The Story of Civilization

Eclipse and Sainthood
Competition post

A remote mountain, on the fringes of the known world

Alonzo took another measured step forward. The boots on his feet made no sound as they touched the cobblestone path. Only the wind played in the chained bells that hung from a myriad of perpetually lit lanterns. Their hollow whistling accompanied him throughout his ascent up the mountain. Crude humanoid forms supported the enchanted artifacts, their light rippling across the stone forms due to the vicious wind.

He was a pilgrim, now. He hoped to become a priest again. The clothes on his back were simple and warm, reinforced against the elements that haunted this summit. Above him, a temple rose from the snowy rocks, its dark spire piercing the grey clouds that kept spewing snow.

Common sense dictated that the entire path should have buried under snow ages ago: the locals claimed the blizzard never ceased atop the summit, only waxed and waned on the gods’ whim. The god’s whim, within the privacy of his own mind Alonsico corrected their blasphemy.

The sun was setting, or perhaps just approaching the horizon — the overcast sky played tricks with one's perception of time. Since coming to the summit, Alonzo had learned to distinguish between numerous shades of grey. Even now, he thanked the caretaker of the temple for the man's foresight: lanterns provided some much-needed illumination. Without them, Alonzo would have already tripped many a time on some loose pebble.

Steles with hollow circle shapes on top of them signified the beginning of them temple territory proper. Alonzo recognized the eclipse design immediately and almost gave himself to despair. Then, his faculties engaged once more, and he let loose a silent curse, carried away by the wind. Contrary to the official Lesogean cult propaganda, the symbol of eclipse predated their paltry worship and petty little gods.

Upon closer inspection, Alonzo noticed the lack of sophistication both on the steles and in the depiction of the eclipse. The official cult always made the most elaborate talismans and effigies, so that every passerby could recognize their symbols from a distance. The steles along the path featured a simple hollow circle with only four small prongs.

When Alonzo approached one of them, the hollow part of the circle ignited with blue fire. It gave off no light and no warmth. Alonzo reached out with his hand to donate some of his own magic to sustain the enchantment, as was common practice for the flock in his own temple — a cutting rebuke followed. He heard no words, but the intent was clear. Whatever power presided over the steles, it wanted none of his involvement. Alonzo marvelled at the complexity of such an enchantment and gave the stele a short bow before proceeding up the path.

The encounter left him both confused and awed in equal measure. On one hand, he was a priest of the one true god on a pilgrimage to the god’s oldest temple. On the other hand, none in Lesogeon or in the world entire could boast such mastery of magic. Creating perpetual enchantments that needed no human help to remain strong for countless years (the steles all looked ancient) was the domain of the golds. Truly, Alonzo felt his most recent experience strengthen his faith.

When the sun had set truly, rendering the world black, Alonzo found the closest mausoleum (cut into the mountain) and per tradition left a conjured glass of water as tribute to the spirits within. He felt no rebuke this time and entered, shutting the door behind him.

The scones within lit up, welcoming him and illuminating the entire chamber in pale blue light. Alonzo set his backpack onto the floor, by one of the niches that contained an elaborate sarcophagus, and groaned as he straightened his spine. Though his magic kept him warm throughout his ascent, his skill with weight-reducing charms was lacking. Having someone else perform the deed for him would have cost Alonzo more money than he had.

Symbols of the eclipse decorated every coffin and sarcophagus. Chewing on a bit of frozen meat sandwich, Alonzo walked around the chamber and studies the etchings.

“Oh, a visitor?” a rasping voice interrupted his musings. “No matter… I can do my work later just as well…”

Alonzo turned towards the source of the sound, fireball on the tip of his fingers. He saw a ghoul, a terrified ghoul who tried to shield himself from the bright orange light with only a pair of rotting hands trapped in a pair of dilapidated gloves.

“My apologies, master mage,” the ghoul bowed deeply.

If he were some yokel, Alonzo would have mistaken the flat tone for ignorance or perhaps bravery. As it were, corpses possessed neither. The body in front of him was but a piece of flesh animated by magic, likely tied to the mausoleum to serve as its eternal caretaker.

Once more he faced a feat beyond any mortal mage.

“I will just get back into my niche, master,” the ghoul inched backwards.

“No, stay,” Alonzo extinguished the fireball in his hand and motioned for the corpse to walk towards one of the enchanted scones. He wanted to get a good look at the cadaver.

“Yes master,” the body complied and stood in the light, revealing its grotesque half-rotted, half-frozen flesh.

A collar around its neck glimmered in pale blue light.

“Collaring an undead? How gauche,” Alonzo commented. “Were you made with a blood sacrifice of some poor wretch, ghoul?”

“I wouldn’t know anything about it, master,” the cadaver rasped.

Alonzo let out a sigh of frustration. While he had no particular love of necromancy, he could appreciate genius. Creating a perpetual ghoul, even tied to a single location (likely the mausoleum) required more power than the entire Dragon Spire could manage and more knowledge than stored in all the libraries of Lesogeon. Alonzo wished he could record at least some of this precious insight, but the cadaver seemed devoid of it. If anything, he would have preferred to hold a conversation with those buried in the sarcophagi.

“Return to your station, you can do your job in the morning,” Alonzo waved the cadaver away, and it shuffled into one of the dark niches in the corner of the chamber, where none of the light shone.

He finished his supper and prepared the bedroll. While disappointing, the encounter with the ghoul reminded Alonzo of his reason for coming to the temple in the first place: he needed to learn more about his faith. He needed some way to illuminate the minds of others, to steer them away from the glamorous temples of the official cult and back into the one true faith. He hoped the temple would offer him more than a number of ghoul caretakers.

After his evening prayer, Alonzo gave in to the fatigue he had been ignoring for so long and fell asleep at last.

***

He left the mausoleum early in the morning, when the sun was just rising… Or at least Alonzo presumed the sun to be rising, as the blackness of night was somehow brighter than he remembered. He walked the path among the lanterns and steles, studying the designs etched in stone. While admiring the once elaborate but now faded ornaments, he kept his senses sharp, trying to find any more undead caretakers.

Alas, there was a presence draped over the mountain peak like a blanket. It cared little for Alonzo’s presence, but he could sense no hostile intent from the ambient magic. Perhaps that was the force that kept the temple going and protected it from foreign invasions and the ravages of time.

After all, if Alonzo’s mentor could tell stories of this place, who else could do the same?

His mentor was a complicated man. Alonzo knew little of his life before the temple, but he never felt the need to pry. Iordaro picked him up from among the students expelled from the Dragon Spire for incompetence (a lack of raw magical power for a solator) and gave him a purpose. Such a man had to be good at heart, no matter his shortcomings.

Fortune smiled upon him a while later, when the grey skies were at their brightest. Perhaps, it was midday? Who knew… Alonzo saw another ghoul, this one much worse for wear than the one from the mausoleum. The animated cadaver spotted some bits of flesh here and there but most of it had clearly rotted away decades ago.

‘Perhaps centuries ago…’ Alonzo looked at an amulet hanging from the corpse’s neck. It hung just below the iron slave collar and featured a distinct design from an empire that fell almost three hundred years ago.

The cadaver moved like a well-managed puppet, its limbs both precise and stiff in a way that only a foreign mind could enforce. Alonzo tried calling the creature, but it offered no response. Every fiber of its being, it seemed, was in service to a single purpose — that of tending to a pair of twin graves. Idle curiosity compelled Alonzo to have a look at the resting place that commanded such conviction.

He offered a wry smile to the skies when he saw the inscription. It was utter gibberish. Alonzo could make nothing of whatever language the family of the deceased spoke. A collection of quaint squiggles, he saw nothing more.

‘Could it be,’ he wondered to himself, stealing a glance at the animated cadaver, ‘that this ghoul can’t understand me due to a language barrier?’

The silent graves and the howling winds offered no more insight. Alonzo could speculate whether the twin memorials belonged to a pair of spouses, or lovers, or perhaps close friends. Alas, without any more clues, he would be wasting time.

With one last look at the graves, Alonzo left the dead to their rest and returned to the cobblestone path. He walked the steps with some effort, his backpack weighing him down even more than before due to the steep climb, but eventually, the outer gates stood before him. He could swear the air rippled in the sacred doorway… But perhaps not. Exhaustion could make men see all kinds of things.

***

No one greeted him. Alonzo looked across the deserted yet clean courtyard and frowned. Had he interrupted a midday prayer? Keeping track of time was difficult on this summit. He wondered for a moment how the local priests did it, but they probably used some kind of magic. With a sigh, he decided to drop his backpack in a gallery adjacent to one of the stone buildings, by one of the arches. It would keep his things away from the falling snow.

The main sanctum greeted him with eerie silence. It was a great building with many pillars propping up the roof. The sacred courtyard dominated the heart of the structure. With some surprise, Alonzo noted the absence of snow across the rich wooden floor. In fact, the wood seemed dry. Floating candles hovered all over the place, providing some much-needed light.

A priest in rich purple garb sat by a pond of some kind. Its surface rippled constantly, featuring ever-shifting patterns with the distorted reflection of candlelight. The priest’s torso remained bare, as per Lesogean fashion, and yet he showed no signs of discomfort.

“Another visitor approaches,” the priest turned his head towards Alonzo without opening his eyes. “I wonder if you know of the doom before your very eyes.”

“You mean my fate?” Alonzo frowned.

“‘Fate’,” the priest scoffed without a hint of emotion. “What platitudes… Which cruel heart punished you with the knowledge of this temple?”

“My mentor told me,” Alonzo replied. “What does that even matter? I’m certain there are numerous tales of this place across the world.”

“No, there are not,” the priest replied. “When you stepped on the cobblestone path, you made a pact: you can share the knowledge of this temple with a single soul.”

“The locals seem immune…” Alonzo felt compelled to argue for some reason.

“Witless fools, they have no idea what lies here,” the priest scoffed again. “They think it’s a cemetery.”

“Isn't it?” Alonzo asked, surprised. “There are plenty of graves outside.”

“Graves?” the priest titled his head in a manner that Alonzo considered mocking. “There are very few graves here. Most of them are empty anyway.”

“I’m sorry… But I really came here seeking revelation,” Alonzo replied. “Or wisdom, any guidance you can offer.”

“What on earth could compel you to venture here, young priest?” the man asked.

For a moment, Alonzo was taken aback by his host. He was young a decade ago, perhaps. Perhaps the man by the pond was older than he looked.

“Our faith is dying,” Alonzo sat down on the ground that proved surprisingly warm and sagged his shoulders. “And I… I’ve no means to quiet the heathens with their twin gods.”

“You wish to find ‘revelation’ here,” the priest surmised, his face impassive. “Have you noticed that there is no wind here?”

“What does that have to do with my query?” Alonzo wondered.

“Just tell me,” the priest continued, “can you feel any wind in this sacred courtyard?”

“No, I can not,” he replied. “Can we please get to the point?”

“Here’s your point then,” the priest nodded at the rippling surface of the pool between them. “How does it move, if there is no wind?”

Alonzo wondered if the man was playing games, speaking some obscure wisdom, or just being cryptic. Perhaps the priest had a way of telling things in a roundabout fashion. The servants of the official cult had that habit as well. They never offered straight answers.

On the other hand, how does something happen without a cause? Perhaps the priest wanted to point out a cause of Alonzo’s diminishing flock. He looked at the pool and saw his own distorted image reflected in the ripples. Was he the reason for the plight of his faith?

“Am I to blame?” he asked. “I know I’m not the best…”

“Fool, you’re a mouth regurgitating a single, flawed message,” the priest responded, shaking his head. “And your rivals are simply more numerous than your allies. There is nothing to it.”

“So what’s the point?” Alonzo asked, his voice harder than he intended. “Do I just let it happen? Do I yield to the official cult? I refuse!”

“You will be happier if you embrace the change,” the priest stated.

“What- This is blasphemy!” Alonzo sprung to his legs.

“Sit down,” the priest ordered, his voice resonating across the entire sacred space. Alonzo complied with the demand before he knew it. “If I call the sky red, will it become so?”

“No, of course not,” Alonzo replied, still taken aback by the casual demonstration of his host’s overwhelming power.

The golden candlelight served to alleviate some of his worries, however. They were a heartening sight, imposed against the cool dark skies and the uncaring grey marble of the temple.

“Will the rightful god cease to be just because there are fewer ears to hear his message and fewer eyes to witness his glory?” the priest followed.

“No, he will not,” Alonzo sighed. “But my flock-”

“Has no relevance to this encounter,” the priest cut Alonzo off. “You are here for yourself, young priest. Have the decency to speak the truth in this sacred domain.”

“I-” Alonzo wanted to argue, but the weight of the priest’s words stopped him. While his host’s eyes remained closed, the man’s gaze could be felt nonetheless. “You’re right. I’m a failure as a priest. That’s why I want to become better. Please, I beg you to teach me.”

“Did your cruel mentor call me a teacher?” the priest opened his eyes. They shone with dull golden light.

“My mentor was a kind man,” Alonzo disagreed.

“If he were ‘a kind man’ he would have never told you anything about this place,” the priest scoffed. “You would have been better off fighting your inner demons alone, young priest. Here, only doom and damnation await you.”

“Enough with the ominous warnings,” Alonzo begged the man in front of him. “Please… I will do anything for a chance to learn.”

“I require no toll,” the priest told him and nodded at the rippling pool. “All the answers lie here…”

“Really?” Alonzo moved forward.

“Yes… Look at the liquid, and you might catch a glimpse of the truth you seek,” the priest replied.

***

Alonzo looked at the pool and found himself standing in shallow water. The temple, the mountain, the priest — all of them ceased to be. Only a dull void surrounded him, with neither light nor darkness. Infinite ripples of the water at his feet was the sole feature of this drab landscape. Alonzo moved his legs, but the ripple pattern remained the same.

He tired looking into the waters and saw only a dull grey nothing. There was no ground underneath his feet, and yet Alonzo stood ankles-deep in some fluid. A sudden flash of light illuminated the entire sky. Alonzo looked up and saw the eclipse that bled golden and silver light across the expanse all around him. The water became the sea, and then he drowned.

***

He woke up with a gasp and found himself sitting opposite the priest, mere feet away from the rippling pool.

“This isn’t water, is it?” he asked.

“No, this is the sole part untouched by either gold or silver,” the priest replied, his eyes boring into Alonzo. “Have you figured it out yet? Why those graves are mostly empty…”

“Does this pool make people immortal?” Alonzo blinked.

He had no idea what the primordial goo in the pool really was, but it predated the world, clearly. Substances of such nature could probably deny the rules that bound the universe together.

“In a way, it does,” the pries nodded. “Your flesh is of this world, and nothing can change that. Your spirit, on the other hand, can be made eternal and bound to this place.”

“You mean true immortality, but only for the spirit,” Alonzo hummed. “Will you stop me from bathing in its waters?”

“Do I look like I will,” the priest scoffed and closed his eyes. “The temple could always use another caretaker… Or lantern, if you prove to be weak-willed. Though you look like you have a millennium worth of conviction in you.”

“Lanterns?” Alonzo felt something cold stab at his chest.

The priest offered no reply.

The rippling surface of the pool beckoned him. He could feel its allure. The promise of eternal life, dedicated to learning and spreading the truth of his god seemed appealing, a goal worth any sacrifice. ‘You have a millennium worth of conviction in you’ — the words of the priest echoed in his head.

What would happen after that millennium was over, Alonzo wondered. The thought sent chills down his spine. And if he could hold out for two millenia, what about the third one? The tenth? The hundredth? His body shivered in spite of the warm air around him.

“I am a servant of the one true god,” Alonzo spoke quietly and stood up, intent on leaving the same day.

“A single soul gets a single chance,” the priest warned him. “You will never find your way here again, should you leave. Such was your contract.”

Alonzo offered no acknowledgement and instead walked out of the sacred courtyard without looking back. He hated this place for its temptations and the unwelcome revelations. He hated it for revealing a flaw so deep and profound in his mentor’s character. Alonzo’s memory of the man would remain forever tarnished from here on. Sharing the knowledge of this place with anyone was cruel, even if one wanted to teach someone a lesson.

“I passed the test, I think,” Alonzo replied, as he crossed the threshold of the temple. “I will return to Lesogeon…”

He would see his flock diminish rather than expose anyone else to the revelations he had gleaned in this forsaken temple.

The Peasants Militia

With the Duskorian and Athorian armies being reorganised and restructured to fit their designated responsibilities of offence and defence respectively, Jathal was the only tribe left over. Jathal had never had a massive army. They never even had a good army for that matter. They were a tribe made up of mostly farmers after all so no one had the time to go and fight and nor did they have a need to because they had the Duskorians to protect them. They were only ever good as warriors during the march away from the old capital and that’s because there was no way for them to farm while being on the move so they just took up these positions out of necessity.

Now that they had stopped though and were protected by the other tribes, they no longer had to and so had very few soldiers and most of their troops were ill equipped and untrained. You might even hesitate to call it an army. The strongest of their ranks were the troops they had left over from their war against the neighbouring tribes and they weren’t even close to matching up with the average Duskorian soldier. It was abundantly clear that changes had to be made because it was not right that the other tribes should be responsible for defending Jathal as well as their own land.

The leader of Jathal, Cadawg, had agreed to implement these reforms so that Jathal was at least doing SOMETHING by means of defending the nation. It had been decided by him that they would base their army around cavalry as that was what they had succeeded with the last time they were thrust into combat. During that campaign, they were told to rout the enemy forces as fast as possible and that is exactly what they did. In less than a few months, they had fully pushed the enemy back and devastated their ranks with a final smashing victory. Their victories were based on their ability to move around and rapidly respond to enemy movements as they happened.

This led Cadawg to restructure his army to be not for offence or defence but to act as a sort of militia to respond to banditry and crime in the countryside. Joining would only be for volunteers and no one would be forced to go under any circumstances. Their mobility would allow them to cover far more ground far quicker and to effectively patrol far and wide. They didn’t necessarily want to make their army one for wars as they simply didn't have the equipment or resources to make that effective in the long term. Each horse they lose in battle is valuable. A strong horse takes years and years to produce and costs even more to buy them. Against bandits and robbers however, they’d be practically unstoppable. He also made sure that his troops were trained better than normal and that they were still heavily decentralised in terms of power but they weren’t entirely without leadership. This would allow them to build initiative among their ranks so they’d respond far quicker to situations than any other army in Leyndor.

A New Banner

It was a warm summer morning in Leyndor. The sun gleamed down on the bustling streets of the fledgling nation. In its capital city, people were waking up and going to work. The Temple in the Athorian district if the city was beginning to fill up with people coming for morning worship. As people passed the Temple, they saw outside of it, a banner they had ne’er seen before. It wasn’t a flag for Athor or Jathal or even for Duskor but a flag for all 3 flying not above the temple but at the bottom of its steps and below it.

The banner consisted of 3 sections. An orange part with the symbol of a horse in it, a light blue part in the bottom left with a hammer in it and on the right, a very dark blue section with a shield in it. These colours and symbols were not random or unfamiliar to the people who saw this flag. Orange was the colour that represented Jathal and the horse symbol was an obvious reference to that brave cavalry charge they made during the crusades against the barbarians that had been raiding Leyndor for so long. The light blue was for Athor and the hammer was symbolic of what their tribe had always been good at and that was building and forging things. The darker blue part on the right was obviously for Duskor who never usually stuck to any single colour but always preferred darker ones. The shield was symbolic of how they were literally Leyndors shields and had defended the other tribes for years and years.

It was these 3 different symbols and colours in one flag. It symbolised how these 3 different tribes with different specialties and different traditions were on one land and in one union. It’s position at the steps of the temple rather than flying above it was symbolic of how they were a nation under God. It was Dhegbris who led them to this land and it was Dhegbris who would lead them through the trials and tribulations to come in the future. They relied on him and so every single one of them were miles below him in both strength and wisdom.

This flag wasn’t long in being copied and reproduced multiple different times in various different styles and with varying details in regards to the symbols and colours. The original design however was the one that was flown outside the building in which the council of leaders met to make decisions together and to work in collaboration for the nation not as individual tribes who just lived near each other but as a union. As 3 tribes who shared a home and a responsibility to ensure the success of not just their own tribe but of every other tribe in Leyndor as well. This flag was not the thing that began this trend of unity because it was really began by Caerwyn way back when they first settled on this land. It was instead just a symptom of it.

The Sun illuminates, Even at Night
Competition post

The Great Temple in Leyndor was packed with hundreds and hundreds of people. Thousands crowded outside at the bottom of its steps and in the city surrounding it. They had been there since just before the sun rose where they had worshipped Dhegbris and gave their offerings of gold, jewels and various other valuables. Even the poorest people were bringing at least something to offer no matter how little it may be worth. So long as they gave even just a little then Dhegbris would see their devotion and lead them to better places or get them through hard times.

Arwel was present in the temple but not in his usual attire. He was in his attire as high priest of the Temple. He had before him, a queue of hundreds if not thousands of people was all in front of him. Every person wanted to talk to him whether it be for spiritual guidance, a blessing or even for a miracle. He’d been here for hours. It was very tiring doing the same things over and over again for hours while trying to keep looking awake and interested in what these people were saying despite hearing basically the same stories over and over again.

This next person in line was going to be the last person he was taking before he stopped meeting with people. The person came forward, he listened briefly to their request. They wanted to be healed because during the recent crusade, they had been injured by an arrow to their shoulder that had made it so that they could barely move their entire left arm. Arwel felt especially responsible for this man's condition. He began that war so this was his fault and so his problem to fix. He instructed the man to stay still. He put a hand on the man's forehead and focused. After a few seconds he pulled his hand away and told the man to open his eyes and move his arm. The man did as he asked and opened his eyes. The man's eyes lit up as he could move his arm again with no pain or struggle. The smile he gave was one that Arwel had seen multiple times that day and it had never gotten boring. That was payment enough for Arwel. After thanking him, the man went on his way.

Arwel stood after that and as much as he hated to do it, turned the rest of the people away. It was nearing sunset now and he had been doing this since dawn. He needed to rest now. He walked off to the back of the synagogue where he sat on a chair in the scroll cabinet room in silence for a few minutes. This was really exhausting but it was essential he be there for this event from start to finish. It was the festival of the Sun AND the Moon so he had to be awake just a little bit longer after sunset to accompany the people in their worship. With a sigh he stood up and muttered under his breath, “Dhegbris strengthen me…” before walking back out of the room and looking around the temple which was still full of people.

He looked around the temple for someone he might know. It was usually leaders and high ranking officials that made it into the inside of the temple after all so maybe he’d see someone he knew. He scanned the room long and hard and saw literally no one but a few military leaders, having a heated discussion over which weapon was most effective in warfare. They were eventually told to shut up by a priest because people were trying to worship. Cadwag of Jathal was there as well but he was prostrated on the ground and praying so Arwel decided not to bother him. There wasn’t really much he could do by means of getting acquainted with the festival attendees so he decided he’d just go for a little walk around the temple grounds and if anyone tried to chat to him, he’d go from there and if not then he’d just go back inside and get some rest.

He walked out of the front door to the temple and was assaulted immediately by the smell of freshly cooked food. People had been cooking their own food outside because many had been at the temple worshipping all day and some had even travelled from outside the city all the way here just to worship at this particular temple which was understandable. This was the first ever Temple to Dhegbris and was considered Holy ground.

Arwel walked down the stairs of the temple, past the countless people that had been resting on them. Resting in or around a temple like this would be frowned upon just a few years ago when there were temples not just to Dhegbris but to multiple Gods. Arwel had always been a lot less strict with that though. It is only natural for people of faith to flock to the house of their God whether it be for rest or for guidance.

As he reached the bottom of the steps he began his lap around the outskirts of the temple. Several tents had been set up from scrap clearly from people who had been here all day. A few fires were lit and large groups of people gathered around them. They were laughing, smiling and joking with one another. Others were worshipping Dhegbris even from outside the temple which was the big thing about this ceremony. Dhegbris was traditionally symbolised by the sun so worshipping him at night wasn’t something you did often and if you did do it, it was at an entirely optional and seldom attended vigil that was held at temples only once a week. This ceremony was to last all day and all night because after all, the moon just reflects the sun's light. It is a symbol of how Dhegbris will illuminate the path forward for his faithful no matter how dark or bleak it is.

Ni Etzgum III – Zana
69th Post

Zana remembered this place. Her former village has moved initially, but seemed to have returned here, though on a slightly different place as she initially remembered.
A tear dropped from her eye. As she noticed, she tried to suppress these feelings. This wasn’t the time to cry right now.

“And what if I don’t? What if I don’t talk to them? What if I simply refuse to even go down there again?”, she asks, turning her head towards a certain Sarim, who brought her into this mess in the first place.t

“If you don’t manage to convince your people to join Greater Karadea…”, Sarim Zemira spoke, before Zana interrupted her again.
“ Oh hear hear! ‘Greater’ Karadea. What makes you so great?”, she bickered.
Then, suddenly Zemira took her arm, “Be quiet now, before I have to order any disciplinary measures! Don’t forget, that my men follow us and can listen to us as well!”
Immediately Zana went quiet.
“Good! You are both lucky, that we speak in your language, and that I actually like and understand you. Other Sarims would have already disciplined you harshly before everyone else here!”, the Sarim spoke, as she removed her hand from her.
Somehow Zana doubted that. She simply sighed and continued to stare at her village.
“Zana?”
“If these soldiers weren’t here, I really would like to tell it in Karadeysh, so that you understand me a little bit better, but…”, Zana took a deep breath.
“We’re only here, because you agreed in the first hand to come her. You knew what you had to say! These people trust you! That’s why you were sent here in the first place.”, Zemira reminded her
“I know!”, “Zana admitted, “But I would change my people’s life so much!”
“For the better Zana!”, Zemira noted, “In the worst case scenario, nothing changes with the exception that the few Kishufers your society might bring out, get a chance to life in Niuonheybshtot and serve greater Karadea.”
“What’s so great about Karadea? And what happened that you call it greater now? You didn’t when your firstly took me. It irritates me!”
“We brought stability! We brought peace, even if through harsh means. We brought prosperity for all our people and those who chose to behave. Both in the Underground and the Overworld. And do you know what Zana? Your people, could enjoy it too! It begins with your village, continues with your tribe and in the end all of the Ni Etzgum are a part of a greater civilisation! The karadeysh civilisation!”

Zana though about what Zemira said for a moment, but somehow it didn’t convince her.
“You talk about peace, yet I heard stories in Niuonheybshtot about war on our borders!”
“In return, there is no war within our borders!”, Zemira spoke calmly.
Zana sighed slowly, “I guess, if I manage to convince my people to join you, we would… be safe?
“Your people would!”, the Sarim confirmed silently, “And unlike the Iberveltners, your people wouldn’t need to be forced to. They can choose to join without violence! Speak and convince them. Once the banner of the ten circles flies above their tents, they will be part of us! Just a few more steps!”

“Okay… I will go now! What will you do, you won’t follow me, right?”
“From experience…”, as Zemira said it, Zana got an unwell feeling, “…I know it wouldn’t bring out the best results. We will stay here. You know what to do, if you’re in trouble?”
“They are my people. I won’t be in trouble!”, Zana defended them.
“Do you know, what to do?”, she asked, now in karadeysh.
“Yes.”, Zana answered in the same language.
“Good!”, Zemira responded in Zana’s language again.

She took the same steps down the hill, she remembered years ago. Witnessing plants, which grew here for years, and plants which she never saw at this place before.
Eventually she reached the gates, which was guarded by two men, Togan and Aran. As Zana approached them, firstly they tried to blockade her, but then one person widened his eyes, while the other raised his eyebrows. They each whispered something in the others ear, before one of them approached Zana, “Are you Zana?”
They remembered? They remembered! They didn’t forget her! And apparently, she still was looking a bit like herself. From the pure Euphoria Zana felt, she almost forgot to respond, “Yes! I am Zana, daughter of Kerut the Herbalist.”
“Y-… You’re Kerut’s daughter?”, the other one asked, clearly in disbelief.
“Yes!”, Zana didn’t know what she could say, or what she should do, to convince them. Maybe calling them by their name? “Togan, Aran! It’s me!”
For a short moment, there was silence. Again, these two men whispered, and while failing to understand most of the things they said, she heard a silent, “We have to tell Kerut about it!” from Togan, before he run into the village.
“Wait here Zana!”, Aran said.
About five Minutes later, Togan returned with her father, dragging him behind him.
His golden, slit-pupiled eyes widened. Tears dropped from her father’s face. She never saw him cry ever before. He run directly towards her. In reaction Zana opened her arms as well.
As her father reached her, he hugged her as tightly as he could, “I can’t believe I’ve ever seen you again. I missed you so much!”
Zana also began to cry again. This time she allowed it herself, “I missed you too Papa!”
“I thought this demonic witch had already killed you! I am so glad you escaped her!”

She tried to escape. And she failed. The only reason she was here, was because they allowed her to here. And if they wanted to, and she knew it by her own experience, they could raze this village within 5 minutes. They didn’t, luckily.
Also, Zana didn’t know what she should think about her father also calling Sarim Zemira a “demonic witch”, like she did initially.
“I… didn’t really escape…”, she admitted, but apparently her father didn’t listen. “You have grown so much… and your hair is different now. Is everything okay?”
“Yes, everything is okay now. What’s so strange about my hair?”
“It is so… linear? It’s a bit off putting I must admit.”, her father told her looking sceptically at it, “But it won’t matter. As long as everything is okay, it’s fine for me.”

As her father brought Zana back to the Village, the rest of the village soon followed. All amazed by her seemingly miraculous surviving. Only one person was missing, and that was the chiefess of the village. She wondered if she died, until one villager mentioned, that she had to consult the Spirits about her next decisions in her tent.
One of the guards, Togan, suddenly packed Zana on the shoulder, “In any case the spirits certainly granted us a great time ahead, first a successful hunt, and then you!”
“A successful hunt?”, Zana asked with widened eyes, “What did you hunt? Was this a Vivern?”
“Indeed, took five of us to take it down! Finally, meat is back on the campfire!”
Her father then packed her on the other shoulder, “Do you want to celebrate with us?”
She nod her head. Vivern was a delicatesse in Karadea, and a rare one at that. Zemira only allowed her two times to eat them, back when she was in Niuonheybshtot.
It was almost dream-like, when the entire village appeared, to prepare the Vivern, along with some mushrooms, berries, and leaves to it. She was excitedly taking a piece of the Vivern-meat, already on a stick and roasted it on the fire. But to her shock, the others took their pieces of meat only half cooked. Zana didn’t dare asking any of the villagers why they took so little time, instead it was her father who wondered, “Do you notice it gets overburnt? It’s almost brown.”
“It’s supposed to be brown?”, atleast in Karadea this was the case. Her answer however only resulted in raised eyebrows, and shrugging.
As she wanted to place the meat on a plate and get her cutlery, she remembered her people didn’t have any, aside from knifes. Even the rural people in Karadea had forks. While everyone ripped the meat off the stick and ate with their fingers, Zana carefully ate around it, which granted her a lot of confused glances from the villagers. The rest of the meal, with the mushrooms and the plants however, went on more normal, as even in Karadea the people ate their mushrooms with their fingers.
As the meal was done, the village chatted for a while around the Campfire. Most of which were the men and the women talking about their hunting successes. Later some mothers also talked about the misbehaviour of their children, with said children seemingly getting annoyed by it and leaving in frustration. It brought out a little chuckle seeing it.

As Zana was standing up, Chiefess of the village, Kora, appeared. It’s the same woman who guided her village, when Zana involuntarily left her community. Despite being old, she was still moving with the back straight and seemed generally be still in good shape, unlike other men or women.
“I never would have expected to ever see you again. I am glad I was wrong about it.”
Zana bowed before her, “I am glad to be back here too!”
“Why did you that?”, Kora asked.
“Well this…”, she imitated the bow, “That’s not good for your back. You don’t want to look older than me after all.”, she joked.
Zana completely forgot, this isn’t something they do here. In Karadea, it was normal that everyone bowed before someone of higher rank.
“I-…”, Zana didn’t know what to say, “I-… got used to do it in Karadea.”
“Ka-ra…de-a? Is this the place the witch you brought you, when she took you away from us?”
Zana nod, “Yes, Karadea. They kept me in a large settlement called Niuonheybshtot.”
“How many were in this large settlement?”, Kora asked.
“About”, Zana thought about it for a moment, “I think it was ten thousand…”
“Ten Thousand?”, Kora trembled, “A demon village that large?”
Even though she herself thought of the Karadeans as Demons, to call them that would be blatantly wrong and false. The elite of this land might be. But she witnessed the people in Niuonheybshtot, and they weren’t that much different than her own folk.
“I… I initially thought about assembling the warriors for an act of vengeance…”, Kora noted, “But even if all of the Ni Etzgum would stop their fighting and unite against them… Ten Thousand Demons?”, she asked in disbelief.
“They weren’t demons!” Zana said carefully, “They… even the ‘witch’, were humans. Admittedly, most of them strange looking. But humans as us!”

Kora starred at her with wide opened eyes, “You saw that giant wall of fire this witch created with her bare hands, didn’t you?”
Zana nod.
“Then how… do they worship demons?”
“They worship “Mlakhim”(Angels). According to their mythology, they are some mix between gods and spirits, acting for the greater good.”
“You know surprisingly much about these people.”, Kora raised an eyebrow, “And this hair is also strange.”, she touched Zana’s hair, “And the bow… it’s also a practice I assume from the “Karadea”-People?”
Zana nod.
“Why are you here?”, Kora took one step back. “I thought you escaped but…”
“I didn’t…”, Zana admitted, “They… they send me with a purpose…”
“You’re working with the demons? Like this witch?”
“They aren’t demons!”, Zana shouted, “I can understand why you think it, but they are normal beings.”
“Who stole a girl from us, and turned her into their own servant?”

Her father, who until this moment was very quiet, now moved in between these two women, “My daughter would never work with such beings, I am sure of it…”
“She admitted it herself, just a few second ago! The Spirits told me, that something great is one the horizon, and if we don’t do something, it would have terribly consequences.“
“That’s why I am here!”, protested Zana, but before she could say anything further, she got interrupted.
“This witch… what did she order you to do?”
“They…”, could she really admit it? Zana took a deep breath in, before continuing speaking, “They want your village to… swear allegiance to Karadea…”
The villagers gasped in shock, with some taking one step back, before their faces went red from anger.
“So you do want to destroy us?”, her own father said, clearly feeling betrayed.
“Not destroy you! Save you! Bringing you prosperity… We don’t have to much around, we could stay at one place, knowing that we will survive nonetheless.”
“Are these lies?”, the Chiefess asked, “You really want me and your entire community to serve the same demons, who brought you away from us?”
“I… I really only want…”, Zana didn’t knew what to say.
“When they first took you away from us, they came from this cave.”, Kora pointed at the Cave Entrance she came from, “So tell me, are some of these demons hiding up there?”
Zana nod.
“Then tell your new people, that we don’t want your offer! Unlike you, none of us is willing to sell our soul to these demons!”
“They are like us!”, Zana shouted desperately.
“No… you are like them! You are one of them! And if you’re really on our side, go back and tell them we never join them!”, Kora shouted in anger, “And if they decide to come to subjugate us, tell them that we will kill everyone daring to enter this village without permission.”
“They are far stronger than you can even comprehend. You aren’t the first village they tried take. The Ni Etzgum aren’t the first people who came in conflict with the Karadeans. And the people, who did come into conflict lost! They lost, despite being more advanced, more numerous, more united than we were ever in our past. I beg you; I want this village and my people to stay! You won’t, if their warriors march down to us! The entirety of the Ni Etzgum has a chance to work together with the Karadeans, instead of getting destroyed.”

Kora sighed, still with anger in her voice, “You talk of “Us” and “We”, as if you are still part of us. If you really see that way, then go back to the Karadeans, and tell them what I told you. If you aren’t gone in one minute, we ourself have to eliminate you.”
“But…”, before she could say anything, the men and women of her village grabbed their spears and axes, took a look at the chiefess, then back to her. Some sad, some confused, some angry. The message was clear.
Tears dropped in masses from Zana’s eyes, uncontrollably, as she cried, “I will miss you! I will miss you all so dearly! I love you!”, before turning back and wandering slowly out of her village, to the Cave where the Karadeans were awaiting her. Zemira noticed Zana coming up crying, and immediately ordered the soldiery close to her, to leave them alone.
“What happened?”, Zemira asked, “Is everything okay?”
Despite sounding sincerely worried, Zana couldn’t do any other, than to lash out, “They hate me! They hate us… you! They have kicked me out, because they associate me with whatever you did in this village the first time around.
“I am… sorry to hear it.”, Zemira slowly moved her hand towards Zana, but she pushed it away.
“Don’t! You are the reason I will never again return to my village. You… you made me on your people! I don’t belong to the people anymore, because of you!” She fell down on the ground and cried again, like she did years ago.
“But now you do belong to us. Now you are karadean!”, Zemira bowed down towards her, “And you should be proud of yourselves! Your old people, don’t deserve you!”
Zana agreed with the last part, though most likely not for the same reasons Zemira had.
Zemira put two fingers in her mouth and whistled, echoing in the caves. Immediately the karadean soldiers came out, with their weapons in their hand. As Zana saw it, she feared the worst.

“Men, we have a job to do!”, Zemira said, standing straight with two hands on her back. Within less than an hour, we will be back here. Karadea’s honour was just hurt in this moment, and we will have to take it back. Follow me!
And the worst came to fruition, as Zemira and her men marched down towards the village. Immediately Zana tried to stop them, by running ahead and moving directly towards Zemira, “I won’t let you do this! They still were my people!”
“You said it yourself! You are karadean now. We are your people now They were your people, but they aren’t your people now. So please step aside, so that we can properly finish what we started!
Zana shook her head, “No! No!”
Zemira’s expression darkened, “I order you to step aside and move out of our way!”
For a short moment, Zana thought about resisting her. But she knew it was pointless. An order was an order. And as ordered Zana moved aside and let the men march to the village.
As the last man marched past her, she fell on the ground, leaning on a cave wall, pulling her legs towards herself, closing her eyes and hoping it would somehow still take a good ending. It had to, Zana thought. Angel or Spirit, they both had to guarantee it, right?”
Then suddenly, she heard the crackling of fire in the distance. Immediately she stared at the village, and noticed that one of the tents has been ignited.
“No!”, Zana screamed. “No, this can’t be!”
But then the fire slowly sunk, and the fire was extinguished. Shortly after, on the largest tent the banner of the ten circles was flying above.
Minutes later Zemira returned with a smile, “That was an unnecessary long hassle, but at the very least its done.”
“You didn’t kill anyone there, right…? Right?”
“Only an old woman.”, Zemira admitted, “The villagers told me, that she was denying the village entry into Greater Karadea.”
They… they actually…
Zana didn’t cry hearing it, even though she wanted to.

She just accepted it!

Tinaamee 3: Yukihagen

Aashiwaan

Still in the time of Ponsichiru, but Yakikata was thinking about Sannoheida and how she'd heard yukihagen of them constantly wanting to expand their markets - embiggen their markets and lengthen it and make tremendous amounts of Ying. She had heard Sannoheidai talk about expanding markets into Hachimasa - whether or not they already had preexisting markets, that well was up for debate. Well-debated, oft-debated that as Sannoheidai and Hachimasans had had dai-hezatzu for ages, that they should've had markets in one anothers' lands - that goods and services should be shared. Animals and mounts, food, weaponry - whatever - shared. Because, markets were excellent - not only in the joy of money which was a joy to itself, but markets were excellent in that one can expand their values and culturalnorms. One can expand them PEACEFULLY - which was always the interest of Aratazaku; keeping things peaceful.

Yakikata had, too, heard of Hachimasans being a warmongering people. It was a shame. Not that Sannoheidai gossipped about them - that was bound to happen, they were loudtalkers - but that gossip myth rumor tale story aesop became not about good deeds, but about joking around and teasing. Teasing was betterthan hatred and anger, especially ancestral-detestment shared amongst Sannoheidai, but nonetheless, a bad comment coming out of someones' mouth about how much your people engage in combat and warfare -

a bad comment on about how you and your friends openly harm others and rejoice in others' pain -

it was tenet enough to abstain from "bad comment," it was Sannoheidai to be polite though simultaneously honest and clear as holding back ones' emotions is not valued in their culture. Yakikata was Aashiwaani, but so much of her life had been encircled by Sannoheidai things. Aang'ta'ah had been outspokenly-enamored by Sannoheidai Wisdoms and been changing Aashiwaani traits to be more in-line with Sannoheidai. Even the celebration of Ponsichiru had been somewhat-modified albeit in compromise, Aang'ta'ah compromised and went the halfmeasure instead-of entirely-changing the festivities into something pleasing to herself, into something Sanitized. It didn't need to be Sanitized, it could've been everyone all one - keeping their culturalnorms and practices, enshrining them.

Well - Yakikata corrected herself, Sannoheida did enshrine everything. Documents and papers sprang and whizzed around like arrows during fiery combat.

Only that still, she was worried about Aashiwaani losing their cultural-identity. It was good to strengthen ties, but to what end? To being swallowed-up by colossal grasses?

Ofcourse, Sannoheida wasn't only Sannoheidai - though that distinction of identity became hard to distinguish because, even though Sannoheidai had multiple peoples within Aratazaku - they all considered themselves "Sannoheidai." Genukaisu, for what its' worth, is considered Sannoheidai even though it'd be Genukaisen territory. It wasn't that the area stopped being named whatever it was, it was just that those peoples "tied themselves up" into another. That even though Sannoheidai are very libertine and positive people, there's still intercultural things going on. Things that kind of, confused Yakikata. Again - she wasn't Sannoheidai. She was Aashiwaani. Even if Aashiwaan and Sannoheidai were very closely-knit and held deep connections, even if Sannoheidai adopted her or if she slept at their house for spells - she still was Aashiwaani.

She still was Aashiwaani.

She sighed.

Was it being only that she'd have Bonsichiru and a few other "Aashiwaani" things to hold-onto? The thing is, even if there'll always be an Aang'ta'ah, Aashiwaani shouldn't only seek pride in royalty and monarchy. She was much more than jewels and tiaras. Her culture wasn't just monarchist-royalism, there was actual intensity to it!

In-addition she shouldn't have every second word from her face be about Sannoheidai. Only she'd heard Sannoheidai conversations and discussions in Aashiwaani cities and valleys. In meadows held by Aang'ta'ah long ago. And again, so much of them. Sannoheidai crossed over, went back and forth - talked and exchanged things - but Aashiwaan was...

Yakikata screamed, falling to outrage and disgust. It was venomous like supenderu hiding in the soil.

Sannoheida was ancient. An ancient landscape, even to Yakikata, probably perhaps had talks and discussions many a time about culture and people. About preserving said identities and traditions. But at the same time, Sannoheidai with their tenets and knowledge on about shubuderu...

It was tricky.

But she hated the feeling, the sensation of her home being lost forever.

She lost the plot entirely - she was firstly thinking about Hachimasa and expanding markets. But her head raced from one idea to the next until it'd became all about Sannoheidai.

And, in a way, that was what dai-hezatzu was all about; forming entanglements and connections, sharedvalues - things like that. All of the nearby countries in one way or another, would've held relations with the Sannoheidai and heard of them. Though, Sannoheida currently was in shunari. It was time to switch around arigishima. That was just the way of Aratazaku.

Yakikata yowled oncemore.

It'd seemed Aratazaku had had so many tenets. It'd seemed Sannoheidai was, just, all-encompassing and growing fiercely like a weed. Their cities and art would grow. People - young people would explore and share knowledge - on and on and on.

War with Zenhacha, was coming to a close - adding onto what Yakikata was thinking about; the growth of Sannoheida and how expansive they'd seemed. How omnipresent they were. Sannoheidai tenets and culture would absorb Zenhacha. It's enough half of the Zenhachi do not identify with "Zenhacha" or "Zenhachi" in the firstplace. So when a culture, a beliefsystem grows to be problematic - would it die or reformat?

It'd seemed it may reformat, like all olden things did. Sannoheida before her current timespan was held by what the present Sannoheidai call "Old Sannoheidai," which was an umbrella-term. Again, alot of peoples in that area - just like there are alot of peoples nowadays in not only Aratazaku but in the wider region.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

glossary:

Tinaamee - the blend of "happiness" and "sadness," or when one feels both happy and sad simultaneously.

Sanitize(d) - "Sanitize," "Sanitizing," "Sanitized" is relating to Sannoheida, even though "Sannoheida" specifically refers to/means "That blessed place" - a/the specific place when Sannoheida is uppercase, when it's parsed "sannoheida" it just refers to any "blessed place" in-general.

Only "Sanitize," in the context means "to be Sannoheidai" or "to make something akin to that of the Sannoheidai," "to make something Sannoheidai" or "to act (like the) Sannoheidai."

Tales of Riches - Part 1

A fire crackled, its warmth radiating into the already steamy night air; those surrounding it, lounging in comfortable chairs after a long day’s ride, kept their distance. But not too much distance for the same flame lent its heat to the crackling and sizzling buffet of meat skewers suspended above, each eagerly awaiting its intended recipient - whomever that may be after the feast that had just been lain out an hour previous.

Such was the nightly affairs of the Army’s commander, King Dragomir of Sterkuta, and his closest advisors and subcommanders. Often the state of the army was discussed, but so soon after having left the slowly-rebuilding Belorkuta (a large, old city which had been torched by its own defenders just five years prior), and before that Kemersk (both the northern-most settlements of the Kingdom along the respective eastern and western banks of the Yamutsk), there was little to talk about in that field. The army had gotten away cleanly and in an orderly fashion, and the men will have been well rested and well provisioned. If there were any issues that needed tending to by the King so early in the resumption of the march, they had much bigger problems indeed…the kind that would be threatening the entire campaign. Fortunately, that was not the case; the men were motivated not only by their commander, who had proven surprisingly adept at his role over the past few years, but at the religious fervor inspired by their marching north, to destroy the deadly tribes of fire mages that harassed the Kingdom and its neighbors on a generational basis.

Oh the irony…

“So…any stories?” Dragomir asked after silence - though a very pleasant one as everyone digested their excellent meals, and filled their gullets with fresh fruitwine. “For without one I fear Rezan will drink himself into a stupor.” He chided his Councillor lightheartedly, hoping to keep the relationship functional. Since his other advisor, the priestess Schchetenina, was far more knowledgeable of the region, he felt he had been neglecting much of the old man’s advice; an old man whose own zeal to take the fight to the Sisenski was second to none, and who felt it was finally his time to shine.

“Nothing for it on campaign.” Rezan said with a shrug, as if bolstering Dragomir’s point by topping up his mug. “And nothing for a hangover like a few hours on horseback through the steamy mountain jungles.”

Dragomir gave him a questioning look - his own thoughts on the matter hardly converged with Rezan’s - but continued to scan across the group. There was Schetenina, of course, and also Erik and Luka, his cousins. Both young lads, and both having older brothers, their fathers had seen it best they learn some skills other than administrating; Dragomir wasn’t convinced either was cut out for military command, but nor had he thought that of himself prior to his first campaign - and it wouldn’t hurt for him to have loyal commanders to call upon should ever the need arise. He doubted he would give them too much responsibility on this campaign, but in future they could be useful. Rounding out the group was his own lieutenant; no blue blooded royalty, but he came from a wealthy family of slave owners and had earned Dragomir’s trust on the Belorkutan campaign. Valerian, he was - and though he’d seen little battle, he’d proved good enough at getting the men to the right place, at the right time. That was better than most…and he knew how to whip a slave into shape. Not a rare skill, but a valuable one when driving forward an army that was 60% slave.

But as Dragomir met each of their eyes he saw no story forthcoming, and was about to launch into one of his own before he realized that was exactly how it always went. He’d been out of fresh stories since well before Kemersk, and though he knew his subordinates would listen with rapt attention it would all be an act. He was no feared King, necessarily - or so Dragomir hoped for his own humanity - but who in their right minds would offend the King for something so simple as avoiding a repeat telling of a dull story?

“How about you, Schetenina?” He raised an eyebrow, “We’ve heard few tales from you over the past years, and your days as a wandering priestess must’ve been quite interesting.”

He’d never actually pressed her before, knowing many of her tales were tied up in her magical abilities; if she revealed those, well…that would complicate a lot of things. “A folk tale you heard along the way, perhaps?” He offered in consolation at her sudden and weary surprise.

She nodded, “Allow me to think, my King.”

He nodded, and gathering his feet beneath him - the wine was certainly making its presence known, as was always its habit when one stood after a while - he reached forward for one of the skewers. Tearing into the flesh, he savored the fine cubes of beef, nicely charred and dripping with juices. And quite contently, he waited.

“Perhaps,” she offered, “A tale I doubt any of you will have heard - save perhaps Rezan here. A folk tale from the north - from, as far as I know, both the Sisensk and Krasnotlas valleys.”

Rezan raised an eye at this, “And how would you know tales from the north such as these? No less, one shared with the Sisenski…”

“Well, admittedly I have not met any Sisenski,” Shchetenina conceded, though her tone belied to Dragmoir that this wasn’t true - in fact, he knew it wasn’t true. Where else would she have gotten her fire stone? “But across my journeys I have met a fair few folk from the Krasnotlas valley. Especially those most frequency at the mercy of Sisenski raiders, and two actually who had been prisoners of them. How they escaped is another thrilling story but…let me indulge my King’s request for a higher tale.”

“Pfah, Krasnotlas folk.” Rezan scoffed. Despite it being his duty to know all there was of the two northern valleys, he struggled to overcome his hatred for the inhabitants. It compromised a lot of his advice.

“In my role as Priestess of the Troivkan faith, there is not individual I will not meet, nor to whom I will not attempt to inculcate devotion to the Godmother Kjina.” She said firmly, before adding, “Save, perhaps, mages. They have already strayed too far from Kjina’s teachings.” She concluded with a remarkably earnest sounding sigh. Rezan simply nodded at this, knowing it would look poorly to question the duties of a Priestess. Though as she was a woman…Dragomir knew he was surely tempted.

“But putting all that aside, whom among you has heard the tale of Rustem.”

“Not I.” Dragomir said, and no other answer was forthcoming.

“Well, the tale of Rustem begins, as do so many in the northern valleys, with a great fight between the Masked Mages of the Krasnotlas, and the fire mages of the Sisensk. Generations ago - too many to count - they began one of their first great wars. Mage battled mage over the increasingly worthless ruins of the valley, those of the Krasnotlas fighting for their survival, the Sisensk driven by whatever has driven all of their wars.”

“A hatred of Kjina.” Rezan scoffed, before further indulging in his drink.

“Perhaps,” Schchetenina said with a curt nod, “Ultimately, I’ve never met a soul with true knowledge of their motivation. And most of their fights are raged against the Krasnotlas, who despite my best efforts still broadly reject the teachings of Kjina. But whatever it was, the war raged for a decade, and each sight beat one another to a bloodied and wearied pulp. The Masked Mages were more numerous, more organized, and had better codified their use of magic; the Sisenski were more wild, more powerful - as often as they summoned up great tornadoes of fire which cut through the masked mages, they did so too conjure up great winds of flame which engulfed their own non-magical forces. And yet, despite horrific losses, on they ploughed their precious youth into the conflagration.

“Driven by whatever motivation has always driven them, many of the Sisenski youth accepted their fates, and gladly went to wield the powerful blessings of their birth - that naughty corruption of sorcery granted to them by Velzhbog, the great evil of existence. There was one exception, however; a powerful young sorcerer named Rustem. The war had begun in his youth, and as adulthood beckoned so too did his eventual joining in the fight - and perhaps Rustem would have gone to do his duty had he been old enough from the start, but after observing so many of his peers - his father, older brothers, and the other men of his village - trundle off towards the fight, never to be heard from again, he became jaded and questioned the matter.”

“Why go to fight over ashes, when his own village was falling into unkempt disarray? What good would new lands have to his people if there was nobody to farm it? To hunt upon it? To live upon it? None, he decided - and so Rustem rejected the notion. As firmly as possible. And yet, much to the disgrace of his family, he continued to practice his magic, showing an impressive command of the flames and irking his village's elders. A boy so powerful, and yet one that refuses to join in the battle?”

“I’m beginning to see why I’ve never heard this tale.” Dragomir said with a smile and a shake of his head, “However would I get people to fight my own wars if we also told tall tales of bold rebels.”

Shchetenina returned the smile, but merely shrugged and continued, “The village elders eventually forced the matter, confronting the boy and telling him that he would only be welcome back in his village once he had gone off to fight and come home a victor. Enraged, but knowing he could not prevail against the combined strength of a dozen village elders - for be mindful, where each was lacking in magical endurance, they had knowledge aplenty to outwit Rustem in what would surely be a quick fight - Rustem departed for the mountains.”

“Here he took up residence as a hermit, building a new living out of an old cave carved out of the volcanic rock, he farmed, he fished, and hunted for several years, always practicing his magic. Some say his aim was to return to his village and replace the elders, preaching peace and prosperity defended by their magical prowess, rather than peace and prosperity brought to ruins through an over-indulged opinion of their magical prowess. The Sisensk valley is, after all, fantastically fertile - there was no need for more lands. Others, however, say Rustem simply wanted to ensure he would never be forced by anyone to fight for them, and that should the elders or their lackeys seek him out they would simply be crushed by his might.

“As the years dragged on in any case, Rustem began to gain familiarity with the mountains he now called home - and which he shared with a mighty red dragon, known as Yanbaxit. Over the years, Yanbaxit had circled over Rustem as he went about his business on a number of occasions, and to try and keep the peace Rustem slowly began leaving the occasional hunting kill near the dragons lair, another cave not too far away. This created an uneasy peace, for as Yanbaxit looked at Rustem and licked its chops - or whatever the dragon equivalent may be - it also knew the man provided it with much heartier meals. And though the dragon often left Rustem’s environs a torched field of embers, he knew he was no match for a dragon - though he yearned to so effortlessly wield its powers one day.”

“My King.” A breathless messenger appeared, kneeling before Dragomir, “Scouts report an approaching party of travellers - northerners, by the looks of them.”

Dragomir huffed, “Apologies Schetenina, we’ll have to resume the tale later. Why such a party of individuals would be moving in the darkness I know not, but…well, whatever it is, best to tend to it.”

Little Lykaros

The first rays of dawn crept over the river valley, brushing the village of Tanosar in a soft, golden light. The streets, rough with clay cobblestones, already echoed with activity despite the early hour. The smell of damp earth hung in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of bread baking somewhere nearby.  

The village was a maze, its narrow paths winding unpredictably between tightly packed homes. These homes, called Tanolīs by the locals, were crafted from the valley’s rich red clay and supported by sturdy beams of dark hardwood. Their walls bore the uneven marks of hands that had shaped and repaired them over generations, giving them a certain charm. Wooden balconies jutted out here and there, their edges lined with clay pots spilling over with herbs and wildflowers. From many of the rooftops, drying cloth fluttered like quiet flags, catching the faint morning breeze.  

The streets were alive. Women in simple tunics moved with practiced ease, balancing clay jars on their heads as they navigated the uneven ground. Children darted between them, their laughter ringing out like birdsong. Vendors were already setting up for the day, arranging clay bowls, woven baskets, and bundles of herbs on carts pulled into shaded corners. Somewhere in the distance, a metalworker’s hammer rang out in steady rhythm, the sound cutting through the morning hum.  

In the middle of all this movement, a young boy emerged from one of the winding alleys. His face was smooth, not yet marked by the responsibilities of adulthood, and his dark hair was tied neatly into two long braids that swayed as he walked. He wore a simple white tunic that reached just past his knees, its edges slightly frayed but clean.  

Trailing behind him on a leather lead was a calf, her coat a warm, glossy brown. She pulled at the tether, her small hooves clattering against the cobblestones as she tried to veer off toward a pile of freshly cut hay stacked outside a nearby doorway.  

“Marunā,” the boy said, his tone somewhere between a plea and a scold. He gave the lead a gentle tug. “Not again. Come on. We don’t have time for this.”  

The calf snorted, her wide eyes fixed stubbornly on the hay. The boy sighed and crouched down in front of her, his expression softening. “You’re supposed to be my miracle, you know,” he murmured, scratching behind her ears. “Not my troublemaker. If you keep this up, someone’s going to think you’re cursed instead.”  

Marunā flicked her ears, unimpressed, but she stopped pulling against the lead. The boy straightened, giving her a quick pat on the side before guiding her back toward the main street.  

The morning light stretched further now, catching on the rooftops and illuminating the carvings etched into the wooden beams. Spirals and flowing lines wove together, telling silent stories of the river, the land, and the people who called it home. The boy barely noticed—he had seen these designs all his life—but he did pause briefly at a turn in the road to let a group of women carrying water jars pass by.  

One of the women, an older figure with a face lined by both age and laughter, glanced at the calf and smiled. “Giving you trouble, is she?”  

“She always does,” the boy replied with a sheepish grin.  

“She’s strong,” the woman said, nodding at Marunā. “That’s good. Strong calves grow into strong cows.”  

“I hope so,” the boy said, tugging gently at the lead as Marunā tried to sniff one of the woman’s jars. “If she doesn’t eat me alive first.”  

The woman laughed, the sound fading as she moved on, her footsteps light despite the weight she carried. The boy watched her go before turning back toward the square ahead.  

The village well stood at its center, surrounded by a cluster of people. Women filled their jars, while children splashed their hands in the cool water, their faces lit with delight. The boy hesitated at the edge of the square, taking in the scene. Marunā pawed at the ground impatiently, tugging the lead with a small, frustrated snort.  

“All right, all right,” the boy said, giving in with a sigh. “Let’s keep moving, little miracle. We’ve got to get going.”

He led her past the well, making his way through the bustling square and into another winding street. Around them, the village continued to wake, its heartbeat steady and strong.

After some walking the boy approached the grand structure, its silhouette towering over the maze-like village of Tanosar. The Temple of Arduna, a flamboyant mixture of stone and wood, stood as if the village itself had grown around it. Its beams, carved with intricate spirals and floral patterns, gleamed in the early sunlight, while its clay and stone foundation rose sturdily from the earth. Hanging gardens of wildflowers spilled from wooden balconies, their colors vivid against the earthy tones of the structure. 

When Lykaros stepped into the open space before the temple, he hesitated. The place felt like another world, separate from the bustling streets he had left behind. The faint hum of chanting floated from within the temple’s halls, mingling with the breeze that carried the scent of wildflowers and incense.

“Lykaros!”

The voice was warm and familiar, yet it carried a tone of reverence that made him pause. He turned to see one of the holy women descending the wide stone steps of the temple. For a moment, he barely recognized her. The woman’s hair, once cut short in practicality, now fell in long waves over her shoulders. She had gained weight since he’d last seen her, her face fuller, her figure softer, but she wore it with the grace of someone at peace with their place in the world. It was Tisynē, his mother’s sister, though now she belonged to Arduna.

She smiled at him with the warmth of sunlight breaking through clouds, and when she reached him, she placed a gentle kiss upon his forehead. “Little Lykaros,” she said, though he was no longer so little. “What brings you here so early?”

Lykaros shifted, his hand tightening slightly on the leather lead as Marunā fidgeted behind him. The calf let out a small, plaintive bleat, and Tisynē’s eyes flicked to the animal, her knowing gaze softening further.

“Marunā,” he said, his voice thick with reluctance. “Mother said… we’re giving her to the Mātarē Ardunāra. She says a calf for the priestess means we won’t have to pay tribute for some time.”

Tisynē’s smile faltered for a brief moment, replaced by a flicker of sympathy. She reached out, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Your mother is wise, Lykaros. The blessings of Arduna will fall upon your family for this gift.”

Lykaros nodded, but his gaze fell to the ground. The lead in his hand felt heavier than before, and he couldn’t meet his aunt’s eyes.

“Come,” Tisynē said gently, guiding him up the steps. “Let us take Marunā to where she will be cared for.”

The boy followed her in silence, leading the calf past the grand entrance and through the temple-complex. The building seemed alive with movement; women clad in flowing white robes moved purposefully through the halls, their voices low as they exchanged murmured prayers and instructions. Carved wooden columns lined the walkway, their surfaces adorned with symbols of Arduna’s fertility—rivers, flowers, and swirling patterns that seemed to flow like water.

At the back of the temple, they came to a large pen enclosed by sturdy wooden beams. Inside, a herd of cattle moved lazily, their coats gleaming in the sunlight that filtered through the overhanging trees. The pen was guarded by several men, their eyes fixed firmly on the ground as the priestesses passed by. One of the men, an old figure with a bent back and hands worn from years of work, limped toward them. He didn’t speak, only extended a gnarled hand to take the lead from Lykaros.

Marunā resisted briefly, pulling back with a soft, confused bleat, but the old man coaxed her forward with a gentle touch. Lykaros let go of the lead reluctantly, watching as the calf was led into the pen. His heart sank as he saw Marunā glance back at him, her large, liquid eyes filled with something that looked almost like betrayal.

Tisynē placed a hand on his shoulder again, her grip firm but comforting. “Come, Lykaros,” she said softly. “There is more to see.”

They turned away from the pen and entered the temple itself. Lykaros kept his gaze low, his eyes tracing the polished stone floor as they walked. Around him, the holy women moved with serene purpose, their bodies bare beneath their flowing hair. The nudity of the priestesses was not a sight to be gawked at—it was a symbol of their purity and devotion to Arduna, their lives stripped of worldly distractions. Yet Lykaros couldn’t help but feel his cheeks flush, his steps faltering as he tried to avoid looking too closely.

The air inside the temple was thick with the scent of burning herbs and fresh flowers. Sunlight poured through narrow windows high above, casting beams of light that seemed to follow the movements of the women as they passed. The chants, low and rhythmic, resonated within the chamber, blending with the crackling of small fires that burned in bronze braziers along the walls.

“This temple,” Tisynē said, her voice breaking the silence, “is a place where Arduna’s blessings flow strongest. The calf you brought, Marunā, will serve as a gift to the goddess. Her spirit will join the cycle, and in turn, Arduna will bless your family’s fields, your home, your lives.”

Lykaros nodded, though his throat felt tight. He wanted to believe her words, to see the gift as something sacred rather than a loss. But as he followed his aunt deeper into the temple, the weight of Marunā’s absence lingered heavy in his chest.

“Come,” Tisynē said again, her voice warm and gentle. “Let me show you the altar. It is a sight you’ll never forget.”

The moment Lykaros and Tisynē began to approach the altar, the calm sanctity of the temple was shattered by the sound of raised voices. Shouts echoed down the halls, their sharpness cutting through the low hum of chants and the crackle of sacred fires. Lykaros froze in place, his head whipping toward the commotion.

"Mīranē vadukē!" a woman’s voice screamed, the insult biting and shrill. Lykaros didn’t know who she was yelling at, but he understood the words—a curse hurled at someone aimless and foolish. Another shout followed, louder, coarser: "Kēsarēs ēdos!"—dung eater. The words reverberated like a slap against the stone walls.

Tisynē’s face darkened with concern. “Stay here, Lykaros,” she said hurriedly, but before he could reply, she rushed toward the source of the commotion.

Lykaros hesitated for a moment, torn between obeying and following, but his curiosity won out. He hurried after her, his sandals slapping against the polished floor. As they neared the temple’s entrance, the shouting grew louder, mingling with cries of pain and the frantic commands of temple attendants.

What awaited them outside stopped Lykaros in his tracks.

Men—wounded and broken—filled the temple square. Blood darkened their tunics, some of it still fresh, dripping onto the cobblestones. A man stumbled forward, leaning heavily on another, a spear still lodged deep in his side. His face was pale, his lips trembling as if he might collapse at any moment.

Lykaros’s heart raced as his eyes darted from one soldier to the next. They were all clad in armor—breastplates scratched and dented, helmets hanging loosely from belts or clutched in trembling hands. Some carried others, their comrades limp and lifeless over their shoulders. The square, once a place of quiet activity, was now a chaotic swirl of shouting, movement, and the acrid scent of sweat and blood.

An older man emerged from the cluster of soldiers, his hair completely grey and his face weathered like old stone. Despite his age, his posture was strong, his presence commanding. He approached Tisynē, his voice booming over the din.

“We need thirty healers,” he said bluntly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Our men won’t last the day without them.”

Tisynē nodded, her face calm but her eyes betraying urgency. She glanced at Lykaros, her expression softening for just a moment. Leaning down, she placed another kiss on his forehead. “I’ll see you another time, little one,” she said, her voice warm despite the chaos around them. Then she turned and disappeared into the crowd, her white robes fluttering behind her as she began calling out to the other priestesses.

Lykaros stood there, frozen in place, the scene around him overwhelming. The temple, already alive with activity before, had become a whirlwind. Holy women and attendants rushed to and fro, some carrying baskets of herbs, others rolling bandages, their faces tight with focus. The cries of the wounded mingled with the shouts of those trying to help them.

For a moment, Lykaros couldn’t move. The world seemed too loud, too fast. His feet felt rooted to the ground, the weight of everything pressing down on his chest.

Then, a shout jolted him back to reality.

“Galīros!”

The word—boy—rang out, sharp and commanding. Lykaros turned toward the voice and saw one of the warriors approaching him, his steps deliberate and his expression grim. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, his face lined with scars and streaked with dirt.

“You,” the warrior barked, pointing at Lykaros. “Take this.”

Before Lykaros could process what was happening, the man shoved a clay tablet into his hands. The edges of the tablet were rough, and the writing carved into its surface looked hastily done, the characters jagged and uneven.

“Take it to the Kalendē household,” the man said, his voice leaving no room for questions.

Lykaros stared at the tablet, confused and scared. “I—I don’t—”

“Move!” the warrior snapped, cutting him off. “Ask if you have to, but don’t waste time. Go!”

The man turned away, already barking orders at someone else. Lykaros barely had time to react before he found himself clutching the tablet tightly to his chest, his heart hammering in his ears. He didn’t know exactly where the Kalendē household was, but he couldn’t just stand there.

Gritting his teeth, he turned and ran, weaving through the crowd of priestesses, warriors, and wounded men. His sandals slapped against the cobblestones as he pushed forward, the unfamiliar weight of the tablet pressing against him. He didn’t know what it said or why it was so important, but the urgency in the warrior’s voice left no doubt—it had to get to its destination.

The maze-like streets of Tanosar stretched ahead of him, Lykaros swallowed his fear and kept running, his eyes darting to the faces of passersby, hoping to find someone who could point him in the right direction. He didn’t stop, not even to catch his breath, the weight of responsibility driving him forward.

Lykaros stumbled to a halt, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His legs burned, his sandals slipping slightly on the uneven clay cobblestones as sweat dripped down his temples. The tablet in his hands felt heavier with each step he’d taken. His vision blurred for a moment, and panic clawed at his throat. He had no idea where he was, no idea how far he’d run or how much farther he had to go. The streets all looked the same now—twisting paths and people just going through their days.

Desperation pushed him forward, and he turned to the first person he saw—a woman with a basket of freshly gathered herbs. Her hair was tied back, streaked with the grey of age, but her posture was upright and sturdy.

“Do you…” Lykaros panted, his voice barely more than a rasp. He tried again, clutching the tablet tighter. “Do you know where the Kalendē household is?”

The woman paused, her eyes sweeping over him, her brow furrowed with mild curiosity. “The Kalendē household?” she repeated, as if to confirm his words. When Lykaros nodded, she chuckled softly. “Of course, everyone knows the Kalendē. But you won’t find them here, boy. They’re in Tanolīsran, up north.”

Lykaros’s heart leapt at her answer, relief washing over him like cool water. “Thank you,” he gasped, already turning to leave.

“Follow the river,” the woman called after him. “It’ll take you straight there.”

He waved his thanks, too breathless to reply, and began running again, his feet pounding against the cobblestones. The name, Tanolīsran, echoed in his mind as he pushed northward. It wasn’t entirely unfamiliar—he’d heard it spoken before, perhaps by the older men who traded stories near the docks, or by his mother when she spoke of the larger city. 

Tanolīsran.

The realization struck him as he ran, the syllables swirling in his head. He’d never been there, never seen it himself, but it was spoken of with reverence in Tanosar. It was larger, louder, and more important than their quiet little village—Lykaros swallowed hard, his legs aching as he pushed forward. He had been so sure the Kalendē household would be somewhere familiar, somewhere nearby. 

The narrow streets of Tanosar began to widen as he neared the riverbank. The clay cobblestones gave way to a dirt path that followed the river’s edge, his mind churned as fast as his legs, trying to piece together why the name Kalendē felt so faintly familiar. It teased at the edges of his memory, a word he’d overheard but never paid much attention to. The more he thought about it, the more elusive it seemed, slipping through his grasp like water through cupped hands.

But there was no time to dwell on it. He’d been told to go north, and so north he went, the tablet clutched tightly against his chest. 

Lykaros didn’t know what drove him forward. Perhaps it was the desperation in the warrior’s voice—a sound that had carved itself into his mind, sharp and raw. He’d never heard an adult speak like that, not with such urgency, not with a weight that seemed to hang in every word.

The clay tablet in his hands felt like it was burning, though he knew it wasn’t the heat. He couldn’t read the markings etched into its surface—they were just strange symbols to him, incomprehensible and distant—but the warrior’s look and tone had conveyed something far more powerful than words. It was a command, a plea, a demand that couldn’t be ignored.

The sun had risen fully now, blazing down with an intensity that made the sweat on his back cling to his tunic, staining it dark. His legs were trembling, his sandals scraping against the uneven dirt path as he ran. The river to his right whispered and gurgled, its cool waters taunting him as his mouth grew dry and his chest heaved with every step.

Finally, his feet slipped slightly on the dusty slope leading down to the water, and he stumbled, barely managing to stay upright. Wheezing and breathless, he crouched by the river’s edge, his knees pressing into the damp soil. He set the tablet down carefully beside him and plunged his hands into the water, cupping it to his mouth.

The first sip felt like life itself. The coolness surged through him, calming the fire in his throat and chest. He drank deeply, greedily, until his heart no longer pounded quite so hard. When he finally stopped, he let his head fall back and stared up at the sky, his breathing loud and uneven. The sun glared back at him, unrelenting.

His tunic clung to his chest and arms, soaked through with sweat, and small strands of his hair stuck to his neck and forehead. He brushed them away impatiently, his fingers trembling. His whole body felt shaky, unsteady, but he couldn’t let himself stop for too long.

Lykaros stood, his legs wobbling beneath him. He grabbed the tablet from where it rested on the ground and clutched it tightly against his chest, the weight familiar now, as if it had become a part of him. Taking a deep breath, he started walking again, his sandals leaving faint imprints in the dusty trail.

It wasn’t long before he heard the sound of hoofbeats ahead him. The rhythmic pounding of hooves grew louder, and he turned to see a man on horseback approaching quickly. The rider was dressed simply but sturdily, his tunic belted at the waist and a broad hat shielding his face from the sun.

Lykaros waved his arms, desperation overtaking his hesitation. The rider slowed as he approached, his horse snorting softly, and he pulled the reins to bring it to a stop a few feet from the boy.

“What’s this, then?” the man said, his voice rough but not unkind. His gaze swept over Lykaros, taking in his sweat-drenched tunic, flushed face, and trembling hands. “You look half-dead, boy. What are you doing out here?”

“I—I need to get to Tanolīsran,” Lykaros stammered, his voice cracking. He held up the tablet as if it explained everything. “Please, it’s important.”

The man frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the boy. “Tanolīsran? That’s no short walk from here. What’s so important that they’ve sent a child running like this?”

“I don’t know,” Lykaros admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what it says, but a warrior—he told me to take it there. He said it was urgent.”

The rider’s gaze softened slightly, and he exhaled through his nose. “You’re in no state to make it there on foot,” he said. He looked back toward the direction he had come from, his brow furrowed in thought. After a moment, he sighed. “All right, boy. I’ll take you. I was heading south, but I can turn back. You look like you’re about to collapse.”

Lykaros blinked, the man’s words taking a moment to sink in. “You’ll take me?” he asked, hope creeping into his voice.

“For free, no less,” the man said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “But you owe me the story of why you’re carrying that thing. Deal?”

Lykaros nodded quickly, relief washing over him like the river’s cool water. “Thank you,” he said earnestly, clutching the tablet tighter.

The man leaned down, offering a hand to help Lykaros climb onto the horse. The boy scrambled up awkwardly, his legs protesting as he swung them over the saddle. He settled behind the rider, holding tightly to the man’s belt as the horse began to move again, its steps steady and sure.

The horse’s steady gait carried them along the winding path northward, the river always in view, its waters glinting under the afternoon sun. Lykaros held tightly to the man’s belt, his legs stiff from the ride but grateful for the reprieve from running. He shifted awkwardly, unused to the rhythm of the horse’s movements.

“What’s your name, boy?” the man asked over his shoulder, his voice cutting through the sound of hooves hitting the dirt path.

“Lykaros,” he replied, his voice still tinged with exhaustion.

“Lykaros, huh? I’m Darnes. And you’re from Tanosar, I take it?”

“Yes, sir,” Lykaros said, unsure of how to address the man.

Darnes chuckled softly. “No need for ‘sir.’ Just Darnes. What’s a boy like you doing with a task like this? Running with a tablet like your life depends on it?”

Lykaros hesitated, unsure of how much to say. “I don’t know what’s on the tablet,” he admitted. “But the warrior at the temple—he was hurt. They all were. He said it was important, and he told me to take it to the Kalendē household. That’s all I know.”

Darnes grunted in response, his tone turning serious. “The Kalendē household, huh? That’s not a name you hear lightly. Important people, that family. It’s good you’re taking it straight to them.”

The conversation dwindled after that, the silence filled only by the sounds of the horse and the ever-present murmur of the river. Lykaros’s thoughts swirled as they continued, the weight of the tablet in his hands a constant reminder of his mission.

Soon, the path began to widen, and buildings started to appear on the horizon. At first, they were small and scattered, much like the ones back home in Tanosar, but as they drew closer, the structures grew larger and more elaborate. Lykaros sat up straighter, his eyes widening as the full scope of Tanolīsran came into view.

The city was massive, sprawling along the riverbanks like a living organism. The buildings, far grander than the modest homes of Tanosar, were made of clay and stone, their walls adorned with carved patterns and painted murals. The streets bustled with people—more people than Lykaros had ever seen in one place. Merchants shouted to advertise their goods, carts creaked under the weight of wares, and the hum of countless voices filled the air. It was overwhelming, almost suffocating, and Lykaros felt as though the city might swallow him whole.

Darnes gestured to the right, breaking the boy’s trance. “See that clearing near the temple? That’s where you’ll find the Kalendē household. It’s hard to miss, trust me—guards at the front, always watching.”

Lykaros nodded, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you.”

“Good luck, Lykaros,” Darnes said, offering a small smile before nudging his horse forward and continuing on his way.

For a moment, Lykaros stood there, the crowd flowing around him like a river around a rock. Then, clutching the tablet tightly, he began walking in the direction Darnes had indicated.

The temple came into view first, and Lykaros stopped in his tracks, his breath catching. The temple back in Tanosar had always seemed so grand, but this… this was something else entirely. The structure loomed high, its walls adorned with carvings and reliefs that shimmered in the sunlight. Intricate wooden beams framed its entrances, and vibrant banners fluttered from its balconies. It was a monument to Arduna’s power, a place that seemed to touch the heavens themselves.

For a moment, he forgot why he was there, his gaze fixed on the temple’s beauty. But then he saw it—the larger building nearby, just as Darnes had said. It stood proudly, its entrance flanked by two guards, their spears gleaming in the sun.

Lykaros approached hesitantly, his steps slowing as he neared the guards. One of them, a tall man with a stern face, stepped forward and poked him lightly in the chest with the butt of his spear.

“This is the Kalendē household,” the guard said, his tone firm. “What business do you have here?”

Lykaros swallowed hard, fear prickling at the edges of his mind, but he forced himself to speak. “I—I brought a clay tablet. From Tanosar. A warrior gave it to me and told me to make haste.”

The two guards exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable. One of them muttered something Lykaros couldn’t hear before calling out over his shoulder. “Liras! Go get someone!”

Another guard appeared from within the household and was sent running off. Minutes passed, each one stretching endlessly in Lykaros’s mind. Finally, two figures emerged from the building—a man and a woman.

They looked nothing like anyone Lykaros had ever seen. Their hair was bright, a pale color that gleamed in the sun, and they both wore metal collars around their necks. 

The guard gestured toward Lykaros, his tone stiff. “This boy brought a tablet. Says it’s from Tanosar, sent by a warrior. He’s asking for the Kalendē.”

The man and woman exchanged a glance, their pale eyebrows lifting slightly, and then the woman nodded. “Come with us,” she said.

He nodded quickly and followed as they turned to lead the way. His heart pounded in his chest as he clutched the tablet tighter, stepping through the grand entrance of the Kalendē household. Whatever awaited him inside, he could only hope he was ready.

Lykaros followed closely behind the strange man and woman, his gaze wandering as they walked through the grand halls of the Kalendē household. The scale of it was overwhelming. The floor beneath his sandals was polished to a smooth sheen, inlaid with patterns of colored stones that formed intricate designs. Everything about the place spoke of wealth and importance.

As they passed through another corridor, Lykaros noticed more people—some old, some young—moving silently, their heads bowed as they carried out their tasks. These were tholēros, he’d heard the term whispered in his village, often with a mix of awe and discomfort. Wealthy families, like the Kalendē, could afford to purchase individuals from poorer families, employing them to tend livestock, maintain farms, or work in their estates.

His family, like most in Tanosar, could never dream of such a thing. The thought of it felt alien to him, and the sight of the tholēros unnerved him. They moved with quiet precision, their faces blank but their postures heavy with weariness. He recalled only once seeing someone who was a servant—a young man purchased by a trader passing through Tanosar to help with the man’s oxen. Lykaros had never forgotten the look in the man’s eyes, a quiet resignation that seemed so far removed from the struggles of the free.

Curiosity bubbled in his chest, and he was about to ask the two people guiding him a question when they abruptly stopped in front of a large, ornately carved wooden door. Before he could speak, the woman turned and gestured toward the door, pushing it open with both hands.

She and the man stepped aside, bowing low and motioning for him to enter. Lykaros hesitated, clutching the clay tablet tightly against his chest. Beyond the door, the room was warm and inviting, its walls painted with intricate patterns of vines and flowers. In the center sat an older woman, her posture regal despite her age.

Lykaros blinked, realizing too late that he was staring. Flustered, he bowed low, mimicking the two who had guided him here. The woman raised her hand, her voice soft but firm. “Stand, child,” she said. Then, without looking at the others, she waved them away. “Leave us.”

The man and woman straightened, bowing again before retreating silently from the room. The door shut softly behind them, leaving Lykaros alone with the woman.

She studied him for a moment, her piercing eyes seeming to look straight through him. Then she smiled, a gentle curve of her lips that made the room feel a little less overwhelming. “Sit,” she said, gesturing to a wooden block covered in soft leathers and cloths.

Lykaros obeyed, lowering himself onto the seat with awkward movements. He felt small in the space, surrounded by walls alive with colors and textures, every surface telling a story he couldn’t fully understand. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and incense, faint but pleasant.

The woman extended her hand. “The tablet, child,” she said, her tone kind but commanding.

He bowed his head as he handed it to her, his hands trembling slightly as the weight left his grasp. The woman took it carefully.

Lykaros hesitated, then glanced up, studying her face. Her features were strong yet softened by age, her expression calm as she read the markings on the tablet. But as her eyes moved across the symbols, her smile faded. A shadow passed over her face, subtle but unmistakable.

She lowered the tablet slowly, her gaze shifting back to Lykaros. For a moment, she said nothing, only looking at him as if weighing something in her mind. Then she stood and crossed the space between them, placing a hand gently on his head.

“You’ve done a good thing, Lykaros,” she said softly, her voice carrying a warmth that made his chest tighten. “Rest here for a while. You’ve earned it.”

She straightened, her expression unreadable now, and turned toward the door. Without another word, she stepped out, leaving Lykaros alone in the beautiful, unfamiliar room.

He sat there, his heart still racing from the day’s events, his mind swirling with questions. What had been on the tablet to make her expression change like that? What would happen next? 

OOC:

23CE Update Complete.

Welcome to 24CE!

Tsurik im Kamf – Avraham
70th Post

The fight goes on. The enemy had some break from the fight. A break, which admittedly Karadea needed too. But now, that both sides licked their wounds, it is time to continue the fight against Flodwic, push it to its edges and march triumphantly on their Capital.

Avraham could tell from what his scouts reported, that the people of Flodwic had prepared. Their army has doubled, they’ve got more of this annoying cavalry. And Archers are purposefully sailed to the other side of the river to attack from there. All smart moves, admittedly. And dangerous ones. He can’t deny, that the situation has become slightly more difficult than last time.

However, the fact that a large army of them rested just close the karadean borders, was just too good of an opportunity to waste. But Avraham won’t attack. He will just camp his army close to the enemy’s one and simply wait.

Avraham didn’t know, when the right time to attack was. He only knew, that he couldn’t simply rush his way into the enemy. Those times were unfortunately over. Even fear, isn’t a good way anymore, to beat back the Iberveltners, as by now they’ve got accustomed to the presence of the Karadeans.

Magic was still a powerful weapon, however, the people here know already. They cut down the forests, so that the Feyer-Kishufers can’t use them to their advantage, and while they still tactically place some troops along the river, the majority of their warriors now operates away from it. And Avraham was sure, they were already thinking of ways to remediate the effects of the other Kishufers. Without some Magishteyner for more kinds of Kishufers, than the Feyer-Kishufers, it would be more than difficult to overwhelm them the same way, they did just a few years ago.

Avraham had to wait, for the right moment, and yet he got the feeling, that perhaps waiting was the wrong strategy there. Maybe it would be better… to have less. Or at the very least appear as such. Avraham had performed a similar tactic against the Iberveltners some time ago. But our of necessity, not really as part of a larger plan. But perhaps that incident did indeed show, that overconfidence can be a fantastic weapon.

And so, Avraham ordered some of his troops to hide in the forests, and not come out, until a very specific sign was shown. And then Avraham waited again, for days and weeks until the flodwican army would finally move against the Karadeans. But unfortunately, the Iberveltners didn’t move a bit. They knew already, was Avraham was planning. Or at the very least, they suspected it. They already expected the karadean Army. They already expected the powers of the Kishufers. They already expected that Avraham would try to lock them into a trap. Therefore, Avraham needed something, they didn’t expect, something that would give him an advantage over the Iberveltners.

And then, suddenly, the right Idea came to him. They expected Avraham, to attack here. They didn’t expected Avraham or his army to come from the other side though.

And thus, new actions were partaken. While seemingly neither the karadean, nor the flodwican army moved any meter away from their position, in reality the Karadeans were slowly but surely redeployed to the shores of the river, where they hid in a nearby forest. Once new moon arrived, with the help of the Vaser-Kishufers, the largest part of the army, with a small remnant being left to act as a distraction, was first moved to the other shores of the Grenetstaykh river, eliminating the archers on the other side with one swift attack. The karadean army then moved further East, sneaking past the city of Flodwic itself, before finally again crossing the river to land behind both the flodwican army, and the city of Flodwic itself. The garrisons of Flodwic in this part of the country had only few manpower, and so it was pretty easy for Avraham to eliminate them and conquer town after town and village after village for the Karadeans.

Avraham knew of course, that he had to act quickly. If he didn’t, it would be very likely, that the Iberveltners would regroup, trapping him and the army within this country.
Though then again, even if that would have happened, he could probably escape via the land, by going into the forest, though the Iberveltners would have a clear advantage then. Still, he had to move fast and reach Flodwic. He didn’t have to fully assault them. Just reach the place, before their larger army can and begin the siege. Assuming the larger part of the flodwican would try to break through the siege, the Karadeans could easily assume a more defensive position, especially if the Karadeans get properly warned by their scouts. There would of course still the risk, that the Flodwicans siege down his own sieging army, which would things more precarious. Though in that case, the Vaser- and Erd-Kishufers could easily escape in one way or another, and send a message requesting help.

Any garrison in his way was unmercifully crushed, with no survivors amongst the men. Any troops patrolling amongst the various paths, in the forests, or in the small insignificant towns and villages got mercilessly annihilated. Any survivor was a potential risk. Any warrior kept alive, would life to fight another day. Every garrison destroyed weakens the state as a whole as their control over various supplies slowly crumbles. It is only this one province of theirs which gets harassed and raided by the Karadeans, but it’s a wealthy one for them at that, and Avraham’s actions would hurt them in the long run.

But alas, they weren’t the goal. No, the goal was the city of Flodwic and at last it is finally reached. The city of resistance, the one who fought the hardest against Karadea. In the protection of another night, his troops surrounded the city. The Erd-Kishufers created small earth walls around the entire karadean army, both to guard against any outbreak the city might try, aswell as to defend the Karadeans against any Flodwican army, which might try to bring some relieve to the city.

All Avraham had to do now, was being careful and wait for the right opportunity. Who knows, maybe there doesn’t need to be a new siege and a new Hyhtlaedan.

Maybe they will surrender immediately.