lines, looking rather uncertain. He stood next to Zeiri, a blade in hand.

The bard…He shouldn't be up here in the front lines with us…He has no other choice now I guess.

"I'm not going to make it, am I?" I heard Jochebed say softly, almost to himself. "I am no warrior..."

"If drov comes to meet us, there is nothing we can do in the battle but make him wait a little longer." I said, glancing down to Jochebed. Zeiri looked over at me, a strange look in his eye.

"It is not Drov we go to meet, mister Kel. Today, we go to meet our destinies." He said, gazing north at the gate. I turned back to the gate as well.

Destiny…I should have had mine with Khalise…and I destroyed my own future. The only thing left for me is fate. Is it to die on the field, for my home? Or is it to die alone, with nothing but my honor when I am old and feeble?

"They come again…" I heard Felysia say. Eunoli was clearly straining her abilities, and leaned against a sharp-featured soldier near her. Both the faithful ladies were exhausted, it was easy to see, and Durathar was still somewhere on the wall.

As dawn broke on our third day at the ready, the shouting of the enemy army rose into a fierce battle cry.

"They're scaling the walls! Do not let them pass! Use arrows, rocks, barrels, whatever you must to keep them off! They –must- not pass!" I heard Durathar's voice echoing from the wall above.

"Just give us a tune, Mister Jochebed, remind us what we're fightin' for. Inspire us."" Zeiri said in a wavering voice, staring at the gate. Jochebed nodded in understanding, sheathing his sword, and holding a lute.

"I understand, Zeiri." Jochebed said, bringing the flute to his lips. Despite the screaming, his song prevailed, and did indeed calm me. It was a soothing tune, invigorating, and it blocked out the sounds of death for a short time. Yet my curiosity got the best of me, I had to move sometime.

"The Flower of Tuluk shall no longer be trampled...By Allanak's boot...Be her blossom unmarred.." I heard the bard's singular voice prevailing over the chaos. But it faded, only too quickly.

I walked forward onto the catwalk, gritting my teeth as I began passing the bodies of fallen comrades. I could no longer hear Jochebed's playing, and reality grasped me once again. I glanced north into the canyon, staying safely behind our archers with my shield raised. I saw something I had never seen in my life.

A wall of sand, a wall, covered the roof of the canyon north of the gate, providing cover from our arrows for the enemy. Slowly but surely, the wall moved closer to the gate, as did the enemy. They were coming from the western pass again, but the wall of sand blocked them from sight.

Our soldiers climbed up higher onto the canyon wall, and began rolling rocks, boulders, and stones down onto the sand wall. Just before the sand wall and enemy force emerged from the final stretch of the western pass, the sand wall quivered, and collapsed.

The boulders tumbled down, and my heart leapt, the enemy was done. Yet it only took me a moment to process why I couldn't see any enemy bodies in the rubble, it was clear that the enemy had withdrawn before the sand wall gave. The western pass was completely cut off now, and the enemy was nowhere in sight. I turned, looking for answers, and walked back down the catwalk to our cheering army. I did not share the feeling of victory, once again.

"They have lost over a third of their force…The northwestern pass is blocked off…" I heard felysia say. I stood before the templars, behind me, the army was cheering. They clearly only thought of the victory, and not our new position. If the enemy was to the north like I suspected, then it would seem we are completely cut off from suppl-

"Brothers and Sisters, we have been cut off from the ivory. The enemy is in the northern canyon between us and the city now. We await word from the commanders at the heart for further orders." A soft voice echoed in my mind, ending my own thoughts for a brief moment. As soon as it had began, the soft ringing was gone, and my mind was my own.

Then it had happened. The only possibility from here that I could see was a frontal charge. We had to dislodge them from their position, and break through. It seemed Durathar was of the same mind.

"Prepare to move!" He yelled. The entire looked confused for a moment, and then fell back into formation, some still holding their content smiles of victory.

The faithful spoke in their tongue for a few moments, and Durathar turned, clambering onto a horse's back as he rode to the gates, unlocking them and signaling for two soldiers to open them.

We go now…We go to fight, to victory. But for myself, I do not know what lies ahead.

I rushed over to the stockade, and leapt onto a kank's back, turning it about quickly, and hurried up to Durathar's flank. Myself and Curachek had been charged with being his personal bodyguards. I had failed Curachek like I had failed Khalise. I had not been there to save him. I swore to myself nothing would happen to Durathar while I lived.

We moved quickly out of the north gate, Durathar at the head, and halted, for a brief moment to survey the field and western pass. The pass was completely blocked, and bodies of allanaki soldiers littered the field.

Durathar wrinkled his nose in disgust, riding on, and our force marched, perhaps a thousand of us.

The three day siege was over. This dawn would bring one filled with blood.

I did not see any familiar faces about me, but I knew they were behind me somewhere in our massive force. Our banner flapped in the wind, and all the men now had grim looks on their faces as we rounded a canyon pass that turned west, and saw the enemy camp.

The camp was set at a break in the narrow canyon, that spread out in all directions. Durathar scowled, and charged forward after glancing over his shoulder once.

"Charge!!" Was the only thing I heard, and I was off at his side. We broke into the camp quickly, cutting down the un-suspecting enemy. There were maybe two hundreds soldiers on guard, the rest seemed to be off-duty or sleeping, tired from their attack.

I spotted a strange dark skinned breed, glowing strangely. I turned my mount towards him, growling, my mind completely focused on him now.

Abomination!

"To arms! To arms!" I heard someone shouting near me. I couldn't spot the voice, but time was precious now, I needed to strike not think.

"Fall!" I shouted, swinging my sword downwards at him. My blade sunk deep into something, but not the breed. A creamy shell flashed around the breed once, and he staggered backwards behind a few other soldiers, more scared than wounded.

I glanced north in the fighting, and spotted a small force rushing towards us. All I need to see was a scorpion emblazoned flag billowing above them before I rushed back to Durathar's side. I cut down a soldier near him, and heard a heavy accent shouting near me.

"Army, Attack!" I heard someone shout in southern-accented sirihish. As I glanced at the voice, I noticed a whole new enemy battalion, nearly as large as ours, hastening to the aid of our enemy. At that moment, the Tor force reached us, further bolstering the enemy force.

This is bad…really bad…I need to get Durathar out.

I turned, saw Durathar fighting behind me, a small group of the ivory guard near him. He was fine for now. I turned back to the battle. Our front line was trampled over by an overwhelming force, and a tor scorpion rushed at me.

The lines of brilliant white and black were slowly but surely turning into a dark scene, as the allanaki force pushed us back further, I didn't realize all those still standing with me were falling.

I ducked under a broad swing from the tor, and cut up, sending him falling down to the sand. A 'nakki soldier came in behind me, driving his spear into my side, and I shouted in pain. He shouldn't have let his guard down. As he did, I whipped my blade around right into his neck.

Khalise…Give me a few more moments…

I glanced over my shoulder, and saw Durathar safely being ushered away by some soldiers. I turned, and parried a blow from another tor, and ripped the spear out of my side. The pain was fierce, and my vision blurred. I used the spear to block another swing from the scorpion, and stabbed in at him with my blade, he jumped back, swatting my own weapon to the side.

I growled, and hurled the spear at him, which landed cleanly in his chest, sending his already lifeless body back into a few other soldiers. From the corner of my eye, I could see something huge rampaging towards me, and turned at the last minute, to see a war beetle fly past.

It's rider, whom I did not see, stabbed me with a three-fingered rapier in passing, and rode off into the battle somewhere.

Then I saw her, her face, so familiar, her sweet gaze. Khalise beckoned me, in the midst of battle, over to her. I knew after a brief moment of shock and longing, that I was dying, mortally wounded. The pain was unbearable, and I sunk to one knee.

Everything around me slowed, and Khalise faded slowly from view, and I saw soldiers shouting, brave Tuluki warriors charging past me, straight at the enemy lines. One of them held a banner, a young man, he held it high, and carried it with pride.

The banner caught my eye, a sunburst emblazoned cloth. The rays of suk-krath illuminated it, and I felt that perhaps I had fought for something, perhaps I had died for something, something more important than myself.

But that thought fled my mind quickly as I saw a huge group of half-giants crash into those brave tuluki warriors, those poor soldiers who would never see home again.

I saw a blade arcing down at me, and raised my sword, barely blocking the blow. Blood was trailing from my mouth now, and a foot from my attacker kicked me in the chest, sending me skidding onto my back.

My vision blurred again, and I saw a Tor scorpion sneering at me as he swung his sword down again. I remained still, my body would not respond, and all I could do was follow the blade with my eyes as it collided with my chest.

The black void enveloped me, and I felt a small measure of peace at last.

A lost warrior: Part II

I awoke to hushed murmurs about my tent, and sat up groggily. I reached over, grabbed my sword, and crawled out of my tent slowly. It was dark, I had slept the whole day away. On dark nights like this, without Lirathu or Jihae in the sky, one had to be very careful...
Continue Reading...
The Warriors of Faith: Part III: "Clash of the God-Kings" by Ghost
Added on Jun 9, 2008

The armies clash in the desert and the war rages on

CHAPTER 10

“As mortals, we have a barrier in the level of power we can wield. No matter what we try, with magick or psionics or by completely mundane means, sooner or later we will hit the wall and there is no trivial way to pass this wall. For perhaps this is a barrier put down by the God-like entities to stop us from challenging them. There are however, ways to pass this. One such means is the aid of God-like beings. By the proof of loyalty and devotion, such powers beyond the capability of men can be granted, as they can be taken away.

This may be the easy way to pass this barrier, but there is another way…”

                                                                                                  - Gin of the Alleys

Dawn came with the spill of red light over the mountains, revealing the ruins of an ancient building sprawled in the golden expanse of the sands. Cracked walls, surrounded by broken stones and sculptures lying haphazardly in all directions, possessed none of their former glory. Amidst them all, the once proud tower was now a broken piece of jagged tooth, facing the crimson skies in a silent greeting.

Samil watched the battlefield from the top his horse. So many untold tales were hidden in these ruins. Generations of civilizations, cities once powerful and filled with life were now resting in peaceful stillness beneath the sands. Samil's heart ached at the sight. A thousand years from now, would anything be left for the world to see and wonder about him, the way he wondered about this relic of a building? He did not know. Soon the peaceful sleep would be disturbed by the clash of swords and the battle cries throughout the field. The face of the earth would be tainted with the spilled blood and gore; the air with that old, almost comforting smell of battle.

"A good day to die, Captain?" Samil chose to ask the traditional question to clear his mind.

"As good as any, sir" replied the captain.

"What do you think of the enemy's deployment?" Samil asked, bringing his gaze back on the ranks of the Allanaki force.

"Sir, the main infantry is directly across the field and facing ours. The archers are stretched thin in front of the main force, I believe it will be a usual "fire until the engage and pull back."" Samil nodded his approval at the captain's words, without looking. The captain stretched his arm to point at the enemy flanks:

"He is keeping the half giants behind the ranks I assume he does not plan to open with the usual "clash of the half giants." It is fine from our standpoint as well. If anything, I will send them in the field if there is an immediate need to open ranks in the flanks."

"What about that hill with the deployed cavalry?" Samil lifted his chin to point at the hill across the field.

"That seems to be the weakest point of Sulach's deployment, Faithful Lord. The cavalry there is guarding the main force's right flank. Yet our cavalry is outnumbering them by three to one. Once the main infantries engage we can send our cavalry and break them easily, and then we will have the enemy's right flank. From there on, it will be a matter of minutes before they will be broken."

Samil nodded once more: "Sounds straightforward enough."

The captain nodded sharply at Samil's approval.

"Unfortunately," Samil began again, "this is the plan our enemy expect us to go through. I do not believe Sulach would make such an easy mistake. That hill," Samil's finger was pointing directly at the hill where Sulach deployed his cavalry, "must be an illusion" he concluded.

Lesk voiced his confusion: "Faithful Lord, they are tired and probably out of supplies. Such a mistake is not too out of place."

Samil, however, was determined: "Sulach has never lost a battle to this day. No matter how reasonable it seems, he would not overlook such a mistake." He turned to the Lieutenant Enlyl, standing close on her warbeetle, "Lieutenant, divide the cavalry in two groups. First group should be nearly the same size of Sulach's riders. Second group should stay behind and standby for further orders." As the female officer nodded affirmatively and rode back to carry the Faithful's orders, Samil turned back to Lesk:

"Captain, draw the Lyksaen warriors out of the infantry. I want them standing here with me."

Captain Lesk felt it futile to argue his point any further, but he could not let his worries slide: "Faithful Lord, if we divide the cavalry, we will not have a fast and crushing victory over the flanks, it will drag on and it will gi--"

Samil cut him off.

"My orders were clear?" he demanded.

Captain straightened up, dropping a fast, affirmative nod: "Yes, Faithful Lord."

"See them carried out." Samil snapped.

Clad in crimson and grey of the House Lyksae, the elite warband arrived shortly beside Samil.

"Orders, Faithful?" The commander asked after saluting Samil. Samil dropped the faintest of the nods, his eyes scanning the Allanaki ranks:

"Standby here, Mtakr, we are waiting for your assignment to show itself."

The commander did not understand, but that wasn't important. He had his orders, and he simply nodded once more and grew silent behind Samil.

Time dragged on, seemingly taking no notice of the excitement and tension prevalent in the air. The first hour of dawn ended unceremoniously.

Sulach laid no other traps, Samil noted; at least, none other that showed themselves yet. He looked over the remnants of the ancient civilization once more, almost wistfully. The time for the battle had come, and he signaled for the attack.

The war horns of the Tuluki force signaled the march of the main infantry and the archers, and the wave of red on white started its march at once. Allanaki horns responded with their own signal the both armies were marching against each other. Another set of signals and the archers in both parties came to a stop; their arrows bringing death upon the approaching enemy.

Shields were pulled up, forming a roof on both sides. The soldiers who fell to the raining arrows were quickly being replaced by another from behind, the pace never slowing down. When the distance between the two forces was close enough, the armies kicked into a charge, clashing on each other in a brutal frenzy.

Swords and axes were swung, the spears were hurled, clubs crushed armors, sending bits of chitin and obsidian among the commotion. Blood and gore on both sides spilled to the ground, turning the sands to a slick, reddish mud. The cries of pain were lost in the calls to the God-kings. The Tuluki force locked their shields in their traditional style, forming a wall in the front ranks and swinging their weapons from above and below the shields as opportunity presented itself. Allanaki army replied with spreading in the front rank and assaulting in a flurry of blows with both hands to keep the enemy overwhelmed, while the second rank sprinted forth with spears every now and then searching for enemy weakness.

Samil watched the spectacle from his mount. Both armies were wearing each other down, losing man after man in bloodied frenzy. They could go on for hours, to the last man perhaps, and then neither army would have won. Samil knew as well as Sulach did, whoever won on the flanks would turn the scales of the battle. He turned over his shoulder and signaled for the first group of riders to march forth; the riders raised a dust cloud as they galloped down the hill.

"Damn it! He saw our move!" spoke Sulach as he saw only a small group of riders galloping across the battlefield.

"Should we abort the plan, my Lord?" Strian asked from his side.

"No." he spoke, his hands holding the reins tightly. "We play his game."

They watched as the Tuluki cavalry rode down the hill, leaving a billowing dust cloud behind them. Their formation shifted at the bottom of the hill, spreading to the sides as they closed in, but Allanaki cavalry waited for them in muted stillness.

Suddenly, the ground moaned and writhed violently beneath the approaching enemy. Buckling and shattering with a deafening roar, a web of cracks shot across the ground; sinking the riders into a maelstrom of tumultuous, whipping sand and dirt. The beasts cried in their own miserable fear, jerking and kicking, throwing their riders in blind frenzy.

A shout echoed through the Allanaki cavalry then, and they kicked into a charge toward the scattered Tuluki riders.

"So.. that was Sulach's plan" whispered Samil as he watched the battle.

The Allanaki cavalry easily broke into the Tuluki ranks, their spears bringing death to the confused enemy as they tried to regain their battle stance. They put up very little resistance as the lines of riders trampled through their broken ranks.

"There is the abomination" Samil pointed as a lone figure stepped out from the opposite end of the dust cloud. The earthquake was over, and the figure stood at the skirts of the hill, watching as the Allanaki cavalry led their attack on the broken riders. The lone figure then looked across to battlefield to where Samil and his officers stood.

"Mtakr?" Samil called to the leader of the Lyksaen warriors who looked back directly at him in response. "Take him down." Samil ordered, and the captain of the elite warriors nodded indifferently. Turning to his group he quickly snapped his orders and the twenty men clad in crimson and grey kicked their mounts into a charge down the hill. Samil's lips broke into a smile as he watched the Lyksaen warriors charging fearlessly toward the mage, the abomination of the nature.

They fired their arrows on the run without slowing down. It was display of skill and accuracy as the arrows flew up into the crimson skies and rained down without any of them going astray. The mage saw the charging riders and the rain of death they set loose from their bows, and he kicked into a run. A blur of movement it was, a speed truly beyond the perception of men, causing the sand to rise up in a spray of gold behind him. His chasers did not seem to be surprised by such a display of power. At once, they broke into three groups, spreading behind the mage as they swept the sands behind him.

"It does not look like they will be able to kill him" spoke Captain Lesk beside Samil.

"No, I did not think they would" Samil responded calmly as he tore his gaze back to the hill where Allanaki riders engaged his own. The skirmish was nearly over with few losses from the enemy ranks.

"But I knew they would scare him away, and they did. Now I have the flank." With that, Samil gave the order and the Tuluki warhorns signaled the march of the second group of riders.

Sulach's heart sank as he heard the blast of the Tuluki warhorn, and he watched as a dust cloud rise from the opposing hill as the white and the red cloaks rode down. The mage that would guard the flank was long gone, and Sulach knew the numbers of the approaching enemy would quickly cripple his cavalry. "Sound the retreat" he called, his eyes not leaving the enemy riders.

"My Lord.." Strian attempted to protest. They had been winning so far. Perhaps they could break the approaching enemy? Perhaps, if they sent the half giants along with the riders..?

"We cannot win this war! And if we do not retreat now, we will definitely lose!" Sulach spoke, turning to regard Strian who seemed to start his disagreement. "Sound the retreat, soldier! NOW!" Sulach finished any further discussion, giving no option to Strian. Strian carried the order and the Allanaki warhorns were blown with the exact given note.

"What?! Another charge?!" Samil did not hide his surprise at the sound of enemy warhorns. "Captain, was there any report of enemy reinforcements?"

Captain Lesk was as surprised as Samil:

"No Faithful. Perhaps the enemy eluded us."

"Damn it!" Samil cursed. "Call the riders back here. Get the Lyksaen Warriors to drop the chase on the mage and find where this reinforcement is coming from! Now!"

Weapons painted red with blood, the Allanaki infantry disengaged from the melee and stepped a few paces back facing their opponent, but their opponent was not ordered to press forth. The Tuluki riders stopped their charge and headed back to the hills. For a moment there the entire battle seemed to cease, everyone waiting for the unexpected unit to show up.

The infantry of Allanak kept moving back as they still faced the Tuluki army, and the archery units moved to the front ranks. Samil watched in confusion what Sulach was trying to achieve. From the looks of it, the reinforcements would come from the left rank, which would be attacking his half giants and infantry at the same time. It made no sense, unless the reinforcement was nearly as big as the main army which would mean bad news for Samil, he thought grimly.

We see no sign of reinforcements sir, came the thoughts of the Lyksaen commander, and Samil understood Sulach's motives at once:

"Sound the charge!" he shouted. "No reinforcement is coming, they are retreating! Sound the charge!"

Horns were blown at once and the Tuluki front advanced. Allanak responded with a signal to the archers and volleys of arrows rained upon the approaching the enemy. Commanders snapped orders and the Tuluki infantry raised their shields, their pace slowing as they advanced defensively.

"He is running away. He tricked us by changing the horn signals, and now he is running away! Bastards!" Samil spoke grimly. It was a daring attempt to change the signals before the battle, for it carried the risk of causing confusion among the officers. In the heat of the battle, the soldiers would react to the horns almost instinctively. Such instincts would not be adapted overnight. However Sulach had the advantage of having experienced army. All of Sulach's commanders and even some of his regular grunts were battle-hardened veterans from gith campaigns. It surely made a difference in applying risky maneuvers such as the trick with the battle-horns.

Samil watched as his army desperately tried to catch the retreating Allanaki front. While being under a constant rain of arrows, it seemed impossible. The retreat of the enemy must be stopped, and his army needed help with it.

"Ivory guards, rally to me!" Samil shouted to his personal white-clad cavalry, and they responded with a single warcry that echoed across the battlefield. Captain Lesk understood at once what Samil was doing and he grabbed Samil's reins, unaware of his daring approach:

"Faithful Lord, no! You cannot ride to the front, it is too dangerous."

Samil regarded him with a cold gaze and pulled his reins free of the captain's grasp:

"After my infantry catches the enemy, order the cavalry to take the right flank and send forth the half giants" he spoke, not willing to waste anymore time by explaining himself.

"Faithful Lord, you do not have to do this" Lesk pleaded, but Samil cut him off with a dismissive gesture of his hand:

“You have orders, Captain. Carry them.”

Lesk realized there was no way to talk his commander out of it, and he lowered his head in defeat. Samil nodded once and then he ordered the charge.

"He has seen our move again!" Sulach spoke in frustration.

"He can not defeat the main infantry with a cavalry charge my Lord" replied Itina beside him.

"Defeating the infantry is not his plan, he wants to keep them in battle so his own infantry can catch them." He turned to the black clad elite riders spread to his left:

"Temple guards, with me!"

The entire unit of the War Ministry's elite guards let out a battle cry that overcame all other sounds in the field. Itina could not believe what she was seeing:

"My Lord, no! Let me lead the charge, you need to –"

Sulach shook his head, he had already made up his mind: "Samil has to be put down. I think I have the highest chance to do that task. The rest of you stay behind. This army needs to retreat. The closer you are to the front the harder it is." Then he gave the order to charge, and the black wave of the temple guards thundered down the hill.

Samil saw the black riders led by Sulach, and he changed course. His unit wheeled around to follow Samil's lead. The black against the white they rode; the sands sprawled up as high as men, leaving trails of dust clouds. The ground trembled beneath their powerful stomp as they charged, and the warcries of "For the Highlord" and "For the Sun-King" mixed in the battlefield.

Samil saw Sulach at the front, charging directly at him. His hand was up in the air, and when he was close he could hear him chanting: "In the name of the Highlord…"

Samil closed his eyes and concentrated. All other sounds died around him: Sun-King guide my hand, be my eyes. Guide my hand, guide my blade. Guide my hand...

Samil was praying still when flames erupted from Sulach's hand and lept toward him, engulfing him completely. For a second there everything in the battlefield seemed to cease its move.

Guide my hand..

                          Guide my blade..

                                                              Be my Eyes…

               Sun King…

                                                              Guide my hand…

Like a demon, Samil emerged from the flames. His flesh was burned beyond recognition, skin darkened and cracked in veins giving him an horrific visage. It was a miracle he was still alive, and yet he seemed not slowed down by his burns. With a swing of his bladed staff, he jabbed at Sulach's armored chest and sent him toppling down from his horse. In a smooth motion, he jumped down from his mount and landed right behind Sulach, as he was calling on his God-king for another spell. Samil's fingers flashed forth with an unbelievable speed and landed several quick strikes around Sulach's neck and throat with surgical precision. Sulach attempted to call the name of the Highlord, but no voice came out of his throat. Instead, he stumbled back, barely avoiding Samil's bladed staff. He attempted to draw a sword, but a single swing of Samil's staff sent it flying away, and a kick on his armored chest sent him sprawling back.

Two of the temple guards charged at Samil, desperate to save Sulach from what was coming for him. They were the elite guards of the War Ministry, who had been instructed by theTor Academy. But they were no match for the secrets of the superior Jihaen fighting technique: With a series of quick jabs of his staff, Samil dispatched them both. He was walking toward Sulach with purposeful steps. His staff swept before him instinctively and he blocked a thrown spear, his next swing dropping the rider. Another jumped down on him from his mount, but he whirled around avoiding the attack. Completely driven by the warrior instincts now, he was unbeatable. Every swing of Samil’s staff was either blocking an attack or dropping another attacker. A truly magnificent sight was to watch him in battle. Nothing seemed to work against him, nothing seemed to save Sulach.

But then, he fell down.

The Highlord's flames had long consumed all the life that kept him going. Whatever energy was left within that kept him still standing, was finally spent. Like an ancient tree whose roots gave away their grasp of the earth, he collapsed down on his back.

Sulach was spent when Samil stole his voice. The magickal energies gathered inside of him needed to be set loose, but his voice betrayed him and the energy was unleashed on Sulach instead. He was lying down on his back now on the verge of consciousness. He realized Samil's fall but it did not matter. It was over, the enemy infantry was here. He heard his soldiers calling his name as they run to save him, but he tried not to feel hope; it was too painful. His soldiers would fight on, desperate to save him. Against the enemy numbers they would lose, and with Tuluki riders winning easily on the flanks they would be broken before the enemy. Death would come soon for them all.

Drawing all his strength, he attempted to shout them to run but whatever Samil had done to him his voice was gone completely. His own weakness overcame finally, and Sulach drifted into the peaceful embrace of the unconsciousness.

"No!" Tild yelled from the top of his mount as he watched the battle. Despair welled up in his throat as he saw Sulach fell in the front rank. Sulach beaten? Sulach down? How was it even possible?

"Mage do something!" he called to the gemmed mage who was back behind the lines after the Lyksaen warriors dropped their chase on him.

"Like what?" the mage replied, baffled at what to say to the enraged warrior.

Tild's hand snapped forth and grabbed the mage by the throat: "I don't care! Do something!" he breathed down his anger, unaware of his daring move against one of the most feared beings in the world, but the mage did not seem impressed by his shear rage.

Tild released the mage's throat then, and looked back down in the battlefield. He was relieved slightly to see the enemy templar down as well, and then he saw as the infantries on both fronts rushing forth blindly to save their templars. The two armies clashed once more, covering their leaders in the conflict.

"I can make a wall to separate the front lines" the mage spoke making Tild look back at him with wild eyes, but before he could say anything: "But not from this distance. I need to be very close, right at the spot where the wall should be put. And if I go down there, I will be chopped to pieces before I can finish the spell" the mage added.

Tild gritted his teeth as he looked back to the battlefield. He could not help but get frustrated at being helpless. The enemy war horns sounded the march of the cavalry once more now, and soon the main infantry would be flanked, everything Sulach tried to stop would end there.

"Dragoons!" Tild called for the unit of cavalry, and then added "I need ten men to ride with me to glory!" He rode a few paces forth and turned his mount looking at the soldiers, the very same soldiers who were once under his command but now given under Itina.

The front rank of the riders stepped forth and dropped a sharp nod at him, and he nodded back. Turning to the mage: "We will give you the space you need" he said.

He turned to his side to see Itina beside him:

"I am coming too" she said. Tild furrowed his brows, but she continued: "I am your superior, Tild. I give the orders, and I am telling you now, I am coming."

Tild nodded several times, then his eyes swept back to the front lines:

"There is one problem though" he said finally.

"What prob – " Itina started, but she could not finish it. Tild's punch caught her off guard, and his uppercut sent her down from her mount. The world seemed to spin around in a wild fury as she tried to regain her balance when she heard Tild's voice again:

"You are not coming".

They rode down in a wild charge then, crying out Sulach's name over and over. There were eleven of them only, but their voices overcame even the strongest of the battle cries. With all the speed and the momentum of their mounts, they drove their spears into the thickest part of the enemy, and they pushed them back; away from the front lines, away from the precious Lord Templar.

"MAGE NOW!" shouted Tild from the enemy ranks, and the earth started to tremble and groan as the gemmed uttered the words of power. The ground rose with a deafening roar, spraying down the sands on the confused soldiers.

Too bad I never got to ride that rack of yours,came as Tild's last thoughts telepathically to Itina before the sand wall separated the armies completely.

See you in the drov.

Tears welled up in Itina's eyes, threatening to humiliate her in front of her soldiers. She tried to swallow her agony; for there was much to be done yet. Already the mage was running along the wall in his incredible speed to expand it further, making it harder for the enemy to circle around. Itina knew she had to find Strian and organize the retreat. It would not be over until they were away from the enemy's reach.

And after that…

After that she could grieve. She could cry over her comrade and get angry why he was such an ass and had not let her ride with him. She could curse and blame him, herself, and anybody else there to blame. And finally, she could lose herself in grief and booze, drinking for her lost friend.

Moments later, Captain Lesk pressed his palm on the sand wall, feeling the smoothness of the surface. All the commanding officers were standing behind him. Now that Samil was down, Lesk was in charge of the army. He knew all eyes were on him, waiting for his orders. But he did not honor them by returning their gazes. They had failed the Faithful. Hehad failed the Faithful! Samil put his own life in line to keep the enemy in the battle, and yet they let the enemy escape. It was the work of an abomination that stopped them, but there was no excuse for incompetence.

His back still turned to the army officers:

“Set up the camp, we stay the night” Lesk spoke his orders. In truth, they were Faithful Lady Neodyn’s orders, but the officers did not need to know that.

   *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

CHAPTER 11

"- I heard Miranda’s mind is the best mind tonight!”

- Your Majesty, a third one!

- Wow! I have not seen this one before!”

                                   - King of Shadows and Raven and a third one of their kind meeting in a foreign mind.

She descended from the skies and landed on the ground gently.

All around her was a display of beautiful colors and fresh smells giving a feeling of paradise to all her senses. She stood there barefooted amid the flowers, lifting her head to the skies and feeling the touches of the wind on her skin. It has been such a long time she had been in a world so beautiful, and so well organized. She could stay here for eternity, feeling the tickles of flower petals on her feet as the fingers of the wind stroke them in gentle breezes.

She shook her head, alas, she did not have time to enjoy nor explore this world. She had to leave all aside, and meet the ruler of this world.

With a simple will, she took flight. Another use of willpower, and the entire world shifted beneath her, continents of land and mass flew beneath her in the blink of an eye, and then she was where she wanted to be: Facing the ruler, her Faithful Brother Samil Lyksae.

Inside the mind was where she was powerful. Simple minds could not comprehend the extents of her abilities. She could move as she willed, explore as deep as she wanted, even modify, destroy and recreate the parts of it if she so wished. She wished to meet with the owner of this mind, and here she was facing him directly.

“Hello Faithful Brother” she greeted him in a formal way, letting him know she is here. It was more of a gesture that she is right there in front of him, not digging his mind elsewhere.

“Greetings, sister” replied Samil’s usual calm voice.   In mind he seemed as much in control as he was in flesh. Neodyn has seen the minds of many, and each would be filled with wealth that they can never hope to possess: Dreams of rare tastes, sexual fantasies, of reign over people to satisfy their petty needs. Men were nasty beasts and Neodyn could see them as who they are.

Yet this was not an ordinary mind she was in right now. From the moment she dived in, all around her has been a beautiful harmony of colors and sounds enriching all her senses. None of the petty, pitiful excuses for desires of the flesh had she seen here. She was awed by her brother’s control over his mind, and felt the strokes of curiosity as to what secrets the depths of this world was holding.

“I have ordered Captain of the Legions to take command and pitch the camps. They will stay there until further orders.” Neodyn began, trying to clear her thoughts.

“Did Sulach survive?” Samil asked and Neodyn was faintly nodding at his words.

“I believe so, even though I have not seen him just yet.”

“If he survived, the abominations will bring him up to his feet quickly” the mental image of Samil muttered. Then added after a brief moment: “My Legions must keep moving. They must chase Sulach.”

“No – “ Neodyn began, but Samil cut in shortly:

“If the Legions do not move, Sulach will understand that I am wounded and the army is headless. He will strike and wear us down.”

“Physicians are certain that if you are moved, you will die. You have to be kept stable” came Neodyn’s grim reply.

Samil grew silent at that, but Neodyn noticed a slight change in the world. The wind blew differently than before, the ambient sounds gone, the beautiful scents surrounding them were no more. As if a broken note in the middle of a recite, the musical harmony of the world seemed to be disturbed in Samil’s troubled thoughts.

“So be it then” Samil spoke, but there were a thousand more words carried in the sudden shift of the wind, the sudden discord in the smells. The world was his mind, Neodyn noted, any of his thoughts or emotions would have effect on the environment. She watched the Jihaen templar silently, waiting for him to speak his mind.

“Until I get well, sister, could you come here often and let me know of my legions, and carry my orders to them?” he finally asked.

A rare, bright smile flashed in Neodyn’s lips:

“Of course I will, brother.”

“My first order for them is to find a way to get me moving somehow.”

Their talk continued for a time in the harmony of their surroundings. When finally it was over, Neodyn simply left her brother’s mind. She returned to her consciousness, her features sickly pale from the efforts of psionic drain. The food bowl the slaves left for her was still on the table, untouched. She remembered it had been days she had not eaten, and her body was growing weak. But such was the cost to train the mind for perfection.

As her hands reached for the bowl, she felt her curiosity peaking as to what secrets her brother’s mind held in secret. Was there any dirty secret behind the display of harmony on the surface? Or maybe ambitious thoughts that he never shared with anyone?

She shook her head in disbelief at what she was thinking then, her cheeks flushing red. Her hand left the bowl untouched despite the prostests of her weak body. She needed to train her mind better, obviously.

* *          *          *          *          *          *          *

“- That was the most foolish thing I've done...today."



                                                   - Thrend Lyksae, when his wounds are being tended after an attack.

Everything will be alright.

The light was the deep red of the late afternoon sun when he woke up. The pain was gone, so were the feeling of being burned alive. He sat up in his pallet, causing the sheets to slid down and reveal his naked torso. Everything seemed so distant, and so blurry, he could not make what he was doing in his bed, yet he felt an odd sense of serenity.

Everything will be alright.

How could it be? I-.

Shhhhhh... Don't worry. Everything will be alright.

But I remember... Terrible things.

Don't worry. It is all gone now. There is nothing to worry about.

"Are you alright, Lord Templar?"

Even Itina's voice did not sound so familiar now. Yet it brought him back to his surroundings.

"Lieutenant..? What happened?" All eyes in the command tent were on him, carrying a mixture of curiosity and worry.

"You were wounded badly, my Lord. Magicks..."

She did not have to finish it; Sulach understood it all at once. The vague memory of being on the verge of death flashed in his mind and he understood how he had no trace of those wounds right now. The healing hand of the Vivadu could mend any fresh wound instantaneously, leaving no scars for the eye to see. Yet, unseen to the eye there would be drawbacks. For the body would not understand the works of magick and would still assume the wounds exist. Such a conflict with the body and supernatural would often lead to sudden mood shifts, imaginary pains, even seizures.   Making decisions would be most difficult in such a state, as the mood shifts and the unnatural pains could be maddening for a normal mind.

To neutralize it, there was another magick of course, the magick that kept whispering the soft words of serenity in Sulach's mind.

With this magick at work, all of the victim's emotions would be blocked, the mind taken control by the unnatural touch of the magick. As long as the magick was active, the victim could not feel anything different than the dominating sensation of calmness. He could walk into the fire without realizing the danger or he could withstand the drawbacks of unnatural healing from a near-death experience like right now.

"What ... Exactly happened?" he asked, and they told them everything.

They told him how Tild led the final charge with ten riders to save him, and all he could do was a brisk nod. He could not even grief at the death of his beloved soldier, and he knew there was something wrong. Magicks even blocked parts of his memory, and all he could do was to sit there impassively, listening to the reports of his officers.

"Assemble the riders, we will raid the enemy for supplies" Sulach mustered the words finally when the reports were finished.

A look of surprise rippled through the faces of the officers, but they said nothing. They had reported that there was nothing left and the soldiers have been hungry all day long. Even though it was dangerous, they had no better idea to counter Sulach's mad plan. Itina and Strian finally bowed their respects and left the command tent, the rest of the officers followed their lead shortly.

Finally Sulach was alone in the command tent. He rested against the soft pillows at his back, his eyes growing glassy. He knew he would have ten different plans and the weaknesses of each by now had there not been magicks in play. Yet, he could think of none at the moment. The magicks blocked all the sense of danger or the desire to fight, he realized he could not even think rationally. He decided that he would have to call the power of Highlord to wash away the effects of Vivadu before the battle.

Late in the night, when they attacked the enemy, Sulach knew why they had put him under the false serenity of Vivadu in the first place.

               *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

CHAPTER 12

“-BRING IT ON MOTHERFUCKERS I WILL SKULLFUCK YOUR CHILDREN AND LAUGH AT THEIR TEARS!”



                                                   - Vash, when facing the overwhelming odds against mantis

Captain Lesk desperately tried to rally the retreating soldiers when the attack came, but there was no fruit to his efforts. Like ghosts, Sulach's men came under the cover of darkness and caught the defenders by surprise despite the increased number of guards at post. He knew they would come again, yet he could not stop them. Ever since Samil's fall in the first battle with the enemy, Sulach have taken advantage of the headless army and grew aggressive. But Lesk managed to avoid them in the daylight up to now. By destroying a few supply carts in the first day, Lesk had a special wagon to carry the command tent of the Faithful which gave the opportunity to run away from the enemy. Only at nights, a unit of cavalry would smash from one corner of the army, send them fleeing away, raid as much as they could and disappear into the cover of the night before Lesk could mobilize the Legions and strike them back. It happened four times by now, and this was the fifth.

First time it happened, he spent his entire night in the Faithful’s tent crying like a little child, unsure of how to face the soldiers in his shame. When the morning broke though, he swallowed his shame and carried the day as if nothing happened. He was more prepared for the second night assault when they came again, but then Sulach had a different plan and still managed to catch them by surprise. It was easier to accept the defeat each time after that. Perhaps it was getting used to what he could not change, and that bothered him even more than the shame he felt. What was next, handing the army to Sulach and making excuses?

No, there was no room for cowardice, no living with the shame this time. If he dies tonight, perhaps someone better suited would be given charge to lead the army until the Faithful recovered from his wounds.

A few soldiers accompanied his bravery and he held hope that more would follow. But his hopes withered as he saw more and more of the Legions turn their backs to the enemy and flee in panic. Anger welled up in Lesk when he saw a rider of Sulach slam his spear to a fallen Tuluki soldier. He roared and broke into a charge, grabbing the soldier by the leg and pulling him down. He groaned as the soldier collapsed on top of him and took both of them down. They wrestled on the ground, blinded by the rage and the darkness that surrounded them. Lesk knew that he would probably die to the next opponent if not to this one, but it did not matter. He would take as many as he could in his fall.

“…. To me!”

Through the chaos and the cries, he heard the voice calling others. He tried to get up but his opponent held him down fast, strangling him with an iron grip. In a rekindled rage, he rolled his opponent over and came on top. With all his strength, he hammered his elbow on his opponent’s face and felt the sickening sound of breaking bones. He slammed his armored elbow again and again, until something wet splattered on his face and he felt the coppery taste of blood in his mouth.

“Rally to me!”

The voice called again and Lesk jumped to his feet from the lifeless form of his opponent.   So familiar was the voice, but he tried not to grow hope. He kicked into a run, trying to reach the source of the voice before enemy lines came any closer.

“Rally to me!”

Tears blurred his vision when he saw the hunched figure leaning on his staff. The dark cover of the night made it difficult to see, but he recognized the red robe from a distance:

“Faithful is here!” he shouted and more soldiers joined him.

“Faithful is among us!”

“Protect the Faithful Lord!”

More and more soldiers rushed in and formed ranks in front of Samil and Lesk was among them, too overwhelmed to give any orders.

“Legions of the Sun King, form fours! First two rows step forth! Melee formation! Engage the enemy!” Samil’s rich voice snapped the orders.

Within seconds, the tide of the battle changed. The Allanakki riders kept smashing into the locked shields of Tuluk and were sent back again and again. It was a night assault and speed and stealth were the key factors for Sulach’s men. They were not there to hold forms and fight the enemy, they were there to hit them in sudden and send them scattered. Wearing no armor that would break their stealth and with the Tuluki lines stand like a wall in front of them, they had no chance. More Tuluki soldiers came to Samil’s call and the outcome of the battle became evident.

Sulach stared into the Tuluki lines from the top of his horse. He had seen Samil in the dim torchlight and known him even at a distance. His red cloak had swirled around him in the wind and it had been easy to picture the man’s brutal visage when he faced him in the battle. So strange it was that the mere appearance of Samil made such a huge change in the course of the battle. Such a loyalty he commanded in the Tuluki army and Sulach did not like the sound of it.

There was moment when Sulach felt Samil looking directly at him, and shivered. The wounds from his battle with Samil still troubled him when he was not under the effects of magick, despite the considerable time it passed. Time would cure them Sulach knew, but the memory would remain. Despite looking old and weak, Samil was not the kind of man he wanted to meet in battle again. He recognized his fear for him but there was no shame in being afraid. Even though he would have to retreat that night, he would win the war. Tonight’s battle did not mean much after all, not for Sulach. He had already raided the enemy supplies enough to sustain his army for more than a week’s time ahead, what he had been doing over the last two nights’ assaults was to break the enemy’s morale. By showing them defeat every night, he was crushing their resolve. After all, winning a fight did not take to kill every single soldier, but to take away their will to fight. And Sulach realized as he watched Samil’s effect on his soldiers, that to take away the enemy’s will to fight, he had to eliminate Samil.

Sulach had to retreat that night and Samil did not pursue.

   *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

“He has accepted his fate, and so must I. It is better to live a short time within His Radiance than a lifetime away from His Light.”



                                                                                  - Elithan Winrothol, before an execution



Late in the same night, Captain Lesk and Samil were alone in the command tent. The stale air carried a visible tension as Samil sat on his pallet wordlessly for what Lesk felt like ages long.

“What happened to my Legions, Captain?” spoke Samil at last. His voice was weaker than how it was in the battlefield, and so was his posture. When alone, the effects of his wounds were much visible in the candle light.

“Faithful Lord, I –“ Captain started as he stood, but then he stopped to clear his voice and his mind.

“Sir, it is my mistake. There is no excuse for it, perhaps I am not fit for the command” he spoke clearly. Relieved that he finally could muster the words, but Samil was not listening.

“They ran like cowards,” Samil spoke, more to himself and the empty air than to the Captain standing in attendance. Lesk could only bow his head in shame.

“I ordered them to drop their banner after the fight was over. Sulach already has their honor, he could as well take their banner” Samil continued, and Lesk felt his cheeks flush. So humiliating to leave the banner, it could very well mean that Samil did not care whether or not those units were all completely dead and gone.

“Sir, I would take any punishment for my incompetence” Lesk spoke, his head bowed low. He did not dare to look at the Faithful in the eye, fearing that his legs would give away their strength at humiliation.

“Raise your head, Captain!” Samil’s voice was sharp enough to make Lesk obey at once.

“There will be punishment of course. And yours is not so easy to step aside from the command.” Samil went on. His next words explained how the cowards would be punished, and Lesk’s face went pale as he listened.

Lesk stood with all the commanding officers in the dim light of Lirathu, the soldiers of the Second Battalion disarmed and lined up in front of their tents. All the voices of the camp died when the Second Battalion was called out of their beds.

“Begin” Lesk gave the order; his voice was cold as the desert night.

Two sergeants moved forward, but the third shook visibly, exchanging glances between his men and Captain Lesk:

“Sir… But they are our soldiers. It is not right” he spoke weakly.

“Stand still!” Lesk snapped, “Lieutenant, come to me!”

Sergeant shook his head in terror as he saw his lieutenant approaching to Lesk:

“I am sorry sir, I only meant…”

But Lesk was not listening to him:

“Lieutenant, this man disobeyed my orders. He will join the selected.” Lesk spoke clearly for everyone in attendance to hear.

The sergeant attempted to protest but the lieutenant struck his gauntleted fist down on him before he could add anymore shame he had brought to his command. Two more of his crushing punches and the dazed sergeant fell on his knees. They disarmed him quickly and dragged him away from the line of soldiers.

The rest of the draft went uneventful, sergeants counted the men and one out of every five was drawn out. When counting the men in Second Battalion was done, the selected was dragged away and the rest were sent back inside. Though, the night did not pass easily for anyone. Those who were left behind knew they would never see again the ones taken away. And they were shaking in terror when the commanding officers returned, calling another Battalion out of their tents.

It carried on all night long.

   *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

CHAPTER 13

“- It is easy to grow hope, warrior, when your lover is in your arms, with your booze leaving the bitter taste and the smoke of your spice filling your lungs. It is easy to grow hope when your stomach is full and your tongue wet. It is easy to grow hope when you face your opponent in your battle and you stand strong. But when you miss your lover’s good bye kiss and there is nothing to wash it down; when hunger craves your insides and your mouth runs dry; when your sword breaks down and your opponent gashes open your brows, does your hope die warrior?

No, that is when you are truly alive.”

                                                                  - Gin of the Alleys, and Ough the mul.

Lesk dropped on his haunches in front of Samil’s tent by the end of the night, Allanakki and the Tuluki bloods mingled in his armor. There was less than an hour of time left when they were finished executing the men, and he felt all his strength was finally leaving him. He dropped on the ground, trying to clear up the events of the night from his mind. From all the units who fled before Sulach in the night assaults, they picked one out of every five soldier.

And then they killed them. As a ranking officer he had killed many before. But killing another Tuluki soldier, and more importantly the way they killed them would haunt him for a long time.

Each battalion’s selected group was brought separately, disarmed and unarmored so that if a group attempts to resist, there would not be any complications. Then all the officers of the Legions attacked them unarmed, punching and kicking until they all died. Killing them without the use of any weapons in such a way took longer, cries and painful pleads of the dying men carried on for a long time. One of the men even said “I am sorry” and started to cry like a child before the officers launched on them. Each group was drawn away like this one by one. After the second group, the officers were all speechless in horror, and they worked in silence until the end. It ended about an hour to the day break, and Lesk sent them all to get some rest before dawn. They would not be able to sleep, he thought as much, but just like him they needed sometime alone.

Lesk dug his hands into the ground and clawed the desert sands in his silent weeping. It was coldest in the desert right before the sunrise, but he felt none of it. Tears were burning his eyes and he felt a weight down his throat that he could not swallow. This is what it takes to lead, he thought to himself.

He sat there in front of Samil’s tent, unsure of the time that passed. Approaching steps made him jump to his feet and he stood in attendance as the Faithful opened the flap of the tent and walked out to the morning sun. He stood before Lesk, eyeing him against the crimson dawn expectantly. But there was no strength left in Lesk to greet the Faithful properly. He bit his lower lip to stop them from quivering and looked straight past the Faithful, unable to meet him in the eye. He expected to be struck down for his weakness and steadied himself for the blow, but it did not come. Instead Samil patted him on the shoulder in a gesture of understanding and Lesk tried hard not to collapse at his feet.

The camp started to come alive with the waking soldiers and Lesk straightened in his posture, reminding himself that he is still the Captain of the Legions. There was no room for a show of weakness he reminded to himself and joined among the soldiers to break the camp.

Before the hour past, all the soldiers were brought to attendance and Samil rode in front of them, staring them down from atop his horse.

“Sun King’s Legions! My warriors!” he shouted and his gaze wandered through the ranks of soldiers. The legionnaires disgraced him. They knew it, and kept their heads bowed in private misery. Even their ranks seemed chaotic as each one found their among others without looking at the rank formations.

“Last night was the closest thing to disaster that I have ever seen. I have never seen a Legion turn their back to the enemy and leave their commanders in the field. Never before, a soldier ran past me when I called them to form ranks before me!”

From the top of his mount he could see all of the gathered soldiers. They stared down without daring to look at him, but he saw some of them shaking with humiliation as if he were a father lecturing repentant children. He shook his head and stared ahead for a time:

“Legions! The enemy we are facing is not a group of halfling. It is not a band of marauders hunting down helpless tribals! No! The enemy we have now is the worst ever seen! They have never seen the face of defeat before! And we knew this before we took our ride from the Ivory.”

“We knew what we were against before we left our beloved walls” he shouted, riding his horse up and down in front of the ranks. “I tell you now my warriors, if there is anyone who believes that we can not beat this enemy, I ask them to step forth!”

All heads were suddenly lifted up; all the soldiers looked at Samil directly. The traces of shame seemed to vanish as they gazed up at him.

“I ask anyone who believes that this enemy can not be beaten, to step forth!" Samil repeated louder. "They will be given the month’s payment and the next, and they will be sent back to the city!” Samil shouted and his gaze wandered on each soldier as he stood.

“I do not want a soldier in my ranks who do not believe in their comrades! There are thousands and thousands of soldiers among the Legions. But you are the ones that I chose to march with me!” He shouted and a cheer started to light in the eyes of the Legions.

“What an honor we are chosen to fight the greatest enemy of all!” Samil’s finger was pointing toward where Sulach’s men retreated a night before as he spoke: “That we are given the chance to achieve the greatest valor in the Sun King’s ranks!

“Soldiers!“ his voice dropped low as he regarded them all. “Some of the battalions that were yesterday are no more. I can not give back your history, but I can offer you a new start. Today we start a new day. As you will be briefed, the members of the disbanded Legions will join the ranks of the others. Legions! Do not hold your brothers and sisters with shame! We will not remember those running from the enemy, but we will remember them holding ranks as I called them to rally to me! Remember that they are your brothers in arm now! We left Legion banners last night! When we next meet them in battle, we will fight to get their banners and your honor with them!” The soldiers seemed to straighten their postures as Samil spoke, some of them lifted their heads high, a new light of determination in their eyes.

“Look around you now. Look at the faces of the men and women around you! Remember those faces, for there will come a day when you will tell tales of your fight against the Witch Templar Sulach, and you will tell who else was with you in that glorious battle!”

“Soldiers, we are all professionals. Shall we cut these amateur bastards to pieces?”

A loud cheer erupted from the ranks of the soldiers, swords and shields were clashed together and their mouths bellowed in applaud. Samil’s heart lifted with pride.

The camp was broken and they marched away in the morning sun.

CHAPTER 10

“As mortals, we have a barrier
in the level of power we can wield. No
matter what we try, with magick or psionics or by completely mundane means,
sooner or later we will hit the wall and there is no trivial way to pass this
wall. For perhaps this is a...

Continue Reading...
Untitled by AmandaGreathouse
Added on Apr 1, 2008

An poem, from somewhere in Tuluk.

By Lirathu's light

In dark of night

A bitter wind blows through

In mind and heart

Though we're apart

Your mem'ry sees me through

With sparkling eyes

Like late night skies

You fill my very heart

And in my soul

I've lost control

From my mind you won't depart

By Lirathu's light

In dark of night

A bitter wind blows through

In mind and heart

Though we're apart

Your mem'ry sees me through

With sparkling eyes

Like late night skies

You fill my very heart

And in my soul

I've lost control

From my mind you won't depart

Continue Reading...
A Dying Dirge by AmandaGreathouse
Added on Apr 1, 2008

Short poem of remembrance.

Before kith and kin

It did begin

The brutal scouring of our hearts

And on the wind

Both foe and friend

In our pain, they play their parts

'Cross savage sand

And barren land

The dead all sing their dirge

Since then we've wept

Since then He's slept

Ever since that awful Dragon's purge

Before kith and kin

It did begin

The brutal scouring of our hearts

And on the wind

Both foe and friend

In our pain, they play their parts

'Cross savage sand

And barren land

The dead all sing their dirge

Since then we've wept

Since then He's slept

Ever since that awful...

Continue Reading...
The Warriors of Faith: Part II: "Before the Storm" by Ghost
Added on Feb 26, 2008

The armies prepare for the battle, and the politics of the cities take a new shape

CHAPTER 6

“ – He is not a friend…

                                         … He is the enemy in disguise.”

                                                                                                        - Samos Rennik, Templar of Allanak

My dearest Ka’Tryn,

Days followed nights, and time flew away. It has only been two weeks that tore us apart, but it feels like years have gone between us. I thank the Highlord every night for your still-fresh memory to keep me company in these desolate lands.

I have been pulled in a trap, my love. For days I have been running with Samil at my back. For days my men have been marching, and the way home is closed to us; our enemy is strong.

I require assistance from the War Ministry, my love. I need another armed force to circle around my enemy’s rear, which will quickly lead us into a decisive victory. However, as a blue robe, I have already been trusted with more than enough soldiers under my command. For even more units, the procedure will take too long to carry on. That kind of time, I do not have.

My love, I need you to write a letter for me to the War Ministry, and use your Family’s influence to draw a few hundred soldiers from the Ministry and have them sent along the Shield Wall to strike the enemy from behind. The maps I am sending you with this letter clearly indicate the position of the enemy units, and their possible routes over the next two days. A commanding officer would understand what is expected of him from those maps. If they agree to send the force, this battle will end quickly, and we will be together once again. Please do this for me, my love, for I miss you so much.

Walk in His shadow.

I love you, with all my heart.



Sulach Tor of the War Ministry

Lord Cadra Borsail rolled the written parchment in his meaty hands, a pleasant smile curling up on his lips. He was glad to hire a servant specifically tasked to watch Ka’Tryn’s letters. A bold move it was, and finally it produced fruit. He crossed the spacious room, carrying his substantial body to the window where he could watch the beautiful colors of the garden stretching out to the rest of the estate. The view was relaxing in nature.

Ever since Sulach had marched out for his campaign, everything worked for the success of Lord Cadra. He was quick to catch the attention of a Senator of his House by throwing a party in the man’s name. Pretty soon, his relationship with the Senator got very close; he was attending his meetings, helping him arrange social events, rallying his own servants for his course, working with nobles of other Houses to collect votes for the said Senator. His knowledge and experience with the politics of the city expanded so much in a very short time, even he was surprised.

His meaty cheeks were pulled back, revealing a childish smile. He tore his gaze away from the garden and began to walk toward the hearth. More work would have to follow. He would host another Senator tomorrow in the Estate and he would use all he could to try and manipulate the senator into passing a vote in his favor. If he failed, it would not be a loss for him, but for the current Senator of Borsail. But if he succeeded…

His smile broadened as he stood near the hearth, staring at the dancing light with hypnotized eyes. In the end this was all a game for him, at least for now. Until he became comfortable in the political schemes and made his name heard in the Senate Halls, it would remain as a game. The real politics would start after that moment.

His eyes focused on the firelight, as he woke from his daydreams. His game was going very well and it should not be disturbed, and that meant Sulach would have to stay out of his way. Even if it meant the downfall of Sulach and a few hundred soldiers, the success Cadra could accomplish in the long run would easily pale this minor loss. He threw the crumpled parchment into the hearth and let the flames catch it with an insatiable hunger.   The parchment shriveled and wrinkled, the ink marks leaving dark spots in the firelight.

When the last ink mark shriveled and died in the fire, a relief washed over Cadra. He quickly called the slaves for refreshments, and let his mind wander on the taste of the afternoon dessert.

*      *           *          *           *          *          *           *          *           *

“We cannot keep avoiding them forever, my Lord. The soldiers are beginning to question why we have been changing routes so very often, and why we have not met the gith army after all that marching,” Lieutenant Strian spoke, his voice high to overcome the wail of the wind outside. A sandstorm was raging in the desert, sending ripples over the tightly-secured interior walls of the tent. The commanding officers were silent around the map table, their gazes appearing sullen after the weariness of the day.

Sulach pressed his fists on the map table, his brows wrinkling as he weighed Strian’s words. He had kept the news of the Tuluki force a secret from the rest of the army to this moment, for fear that if the soldiers learn the grave mistake of the scouts they would lose their trust on each other. Each soldier in the army trusted their life to the other. If they heard of a weakness among them, it would morale would drop and cripple their will to fight. Sulach could not allow that to happen.

He knew he had to fight the Tuluki force, and he knew he had to break the news of the enemy to his soldiers... but not yet. He wanted a reply his letter to Ka’Tryn and to how the War Ministry responded before giving the news to his army. He could not use the Way and ask about it. When the subject was Tuluk, use of the Way would only mean giving all his plans to Samil on a silver plate. The only option he had was to wait, and wait he did.

Two days passed like that. This was the third day, and his officers were getting as restless as the rest of his army.

“What about the supplies?” he asked.

“Very low my Lord. We probably have three days’ food and drink on the carts, give or take,” Itina said shortly. Then she added after a momentary thought: “The enemy was moving toward the supply routes. If that is their goal, these might very well be our last supplies.”

Sulach released a heavy sigh, but the cries of the storm quickly drowned his voice.   His options were getting thinne, but he had to wait. The only way to victory was hitting the enemy from the rear as he pressed from the front. And for that, he needed Ka’Tryn’s help. Why did he not hear from her still? She would do what he asked. She had Sulach’s full trust on that, but he was running out of time. Perhaps he had to write another letter and put pressure on the time.

Sulach lifted his gaze to look at the officers gathered around the map table. All eyes were on him, waiting for any command he would give them.

“Drop the rations given to the soldiers to half. We will wait for a word from Allanak for two more days. We will decide after that,” he spoke finally. The officers did not seem overly happy about his decision, but they did not speak on it. The final word belonged to Sulach and they would comply, whether they liked it or not.

The commanding officers left the tent shortly, leaving Sulach alone in the trembling candlelight. He sat down at the table, pulled over a parchment and quill, and started writing another letter to Ka’Tryn.

*      *           *          *           *          *          *           *          *           *

“- They have pieces of the puzzle, but only hazily see the whole picture.

- Then I would safely say very few know as much as we, Brother.”



                                                                         - Serilla Uaptal and Elithan Winrothol, Templars of Tuluk.

“They are not using the Way anymore,” said Neodyn through the unseen Way.

“Then he is aware of my presence,” replied Samil’s clear thoughts. “No more games then, I will close in and engage him as soon as possible.”

“Most likely,” replied the frail mental image of the Lirathan in Samil’s mind. “Still, it does not mean we should drop all other plans. We can still plant our men into the vile city as we discussed before.”

“Why, yes. We can. I assigned the Lyksaen warriors that my Chosen cousin sent to cut Sulach’s supply lines. Once they stop the carts, we can assign another group to infiltrate the city.”

“Speaking of which, your Chosen cousin was asking if his warriors are doing well in the campaign.”

“Send him my regards, and tell him that his warriors are the best I have seen,” Samil sent his thoughts. In truth, it was a basic way of thanking the noble blood for his aid rather than a compliment. Lyksae trained the most elite warriors; twenty of them would make a difference.

“Thank you, Faithful Sister,” Samil finished.

“His radiance guide you, Brother,” Neodyn replied, before slipping from his thoughts.

Samil sat alone on his pallet for a few minutes, mulling the recent news. He had Sulach cornered by closing the way back. The Lyksaen warriors could easily take care of his supply routes as well, and thus force Sulach into a pitched battle. Considering he had the greater numbers and fresh Legions, along with abundant supplies, he was confident of the outcome of such a battle. Not to mention he would also have his own men in Allanak once the supply route was broken.

He lay down on the pallet, taking a deep, relaxing breath. The morning was still a few hours away, and his mind was weary from meditation and the drain of the psionic contact.

The day would dawn to the march of the Legions.

*      *           *          *           *          *          *           *          *           *

“- Well, fuck, you did it already? I'd figured you're wack off a bit before finishing it”



                                                                                                                                          - Marin of the Guild

Corporal Xides of the Jade Teeth, quartermaster of the second battalion…

The same phrase repeated over and over in her head. Everything had been dark… for how long? Was there ever a light? Did she ever look at the skies?

Corporal Xides of the Jade Teeth, quartermaster of the second battalion of the Arm of the Dragon, reporting for duty.

A sharp headache was calling her back from sleep, pushing away the dream world and reminding her of the physical senses. She did not want to wake up though, it was too painful to wake up. The headache alone was unbearable, not to mention all those wounds from arrows and spears, turning her body into a bloody mess. Sleep was taking her pain away; sleep was comfortable.

Corporal Xides of the Jade Teeth, quartermaster of the second battalion of the Arm of the Dragon, reporting for duty.

How did she fall into this? How did the lights go away, and the pain take over? How did she feel her life slipping away, and the pain driving her towards insanity before unconsciousness came to her rescue?

It was her first mission as a Corporal to escort the supply carts to Lord Templar Sulach Tor, who was supposed to be fighting gith. The routes had been planned carefully, as they always were. The gith numbers were so few that the Corporal and her unit would not even be needed. But such were the protocols. The slaves could not defend themselves against the threats of the desert, were there a random group of raiders or a beast sneaking upon them. Her unit would scare away such raiders and could defend against the occasional beasts lurking in the dunes. The supply carts would be delivered in no time.

But it did not go so well.

The ambush started so fast and was so deadly, nobody understood what hit them. Suddenly arrows and spears rained out of nowhere, slaughtering many in a bloody confusion. Shields were pulled up at the Corporal’s order to stop the bloody rain of death, but then the sands around them sprayed up in a blinding shower, throwing up more ambushers within melee range in their wake. In seconds, they cut through the prone unit, dropping down so many with brutal efficiency. The Corporal’s order was cut off in the middle as a spear caught her full in the chest, and a sword slashed across her groin. Then her attacker passed by her, moving to his next target. Instinctively she dropped her hands on her wound, as if trying to prevent her guts from spilling out.

She saw another volley of arrows and spears taking flight and she heard the thunder of galloping cavalry charging on her men, followed shortly by the screams and the cries of the dying men. She knew she would not survive this. Her opponent was so strong. They were almost like… They almost reminded her of…

Corporal Xides of the Jade Teeth, quartermaster of the second battalion of the Arm of the Dragon, reporting for duty.

The same voice repeated over and over in her head… Disturbing her sleep.

Corporal Xides…

Powerful hands were shaking her and she realized the sleep could no longer protect her. She opened her eyes, trying not to flinch at the overwhelming pain awakening inside of her, and the rush of light that burned her eyes.

Crimson and grey was her opponent, his attire carrying not a bit of blood or sand from the deadly desert. How could anything be so untouched by the misery of such a crimson afternoon?

“Tell me your name and your unit, soldier!” The powerful hands shook her again, causing a ripple of pain to pass over her expression.

“Corporal…Xides… Of the Ja - de Teeth…”

The fight scene was running in her head again and again. Such a good coordination, discipline, skill… They were almost like… Almost like…

“… quartermas-.. ter… of the second battalion…”

They fight almost like Tor Scorpions.

“Die miserably.”

A knife slashed across her throat, leaving a trail of crimson in its wake, and then her killer dropped her carelessly. She tried to talk, but the words died in her throat with a sickening gurgle. She felt the precious blood pouring out, leaving her weaker and weaker with each heartbeat. She could not help but to shake violently, causing the blood to spray and paint the golden sands in a chaotic splash of crimson stain.

Her eyes moved to the sides, looking past the hands that killed her. She could see clearly now, that there were only about ten to twenty attackers that created such a field of death.

No!

She could not be beaten by a handful of men like this! She was of the Arm of the Dragon; she could not die like this!

Her hands clawed the sands as if to hold tight to the life and fight against the grasp of death.

And she stayed like that.

“The mission was successful, Faithful Lord. The caravan is neutralized,” reported the Lyksaen warrior through the unseen Way, as the last ragged breathes of the Corporal died away. All around him were piles of bodies, lying in a lifeless mimicry of the chaotic battle that had happened moments ago.

“Excellent, Mtakr. Any casualties among your men?” Samil’s mind responded him shortly.

“None, Faithful Lord.”

“You truly live to the fame of House Lyksae, Enit.” Samil honored the warrior by calling him by his name.

“I do my duty for the Ivory and the Faithful,” replied the warrior in the traditional way.

Samil’s thoughts were colored with approval and pleasantness: “Keep the carts secure now. In about an hour, my men will come to take the carts from your hands. After that, make sure the corpses of the vile Black City’s servants are disposed somewhere, with no trace behind.”

“Yes sir,” Enit replied affirmatively.

“Once it is done, continue your patrol on the supply routes. No supply carts should pass to the enemy, Mtakr.”

“None will pass, sir.”

“Excellent. I will call you by my side before I engage the enemy, and we will rejoice with the glory then.”

“As you please, Faithful Lord.”

*      *           *          *           *          *          *           *          *           *

CHAPTER 7

       “ - Look at my son! Is not he cute?

-   I can snap his neck with two fingers.

-   And I can remove your balls and stuff them down your throat.

-   Good point”



                                                - Gin of the Alleys, and Inrof

Meleth’s Circle was overcrowded. The music and the noise of the Fale party were over now, but the commoners still stood outside the Arboretum. Some old and crippled, some harboring a child, some supporting a loved one, their bony fingers intertwined in a desperate gesture of love, were all standing there weak and battered under the scorching sun, hoping that they would be spared with the leftovers. The party was over now and the Highborn were making their way out of the Arboretum.

Lord Templar Risac Valika was one of the first to leave the party. He was not surprised to be greeted by the mass of the commoners, but he was not expecting the circle of soldiers in tight formation to hold the people out. He approached the ranking officer, who was standing several feet away from the curtain that separated the Arboretum from the Meleth’s Circle.

“Sergeant,” Risac called as he walked over and dropped a bored nod of acknowledgement at the sergeant’s respectful bow. “What is this about?” He gestured at he commoners pressing their bodies against the soldiers.

“Sir, the people are starving.”

Risac nodded grimly. It was a time of famine and both the water and flour prices had raised over the last week, leaving many people struggling desperately on the verge of starvation.

“I see. We are going through difficult times. It is a shame to see our own people suffer like this,” he said bitterly. The Sergeant could see genuine concern on the templar’s face.

“Still,” Templar Risac added, taking a deep breath, “we cannot let them disturb the noble-born. Make sure your men keep them away until the nobility departs, then we will see what we can do for our people.”

Sergeant nodded sharply: “Right away, sir.”

“It was a pleasant party, was it not Lord Templar?” called Lord Cadra as he passed through the curtain and walked out to the bustling noise of the Meleth’s.

“It certainly was, Lord Borsail,” replied Templar Risac.

“We did not have much chance to talk in the party,” continued Lord Cadra as he approached to the templar in blue, two guards wearing the crimson of Borsail stepping to his flanks immediately. “I hope all is well?”

Risac spared a glance at the soldiers trying to hold the commoners away from the Arboretum. Although it seemed to be a small commotion, he noted it would be better to have more soldiers ready in these times. Too late for now, but perhaps for the next meeting in Arboretum.

“The famine is breaking our citizens, which concerns me. Other than that, all is well. And you?”

“Oh I am fine, thank you for asking,” Cadra replied, wearing a genuine broad smile. “Is there any word from my old friend Sulach? I have not heard from him ever since he headed for the gith campaign.”

“I did not know you were so close to him, Lord Borsail,” smirked Risac playfully. Then he added: “No, actually there is not much news. The slaves that brought back the supply carts say he has not engaged the gith yet. I assume he does not want to say a word without meeting the enemy.”

Cadra Borsail had a difficult time disguising his surprise. Supply carts being brought back? Slaves reporting about not meeting gith?

A loud noise erupted from the crowd as several people tried to break the soldiers’ block to come closer to Arboretum. They were begging loudly as they clawed their way against the adamant posture of the soldiers. Templar Risac shook his head as he watched the commotion. It was a pain to see his people so desperate and weak, and he prayed to the Highlord that no outbreak would occur that day.

Cadra was lost in thoughts however. He had intercepted all of Sulach’s letters to Ka’Tryn and to the War Ministry over the last week. In every one, he mentioned the supply chains having been broken. The fact that Risac saying the supply carts returning safely could only mean…

The soldiers were having a hard time holding the crowds back. Risac was pressing his fingertips to his temple, probably requesting a unit to back up the soldiers.

“Your job is not easy at all, dear friend,” said Cadra, forcing a smile. Ideas were rushing through his mind. Daring ideas, dangerous ideas…

Risac said something as a reply, but Cadra did not hear it. He was too far into his own thoughts. Learning that Samil planted his own men like slaves of Allanak, and that only Cadra himself had knowledge of this, were the best pieces of news he had heard in a while. So many possibilities were running through his mind.

“Ah, dear! Were you waiting for me?” called a female voice beside Cadra, and he felt gentle gloved hands hooking around his arm. Turning over, he was looking directly at Lady Ansche Fale, her fluffy purple silk dress brushing against his cloak.

Anger was spinning in Cadra’s thoughts as he saw her, but he knew better than to jerk off his arm. Instead, he flashed a smile:

“Lady Fale, it was such a beautiful party,” he continued. His smile was growing as he placed his hand on hers, her purple silk gloves soft to his touch.

Ansche Fale flashed back warmly, leaning close to him. Her perfume was masking the stench of the commons. “I am glad you enjoyed it, dear.”

Cadra tried hard to keep a straight face. Lady Fale, among all the nobility, had so far proved to be the biggest thorn he had. Quite manipulative in nature, she was in this game much earlier. She was successfully undoing all his efforts to collect supporters for the Senator. Knowing how she had been, Cadra finally decided to convince her to his side first, and then decide what next to do.

“Our little talk has been due for quite some time, Lady. Would you like to come with me to the Trader’s?” Cadra spoke gently, his smile was warm and inviting.

“How lovely of you, dear. Indeed, we should talk”.

Her hand hooked around the crook of his arm, Cadra began to escort her when the crowds broke into another uprising. This time the force pushing through was not as strong, but still a woman clawed and kicked her way through the ring of soldiers. A baby in her arms, the fragile frame of the woman stood confused for a moment, not sure what to do next. But then, she threw herself in front of Cadra and Ansche, and her eyes were teary and pleading:

“Please my Lord, my Lady… Please… My baby is dying. Please, just a little water?”

Ansche on his arm, Lord Cadra stopped in his steps, looking directly at the crying woman: Bony figure, skin tanned and dried from exposure to the Suk-krath, she seemed no older than mid twenties, the baby in her arms no more than a month. Helping this woman would bring the rest of the crowds begging. On the other hand, it was not Cadra’s authority to discipline this woman. Even considering punishment for something this simple would mean that his time and mind would become occupied with things as worthless as a simple commoner; a shame to his noble blood. Yet the woman was there, in front of his path:

“That is enough!” boomed Templar Risac’s voice. “Soldiers, make room for the nobility!”

“Weapons ready!” Sergeant Vorag commanded to his soldiers, who stepped back from the press of the commoners and drew their weapons. “Advance!” he ordered, and he broke into a charge toward the fragile form of the woman. His first sword swing killed the baby, his second finished the woman off.

Chaos erupted through the the Circle as the soldiers cut through the commoners mercilessly. Each swing of a blade dropping another, soldiers killed their own citizens without hesitation. The commoners, who were trying to push their way through moments ago, were now tripping over each other in their haste to run away from the advancing soldiers; the ones left behind butchered without discrimination. They could provide little resistance against the armed and trained soldiers before being cut down. Blood and gore spilled on the streets, painting the paving stones in a dark crimson.

"Stand your ground!" the Sergeant shouted when the soldiers were spread wide enough. "Stand your ground!" he repeated, and the advancing soldiers stopped abruptly, their blades coated in crimson blood.

Another unit of militia was jogging through the streets, making their way to report to Templar Risac, who barely nodded and gestured for them to join the forces that were holding the commoners back, though it was no longer necessary. Due to the brutal repression of the armed forces, the commoners were still afraid to come any close to the circle of soldiers.

"I am afraid this has delayed your leave," Templar Risac told Lord Cadra and Lady Ansche apologetically.

"Ah, it is no problem, Lord Templar," replied Cadra, "our time is a fine price to do the Highlord's bidding."

"My apologies, still," Risac countered.

Slaves poured barrels of dry sand over the sticky blood, making a
clear path for the nobles, though there was nothing to be done for the reek of gore and open bowels that hung heavy in the open air.

As the nobility were leaving, Risac noticed several unfortunate commoners dropping to their knees, trying to drink from the blood on the ground to quench their thirst. He felt his heart ache at the sight, and prayed to the Highlord for these dark times to be over soon.

*      *           *          *           *          *          *           *          *           *

CHAPTER 8

"- Hey... Farran... if we all die t'gith... tha's alright. No... m'serious... in th'end... what's it matter?"

                                                                                                                                                   - Agent Horus-da Kurac, experiencing a thodeliv-fueled revelation.

The two days of time given was over. There was no response to the letters, not even the latest ones he sent. The supply chain was broken; the very few rations left were the last for the Allanaki force. Little was said in the morning meeting with his officers. Their woeful expressions spoke volumes. Sulach felt his heart sinking.

From the back of his mount, he looked down at the great expanse of his soldiers. His mind wandered back to the last two weeks and the pride he felt at the sight of his great force, the promises of the glory in eliminating the raids. He would be named “the Conqueror”. Already his name was spoken with respect even among the other blue robes. The tales of his victories against the overwhelming gith numbers, against all odds, were well received. But now he was here, in front of the very soldiers, unable to decide how to start. “I am the Conqueror,” he whispered to himself, but the words failed to cheer him as they once did.

“Soldiers! Men of the Arm of the Dragon! My followers!” he started, taking a deep breath. “Two weeks ago, we left our hearts at home and stepped into these desolate lands. We all did this for the same reason.” He let his words sink in.

“For Allanak!” he shouted and the soldiers gave a cheer, lifting their swords in salute.

“But today, we are facing an enemy we did not think we would find. An enemy we have had all the time, though we did not come out here to fight them. Not this time, not in this war.”

The soldiers were silent as Sulach rode his horse up and down in front of the gathered units. “Today, Allanak is too far away. Highlord knows, if we die today, they will not hear it for days.”

“Soldiers! We will meet this enemy! We will fight them! But I will not ask you to fight for Allanak this time!” Confusion could be read on the soldiers’ faces as they looked directly at Sulach. Sulach merely looked back, his eyes moving from face to face.

“I will not ask you to fight for Allanak!” he repeated. “What does Allanak know of us here? What does the Senate understand of what we are? The merchants in their houses, the slaves, the commoners and the whores have not been with us in our battles. When I think of Allanak, I can think of the city that has been standing for ages, and will stand for ages more. But my warriors are those that I see before me now!”

The words sank easily among the soldiers. He knew them for what they are, and he could see the thin cheers as they gazed up at him.

“I will not ask you to fight for Allanak this time! This time, fight for me!” he said, and they lifted their heads higher to hear him. He swept a hand to the southern horizon in a vague gesture to point toward the enemy’s direction:

“What an honor that our enemy came in greater numbers. They know our strength, my warriors! They know we are unbreakable in spirit! If I could change places today, and be one among them, I would fear you! I would be terrified! For they are not us! The infidels, the barbarians they are, my warriors, they are nothing like us! When our hearts and arms are tired, we go on! When our stomachs are empty and mouths dry, we go on!”

He smiled upon the soldiers, pleased to see all of their heads high and spirits lifted:

“The enemy closed in to draw our blood! Let us show them how the Allanakki fight!”

A loud cheer erupted from the gathered soldiers, drowning Sulach’s last words. Swords were rapped together, whistles, cheers, cries rose from the crowds, and Sulach’s name rang repeatedly in the noise.

Sulach was pleased. Once more he felt the excitement of the battle rising within him. Let Samil come now, and fight me when I lead such brave soldiers. His heart lifted with pride, and he ordered them to move out. The enemy was within a day’s march.

“Faithful Lord, that black wave –“ started the captain Lesk of the legions.

“Allanaki force,” Samil cut in shortly.

“Should we move in and engage them, then?”

Samil stared at the afternoon horizons for a moment, then to the enemy force a few leagues distant. “First we need to rest.”

*      *           *          *           *          *          *           *          *           *

" - Reila. A fine name, eh? I'm Lassan. Lassan Dito. This is me partner, Azhaj. We both deadly with swords, an' amazin' with cocks."

                                                                  - Lassan Dito and Azhaj, Partners in Debauchery

The night fell as Suk Krath gathered its light and departed to the west. Both moons were high in the sky, their red and white glow spilling to the sands and illuminating the landscape dimly. A clear mixture of sounds was giving life to the night in the Tuluki camp, as bards played their instruments and the rest of the army joined them with applaud and cheering. The campfires were hosting the dancing contests as soldiers pulled forth their ability to follow and accompany the music with aesthetic moves. The songs would end, the cheer and clapping on hands would rise for the dancers, and the new song would begin with a different tone, sometimes faster, sometimes challengingly slow, sometimes in sudden changes requiring the dancer to guess the follow of the music to adjust properly. It was as much a display of playing the music as it was a display of its seduction.

Captain Lesk watched the dancers as the rest of his soldiers did for a while, leaving all the worries of battle in the shifting light of the campfires. Such moments always gave him a feeling of strengthening the bond between the soldiers. As the dancing contests came to an end and Kruth decks changed hands, Lesk realized the passage of time. The duties of his role as commander in the army called him once more. With the rest of the commanding officers, he made it to the Faithful’s tent, only to find him sitting in the map table covered in thin loose garment.

They all dipped their heads in greeting, and Samil returned their gesture. Lesk was the first to break the silence:

“No disturbance, Faithful Lord. Looks like they will not try their chance under the cover of the night.”

Samil merely nodded, lifting his stone cup to take a swallow of clear water.

“Understandable. Fighting in the dark is tricky, it brings risk on both parties involved,” he said. “And probably, he is also as curious of tomorrow’s battle as we are. If he attacks at night, he will never find out if he would win or lose against the odds.” Samil wiped his mouth.

Lesk was as confused as the rest of the officers. He did not quite understand. Curious of the battle? Perhaps that is what it meant to be the messenger of a God-King, and to wield the power of life and death over the masses. That perhaps, such measures in hundreds of deaths may sometimes look like a game.

“Is there anything you require us to do, Faithful Lord? Perhaps a battle plan?”

Samil was already shaking his head before Lesk could finish.

“No. I intend to let Sulach make the planning, and I will counter him. We hold the upper hand here and rushing things could bring risk.” He started to wave his hand dismissively. “You may return to your units. Enjoy the night, and have a good rest. Tomorrow before the dawn, we will be facing the enemy.”

The commanding officers all nodded and departed from the command tent. The chatter and the noise outside were significantly lower, as the new game was about concealing the emotions, and reading the other players’ faces. Players seemed to be lost in the card games and the observers only watched in awe, trying to distinguish who was better in masking their intentions.

Samil rose from the map table stretching his muscles, thinking the battle was over for that night. Over forty years he was, nearly twice the age of Sulach, but still his physique was impressive. He decided to pray for the Sun-King for an hour, and then he too would need to retire for the rest of the night. For tomorrow required a rested body and mind.

The fires of the Allanaki camp were as alive as those of the Tuluki after dusk. After a few days of half rations, Sulach finally ordered for food and water to be given as much as the soldiers want, so that they would look like Allanakki when they met their enemy. Barrels of wine and ale were passed among the campfires after the meal to lift the spirits, and it was effective. Soldiers were challenged to wrestle against beasts captured from the desert during the day. Bets were placed, coins changed hands and in the end, after the beasts had been wounded or tired, they would be slaughtered and grilled over the campfires to be shared among the men. The laughter and joy could be read on the soldiers’ faces, as if they were not to die tomorrow, as if they will not lose many friends and loved ones in several hours.

As time passed and the booze left a bitter taste in the night, the laughter and cheers died as well. The lingering campfires were playing tricks of light on their cold faces when Tild approached to the largest of the groups.

He dropped to his haunches, nearly spilling his ale over a soldier. Chuckling as he slapped the soldier on the shoulder, he lifted his cup in salute. The rest of the soldiers did not share his cheerful manner, at least not as much as he did.

“What is up, soldiers? You are not going to tell me you missed your moms?” Tild started again, his voice still cheerful, untouched by the gloom of his company.

“Some of us are worried, Lieu… I mean, Tild,” the soldier replied. Ever since Tild had been demoted to the rank of private due to the mistake of his subordinates, some soldiers were having a hard time adjusting his new rank.

“Worried?” Tild’s eyes were wandering from face to face now. “Worried about what? Fighting?” The soldiers were shaking their heads in protest, but Tild ignored them. “If you are scared of fighting, I think you made a major mistake in choosing your jobs, fellas.”

“No!” one of them broke in. “We are not scared of fighting, Tild. But look at this.” The soldier’s hand was stretched to the distant glows of the enemy fires. “Word says we are outnumbered. And you know how we have not been given much food lately. It is obvious we are running out of basic supplies.”

Tild licked his lips, tasting again the leftovers of the ale. He looked at the soldiers once more, and saw all eyes were on him. He nodded then, putting down his cup on the ground.

“So, fellas” he began, raising his voice enough to be carried through the campfire, and even to the nearby groups. “How long have you known Lord Sulach?” He continued quickly, without waiting for a reply. “A year? Two? I know most of you have not even finished your first year.”

The soldiers were silent.

When he started again his voice was stronger, carrying no sign of his drunken delirious from moments ago: “I know him for more than five years. I have fought many times for him. My credentials speak for me” his serious expression giving in to a mischievous grin “and my outstanding rank!” a laughter erupted through the soldiers then, as someone from the darkness added “To the rank of the private!” and all the cups were lifted cheerfully, the soldiers taking a mouthful of the liquor. Tild saw clearly at that moment, that almost all of the soldiers sitting around the nearby campfires were moving closer to hear what he was saying.

“Fellas! I fought with Lord Sulach when outnumbered. I fought with him when we were surrounded! There was one time, the gith ambushed us from both front and rear ranks and outnumbering us two to one” he slowed down then, letting the words sink into the soldiers. His voice was clear and loud when he started again: “But we always won. That man” his finger was pointing towards the command tent standing tall and wide in the darkness, “That Lord Templar Sulach, knows how to fight. He knows how to win. As a soldier, all I had to do was to follow his orders and think no further than my duties. And I am here today.”

All heads seemed to nod in silent understanding, but Tild was not finished: “Let him do the thinking, let him do the worrying. You just do what you are told to do, and remember that you are on the winning side.”

Tild was pleased to see the change in the soldiers’ expressions. It lifted his spirits as much as it did for the soldiers’. Still he forced himself to take on a serious expression:

“Now there is another important matter” and he lifted his cup, draining all the remaining ale. He retrieved a bag of dice from his cloak, and took a set from there without looking.

“I have my eyes on a nice warbeetle for a while now” he threw the dice into his cup and begin to swirl the contents, “and you know… Funds are low.”

Laughters and chatter broke through the gathered soldiers as they were drawn into the games. Soon more games were started around the campfires; coins were exchanged and more jokes were shared.

Later in the night, Lieutenant Strian caught the sight of the former lieutenant Tild in the middle of a huge group of soldiers, playing games and sharing jokes, and shamelessly adding more coins to the already overgrown piles of obsidian as the games continued. A smile crept over Strian’s face as he stalked off into the night through the camp, then. The joyful spirits of the former lieutenant was thoroughly lightening.

*      *           *          *           *          *          *           *          *           *

" - Krath in the sky, woman. You use yer tongue better'n an armless beggar lickin' water off the ground."



                                                                                                      - Addlestone Salarr

Itina’s arm stretched to feel the warmth of manflesh, but she woke up as it only found the cold touch of the wrinkled bedsheets. She straightened up, causing the still asleep Eoni beside her shift with an unpleasant muffle. Her eyes easily spotted Sulach’s half naked form in the candle light, wrapped in white sheets at the map table, a cup of wine accompanying his troubled thoughts.

Soft steps left their naked touches on the sandy floor, carrying her in the dim light. If Sulach was aware of her approach, he showed no sign of it. Her hands were gentle as she placed them on his shoulders, massaging him in between gentle squeezes.

“The first time I was terrified of the enemy was four years ago” Sulach spoke, as Itina’s hands worked in harmony to relieve the stress from Sulach’s shoulders. “I realized then, that there is no shame in being afraid, only in action that follows it.” Itina nodded as she listened, though, Sulach could not see it. “I have seen men still holding their ground when they are shaken with fear; I have seen them suppress the pain and fight, when their guts are being spilled.”

“Are you afraid that you will die tomorrow in the battlefield, my Lord?”

Sulach shook his head:

“Death comes for all of us, today or tomorrow it makes no difference. Men live to build the future and die to make a difference.”

Her fingertips caressed his skin as she walked around him to his front. Open palms cupped his face then smoothly; they ran up his cheeks to brush his hair back. Sulach was forced to look her in the eye as she stood in front of him, the thin sheet wrapped around her barely covering the naked flesh.

“Then what is it my Lord, that wakes you up from your sleep?” Her hands brushed his hair in gentle caress, her eyes watching him with distant admiration.

“How will the future remember me?”

Itina smirked at his words then shook her head. There were not enough words of admiration for him.

“My lord”, she began, her hands moving down to the hem of the wraps enveloping Sulach’s form. “I am a living witness along with many more, that you are someone true to your ideals; someone worth dying for” she finished. Sulach barely nodded his head, then leaned on his back in the chair, his head staring at the ceiling in the dim light.

He felt Itina’s pulling away the wraps that cover his naked form. Her hands were gentle, and her lips were soft. In the silence of the dimly lit tent, he let her take away all his worries.

*        *           *          *          *          *          *          *          *

CHAPTER 9

“-You's got six words to tell me how you's gonna make dat shit square... roughin up a fucker westside when you's ain' got no colors on you's. Six motherfuckin words.. Say dem now.

- You can have all my sid!”



                                                                                           - Quick, after catching someone in the wrong place

The night would often make the city beautiful but not tonight, observed Sergeant Idenu.

The bustle of crowds and the city life slowly faded away as he kept walking on the street ahead. The walls by the sides of the road started to have more and more cracks and scratches, giving a painful image of nonhealed wounds. Even the ground was different here, reflecting the lifeless and cruel image of the part of the city: the Rinth.

Low life of Allanak, thought the sergeant. The idea that he was in this part of the city was insane. One year of serving as a recruit, and two years of the Wyverns, he was climbing up steadily in his career. And yet, here he was, in the Chamber pot of the Highlord, walking for a hope he would find what he is looking for before trouble finds him.

The road broke into a crude junction, an alley leading to the west, the other keeping straight to the north. A statue of a templar, arms outstretched in a greeting was on the side of the junction, one of his arms and head was missing in an attempt of insolent mockery. The red light of Jihae was spilling over the statue, as though, the templar was bleeding from various wounds and scratches. Bitter anger passed over the Sergeant as he observed the disrespect to the Highlord, but he knew better than letting his anger control him. It was not in his place to correct the fools dwelling here. The fact that this part of the city still exsisted, meant that the Highlord and the templarate did want it to exist. He shook his head in an attempt to cool his thoughts as he turned toward the alley to his west. He wanted to get done and get out of this krath forsaken place as soon as possible.

The brushing sound of cloth against cloth came from his back and he spun wildly to meet his follower. The alley was dark; too dark for the sergeant’s liking to catch someone sneaking around. In a reflexive motion, his hands drew his blades and twirled them in a skillful display:

“Come out, whoever you are and face me! I am sergeant Idenu of –“ the sergeant started to challenge, but he stopped in the middle as he heard armored boots clacking along the stone floor of the alleys. He spun wildly, taking on a defensive position, but no attack came forward.

“Your name means nothing to me” responded a male voice softly from his back.

Sergeant was staring at a towering frame of an armored man. His shield was in front and an axe was held in his other hand. A scar cutting his face diagonally in half, the man was looking with murder in his eyes. Yet this was not the man who spoke to him, the voice came from Sergeant’s back, from the shadows.

Sergeant hated being at a disadvantageous situation like this. He turned over his shoulder, trying to figure out where the source of the voice was:

“Look away from me!” the voice was not as soft this time, and the sergeant felt he had no choice but to do as he was told. He turned back to the hulking figure of a man in front of him, and tried to remain calm. With years of training, it was quite possible he could take down this towering figure of a man, but flanked by someone in his back, he did not like his odds.

“Now give me a reason why I should not beat you senseless and take away all your valuables” the soft voice spoke, and the hulking man in front of him made a grunting sound at that. “And it better be a good reason” the voice continued, “because, I really want to beat you.”

What a fucking coincidence, I want to beat you too, sergeant thought, but it was not time for being sarcastic:

“I came here on behalf of my Lord to offer business.”

“Who, and what business?” demanded the voice.

“I will only tell to the person who would do it” sergeant said adamantly.

“Say it now” the voice softly demanded again.

“No” the sergeant replied.

The sergeant was startled at the sudden movement of the gigantic man ahead of him, but he recoiled quickly:

“Come then, you cowards! I will take at least one of you down with me!” he prepared himself for a fight, as he took on a defensive posture, but the attack did not come again. “And my Lord knows I am here, and if I get missing, he will bring the drov upon you.”

“He will do no such thing” the voice responded softly. “You are not supposed to be here, sergeant, it is against the House rules. Since you came here instead of Waying your business, surely your Lord wants something that should be really really secret. And your Lord will hide the fact that he was aware of your coming here, for doing so would alert his rivals of his possible plans. He will announce that you came here against the House rules, and you will be remembered as a disgrace to the Great Borsail” continued the voice in the same soft tone. When it spoke again, a pleasant tone was accompanying the words as well, for the source of the voice had seen the conflict of the sergeant. “I have been nothing but polite to you. Do not dishonor me by trying to play smart here, sergeant.”

“My Lord .. Lord Cadra” Idenu whispered in such a low voice he was not sure if the man behind him could hear it, “He is asking if a riot could be arranged.”

“Anything can be arranged if the price is creative, sergeant” the voice replied, proving that he indeed heard it well.

“How much do you ask for it, and what name should I give him?” Idenu asked.

“I think the price should be spoken with him directly. Tell him to find my mind and give me a price proving how badly he wants it done, without giving any hints of what the price is about… Just the number” the voice spoke again, and Idenu nodded to himself.

“I will tell him a yes or no, and if it is a yes, he should give me which day it is he wants it done” the voice added softly.

“What name should I give him to look for?” Sergeant Idenu asked again.

“Mine. I am Serpent.”

Moments later, after the sergeant of the Wyverns departed, the towering man and Serpent were alone in the alley.

“You know, I don’t like that you will make a riot and get many people killed for some coin” the big man spoke, gritting his teeth in anger.

“Hmm? Why do you care?” Serpent asked.

“It is our city! Our people! They should not die because a fat ass noble wants them to!” he shouted angrily, but then he took a deep calming breath: “At least, we should not be leading them to death.”

“Scarface” Serpent began, and whenever he called him Scarface, it would hint that an argument is on the way. “If the people are as stupid as to go to their death for something they will never get, then it is better that they die and the smarter ones are left alive.”

Scarface furrowed his brows in confusion: “I don’t get that shit.”

“Exactly, you don’t” snapped Serpent. “Remember now, the rinth is your business, southside is mine. Do –not- question the way I run the shit, if you do not want me question yours.”

The argument was over at that, without a need for a fistfight between the crimelords. It was a peaceful evening, and even though Idenu would not agree to it, it was indeed a beautiful night for those who could see it.

*        *           *          *          *          *          *          *          *

CHAPTER 6

“ – He is not a friend…


…
He is the enemy in disguise.”


-
Samos Rennik, Templar of...
Continue Reading...

Dreams of death for ever-more by Taven
Added on Jan 6, 2008

Set during and shortly after the Gith War in Allanak , this gruesome story focuses on Private Karriv Amosson of the Arm of the Dragon and the horrors of war and death. Please note there are reoccurring and graphic depictions of violence. Constructive criticism welcome.

The eerie, haunting melody slipped out over the brown-splattered, corpse-strewn streets, seeming only to enhance the utter stillness. Slowly it drifted through the air, each word lingering the way the stench of death lingered, permeating the air.

“No thoughts of glo-ry, this is war,
Dreams of death for ever-more…”

The gaunt wisp of a girl threaded her way over the precarious, gruesome footing with ease, seeming the only thing alive in the nightmare around her. The city had elapsed into a shocked, numbed silence, the reeling of incomprehension before reality sinks in. All sounds save those of mindless reflex were crushed, gone before the weight of fatigue. Soon even the distantly heard clash of blades would cease, the sounds of a few stragglers in a war already over.

“Ba-the your sword in crim-son red,
Cele-brate the bodies dead.”

The gore surrounding the blood-drenched figure seemed like something out of a defiler’s wet dream. Scraps of burnt flesh were plastered to the wall of the building slumping behind him, clung to his armor and littered the road. Goblets of bloody hunks of tissue and ripped strands of twisted muscle were scattered along the road, kank-flies already beginning to buzz. The cold, unseeing eyes of monstrous gith and soldier alike leered from mangled and trampled corpses.

Karriv Amosson’s eyes could scarce be told apart. They too stared unblinkingly and unseeingly at nothing, unfocused and uncaring. The differences were subtle. These eyes still glistened, not yet drying out as so many others, and when a kank-fly approached to suck out the moisture, they would flicker in their numb stare with a single, reflexive blink. In his blood-caked, trembling arms was the body of a woman, her fingers still clutched around a jade-emblazoned, razor-edged sword.

“Dressed in jade, clad in black,
“‘Gainst the Highlord’s Arm none will take ‘Nak…”

The words echoed in Karriv’s thoughts, a spark of awareness in the vast dunes of numbness. “’Gainst the Highlord’s Arm none will take ‘Nak…” Bile rose in his throat, thick and acidic. He retched, splattering the remains of his last meal across the ground in heave after heave, until his retching came dry-- There was nothing left.

Her eyes sparkled as she smacked his head; with anger or amusement he couldn’t tell. “How many times do I have to tell you? It’s not ‘Yza’ and it’s not ‘Belle,’ it’s Yzabelle. You’d think you’d have it by now, you stupid lug”

He gave a wide grin. “Well, you know, yelling ‘Yza, Yza, Yzaaa! Ooo!’ isn’t near so fun to yell as ‘ Yzaaabelleee! Ooooo !’ in bed.”

Yzabelle smirked at him. “Been practicing on the whores again, Karriv? Or do you practice while playing with yourself, because you couldn’t even pay a whore to fuck you?”

He clutched his chest. “Ouch, you’ve a krathi-tounge. Ooooh, how it burns.”

Yzabelle rolled her eyes. “I’d say see a vivadu, but you’re already wet enough.”

“Good, then we can get to it!” He grins incorrigibly before pausing. “Seriously, Yza, why not? We’d both have a damn good time, you know that.”

She gave him a soft smile. “Because fun fucks come easy, and a man who is so persistent at making a fool of himself is a much rarer treat.”

He grumbled something unflattering under his breath.

“Besides, I’m not going to fuck a man just so he’ll get my name right.” She pressed two fingers to her lips, then pressed them to his cheek.

“Hey, love-kanks!” They both started, Yzabelle’s face a scowl as she prepared to vehemently object. “Save it. Serge is callin’ the unit together.”

The sergeant begin, and it was not long before Karriv interrupted. “How many fuckers?! Wigglin’ child of a rinthi necker-spawn!”

Yzabelle smirked. “Don’t worry Karriv, I won’t let the scary Gith get you.”

The memory dissipated, Karriv abruptly wrenched from it like a babe from the safety womb thrust into the cruel jowls of reality. Somewhere distant the high wail of a child split through the air, a jarring refrain.

“What’s wrong?”

Karriv started, sword reflexively up and point pressed to the speaker’s throat. It was just a child. Karriv forced tense muscles to relax, withdrawing his sword. Large blue eyes continued to look at him unblinkingly, and she spoke again in that same ethereal voice. “You won, you know.”

He tried to speak, but all that came out was a croak. The sharp tang of acid was still strong in his mouth, his throat felt as raw as the fleshless globs of oozing flesh scattered about. Karriv coughed, throat seared with pain. He took a long swig of water, cool, cold, refreshing-- And spit it out. The pungent smell of blood, sweat and the dead permeated everything. The girl only continued to watch him, cool eyes unwavering.

“Who- Who are you?”

“I’m only the first. There will be many songs to follow, for a victory so grand. The losses were acceptable, the foe vanquished.”

He blinked with incomprehension, and she turned to continue. The distant child’s wail finally died, and she continued the slow, floating melody.

“Bloody, shat-terred broken dreams,
Victorious tri-um-phant screams…”

------------------------------------------

“To the Highlord!” Karriv raised his glass to the toast, downing it in a single swallow. Five glasses later, he wasn’t even buzzed, much less drunk. He didn’t remember the last time he had gotten drunk. True, this was probably because afterwards he always awoke on the floor of the Gaj, knowing nothing save the intense pounding pain of a merciless hangover.

He filled the glass again, watching the Lord Templar Nariliek give out awards. He didn’t know the men and women up there; over half his unit was dead. Over half the unit. I’ve reduced them to nothing more then a statistic. Of course he had. Karriv wanted them to be a statistic, to have that distance from them. Because if they didn’t exist as more then numbers, then they weren’t gone. Then he wouldn’t feel this nameless, sinking all-consuming void within him. You want to forget. And that only inflamed the guilt. He couldn’t deny it, he wanted to forget everything that seared his heart so, and that in itself was a dagger plunging into him.

The drunkenness would have purged all of this. It made him numb, it made him not care, gave him the illusion of happiness and joy. And when he woke up, everything was all the darker, all the bleaker, making him crave the delusion of bliss all the more.

“Karriv!” He started as an elbow found his ribs. “The Lord Templar has called you twice already.” Nariliek’s hard eyes stared at him expectantly.

“Sorry, milord. Must’ve been a bit krath-struck,” he said, rising smoothly. Too smoothly for his lapse to be wine induced, the Lord Templar noted with a flicker of satisfaction.

“Private Karriv , your performance on the battle field was exceptional, a fine example for--”

Thrust, slash, parry, block. Too quick for conscious thought, weapon merely and extension of self, self a creature with only one goal: To kill. Complete and utter chaos. Something shoved something your way; you rammed your sword back in its face. Protect the soldiers on either side of you, hold the line. Anything else was death.

“Therefore, I present you with the jade cross, as well as--”

He slashed out, bone slashing across the jugular with a spray of warm blood spurting across his face. No time to wipe it away. He turned to block a blade aimed at his head, stumbling over a fallen body. No time to think. He smashed down a boot for better footing, crunching bone and mashing flesh, smashing the face beyond recognition. Merrik’s face. Merrik, oh Highlord, not Mer -- Block, parry, slash, dodge . No time to think. “Hold the line! I will fucking personally flay anyone who breaks. HOLD THE FUCKING LINE!” Roared a voice, as the hoard of Gith continued to come, as far as the eye can see, snarling with feral blood lusting eyes--

--The soldier beside him, arm brutally severed with a rush of crimson, endlessly spurting and the screaming, oh Highlord, the screaming-- “MEDIC! MEDIC FOR ASHIA!” He yelled, voice lost amidst the clash and clang of weaponry, the screams of the injured and roars of the combatants. A vivadu, a medic, something or she’d bleed out--! “Arrows!” someone yelled a few soldiers down, barely audible. Too late, as one pierced Ashia’s eye, slicing through it with a thunk as it hit something beyond. Her screams cut off abruptly, dieing in a strangled gurgle of blood.

Yzabelle moved to fill the gap in the line, shield firmly before her. “Yza, Ashia, I couldn’t--” Her eyes met his. “I know Karriv. I couldn’t save her eit --” She slammed an offending Gith down, ramming her sword through its gut and as it fell into Ashia’s corpse beneath it. “--er. It’s not over, Karriv. We’ve got a War to win. Now let’s kill these fucking sons of bitches!”

In the distance, cross the lengths of fighting sweat-soaked soldiers and treacherous footing made slick with blood and adorned with gore came a cry. Yzabelle spun to look for the source of the sound. “Karriv, the Lord Templar!”

Another explosion of gore, shards of sizzling-hot bone flew through the air. Blood, torn and shredded strips of muscle covered him like a mantle. Karriv could feel his heart racing in his chest (thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk) as the soldiers exploded around him, with not so much as time for a scream. He was going to be next; he was going to go-- His bladder released, seeping down his pants, urine mixing with the sweat that soaked them.

Beside him, Yzabelle rushed on, eyes also wide with fear. Her breathing came ragged, and she clenched her jaw, narrowing her gaze on their goal. They ran on, a deadly obstacle course of gith , stone road completely obscured by bodies and blood, both waiting for a misstep to send them booth sprawling down in the chaos. They scrambled to keep their footing and their sanity in this nightmarish reality.

“Karriv, cover me-- I’ll take point.” Karriv dropped back, focusing to the sneering, snarling Gith to either side. Yzabelle was free to focus her efforts on surging forewords. The repugnant stench of gore and the fallen filled the air, along with the all-permeating odor of burnt flesh, but it barely registered as the two sweat and blood-soaked soldiers pressed on.

They reached the Templar, Karriv rushing to route the gith in the front, Yza darting behind the Templar’s back. He didn’t know how long they hacked and slashed, if it was only moments, or endless days but suddenly there was nothing left to kill. Karriv stood, blinking blearily, breathing haggard as he waited for that simple yet inconceivable fact to register. “Yza?” He croaked. “It’s… Yzabelle…” Was the equally hoarse and haggard reply. Someone moaned, and they both were reminded of the cause for the frantic rush to get here.

Karriv stumbled over with a weary sigh, dropping to his knees to look the Lord Templar over. “I think he’s been poisoned.” Karriv begin to rummage through his belt, only to find that it had been slashed somewhere along the fight, precious contents lost somewhere amidst the chaos of battle. Fuck, now what?! He stared at the Templar, no answer coming. Then something clanged off his helmet, bouncing off. “You… Stupid… Lug…” Yzabelle’s breathing was still harsh and ragged, but she offered a grin. “Always loosing your shit. I swear ,you’d be a helpless babe without me.” Karriv snorted, inwardly clinging to the banter the way a man fallen over the edge of the shield wall would cling to a rope. It was familiar, it was reassuring and it kept him focused, able to ignore the ravages around him.

He picked the pouch thrown at him out from the rubble and gore, peering into it to discern the proper tablet. “Lord Templar?” Blue eyes flickered weakly over to gaze unsteadily at Karriv. “Milord, you have to eat this. You understand?” He placed the tablet in Nariliek’s mouth, making sure he ate and swallowed it-- Without choking or vomiting it back up. He poured the water from the flask to the Templar’s lips, and the blue eyes closed-- Breathing slowly getting steadier and more even. Karriv let out a sigh of relief, slumping down. “Yza, we did it. We did it.”

She gave a tired smile back, for once not complaining about the nick-name. “Yeah, we did.” They both just rested, recovering best they could before the inevitability of more fighting, more insanity. The adrenaline drained out of Karriv , leaving him glad that he was already on the ground; he didn’t think he could stand if he wanted to. Yzabelle didn’t seem much better, slumped against a wall, her fingers seemingly only still clutching her sword because they’d forgotten how to do anything else. His shield seemed to be wanting to drag his arm out of it’s socket, so damn fucking heavy. Had it always weighed this much?

He ached all over. Head to toe, nothing didn’t hurt. But they’d done it; they’d rescued the Lord Templar. They hadn’t exploded, and they weren’t dead. All in all, things were looking up. They just had to wait, either for re-enforcements or until they could lug the Lord Templar back to a secure spot to rest. Karriv wished he could rest, not likely; no able-bodied soldier could afford that luxury while Nak was threatened. Still, it was nice to be able to just sit awhile, aches or no, just rest, if only for a moment.

“GREEEAAAAAARRRKKKK!” A screech split the air, and Karriv turned, eyes wide in horror at the snarling form lunging towards him. He fumbled, trying to get his sword up, but it was too late; the Gith was too close, and in moments the blade would slice through his flesh, biting to the bone, severing-- Suddenly, in a blur of motion, the Gith was tackled from the side. Oh thank the Highlord, thank-you, Shadow Above, thank-you…

“ALLLANAAAAAAAK!” Yzabelle cried, slashing forwards. The Gith pulled up it’s face into a gruesome sneer at it was plowed into from the side, then let out a gurgle as it hit the road with a thunk, sword plunged clear through it. They both hit in a sprawling heap.

“Highlord, Yza, I’d thought he’d get me for sure. Fuck that was close!”

There was no answer. He could feel his heart beating, thump-thump-thump, and it seemed an eternity of silence, despite the fact that somewhere in the back of his mind he new that couldn’t be right; the battle was still going on. There was screaming, the clash of blades, surely… But he heard none of it. He heard nothing; nothing. No answer.

“Yza?” A chill of denial was already running through him. No, no, it couldn’t be… There were no last words, no moment of understanding before the end, no chance to say good-bye. She was playing, it was just a game. She always did have a bad sense of humor. “Yza, this isn’t fucking funny.” He rose shakily, heading over to where the gith and Yzabelle lay sprawled together in a heap. “Yza-- Yzabelle?” He knelt, turning her over-- Her guts spilled out, intestines still warm. Horror and loss overwhelmed him, and choked back the bile that rose. A voice, a memory, that flash of smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from the scary Gith.” As he gathered her lifeless corpse into his arms, her head lolled to the side, helmet clanking off, her rich Quirri-black hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, eyes vacant as a doll’s, staring off, unseeing for evermore.

“And furthermore, you’ll now serve as the Corporal of your unit.”

Claps and cheers rose in the background, with the occasional cry of “Congratulations, Corporal!” or “You showed the fucks! Karriv Amosson the Gith-Smiter!” Karriv didn’t hear them. He only said one word: “No.”

Lord Templar Nariliek frowned. “What did you say?”

Karriv spoke again, shaking his head, voice raised to be heard over the clamor. “No. No! I’m not the one you want. I didn’t save you, I didn’t do shit! Yza--” He choked on the name. “Yzabelle’s the one you want. Ashia’s the one you want, Merrik is the fucking one you want! All the damn others-- They are the ones you want! I’M NOT A KRATH-FUCKING HERO! She fell and I fucking froze, I was reduced to a damn blubbering heap. I am not your damn hero.”

Complete and utter silence. The Lord Templar looked shocked, features blank with disbelief. His unit’s Sergeant looked horrified, the rest of the gathered soldiers couldn’t have been more stunned if he’d announced that he was the Sun-King. The Sergeant was the first to speak, his voice dangerously low. “Private Karriv Amosson , you--” The Lord Templar held up a hand, and the sergeant fell silent. The silent seemed overwhelming now, as oppressing as the sweltering heat of Suk-Krath at High Sun.

Two words, sharp as knives. “Collect yourself.” A hand pointed to the door, and Karriv left without a word into the ravaged city under the endless void of night. And in the silence, he swore a voice drifted, floating through the air like a tendril of breeze, a melody impossible to forget as inescapable as the death surrounding him.

“Win the bat- tle, loose the war,
Dreams of death for ever-more…”

The eerie, haunting melody slipped out over the brown-splattered, corpse-strewn streets, seeming only to enhance the utter stillness. Slowly it drifted through the air, each word lingering the way the stench of death lingered, permeating the air.

“No thoughts of glo-ry, this is war,
Dreams of...
Continue Reading...

The Warriors of Faith: Part I: "Chasing Ghosts" by Ghost
Added on Dec 25, 2007

A templar of Allanak leads an army to eliminate gith raiders threatening the forts. But nothing goes as planned.

Prologue

The warrior’s one good eye opened as a spear poked his ribs. A bull by the gith standards, he had killed many soldiers in the battle of the morning and even now, without weapons and tied in knots of rope, the soldiers kept their distance from him. All around the field were a mass of bodies, his former friends, tribemates, followers... now sprawled and painted crimson in the afternoon sun. The smell of blood and open bowels hung heavy in the air. The chief warriors of his tribe were impaled and their bodies sagged loosely, held upright by spikes as tall as a man.

It was a bleak day to see it all end.

His eyes drifted to the hills where the last group of his warriors had fled. There was no sign of them now, save for those who fell in their final flight. Broken bodies scattered like cornerstones of an ancient road.

At least they are free, he thought. They do not take shame in my defeat.

Where was the God of War now? Where was the claiming of the Tablelands? His mind wandered back over the months, tasting again the joys of the uprise. The pride, as strong gith came to him from all other tribes, united against the invading armies of the human city. Stinking humans, were they even worthy of fighting? Everything was so perfect in the beginning. His army were the best warriors of the best race. He was so confident that they could crush the world under their feet. They would stand against the armies of the city humans, make a show of force to other tribes and gather them under their names. Then they would drive all humans and elves from the Tablelands, their rightful home. It had all seemed possible for a while, but now there were only ashes in the mouth.   Now, he was the only one left of the gith warchiefs that had dared to throw off the invasion of the humans.

Horns were blown and a unit of cavalry riding beasts galloped across a clear path to where the captured gith warlord waited on his haunches. He lifted his bruised head, the mess of hair falling over his face.   The soldiers nearby stood attendance in silence, and then the gith warrior knew who was coming. His vision was blurry from weariness and the wounds, but he could see as a lone figure climbed down from his armored beast and pass the reins to another. The spotless blue robe seemed incongruous in the field of death, untouched by the blood and the taint of the battlefield, almost like an illusion in the red painted afternoon.

Slaves spread dry sand over the blood-soaked ground, making a clear path to the tied gith warrior as the blue robed figure walked slowly toward the captive. All the soldiers had their weapons bared, as if looking for an excuse to kill.

No. The gith warrior straightened.

He would not be broken in the face of the enemy, he promised himself silently. He lifted his one good eye to the approaching enemy, causing a nervous shift in the circle of soldiers.

“It is alright, soldiers,” spoke the figure as he walked. “This is the general of an army who fought valiantly. A little respect is due.”

The gith warchief could understand the common tongue of humans, but he showed no sign of it. The men eased in their stance then, offering a respectful bow as the figure passed into the circle of his soldiers.

He stood a few feet away from the kneeling prisoner, his gaze remaining locked on the gith warrior.

“Warchief Untturi.” He tasted the words through his mind. A second later, the gith’s mind was connected to his, as well.

“You have caused me quite a bit of trouble,” spoke the templar.

“I did my best to.” The gith smiled as he sent his thoughts forth.

The templar nodded silently as he responded.

“It is all ended now. Your army is broken.”

Untturi shrugged carelessly. What good was there stating the obvious?

“Here is my sword, swear to me you will never rise against me, and I will leave you alive.”

Untturi blinked back in confusion. One eye was stuck with blood; his other eye searched the templar’s face for a sign of mockery. But he could see none of it.

“Why?” he replied.

“You fought valiantly, and there has been enough death today. One more or one less will make no difference.”

Untturi’s confusion was overwhelming. He was ready to die. A warrior would always prepare for death before the battle. But here was a man, offering him a new life; time to spend with his sons, time to live with his tribe.

“I swear,” he replied, lifting his hands to cup the warrior’s sword. Then aloud, in his native language, “I swear.”

The templar nodded lightly as he bent forward to cut the captive’s bonds. “You have family... your sons, your tribe, what about them?”

Untturi squinted. Surely his sons would want to revenge those who have fallen today. “I cannot speak for them,” the warrior replied.

The templar dipped his head again:

“If they rise against me, I will return. I will bring the wrath of my city on your people on a scale of misery that they have not seen before.”

The gith warrior nodded bitterly, then cast his gaze to the ground. He felt the templar slipping out of his thoughts and heard him walk back to his mount amidst the confused glances of soldiers. Every Allanakki soldier in sight moved off with him. Within seconds, commanders snapped orders to each unit and the army broke camp, moving east along the Shield wall. Untruri was left cold and puzzled, surrounded by the dead.

They rode for several leagues in silence, and finally one of the commanders rode closer to the templar in blue robe.

“Lord Sulach?”

Sulach stopped his mount, turning around to face the source of the voice.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“My Lord,” the man bowed quickly, “don’t you think he will gather the tribes again and bring war upon us?”

Sulach stared off into the distance, seeming to consider. The soldiers riding with him came closer, wanting to hear his reply.

“Perhaps. He is broken... he has seen the defeat and he will live with the shame of it. If he considers rising against us, he will remember that shame.” Sulach held his reins tightly, then shrugged. “But still, perhaps he will. It makes no difference. I beat him once, I can beat him again. He is still the leader of his tribe. If he dies, the new warchief will seek revenge, and we have not fought him yet. He can surprise us.”

He turned his mount and paused. “We defeated the enemy soldiers. The war is over. It is time to return home.”

With that, he grew silent again, and all nearby soldiers nodded at once, riding after him.

Chapter 1

"- So I'm sittin' there with the Chosen Lady, gabbin' it up, pretendin' t'be a prude kiss-ass. What a fawkin' time t'pop a hard-on, eh?"

                                                                                         - Khortoc Salarr



The wind raged across the closely pitched tents, picking up dust and sand over the dunes and sending them up towards the skies. All the campfires were put out for fear the storm could pick them up and hurl them across the camp. The stars and moons were blocked by the dustclouds, the sands covering what the pitch black night left.

The lone figure amidst the tents shivered uncomfortably as the blue robe ranking his command in the Highlord’s service struggled weakly in the blowing wind. The wind blew cold at night, in contrast to the burning heat of the day, but such was the trials of the desert. It would test your courage and determination on all ends to come.

Two years had passed since he’d endured the trials of the desert: Two years, since his last campaign in these desolate lands, his decisive victory against the gathered gith tribes. He had hoped he would not have to ride out again after that battle, but fate was fickle. The gith raids had started again too close to the completion of the forts, and more importantly, too close to his marriage with Ka’Tryn Borsail.

The image of the woman flashed momentarily across his eyes. The first time he’d seen her was in the Arboretum. Among the gathered nobles, she was resting comfortably on a pillow across the fountain. Smooth, creamy flesh, fair and preserved from the ravaging rays of Suk-Krath, as fine as the silks and jewelry that covered it. Her curves were clear and smoothly defined; something she clearly knew, and took advantage of. But it was her eyes that stole all his attention back then. With those eyes he became enthralled, watching exquisitely formed fingers, five digits of perfection, rise to pull a strand of hair like a silky curtain. As she pushed a strand from her face, jewel eyes, dark and ebon were revealed, and then there was no escaping the danger of her. A man might get lost in the dark depths of her eyes, or he might glance away -- only to look back again.

He was mesmerized by her that day, and the day after… and after… He started to see her more often. Day after day, they grew closer. Politics or city affairs, in everything they were together. By marrying her, he would have Borsail’s support. With her at his side, everything seemed possible. Everything was complete.

Ka’Tryn. Ahh, Ka’Tryn…

The wind sent a cold shiver running down his spine and brought him back from his dreams.

So jealous was the desert, it would never let you dream about anything else. He turned around, and pulled the tent flap open. The night was long, and the day would bring the news of the raiders.

One thousand soldiers would march at his command, and there would be fighting. The worries of now and the trials of desert would have to wait. Even Ka’Tryn would have to wait…

Ahh, beautiful Ka’Tryn.

*       *           *          *           *          *          *           *          *           *

Unseen tumblers turned and the stone doors groaned open. The Jihaen templar in his formal red robes entered the room without hesitation; the soldiers flanking him did not need to be ordered to stand guard at the entrance.

Armored boots clacked over the stone tiles, reflecting the beauty of the Tuluki art as the Jihaen crossed the domed room. He approached the single table at the center, two female Lirathans clad in traditional white robes watching him in silence.

“Evening, Faithful Brother Samil. I apologize for interrupting your meditation.”

The Jihaen simply stared at her calmly as he stood in silence. He made no move to sit, and after a long moment, the Lirathan started again.

“Sister Neodyn and I have the news.” She turned to look at the frail form of the other woman across the table.

“He took the bait. He is out in the desert right now,” Neodyn cut in shortly.

The Jihaen nodded briefly at those words. “I will march at daybreak.”

“May the light of His Radiance be your guide, and illuminate your path, Faithful Brother,” finished the Lirathan.

Samil offered a faint dip of his head before turning on his heels. Fast strides carried him to the open doors. The soldiers at the sides quickly pulled the doors shut with a loud clank that echoed from the walls. In a moment, the room was silent once more.

*       *           *          *           *          *          *           *          *           *

Chapter 2

“-      Do you know the two most powerful weapons in the Known World?

-          Love and Forgiveness?

-          No, Boredom and Frustration.”

                                                               - Gin of the alleys, and Shattered, the last of the Silt Winds”

Lord Templar Sulach Tor ran his hand over his face. Two days passed since he had calculated where they would start marching, and none of the returning scouts could get a report about gith groups in the previously reported positions.

He looked at the maps lying on the table once more. He had checked all the previous reports indicating the location of the gith numbers. Since then, nearly every location to where they possibly could have moved had been checked. Still nothing. Nothing.

“My Lord,” came a female voice from behind.

“Yes, Sergeant?” Sulach replied without looking back.

“Scout Yeno returned.” Sulach wheeled back sharply, his earring slapping to his cheek at his sudden turn.

“What news?”

“A score of gith were laying in ambush, my Lord!” A tiny figure sprang from beneath the tent flap, carrying the dust and the smell of desert over his attire. The sergeant’s face went red with anger at the scout’s unannounced entrance.

“Here, let me show on the ma-“

The tiny man’s voice ended with a muffled curse as he was pulled by his neck and tripped down to the ground, the dust on his cloak rising in a cloud as he fell on his back. Before he could make a protest, the sergeant’s knee was on his throat, her face twisted in anger:

“Where the FUCK do you think you are going?”

“I was goin-“ he struggled to reply.

“Did you hear being called, soldier?” The sergeant was not in the mood to let that slide.

“Ahh!” yelped Yeno, his tiny frame struggling in vain.

“I said, did you –hear- being called, soldier?”

Yeno shut his eyes tight, holding his breath as if steadying himself for a blow. His small frame seemed to grow even smaller.

“Enough!” Sulach’s voice boomed. The sergeant waited for a second to force herself calm.

“Sergeant Itina, bring that man here.”

The jade-clad woman pulled the little scout up and shoved him roughly to the table. The man trembled for a moment in fear, his hand rubbing his throat where her knee had been pressed. After staring at the woman, trembling, for a few seconds, he finally remembered he was in presence of a templar, and quickly turned to the map, pressing his finger wildly at a point:

“They were here, my Lord!”

Sulach looked down at where he pressed his finger and frowned.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, my Lord. I have seen them.”

It was a bit more to the north of where they were spotted last time. It made no sense. A raid group gathered to launch an onslaught on the forts would not follow such a route. But taking chances on such measures could prove deadly.

“Go back there, stay for two nights. If you see a movement, follow it and find out where the base camp is. Then report immediately. If they do not move in two days, come back here.”

The small man stared at the templar with wide eyes.

Sulach tilted his head as he stared back. “Dismissed, soldier.”

As if waking up from a daydream, the man bowed quickly, then darted for the exit, avoiding his sergeant’s rage-filled gaze.

Sulach stared at the closed tent flap for a moment. Why were the gith moving north now? Were they aware of him? Is this their strategy after their defeat two years ago? What are they tring to do?

“Orders, sir?”

Sulach collapsed tiredly on the chair, fingers pressed to his brows. The sergeant took a step forward, then stopped abruptly.

“Do you need anything, my Lord?” her voice was much softer than it had been moments ago. Only rarely would she speak so, rarely indeed.

Sulach only shook his head without looking up. He did not see the woman gazing at him with admiration, nor did he see her bow respectfully and slip outside, leaving him alone in the stale air of the tent.

*       *           *          *           *          *          *           *          *           *          *

Lord Cadra Borsail sat comfortably in his chair, reading through his notes. He was quite pleased with his spy’s latest report. The nauseating Sulach had been led on by the gith, and he was following the simple thread to the source.

Let him ride to his glory. Let him stay out of the picture as I take things into my hands.

A smile crept over his meaty face as he leaned back. With Ka’Tryn around, he could never get his own attention. And with him around, Ka’Tryn would never need Sulach. Separate them, and I have the stage to run my show, Cadra smiled. Perhaps if he could keep Sulach busy chasing ghosts for long enough, he could even marry Ka’Tryn. It would take time, but it was not impossible.

Time will tell, he thought. Yes, time would tell. He called for the slaves for refreshments. Pleasant news and pleasant thoughts deserved celebration. He slouched back even further, his substantial body filling the armchair, and focused on his next move.

*       *           *          *           *          *          *           *          *           *          *

Chapter 3

    “If you do not trust me, then kill me quickly. I do not want to live, knowing that I lost you.”

                                                                                                          - Gin of the alleys

Two more days passed without a further confirmation on the location of the gith raiders. The time and energy was being wasted with no results, and Sulach did not have control over it.

The very moment he had decided he’d lost the scout, he heard back from him.

“They are heading north,” came the words into his mind. “I will let you know as soon as I know more.” And then the telepathic connection was cut off.

Moving north still made no sense to Sulach. It would further draw the gith apart from their objective and bring too much complication to their raiding parties.

Unless they are planning something different than engaging me this time, Sulach thought. It could be a retreat, or a trap. The gith realized two years ago that they were no match for Sulach’s disciplined army. Perhaps the lesson was learned and they were fleeing north. Or they were hoping to lure him into a trap.

He finally found Untturi’s mind in desperation.

“I thought you were a man of your word,” Sulach sent his thoughts forward.

The gith’s response came shortly. “And that I am, I have not broken a word that I swore to keep.”

“Then who is leading the raids this time?” Sulach asked.

“No one that I know of. There is no warband gathered against you.”

“My men say otherwise,” Sulach went on.

“Then perhaps you should judge your men’s worth again,” replied the gith warchief. “Did you save my life just to insult my honor?” he added, his thoughts edging on the colors of anger.

Sulach released the psionic contact then. Either someone moved without Untturi’s notice, or he was lying. In either case, he could not keep the army in the same spot forever. The soldiers were growing restless with no battle. He had to close in on the enemy or he had to return.

And it was too early to go back home.

Taking such a huge force and returning without seeing the battlefield would remain as a shame on him. He had to follow whatever plan the enemy lay down for him, and then he had to engage, and break them. That was the only outcome his Tor blood would allow him. And that was the only course he would follow.

The army broke camp at the first lights of Suk-Krath, and set course towards the north.

*       *           *          *           *          *          *           *          *           *          *



“He is doing exactly as we predicted,” the mental image of the female Lirathan spoke in Samil’s thoughts.

“Where is he right now?” Samil’s thoughts were calm and carefully calculated.

“He is following north along the Shield Wall. In two day’s march he will be a few leagues east of the mesa.”

“Then his scouts may find my tracks. I will have to move fast and circle him,” said Samil.

And perhaps leave a hunter group to take down any scouts coming close enough to find my tracks, he thought to himself.

“You know what would be the best course of action, Faithful Brother,” Neodyn replied shortly, “His Radiance guide you.”

With that, Samil was left alone in his thoughts. He would order the march before the first lights of the day, and he would send a group of hunters to eliminate any scouts close enough to discover his tracks. He did not want his opponent to know of his plans until he had him cornered.

He opened the flap of the tent and peered outside. Pale Lirathu was low in the sky, and there was still more than an hour until morning. He walked back to his bed and kneeled to the ground.

“Muk Utep” he whispered, pushing all other thoughts from his mind, “Guide me with Your light, give me your strength, open my mind…”   He prayed on in silent meditation until the day dawned to a red horizon, and the army started to wake up.

*       *           *          *           *          *          *           *          *           *          *

Chapter 4

                                           “- Your mind, will bend to my will.”

                            - The invisible voice

Yeno lay flat on the dune and peered across the sandy ground. He had given his last report a day and a half ago, and he had to send another soon. He watched the terrain closely, and tried to calculate his position. Finding your way in the desert was no easy feat: memorizing the safe spots, watching the angles of any stable points, keeping track of the time, checking the wind, and on top of it all, being prepared for a sandstorm at any time.

His position was good enough, he decided, and now he could send a report. As he thought about what he should say and how to word it, his mind wandered over his last report and what he had been told by Lord Cadra.

“Lead him on, make him chase ghosts,” was his final order. “I will give you further instructions when the situation requires so. For now, just lead him on.”

And that was what Yeno had been doing for the last week. He knew his reports had to make sense, or his cover would be blown and he would be arrested and executed. Tortured first, perhaps, to get what secrets he had kept and who he worked for. Yeno shivered at the thought. It was way too early to die yet, and he had plenty of years in front of him to serve his Lord and city. For greater goods, sometimes sacrifices had to be made.

For this one, Lord Sulach was the sacrifice.

He thought of his report as he kept his gaze on terrain ahead. He would give another report of movement to north, and then he would think of the next one. In a moment, he was connected to Sulach’s mind.

Hundreds of leagues away, in the silence of a huge domed room Faithful Lady Neodyn Winrothol sat back in her chair, her features relaxing as the strain of the psionic drain slowly eased back. Once more she directed Yeno’s thoughts and made him report another movement to north.   This would drag Sulach further into the tablelands and provide time for Samil to choose the battleground.

What she did not calculate into her plans was Cadra Borsail’s ambitions. Such a fine surprise it was, it made her job so much easier to follow his instructions to Yeno. All she had to do was direct Yeno in a way that fit with her own plans without bringing suspicion to her work.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on finding Samil’s mind. She had more news to pass to her Faithful Brother.

*       *           *          *           *          *          *           *          *           *          *

“- He is weak against the pleasures of the flesh.”

                                                                                                              - Serilla Uaptal, Lirathan Templar.

Sulach slammed his fist on the table in frustration, startling his commanders. The single candle on the table, casting more shadows than light, trembled at Sulach’s anger, sending ghosts of shadows scurrying at the interior walls of the command tent. The tension was visible. Days of marching and still the enemy evaded them. Even if it was an ambush, they should have come down on them by now, chasing them forever could not bring any good to the gith.

According to the last report, the gith bands were still moving north.

“Orders, sir?” Lieutenant Strian asked after a moment, but Sulach did not seem to hear him.

Sulach doubted the gith’s intentions now. This could not be a raiding party moving away from their objectives, nor could they be laying a trap. They would have sprung it already. Sulach even gave them a chance to trap him, and still nothing came out of it. No, it makes no sense at all.

“My Lord?”

Sulach lifted his gaze from the map and looked directly at the lieutenant.

“Orders?” Strian asked again.

Sulach gave a sigh, leaning on the table on his fists. “Have the men ready for leaving, we will be marching north.”

The lieutenant nodded sharply, the other officers following his gesture.

“You may return to your units and get some rest before we start marching again.”

They all bowed their respects and began to walk out of the tent.

Sulach called behind them, “Sergeant Itina, could you stay for a moment?” She nodded once, and stepped aside. The rest of the commanders offered only a brief salute to her as they stepped out. Sulach spoke again only after they were alone.

“Bring me Private Eoni.”

Sulach retreated into his thoughts as soon as the sergeant left. He looked down at his maps; there really was not much option he had there. For the first time since he started this campaign he considered returning back. It would be a shame on his end, but then, chasing an enemy like this could only keep on so long. Soon he would have to consider the supply limits, and the soldiers were growing restless without battle. Armies gathered for fight needed to see blood every now and then.

Perhaps the scout was incompetent in judging the enemy. He could send a mage to scout ahead, but mages generally proved useless in scouting missions. They lacked “a soldier’s eye” and would often overlook details that could turn the scales. Sulach did try to train a few mages during the campaigns against the gith, but they quickly learned gith shamans had wards against spying magicks that brought hazardous casualities. During the gith campaign, two of Sulach’s trained mages went insane due to such wards, proving how dangerous a truly crazed mage could be. Using trained soldiers for scouting missions was a lesson hard learned.

Regardless, sending a few more scouts at the same target could not hurt. Surely Yeno would take it as an insult to his work, but more was at stake than a single scout’s feelings now.

“You called for me, my Lord?” Private Eoni and the sergeant were back in the tent.

Sulach lifted his weary eyes to them, looking from one woman to the other. So many questions were racing in his mind, so many decisions. The campaign started with great promises and so many opportunities for his career. But now, it was bad enough that he was prepared to return empty handed.

“I need to feel good, soldiers,” Sulach whispered in the stale air of the tent. “Can you make me feel good?”

No reply was needed. Itina closed the tent flap and secured it as Eoni took off her armor. Sulach watched them both with distant eyes, his thoughts still troubled between returning or going forward. There was only one candle on the table, and even that was too much now.

Soon, the two women took away all his worries.

Lirathan Templar Neodyn felt a tang of disgust as she saw the naked women sound asleep lying beside Sulach. Noble blood sleeping with commons... such was the barbaric nature of southrons. Her mind wandered inside the darkness of the tent, looking at the maps over the table. The eye of the mind, though it did not need light to see as the mortal eyes do, was unfortunately weak to grasp objective details. She could not gather anything from his notes no matter how hard she tried. Moments later her mind returned to her body, exhausted. She was comforted that Sulach had come this far. Samil would catch him within a few days now.

Closing her eyes, she prayed her thanks to the Sun King. There was still time until dawn, and she could rest for an hour. In her chair in the stone-domed room, she rested her head back and in a moment, she was asleep.

*       *           *          *           *          *          *           *          *           *

“-Where is that flower now?

                                                                           … It...has withered...and died…”

                                                                                                          - Ankha

Private Somir sat at the skirts of the Shield Wall, his back to the flat face of a massive, wind-scoured boulder. Despite the protection of the sandcloth, the heat of high sun brought little spots dancing in his vision. He was beginning to feel dizzy, and he would become Krath-struck if he did not take shelter in the little shade of the rock. The sun burned off the sands, turning the desert into a field of gold. Looking ahead too much would bring shifting shadows to the vision, illusions, chasing each other in the endlessness.

Somir placed his waterskin at his feet, using all his willpower to tear his gaze away from it. He had ignored his thirst for quite a while but now, the need for water was starting to dominate all his senses. It was a contest of wills; the desert would whisper the taste of water, the comfort of a good shadow, the call for a peaceful sleep. All those were tests of the desert, to eliminate the weaker minds from the stronger. Somir wanted to believe he was the latter.

He surveyed the sands stretching up to north, a gloved hand shielding his eyes against the scorching sunlight. Although it has been over a day since he turned this way to track down the main gith raiding group, he had yet to see a single gith... let alone a thousand of them.

He reached to the ground and picked the waterskin up gently, almost afraid to hurt the precious contents. He saw a movement of a shadow then, or perhaps he thought he did. He lifted his gaze, water leaving his thoughts only momentarily. It could be from looking about in the high sun for too long, he thought. Perhaps the desert was testing him.

Or perhaps not.

Something whistled, followed by a *thud*. Somir felt the agony of his breath being kicked from his lungs. His gaze dropped to his chest reflexively, and he stared at the protruding arrow with unbelieving eyes. Two more whistling sounds, and Somir was knocked on his back, feeling the hot sands through his protective sandcloth. He tried to get up, but the arrows tore at his insides with the movement and he fell back in pain, facing the skies that he tried so hard to avoid. Direct sunlight burned his eyes; his vision blurred first, twisted next. Everything turned to gold, then orange, then red… He forced his eyes shut, a bright orange curtain pulling over his vision.

He lay there on the sands on the verge of consciousness, burning under the scorching sun. For how long, he did not know. A shadow fell over his face, and he slowly opened his eyes to face his attacker. His executioner was dark against the sunlight as he lifted his sword.

What was it? Figure of the sun? What was a Tuluki doing here so far away from his home?

Then everything went dark.

*       *           *          *           *          *          *           *          *           *          *

Chapter 5

“Da point of dis comin’ here be to show da good will. We’s can say you’s can trust us an’ all dat shit, but you’s gotta believe a fucker trustworthy when dey’s show up in you’s face an’ you’s ain’t dead.”

                                                                                          - Quick

Days passed with no improvement.

The scouts he sent kept disappearing one by one. One of them managed to send a telepathic message that it was several raiders who ambushed him before the link was severed. No matter what, the message was clear. The enemy was to the north, and they were not letting any information leak.

Sulach was determined not to go any further. No matter what, the enemy was not a threat to the forts, and it was a matter of a mere month until they would be complete. This raiding group was no threat.

Still, Sulach could not bear returning empty-handed. The red robes of the War Ministry had given him command of one thousand soldiers, a great honor for a blue robe. To take all these soldiers back without seeing a battlefield would remain as a scar on him that would not be forgotten. He set the camps. He would not move a league more, but he could wait until the forts are completed. Then, regardless of spilling enemy blood, he would still have completed his objective. So he waited. For three days, nothing happened.

On the third day, as he sat on his pallet in the command tent, Lieutenant Strian asked for permission to enter.

“My Lord, scouts brought someone that has information.”

To that, Sulach merely nodded. The desire for battle was burnt out in him, the first excitement of leading into the field with his soldiers was gone, the eagerness replaced by a bitter aftertaste.

Strian pulled the flap aside, and a huge figure stepped in, ducking so low at the entrance that his body seemed to double over. Towering two heads over him, it was perhaps the tallest elf Sulach ever seen. His lean muscled structure was entirely covered with loose sandcloth garments. The elf stared down at Sulach for a moment, his face incongruous behind the fabric of the sandcloth veil. Sulach hated to be forced to look up, but his expression gave no sign of it.

“What news do you bring me, elf?”

As elf spoke, his breath blowing the sandcloth veil slightly. “Kah, I saw the White Pit men.” His Sirihish was fluent.

“Tuluki?” Sulach was surprised, but still he hid his interest well enough.

The elf seized Sulach in his gaze at that then nodded. “Kah.”

“Where, and how many?”

The elf continued to stare at Sulach with his veiled gaze. “Two hours of Soh run, south of here. Kah, I have not seen them all, but I saw maybe a hundred tents.”

Sulach could not believe what he was hearing. Such a huge Tuluki force was so close to his camp? How was it ever possible he was hearing it from an elf he met for the first time? He tried not to show his anger in front of the longear.

“Is that all?”

The elf seemed to straighten up slightly, then nodded again. “Kah.”

Sulach threw a coin pouch to the elf’s chest. As the elf caught the pouch deftly in his hand, Sulach spoke again. “I hope you are telling the truth. If not, you will see me again.”

The elf smirked behind the sandcloth veil, causing a nervous shift among the officers in the tent.

As Lieutenant Strian led the elf outside, the rest of the military officers stood in silence attendance, waiting for their orders. Sulach did not seem to notice them for a few moments, his gaze lost over the maps. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy, as if shattered under the weight of his troubled thoughts:

“Go to your units. Have field training, and wait for further orders.”

Every officer bowed their respects and left the command tent silently, except for Sergeant Itina. It took a while for Sulach to notice she was still inside the tent, watching him silently.

“Do you wish for a distraction, my Lord?”

Sulach did not answer, but sergeant required none. He needed it. Highlord knows he needed it now, more than anything.

Bowing deeply, she said, “I will be back with Eoni, my Lord.”

The light was the deep red of sunset at the flap of the command tent when Sulach rose from his bed. The two women were still asleep in naked splendor. He did not call the dressing slaves; he did not want to make a sound. The night had pulled its thin veil over the camp when he left the tent.

“My horse,” he called to the nearest soldier, who bowed quickly and strode away, returning with a cloven-hoofed animal behind him. Sulach took the reins from the soldier, running his hand over the muscled neck of the powerful beast. A very rare mount it was, stolen by a gypsy from a Northern Templar a month ago. The cheerful memory of the young gypsy brought a smile to Sulach’s lips.

“Should I call a unit of cavalry to accompany you, Lord Templar?”

Sulach’s merely shook his head as he mounted the powerful stallion. “No soldier. Return to your post. Dismissed.”

The soldier bowed deeply then strode away.

He rode across the desert for hours, alone in the darkness, pale Lirathu his only guide. It gave him a childish joy to feel the breeze on his face, to be alone even for a short period. His mount was not tired yet and he could probably ride for a few hours more. But the distant glow on the dark horizons signaled that he arrived at his destination. He pulled the reins and his horse came to an abrupt stop. From now on it would be dangerous going, but he shrugged it off. He did not ride this far to be scared away.

He spotted a sharp rock, jutting towards the skies. It had a steep slope, but it would give the perfect survey of the land. He rode silently, thankful to the night for cloaking him under the thick sheet of darkness.

He tied the cloven-hoofed stallion to the base of the rock and stripped off the chitin parts of his armor one by one. The climb would be a hard one. When he was done, he only had a short knife at his belt and a thin loose outfit to cover him against the chill of the desert night. His fingers touched the cold face of the stone. Yes, the climb would be a hard one.

He went steadily and carefully. All his thoughts and worries were gone, save for the growing fear of falling off the rock. The cold night was sending shivers with each breeze, and reminding him of his mortality as he ascended. He kept his focus ahead, rising slowly, each step using more effort than the other.

A powerful hand grabbed him by the wrist when he finally found the top and pulled him up. It was a strong grip, could perhaps snap his bones by simply squeezing. It lifted his entire weight off the face of the rock effortlessly, and dropped him at the flat top, face first. The hand then reached down to pat Sulach, stopping briefly to pick up his knife from his belt.

“Looks like it is going to be a long night, neh?” It was a guttural voice that spoke, as if it was coming all the way from the stomach of the person.

Sulach lifted his head to stare at the speaker. It was a hulking figure, dark against the pale light of the Lirathu. Sulach tried to rise to his haunches slowly, getting a better look at his opponent.

“Don’t be smart, neh. The best you can do, we both fall down the rock. Not the best kind of death for either of us,” the man spoke again. This time, Sulach recognized the voice.

“Untturi,” he whispered.

The gith warlord nodded, his thin smile hidden in the night.

“You speak the human tongue… pretty well.” Sulach did not disguise his surprise.

The gith let out a loud chuckle at that, though Sulach was not sure if he was laughing or coughing. Untturi stared down at Sulach’s form without speaking for a long moment. Sulach only returned his gaze.

Two warriors,sat over the top of the rock studying each other, speechless.

Untturi was the first to break eye contact as he stretched out a massive arm, using the dagger he took from Sulach’s belt to point toward the distant camp. Following the gesture, Sulach looked down, thankful again to the darkness that hid his despair. Even from this far away, Sulach could see the campfires and how wide they spread. The enemy numbers were as many as his, if not more.

Sulach’s heart sank at the idea of a disciplined enemy remaining within a day’s march to his camp without his knowledge. Anger overwhelmed his thoughts suddenly, as his thoughts weighed on how incompetent his own scouts were.

“Pretty tight they look, neh?” Untturi broke the silence.

Sulach did not seem to hear him. It did not matter for Untturi, he spoke again after a moment. “Do you remember the day we fought?”

Sulach slowly turned his head to Untturi now, studying him sidelong.

Untturi continued, without looking at him.

“It was a field like this. All fields are similar in the desert, neh?” He surveyed the sands sprawling under the darkness. “You put your archers there, and there. Your half giants, you kept them out until the main armies clashed, they stayed out. Then when the melee was engaged, you brought them along with the cavalry to break through my flankers. It was a good strategy, their speed and weight gave them advantage to sweep away and open the flanks.

“There, the main armies clashed.” He pointed with the dagger tip. “What a fascinating battle it was.” Untturi’s voice carried his amazement the memory. He turned to Sulach, staring at him for a few silent seconds.

“Your warriors, I counted at least four different formations that day. Such a good training, discipline, and coordination they had.”

Untturi’s head bobbed a few times as he grew silent. When he began again, his joy was gone. The heavy weight of defeat and the loss of his tribemates hung in his tone. “It was a good fight. The God of War smiled upon you that day.”

Sulach was silent, his eyes on the enemy camp. The gith warlord followed his gaze. The rugged, guttural voice spoke again.

“Your enemy, seems to be well prepared. Their army disciplined, trained, equipped well. It is a fight the God of War will watch.”

Sulach tore his gaze from the camp, at Untturi’s words. “Is there a gith warband to the north?” he asked.

Untturi only shook his head.

Sulach’s world crumbled around him. Weeks of planning, days of march, he came to the desert for nothing, and now he was facing an enemy that he was not ready to fight. When he spoke his thoughts, his voice was as broken as his heart. “What happens now?”

The gith warlord shifted slightly, facing Sulach fully. He regarded Sulach in his gaze for a few moments, before speaking: “You bound me to you with an oath, neh? That I am not going to rise against you.”

Sulach only stared in reply.

Still Untturi nodded at his own words, and continued. “This is how it happens: I am free of that oath if you release it, or if you are dead.”

Sulach considered the warchief’s words. The message was clear: Either undo the oath, or die tonight. He had seen the strength of the gith warrior. Those hands could snap Sulach’s bones like they were twigs. Even if Sulach wanted to fight, the small space on top of the rock gave little comfort. If the gith warrior did not kill him, they both would surely fall to their death, and the gith seemed to have very little problem with dying.

“So you want me to release you from your oath, so you can one day raise an army against me?”

The gith warlord simply nodded.

“Why do you want to fight me?” he asked.

Dirty yellowed teeth revealed a dirty yellowed smirk as Untturi replied, “Because, you fight well.”

Sulach did not understand the meaning:

“But why will you fight? To what purpose?”

The grizzled gith’s respone rang in Sulach’s mind for a long time:

“The battle does not need a purpose; the battle has its own purpose. You don’t ask why a plague spreads or a field burns. Don’t ask why I fight.”

The morning was still more than an hour away when Sulach climbed down the rock face. He felt the cold of the night as he donned his heavy armor at the base of the rock cliff, and rode into the darkness on his warm beast, leaving Untturi alone.

He did not care how he rode or where. Only when he was greeted by bowing soldiers of his camp, did he realize he returned. Dawn had broken over the ruddy stones as he dismounted before the command tent, passing the reins to the soldier on guard. He strode in without a word and threw his helmet and sword down with a clatter, seating himself at the map table. Both women had gone, leaving no trace of their warmth in the bed. Sulach rested his head in his hands and considered the events of the night. He felt desperate when he saw the Tuluki camp spreading in the distance, unable to understand what went wrong. How could an army greater in numbers than his own creep so close without his knowledge?

Approaching steps made him straighten in his seat and he took a deep breath as the first commanding officers stepped in. They bowed their respects and stood silently before the table. Sulach took as much of his time as he could, before giving words to his despair:

“A Tuluki camp, vaster even than our own, circled around us and they are within a day’s march from where we stand.” he spoke softly. Officers looked at each other in grim silence, as he started again. “Who can tell me why the first person to report this was an elf I had never seen before?”

The officers kept their heads bowed until Lieutenant Tild stepped forth.

“My Lord, I ask to be relieved of command,” he spoke, his head still bowed low. When Sulach only stared at him in response, he continued. “The scouts responsible from that area are under my command, sir.”

“I do not need those scouts anymore!” Sulach spoke sharply. An uneasy shift rippled through the assembled officers. “Sergeant Itina, I hereby promote you to the rank of Lieutenant, and put Tild’s former unit under your command. Congratulations Lieutenant Itina.”

Itina only lifted her chin and nodded once.

The tension in the command tent lessened then. The commanding officers took their orders briefly. The sun began its journey at the eastern horizon when the incompetent scouts were executed. Shortly after that, the army broke camp and began its march.

Prologue

The warrior’s one good eye
opened as a spear poked his ribs. A bull
by the gith standards, he had killed many soldiers in the battle of the morning
and even now, without weapons and tied in knots of rope, the soldiers kept
their distance from him. All around the
field...

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The Shield Wall by Bebop
Added on Dec 16, 2007

Ah, we are all familiar of the tragedies that "befall" us due to this natural wall of stone.

“Shit!” Five of them were bellowing and waving chipped bone weapons up in the air in rage as they ran. “You can’t blame me!” Minck shouted behind herself stumbling to tug herself up with the reins of her ox, all but falling onto her back before actually managing to scuttle into the saddle. “Ya! Moo! Go!”
“You little feck! Give us our money!”
“I’ll skin you and make a belt pouch outta your tits and a necklace outta yer teeth!
Grimacing, Minck snapped the reins of her dusty ox and kicked her heels into its sides. “Ouch.”
“That ox’a urs is gonna make a fine meal when we catch you girl!”
“Moo! Go!” Minck screamed loudly, the old ox that had already been following at a gallop by her side looked more than reluctant to oblige as it pranced with a light step over the sand dunes. “Faster! Do you want to a be a steak!” A burly woman with a blood crusted whip in hand whooped loudly as the group began to encroach, snapping the whip victoriously into the wind.
Suddenly spooked, Moo bellowed out a loud long moo before embarking in a full gallop, leaving sand, dust and the little farming village in his wake. “Ha ha!” Minck was howling, bouncing in the saddle and leaning forward as though to force them forward. She yelped out another long howl of triumph, as Moo ran faster than ever, seeming to grow more in fear and speed with every step. In the horizon a pale line marred the crimson sands, causing Minck to narrow her eyes, the heat from thermals rising from the ground causing the line to waver. “The road! Whoa, Moo.”
The ox didn’t stop only letting out a wavering moo once more perhaps in defiance in addition to it’s newly found irrational trepidation. “Moo!” Minck shrieked dragging the reins back in vain with all of her might. The road curved like a slithering serpent over the sands, and basked around a large gorge that sunk deep into the earth. Her eyes wide, she shook her head in a moment that seemed to slow time to reveal itself as the beast barreled towards the gaping hole. “Nooooo!” It was to late, stone cracked against hoof and they were toppling. The ox met open air and fell, side first. Minck, eyes wide with disbelief, her stomach flopping tilted to the other side, twisting her self from the saddle, feet still caught in the stir ups. They fell into shadow beyond the reach of the light above and then with a thump she couldn’t hear, the deeper blackness of unconsciousness engulfed her.
There was a sour taste in her mouth as her eyes slid open. Minck, picked herself up recoiling in disgust and gagging as she cleansed her mouth with fresh saliva spitting crusted vomit from her mouth and smearing it from her lips. It was dark. They had fallen. For a moment, she sat there, forearms over her bent knees from where she sat against the cliff wall, trying to shake the drowsiness in the deep darkness. As she reached up to slip her fingers through her hair, her fingertips landed on a crusted patch, strands of hair dried into the scab. Her first urge was to pick her hair out of it even if it meant to open up the wound but dejectedly she dropped her hand back across her knee. Moo? Where was he? Was she alone? Closing her eyes, she reached behind her and pulled her backpack into her lap, feeling for a torch and flint kit. She had done it many times during the night, and this time there was little difference. She held the torch between her knees and struck the flint until the rag wrapped torch licked up the sparks and ignited into a warm flame. The smell of fresh smoke filled her nostrils a moment and the warm amber glow ebbed and then grew, pressing the darkness away. The soles of her boots scratched pebble and sand as she used the wall of the cliff to inch herself back to her feet. From the opposite end of the vertical tunnel that had devoured them she could see an oxen body unmoving and slumped over the ground. The wide, stocky chest of the ox moved neither up or down and immediately Minck new that the life had left him.
Sighing, Minck inched closer, every muscle was sore from the recent trauma and moving was uncomfortable. She held up the torch, narrowing her eyes wearily to see what had been Moo’s neck forced into an unnatural angle, it’s eyes peering out lifelessly and thick tongue sprawled eerily over the ground. Minck paused, contemplating a moment whether or not to skin the creature before finally deciding she didn’t have the heart or motivation to do so right now and began to feel along the side of the walls for some kind of exit. Cursing Moo’s name, she squeezed into a small corridor made of natural, craggy stone walls and soon she was emerging, into the sands. A sandstorm had picked up and night had fallen. “Ah, a delightful combination,” Minck grumbled out loud. Pulling up her hood, and tugging the sandcloth drawstrings to secure it against her brow, she pressed on, to afraid to sleep for fear that the fuzziness in her head would claim her and she would never wake. Using the face of what was known as the Shield Wall as her guide, she felt her way along, inching with effort through the storm. Luckily the winds favored her and seemed to usher her forward and instead of shoving her back. A small amount of luck for an unfortunate week. “You just had to have that whore didn’t you Minck? You just couldn’t leave it to ya self. Nope… that was to hard. Shet. How’s a lass supposed to be out in tha sands a month with out some pretty company here and there. Damn fool farmers. And so damn expensive for some critter crotch free company. How’s a lass like me to be expected to have that type of coin?” Pausing in her rant to herself, she spat out a wad of sand and coughed, narrowing her gaze to peer into the sky. The slightest traces of light were beaming through the storm and Minck collapsed against the wall, closing her eyes slowly finally succumbing to sleep as the winds howled.

“Aaaaaaaah!” THUD!
Minck leaped to her feet, swiping her dagger into her hand, eyes still half lidded. The storm was still slashing the air and it pressed Minck against the stone wall, whipping her cloak and hood back. Squinting, she could see mounts and men littering the dunes around her. With a clack and clatter stones rained above her, causing her to scream and dive out of the way as a final war beetle collapsed from the wall above, embedding itself into the sand. “What the fuck! What the fuck!” It was all she could scream, though her words were barely audible over rushing winds.
Looking incredulous a stocky man bent on a knee and then picked himself up. She couldn’t make the details of his features out as he turned his head to her but as he approached the brown of his cloak and the stripes on his sleeves made it obvious what he was. “Damn Bynner! Ya’ bug nearly squashed me, isn’t it supposed to go the other way around!” The beetles, whose head was buried kicked it’s six legs, thrashing and skittering in an effort to free itself. Minck and the Sergeant watched a long while as the others picked themselves up and the bug became still, legs still crooked but now rigged like dead tree limbs. The wind’s screaming became a hush and soon, small waves of wind lapped harmlessly at the cloth of the groups garb and abas as though Whira had been satiated by the amount of chaos it had caused.

“Shit!” Five of them were bellowing and waving chipped bone weapons up in the air in rage as they ran. “You can’t blame me!” Minck shouted behind herself stumbling to tug herself up with the reins of her ox, all but falling onto her back before actually managing to scuttle into the saddle....

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The Gith Are Coming by Gimfalisette
Added on Dec 11, 2007

A seasoned Lieutenant of the Blood Spears Legion, Highlord's militia, leads her units against an army of gith in defense of the streets of her home city.

The harsh sting of sand and fierce, gusting wind on her face brought clarity to the Lieutenant's mind as she turned her gaze to slowly survey the pair of militia units under her command. Twenty Blood Spears, proud in their black cloaks, stood in ranks behind their Sergeants. These light infantry soldiers would bear the brunt of the attack she knew was shortly coming, clad just in cuirbouilli armor, with jade-emblazoned shields and weapons in hand; but they'd meet it prepared by a daily training regimen that sifted out the weak and left only the strong of body and heart.

Still, the Lieutenant worried as she paced a few steps. Nothing on her expression or in her tall, firm posture betrayed any emotion but calm determination to her soldiers, and yet she knew that some would undoubtedly not return from this battle--and the imminent loss of loyal young men and women pained her. "But we've all sworn our lives and deaths to the Highlord," the Lieutenant reasoned with herself, under her breath. She twitched the edge of her jade-shouldered black dustcloak back to reveal the polished gleam of silt-horror armor as she stopped to again look over her units, knowing that the fine figure she cut was an inspiration to those under her.

Raising her dragon-etched, obsidian-bladed axe high above her head to shake it, the Lieutenant pitched her voice over a sudden scream of wind which whipped tendrils of her own night-dark hair into her face. "Blood Spears!" she addressed the soldiers. Tension was evident on each face as they stared at her, weapons gripped tightly. "Remember you are the steel blade in the Highlord's hand! You are His Arm, and you will not fail!"

A cry to the Highlord lifted from the soldiers, and they beat their shields in response to their commander. As their shouting echoed in the dusty street, now abandoned by everyone but militia, fools, and those with no refuge, a familiar mind sought the Lieutenant's. "Gith spotted, Miner's and Commoner's, press in from your position and hold the road, order of the Captain," was the message abruptly relayed by the Senior Adjunct before he broke the link. "Thank the Highlord I don't have his job today," the Lieutenant thought, briefly amused, before shouting orders to her Sergeants. "The gith are coming, fall in!"

They engaged the gith after a hurried march west along the winding street, the units abreast to fill the relatively narrow span between sagging mudbrick buildings. With a full unit of soldiers to each side, shields raised in a line to neatly deflect blows, the Lieutenant charged amidst the enemy. In Allanak, where combat prowess was taken into account for promotions, the top officers were also the best warriors, and it was her duty and joy to lead the fight.

Had her thoughts not been keenly focused on the battle, the Lieutenant's senses would have been overwhelmed by the stench of sewer-soaked gith, the baleful red glare of the sun directly overhead, the guttural snarls of the enemy, and the clang of weapons and shields as blows began to fall. With short, sharp strokes of her axe, she struck again and again at the enemy around her, facing off with two or three at a time as waves of gith assaulted the militia line. Her movements settled into a methodic rhythm of blocking and parrying gith spears and swords, the motions requiring nothing but the instinct gained by ten years of soldiering. One of the yellow-skinned gith before her swung its club hard at her wrist, apparently aiming for a disarming hit, but before the blow could connect she easily twisted her hand and sent its weapon flying back through the enemy ranks. As an expression of surprise crystallized on the gith's face, the Lieutenant continued the quick arc of her axe and sunk a vicious chop into its neck. A hot spray of blood spattered across her bronzed cheek, and the gith crumpled. Striding over the body, the Lieutenant merely picked a new foe and set to work.

With lesser but still effective expertise, the soldiers to her right and left advanced alongside as she led them deeper into the Commoners' Quarter against the gith. The absurdity of fighting a battle against thousands of these disgusting creatures within the walls of her own beloved city--for her own territory!--did not prick the Lieutenant's mind at this moment, though it had weighed heavily for the past month, as gith forays up through the sewer pipes and into the city increased. All that lay before her now was the certainty that the war was finally here, and it had to be won.

A sudden, sharp twang caught the Lieutenant's attention through the din of battle; a noise she'd been dreading. Clattering dully to the packed earth of the road, a wooden arrow narrowly missed the Sergeant to her right. Harsh yells in gith-tongue from what seemed to be their leaders rang in the street, and the horde of gith scrambled backwards clumsily as more arrows, and then spears, began to fall toward the militia line.

Again, instinctive reaction forged from years of combat experience took over. Sensing an arrow flying toward her, the Lieutenant raised her shield and batted it away; the next arrow she struck from the air with her axe. The Private to her left, in his first real fight since taking the black, was helpless against the onslaught of missiles. He screamed shrilly as an arrow caught in his thigh, a sound which was abruptly cut off as a spear *thunked* into his neck. Eyes gone blank, the soldier toppled forward, his life's blood seeping out onto the threatened ground of his birth city.

Time seemed to lengthen, arrows and spears hissing slowly toward the Lieutenant's line, in the moment of mental pause that it took for her to consider the only two possible options: Advance, or retreat. Faced with missiles, without cover, light infantry had no other course of action but to change the distance between themselves and the attackers. To stand in place was to let the enemy cut her units down at will; and retreating to leave the Commoners' Quarter open to gith pillage was absolutely not acceptable. "Forward!" she shouted at her Sergeants, and rushed toward the disarrayed line of gith warriors, sunlight glinting off the freshly-blooded obsidian blade of her axe. Their motion no longer arrested by the hang of time, missiles rattled to the road behind the Lieutenant's force as she and her soldiers ferociously pressed the attack, becoming enveloped in the heat of battle again.

Minutes, hours, maybe a day later--she knew little except the primal, triumphant feeling of being covered head-to-toe in smears of gith blood--the Lieutenant screamed a furious, wordless war-cry as the few remaining gith broke their line, turned, and scurried away like jozhal. Enemy bodies littered the street; though the gith were individually tough, their unsophisticated, tribal methods of war were no match for the training and strategy of the Highlord's soldiers. Still, as she turned, panting for breath, the Lieutenant saw that her force was not without losses. Another Private had fallen to gith missiles before the distance could be breached, and a Corporal had been lost to the blades of a group of four gith. But there was no moment to spare for mourning them or moving their bodies; it was those who were alive but wounded who needed attending now.

As the Sergeants assessed the condition of the soldiers, medics assigned to the units moved amongst their companions, quickly wrapping bandages around wounds to staunch bleeding. Though she had learned over the years the basic techniques of bandaging on the battlefield, the Lieutenant did not move into the ranks to treat the soldiers; those assigned to that job needed the satisfaction of putting their expertise to work for their fellows. Watching the deft motions of the medics' hands, the Lieutenant allowed a brief feeling of pride to swell her chest. There'd be no need for any of -her- troops to be submitted to treatment by the water wigglers stationed at the field hospital at Meleth's, not today.

Then, the Lieutenant found her attention caught by a young Corporal whose face had paled under the usual dark tone of his skin, and whose eyes were wide and fixed on some distant, unseen thing. Shaking arms were crossed over his body and his fingers clutched at the black armbands he wore as rank insignia, as if that might stop the trembling. Stepping around a few soldiers to move to the young man's side, the Lieutenant leaned in. "Something wrong, Corporal?" She kept her voice low and warm; the question was for him only. Slowly, he focused on his commander, mouth hanging open for a moment before he found words to respond. "I tried, sir, I tried t' save 'er, but there was too many on 'er, an' I couldn't pull 'em off fast enough," he choked out. Clearly stricken, he turned his stare to the still form of the fallen Corporal, her brunette hair darkly matted with drying blood from the sword wound which had cleaved her helmet and head.

In a flash, empathetic sadness threatened the Lieutenant's composure; how often had she felt this same regret at her inability to protect a companion? No matter how good a soldier was, there would be failures. It was never possible, in the brutal rush of battle, to be everywhere or even to see everything as it happened. But that knowledge was cold comfort, and wouldn't help the living Corporal manage the loss of his unit-mate right now.

Gripping his shoulders, the Lieutenant shook the Corporal gently, her green eyes boring intensely into his brown ones as he met her gaze. "Corporal," she firmly addressed him. "You did what you could. We need you here right now. The war's not over yet, and you've got a job to do. You hear me?" After a moment's blank stare, the Corporal heaved a breath and nodded. "Aye, sir," he rasped. Nodding in return, the Lieutenant stepped back, still watching him, and squared her shoulders into a taut military posture. Unconsciously, the young Corporal mimicked his commander's posture as he gathered himself.

"Blood Spears! Prepare for the next engagement!" the Lieutenant shouted as she pivoted on a black-booted foot to face the setting sun, grip flexing on her axe. The solid weight of the gore-coated weapon in her hand was a reassuring reminder that victory surely belonged to the Highlord's Arm. Her soldiers took up positions again, and then a tense silence befell them as dark figures appeared on the road ahead, silhouetted against the angry red of sunset. The gith were coming.

The harsh sting of sand and fierce, gusting wind on her face brought clarity to the Lieutenant's mind as she turned her gaze to slowly survey the pair of militia units under her command. Twenty Blood Spears, proud in their black cloaks, stood in ranks behind their Sergeants. These light...

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Honky Tonk Women of Zalanthas by Bebop
Added on May 31, 2007

Honky Tonk women refers to an episode of Cowboy Bebop in which the main female protagonist is down on her luck as usual. Not to mention the famous Rolling Stones song. This story is the same - about clever women (only of Zalanthas) and how they deal with heartache and betrayl.

Her back to the wall she tilted a glance briefly over her shoulder then back around the corner again, she had to be quick. From her perch at the corner of the corridor she could see, could see him laugh as she stumbled in his arms, drunk. For a moment she tilted her head aside staring off as a flash of numbing anger lulled through her mind. She smeared her lips together blinked and her mind was clear again, the woman's drunkenness would give her a clear advantage if combat came into play. They were moving into the room now and the door was closing shut unnoticed behind them. Perfect. Crouching and moving swiftly with measured steps she kneeled slipping her fingertips gently but precisely between the door and the wall. She held it open only a crack peering in past the opening to watch the couple already fumbling with their clothes head towards the bedroom. Her eyes narrowed, not to see but in another flare of rage that she forced to calm herself amid the silence, unwilling to betray her position. A single dim wall lantern illuminated the sand crusted hallway and the ancient, cracked granite tiles. Only the faintest glow of light lapped at the hem of her cloak dyed deeply to remain the color of Drov.

Rising delicately she slid the door open to give her just enough berth to roll in on a shoulder and then gently coax the door closed behind her in silence. For only a moment she was standing fully upright and her eyes darted keenly over the familiar sparse room of mud dried walls. She sneered as a delighted shriek and giggle wafted from the eastward room and her stomach roiled. "Bastard," she thought not daring to speak as her cheeks flushed red. Turning she crept one foot over the other towards the archway to the other room, closing her eyes to listen so as to estimate their position. Their rough breaths were muffled, their backs were to her, the girl was probably positioned on the edge of the bed. She reached for a thin, leather ribbon that secured the reed tube to her shoulder. With nimble fingertips she tugged a string unlacing it effortlessly and slid it into her hand, reaching then into her deep pockets to produce a single dart fletched with a pitch black feather. Briefly, her hand trembled. She never trembled, but this mark was personal. She inserted the arrow into the reed, daring only slowly to peer over the archway, she could easily see his bare back, shoulders flexing with each thrust, the woman's legs wrapped around him. A frown tightened her brow but then she forced it to her relax, guiding her body into the fluidity required to successfully end another's life undetected.   With a puff of breath and the slightest hollow sound the dart, gleaming with a sheen of poison, soared through the air piercing the man in the back of the neck.

With a final single thrust, the man's heavily muscled shoulders relaxed, elbows bending as he fell collapsing over the bed, and ultimately pinning the woman between himself and the straw cushioning. Anya grinned sadistically, her heart racing as she slowly dared to ascend from the shadows. The woman underneath him frowned, seemingly confused as she struggled to free herself from the massive body. "Glenn?" She laughed writhing in vain to sit up, "Glenn! Are you oka..." Her voice trailed off, eyes widening as fingers laced over the dart still pinned in the man's neck before her eyes found Anya standing beyond him. Her body stilled, her rosy face slumped and paled, "Anya...I..."

"You what, Dai?" Anya's heart thumped heavily in her chest, a sneer of disgust on her lips as her eyes traced over the man still breathing in a deep content sleep, blanketing the woman's swarthy bare body. Dai's grey eyes dropped away, seemingly now unaware of the body draped over her own. "What are you doing with him!" Anya screamed jealousy and anguish finally erupting from her lips.

"I don't know!" cried the woman, "I've been drinking... I'm sorry!"

"You're sorry!" Anya, smeared a hand over her face, the stoic visage of an assassin gone her voice incredulous, "You're... sorry! And what about all of the other times! You think I didn’t know! What about me!" Anya shook her head, drawing a curved bone knife from the confines of her belt. Watching Dai, with disdain, her voice tucked tight in sarcasm, "You're sorry." Dia gasped, tears in her eyes as she struggled to grab at her cloak marked with the vivid crimson insignia of a slithering Borsail Wyvern. "You wanted information from me, from The Guild."

"No," Dia started shaking her head as Anya pressed the knife towards her throat pinning her once more.

Anya narrowed her eyes and swallowed hard, an attempt to regain the sound place she had found before that had always allowed her to kill without remorse, "All that information you gave Lord Borsail. I didn't think you wanted the promotion that badly." Anya peered down at Dai, her sandy blond hair spilling over her diminutive bosom, "Just tell me one thing Dai, did you ever mean it when you said were mates." Her words were followed by another pained gulp.

Dai frowned, her fear turning to anger and foreboding in her voice, "I have Lord Borsail in my head right now Anya!"

Anya's blade pressed firmly against the supple skin of Dai's neck, drawing a tiny sliver of blood, "Answer the fucking question you whore."

"I'm an aide of Borsail rinth rat... they know all about you they..." Anya tilted her head to the side as though daring another ill spoken word as she reached with her free hand to firmly grab a tuft of Dai's mane.  The rage inside her was growing as she drew in a long ragged breath. Her heart was sinking, drowning out any thoughts of sensibility, any desire for mercy. Dai paused, her gaze meeting Anya's squarely, her voice cool and snide, "You want to know the truth? I don't even like girls."

"Wrong answer," Anya whispered, forcefully sliding her blade with a sickening wet stroke over the woman's throat.

Her back to the wall she tilted a glance briefly over her shoulder then back around the corner again, she had to be quick. From her perch at the corner of the corridor she could see, could see him laugh as she stumbled in his arms, drunk. For a moment she tilted her head aside staring off as a...

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Where do babies come from by Satine
Added on Apr 5, 2007

rinth girl finds out about babies.

You think:
     "where do babies come from?"

At your table, the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak says in sirihish, rolling her eyes:
     "Fine. Come on."

The tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak stands up from a sturdy old bar.

stand
You stand up from a sturdy old bar.

follow brown
You now follow the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak.

The tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak walks west.
You follow the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak, and walk west.

~they travel through the dark alleys~

Stalking into a shadowy cul-de-sac, the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Alright, kid. Here'ss how it worksss."

Mouse nods her head silently.

Lifting your skirt up carelessly, the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Here, your private bitss, the guysss will pay good sid to poke their pecker in there."

Mouse places her hand on the skirt, pushing the cloth down as she looks at the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak hey eyes wide.

The tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "You won't like it much if you're not wanting it, but it's the sssid that countss."

Gesturing vaguely, the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak asks you, in sirihish:
     "Ever ssee anyone in the back of a tavern, fumbling around on top of eachotherss?"

Mouse shakes her head, still wide eyed.

Planting her hands on her hips, the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak asks you, in sirihish:
     "Krath, kid, you never sseen a whore at work? You grow up with your head in the ground?"

Mouse nods her head dumbly, her expression lost..

The red orb of Jihae ascends over the horizon.
The pale orb of Lirathu ascends over the horizon.

The tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak asks you, in sirihish:
     "Fine. Right. Down there where your thighss meet, place that feels funny if you poke it.. know the ssspot?"

Mouse looks down her body for a moment, then nods her head.

Nodding, the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Good. If you get a guy to pay you for it, you lay down on the floor with your legsss out, and let them do what they paid for."

Mouse stares down her body confused, then glances up at the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak.

The tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "You gonna wanna ask ----- for ssome mul mix or you might have a baby. Don't want that right now."

Mouse looks more then a little lost as she looks down at her body again.

In a simple, explanatory tone, the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "That'ss where babiesss come from. Guy payss whore, ssshe forgets mul mix, and a year later sshe has a little baby."

The tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Sseen it lotss of times. It'ss how babiess are made."

Mouse frowns confused as she gestures to the nearby wall she begins to draw on it.

Using her finger, Mouse draws out a man with a baby, then him putting the baby inside a girl.

Mouse looks back at the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak questioning.

The tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Uh... yeah, only it'ss a tiny tiny baby when it getss inside. Like a little ssspirit."

Studying the drawing with a puzzled face, the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "I think."

Mouse loses most of the color in her face as she looks at the drawing she made.

The tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Anyway, don't matter. You're not making babiess, hopefully."

The tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "If you do, we can prolly ssstuff them in the orphanage."

Gesturing a clawed hand expansively, the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Sso when the cusstomer's paid, you find a place... old building or sssomething. Take off them there clothess, and do what they ssays."

Mouse looks down her body, confusion glittering in her eyes.

The tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Hurtss like Krath's sshine the firssst time, that'ss why you sshould have a friend do it carefully."

Mouse turns deadly pale as she looks up at the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak.

Shrugging, the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak asks you, in sirihish:
     "Instead of ssome drunk bassstard. Get it?"

Mouse nods her head dumbly, looking shocked..

Looking you over, the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak asks you, in sirihish:
     "Alright, you get what I'm ssaying?"

Mouse shakes her head then nods her head, still looking pale.

Patting your shoulder awkwardly, the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "You'll get the hang of it. Not difficult."

You think:
     "what on earth is going to happen to me?"

With a morbid grin, the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "At leasst you have a decent chance at the job. My beauty daysss are over."

Mouse blinks dumbly, only glancing to the hand.

Strolling back down the alley, the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak says to you, in sirihish:
     "Oh, and if a woman payss you, you're sssaving mul mix and the job'ss easier. Jusst a bit different."

The tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak stealthily moves west.
You follow the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak, and stealthily move west.

You think:
     "where do babies come from?"

At your table, the tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak says in sirihish, rolling her eyes:
     "Fine. Come on."

The tall figure in a tattered, brown hooded cloak stands up from a sturdy old bar.

stand
You stand up from a sturdy old...

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A promise by Kelen
Added on Mar 23, 2007

A tor scorpion reflects on a promise he made, in his final moments during the copper war.

    Kazar wrenched an arrow out of his shoulder, and hefted his shield a bit higher. He shook his dark bangs from his view, and gazed down at his foot for a moment, from which an arrow protruded.
    This tall, black-haired man’s scorpion emblazoned vest was completely covered in blood, and he drew in labored breaths, clenching his sword in his hand tightly. He gazed all around him, and knew, he had finally come to and end.
    He glanced back over his shoulder, seeing a barrel-chested, dark-curled man on his kank, riding hard west. Behind the mounted figure, a large force trailed closely, kicking up sand in their wake. The open barrens of the red desert sprawled on endlessly, except for a dim line of the cliffs to the far east.
    Kazar gazed at them for a long moment, he had wanted to go with them, and follow the scorpion banner back to camp. Then follow it home, to fulfill his promise. But he knew his duty, to his lord and house, and was resolved to follow through. Then he narrowed his gaze, swiveling his head to stare east again.
    Coming in his direction, was a large party of soldiers, tuluki soldiers. From what Kazar had made out as they fired arrows in his direction, there were almost two full units, plus a large scouting party. At their head, a red-garbed Jihaen templar rode on his mount. They were still out of arrow range, and kazar closed his eyes as his vision blurred a bit, trying to steady himself. He tried to remember his training, his home, his friends. He began to remember some of his earlier training, even smirking slightly.
    “This isn’t the Kazar show!” A tall, blonde-haired woman shouted, holding her arm tightly as it bled. Kazar stepped back, lowering his training sword, and grinned a bit. The woman scowled, stepping out of the sparring ring as well.
    “I know, Janna.” Kazar said, seeming careless, and rather content with himself.
    “You think you’re some kind of hotshot!? Just because you can best one of your superiors!? I don’t care how good you are, if you don’t know your place in the field, if you -CAN’T- follow orders, you’re doing no good to the unit! You want to do something stupid? Be a hero!? Your going to die!” Janna said angrily, staring hard at Kazar.
    Kazar remained quiet, and left the chamber without another word, deep in thought. He nodded at a pony-tailed man, garbed in a smoky grey cloak, the same as him, as he exited the marble training chamber. The man smiled a bit, and nodded.
    “Hey Kazar…I think were moving out soon. Want to head to the barrel for awhile…?” The pony-tailed man asked quietly, walking along beside Kazar now as he headed down the hallway quickly.
    “Sure…Sure Faold, I have to say goodbye to Lune anyway…” Kazar said quietly, seeming a bit agitated.
    Kazar’s mind faded back into the present, and the enemy force didn’t seem to have drawn any closer. He looked over his shoulder again, and for some reason, it seemed the Tor force behind him was drawing closer, perhaps even coming back for him.
    Kazar wiped a thin trail of blood from the side of his mouth with his cloak sleeve, and saw a moment of hesitation in the barrel-chested man’s eyes, even from the huge distance between them.
    Kazar mustered all the strength he could, raising his voice to a shout.
    “GO! Now!” Kazar shouted loudly, he took a few more breaths, his arrow wounds burning now. The barrel-chested man turned after a lingering moment, and headed off west with the force again. Kazar turned back east, his legs growing heavy.
    His mind faded back into memory, easing the pain of his wounds as he waited.
    Kazar sat atop a kank, staring intently at a war-braided figure on a war beetle near him. The man before him held a three-fingered rapier, and seemed to be deep in thought.
    Another scorpion armored man with pitch hair near him muttered quietly.
    ‘There were five or six of them…I felt it best to pull back, warlord.” The man said. The warlord nodded, and gestured to a group of Tor soldiers behind him, as well as an Allanaki half-giant.
    “On me, we will search them out.” The man said, riding to the head of the group, heading east. The sprawling surround of black and green tents, as well as hundreds of soldiers, was the Allanaki main camp.
    “My lord, please allow me to ride ahead and find them, surely they will flee once they see our force, perhaps I can catch them at unawares while you lead the main force.” Kazar said quickly, speaking before the dapper, spice-locked young man that was riding towards them spoke.
    The warlord nodded, and Kazar set off immediately, riding hard east. The last words he caught were from the dapper, spice-locked young man: “Oh my, I had best get my sword then, I will join you, Warlord Kharad.”
    Kazar smirked, his mind racing. He felt it almost a joke that a fale noble would join in the fight, but knew to keep his thoughts to himself. Scattered dunes past by Kazar as he raced, and finally something caught his eye, and he reeled his kank to a halt.
    Far to the south, just within sight, Kazar saw a group of tuluki scouts fighting a single allanaki scout. Kazar gritted his teeth, his mind finding his warlord’s right away. Words were not needed, Kazar’s connection was strong enough to imply that he had found the enemy, and that his lord must make haste.
    Kazar sat for what seemed like ever, trying to hold himself back form rushing to his comrades aid. But he knew, even if he went now, that himself –and- the scout would die.
    After a few more moments, as the bloody allanaki fell, Kharad rode up, the fale noble at his side, with the half-giant and a Tor force.
    Kharad gazed south, and frowned, nodding to Kazar. He spurred his War beetle on, shouting loudly.
    “Form up, Let’s get that half-giant moving! CHARGE!”

    Kazar shot off, flying up along with the half-giant as it lumbered across the sand to the south, shouting loudly. The main force lagged behind a bit, while the half-giant and himself surged across the dune.
    “Raaaaaaarrrrghhh!” The half-giant roared, and startled the un-suspecting tuluki scouts. A black-haired tuluki scout scrambled for his kank, and kazar set his sights on him. The half-giant chased the other enemies, who merely urged their kanks on eastwards, fleeing the fight.
    The black-haired tuluki turne , and drew his blades, ready for Kazar’s attack. Kazar’s blood boiled, passing one of his fallen soldiers, and he locked blades with the scout, gritting his teeth. The tuluki glared at him, and drew his blade back, turning his mount to face the eastern horizon.
    Kazar frowned, knowing he was going to run, and swung his blade inwards, trying to knock the scout of his kank. The tuluki was too agile, and dodged the swing, riding hard east, escaping a certain death.
    Kazar stared for a long moment at the eastern cliffs, knowing that somewhere inside, the enemy army lurked, and gave up the pursuit.
    Kazar opened his eyes again, slightly surprised at how close the enemy force was now. They were not thirty yards from him, and an arrow flew into his shield. Kazar glanced over his shoulder one last time, and saw that his lord and company were nearly out of sight.
    Lune…I’m glad you can’t be here to see this…I can only hope the others can protect you…I no longer can.
    Kazar’s thoughts were cut off abruptly by his pursuit.
    “Take him alive, if you can.” A cool voice echoed from the east now. The scorpion turned his attention to the speaker, and saw the main unit and the Jihaen halt, regarding Kazar carefully. A handful of soldiers rode forth, following a regal, flaxen-tressed woman closely.
     Kazar hefted his shield up, mustering what courage and strength he had left. He had known this might happen. They had been scouting the enemie’s southern gate, and they had been found. Now it was Kazar’s job to set it right. This couldn’t end in his lord and his allies being killed or captured.
     No more arrows flew at him, and the riders before him dismounted, staying behind the regal woman. She nodded, and a black-haired tuluki, along with an izdari-inked man, drew their blades and came forward at Kazar.
     Kazar smirked at the black-haired Tuluki, recognizing him instantly. The man scowled at his defiant features, rushing forward.
     “Death to the servants of the highlord!” The black-haired man shouted, almost upon Kazar now. Kazar slid his right foot back, raising his voice.
     “For the highlord!” He yelled, sliding under a broad sword swing. Kazar cut up, catching his enemies vest, tearing it open. The izdari-inked soldier reached him, stabbing in from the other side, Kazar turned, driving his shield into his knees, and threw him on his back.
     Kazar spit out a clot of blood, and slashed the black-haired soldier two more times in a furious attack, and the man retreated back to the woman, leaving the izdari inked man on his own.
     “This far…and no further…” Kazar panted tiredly, slamming his blade against the inked man’s, sending him staggering to the side. The man lunged in sloppily, and Kazar landed four fierce blows on him quickly. The woman rushed forward now, a spiky-haired soldier at her side, and frowned in anger.
     “You are dead!” She yelled, and stopped for a moment as Kazar landed another blow against the inked man, who was staggering back now, bleeding heavily.
     “Fall back!” She shouted, trying to draw Kazar’s attention. Kazar whirled, trying to stay focused. His wounds ached horribly, and he lashed his foot out at the woman. As he did so, another arrow flew into his chest, and the tor stumbled back, grimacing.
     The flaxen-tressed woman slashed kazar’s side as he lingered, but was caught by his blade as he turned on her in anger.
     Everything faded, before Kazar, as shouts of “Take him alive!” Quickly reverted to; “Kill him! Kill him!” The fight dragged on, the scorpion fighting desperately now, resigned to fate.
     “You will come back...? Promise me?” The young, amethyst-eyed woman asked softly. Kazar stood on the tavern’s balcony, staring out at the street below, the delicate woman in his arms.
     “You know I will.”
     The words echoed softly in Kazar’s mind. He gritted his teeth, dropping to his knees as the blonde soldier drove a dagger into his back. Now the force continued past him, and he fell face forward into the sand. His final thoughts didn’t linger on failure, but on his home, and on his love. He broke two promises, one to Janna, that he would not die, and another, that he would return home. But then Kharad’s words filled his head, and he had no regrets in the end.
     “We make promises such as these, to keep anxiety from our home. There is yet hope this way. Would you rather stay behind, and enjoy your love, only to let the enemy come and take her, or would you rather leave, and fight, in hopes that they never reach her?”
     Farewell…Sweet Lune…

    Kazar wrenched an arrow out of his shoulder, and hefted his shield a bit higher. He shook his dark bangs from his view, and gazed down at his foot for a moment, from which an arrow protruded.
    This tall, black-haired man’s scorpion emblazoned vest was completely covered in blood, and he...

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Original Submissions of type 'Stories'

The Story of Muk Utep by Belenos Added on Dec 4, 2012

Harmless Old Woman Mugged by Templar by Thunkkin Added on Jul 25, 2011

Biography of a Bynner: "Join the Byn!" by Zoltan Added on Jan 22, 2011

Hunger by BuNutzCola Added on Nov 23, 2010

Bako Pt. 1 by Is Friday Added on Feb 14, 2010

Bako Pt. 2 by Is Friday Added on Feb 14, 2010

Bako Pt. 3 by Is Friday Added on Feb 14, 2010

Behind Thrend Lyksae by Tarx Added on Dec 29, 2009

Initial Background

It was late morning on Cingel, the 70th day of the Descending SunIn the Year of Drov's Agitation, year 35 of the 21st Age

Diplomacy and Tact

It was late morning on Huegel, the 30th day of the Ascending SunIn the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age

Influence and Intimidation

It was late afternoon on Huegel, the 30th day of the Ascending SunIn the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age

Stance on Magick?

It was dusk on Huegel, the 30th day of the Ascending SunIn the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age

Ritual of Fire

It was high sun on Nekrete, the 126th day of the Ascending SunIn the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age

Foe, or...foe?

It was late morning on Cingel, the 158th day of the Ascending SunIn the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age

(title removed by author)

It was late morning on Dzeda, the 174th day of the Ascending SunIn the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age

New Priorities

It was late afternoon on Dzeda, the 141st day of the Low SunIn the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age

Affirmation: The Pah Alliance

It was high sun on Abid, the 91st day of the Ascending SunIn the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age

A Magicker killed

It was high sun on Abid, the 91st day of the Ascending SunIn the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age

It was early morning on Abid, the 25th day of the Low SunIn the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st Age

Defensive agreement with the Tan Muark

It was early morning on Abid, the 25th day of the Low SunIn the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st Age

His Glory Shines on Us

It was late morning on Abid, the 25th day of the Low SunIn the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st Age

Lyksae's Victory: The Grey Hunt

It was late morning on Abid, the 25th day of the Low SunIn the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st Age

And thus begins my mistake: Uaptal

It was early afternoon on Yochem, the 205th day of the Descending SunIn the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st Age

The alliance plan

It was late afternoon on Yochem, the 205th day of the Descending SunIn the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st Age

The unknown variable: stupidity

It was dusk on Yochem, the 205th day of the Descending SunIn the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st Age

The Final Mistake

It was late at night on Yochem, the 205th day of the Descending SunIn the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st Age

Surrounded by fools

It was late at night on Yochem, the 205th day of the Descending SunIn the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st Age

Chosen Lady Shara's Death

It was high sun on Dzeda, the 174th day of the Low SunIn the Year of King's Reverence, year 41 of the 21st Age

Leisara: The Chosen Consort

It was early afternoon on Dzeda, the 174th day of the Low SunIn the Year of King's Reverence, year 41 of the 21st Age

Â Luirsfest: Relations with the South

It was late afternoon on Dzeda, the 174th day of the Low SunIn the Year of King's Reverence, year 41 of the 21st Age

Â Luirsfest: Relations with the North

It was late afternoon on Dzeda, the 174th day of the Low SunIn the Year of King's Reverence, year 41 of the 21st Age

Death of Vraj Dasari

It was early morning on Dzeda, the 152nd day of the Low SunIn the Year of Lirathu's Peace, year 44 of the 21st Age

Belinta Lyksae's death; a new (removed by author)

It was high sun on Dzeda, the 152nd day of the Low SunIn the Year of Lirathu's Peace, year 44 of the 21st Age

Forging Ahead

It was late morning on Cingel, the 37th day of the Ascending SunIn the Year of Suk-krath's Defiance, year 54 of the 21st Age

The Aftermath

It was high sun on Cingel, the 37th day of the Ascending SunIn the Year of Suk-krath's Defiance, year 54 of the 21st Age

Uncharacteristic Reactions

It was early afternoon on Cingel, the 37th day of the Ascending SunIn the Year of Suk-krath's Defiance, year 54 of the 21st Age

Initial Background

It was late morning on Cingel, the 70th day of the Descending SunIn the Year of Drov's Agitation, year 35 of the 21st Age

The Warriors of Faith: Part IV: "To Be Born into Greatness" by Ghost Added on Apr 27, 2009

Motivation by Ajm Added on Feb 11, 2009

A Raiders Recounting by The Shadow's Pen Added on Dec 24, 2008

Legends of 'Nak: The Four Orders by Taven Added on Nov 26, 2008

Never look up. by Staggerlee Added on Sep 29, 2008

A Lost Warrior; Part II by Glantimere Added on Aug 29, 2008

The Warriors of Faith: Part III: "Clash of the God-Kings" by Ghost Added on Jun 9, 2008

Untitled by AmandaGreathouse Added on Apr 1, 2008

A Dying Dirge by AmandaGreathouse Added on Apr 1, 2008

The Warriors of Faith: Part II: "Before the Storm" by Ghost Added on Feb 26, 2008

Dreams of death for ever-more by Taven Added on Jan 6, 2008

The Warriors of Faith: Part I: "Chasing Ghosts" by Ghost Added on Dec 25, 2007

The Story of Muk Utep by Belenos
Added on Dec 4, 2012

Harmless Old Woman Mugged by Templar by Thunkkin
Added on Jul 25, 2011

Biography of a Bynner: "Join the Byn!" by Zoltan
Added on Jan 22, 2011

Hunger by BuNutzCola
Added on Nov 23, 2010

Bako Pt. 1 by Is Friday
Added on Feb 14, 2010

Bako Pt. 2 by Is Friday
Added on Feb 14, 2010

Bako Pt. 3 by Is Friday
Added on Feb 14, 2010

Behind Thrend Lyksae by Tarx
Added on Dec 29, 2009

It was late morning on Cingel, the 70th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Drov's Agitation, year 35 of the 21st Age

It was late morning on Huegel, the 30th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age

It was late afternoon on Huegel, the 30th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age

It was dusk on Huegel, the 30th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age

It was high sun on Nekrete, the 126th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age

It was late morning on Cingel, the 158th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age

It was late morning on Dzeda, the 174th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Ruk's Peace, year 37 of the 21st Age

It was late afternoon on Dzeda, the 141st day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age

It was high sun on Abid, the 91st day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age

It was high sun on Abid, the 91st day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Whira's Vengeance, year 38 of the 21st Age

It was early morning on Abid, the 25th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st Age

It was early morning on Abid, the 25th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st Age

It was late morning on Abid, the 25th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st Age

It was late morning on Abid, the 25th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Dragon's Slumber, year 39 of the 21st Age

It was early afternoon on Yochem, the 205th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st Age

It was late afternoon on Yochem, the 205th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st Age

It was dusk on Yochem, the 205th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st Age

It was late at night on Yochem, the 205th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st Age

It was late at night on Yochem, the 205th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Vivadu's Defiance, year 40 of the 21st Age

It was high sun on Dzeda, the 174th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of King's Reverence, year 41 of the 21st Age

It was early afternoon on Dzeda, the 174th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of King's Reverence, year 41 of the 21st Age

It was late afternoon on Dzeda, the 174th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of King's Reverence, year 41 of the 21st Age

It was late afternoon on Dzeda, the 174th day of the Low Sun
In the Year of King's Reverence, year 41 of the 21st Age

It was early morning on Dzeda, the 152nd day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Lirathu's Peace, year 44 of the 21st Age

It was high sun on Dzeda, the 152nd day of the Low Sun
In the Year of Lirathu's Peace, year 44 of the 21st Age

It was late morning on Cingel, the 37th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Suk-krath's Defiance, year 54 of the 21st Age

It was high sun on Cingel, the 37th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Suk-krath's Defiance, year 54 of the 21st Age

It was early afternoon on Cingel, the 37th day of the Ascending Sun
In the Year of Suk-krath's Defiance, year 54 of the 21st Age

It was late morning on Cingel, the 70th day of the Descending Sun
In the Year of Drov's Agitation, year 35 of the 21st Age

The Warriors of Faith: Part IV: "To Be Born into Greatness" by Ghost
Added on Apr 27, 2009

Motivation by Ajm
Added on Feb 11, 2009

A Raiders Recounting by The Shadow's Pen
Added on Dec 24, 2008

Legends of 'Nak: The Four Orders by Taven
Added on Nov 26, 2008

Never look up. by Staggerlee
Added on Sep 29, 2008

A Lost Warrior; Part II by Glantimere
Added on Aug 29, 2008

The Warriors of Faith: Part III: "Clash of the God-Kings" by Ghost
Added on Jun 9, 2008

Untitled by AmandaGreathouse
Added on Apr 1, 2008

A Dying Dirge by AmandaGreathouse
Added on Apr 1, 2008

The Warriors of Faith: Part II: "Before the Storm" by Ghost
Added on Feb 26, 2008

Dreams of death for ever-more by Taven
Added on Jan 6, 2008

The Warriors of Faith: Part I: "Chasing Ghosts" by Ghost
Added on Dec 25, 2007

The Shield Wall by Bebop
Added on Dec 16, 2007

The Gith Are Coming by Gimfalisette
Added on Dec 11, 2007

Honky Tonk Women of Zalanthas by Bebop
Added on May 31, 2007

Where do babies come from by Satine
Added on Apr 5, 2007

A promise by Kelen
Added on Mar 23, 2007