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The New Byzantine II
Minister
 
Posts: 2271
Founded: May 05, 2015
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby The New Byzantine II » Wed Sep 27, 2023 7:56 pm

THE EMPIRE OF CHINA - RAIN IMPERIAL
Chapter II


Luoyang, Empire of China
2959 BC


The encounter with Aaron Dawson, who had been sent back nearly two decades (or sixteen years) into the past before Rain, left him in a state of shock. As Rain processed the reality of the situation, he couldn't help but speculate that while they were from the same timeline, they were not of the same era. The implications of this revelation overwhelmed him, and yet, he found himself unable to deny the possibility. Rain, being a practical and logical individual, struggled with the realization that he had been transported to ancient China. It was a stark contrast to the world he had known, with its modern conveniences and familiar surroundings. Despite his initial denial, Rain knew that he had no choice but to adapt and settle into this new reality.

As word spread within the imperial court about Rain's arrival, a mixture of awe and uncertainty swept through the palace. The courtiers, advisors, and ministers couldn't help but speculate about the young man who had appeared out of nowhere. They whispered amongst themselves, their voices filled with a respectful fear, for they had noticed a peculiar connection between Rain and their revered Emperor. It was apparent to all that Rain and the Emperor belonged to the 'same godly divine people' that set them apart from the rest of the Empire’s inhabitants, despite their different skin colors: white (the Emperor) and light brown (Rain Imperial). As they observed Rain's presence, it became clear that he possessed a profound understanding of the Emperor's language, a language no one else in the empire could comprehend. This unexpected ability further fueled the speculation surrounding Rain's origins and his purpose in their midst.

The courtiers marveled at the seamless communication between Rain and the Emperor, as if they were long-lost brothers conversing in their native tongue. Their conversations, filled with wisdom and profound insights, left those who witnessed them in awe. The courtiers pondered whether Rain's arrival was a sign, a divine intervention sent to guide the Emperor and the empire towards a new era of prosperity and harmony. Yet, amidst their awe and admiration, a sense of uncertainty lingered. The courtiers questioned what position Rain would hold within Aaron's Empire. Would he be an advisor, entrusted with shaping the empire's policies and strategies? Or would he be a guardian, protecting the Emperor from unseen dangers with his newfound knowledge and abilities? The courtiers dared not voice their questions aloud, for fear of drawing unwanted attention to themselves. Instead, they waited anxiously, hoping for the Emperor to reveal Rain's role and purpose within their midst.

As Rain navigated his way through this unfamiliar world, he couldn't help but feel the weight of Aaron’s expectations upon him. Meanwhile, the eyes of the courtiers followed his every move, their whispers trailing behind him like an invisible cloak. Rain understood the responsibility he carried, the potential impact he could have on the future of the empire. Yet, he remained uncertain of his own abilities and the path that lay before him. In the coming days, Rain would find himself embarking on a journey of self-discovery, as he sought to understand his place in this ancient land created by Aaron Dawson. The courtiers would continue to watch, their respect and fear intertwining, as they awaited the unfolding of Rain's destiny within the Empire of China.





Rain woke up the next day, the soft morning light filtering through the windows of the elegant chamber assigned to him within the palace walls. As he slowly opened his eyes, his mind still groggy with remnants of sleep, he couldn't help but hope that the past few days had been nothing more than a vivid, unsettling dream. But as his senses sharpened, he quickly realized that his surroundings were all too real. The intricate woodwork of the chamber, the ornate silk curtains swaying gently in the breeze, and the distant sounds of bustling activity outside confirmed that he was indeed in ancient China. The weight of his situation descended upon him once again, dispelling any lingering hopes of this being a mere figment of his imagination.

Rain sat up on the edge of the bed, his bare feet touching the cool, polished floor. He rubbed his temples, attempting to grasp the enormity of the situation. How had he ended up here, in a time so different from his own? And what was his purpose in this ancient land, created by Aaron Dawson? His mind raced with unanswered questions as he dressed in the traditional attire that had been provided for him. The smooth silk fabric slid over his skin, a stark reminder of the unfamiliarity of his current reality. Rain glanced at his reflection in a nearby mirror, taking in the sight of a young man who didn't belong in this era. His dark eyes held a mix of determination and uncertainty, his features displaying a blend of Filipino Visayan heritage.

Suddenly, the door to Rain's room creaked open, and a man in his early 30s stepped inside. He exuded an air of confidence and authority as he approached Rain with a polite bow. "Greetings, sir," he said, his voice carrying a slight hint of warmth. "My name is Hongyu, and I have been appointed as your personal aide by the Emperor himself."

Hongyu's attire was impeccable, adorned in the finest silk robes, elegantly embroidered with intricate patterns symbolizing his high rank. His jet-black hair was neatly tied in a traditional topknot, accentuating his sharp facial features. A sense of wisdom and experience shone through his deep-set eyes, hinting at the countless challenges he had overcome in his service to the Empire. As Rain looked up at his new aide, he couldn't help but be struck by Hongyu's presence. It was as if every movement he made was deliberate and purposeful, like a carefully choreographed dance. There was an air of mystery surrounding him, as if he held secrets that only time itself could unveil.

"With the Emperor's blessing, I am here to assist and guide you through the intricacies of our customs and traditions," Hongyu continued, his voice resonating with sincerity. "From this moment forward, your welfare and comfort will be my utmost priority."

Rain nodded, his curiosity piqued by the enigmatic aura surrounding Hongyu. He couldn't help but wonder what stories this man held within him, what wisdom he could impart about this mysterious land. Though still overwhelmed by his situation, Rain found a glimmer of hope in Hongyu's presence, knowing that he now had a guide in this unfamiliar world.

"Thank you, Hongyu," Rain finally replied, his voice tinged with gratitude. "I appreciate your assistance." His words carried a note of hesitation, betraying the flicker of doubt that danced within his mind. While Rain recognized the need for guidance in this unfamiliar world, he couldn't simply ignore the possibility that Hongyu might be nothing more than a pawn in the Emperor's elaborate game. Rain's thoughts raced as he contemplated the intentions behind Hongyu's actions. Was this man truly here to assist him, or had he been strategically placed to spy on his every move? In his assumption as the student of political arts, the Empire of China was a web of intricate politics and hidden agendas, and Rain couldn't afford to let his guard down; even if he and the Emperor belonged to the same world they once lived in.

Hongyu's demeanor remained calm and composed, his every movement seemingly deliberate and purposeful. It was as if he was acutely aware of Rain's suspicions, yet undeterred by them. His unwavering dedication to Rain's welfare only deepened the mystery surrounding him. How could someone exude such loyalty and devotion in a world where deception thrived? As Rain's gaze met Hongyu's, he saw a glimmer of understanding in the man's eyes. It was a silent acknowledgment of the doubts clouding Rain's mind, an unspoken promise that Hongyu would prove his worth. But still, Rain couldn't help but wonder if this reassurance was merely a facade, carefully crafted to earn his trust. Nevertheless, Rain knew that he had to tread cautiously. He would accept Hongyu's assistance for now, but he would keep his secrets close and his suspicions even closer. Time would reveal the true nature of this enigmatic aide, and Rain would be ready to face whatever revelations awaited him.





Rain and Hongyu walked through the bustling streets of Luoyang, the heart of the Empire of China. The air was thick with the sounds of merchants hawking their wares and the chatter of locals going about their daily lives. Rain, still grappling with the reality of being thrust into ancient China, turned to Hongyu with a curious expression on his face.

"Tell me, Hongyu," Rain began, his eyes scanning the vibrant scene around them. "How do the people here live? What is their day-to-day like under Aaron's rule?"

Hongyu's discomfort was evident when Rain called the Emperor by his name casually, shifting uneasily. He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts before responding cautiously. "Well, Sir Rain, life in Luoyang or in the Empire is quite different from what you're accustomed to, assuming that your origins are the same as the Emperor. The people here work tirelessly, both in the fields and in the city, to support themselves and their families. They toil under the watchful eye of the Emperor, striving to meet his expectations and maintain his vision for the empire."

Rain's curiosity deepened as he listened intently. "And how does Aaron govern?" he asked, his voice filled with genuine intrigue. "What measures has he implemented to maintain control over such a vast empire?"

Hongyu glanced around, his eyes darting nervously before he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "The Emperor’s methods are... strict, to say the least. He relies heavily on his appointed officials to enforce his laws and regulations. Loyalty and obedience are of utmost importance to him, and dissent is not taken lightly."

Rain's brow furrowed, his political mind racing with questions. "But how does he ensure that his rule is effective? How does he gain the support of the people?" Rain's inquiries were not merely born out of curiosity, but from a deeper understanding that the legitimacy of any ruler's power rested upon the support and loyalty of their subjects.

Hongyu hesitated for a moment, his expression filled with uncertainty. "I apologize, Sir Rain," he said earnestly, "but my knowledge on this matter is limited. I am but a palace man, and my understanding of governance is limited to what I have observed in my daily life."

Rain nodded understandingly, appreciating Hongyu's honesty. "That's alright, Hongyu. I appreciate your honesty." He paused for a moment, his mind buzzing with questions and possibilities. If Hongyu's knowledge was limited, then Rain would have to rely on his own instincts and resourcefulness to navigate this complex world.

As they continued their walk through the bustling streets, Rain couldn't help but be captivated by the sights and sounds that surrounded him. The vibrant colors of the market stalls, the aroma of exotic spices, and the symphony of chatter and laughter created an intoxicating atmosphere. It was a stark contrast to the rigid structure and political intrigue that he had come to associate with the Empire of China. Rain's eyes wandered to a group of children playing in the distance, their laughter echoing through the air. The carefree innocence of their joy struck a chord within him, reminding him of his own childhood back in the Philippines. He couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia for simpler times, before he was thrust into this convoluted world.

As Rain continued to explore the capital, he couldn't help but notice the remarkable cleanliness that permeated the city. It seemed as though every street, alleyway, and marketplace was immaculately kept, devoid of any litter or debris. Even the air felt fresher, untainted by the usual urban smog that plagued modern cities. Rain found himself in awe of the meticulous attention to cleanliness that seemed to be ingrained in the culture of this ancient era. Curiosity gnawed at him, wondering whether this level of cleanliness was a reflection of the people of this time or if it was a result of Aaron's intervention in the past. It was difficult for Rain to fathom that the capital had always been this pristine, as he had grown up in a bustling city where littered streets and pollution were the norm.

As he observed the intricate network of clay pipes supplying water to the city, Rain couldn't help but be amused by the ingenious system Aaron had created. The water, meticulously filtered and purified, flowed through the pipes, ensuring that the citizens had access to clean and safe drinking water. The thought of Aaron implementing such advanced infrastructure in a time so ancient brought a sense of admiration and wonder to Rain's mind. He marveled at the fact that Aaron's influence extended not only to the political landscape but also to the very foundations of everyday life. The capital's cleanliness and the provision of filtered water were just a few examples of the way Aaron had shaped this era. It made Rain contemplate the potential impact his own presence in the past could have on the future. Lost in thought, Rain continued his exploration, his mind buzzing with questions and observations. The juxtaposition of ancient traditions and modern advancements fascinated him, and he couldn't wait to uncover more secrets and surprises hidden within this complex world he had been thrust into.

As Rain continued his exploration of the imperial capital, his curiosity led him to a group of farmers to gain a deeper understanding of their crucial role in the Empire. With his personal aide, Hongyu, by his side, Rain approached the farmers with a mixture of intrigue and respect. Hongyu began to explain the intricate dynamics of the Empire's agricultural system, shedding light on the daily lives of these hardworking individuals. Hongyu started, "the average person in the Empire is a farmer, dedicated to the cultivation of the land and the production of food that sustains our entire society."

Rain listened intently as Hongyu elaborated on the advancements that had revolutionized agriculture in this ancient time. "To support the vast population, the Empire has implemented mass production techniques for agricultural tools made of bronze and iron. These innovations, such as the plow, seed drills, and irrigation systems, have significantly increased productivity and efficiency, allowing farmers to cultivate larger areas of land."

He gestured towards the nearby fields, where the farmers toiled diligently. "The benefits of these work-saving inventions are apparent in the expansive farms you see before you. These farmers dedicate themselves to growing a wide variety of crops, from staple grains to vegetables and fruits, ensuring a steady food supply for our people."

Rain couldn't help but feel a deep sense of appreciation for the farmers' unwavering commitment and the impact they had on the Empire's well-being. "It's remarkable to witness the fruits of their labor," Rain commented, his gaze sweeping across the lush fields. "Their hard work not only sustains the population but also contributes to the Empire's overall prosperity."

Hongyu nodded in agreement. "Indeed, sir. Their efforts are essential for our society's functioning. But it's not just their dedication to farming that sets them apart. The Empire also levies labor and military service, forming a militia from within the country. This means that many people, including farmers, are engaged in arduous work all the time, ensuring the Empire's defense and stability."

Rain's admiration for the farmers grew as he comprehended the sacrifices they made for the greater good. He realized that their unwavering determination and tireless work ethic were the backbone of the Empire, contributing to its growth and success. This newfound appreciation for the hardworking individuals who toiled in the fields ignited a desire within Rain to understand and support them further.

Rain and Hongyu stepped into a bustling restaurant, the aroma of sizzling meats and savory spices wafting through the air. The interior was adorned with vibrant red lanterns and intricate wooden carvings, giving the place a distinct ancient Chinese charm. The sound of lively chatter and clinking dishes filled the space, creating an atmosphere of warmth and excitement. As they were guided to their table by a friendly server, Rain couldn't help but notice the restaurant's unique layout. The establishment was divided into different sections, each representing a different region of China. Intrigued, Rain eagerly took in the sights and sounds of the various sections.

In the ‘Chu Province’ section, chefs skillfully tossed woks, creating a mesmerizing display of flames and culinary expertise. The aroma of stir-fried noodles and dim sum tantalized Rain's senses, making his mouth water in anticipation. Moving towards the ‘Ba Province’ section, the air grew thick with the spiciness of chili peppers and Sichuan peppercorns. The vibrant red hues of Mapo Tofu and Kung Pao Chicken dishes enticed Rain, tempting him to sample the renowned bold flavors of this region. Passing by the ‘Wu Province’ section, Rain was captivated by the elegant and delicate presentations of dishes. Intricate designs adorned plates of Braised Lion's Head Meatballs and Drunken Chicken, showcasing the artistry that went into every culinary creation. Finally, they arrived at their table in the ‘Qi Province’ section, known for its fresh seafood and hearty flavors. Rain marveled at the large tanks filled with live fish and shellfish, waiting to be transformed into mouthwatering dishes. The aroma of garlic and ginger filled the air as chefs expertly prepared dishes like Sweet and Sour Pork and Braised Sea Cucumber.

Rain and Hongyu settled into their seats, the excitement of the bustling restaurant surrounding them. They perused the extensive menu, filled with an array of tantalizing options from each region. As they placed their order, Rain couldn't help but feel grateful for this opportunity to immerse himself in the rich culinary traditions of ancient China. Little did Rain know, this dining experience would not only satisfy his taste buds but also pave the way for unexpected encounters and discoveries in his ISOT-like adventure.

Their food arrived, each dish a masterpiece of flavors and presentation. The table was filled with colorful stir-fried vegetables, fragrant soups, and succulent meats. Rain marveled at the artistry that went into each dish, the attention to detail evident in the delicate arrangement of ingredients and the harmonious blend of spices. As Rain savored each bite, he couldn't help but be transported through time and space. The flavors danced on his palate, telling stories of ancient traditions, trade routes, and cultural exchange. With every dish, Rain felt a deeper connection to the Empire and its people. As he indulged in the culinary delights, a group of musicians began to play traditional ‘Chinese’ instruments in the corner of the restaurant. The haunting melodies filled the air, transporting Rain to a different time and place. Intrigued, Rain glanced over to the musicians, captivated by their skill and passion. With gentle precision, the musicians began to play, their skilled fingers coaxing haunting melodies from their instruments. The notes danced through the air, intertwining with the atmosphere of the restaurant and weaving a tapestry of ancient traditions. Rain's attention was immediately captivated by their skill and passion. He observed their graceful movements, each musician in perfect harmony with their chosen instrument.

The melodies transported Rain to a different time and place, immersing him in the culture and history of ancient China. He closed his eyes, allowing the music to envelop him fully. In his mind's eye, he could envision the bustling streets of an ancient capital, adorned with colorful banners and filled with the sounds of life. The music whispered tales of emperors and warriors, of love and loss, and of the indomitable spirit of a vibrant civilization. As the last notes of the melody faded into the ether, Rain opened his eyes, a newfound appreciation and understanding in his gaze. The musicians bowed graciously, their performance having created a bridge between past and present. Rain couldn't help but feel a deep gratitude for this unexpected encounter, realizing that his journey through time had not only been a physical one but also a journey of the senses and the soul.

After savoring every delectable bite, Rain and Hongyu finally finished their sumptuous feast. The table was adorned with a myriad of dishes, each a masterpiece in its own right. Vibrant stir-fried vegetables, their colors bursting with freshness, were arranged meticulously alongside succulent strips of marinated meat. Fragrant soups, their steam rising gracefully, promised a comforting warmth with every spoonful. Rain's taste buds had been tantalized by the intricate flavors, a harmonious blend of aromatic spices and delicate ingredients. The culinary artistry, evident in the careful arrangement and presentation of each dish, was a testament to the skilled chefs who had prepared the meal.

As Rain and Hongyu stepped out of the restaurant, Rain couldn't help but feel a sense of confusion lingering in his mind. He turned to his personal aide and asked, "Hongyu, I can't help but wonder, why didn't you pay the man? Shouldn't we settle the cost of this incredible meal?"

Hongyu looked at Rain with a gentle smile, understanding his confusion. "In the Empire, food is not sold in the traditional sense, sir Rain." he explained. "Loaning resources or using vouchers with interest is considered a capital offense, so all citizens are provided with the basic necessities without the need for payment."

Rain's brows furrowed as he struggled to grasp this concept. "But shouldn't food be treated as a valuable commodity? How can it be freely given without any exchange?"

Hongyu nodded, understanding Rain's viewpoint. "You see, sir Rain, here in the Empire, the value of food is not measured in monetary terms. The currency is primarily used to purchase luxury goods such as nice soap and better fabrics. It is a way for individuals to enhance their quality of life beyond the essentials."

He continued, "Instead, our society operates on a system where paying extra taxes is rewarded with these luxury goods. It's a way for the state to support farmers and ensure a stable food supply. The surplus grain is purchased by the government, and in return, the farmers receive these additional rewards."

Rain's confusion began to dissipate as he delved deeper into his understanding of this unique society. It was a system unlike anything he had ever encountered before. Here in Aaron’s China, the government ensured the provision of basic necessities to all citizens, eliminating the need for monetary exchange. This concept seemed almost utopian to Rain, who had grown up in a world driven by capitalism. As he pondered the intricacies of this society, Rain couldn't help but appreciate the underlying philosophy behind it. The government's focus was not solely on the accumulation of wealth but on the well-being of its people. The notion of freely giving food without any exchange was a testament to their commitment to ensuring that no citizen would ever go hungry. It was a far cry from the individualistic and profit-driven world he had known. And as Rain contemplated the implications of this unique system, he couldn't help but entertain the idea of engaging in a spirited debate with Aaron, the self-proclaimed Emperor of this China he created. He wondered if Aaron would be open to discussing the merits and challenges of this society, and if so, what new perspectives might emerge from their conversation.

Rain knew that he still had much to learn about this place, but he was eager to explore further and embrace the unexpected discoveries that awaited him.

Rain's thoughts drifted back to Xiang, where he had encountered Xiaosu, the captivating woman with an enchanting smile. He couldn't shake the connection he felt with her from the moment their eyes met. The memory of their brief but meaningful interaction played on repeat in his mind, leaving him yearning for her presence once again. Not only did Rain miss Xiaosu, but he also found himself thinking about the merchant named Yee Han. Yee Han saved him after he got summoned to this place. Rain appreciated his guidance and the invaluable knowledge he had shared. As he pondered their encounters, Rain couldn't help but wonder how they were faring without him.

However, Rain's current predicament tied him to the capital, leaving him uncertain of his fate. He longed to explore beyond the city walls and venture out into the unknown, but the fear of the consequences held him back. It was a frustrating reality for Rain, knowing that his path was intertwined with Aaron's, and only through him could he find the answers he sought. The realization that he needed Aaron's assistance weighed heavily on Rain's mind. If he truly wanted to help Aaron and contribute to his Empire he found himself in, Rain understood that he needed to learn how to read and write the script to ensure he gets to navigate this foreign world but would also allow him to immerse himself fully in the Empire’s affairs so at least he’d be useful and making his bachelor’s degree and part-time political experience not go to waste.
Last edited by The New Byzantine II on Wed Sep 27, 2023 10:34 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Formerly The New Byzantine. Your typical NationStates member since late 2014.
Just call me Byzantine/TNB/Byz because no one really calls me The New Byzantine.

Left-wing nationalist, civic nationalist and a social democratic corporatist.

Kumbhalgarh wrote:Shwetang teleported out of the car. He teleported behind of the teacher, and poked a stick into his/her butt, and then Shwetang teleported back.

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Turkducken
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Posts: 1124
Founded: Jul 04, 2015
Left-wing Utopia

Postby Turkducken » Sat Sep 30, 2023 10:51 pm

Prelude: Motherfucking Isekai'd Part 1


In a dark apartment, the air was filled only by the sound of furious typing. Illuminated by only the glow of two monitors, a hunched figure rhythmically beat away at its keyboard. Outside of peak hours, it was free of any obligation, and naturally filled this dead time with the furious precision of a rhythm game. Pink "Perfects!" flashed in a dazzling display of lights and shapes, as the twisting abstract pattern painted by the flow of the muted song beat silently. It was a symphony of precision and speed, brought to a catastrophic end by a single green flash of "Good!".

"Fuck!" the hunched being exploded, the game instantly being paused and falling back in frustration, "Another fucking three hours wasted."

Its body snaking beneath the desk. It wallowed in a self pity as it hit the keys to hard close the game. It remained there, surrounded by a small mountain of multicolored energy drinks and empty fast food, until it brought itself to refresh the browser on the other monitor. Interest being piqued by the sight of a new post in a discussion thread it had posted in about the themes and story of the new Armored Core entry. So it was excited to see a direct reply to its own contribution.

"lol did u even play teh gaem?"

That was it?

The being, now recovering its humanity through righteous anger, sat up and grew indignant. She had left paragraphs of information going on and on, in detail, about the allusions to the illusion of choice, free will, and other psychological concepts. Tying these into in universe events, characters, and the plot, making a detailed, passionate case for how she had interpreted the game through multiple playthroughs, and that was it?

"Fuck this guy in particular." she decided, clicking reply she began to furiously type, "What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little bitch? I'll have you know I graduated top of my class in the Navy Seals.."

But then she blinked, and there was nothing but an inky blackness.




"At some point," her swirling unconscious mind determined, "I must've fallen asleep."

This made sense, considering the dark void her subconsciousness had found itself floating in, "But when did I go to bed?" the question floated next to the lizard brain, incapable of answering itself.

There was a small poke, coming from far away. It was annoying, but the wheels of her subconscious mind kept turning, trying to solve this mystery.

Another jab, this time more pointed, struck her somewhere around the waist. Unthinkingly, her left hand went to wave it away, and in a moment of searing pain it was lacerated.

Jolting awake by the sudden pain, Addy screamed, "What the Fuck!" as she peddled backwards, rubbing over shaggy grass as her vision began to focus on whatever had just struck her. Blinking furiously, she could only see a blurry shape move, spreading itself over a wider area as she scattered away from it. Her hand splashed into the rocky bottom of water behind her, fingers finding purchase on a loose rock and wrapping around it. Still not seeing clearly, she whipped the rock forward at the hazey shape that had struck her. It whizzed through the air, slapping heavily into the blurry shape, and it fell.

Breathing heavily, she took the moment to collect herself. Desperately trying to calm down and see, she finally processed that she was bleeding. A large gash from middle knuckle to thumb on her left hand. It stung, and she looked own trying to find the cloth of her shirt to wrap it. Gasping in surprise as she came to the sudden realization that she was absolutely stark naked. Her hands fell back to her sides, one plunged into cool water, the other into shaggy grass.

The shock of it all beginning to fade, she finally began to see. The blurry shape was some sort of animal, collapsed in the dirt and grass. Whatever it was, it didn't appear to be even so much as breathing, and against her better senses she prodded it. Its limp body lolled to one side. A beaked head revealed itself, "A bird." she thought to herself, "A big bird." whatever kind of bird it was was somewhat lost on her, but she recognized the profile; or so she thought, "An Eagle?" she mouthed, mentally bringing up a cartoon depiction of an American Bald Eagle. She turned it over in her head, trying to make sense of it, but none of this made much sense.

Concluding to herself that this seemingly dead animal was, in fact, an eagle of some kind. She began to more seriously take in her surroundings. It was warm, the grass a luscious green and covering every inch of these majestic rolling hills. She turned to face the river behind her, the water was nearly glassy clear instantly pushing to the highest function that her mouth was very very dry, and she was very very thirsty. Knowing better than to just drink raw water, but too dazed and confused to think otherwise, she began to scoop it directly into her mouth. Kneeling at the bank of this rocky river, she decided it was probably the best water she had ever drank in her life.

She was reminded however that she was naked. Beads of water ran through her fingers as she scooped it into her mouth and fell onto her exposed chest. Having regained enough of her senses, she rerealized that she was still incredibly naked. With a quick glance around she recognized that whoever had brought her here had left precisely nothing to wear. She realized even that if she were to start walking in any direction, she had no shoes, and would be forced to walk completely in the elements.

Having now a grasp of where she was, what was around her, and what was attacking her, she came to the conclusion that whatever she did may very well be hopeless. Her hand was still bleeding, and devoid of any better ideas, she plunged it into the river yet again. The blood floated in the water, drifting out into the current and washed away far beyond her imagination. It didn't feel good, but what else was she going to do?
Discord: Turkducken#3718

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Metal...Gear?!

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Orostan
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Posts: 6754
Founded: May 02, 2016
Left-Leaning College State

Postby Orostan » Sun Oct 01, 2023 7:32 am

THE EMPIRE OF CHINA - AARON DAWSON
2959 BC


Modern Day Inner Mongolia - The Battle of Zamu - Mo Guanyu

The Yiqu infantry charged over the dusty and rough ground as fast as they could. They knew that even with heavy shields to be slow meant death by plains people crossbow. Before contact with Mo's infantry he saw them throw away their large ungainly rectangular wood shields and grasp their spears with both hands. A moment later he heard the call for a counter charge and Mo surged forwards with the rest of his unit and the levies backing them up.

"Stay in line!" Mo yelled out, pushing back one of the Yiqu spear men and slashing at him with his sword as the two collided. It was a small blessing that the Yiqu spearheads were bronze and inferior in quality to the Empire's metal armor, he thought. A good warrior didn't get hit in the first place however.

The spearmen kept coming. Mo heard the thumping of cavalry moving forward to his right - near the edge of the Chinese line. He knew the order coming down the battle line before it reached them.

"Push!" he ordered, and every man did his best to force the enemy in front of them back. It was a bloody spectacle, but Mo's men were experienced and used to the overwhelming barrage against the senses of battle. The levies backing them up were also filling in gaps where the wounded or tired needed to fall back and protecting the flanks of the professional heavy infantry.

Mo felt a strike on his shield break apart some of the wood as he stabbed a poor tribesman in front of him. He pivoted and caught a Xirong tribesmen in the helmet with his sword, but not well enough to kill him. Only to injure and force him back. The Chinese were winning as they always did and Mo could feel the enemies in front of him begin to become fearful. They were clumping up more and keeping their distance but as long as his men and the levies maintained their formation like they'd been trained to the battle wouldn't degenerate into a bunch of tiny skirmishes where superior numbers could overwhelm the Chinese.

Still, the Yiqu were strong. They had been training to fight the Chinese for some time and Mo could tell their commanders were doing everything they could to keep them together and hold their ground. While their copies of Chinese formations and weapons weren't that good their fighting spirit made up for some of that inferiority. Mo briefly wondered if the Yiqu were better fighters because they were better organized than other barbarians or were better organized because they were better fighters before leading his men forward for another charge into the enemy formation. The much more hesitant levies would follow them and form the strong arm behind Mo's fist-full of elite soldiers.

Suddenly as he was making progress against the Yiqu and Xirong a flag went up at the general's camp signalling a general retreat. A horn of the same signal went out a moment later and Mo's men ground to a halt in front of the enemy who seemed just as confused as they were. Mo craned his helmeted head around to look back at the general's camp on the hill. He could barely make out individuals but the striped retreat flag was flying and already several units on the flanks were moving back. His men were stepping back in line as well and Mo divided himself between trying to keep his soldiers in good order and figure out what was happening.

The dust kicked up by chariots flying green Yiqu flags passing to his right told him what had happened, and for the first time in his military career Mo knew his country had lost and badly too.




Luoyang - Aaron Dawson

"We estimate the dead at one third of the army's strength, another third is captured, and the last third has escaped the battlefield to return to us. The losses of equipment alone-"

Aaron cut off Chief of the Army Lu with a gesture. "I understand."

Prime Minister Zhao Chun interjected. "They are looking for terms. They've agreed to permit our traders access in exchange for one-third taxes."

The meeting room went silent for a moment as the military and civilian officials considered the offer. They exchanged a few quiet words around the table. The military officials universally frowned while the civilians seemed to want to discuss it.

Aaron looked at General Lu. "Can we beat them without extreme expense?"

Lu was seated at his left opposite the Prime Minister who was on the Emperor's right near the head of the table. Lu glanced at the neutral face of Prime Minister Zhao. "If the Prime Minister believes he can supply a five thousand man expedition I will have the whole of Yiqu territory conquered."

A few of the military men perked up. If Lu was willing to personally command the army they could not afford to stay behind. The best general the Empire had - and also the most politically well connected one - was someone it always was good to accompany the rare times he took an army out himself.

The Prime Minister scowled. "That will put us considerably behind schedule. We are already having a hard time meeting our labor requirements and Jin Province in particular is well behind on its projects."

"A necessary sacrifice." General Lu dismissed the concern with a hand wave.

Aaron found himself agreeing with the military man today rather than the civilian officials he usually sided with. "Suspend all construction projects in Qin and Jin provinces until the campaign is done. Lu will have his five thousand, and is allowed to take all the chariots and cavalry he wants. Empty the warehouses of supplies if you need to. There will be no other terms than the Yiqu king's surrender." The military men eagerly nodded, the civilian officials less so. None raised objections however.

He stood up and the meeting was done.




The Second Battle of Zamu would be much more devastating than the first. Where the first one left dead men and bloody sands the second left splintered chariots, dying horses, and more dead men than most had ever seen in their entire lives. For its time it was a titanic battle pitting a large Chinese field army of a little over five thousand men against a similarly sized army of Yiqu, their Xirong subjects, and a host of allies they had gathered to oppose the Eastern Empire. Instead of being fought and resolved in an afternoon like the usual fights were it took place over a long stretch of land over many days and more resembled a series of skirmishes and large engagements where one army managed to escape the fray mostly intact. Only at the very end after blazing a trail of devastation across the land did China finally win and did Mo Guanyu truly understand what the cost of empire was.

Mo had stormed his share of cities, of course. He'd fought to destroy rebel villages and seen tribes moved from their land or worse but those were a type of localized destruction. Even during the horrific Great Rebellion the rebels dared not devastate the land to the degree the Yiqu did. They were fighting to take control of it, after all. Even when they burned their villages to stop their enemies from seizing them it was the same type of local obliteration that the Empire probably would have inflicted on them anyways.

The type of destruction the Yiqu had caused to their own land - or their Xirong subjects land, he supposed - was organized and aimed to totally destroy its use. Every field was burnt, every village destroyed, and not a single grain of rice remained for Imperial troops to loot. What villages were not abandoned by hastily fleeting Xirong had their population massacred by the Yiqu so as to prevent villagers from potentially aiding the invaders. The Yiqu king must have known he would lose Mo suspected. His messengers bearing gifts and offers of a negotiated settlement had been sent back to him and it was known that he had moved his court out of its usual position in the north farther south in between his victory at the first battle of Zamu and his loss at the second.

While Mo stepped over the charred remains of a Xirong village his army hadn't burnt down he considered if his own Emperor was as ruthless a man as the King of the Yiqu. He probably was. One did not become a powerful and feared wizard like the Emperor without making a great many deals with evil spirits or being instructed by the Heavenly Ministers which was what the Emperor claimed he was. Would the Heavenly General Jorgwasingtan have instructed a man to burn his own land to deny it to the enemy? He probably would. One could not have military honor or virtue if they were dead or lost the battle. By burning his own land the Yiqu king had sacrificed half of his territory to save the other half and himself.

Mo decided The ruthlessness of the Yiqu King was to be respected rather than feared or condemned.
“It is difficult for me to imagine what “personal liberty” is enjoyed by an unemployed hungry person. True freedom can only be where there is no exploitation and oppression of one person by another; where there is not unemployment, and where a person is not living in fear of losing his job, his home and his bread. Only in such a society personal and any other freedom can exist for real and not on paper.” -J. V. STALIN
Ernest Hemingway wrote:Anyone who loves freedom owes such a debt to the Red Army that it can never be repaid.

Napoleon Bonaparte wrote:“To understand the man you have to know what was happening in the world when he was twenty.”

Cicero wrote:"In times of war, the laws fall silent"



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Saxony-Brandenburg
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Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby Saxony-Brandenburg » Thu Oct 05, 2023 10:40 pm

“Deep in the night when I rested in my tent, it came upon me a vision from the deep, by which my soul returned to Wahd and Abzu, that great ocean of consciousness wherein Allah and Allat resides. Pulled into the universal consciousness, the lighting up of all fires of souls, of long past and long ahead in a spectacle which left me without word or ability to describe. A confrontation with the limitless. And what I saw that night, what words whispered in my ears shook me from my malaise, and in my shaken heart filled with the greatest warmth, the finest comfort my soul could bear.

For what I saw was a certainty of the future, of a destination impossibly far ahead. Over mountains and valleys and oceans and more. But what I saw was the inevitable conclusion of all men, who now are so distant and put upon another.

It was a time wherein, the bonds which tie family, kin, tribe, and faith are extended, not merely to one’s neighbors, not merely to one’s countrymen, but to all men. I saw there where the recognition of the other as the self had broken that which tears men apart. Which brings them to war. Which brings them pain. And in this apocalypse, this paradise, there was no pain. Not for lack of toil, but for lack of dissolution. For all toil made by men was that toil which one does for their beloved, which one does for their child. And no man starved among them, for they shared in the bounties of the land, and together did that toil, of digging and plowing, which brought more bounties from the fields than they could eat. And endless told voices are spoken, and innumerable languages among them. Yet all are understood as if it was their native tongue.

And that road to get there was so impossibly long, a walk with footprints long behind me and long ahead of me, my own footprints already made, which I followed. I saw them covered in blood, I saw them burned with soot and ash. I saw that it was through pain, and toil, and difficulty that such a trail was walked. I saw that trail was walked by good men and women, those who dedicated themselves not to the principle of selfish pleasure, but in the pleasure found within their fellow man. And for every sacrifice, a step had been made. And for every act of charity, another was tread. Such that, by the infinite scores of souls which would come and have come, we would one day reach those impossibly far reaches. We would ascend a mountain of gold, and there live not as souls, but as extensions within the body of Wahd.”


“Good works are not men’s ticket to salvation, rather salvation is found within them.”


– Excerpts from The Sayings of Umm Kharuf





The Torrid Lands of Kengir
A field near the Tigris
2959 BCE


It is an anxious time, whenever men travel during war. Long stretches of monotony, pain, sweat, exertion. Loneliness among the crowd. Suddenly followed by brief periods of terror and bloodshed. The army of Uruk has encamped itself on the road to Lagash, near the banks of the great Tigris river. This is the farthest east thousands of them have ever traveled. The road back home is now longer than the road to their destination. Nine men deserted today. Five had gotten so sick they could not go on. They’d send them on a wagon back to Larsa if they make it until the next baggage train arrives.

Ten men and two women sit in a circle at the corner of their camp. They are Gishimmari, the warrior people who follow a cult of divine omnipresence. One of their disciples stands up among them, he is reading something in his hands. A ream of papyrus which glimmers golden in the evening sun. As he speaks, they echo is words in unison.

“Allah is my strength and my will to survive,”

“Allah is my strength and my will to survive.”

“Allat is my comfort and my solace in pain,”

“Allat is my comfort and my solace in pain.”

“When I am weak, it is my brethren who I must lean on.”

“When I am weak, it is my brethren who I must lean on.”

“For all men are brothers, and all men are of Wahd.”

“For all men are brothers, and all men are of Wahd.”

A half-dozen black-heads watch them from their tents. They say nothing, but perhaps their resentment for their Gishimmari neighbors is unfounded. When they retire to their campfires, a small trickling of Black-Heads make their ways to the circles of Gishimmari warriors cooking their loaves of bread and cauldrons of beans and lentils. They try and speak to each other in the Sumerian tongue, much of which remains misunderstood. Still, under this great tent of stars pitched over their campfire, five black-heads and eight Gishimmari share a meal. They trade belongings, trinkets and petty luxuries with each other. One Black-Headed man departs their meeting wearing a charm of black rock which is tied around his neck. Inscribed upon the pendant, the words “God is mercy” is inscribed.

It takes this band of rowdy men, fresh from their victory over an abandoned enemy, four days to reach Lagash in the distance. That city of rivals, the enemy of Uruk whose history stretches just as far in heroic tales of kings and the dramatic episodes of violence for generations. There she stands, but a miniature in the distance, but soon it shall impose above them, her walls tall and strong. On the approach to the city, a messenger from the east arrives on the back of a chariot. He is of Elam, his master the Sukkalmah. The letter is passed to Gilgamesh, who learns of the Elamite’s defeat by the army of Lagash’s desperate relief of the city. They were forced from the siege, losing much of their equipment in-tow. The Sukkalmah had fled for the hills to the east, but when his scouts had seen Uruk’s men arrive near the city, he planned to return to aid them in three days time.

The Lugal encamps his force on the south-western side of the city, between two fields beside the great river Euphrates. Their carts and oxen, camels and poneys are offloaded, tents pitched, ditches dug. Fenceposts from the fields surrounding them are taken apart, sharpened to a point and stuck into the soft earth, protruding outwards towards the ditch. The labored grunts of thousands of men in unison as that small city begins to erect itself. By the time that night falls, they have begun to weave reeds into fences which surround their tent-city. Anxiously, they waited for another midnight raid by Lagash, just as they had done in the field.

Yet, what was most unexpected came to them, a man upon a chariot from inside the great city. He rides up to the ditch outside the camp, and there calls forth Gilgamesh to hear him. The mighty lord comes soon enough, and before his men the messenger offers him terms. Return home to Uruk, and peace will come upon the land…

Hardly does a second go by, when great Gilgamesh gives him his answer. A great, hearty laugh causes him to clench his stomach. He shakes his head, and while the messenger confused waits for a spoken answer, instead the Lugal chooses to pick up a pile of cow-dung, which had been laid long prior and turned hard and solid. He hurls it at the messenger, who shrieks and stumbles off his chariot as it crumbles across his face, swatting away the putrid matter. He spits towards the great lord, and rides, returning, back towards the city.

There would be no peace so long as their prize was still to be won.

Dawn comes upon the land, light brings new opportunity, new maneuvers early in the siege which will decide the conclusion later on. Gilgamesh sends his parties of scavengers out in large groups of thirty footmen or twenty camel-riders. They have orders to pillage and burn, but not to kill. By early morning, dozens of hamlets are set ablaze. Their inhabitants are forced out from their homes, sent towards Lagash’s barred gates, begging to be let in.

An entire army of men from Lagash and her vassals sits waiting inside the walls of the city. They have but two chances, if they are to survive this siege, which both Gilgamesh and Lugalhengal know well. Either the forces of Lagash will need to sally forth, and repel the army of Uruk before her reinforcements arrive, or the armies of Kish will have to arrive, and wage the largest battle yet seen in all Kengir, the combined forces of four kingdoms, nigh thirty thousand men, to force an immediate conclusion. They can only choose one, for if they sallied forth in great numbers and failed… they would surely lose the greater battle to be had.

Mid-day comes across the city. More than a hundred peasants cling outside the walls of Lagash. Still, they do not open. One of them, an old and weak man, approaches the camp of Uruk, and begs to be allowed to flee with his family into the countryside. The men of Uruk will not allow him to leave, and with the threat of death force him back towards the gates of the city. Those gates which remain closed.

A boy but fifteen years of age sees the plight of these innocents, and cannot permit himself to see them suffer. He is inspired by this Gishimmari faith, he feels the compulsion, the demand to do what little he can for them. He approaches the group stranded outside the walls carrying two buckets of water for those stranded outside in the summer heat. The Army of Uruk will not allow them to pass to the river, for they demand the peasants be made to go inside the besieged city. Shouts come down from the walls to the boy, who does not meet their gaze as he approaches the group of huddled farmers, who watch him approach with parched lips. Yet, no kind a deed is to be left unpunished, and suddenly, out of a calm sky, shrieking, a sudden strike sends him stumbling back. An arrow from above buries itself into his stomach. He drops the buckets of water, which spill out upon the ground, seeping into the grass. Those lowly peasants look away and shriek in horror, more yelling is heard from the walls. The boy moans as he rocks back and forth, clutching the arrow which has impaled deep into his chest. They run towards him, yet more barking from above shoos them away. A man from Uruk, who had been watching him, runs out towards the boy, laying there, and attempts to drag him away with sobbing berating of the boy’s foolishness. Another two arrows strike the earth beside him, as he curses, and drops the boy’s shivering body there to suffer, for he cannot risk his life just for a stranger, no matter how pitiful it may be.

So they watch as hours pass, and the boy suffers until he can suffer no more, and his shivers cease, his eyes pointed towards the sky. A deep melancholy comes across both camps as they watch him. Soon, the guilt of such a pointless slaying is too much to bear. The gates of Lagash are opened, and two hundred refugees are allowed inside the walls. By that evening, when darkness begins to shade the field, two Gishimmari men will pull his corpse back to their camp, and bury him with their hands. By nightfall, two hundred more refugees from the surrounding countryside, their homes sacked by the men of Uruk, make it to the gates of Lagash. The city can no longer stomach to turn them away. Yet their nobility will come at a price, as every new mouth shortens the time they have to withstand the siege. Many wonder if they will hold out until the men of Kish come to relieve them. Lugalhengal’s generals concur. It is up to him to decide if they will attempt a desperate fight, or if they will stomach the cost. Neither side knows, as deep inside the Lugal’s chambers, he sits deep in contemplation.

Yet for a man whose life was ambition, who lived in the shadow of a past which loomed over him like the highest of cliffs, to surrender now would be suicide. He would gamble everything, before losing that chance, that chance which was his everything. And so, madness would reign. No surrender would come. His gates locked themselves shut once more, the lives of thousands now trapped between two impossibly driven ambitions. And as the winds of fate would gust across the fields and over the walls of Lagash, he would be given that last chance to achieve his fate or destroy himself. For but four days later, what should appear to the north but the armies of Kish.

God help us all.




When the men of Kish and her subjects appeared they shadowed the earth with their number, thousands strong, ready to relieve their pledged allies from their fate. Hundreds of chariots, hundreds of men. Their heads shone with glistening helmets. Their spears are heavy, made of precious iron. The earth itself recoils away from the field, which will be destined to host the bodies of thousands as their bed. By some act of god, a quick and wicked fire scars a great swath of it black, as the tall grass quickly catches. Smoke clogs the air for hours upon hours on end, even after the great flame dies. By this obscuring, by man’s trickery or nature’s arbitrarily, they arrive to the city’s gates, under the protection of her archers upon the walls, before the men of Uruk or Elam may intervene. That great parade enters the city, and there rests her men. The raiders of Uruk’s forces can do little to harass that entering army, as they slip by their forces. For any great baggage train which once followed those fighting men had been miles away abandoned, and sent back north. As they enter the city, they do so with only as much supply as could be carried upon their backs, or on their chariots. They did not plan to let this drag on.

Both sides knew a breakout was imminent, and all throughout the night, under the cover of the darkness, arrows traded in sporadic volleys, drums were beaten, and wildfires lit - such that neither camp could sleep, from threat of their foe’s next strike, hour after hour, until dawn was a temporary mercy upon them.

Both sides acted, neither reacted, for the time and place was simply unquestionable. Four armies martial themselves in the field between the city and the camps of Uruk and Elam. A volume of men and beast unforeseen in all the history of this cursed land, where waves of death crashed against cities’ walls like tides upon the ocean. Where the gods above struck down with lightning, fighting one another for their patron side. On the west, one of the great arms of the Tigris is banked by thick reeds, too wet to catch fire. Between the two, in the center, a blackened field dotted by groves of palms and the burnt nubs of once ripening wheat and barley separates the two. In the east, hills and pastureland are free of her bleating sheep, sweeping tall grass blows gently in the wind.

There is a great noise, of the murmurs of thousands, trembling, who themselves do and do not wish to die this day. A senseless violence, for greater men with more wealth and power than any among them should have. Hundreds have deserted the past two days from both sides, and yet the greatest bulk of them stay there. Why? Only manipulation can go so far, both side’s oracles promise victory at great cost. Whose ever god has lied, would soon be known.

But they do not, simply, crash into one another. Like two tides of flesh and blood, breaking upon another with wild abandon. Formalities are observed, even at the brink of damnation.

From amongst the thousands of men of Uruk’s alliance, one, a Gishimmari boy known for his skill at riding and swiftness of his chosen beast, rides out into the blackened earth. The burnt and ashey ground crunches beneath his camel’s hooves, as he, without arms, rides closer and closer to the lines of the alliance of Lagash. When he is mere dozen yards from them, close enough for death to certainly come to him from a violation of honor, he halts his camel. He stands up atop its back, in a manner utterly baffling to any but the most skilled and disciplined rider, amd calls out to them.

“Men of Kish and Lagash! Lay down your weapons! Return to your homes! No harm will come to you, should you abandon the field this day!”

They stare at him, hundreds of indecipherable voices muttering their private replies. He yells to them again.

“My master has ordered you to abandon the field! You are free to leave this battle, and this city, so that bloodshed may be avoided this day. He will allow you to live this day, if you should retreat and abandon the city to him!”

Finally, from amongst the crowd, a man runs out to meet the messenger. Standing feet away from him, this man looks up to the boy standing upon camelback, but does not attempt to strike him.

“My master refuses your request that he or his men abandon this field. Return to your master now, with his retort.”

And as the messenger of Uruk sits himself back upon the camel’s back, and turns the reins to ride back towards their lines, Gilgamesh needs not ask him their reply, for the conclusion was never to be for their surrender. It was merely a formality. So assured was the reply, and the symbolic nature of such a parley between kings, that right behind his own messenger, now, a man riding a chariot escaped the lines of Lagash, and there carted itself before the lines of Uruk. Standing atop his chariot, he reigned his horses to a stop, before calling out to their lines the same plead:

“Men of Uruk and Elam! My Master, the King of Lagash, demands you abandon the field to him! Return yourselves to your homes, far away from this land which holds nothing for you or your master. Do not let yourselves die this day for nothing! Leave, leave and you will be spared!”

And with just the same defiance as had come to their own messenger, the messenger of Uruk replied to him:

“My master denies your parley. Here he and his men will stay. Here they will fight.”

And so the man upon chariot back departed, returning across the blackened field towards his own.

But Gilgamesh was not a king to merely let messengers give his words, and as he dismissed the command to surrender himself, he climbed atop his gilded chariot, and handed the reigns to his beloved Enkidu, the wild man of immense size and strength, of weight and hair. So their team of ponies twice the number of any other cart carried them out to the middle of the field, where great Gilgamesh, gleaming with gilded armor of glowing bronze raised his spear into the air, and shouted at that mass of men across from him.

“I challenge you! Lugalhengal! Do not cower behind your own men to die for you! Fight me, king to king, for the right to rule the four corners! I am not afraid to bloody my hands with royal blood, are you?! Fight me! Fight me you cowards!”

And they watched him, for many minutes, as he shouted at the top of his lungs, beating his chest with his fist, banging his shield with his spear. Yet no king left to meet him. Instead, the very same messenger came to him, more annoyed than impressed.

“My Lord Lugalhengal has told me to tell you this, Prince Gilgamesh. He has said that, ‘Kings do not kill kings’, and the he shall abstain from your foolish and bullish endeavors. You are to retire the field now, or consider yourself prepared to be fired upon by his arrows.”

“Coward!” Gilgamesh shouted over the man, and out towards his army. “Look as your king cowers behind you! What a man can call himself king?! What man can call that his master?! You sir are a coward, and do not deserve this honor I have offered you!” And with those words did he return to his chariot, covered in sweat and red with anger, to circle back and return to his lines of men. All cursory attempts at parley having been exhausted, the countdown to armageddon grew quickly short. Tension grew, as men gripped tight their spears and shields, their reins and their bows. All waiting for the sounded horn, to begin such a horrible culling.

Hark! The horn blares. The air is filled with the screams of men soon to die. Two tidal waves race towards one another. Two impossibly great forces race towards another.

The air is thick with maddening cries of anger and hatred. The gods raise their weapons against each other.

The Buzzards circle the skies above, waiting for their feast of carrion to be delivered.

And so it shall be.




Horns echo their low and groaning calls across the field as men and boys shake with fear at their sound. From amongst the lines of Uruk, their Shakkanaks bark at the men to keep up as they raise their shields and spears, and begin the nauseating advance towards their own demise. The camels amongst their nomad allies groan and beat the earth, before their riders kick them onwards, moving forward at the flanks. Across the blackened charred field, a forest of spears above the heads of thousands. A wall of flesh and bone and metal. What madness, that two such impossibly large forces should now send themselves straight at one another.

On the right, the army of Elam follows their left comrades. Their nobles call in their foreign tongue, unknown to their black headed counterparts. Their Sukkalmah watches from afar, putting those thousands of bodies between himself and the bloodletting. He watches atop a camel, only nodding as they advance.

The men of Kish advance on the right of Lagash, bruised from their loss at Nippur, they seek revenge on the Gishimmari and Uruk adversaries which sullied their reputation. Yet Kish was least experienced in wars of city proportions. When Ur had fallen, she did not fight amongst her neighbors for control- Kish’s governor, and his allies in the northern cities, merely remained. Yet long had they fought with the Hivites, and the former colonists and freemen in the countryside surrounding the city were not wholly inexperienced at the art of bashing skulls. In that very same tradition, did they wear helmets and even some breastplates of that silver metal of their land. Iron amongst bronze, striking as the morning light glimmered. A gesture at the former strength of the region.

Hooves of teams of ponies kick up dirt and ash from the ground. They whine and thrash their heads as their riders whip them forward. They ride three to a team, driver and two with bows and spears. The best of each army which now advances at a rapid clip towards one another. Closer and closer they come, bowstrings are pulled taught. Some circle back, and stop their bowmen standing upon their platforms ready to fire. Others speed rapidly forward, certain to create havoc amongst the other side's chariots. Soon to create a horrific pileup, an accident imminent, unable to be stopped. Then in a second, the SNAP! of a bowstring, it all comes crashing down. Ponies scream as arrows pierce flesh, thrashing, pulling their carts to a tumbling hault. Others continue forward unharmed, as the ponies try desperately to pull away from one another, yet into the other’s carts they fall, and with ready spears have at their foes and their animals. All the while on either side, their footmen follow with rhythmic footsteps. this brief and angry skirmish amongst the noblest of either side unable to be interfered for fear of harming their own. A chaos of wood and beast and man, exacted upon one another as friend and foe become confused. A chaos of entangled sides and galloping hooves, until a signal horn draws them both back from the center, all the while those on the western flank continue to trade blow and shot with one another. Between two armies, broken wheels and carts are dragged by bloody horses, which scream and pull apart in pain and fear. Crumpled limbs and broken bones break many who are dragged along by their teams like a screaming corpse, barely able to move but forced to. Far fewer men lay in the field, two who were thrown off their cart stagger back towards the lines of Uruk. One with an arrow shot into his face screams as he stumbles blindly back to the lines of Kish. A joust, an opening bout- as now all four armies are closer than ever before, while on their edges beasts and men fight, camel-riders of Uruk pouncing and spearing men off their carts, while other chariots still circle and fire at one another, some departing from their mounts to fight one on one and hand to hand, swinging wildly with their spears, while their riders watch their duel with fear and bated breath.

Men with bows and slings step out before the army of Lagash. They nock their arrows and whirl their slings above their head. A first, sputtering volley flies as the uncoordinated mass of skirmishers rain bullet and arrow across the sky towards their foes. The men of Uruk raise their shields in fear, feeling the hail smack into them hard, punching holes into their crude defenses of wood and hide. Lucky few arrows hit their mark, or a mark of flesh and bone by more screams. Their ranks open up, as the mounted men on camel and cart race out once again towards their foe.

So soon did the skirmishers of Lagash retreat in the face of their mounted foes, who turned and fired on at their enemy- that their own chariots returned to the field. Yet as the mix of horses began, did the skirmishers and footmen of Uruk began their march forward. Their bowmen and slingers running in front of their comrades with spear and shield, until they were so close to their mounted noblemen that they could fire over their heads and into the mass of infantry on the other side.

A horn blared to their right, and just as Uruk’s army advanced, soon after did that of Elam, under the fire of the men of Kish, as both sides traded arrows.

In fear of being caught among the footmen of Uruk, quickly did the chariots of Lagash return back to their lines, and their skirmishers began firing above the heads of their footmen, behind their lines. Closer and closer did the footmen of Uruk come towards the lines of Lagash, arrows pelting back and forth, praying to not fall victim to fate’s cruel hand. Some cowered, some shaked, yet their Shakkanaks and noblemen barked and prodded them onwards, their king stood amongst them, gleaming golden with bronze.

“Any man who runs will die!” He demanded, and so it echoed amongst his lieutenants.

Closer and closer they came, until their march became a sprint. Screaming, the bravest among them wildly banging their shields as they charged. Faster, wilder, louder, more chaotic- ending with a sudden CRASH as contact was made.

The sounds of thousands of spears and clubs and daggers and swords cracking against wood and metal. Men trading blows both careful and maddeningly wild. Desperation and panic would grip any man who was among the pit of bodies and blood, nowhere was safe but behind. Bodies pressed against each other, as spears jabbed out from over one's shoulder, back and forth, trading heavy blows!

But this could not last forever.

Within minutes, the even lines of men broke down. A curving, blob of man against man striking another. Whose side was who was beginning to become unclear. Within minutes, exhaustion tore at the strength of the strongest man, when he struck down heavy with a mallet a hundred times already. Sweat, the stench of blood and sweat and shit. Hard strikes from wooden clubs shatter bones and spray the ground with blood. They break noses from men’s faces, they knock loose their jaws from their heads. Spears poke and prod out as coordination turns to desperate duels. Men more desperate to live than make the other one die. Half an hour goes by, as the air begins to heat. This cannot last for long, yet Gilgamesh, the great prince, does not tire. He wields a great axe, and with it strikes down hard, breaking the shields of his foe, that are like grass holding back the euphrates. He is feared, men cower in his wake.

Yet his men tire, and, by the chaotic nature of the scramble, begin to bend on the right flank, close to where his men meet the men of Elam. They stagger backwards, slowly at first, but by the time a full hour has passed in the melee- they break! From in between the two armies, the commanders of Lagash and Kish both notice this folly- and rush to exploit it! Suddenly, a hundred men from amongst the back of their lines are rounded and sent towards the gap- the men of Uruk turn to their right, the men of Elam turn to their left, and in horror see the growing mass of men between the two! From each side, their line begins to crumble, fighting from the front and right, dozens begin to fall to spear and sword, overwhelmed, cut down. Then they begin to run.

The lieutenants of Gilgamesh, who is busy haughtily taking blood in the front, see this in horror, and scramble to plug the gap before they are all cut down and overrun. Ilyās, the Gishimmari rider, calls back his men from their skirmishing. He cedes the left flank, where he had gained ground attacking and pulling back in several dozen small skirmishes with the enemy’s chariots, upon receiving word from his black-headed comrades in the center. With the sound of a horn and the waving of his spear, he calls back his riders, tired and bloodied, with broken spears and dwindling arrows. He barks at them to follow, or they will all die on this wretched field.

With brave and wicked, demonic cries and uluations, the men and women riders among the Gishimmari storm the gap, spears lowered, camels groaning, as they smash into those men scrambling to break their foes. A corridor of twenty yards has opened up between the two armies, and only grows with every minute. Yet now they scream, and in a panic run or brace themselves as the camelry strikes! Spear pierces flesh, men fall tumbling to the ground beneath their heavy hooves. Gored by their lances, the shock is enough to send the attackers scrambling!...

But it isn't enough. For soon they are pounced upon by five, six at a time of men with spears who stab at and pull them from their beasts. They swarm and consume any who stop for but a moment, and quickly do those riders have to pull back bloodied, only to charge again with much lesser effect.

Soon, the entire force begins to rout, and their commanders and Shakkanaks bark at them to retreat orderly, but quickly their foes pounce, and it is chaos where hundreds of them are cut down!

A stampede, a route, the worst time of every battle where the most men die. Arrows fly over the heads of their comrades to try and slow the men of Lagash who rush forwards! But it only slows their pursuers who continue to cut them down. Mighty gilgamesh roars with anger as he sees on his left and right his allies begin to fall backwards. He tries to run forwards, axe held high, filled with bloodlust and radiating with sweat in the sunlight. His beloved enkidu, however, pulls him back, and with one hand fights off those who lunge at the king as they cross the field.




Four dozen women scurry upon the field. They are tired, they are scared, yet in the face of adversity and terror continue their jobs with the utmost duty. bodies litter the field, the wounded stagger out from their lines in the scrap. They need help, they call for their mothers. The least they can do for them is to try. The injured come first, but if none are in sight the dead come soon after. those farthest from the bloodshed can be dragged from the wet, crimson dirt they lay upon. Perhaps something can be recovered for their families back home. Under arrow fire and slingshot, they make their long journeys across the field and back to their camp. Back to their tents, where a dozen more women use scalpels and tongs to extract arrows from flesh, and tight bandages with plaster to set broken bone. Many of them come from the cult of the Lady of Lagash. Ironically. Cast from the city long ago, their prayers and ability were too powerful for the former masters of that city, who evicted them from their patron goddess’ home. Now they work outside her walls, and tend to the suffering of those who would conquer it. Who would let them return to the goddesses crumbling shrine and temple.

Among those women who carry wounded and bodies, a disgusting, low task, is no mere priestess, no mere wife. The wife of Jushur, the prophet of the Gishimmari, perhaps the the highest of all the women in Kengir now wears a roughspun skirt, and covered in dried blood and mud and dripping with sweat, helps another woman drag a man with one shoulder horribly dislocated back towards the camp. They pick him up, unknowing of the route. They watch the Gishimmari camelry make their wild charge into the gap, and know something is very wrong. They turn behind them, and see the men begin to run!

“Olifia!” The girl beside her screams in horror. “We’ve got to go! Drop him!”

But she will not. She looks at the man with suffering in his eyes and cannot stomach the notion. She shakes her head, but doesn't speak- her throat in knots, choked, as she staggers on. More men pass them, running for their lives. Many more volleys pass over their heads, a cover for the fleeing men. But it barely gives them enough time. Screams of fear, men run for their lives. Even their Shakknaks cannot rally them, and too pass beside them, demanding their men reform outside their camp.

Then they hear the galloping of hooves, the sounds of screaming foes coming closer and closer. The other girl drops his arm, and begins to flee. The queen, however, cannot. Her soul hurts too much to be rational, to be smart. To save herself. There on the ground a rock catches her foot. She falls gasping in pain. Tumbling onto her face. The man crumples down beside her, groaning, trying to push himself up through the pain with his useable arm. But as she turns upon her back,

What horror gripped her, who had in twenty years of living among this world never faced true mortal fear? She shakes, and crawls backwards in the face of a man with spear in-hand. The fray has driven him mad, uncaring as she cries and chokes out a whispered cry. “Please…” She asks him, but he does not care. He has just seen his brother’s skull caved in with a wooden club. Her people did not show him any mercy. He places his foot upon her stomach; and now realizing her own mortal peril thrashes back and forth. The injured man beside her yells at him with curses and insults as he kicks at him. The wild man of Lagash turns to him and with a violent thrust of his spear strikes the wounded man straight into his stomach. He chokes, he gasps, and from his lips begins to cough up blood. Olifia, the woman of mystery is but another symbol of Uruk’s wrongs to this wild man. He knows not of her power, of her status. She wriggles free from him as his eyes turn towards the man she was helping, but soon after wrenching his spear free does he chase her down, and tackle her onto the floor. She shakes, tears streaming down her face. “I don't want to die!” She croaks, but it is of no use.

“Fuck your master! Fuck your city! Choke on ash, bitch!” He spits at her, and dropping his spear pulls a knife from his belt. She thrashes and she screams, but he lifts the knife up- and strikes down into her back once, twice, three times. She writhes in agony- but it is for not. He stabs and stabs and stabs until she moves no longer. She lays there unconscious, blood pooling all around. From her body he tears a necklace. A single piece of loot, which he quickly discards after finding it worthless. On it, a piece of black stone is inscribed with the text, “God is mercy”.




Little time is there to notice though, as the prophet of the Gishimmari now lays lifeless upon the dirt, one body among hundreds, not to be discovered for hours. For on the field now - the entire line of Lagash is broken as they restlessly pursue the men of Uruk. So broken in fact that they pass beside the far more stable lines of Elam, who, due to their sheer numerical advantage against the men of Nippur, have not faltered. The Sukkalmah’s commanders see the route of their allies, and it is only with his quick judgment that the battle may be saved.

Quickly, the Elamite king orders men from his back lines pulled together, and from them sent to race towards the pursuing men of Lagash. This does not stop them, but the roughly hundred men he does send distracts them for just long enough for disaster to be averted. For beside their camp, the men of Uruk begin to rally. Gilgamesh takes upon his chariot, and orders his Shakkanaks to corral their men, as a new, rough formation begins to emerge. Meanwhile, those Gishimmari riders, who after failing to plug the gap were forced to retreat - began to reorganize too. The charging men of Lagash begin to spread thin, as they take upon the bodies of the dead for loot. It is now or never for a counter attack, and Ilyās, bloodied and bruised, with dented armor and robes stained red, understands this too. He reforms his men, a mass of those who he has left on camelback, and with them charges into the field of men giving chase to their comrades, who slowly begin to find eachother near the camp.

With just as fierce a cry as their charges before, they dash into the mobs of men, unable to be stopped by formation or mass. Blood sprays as men are caught beneath spear and foot. Bones break, men fall. The disorganized, pursuing mass of thousands of men scramble as they see them crash through their midst, not stopping but to fire arrows and strike their lances down towards them. That mob of men in pursuit, distracted on two sides, becomes completely disorganized. Lost. Incoherent. Some hold back while some push forward. By the time that the footmen of Uruk have assembled a proper formation, Gilgamesh blows a horn from atop his chariot, and with newly found courage do they counterattack, a mob of men now breaking through those who had just broken them.

Seeing this, and fearing his victory snatched from him in their final hour, Lugalhengal, filled with rage at his men, dons his chariot, and he too rides out into the field.


“Get back here! Stop! Fight damn you! Get into the fight!” He barks at the men. Yet without lieutenants as many as the Shakkanaks of Uruk, he can do little to corral them all back into formation. In rage he rides closer and closer to the fray, yelling and screaming, “I am your king, damn you!”

What a fatal mistake he did make.

For this remark is not merely heard by his men, but as thoroughly chaotic as the field has become, this declaration is heard by his foe too. A nobleman of Uruk atop his chariot, joining his camel-riding compatriots to make a mess of the chaotic back lines of the overstretched and uncoordinated men of Lagash, drops his spear, and raises his bow.

He pulls the bowstring taught, its arrow straining with pounds of force behind it. It is a second’s act, a second’s reflex. A second is all that is needed, sometimes, to shape history.

From that force, his bowstring SNAPS back! The arrow let loose, in an instant, it finds its lucky home. Impossibly lucky so, for such an arrow flies straight towards Lugalhengal, and guided by the hand of the goddess Inanna herself, does hit its mark.

In a spurt of blood and a deathly cry, Lugalhengal collapses off of his chariot, his driver looking back in terror to see the king fallen down, unable to stop the startled ponies as they continue to draw him forward. The great king, the heir to Uruk’s greatness, clutches his neck on the ground. He twitches, he gasps for breath, blood spurting out from the wound. It was impossible, yet it had been done. Two of his commanders, riding close behind, call his name as they leap from the mounts and scramble towards him. He reaches out to them, eyes wide with pain. He cannot speak through it. They bark at their drivers to stop, and with tear-streaked eyes attempt to carry him back, away from the field. Yet his men have already seen his folly, already seen his fate.

“The King is Dead!” Is shouted amongst the lines of Lagash, to their horror and terror of the chaos.

“The King is Dead!” Is repeated, much to the confusion of Uruk and Lagash’s footmen.

Many believe this to be Gilgamesh, who so recklessly tears blood alongside his footmen with axe and sword.

Yet there they see him atop his chariot, riding down any who do not jump from its course.

It can only be Lugalhengal who has fallen, and so shaken is his commanders at this fate, that they quickly fall back themselves, having lost all will to continue on when their Lugal may be no more.

Soon, the footmen of Lagash see their leaders panic, and they too begin to run! What had been a route of their foes, now turns into a route of their own! Thousands of men, who had ran across the field with bloodlust and fury, now are filled with dread and fear, as they cross once again back towards the city. Gilgamesh, atop his chariot, wastes no time in his orders. He screams at the top of his lungs, dodging an arrow aimed towards his cart. “Run them down! Take prisoners! I want slaves! I want ransoms!”

And so in tow did the footmen and riders of Uruk, now finding themselves delivered from what would be their own deaths, were cowed, bloodied and battered, by their Shakkanaks and noblemen, to take upon the fleeing men - chasing them down, killing many, and beating many others into submission.

Meanwhile, the grinding mass of men of Kish and Elam had noticed the utter collapse of the army of Lagash, which ran past them like a stampeding herd of cattle. Broken, shattered, leaving them now outnumbered and outflanked by the soon charging men of Uruk, their position was dire as their commanders turned to lord Gišur with fear in their eyes.

Gišur spat on the ground. “Damnable lot! How have they lost themselves this field, when I had seen the men of Uruk not a moment before on the route! We cannot win, not like this. Begin to retreat the men towards the city - under fire of archers and slingers. We cannot all be ran down, else I will be kneeling to Gilgamesh by nightfall! Do it, now!” And, motioning to his charioteer, stepped upon its back. “Back to the gate, before I too am made a captive. And -” He said with a pause, looking around with anger, “Where the hell is Lugalhengal!?”

It was in that moment that a bloodied and limping messenger from the men of Lagash, who had lost both his spear and shield, approached the king, moaning his words with despair.

“The King of Lagash is dead! There is no hope for us this day!”




The field is quiet now, quieter than the sounds of thousands sent to die. Quieter than the suffering of man against man, beating, stabbing, cutting. The cries of mortal terror now rarely erupt, from a quiet, groaning of those left. Small clusters of men and women both shuffle through the bloodied and trampled ground, brush, burned to crisp, now pounded to ash underfoot. The sun continues its descent into the horizon. It will be dark in but a few hours.

From the bodies, friends and kin attempt to identify corpses of those unfound. Comrade and foe alike, unless guarded by a beloved, is looted of all he holds. Shield, spear, coin, and even shoes are taken from them. It is only with the stern glance of the Shakkanak and lieutenant of the Lugal that they do not take them all, and give the Lugal his due from the spoils. Among the spoils are men, the wounded, the left behind. The surrendered. Those who are given mercy are bound with rope or else corralled with spearpoint together. Their fate to be decided later, whence the city has fallen, or surrenders. Among those who have found themselves in the camp of Uruk, under stern gaze, are many nobles. They promise riches from their homes and estates, if only they are allowed ransom back to the city. Their fates, too, are put off until later.

The bodies of the identified are dragged back towards the camp. If they have surviving friends or kin, they are wrapped in cloth and reed mats, given a dignified rest. Those to whom no one knows, or else the bodies of the enemy, are left behind. It is only the Gishimmari, and some among the black-heads who help them, who go to collect the bodies of the foreigners. If not to bury them, at least to keep them from the wild animals of the night - and allow those inside the walls to later leave and collect them.

But among those bodies is a woman - face-down upon the earth. Her plain clothes are dyed red and brown and gray, from the blood, the dirt, and the ash which has covered them. She is unnoticed at first, for face-down she is but one lump among many. Her long hair is wild and matted, the blood on her skin has long since dried into crust. The wounds on her back no longer bleed, but ooze and have turned to yellow.

Her absence is felt before they find her.

Among the groups of Gishimmari, their Black-headed neighbors find them restless, and whispering with some great distress. The women of the Lady of Lagash too, while occupied by the crying and dying, are distracted. Hours go by, and their fear only becomes worse. Gilgamesh, who has been thus far gloating in his victory, and personally counting the spoils of the dead heaped in front of him, idly asks one of his lieutenants, “where is my mother-in-law?”

Soon enough, however, as the sun begins to set below the horizon, they find her.

An agonizing wail, of deep loss and searing heartache echoes across the field.

A girl falls, kneeling, beside her body. Her face is strewn with tears, her body shakes as she grabs at the body.

“Mother! MOTHER!... Please, please mother! Wake up! It cannot be!... It cannot be!”

Soon, many others congregate around the corpse. They, too, join in the crying. Brave and stoic men begin to weep, as the entire body of Gishimmari soldiers leave their camp, and begin to congregate around the field.

Their black-headed comrades see them leave, and, many curious, follow them to see what has happened.

“The prophet - Umm Kharuf… She’s dead!”

“This cannot be!”

“She was our guide! She was our light!”

“She had led us through the desert…”

“Now, we are without her.”

The girl named Narwa, thrown atop the woman’s body, finally regains control over herself. This is no way to treat Umm Kharuf, she knows. This is no way to treat Olifia, she feels in her heart. They wrap her in a reed mat, much as their black-headed neighbors who now rest cold and lifeless, and carry her back towards the camp. There is weeping and the beating of chests, before they are silenced by a man, the commander named Ilyas, who bows to look at her there, and kisses her upon the forehead. He looks around the crowd of mourners and onlookers, of both Black-Head and Gishimmari. He does not weep.

“I remember when she came to my village - oh so long ago. Her and the Queen of Yanbu - do you remember? She taught us the meaning of charity for those who aren’t of one’s blood. She shared with us what little her people had, when once we had little. She taught us to read the stars, and together? We achieved victory. We won by her prophecy four campaigns, and now a fifth. We won over the christians on the seaside plains. We won against the Aksumites in the foothills of the south. We won against Ur, and their clutches over our promised land, we won against Nippur, and took their city to be our own… Now, she has promised us victory over Lagash, and, as if spoken from Al-Uzza-Allat, we have struck down their king.”

He pauses for a moment, and looks back down to the body of the Prophet. He looks to the girl Narwa, who was the prophet’s chosen student. She wipes away her tears, and stands up to address the thousands who gaze to her for answers.

“But the greatest thing she did for us… Was teach us morality. Was teach us righteousness. Teach us mercy. Teach us compassion, for the stranger and the neighbor, to the friend and the enemy. Was teach us cleanliness, and teach us the wonder, and the beauty of the world. Now she lays here… Now she rests.”
She chokes back tears. She has to stop herself for a moment, before continuing.

“But Olifia said she would return. Even now, breathless and cold… she sleeps. And she said that she would return to us, and she said that we must fight even after she falls. And I believe her! We followed her guidance across the desert, from our homes and kin to this land of strife and turmoil because this is where we were needed most! And now that she falls it is our DUTY to carry on her word, and her mission, to whoever will hear it. It was never about her, as beloved as she may be. It was about us… That’s all she ever cared for. She cared for us!

She cared for us. She helped us.”

From the reed mat they unraveled her, and carried her into a tent. There they shut the flaps, and hid her from the prying eyes of the camp. Around their fires the Gishimmari congregate with curious Black-heads, who listen as they sing and pray and recite stories of their past. Meanwhile, in the tent, they wash her body with perfume and water. They take the soiled clothes from her body, and wrap her in cloth. They pray over her body to Allat, the divine woman, the merciful and kind. Then they place her in a wooden box, and upon that box place a dozen oil lamps surrounding, glowing softly in the dark of night.




It is early morning, the following day. A rider atop a chariot, without arms or armor, leaves the gates of the city of Lagash. His poneys gallop across the quiet and stained field towards the camp of Uruk. He wears the ring of the now dead king of Lagash. The guards at the front of the camp let him through, and, departing from his cart, he enters the tent of the mighty prince Gilgamesh. He kneels before the mighty man, who looks down upon him with a sneering grin.

“Does your city surrender?” He asks him.

“My lord Anetum, son of Lugalhengal, is willing to discuss terms with you and the Sukkalmah of Elam and Susa.”

In the field between the city and the camps of her attackers, four parties of men upon chariots arrive. Each a king in his own right, each who but the day before sent thousands to slaughter one another. One of these men is younger than the other three, in his mid twenties. He carries himself well, but nervously looks around him, and cannot help but look like a fish on land.

Four stools are set down for them to sit, a small table is brought forth - and upon it bowls of nuts and dates, and a pitcher of beer and cups are placed. Nobody eats nor drinks, the formality observed, but too sick to their stomachs to indulge… All except Gilgamesh, who eyes the two across from him like a hungry jackal. He grins, and slowly indulges in the fruit placed before them.

The King of Kish, the senior of the parties who have called for terms, speaks first, for he knows Anetum, the young king, will not.

“Lugalhengal is dead. Nothing more can be gained by protracting this war, and destroying our cities and her men like in the days of Ur’s reign. It is time to put down the sword, and discuss this plainly. The city, should you decide to besiege it, will prove a difficult feat. Even if you do take it, how many of your men will die? This is assuming you will, which, with so many injured proves a chance. You have little to gain by risking their lives for the spoils inside her walls, or the walls of Kish to the north.”

The Sukkalmah of Elam leaned forward. He nodded slowly. “I see you are a man of reason then. I would applaud your words, but as you come to us, I know your situation is dire. Gišur, you have left your walls and come to us for mercy. Mercy, as you know, is not granted without a cost. You argue that, should we seek to take the city, it will come to us with great cost, if not a loss. Yet that assumes we have a need to take the city by force, which is simply untrue. Gilgamesh and I have enough men and enough supplies from our homes coming in to last us months of siegecraft. I believe he shares the same belief I have when I say that we are willing to suffer the costs of famine and worsened crops if it means finally putting an end to this chaos. We will starve your city out, even if you do not surrender this day. There is simply no room for us to walk away without Kingship finally returning to the land.”

Gišur stroked his chin, frowning, but nodding.

“We want an honorable peace. There will be no looting of Kish or Lagash. There will be no looting of our subject cities, too.”

Then, from silence this whole meeting, Gilgamesh chimes in. “You will have no subject cities, Gišur. Do not fret.”

The king of Kish glares across the table. “I will not surrender my rulership in whole to you, Gilgamesh. It is not a king’s way to become a pauper without dying first.”

“Relax, I will not be so cruel as to strip you of your home and palace. You can continue to rule over Kish… As my Ensi. As for your subject cities, of Assur and Sippar… They will transfer, and pay their tribute directly to me.”

“And if I refuse?” Gišur asked, grinding his teeth.

“Then you will lose Kish when you are captured in the fall of this city, and I will take your daughters as my concubines, and your palace for one of my Shakkanaks who showed valor in the conquest.”

There is silence across the table.

“And what of Larak and Girsu?” Asked the Sukkalmah of Elam to Gilgamesh. “Who will Lagash’s subjects be given to?”

Gilgamesh looked at him, frowning. “You did cede that I be given Kingship. I have promised you Lagash as a vassal. I would request I be given her subject cities as my own, in the interests of legitimizing my rule.”
“I will give you one better.” The Sukkalmah stated, drumming the table with his fingers. “March with me to Eshnunna following this conclusion, and pay me five years worth of grain and livestock tribute from Lagash, and you may have the city for yourself.”

Gilgamesh looked to the Sukkalmah, confused, yet the king simply looked back at him, something in his eyes told Gilgamesh the Sukkalmah considered a much more favorable deal. That holding Lagash as a subject would be, actually, more trouble than what it was worth.

“You have a deal.” Replied the mighty man, as he turned his attention to the young king Anetum.

“Give me your father’s ring.” He demanded. “And I will let you have your inheritance.”


Silence. All four stared at Anetum, who, breathing heavily, slowly reached to his left hand, and drew the ring from his middle finger. Then he placed it into the open palm of Gilgamesh, who held it up to the sun, to see the gold shimmer in the morning light, and the large stone embedded upon its face.

“I accept your vassalage.” Replied the mighty man, who stood up from his chair, satisfied.

“So that is it?! Demanded Gišur, who too stood up. Gilgamesh, you should know there is more to discuss! Your tribute aught to be fair and prescribed, not arbitrary and cruel. And I should demand the return of my nobles and men captured by yours in exchange for my willing surrender!”

Gilgamesh rolled the ring around in his palm, before sliding it onto his finger.

“Your nobles should be wealthy enough to pay for their ransoms, should they not? As for your men, and the men captured of Lagash upon the field, I will too, give them a chance for ransom. Since we are not even doing so much as sacking the city, you must believe their families can pay for their freedom, can they not?”

“You know very well the rural folk, who you and I have taken everything from to feed these hordes of men, will have little to pay for their release!”

“That is so. They are little people. They will be of no use to you. Broken. Poor. Unproductive. Discontented. Those who cannot pay, I will take back to Uruk as my slaves.”

Gišur scowled at him, and huffed. Yet the Sukkalmah rolled his eyes and simply stated. “Take the deal, your allies and present shelter already have.”

Aggrieved, disgusted, and humiliated, Gišur slowly held out his royal ring - silver, with a large red stone atop it. Gilgamesh slid it too upon his finger, where now he looked with pride at all three rings, the rings of three kings upon his hand. He felt in this moment wholly alive. A god among men. A king of kings. Finally, he could say he was King of Kengir. His father be damned, he was a cripple. Gilgamesh was Lugal of the land between the two rivers. Gilgamesh held the title bestowed upon men by the gods.

“You may leave now. I will expect you in Uruk in the near future, to swear your oaths publicly.” He told them, stood up, and left the three of them at the table.




Eight thousand men from Uruk and her subjects. Ten thousand men from Elam, Susa, Anshan, and the lands east of the Tigris. Seven thousand men from Kish. Eight thousand men from Lagash. They drank the Tigris dry. They cut and consumed the orchards and wheatfields, they slaughtered and picked clean the herds from Nippur to Lagash to the bone. Thirty three thousand men were raised in total, among all sides, to fight this war. Six thousand lay dead, spread between the sieges, all the battles, all the sickness. Nine thousand are injured, bloodied, bruised, cut. Many hundreds of them will die in the weeks to come from infection and illness. A king lay slaughtered alongside a prophet. The war takes and it takes, and leaves those who survive as scarred as the land.

A thousand men are marched alongside the returning armies of Uruk. Tied together with rope, whipped and beaten with canes when they try to run. The Lugal’s new slaves. Their Gishimmari neighbors are too aggrieved to care. Their bitterness and trauma from this conflict souring what former objections they had to the practice.

When they return, Gilgamesh will take kingship from his father, retiring him to a somber life at home. Without a crown, without his Gishimmari bride.

That bride, the woman beloved amongst the Sharii, will be carried north. The only one which can be safely brought back home to Nippur. While the others rot in the sun, and are buried or burned on the fields they died, never to see their widows and mothers again. Yet the body of the prophet, as if possessed by magic, does not rot. The wounds turn from yellow to green, and then to purple, and then to red. Their infection, as if gripped by some force of God, seems to dissipate.

This bleak procession carries her to a tomb carved into a tall cliff an hour’s hike outside of Nippur. Carved into the rock but a few years prior, they took her from the wooden box, and placed her on a stone bed inside the tomb. To all who gaze upon her then, it looks as if she is sleeping. It looks as though she were still alive. Her lips are red, her eyes are not sunken. They light candles, burn incense, and leave behind offerings to their beloved Umm Kharuf, taken from them in that foreign land by devils and the impure. Then they close the door, and tie it shut with a rope, and a clay seal to secure the rope together.

Outside the tomb, they leave a guard and a fire. There they sit, waiting, listening. Hoping one day Olifia would awaken, and return to them having conquered death.

Atop the tomb is a carving between two stone pillars above the doors tied shut.

On the left is the divine woman, Allat. She holds up her left hand, and stands naked and beautiful. On the right is the divine male, Allah. He kneels, and raises both his hands, palms out, full of wisdom and contemplation. Between the two is carved a ball of radiant light. In the center of that light is an open palm, with its fingers together. That hand is Wahd, the divine omnipresence, which is within all beings and all things. Together this trinity guards above the prophet as she rests. The culmination of decades of preaching and study, of contemplation and prayer. The physical manifestation of her life’s work. The final evolution of her faith.

God, the god of all faces, the god of all tongues, the god in all men. That force by which men call providence, or fate, or chance, or nature… That force by which all gods surrender and appeal to, which weaves divine fate. Wahd, the unity of all being, which brought Umm Kharuf to this world from the distant future, watches over her now…

And with a fate so grand and important as hers, not even the grave can keep Umm Kharuf with its clutches for long. A miracle, it seems - for not once did her body truly die. It only slumbers and heals with otherworldly power.
Last edited by Saxony-Brandenburg on Mon Oct 09, 2023 1:06 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby G-Tech Corporation » Fri Oct 06, 2023 10:51 am

Part 7, Chapter 9: Strength in Stone


May 22nd, 41 AG

I breathed out heavily, tucking my tongue to one side to direct the breath into the hollow of the work. A fine powder sloughed away from the face, gray and red intermixed, drifting in a stream to the rough tiled floor. The room was set in a utilitarian manner, clear-glazed stonework shards cut orthogonally and secured with thick near-black grout, likely a cement aggregate. Some poor soul had scoured the tile almost clean before my arrival, but now a thin layer of grit and dust marked the area around myself and the other men and women, broken here and there by larger pieces of rock which had crumbled to the earth.

Mm. Not quite deep enough. I glanced up to the reference model, who lounged casually on a backless chair at the center of the room, his face studiously set in an expression of stoic resolve, then back down to the work. My lips pursed in thought for a breath, and I swapped the larger chisel out for a smaller awl, laying the heavier tool on the workman's table near at hand. The eyes were devilishly difficult to get right, as I had always found, and the smallest adjustments could mean the difference between an acceptable panoply of life and a grotesque golem suitable to scare children and little more.

I set my stand wider, bracing roughed boots on the smooth tile, and cautiously rotated the tool, shearing away shaving after shaving of the self-hewn granite before me. Another breath, a sharp inhalation through the nose then out of the mouth with dry air, nothing to bind the dust to the work. Satisfactory. Down my hands went again, for the rasp, newly sharpened for the finest details. There would be no time today for everything to be completed, but I wanted to at least cut the lines, and that had to be done fraction by fraction.

The room was all but silent, save for the tapping and clinking of tools, and a slow whicker-hum of a few fans turning lazily on flywheels set at the windowsills of the workshop. It helped focus the mind, to be sure, but also I found was not entirely conducive to artistic pursuits - at least not for me personally. A flaw of my own, not to be placed upon the proprietor, who was a good man. Too much silence helped the mind to wander even from that with which it was engaged, and to take in the bubbling undercurrents of the psyche which were normally easily glossed over. Careful clockwise strokes, each one cutting a fraction deeper into the stone within what would be an eye socket, and the rough shape formed.

My own eyes, in contrast, wandered again to the dour gray-bearded figure who stood near at hand, scowling at his own lump of plutonic stone, which had now broadly gathered the seeming of a man, but only the seeming. Unlike some of the other half dozen figures about the workshop, he had preferred to place his attention mainly to the heavier tools, and as such the floor near his stool was littered with larger chunks of debris and rubble, rather than the finer powder which touched most of the tile. No finer features had yet appeared on his sculpture, and I got the impression he found the whole affair a trifle confusing, but had taken to the process with a will regardless.

A creak behind me came from a familiar direction, and I half-turned at the waist toward where a burly man with a thick well-oiled black beard and resplendent bald dome stood appraising the room.

"Noonmeal. Good progress. Come, the stew is tender. Cleanse your hands before table, if you please."

I was happy enough to stop, a kernel of hunger in my belly now fanned to more sudden flame after a reminder of the hour. Some of my tools had also dulled from repeated work on the heavy stone, and I would be glad of them being fresh-sharpened by the mason's apprentices once we returned from lunch. I clapped some of the dust off of my hands, then wiped them on the rawhide apron which covered most of my chest a few times. Only the third man in line for the faucet, I was glad of the cold but clear water which sluiced into the basin, and dashed some through my hair to settle the worst of the powder. The rest of the men and women looked little better, like minstrels after an accident in a mill, but it went with the territory. Heavy coarse cloths for faces and hands scrubbed away most of what remained, to be placed into a grimy bucket for cleaning again later.

Master Nasua led the way into a lower room, a hall set adjacent to the workshop, where the windows had been thrown open to embrace the cool spring breeze streaming down from the mountains. It was still early enough that I was glad of the thick apron to turn away the worst of the chill, but without the fresh air we no doubt should have been stifling with the heat of exertion in a confined space. Steaming bowls of simple earthenware had been set around a long table, and two to one side by some distance at a smaller table toward the rear of the hall.

I stared at the stew gratefully, the scent of the bubbling morass over a fire at one end reeking deliciously of mutton and onions, both of which were foods I was only too happy to devour after work. There wasn't a man in Moravia who turned his nose up at some properly cooked mutton, though it was easy to ruin the dish if you didn't let it soften appropriately. With a few cloves of garlic tossed into a simmering pot, the whole assemblage could be downright tasty. A seat at one end of the main table did fine duty, and I plopped myself down, taking a few moments to merely inhale the radiating steam as the other students shambled in from the workshop.

"Hegemon? Would you care to say grace?"

My eyes opened, shaken from my reverie of savoring the meal to come to dart over at the face of the bearded mason. I had not known he was a man of faith, but the request seemed sincere, and he and his goodwife had sat across the table from me with smiles on their faces. I nodded, somewhat curtly, not having expected the request - but it was hardly unreasonable.

"Father, we thank you for the strength in our bodies, and the glory of your creation, the bones of the earth and the spark of your image which leads us to create art in turn, reflecting a portion of your spirit. I thank you for cool wind, and warm food, to nourish us and sustain us, in your grace. May your peace fill our hearts, and your will guide our hands. In the name of your blessed son, amen."

Perhaps half of the individuals around the table muttered their own amens as I concluded the simple prayer, notably not included the gray-haired northerner, who had sat at the smaller table. I had hardly expected differently. Even men and women drawn from the capitol had hardly taken to Christendom like fish to water, and the entourage from Mara to this remote location above Lakis in the Erzgebirge were nothing if not representative of their kin. A nod of thanks to the mason, and I picked up my bowl, the heat warming my palms as I padded over to the more secluded vestibule where Aldwine of the Grimbivii sat alone.

His expression only slightly softened as I seated myself, his attention set upon the stew at hand, and I took the cue to do likewise. Nasua's wife, it turned out, was quite a respectable cook. I couldn't place every ingredient, some no doubt coming from the local woods, but it was hearty and stuck to my bones just fine, well-cooked barley intermixed with the vegetables and mutton lending it a vaguely nutty dusty flavor which was entirely palatable. Exactly the sort of food men at work required, and which I felt was merited after a morning of doing my human best to force a fragment of mountain to yield to the vision of my mind's eye.

"So, you are the one they call Hegemon. I had expected someone older, but also smaller. How do they feed you where you come from?"

I smiled. It was a common refrain, but no less true for that.

"We breed the cattle bigger, so they give more meat, and live through cold and heat. I didn't miss a single meal until I had twenty winters under my belt."

Now the grey-bearded man did scowl, and mutter into his beard. I took a moment to polish off the last of my stew as he gathered his thoughts.

"Well I can imagine it. You southerners know little of hunger. Would that my own people could say the same. Then we would be a race of giants, like your soldiers."

I inclined my head at those words. It wasn't exactly strictly true - to my eyes the effects of steady nutrition and readily available crops, and the prevention of famine were hardly noticeable - but it could be that as far north as where the Grimbivii called home had even more of a problem with malnutrition than the Imperium's Baltic possessions. Even if it were not the case, soldiers in the service of the Emperor were fed well, trained well, and carried thick muscle and had endurance after the fashion of athletes trained for the purpose, unlike the warriors which might be marshalled to a banner in the north.

Aldwine eyed me sidelong, glancing across at the table where the other participants in the day's class were talking in raised voices.

"Officially, I am only here for lessons in this art of stone-shaping. Officially. The others who are here, they answer to you?"

"All are picked men, from various backgrounds, agents of the White Throne. If anyone asks, they are merely here to learn. But none of that which we speak may be overheard, you have no need to fear that. Their loyalty I trust fully."

Behind his gray eyes I saw a twinkle of something - amusement? respect? - and the northern warlord slowly sat up straighter, as if uncoiling from a subconscious posture of suspicion. He nodded stiffly, and pushed aside his ceramic bowl, now emptied.

"You know some of the reason I am here then. I would speak of this more to a man in power, your Emperor perhaps, but such meetings are not easy to ordain. You have my thanks for agreeing to the request of my people."

I made a placatory gesture, a smile ghosting across my face.

"I serve all men, not merely those beneath the authority of the Great Anchor. Such was the charge given to me by my Father. When your son's son spoke of your wish to speak to the Imperium of the plight of the Grimbivii, Salucani, and Livona, I had no thought but to hear your words. My heart sorrows of the news we have heard from Svea in recent years."

Aldwine nodded brusquely.

"It is that bad, and worse. Our borders are beset from north and west by pretender councils who call themselves Strothing, using the ghosts of the Commonwealth as reason to seize sons and daughters and make slaves of our fairest. Trade across the Nordic Sea has dwindled as the Andonians devour themselves and butcher our merchants as often as they engage in commerce with them. Our harvests are less each season, the soil weary. I would not have my people return to the small lives they survived upon ere Clara came to us with a dream of better, but I do not see how they may flourish."

My reply was measured.

"You abandoned Clara and the Strothing for the words of Turner, though, did you not? What does he propose to tame the troubles facing the Svea?"

The graybearded man frowned, then spat to one side, an action which caused a man to look over at us from the main table. Aldwine glared at him until he turned back around, then looked back at me with ire in his mien.

"That for Turner. He filled the hearts of men hot with rage about Clara's War with dreams of our own way, then vanished just as quickly after we had followed his advice of breaking and fracture. I know not where he lives now, or even if he does, but if there is breath in his body I would be more than happy to relieve him of it myself. Some of the wise women say he went east, to find us a weapon to defeat your Imperium, and to rule from the Danemark to Suam. That was when my son was a new father, and now his son is grown and fit to marry. I care not for the man Turner, save to damn his memory."

I was not surprised, and merely nodded. All of the agents the Eyes had slipped into Svea Rike had turned up nothing when chasing the ghosts of Turner, just as the ultimate fate of Patrick in Hibernia could only be guessed at. If he still lived, he had vanished from the face of the Earth so effectively he must be living in complete isolation. Still worth hunting down, if it could be done, for immortals did not grow less dangerous with the passage of time. But his influence upon the tapestry seemed to have ebbed, for now at least.

"The sorrows you speak of, they are dire indeed. I have seen men reduced to humble estate when the earth beneath their feet betrayed them, their horizons dimmed by want until they felt little more than the animalistic urges of tribe and the next valley beyond their own. It is not a thing I would wish upon any. You are wise to think the Imperium possesses the power to undo these things. It is so. The mightiest raiding band of Svalund is a child's rabble against the meanest company of the sable, and their ships matchwood against a single gunship of the White Fleet."

Aldwine did not react strongly to those words, save to lean back slightly, assessing me for evidence of falsehood. I had not dissembled, nor spoken ought that which was not true, though his ability to know that truth was somewhat different than my own. It could hardly be denied that even a paucity of well-drilled soldiers could put to flight the straggling knots of reavers which the impoverished kindreds of Norway deployed these days, but likely the Grimbivii elder had not seen such men at war.

"Well. Perhaps it is so. I will not deny that even our own men fear to put to sea if a ship of the Great Anchor is upon the waters, for many have been broken by those vessels and never returned. It may be as you say, but it matters little if my people starve and our houses are filled with ghosts. You are a powerful sorcerer I have heard, able to bring green grain from sand and stone. Would you give of your magic to our people if we had cause to swear ourselves to your throne?"

His eyes ran up and down my body, and a small smile quirked on his face.

"You may think me impertinent, but I have never seen a sorcerer or prophet so young. You have the aspect of a warrior with red-blood hot for battle, not a man who carries secrets in his bones."

I shrugged.

"You are not wrong. I wear the form of youth, hale and whole, as my Father has ordained. You have likely heard the legends, and know now that they are true - for eight and thirty winters have I led the people of Moravia, and even then I was no longer young, having the fullness of my manhood upon my breast ere a single man called me 'lord' or 'master'. Though your beard is shot with wisdom, and the hair of your head with the crown of age, unless I mistake myself I was a youth ere you were a babe."

Aldwine did not change his expression at this pronouncement, save to shake his head impassively. No doubt he had heard the rumors before, and had decided not to put stock in them.

"It may be so. There are many means whereby a man might appear younger than he is, or a son might claim the airs of a father. I accuse you of neither, for your gods here are strong, it is known, but this magic cannot be seen or proven. I must know if you can restore the lands of my people, not whether you can preserve them from the Fels as age comes upon them. One thing does not necessarily promise the other."

A fair response. I did not elaborate overmuch.

"It can be done. There is no magic in such a thing, but much knowledge from my God which can accomplish that aim. Not in a day, or three days, but to rejuvenate good land is certainly within the might of the Imperium - and moreover, the granaries of the Emperor are overflowing with grain, fish, fowl, greens of the field, wine, and all other things good to eat. None who have given their oaths to the Emperor of Man go hungry, be they sons of Svea or daughters of Greece. That I can promise, here, today."

The sound of chairs scraping came from our side, and I noticed the rest of the students rising, to return to the workshop. Aldwine did not seem overly convinced by my words, but had an air of studious contemplation about him.

"I will think on your speech, Viktor, Hegemon of the Imperials. Yes, I will think on it, and bear your words back to my kinsmen."

That was all I could ask. I had hardly expected a proud son of the north to bend the knee to a foreign ruler during his first journey to the Imperium, unless he had already made up his mind, and the fragmented shards of the Commonwealth were more stiff-necked than almost any other kindred which abutted the borders of civilized lands. It was understandable, given the trials and loss which fealty had served to them in former times.

I rose from my chair, taking my bowl and placing it in a washbasin near the door back to the workshop, thanking the goodwife for the meal as I went. I had inspiration now for the eyes of my sculpture, I thought.
Quite the unofficial fellow. Former P2TM Mentor specializing in faction and nation RPs, as well as RPGs. Always happy to help.

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Millenhaal
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Founded: Nov 20, 2021
Scandinavian Liberal Paradise

Postby Millenhaal » Fri Oct 06, 2023 4:57 pm

OOC: The following is a re-post of the previous first entry for Ismail Rukhabi after a prolonged bout of inactivity undergone by his writer.




Toronto, Canada

January 28, 2023

Ismail Rukhabi



Snow fluttered down from the clouds during the night, blanketing the streets in a soft blanket of cold. Cars and late-night pedestrians formed an orchestra of ambient noise on the streets below. Wind whispered through the concrete jungle. These together form the cacophony that guide the life of a Toronto urbanite, the background music for the game of life. Some find it comforting, knowing that there's millions living their lives right alongside them, others find the sheer amount of sounds oppressive, suppressing all thought that isn't feeding the gaping maw of productivity.

However, Ismail Rukhabi didn't much care for that kind of poetic introspection in this moment, after all, he had a performance the next day and he needed to cram as much practice as he could in the small hours of the night. He slunk toward the kitchen and began toasting a bagel, because in his mind he deserved a little treat. He soaked his reed and prepped his oboe for playing, moving the cloth in and out of the delicate keys, polishing the bore, soaking the reed in a shot glass that may have contained a shot of whiskey a few days prior. Or two. Or three. Or maybe four. When this was all done Izzy took out Saint-Saens' Bacchanale, and began to play the first notes.

However, this reed didn't work. It was working last time he practiced, but it wasn't working now. Rather than the delicate notes of classical music, it sounded more like the oft-used comparison of a new oboe player sounding like a dying duck. The next reed wasn't working either. Neither did all the other reeds he tried. He was going to need to shave those, and so he went to retrieve his knife. But before he could, the bagel he was making popped out of the toaster charred and black, and smoke spewed out of the toaster. The smoke alarm, sensing a disturbance, blared long tones of the note A, believing that it was saving a life. Izzy couldn't do this anymore. On the verge of tears, he threw himself under the covers of his bed, playing materials still out on the table, smoke alarm screaming to no avail. If a fire were to take him tonight, why, he'd just let it.


Somewhere around the Strait of Hormuz

0 days since arrival

Ismail Rukhabi


I woke up to the gentle sound of the waves. For a moment, I didn't even consider that I might not be in Toronto anymore, even though for all I knew, I couldn't be sure I was even on Earth anymore. But bliss can't last forever, and so the fear began to set in. It felt like sleep paralysis had come over me. I couldn't move an inch. Eventually though, I did get up, and marvel at the world around me. I was on a rocky beach, with pristine sands and deep blue waters crashing over my feet, trying to suck me down into the sand. As the gulls cawed into the wind overhead, I only then realized that I was completely naked, and stepping barefoot on several small pebbles. I quickly ran to the more sandy parts of the beach and started to make a plan.

The default rule for getting lost in the wilderness is to look for roads and sources of water, because those usually led to a settlement. The more pragmatic parts of my brain decided to treat this as if I had been on a camping trip gone awry, rather than being magically transported into a strange land, my whole life uprooted in an instant. Luckily enough for me, I had awoken right next to a body of water, and so I deduced that the logical course of action was to walk along the sea until I found another human somewhere.

I had walked for 3 hours, and the sun had begun its long journey to beneath the waves, and I decided that my feet were hurting, and that I should sit somewhere. The tide was rising, and so I picked up a shell and held it in my hands. It really was quite beautiful, the deep lavender color had a soothing effect on me. It was definitely a trinket worth keeping. I laid down and looked at the pale blue sky. Had it always been so beautiful, or had I just never noticed the beauty in the world around me We immerse ourselves in fiction and magic, but does anyone realize that there is magic here? Or has modernity obscured that to such a degree that we can''t imagine a world where the air doesn't smell of gasoline?

"Maybe I should have taken advantage of my Canadian residency and explored the remote parts of the country?", I thought to myself.

I laid there for about an hour, thinking about my life, all the choices I should've made, all the relatives I should've called more often, all the things that I knew were draining my life of joy but continued to do. I did this until I heard footsteps coming my way.

I scrambled to my feet and looked around for the source of the noise. My eyes locked with a band of slack-jawed teenagers looking at me and each other. We stood like that for awhile, until one of them tentatively came up to me and began to talk.

"H-hello? Who are you? H-h-have you come to hurt us? Please, don't kill me! I don't want to die!" said the teenager.

"Why can I understand you? I never knew this language before, and I sure can't see any reason I am conversationally fluent in it now. I promise, I'm not here to hurt anyone. I wasn't here before I went to sleep last night, and now I am. I am just as scared as you, kid."

"You're not scouting for a raid? Or planning to assassinate someone? Or extorting tribute?"

"I'm just one guy. I mean no harm whatsoever. Would you mind taking me back to where you came from?"

"We're here to collect from our fishing traps, but I feel like this encounter snuffs out that goal. Come, follow us. My name is Leherac, by the way."

"Call me Ismail."

"That's a strange name. Not like anything we've ever heard around here.The name is sacred, you know, it shapes who the person will become."

"I never learned what exactly it meant. I never thought it to be too deep."

"What a shame. The meaning of a name is almost a prayer you can recite. A comforting mantra."

"I don't see it that way."

The village wasn't too far away from where I was sitting. Leherac's mother came out to greet the party only to stop dead in her tracks when she saw me. She ran into a large building, and came out with a group of people, chatting concernedly about me. A man in a robe stepped to the front and gestured for me to come over to him. When I did, he began to question me.

"My name is Dabi. I am the leader of this village. The children have told me that you aren't here to attack us, and I'm inclined to believe them, because if they were from the Dashiti, we'd see their bodies being paraded through this town on pikes. Where is your homeland, stranger?"

"I come from a place called Toronto. It was a place with towering buildings, millions of people, and I'm not sure how I left. I woke up on the shoreline earlier today. I don't know if it even exists. Can you tell me where I am?"

"You are among the Yakkul. We here are a peaceful people, however this has made us a popular target for war and violence. We survive. It is in our beliefs to be hospitable to outsiders. The seven other Yakkul clans have different beliefs, to be sure, however the ways of the Amasrat clan are worth preserving. Even if we may pay for it in lives."

"Is there a place I can stay? I'm very hungry and thirsty, and I am very tired."

"We have spare accommodations built for when they are needed, you are welcome to stay until you have figured out what you need to do. You can stay permanently, if you like."

"That sounds lovely."

I laid in a bed with a mattress of straw and a wool blanket. It was far less comfortable than I had expected in Toronto, but it felt good just to have a place to sleep. The confusion of landing was starting to wear off, and the survival instinct programmed into my brain started to kick in. Now my goal was to build a life among the Yakkul, and make gains for myself in this strange new world. Maybe this catastrophe could and up becoming just another opportunity, and this time I wasn't going to let it pass me by.
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Tesserach
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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Tesserach » Wed Oct 18, 2023 9:29 am

The Second Great Northern War and The Way of Great Peace



The Earth Mother is neither mother nor earth,
She is a circle, a tapestry, a web, a process,
It is at once a conceit of the human mind,
Yet also the most natural thing in the world,
To imagine the essence and flow of Life itself,
Conjuring it into our own image:
But respect the Earth Mother on Her own terms.

People, like Nature, are neither good nor evil,
Good and evil do not exist in Nature,
Rather for every action, there is reaction,
And Nothing comes of Nothing, so it is meet,
That Nature, which necessarily gives all life,
Will by the cold necessity of balance, one day take it away,
That all joy comes to the same ending as as all suffering.

There are some who argue that to live according to Nature,
Is to accept, as ineffable truth,
That the strong do as they must,
While the weak suffer what they must,
But just as the forest is more than the trees,
Just as the weave is greater than its threads,
It is human nature to expand the scope of the natural.

-Excerpt from "On Nature"





Looking for something,
We can rely on,
There`s gotta be something better out there,
Love and compassion,
Their day is coming,
All else are castles built in the air.

And I wonder when we are ever gonna change,
Living under the fear till nothing else remains...

All the children say,
We don`t need another hero,
We don`t need to know the way home,
All we want is life beyond,
Thunderdome!

So what do we do with our lives
We leave only a mark
Will our story shine like a light
Or end in the dark
Give it all or nothing.

-Ye Olde Ballad of Thunderdome




Somewhere in the Northerneastern Hindu Kush

Early Spring, 2962 BCE


They spotted the camp by the light of the fire, beneath the dusty blue expanse of scrub-brush that stretched on into the distant foothills, illuminated by the moon and the light of the milky way that arched across the sky. Perhaps a dozen tents were pitched, the oxen lay together in shadowy mass detectable mostly by their smell. A couple of dogs greeted them with frantic barking, the herder, - Murali was his name – greeted them, running his hand over their heads as they tried to jump up and lick his face. The half dozen figures around the fire stirred at their approach.

“Murali, we heard jackals calling – we assumed you dead.” One of the men called out towards the figure.

“No no.” Murali laughed, trying to settle the hairy mutts as they continued to dance around and leap at him with their eager tongues, with one or two skirting around the fellow with him, sniffing and barking excitedly. “I ran into one of the fellows we saw up the way.”

“Trouble?” They ask.

“No trouble. I brought a Vadabhaat to share a fire with us. He says he can arrange a meeting to graze further south if we wish.”

The men around the fire squint into the darkness as the other shadowy figure lurking there. “Heshan, of the People of the Little Valley.”

“You’re a long way from Little Valley!” One of the men near the fire exclaims.

“We come out here sometimes, you’re a long way from Kharoba!” The man, Heshan, responds back at them.

“It’s all dry this year.” One says.

"Have to dig for water." Another adds.

“Same in Little Valley.” Heshan admits as he and Murali step into the firelight.

The two men laugh at this. “Seems everyone is pushing more east this year.” A third replies.

“And south.” The fourth says. “The Khusab raiders grow bolder by the day I hear. I heard they burnt a whole village. Even if rains had come more, it would still be crowded."

"Many are drawing down their herds. I heard some of the forest tribes who used to trade come winter have disappeared into the deep forest. That or killed by Khusab war parties.” Another adds. "None of our grounds north are safe. Reiman Dheri is sending people away."

“Another war they say.” Murali sighs as they approach the fire turning to his new companion he gestures to the circle arpund the fire. “Come, break bread with us friend. It is good the Vadhabaat have been so generous this year letting us graze."

Heshan dusted off his travel clothes before lowering himself onto his haunches. Not many would trust these strangers, but the rest of his band was in the hills and these men had their families in the valley. “The warriors may come north soon. They're calling Chief Arjan general now, he's leading many warriors north. There’s a group, the Saasan Anthaathi, who talk of marching north to stop the war. It is said the elders and chiefs there support them, so who knows?”

“Hardly seems possible.” The men scoff.

“I do not know.” Heshan shrugged. “All I know is that my cousin says these people did many things in Mehrgarh. Says he saw men lift with one arm stones it takes many men to lift. Around Mehgarh it's supposedly all anyone talks about, stopping the war, the strange things they do and some Way of Great Peace that is coming to the land.”

“Impossible.” The first man by the fire shakes his head.

“What would you even do with such strength?" Murali muses out loud looking into the fire, then to the sky.

“Stack stones.” The second suggests.

“You already do that.” The first man scoffed.

“Yes, but bigger stones.” The second retorts.

“Carry a tent around so I can have shade even when the goats wander into the steep passes.” The third adds.

The fourth, the youngest breaks the silence as the others nod. “I would raid everyone’s goats and throw anyone who tried to stop me into the sun. Then I would have all of the goats.”

“What would you even do with that many goats?” Heshan asks.

“Who cares? I would have all the goats. Stack goats for all I care.” The young one responds.

“How would you care for that many goats?” The first asks.

“I’d have other people help me.”

“Ah, but if you pay them in goats, you won’t have all the goats.” Murali points out, causing the young man to think on this. "Or the Khusab may take them. Unless Heshan and his Way of Great Peace save you..."

They laugh, even Heshan. "Do not put me in with them!" He protests. "'The Way of Great Peace is coming', this is what they say."

"But what is it?"

Heshan shrugs helplessly and repeats with a smile. "'The Way of Great Peace is coming!'"

They laugh.



Mehrgarh

Early 2962 BCE


I'm asleep one night. It's hot, as it always is here, but our final training evolution has finally - finally! - ended. So the camp is largely broken up, preparing to start our journey. I was able to turn most of it over to Azahad, and focus on logistics, on planning our next movse, ensuring we had food, water, making sure the others were ready to play their parts, listening to reports from scouts and contacts in the fields on what's happening around Peshawar(little) and Khusab.

I was also discovering that training an army to fight is one thing, moving one - along with everyone else we were dragging with us - quite another. There was the women's camp, our baggage train, elders and chiefs. The latter having invited themselves, quite contrary to my wishes, but it turns out you can't just tell elders to fuck off... rather you kind of just have to put up with them. Then there were the animals, wagons and oxen we needed.

One in three.

That's the number of oxen we have to bring along that are doing nothing but hauling supplies for all the goddamn oxen we're bringing.

Even decamping from our training grounds and making it to Mehrgarh had been a mess. Marching drills were one thing, and nomads were used to hard living, breaking camps quickly and moving - so you'd think it would be no big deal?

Not on this scale.

Everyone had their own way of doing things. Camps broke at different times, made their way however they could, the passes were backed up in every direction. It's one thing to look at a pass, how narrow it is, and contemplate how difficult it would be to force one's way through against determined resistance.

It's another to see a column of troops and baggage backed up for more than a kilometer, with no one able to get through or move back - then looking to the rocks above thinking: what if the tribespeople looking down from up there weren't relatives of a bunch of the people down here?

Even if our vanguard had what it needed to force the bottleneck at the front of the column, the rest of the column would've been absolutely wrecked and they'd have been forced to flee as well.

So, that's something that's going to be living rent-free in my head going forward.

My lieutenants and the other war chiefs spend a lot of time hammering it out. Arjan and the other warbands opt for for marching dispersed until someone makes contact; it's what they're used to, but my force is only really useful together and we can't have the baggage train going off on its own in small groups. I try explaining some of the difficulties of massing for a battle, and the risks of defeat-in-detail, but despite assurances by Arjan that he understood the problem and would keep enough warriors close by, it mostly falls on myself and Chief Inpam, of the Guarang, who's head of the archers, to keep the main column organized.

It's certainly the most involved organizational process I've ever undertaken. Training and putting together a battalion sized force; honestly it was a lot easier and more straightforward than trying to put this procession together. Trying to track people down, make sure all the things that need to get done so we can move ahead with the next things get done.

I remember listening to a podcast in my old life, of a colonel who'd commanded a US division during the 2003 Iraq invasion talking about the chaos that had ensued the first time he tried to get his whole division to actually move somewhere. Not even doing anything, just getting all their functional vehicles and equipment and driving around the base on short notice. From the way he'd described it, trying to get even a highly trained and organized formation to just move without days or weeks to prepare was an ordeal.

This wasn't our little military contingent either. There was the supply train and women's camp, holy people, some chiefs and elders who'd invited themselves along and were bringing their own camps to this 'historic' occasion; the latter of which I hadn't planned on. If I recall, the Romans referred to their baggage trains as the Impedimentii, and I was beginning to understand why. I certainly didn't have the time to resolve every petty dispute.

"You're basically a chief now!" Tarak, who was probably the preeminent Guarang chieftain in Mehrgarh laughed while patting me on the back after watching my eyebrow twitching after dealing with an 'irreconcilable' dispute over procession order in the women's camp. Then he'd just walked off, laughing at me.

Raj and Kumar had disappeared somewhere in all this, off on some scheme of theirs which threw a lot of things with regard to our waste management organization into disarray as well. Most of my reliable students were engaged, which left the unreliable ones and trying to train new people inside everything else. The fertilizer pits in particular we were now relying on to continue increasing yields and land under cultivation. Sarvesh was going north with a warband, representing the Darshana.

His replacement - another Darshana relative of theirs - was fine, but had nowhere near the clout among the other tribes. Meanwhile, Yash, Priya and I were all busy pulling our hair out. Priya in particular was pissed at me, because I was - once again - stealing a bunch of her star pupils to for our little 'way of great peace' performance art parade extravaganza.

Some of the tribespeople were starting to tire of life around Mehrgarh and had begun filtering out. I had a few members of my own detachment decide to leave because they were getting word of the squatters in their grazing areas. People were getting restless. We needed to move, and soon, before the whole thing started coming apart.

Utter bedlam really.

We held on though. Despite fears, the rains had come and so had the harvests. The few strategic, I'll call them pseudo-economics-of-scale projects I'd implemented were continuing to yield fruit, and between food and drink being plentiful and some of the goods we were producing we managed to hold onto as many people as we could.

Priya and the earth mother priestesses efforts to 'disperse best practices' were paying off. Making use of some of the more open-minded members of the holy orders and pointing them in the right direction kept the shamans, chiefs, elders happy and they reached a lot more people than my earlier 'seminars'.

Future harvests and production would be even better. Next year, two years, five years - that was the promise we kept giving and though many of the nomads were skeptical, I could see around Mehrgarh and Nausharo in particular people were starting to believe and it was infectious. The last three years had been steady improvement - why wouldn't it continue? Aradin and the Saasan Anthaathi were still full of ideas.

I was confident. There was plenty of low hanging fruit. I had a whole collection of notes and drawings on improvised paper at the school on machine designs, processes, experimental designs for testing. Some were talked about widely - like mills that would make hand-grinding grain a thing of the past.

Others I kept more tight lipped about, because I wasn't 100% confident I could deliver them; or if I was confident, I wasn't confident they were anywhere near the most productive use of my time. Most of the ideas were for productive equipment. Some of my thoughts on potential iron production based on what I knew and had seen from the bronze works. Simple animal operated mechanical equipment designs for things like agricultural harvesters, threshers and the like that I was vaguely aware had been in use during the late 1800's prior to the first engine driven equipment.

Others were for most esoteric things I was keeping in my back pocket. I was still eyeing the digestion pits as a source of gas, both because I knew methane burned hotter than any furnace that was designed before the industrial revolution and because part of my whole plan involved keeping the tribes in line by constantly rolling out new and bizarre things. The first runs of beads had come and I'd had a pair of prisms made specifically to demonstrate optical principles - something I'd talked about and promised to show proofs, which I now could.

Other designs were for scientific equipment. Glass blowing, spinning, grinding lenses - designs for magnifying lenses, microscopes, telescopes. Experimental designs to help our materials science analyses. Most of which I suspected I'd never get to actually going through the process of troubleshooting and building. A few of them, like hot air balloons, a simple glider, simple batteries and generators to create electrical arcs I doubted would ever be useful in my lifetime.

Most of them were utilitarian. I made them less for myself than as, I dunno, partly for after I was gone to help give some direction to Nisha and the others. Partly as insurance, because I really didn't know how things would go once we went north. Some of them were utilitarian, other notes were vague because we were so far from them - like looking into fungal cultures for anti-microbial properties. Others, like the glider were more in case of emergency, break glass and pull some-crazy-invention-out-of-your-ass type stuff.

The Way of Great Peace as an idea was borne in large part from the storied history of Great Peacemaker, who forged the Iroquois Confederacy by travelling about to the different Warring Tribes and convincing them they had more to gain from peace than war. Allegedly one of them refused and threatened his life, but he promised he would prove the truth of his words by leaping off a cliff and surviving. Thinking him dead, he was later found making camp along a river.

If I ever found myself in a pinch I figured the promise of flight was a good one to keep in one's back-pocket. I was hoping it wouldn't be necessary here, because it'd be a shit-load of work for what was effectively a novelty device. But hey, if a Japanese dude in the could build a sarin-gas releasing cult on the premise of being able to fly (without actually being able to) in the 20th century, I figured stuff like that would probably convince some 3000BCE tribals that maybe they should listen to the guy asking them to not kill each other.

So, in spite of the chaos, I've remained optimistic.

Despite the attrition of nomads filtering back out into the hills, many tribespeople were talking about staying if the harvests remained this good. We were offering opportunities to learn crafts, new things were happening in Mehrgarh every day, and for those lower on the pecking order among the tribes - it was just better than having to constantly move herds amidst the most marginal grazing lands.

Our spears were ready. Even our armour. It was hot enough we rarely wore them, but the leathers had - eventually - been finished. They were crudely fashioned, mostly just chest pieces covering the front. The leather cuirass, I thought, more resembled a burlap sack with head and armholes cut out, or perhaps a small chest-sized barrel than fitted armour. But they could be moved in and the material was hard and tough enough to resist a slashing strike. In testing, they could even turn a modest pointed thrust, or even turn a hard one if the wearer could angle themselves away from point quickly enough.

The next batch would be better. The leather workers had been unfamiliar with cutting and working leather like this. It didn't look like how I imagined, but my insistence on QC testing at each step of the process meant the leather was reasonably decent for what we had to work with.

But much of the work of the past year, is suddenly thrown into question by what I'm awakened from my bed for by torch-light one morning.

"Fuck." I say, peering into the darkness as I realize what I'm looking at. Ara and Yogitha are with me, along with Nitan - Probodh's nephew - whose largely found a spot as one of my messenger boys along with the rest of little crew of devil-students I usually just call The Goonies.

I try and shield the boy's face from what's in front of us but he pushes his head around. "I wanna see!"

People had been gathered in and around Mehrgarh in numbers for nearly a year now. If anything it was either a miracle - or Murphy's Law - that it happened now and not sooner.

"Like the rest." Yogitha's voice is solemn as she holds open the doe-skin tent-flap. Holding damp cloths over our faces in the morning light filtering over the mountain tops to the west, I peer inside at the figure sprawled on a grass bed within. Their skin is an ashen blue pallor. I'm holding my breath even through the cloth partly because I have no intention of taking in the smell, and partly because whatever killed them may well be airborne.

"This is punishment from the spirits..." I hear Ara muttering darkly over my shoulder. I can sense one of her patented unsettling rants about to come on, and there are other people about I really don't want taking it to heart as they sometimes do.

"Bullshit." Nitan exclaims. "There's no such thing."

"Child, what would you know of such things..."

"It's not spirits!" My voice is more harsh than I intend, and I can see Ara's eyes widen in fear at the uncharacteristic outburst on my part. She doesn't react well to raised voices, which is why I usually try and avoid it. "And cover your face."

My favourite was a time one of the warriors from one of the other camps had quite blatantly just ploughed into her stalking through the street and then yelled at her to watch where she was going. Ara had gone into lurid detail on how she would curse him so his dick shrivelled to a black husk then fall off, and this big warrior guy had looked at her, looked at his junk, then at me as if to say: Can she do that?

I can see Ara's upset, but she's so unused to me snapping at her that for once in her life, sshe ays nothing and actually does cover her face, for all the good it'll do if it's properly airborne. It's not like we've got N95's kicking around. Heavens help us if its properly airborne.

Maybe I need to invent a charcoal filter. I can do that, right? Just need to activate the charcoal... which, how do you activate it? How would I know if it was or not? Is it just heating the charcoal? I never actually looked into how it was done and there's no time to figure it out right now really.

This body is the fifth one in two days. That we know of. Tracking deaths in Mehrgarh is one thing, but there's dozens of satellite camps now stretching some distance towards the valley and out into the arid plains and its questionable if we would hear about one of theirs passing away.

The symptoms are the same in each case we know of, flu-like really. Fever, severe cough. Two very young children, the others were older or had beens sickly for awhile.

Of course it's days... fucking days from when we're supposed to depart east, meeting up with the River Tribes for their Spring Festival, then north to catch summer Solstice festivities among the other tribes - the only time they'll all be together until winter solstice or next year.

There's a chance the war will be half-over by then.

"This is going to spread, isn't it?" Yogitha's normally a calm voice, but there's fear in her eyes and voice. I remember she has a small toddler of her own.

"Shadows spread like wildfire, I can feel their tendrils coming for us..." Ara begins, as a small crowd begins to form in the distance, realizing something has happened; that something is happening. Listening to Ara ranting. "The Spirits send their judgement of this war, this disease: darkness shall cleanse the land! Coming for the children of the unworthy..."

Holy shit Ara...

I manage to avoid saying it out loud. That and:

No wonder no one likes you in their camps..

Even still, I realize standing in the flickering glow of the torchlight as Yogitha lets the tent flap fall back into place and Nitan sighs in disappointment, that Ara isn't completely wrong. This is going to spread. Already has, in all likelihood.

Maybe some of my asides on germ and virus theory struck a strange chord with her but looking around, looking into Yogitha's frightened eyes I see staring back at me all the terrors of a people living under the thumb of forces they can't comprehend.

And that's what it is. A terror.

Pestilence is a terror that can come and strike any of them down, at any time, without rhyme or reason. Of course its supernatural to them. The cruel punishment of some divine spirit or god, some greater being they've done something to displease. Like insects, all they can do is scrape and beg hoping to be spared this day - praying that it isn't their own parents, siblings, friends or their children that it decides to take next and they'll be passed by.

There's nothing for them to do but anxiously wait it out, suffer, and die. Until the next time.

And there's nothing. Not a single fucking thing they can do. They're trapped in the dark, unable to see or even conceive of what it is that kills them. Their only hope is in faith and the supernatural, turning to magic, spirits or deities in hope of a mercy or salvation that will never come.

Well, that and the moment news spreads, every nomad in the region is going to pack up camp and take to the hills - spreading the goddamn disease with them.

I need to get ahead of this.

"Listen to me." I address them. "This isn't spirits. It's not some punishment. It is a living thing - like an animal - that's very small and gets inside us. But it's like any other. It has strengths. It has weaknesses. It needs things a certain way to live, and if it doesn't get them: it dies. Killing it is easy. Fire always does the job. Killing it without killing ourselves is harder. Like insects getting inside a tree, it gets inside of us, and we get sick: it kills us from the inside.

"The easiest way to stop them, is to not let it in. Like a insect that needs a tree to lay their eggs in, they need us. when we die, they need to find a new host. They need a way to spread - it could drift in the air after someone breathes or coughs. It could be on something they touch. It could be in water. But it needs a way to physically get from one person - or animal, they can be in animals - which they reproduce inside..." I point to the little one, lying lifeless in the tent. "... To one of us. If we deny them that: they die. There's a reason I've been saying this stuff about keeping things clean. This is it. This right here is why.

"The three of us are potentially exposed: anyone sick, send them to us. we'll do the best we can for them."

There's a string of instructions that follow. We need to, without spreading the disease, get spread word. The sick, and anyone exposed to the sick need to be isolated. People exposed but are still healthy, like us, need to be the ones to interview and care for those who are sick and identify anyone who hasn't yet displayed symptoms; a lot of this is covid veteran stuff.

In a way, we're lucky. But it still takes a month to clear up the outbreak.

Despite being airborne(or perhaps technically 'droplet' but I have no way to tell), but there's no asymptomatic carriers spreading the disease that we could identify. The incubation time, we identify, is a few days. The infectious period seems to start only after symptoms appear, though the symptoms can be relatively mild in healthy adult patients. Ara and Yogitha and some of the others that help us do come down with coughs and modest fevers for a few days. After a week of symptoms it starts passing and patients are no longer spreading the disease.

We're fortunate too that Mehrgarh's not a large place. Only so much coming or going. As word spreads many of the camps around do, in fact, up and leave - no doubt taking the disease with them, but hopefully they disperse and travel slow enough it doesn't make it far.

But it was a month that didn't feel lucky. For one the days ticked by in our hospital tent as sick, noisy patients filtered in, filled the tent while others sprang up in our quarantine area.

It certainly didn't feel fortunate having to explain to Yogitha, and dozens of others, why she couldn't go to her little baby for weeks, as we both of us watched little child after little child come to us, growing weaker by the day until they passed away in their mothers' arms. You try and give what comfort you might, you watch her drag herself up each day even as the sickness set in on her as well... but it was still like watching her come unhinged in real time.

Having seen it - having seen what happened to kids of mothers who ignored it - she even thanked me after but at the time it was like I'd been twisting the knife in the poor woman myself. It didn't feel like it having to turn away family of people. It didn't feel like it when they ignored our plees and came and went only to wind up in our tents themselves with their kids and grandparents.

It certainly didn't feel like it when Vrittika came in with her two daughters and little son Kasra in tow, now almost five and who'd just started his first reading lessons alongside his older sisters.

"Where the hell did Raj go anyway?" Vrittika finally talks about how going off with the warbands was one of the few ways for their family to get acceptance within the tribes of Mehrgarh. Raj and Kumar had both headed out and kept the details from me because they knew I'd be pissed about them leaving me to deal with the digesters.

Which was true.

"It's acceptance here." Here Vrittika is, sick as a dog, skin and bones really trying to take care of three sick children - alone - but the words sound more like Raj's than hers. The thing is, I can tell she's pissed at him for not being here right now but she's still making excuses.

Kishori was now busy basically running the farm on her own. The fact was there was no one else around for the three kids or Vrittika.

People came and went, and I watched Vrittika grow sicker and weaker even as she tried to take care of her Yakta, Tarana and Kasra - she even tried to helping me with the others. Until she couldn't even be roused from bed to tell her that little Kasra didn't made it through the night. She didn't learn about it until after her fever broke.

There was no fortune in the world that would've felt lucky standing next to her, trying to offer what comfort you could as the cradled her little boy in her arms. I remember looking up seeing Yogitha staring, like looking into someone's soul, you could almost see her seeing herself and her own little child.

Not all the dead passed through our little makeshift quarantine hospital, but almost thirty did, and others besides. The youngest was just two weeks. The oldest couldn't tell us how old they were. But we nursed them all. Turned them, cleaned them, fed them, made sure they took fluids.

Then, one by one, we watched each and every one of them pass away.

And there was nothing we could do.

Certainly not everyone felt we'd done enough. There should've been more charms. More prayers. Different food. Different tea. More voices raised to the heavens, and if I'm honest, I wouldn't have seen the harm except that we were fucking busy. There were arguments that we'd kept people at a distance. Hadn't let them hold them in their loved ones in their final moments - it wasn't like we were physically stopping them - but people didn't like it. None of us did.

And it seemed like an eternity, but it passed and I counted it a small miracle I myself hadn't been bed-ridden before it was over.

We'd scarcely buried the last of the bodies, when an unfamiliar elder came up to me in the street. "You did a good thing here."

It actually took me a moment, as the old man slowly ambled away to realize it hadn't been sarcasm.

It scarcely registered before that that we missed our moment.

It was a slow realization, returning to picking up where we'd left off, that many of the nomads had left. We'd lure some back, I had no doubt, but there was no way we were going to make the spring festival with the river tribes. Maybe the Solstice. But then there'd be no good way to approach the northern tribes... and Peshawar and Khusab.

And besides, news was quickly received that we were too late.

Dorian and the Khusab were on the move. Sargodha, center of the Chehab-tribes, had already been completely destroyed. The men killed, the town's stores taken - resolving one of the biggest issues Dorian had had - while the elderly, women and children had been taken back to Khusab to work their fields as slaves.

Harappa was mobilized and ready to press north. Peshawar had been about to march east as well.

Recieving news like that, it's like watching the last great door closing up in front of you. The realization dawning as the words are pronounced, that there's no time left for any more tricks. The call's been made and there's nothing left to do but show what cards on the table as we'd managed to deal ourselves.

Now or never.
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Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby Saxony-Brandenburg » Tue Oct 31, 2023 9:13 pm

Nippur, Kengir
The Exorcist - Part 1
2959 BCE


The moon was out, and I had gone to bed quite late that evening following multiple housecalls which kept me out longer than I had intended. My wife, Farasha, had already fallen asleep by the time I found her laying in bed with her outer clothes still on. I pitied her, how long she must’ve been waiting for my return. The stewed chickpeas left on the dead fire were cold, and, not wanting to light another, nor eat them cold, I had gone to bed on an empty stomach.

It was what felt to be only moments after I had lain down my head that a loud banging shook me awake, rousing me from my sleep.

“Father Rabbel!” A woman’s voice called out from outside. She spoke in the Sumerian tongue, which by this many years of my residence in the city, had I finally become fluent in. “Father Rabbel!”

I groaned, muttering to myself “Damn this illness”, when then I stood and wrapped myself in my mantle, and walked from our bed towards the door.

When I opened the door I saw a woman, perhaps in her thirties, with tears in her eyes. The moonlight was dim, and only they glittered amongst the shadows cast upon her face.

“Yes? What is it?” I asked her, and with a shaking hand did she reach up towards me, and clutch at my evening mantle.

“It is – oh gods, help me! It is my baby girl! She is – she is ill!”

I let out a sigh. My breath making smoke in the cold night air. “I will… I will come in the morning. Please, I must rest I-”

“No! No please sir… I beg of you! She will not last the night! She is - she is not sick she is… she is…”

The woman seemed unable to finish the sentence. Whatever it was, it was far too ghastly for her to say. Yet I needed more, for all I knew, she had the same fever which I had seen but four times that day.

“Well go on then! If it is that bad, I must know!”

“She is…” She wiped the tears from her eyes, and with a shaking breath said: “She is possessed by a Gallu!”




I arrived in the house not too long after. The moon was a thin crescent, the next day was sure to be without it. The home was more of a shack, outside the walls of the city, yet not long enough of a walk for me to postpone it. When I saw the house it had smoke coming from the roof - the faint glow of the hearth flickering inside.

The woman who had come to seek me, the mother, opened the door as I went inside. Beside the door was a man of equal age who I presumed to be the father, alongside two younger boys who stood across the room, beside a young girl bound with ropes upon the ground.

She couldn’t have been younger than twelve, a ghastly sight. Her thick black hair was covered in dirt and mud, matted and wild. She shivered and twisted. She writhed and thrashed upon the ground, as the let out a terrible groan. As I stepped closer, unable to speak, I saw a foam-like liquid emerge from her lips. It was like nothing I had ever seen before.

I turned to the father, the man at the door, who looked as if he had not slept in days. “How long has she been like this?” I asked him.

“Like this?... Not long before my wife sent for you. But… she has had episodes like this before. Just days ago. We didn’t- … we thought she was sick. But each time it - it gets worse!”

I turned back to the girl, who had begun to tear at the ropes which bound her hands and ankles, slipping her restraint. “Grab her!” I barked, as I scrambled to think how to respond.

Gallu possession was not a new phenomenon or concept to me. And though I had, in my youth, seen a wisewoman in Yanbu treat Jinn torment, the evil eye, and enchantment - never had I seen such malevolence in all my life. Such evil, such anger, as what would so violently throw a girl painfully, to near injure herself as she threw herself upon the ground, and against the wall. The Gallu were a Black-headed creature. One who was said to be a servant of the underworld. A malevolent beast, they know no food, know no drink, eat no flour offering, nor drink no libation. The Jinn of his youth at least ate on dust and rotten fruit and meat. These things, it was said, sustained themselves with man’s spirit.

I had talked with three wise-men, warriors more than medicine men as I, who had tried and executed those possessed by Gallu. Men, who served the Lugal of Nippur before our conquest of the city. The locals had identified them as particularly cruel magistrates, who showed signs of magical and miraculous aid which could not be explained with divine favor. They had been killed, not only as a way to purify the city, but as punishment for their crimes before the Lugal Jushur had subjugated them. This was to say, that they were very different than this poor afflicted girl. She did not deserve the ire they had. It was not the possession which was a crime, but it was a symptom of crime.

I looked to the two brothers, and then to the father. “Gallu possession is caused, like all afflictions, from impurity.”

“Oh GODS!” Cried the mother, who with shaking legs fell upon her knees, and grabbed her head. “What has our poor girl done to deserve this?!”

“Not so, madam.” I replied, waving my finger at her. “Though sinful impurity may cause these things… a lack of physical cleanliness can aswell. Has she lingered in any graveyards? Has she played for too long in the tall brush? Has she been bitten by a snake? Has she eaten any rotten meat? All these things can cause… afflictions, or else weakness which let bad spirits in.”

“What is to be done then? She has done this for WEEKS and is not getting better!” Spat the father.

I wiped my hands upon my face, thinking… Then did I look to my medicine bag, where I kept a number of herbs, soap, and a scroll of Sharii prayers in the Gishimmari tongue.

“Boil a pot of clean water. Quickly, now, it musn’t be much. Hot stones on the coals will work fine. The water must only be clean and boiling.”

“What do you mean to do with that?” Asked the father, yet his wife had already begun to place three stones upon the fire.

“We must first clean ourselves, anyone inside could track more impurities in and help the spirit fester.”

Soon enough did I convince not only the dad but the boys aswell to clean themselves with the scalding hot water. They scrubbed their hands with a cloth and the soap, such that they were bright red. Then they did the same for their faces, and their feet. That when we were done, it had only taken a few moments, we were all bright red, sweating, and in a little pain. I motioned to the girl. “Her next”, and we all looked together to see how it may be done.

I held her left hand, while the father held the right - and as soon as the mother had begun to scrub at them - did the girl look at her with wide eyes, and yell at her. “No! No no no!” The girl cried, yet not in a voice of her own. It was raspy, it was much older. The family looked to me panicked, what was I to do but demand we continue washing her. She pulled away with great strength, the ropes which bound her groaned under the strength of what should never come from a little girl.

When we had finished scrubbing and cleaning and holding her still - I handed my hand to one of the brothers, and procured from my bag a bundle of the herbs I had - dried wild sage which I had used to help still the upset stomachs of my patients of the day. But from what I remembered from my past with Jinn possession, not only were they attracted to impure people, but impure buildings and ruins aswell. For that reason did I take the sage bundle, and lit it by the fire, and blow it out - such that, smoldering with smoke, I wafted it around the room, along each of the walls, that every crack of the house would be cleansed. Along this, I found myself beckoning the house itself, “Be free from pollution, be free from infection! You house, which has foul air and spirits within, which prey on the innocent! Be cleansed! Be cleansed!”

Yet this, it seemed, peaked the Gallu’s interests, or else enraged it. For the Girl spat and shaked, and looked towards me with hate and evil in her eyes. “No.” She said, plaininly, clearly. “No!”

I grew angered by it. Yes. Now was the time to pray, there was nothing more to do. I set down the smoldering herb bundle, and pulled from my bag the scroll of prayers. I spoke in my native tongue. I knew the family could not understand, but it held all the emotion I had heard it said before in my childhood home. “Oh great and merciful Allat. You who heals the sick. You who is all things motherly and kind and good. Take pity on this poor girl. Take pity on her ailment. Show mercy on her in this hour of torment. Save her from this illness!”

But it did nothing. For the girl seemed to snear, and bark for air as if the Gallu laughed, and forced air from her lunghs within her. I continued. “Mighty Allah. You who is my strength, you who is my guide. I implore you to come to my aid, and the aid of one of your daughters. I, your loyal servant, ask you to kindly intervene on this girl’s behalf. To slay the Gallu within her. To relieve her of this torment!”

And from there the girl began to look afraid. Her eyes grew wide, and she shook her head back and forth. “No!” She called out again. “No! No! No! No!”

I took a deep breath. The smell of smoke, of burning sage, of my own sweat hit my nostrils. I was afraid. I began to shake, for this demon’s voice was like nothing I had heard. It was deep, it sounded like it came from the deepest plains of Kur.

“Oh Inanna! I invoke you, one of many names of Allat the all-mother. Who has descended into the plains of Kur before, and beaten and slain the Gallu who attempted to stop you! Remove this servant of Kur!” And with a shaking hand did I take the scroll, and shove it in the girls face. The words which came after seemed to come to me, not of my own volition. It was as if another voice, another power, spoke through me then. Louder, stronger, the strength which was taken from me by fear it possessed. “You robber of life, you begetter of death, you corrupter of youth, you sworn enemy of mankind! I beseech you to leave this place and with it all your filth in pain! In the name of Allah, in the name of the prophet! Be gone! Be gone from this place! The power of Wahd compels you!”

And from that the girl shrieked, her back arching, her face contorting, and I knew that my words spoken began to evict that spirit, and I continued:

“It is not I a sinning man who commands you. It is Allah himself who commands you. It is Allah the father who commands you. It is Allat the mother who commands you. It is Wahd the spirit who commands you. The power of Wahd commands you! The power of Wahd commands you! The power of Wahd commands you Gallu!”

She shivers, she thrashes, she ceases. Her screams become silent. Her body becomes still. I drop the scroll, and fall to my knees - placing my ear over her mouth. I hear her breath. I breathe a sigh of relief. I collapse, fall back onto the ground. I raise my hands to my face, and hold it. “Praise be. May his glory be glorified.” I mutter. “Allah reins supreme.”

The mother, now seeing her daughter still, scrambles for her. She kneels beside the girl, clutching her hand, weeping. The father slowly approaches me from behind. I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Thank you, Abu Rabbel.” He says to me, his voice tired but sincere. “But what are we to do? How can we ensure this does not happen again?”

“I… really cannot say.” I reply to him.

“The Sharii do not say what to do to prevent this?”

“There are customs that are said when upheld can… keep away these things. I do not know if a possession, like this, will simply go away by observing them. But-”

“No matter!” Cries the mother, as she looks back to me from the girl. “I will do anything! I will try anything! My baby is SICK and I must try something!”

I nod. “Wash your hands, wash your mouth and your feet daily and after doing any impure activity. When you relieve yourself. When you enter an unclean place - an animal pen, a graveyard. Anything. Pray to your chosen medicine god when you do so aswell.”

“Why not pray to your god? Wahd? Surely if he could still her…” Replied the mother.

I shook my head. “He will hear you, even if it is in Kengiri. Your faith and familiarity will only strengthen you prayers.”

“Is there anything else?” She asked again, still desperate for more.

“I suppose you can keep beneficial herbs burning inside. Sage, Rosemary. I believe I saw some daffodils growing by the roadside on the way here. Pluck them, keep them fresh in a vase of water by her bedside. Once they grow old, however… throw them out. Rotting flowers will do her no good.”

It was shortly after that, that I left the house. It was early morning, dawn would come soon. I knew, soon enough, I would be back to that house. And to many more. For ever since the great war, when the fear of Gallu had spread across the land, so stained by the sin and pollution of thousands of men’s blood, so too did their possession spread. The paranormal, the demonic, and the impure were strong in these lands. They would infect even the most innocent, nowhere was safe, not even the home. And though I knew I would see this battle again, I could not help but feel as though I had won a small victory over the forces of evil. Over Ga-Bri-El, and all the others to whom the prophet had warned us about.

I had been tested. I would be tested again. Allah give me strength. Allat show mercy upon me. I have only my faith in Wahd now.

Happy Halloween
"When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?"

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Ardchu
Ambassador
 
Posts: 1014
Founded: Oct 07, 2021
Corrupt Dictatorship

Postby Ardchu » Fri Nov 03, 2023 9:14 am

Tomas Alejandro, at the Caiman Village
Tomas bowed as he entered Hilë’pi’s hut.

“What is the trouble, chief?” Tomas said, standing.

“There has been an attack on a forester on the outskirts of our claimed territory, by who we assume to be the Sloth Tribe. They don’t seem to be respecting our borders, and I believe they need to be taught a lesson. Come, let us gather the troops,” Hilë’pi said, getting up from his seat.

“Why do you need me, chief?” Tomas asked, looking confused.

“Because you seem to know how to lead people, and you have proven yourself to be a fighter, now, let us go.”
Ardchu is a fun country to enjoy nature in, but also you can be murdered on the street by police or by the native wildlife, who are citizens here. And yes, we can talk with them and they can talk with us. They are equal citizens of this country, and we are disgusted by speciesism. They are canonically as smart as humans and can think for themselves, and many of them have run the country. National language is Ardchuan, but it's mandatory to learn at least one other nature language in school.

please check these out as well, I feel like it could be a cool thing to do:


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Tesserach
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Posts: 456
Founded: Apr 25, 2021
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Tesserach » Thu Nov 16, 2023 10:34 am

The Second Great Northern War and The Way of Great Peace

When we are young,
Each of us contains a wellspring,
Of alternatives to becoming a person.

But no one can be everything in the world,
We must choose a path,
And in so doing, reject other paths.

This rejection of our future selves,
Though necessary to our self-development,
Is also a self-mutilation.

-1-
-Forward to the Way of Great Peace





Somewhere between Mehrgarh and the Indus River


They had avoided the Spring Festival this year. Darsan was approaching his manhood and old enough that he recalled Chaya talking with his mother, and mentioning that she had advised him against attending last year because of what had been happening. Not much was said to Darsan, but he was old enough he was beginning to notice when the elders were anxious.

The talk had been war.

Still it was all people spoke of. The Khusab were on the war path they said, the Black Banner raised once again. Harappa was gathering to fight, but everywhere agreed all their best warriors had gone to Khusab or Peshawar. The Peshawar's great chief and his sister many said were opposed to war, but it was their general, Ashoka, who commanded the armies and he too wanted to avenge his father.

Now there was this.

"Behold! Behold! The Way of Great Peace is nearly upon you now!" Three young boys shouted excitedly running past, somewhat startling Darsan's flock of goats.

"What are you shouting about? You're unsettling my goats!" Darsan waived his stick at them, he had a mind to thrash them for approaching so boldly, but they were younger than him.

The oldest stopped as the other two ran on, he carried a short stick and helped settle the sheep back down even as he spoke. "The Way of Great Peace is coming - we're going north to stop it!"

"How can you stop it? It's already begun."

"They said that about the great sickness." The boy answered. "The Elders said such things, that it would spread and many would die. But it didn't. The Priestesses and Saasan Anthaathi said they could stop it... and they did! Now they say they can stop this war too!"

"The way of great peace is coming!" One of the little ones shouted, bounding off into the distance. They hadn't even given their names.

The young man said no more either, runnin off after the little ones, towards Darsan's camp, leaving Darsan with his sheep and his questions unanswered.

Moving under the morning sun he started speaking softly to the sheep, trying to settle their nerves. But his mind was occupied by this. How could anyone stop disease or wars? Besides these things were so far away. Darsan had been a child during the last war. He didn't even remember it, the first war had never come this far south. He'd heard people argue that this time it might be different. Or that Chief Arjan would lead their warriors north... it'd been a great commotion speculating over what was happening in Mehrgarh.

His thoughts were disturbed though by the distant sound of drums.

It was such a slow beat, and so far off he hardly noticed them at first. Even once he did, it took a moment to realize that out here, alone, he had indeed heard them. The steady beat grew louder, and forgetting his flock for a moment, Darshan began wandering towards the sound, curious who would be beating drums out here, this time of year.

It was then he first heard the faint clarion call of voices ringing in the distance, even still it was a time before - squinting into the blurry lines of heat in the distance - that he saw them.

As they drew closer Darsan stood and watched. He'd seen large camps on the move but this was something different. Their voices raised in faint singing, low hymns he had to strain to hear. The line stretched on into the distance, before Darsan lost them in the horizon. In the lead he saw, what he thought, were priestesses of the Mother Goddess, in their ceremonial robes - in spite of the sun. Some men among them, held aloft of great standard, sculpture it seemed of the Mother Goddess herself.

But the procession when on across the dry lands kicking up a cloud of dust behind them. They burnt in swinging urns something that cast smoke along their path as the whole mass of them made their way across the dry land.

There were wagons, led by oxen. There were children. There were other holy men, shamans, priests and priestesses of the Sky and Mountain and River Spirits. There were Elders, sitting in some of the wagons, under blankets hung to protect them from the sun.

Some children among them too who sometimes marched or sometimes rode along in the wagons.

But among them, behind them, warriors.

Many warriors whose great spears glinted in the sunlight as they marched to the same step such that Darsan felt their footsteps in the ground to the beat of the drums. The thought occurred to Darsan that this procession of Great Peace itself seemed almost some strange war party... like nothing he'd ever seen or heard before. The standards they carried weren't war totems, but those of the earth mother spirit, the sky father spirit, the river spirits, mountain spirits and all the animals that people praided to.

Straining to hear their voices, Darsan was struck by the somber tenor of their tone, by the way they blended together. It wasn't any hymn he'd ever heard a shaman utter, or song he'd heard anyone sing. It wasn't a chant to war or praise to the mother, for crops, or health or rain or anything like that but rather, it seemed to Darsan, their voices were raised in song of all the joys and pains of man.

It was a haunting song, a chant, he'd never heard it's like. They sung of every fearful smile, and every joyful tear. They sang of every choice that ever was, that lead every there to here. They sang of people - of their lives - scattered like broken shards of obsidian, and looking down into them and seeing oneself reflected in each and every piece of glass.

There was more to hear and Darsan strained to listen. The song changed but the tone and tenor remained. On and one the procession went. The sun hung heavy in the sky, it's heat bearing down like an awful weight. There was no breeze this time of year as Darsan watched them pass. Like time itself deigned to stand still.

Then their voices grew faint, the beat of their drums disappearing into the heat of the arid badlands as they headed to the east until the haunting song and the procession were swallowed up by the plains.

How long had passed? Darsan could not have said, only that he'd just witnessed something like nothing he'd witnessed before in his life and - he realized with a pang of sadness - he probably never would again.

Turning back Darsan saw his flock off in the far distance. Slowly feeling his footsteps falling softly against the dry, bare earth Darsan couldn't help wonder about this procession - had that been The Way of Great Peace? What was it? There were so many questions. Could they really have done any of the things the boy had talked about?

Were such things possible?

He stood there in silence, thinking on this, trying to remember the timber of their voices, the words of their strange song as he rested his weight against his stick. Finally he decided he'd had enough of the sun beating down on him and roused from these thoughts, opting instead to shift the herd towards the north where shade could be found from the afternoon heat.




"Good lads..." I gesture to Vishal, Nitin and Revi as the trio come running back towards us as we make way towards the encampment. "How'd it go?"

"I think we got the message across." Revi wiped sweat from his forehead and accepted one of the water flasks.

"They were pretty happy we aren't stopping." Nitin laughs.

"Surprised." Vishal adds. "But happy."

"Few too many of us." Doubtless not having to entertain our entire retinue of elders was a relief.

My thoughts in that moment turn to what is ahead of us. When I first came to Mehrgarh, it was through hills and mountain passes, I suspect to the north. This time we're skirting the arid lowlands just south of the Hindu Kush.

Many of the nomads we encountered here, most connected to the Vadabhaat who'd heard second hand accounts of events in Mehrgarh came out to show us unusual or interesting things. Rocks, shells, strange plants and fungi. One seemed to bring iron containing ore - there'd been a few curious red rocks I'd tested but this was the first one my magnetite stones stuck to. Claimed to know where to find more.

That could be useful later.

Less useful in the short term, but interesting because - unlike iron - I hadn't really been expecting was a tribe member who led us to a series of oil seeps, or perhaps tar, that bubbled up out of the ground. Someone had found what appeared to be coal in the Bolan Valley, but I hadn't realized this part of the world had oil seeps at all.

I was vaguely aware that British science expeditions studying oil seeps led to much of our early understanding of hydrocarbons in the modern era. I'd always associated that more with the Anglo-Persian Oil Company, which after their disastrous associations with the Shah of Iran, had wisely decided to rebrand themselves as British Petroleum rather than be held accountable by consumers for their own actions.

Persia was a much later addition to the British Empire though, and the thought occurred to me that some of those early studies may very well have been conducted on the specific seeps I found myself staring at.

There might be some practical applications for such things. Some of my ideas for improved mechanics would require precise lubricants, and much of my knowledge of industrial scrubbing and fractional distillation techniques came from studies of the oil and gas sector.

I made notes, but I was already resigned to the notion that in my own lifetime, agriculture and simple machines, processes and general introductions to the scientific method, critical thinking, an rigorous experimental design were going to be my contributions. Things like this, it'd be up to my students' students to find practical use for such things.

Much of what I did these days felt like monarchs flying down to Mexico for the winter, or the believers of europe, whose craftsmen laid the foundations for grand cathedrals with the understanding that they themselves would never live to see the work completed. Such thoughts fill my mind as we make the final leg of our journey towards the Indus River.

Such thoughts shift and turn onto my former life, my life here, and then finally to Probodh and of course Aprus, who I've not seen in nearly a year now. They should be heading back from their work, word of a meeting to follow any day now. Lily is somewhere back in the wagons, dividing her time as a personal scribe between myself and Yash whose effectively our quartermaster for the journey - and whom I'm lucky to have.
I know Lily is anxious to see her mother. It's all she talks about when she's not composing or relaying letters, a task that - while essential - detracts from her studies. I too found myself counting down the days, I needed news from the north desperately, but also I realized, Aprus was basically the first person here I felt I could really just talk with.

Staring off into the endless scrubland, I really don't know what's waiting for any of us at the end of this... absurd endeavour we're making. The thought of having someone to talk to about things like oil seeps, and strange plants people showed up with out of the blue seemed like the sort of diversion I could really use right now, even if it was for a short time.




In choosing - as we must -
We cast aside many aspects of our future selves,
In so doing we diminish ourselves,
And if we do so completely:
We become less than fully human.

As we grow older,
We struggle in the world, and against it,
We settle into ways of living and doing,
And a shell begins to form around each of us,
Diminishing our reach and reducing our vision,
By accomodating them to our circumstance.

We begin to die many, small, deaths.
Our aim should be to die but once.

-2-
-Forward to the Way of Great Peace




Near Mehrgarh Trading Post

- South of Confluence of Indus and Chehab Rivers


There's an almost carnival atmosphere as our procession finally reaches the main branch of the Indus River. Wagons crowded around around the shore, being unloaded of woven baskets, clay pots, pottery or bundles of goods while peoples from the Alipur river tribes have pulled up in what appear to be large canoes, some by pre-arrangement to help ferry us across, simply drawn by the novelty of our strange procession's arrival as they passed down this section of river going about their business.

Looking out over the Indus River, I'm struck by - I don't want to say being underwhelmed - but if I'm honest, that's close to it. This is perhaps the more storied river I've ever laid eyes on. I've never seen the Ganges, the Congo, the Amazon, the Yangze or the Danube, but the Indus stands only slightly - slightly - in their shadow. This is one of the greats, and so there is a small part of me that is... underwhelmed.

The thing is, I grew up in a tiny village along a river valley, one not nearly so famous as the Indus or even the Bolan. Past the bridge, where as a right of passage more adventurous teens than I would jump, traversing the 60ft drop into the perilously shallow waters below. Only a short distance further, the river opened to its widest point of nearly a kilometer across. So I'm a little surprised to find our final crossing point across the Indus is actually... less wide than that.

I shouldn't be surprised. I remember seeing the Fraser River, in British Columbia for the first time and thinking the same. There's no mystery here either, the river I grew up along was among the most managed, controlled, dammed and canaled rivers in the world. There were hydroelectric dams along the whole river every few kilometers. In olden days the British had constructed locks to allow boats to sail up into the interior of Canada - to cut nearly a 1000km from the trek around the Great Lakes. Those locks pumped water into reservoirs that could raise and lower ships between dams. The greatest technology the 1800's had to offer, most of the equipment operated by Canada Parks could still be hand operated; the river itself did most of the work.

In addition, massive wetland reservoirs were maintained so that through the year, while flow rates varied, water levels along key stretches of the river could be kept relatively constant. Flooding of developed property was virtually unheard of.

By contrast, it is plain to see that while the Indus was of a similar character to the Bolan, with seasonal flooding swelling its banks, withering during the dry season ahead of the monsoon rains. Unlike the Bolan, which slowed to just a gentle trickle and frequently dried up and disappeared underground if you travelled far enough south of Mehrgarh - the Indus even in its dry season phase, at one of its narrowest points, was still several hundred meters across.

Moreover, we'd actually crossed several smaller streams and rivers to get here which I would later learn, are actually just deltas of the Indus.

That and I can plainly see the flood banks in either direction, and it's obvious to see that even here the river routinely rises to nearly 10km across at high water.

This is why our fortified trading post had been established on the far bank, despite my stated expectations to the contrary. I wasn't happy about it. Ferrying supplies across the river after making the trek from Mehrgarh is sub-optimal, but not so much as having any outpost we build having to be constructed 15 km from the main course of the river to not get blasted into oblivion by a torrent of water in a few months.

Instead our fortified trading post had been erected on the only dominating heights that could be found, overlooking the course of the river during both low and high water. The escarpment here rose fairly steadily on the far shore. Maybe a kilometer or two from the Indus' current course, hidden, I am informed, behind the treeline from the river, but with vantage points to observe river traffic. Probably closer during high water.

Still, the thing that most impressed me about the Indus is the wildlife.

I did not realize there were dolphins or crocodiles here, indeed, I suspect in the modern world such things were probably extinct or critically endangered; but the latter were... very much in evidence along the shores, sunning themselves along the sand banks and stony shores. Locals pointed out to us fins breaching the waters, making their way up or down river. The locals didn't seem at all concerned, and those from Mehrgarh thought them mere exotic novelties. The crocs here aren't small by any measure either. At least as large as the largest American Alligators I'd ever seen.

They did seem to give people here a wide berth, and again, the locals seem greatly concerned by their presence, which I can't imagine to be the case if they were anywhere near as aggressive as Nile or Saltwater crocs. I still kept a wary eye on the waterline whenever I approached, and made sure we kept the children accompanying us away. It's still anxiety inducing watching people from our caravan wading into the waters, while enormous crocs are basking within line of sight.

The river shamans - come from the Bolan and Nari rivers - seem to give not one single fuck to the matter. They wade in waist deep. They sing, they dance, they chant - bringing the respects of the Bolan and Nari spirits to the Great Indus. Some bring containers of water, offerings, portions of the river spirits themselves to intermix and commune that the different spirits might recognize one another. I think, at some point, a delegation of locals in ceremonial gear arrive in a canoe and join them.

Later they'll take portions of the Indus back to the Bolan and Nari.

I watch and listen a little but don't get involved. It's all very spiritual and respectful and wholesome I suppose. My policy towards the local spiritual customs is becoming, I think more crystallized at this point. I in no way encourage belief in personified, deified spirits or gods with supernatural powers, but throw my support wholesale behind paying respect to nature, and to spirits more as processes or ideas connected to the natural world. Everything I've seen in my time here supports the notion that the ancient world here obeys the same laws of rationality and physics as my own time...

Everything except me being here, and being able to speak and understand every language and dialect - it would seem - known in these parts of the world. All long dead languages. But having thought on that long and often. I set such thoughts aside. Things here are more fast and loose, and while not forgotten, I need to be as well, and such musings are another study for another time.

Watching the shamans there's no settled cosmology of the universe shared among them. No 'doctrine'. Such that holy people all have their own notions of the spirits themselves - even the shamans of the Bolan have explained to me different, conflicting understandings of the the river spirit. After their greetings and ceremonies the river shamans are like to segregate themselves and share stories, debate and argue over everything from the nature of such spirits to which one would win in a fight(the Indus, obviously). They keep most of their disagreements behind closed doors, but I've listened and probed enough now to realize, while some disagreements are more fervently held than others, mostly it's just accepted that different people have their own 'truths'.

I haven't inserted myself into the river spirit debate that much yet, but I've had good progress with the Earth Mother cults with constructing a cosmology I feel aligns a bit more with reality, while retaining the essence of their respect for the natural world they find themselves living in. The concept of the Earth Mother as a process, a circle, of life from which humanity was born. Why not? Seems correct enough to me. Why not show reverence? But we can do better - by understanding the nature of the process through the scientific method, by using our reasoning and critical faculties: we discern the ebb and flow of the Earth Mother, and what she truly requires to bless us with her bounties and avoid her wrath.

Everyone may have their own truth, but I can prove that rain dancing is less effective than understanding the water cycle, managing it, and learning to live within your water budget and that - if you want fertile fields - you have to understand soil, plants, the ecology of insects and the nutrient and nitrogen cycles. Otherwise, again, you risk nature's wrath. To be effective, sacrifices and ceremonies need to convey more than the sincerity of the practitioner - they need to be targeted: sacrifices of time, energy, and specific materials to affect the cycles. We need to understand how our activities over time degrade our natural environment and be proactive in managing our use of the natural world.

People everywhere here have profound respect for the natural world, and the creatures within it. Awe even.

Early in our history, we didn't understand how our actions affected the natural world. By the time we did, those with influence and authority to do something about it were too isolated from the effects to notice or care.

Like the northern warlords themselves, gotta head that shit off.

The for lack of a better word, clergy - along with more secular societies - need to be a part of that. If there's to be A Way of Great Peace that works, I need buy-in from them. My first inclination had been to educate students in, for lack of a better term, my way of thinking. Like a Confucius, or Plato. If anything I'd thought the shamans, priestesses and holy people would be more obstacle than help - and some are - but speaking and working with Priya and others; there are some among them that are more flexible and open minded than I perhaps gave them credit for.

Everyone else is too busy just trying to live. I try and get Kishori or Vrittika or others involved, but between children, washing, weaving - doing everything by hand - they have almost no time. The tribespeople occasioned to let others foster their children, both to learn specialized skills - sometimes to learn languages - but also I suspect, to grow their network of friends, and tangentially as a hedge in case of disaster befalling one or another group. But when they did so to people of other tribes, they learned how to survive off the land. I was increasingly aware that my students, while gaining specialized skills and knowledge, were falling behind in other areas.

But established shamans were often curious enough about the natural world, and many were eager to hear new stories and insights into the 'spirits' they worshipped. The priestesses of the earth mother loved hearing about reproductive biology, and nitrogen, water and nutrient cycles, about ecology and how different plants, animals - and people - together functioned like a tapestry or weave, with all involved occupying different roles or niches.

Were these not sacred revelations?

Plus, science can be dry and boring. Who wants to study soil filtration techniques, and do bug collecting? Boring, obviously. But studying the workings of The Great Earth Mother Spirit? Discerning sacred revelations? Sacrificing to the great Earth Mother, River Spirit or Sky Father? Maybe just doing mushrooms and going on a cosmic mystery ride is easier, but I feel my way might make for better storytelling than "Study of Benthic Invertebrates in Lower Bolan River Summer 2962BCE Fieldwork Season."

And then my attention is drawn to more practical matters at hand.

"Representatives. From the so-called 'king' of alipur." It's Azahad beside me, pointing towards another collection of river peoples dressed in ceremonial dress I take to identify them as elders or chiefs. Beads and bangles of copper and polished stones, headresses and ornamentation that includes what I take to be fish bones, crocodile scales and other items not commonly seen around the arid hills around Mehrgarh or the Hindu Kush. There's some canoe iconography too.

It's actually the elders and chiefs that accompanied us that go and greet them. I'm aware that part of this, of the elders and political chiefs coming, is them trying to assert their status - over Arjan and the other warchiefs. Over me. In this case I'm perfectly fine with it - many of them have loose ties with the river tribes even if they haven't seen each other in decades. Others, like Utsah, have names that are spoken even this far from Mehgarh. Such is his influence and length of time he's been around. The elders can be frustrating and slow everything the fuck down, but their presence opens doors for us that wouldn't otherwise be there.

Problem is I need to both pry open doors and move quickly at the same time, as there was a lot of things that needed to start happening at once now.

"As long as we get transport." I muse outloud to Azahad. Arjan had been the one arranging bands pressing ahead of us, making contact, arranging our safe passage so that we weren't harried or otherwise fucked with. Supposedly deals had been made with Alipur, and through them their associated river tribes, to move us and all our shit. First across the river to our new trading post where we could stow our shit. Then facilitate our move north up river, towards Khusab. "Do we know which one is my ride?"

Sudhanshu is there with us, along with one of the other cohort commanders with them. A few soldiers from our group linger nearby as well, all looking around. Of course no one knows which canoe in all this mess we're looking for and the chief whose supposed to take me on ahead up river probably doesn't know us to see us either.

I shouldn't be surprised. They might not have even arrived yet at all.

Apparently almost no one recognized the chief of the Alipur as a 'king', including most of the river tribes themselves. From what I was told, he wasn't the only major chief among the river tribes. Not many could move the number we had without needing a great many trips, time to arrange it all, and to maybe expect a few hostile raids along the way. The Chief of Alipur was, however, the one guy that none of the other river chiefs would fuck with without good reason, and the only one that could make your life miserable almost anywhere on the Indus south of Khusab itself.

No sign of my ride, though I do notice Ara nearby, communing with the spirits herself by sitting on a rock and splashing her feet in the water. She seems to have fallen into the role of informal baby-sitter, mostly on the basis of the youth we brought crowding around her to hear some of her more morbid stories and musings. Most of my young students we brought have fallen into the role of paiges or runners, and they run now along the shore, casting rocks into the waters and plotting to do some fishing.

"We're almost done unloading." Azahad watches the unfolding of ceremonial greetings at myself. He must've just talked with Yash. "Yash is going to make camp here for the night and head back tomorrow." By the look on his face, I think he's just as glad as I am it's not us having to deal with these river tribe dignitaries.

I give a short nod to indicate this is fine. There's no hiding the fact the chaos of our arrival displeases me. Sometimes I think I expect too much - the tribes do eventually sort their madnesses out but everything takes so much time. My one great hope is that Dorian, and the other warring factions are dealing with their own clusterfucks and maybe there's still time to land all this.

My calculations for supplies had been off. Mostly because, especially when we were sorting out the march routine, we'd made less than half the speed I thought was being more than generous. That and the chiefs and elders bringing their own retinues, expecting us to supply them, and inviting others we met along the way with us on this 'historic occasion' we'd burned through most of the supplies I'd calculated would last most of the campaign.

Now we were abandoning our wagon train here, so Yash could turn them back around - go all the way back to Mehgarh for more - and make his way back.

It also meant we weren't going to be marching very far from the river, and we were basically wedded to this 'king' of Alipur if we wanted to get anywhere. I estimated the odds of us being extorted at some point by this guy at close 100%, though he'd wait until he'd wait until his territory wasn't swarming with our people before he started fucking around. Vague promises of future gifts and favours and the prospect of us turning on him is really our only leverage. That and them being scared shitless of Dorian and his army.

I don't like it, but on the one hand is solution, on the other: no choice.

Once Yash returns - hopefully in less than two months, because things would start looking dicey after that - we'd be on a better footing. The fact was, if there was an aggreement like this that ever went smoothly, I've never seen it. I remember reading the diaries of soldiers who accompanied Napolean on his campaign into Russia, and I didn't fancy trying to recreate that debacle writ small.

Plus this wasn't the Grande Armee. If supplies dwindled, 'disciplined' or no, these were still tribal warriors and they were just going to fuck off and we'd never see most of them again.

Oh, and we just had our first case of what I think is malaria. So we've got that to look forward to in the coming months.

I see a trio of canoes making a beeline for us.

"Looks like this is my ride. Have fun with all..." Turning to Azahad, I wave my hand around to indicate the general chaos unfolding around us. "...this. I'm sure you'll enjoy trying to wrangle this mess as much as I have. See you in Alipur!"

I hop down towards the shore to exchange greetings with the chief that's taking me up river. I have 'gifts' - beads, copper bangles and some of our better mixed wine, though I'm probably going to get a decent portion of that last gift myself along the trip. Sudhanshu and a couple of picked soldiers come with me for security.

Where we're going next, they might be needed.

Well that but also the last time I was entrusted to the care of a respected chief who promised to deliver me somewhere safely, I wound up sold into slavery.

Enslave me once, shame on you. Enslave me twice, shame on me.




We can continue living,
By breaking out of our shells,
We can break out,
Only by denying,
Some of the safeguards,
By which we protect ourselves,
Against the frustration of our longings,
And the defeat of our ambitions.

Luck and misfortune,
Beginning with the accident of our birth,
Shape much of what happens to us in life,
Yet, we would be almost nothing,
If we did not fight,
Against the consequences of this fate,
And recognize within ourselves,
The unresigned and uncontainable spririt,
Which exists within all of us.

It is only by rebelling against this alliance,
Between Fate and Chance,
That we cease to be little,

We become Great,
Unshaken,
Unsubdued,
Unterrified.

-3-
-Forward to the Way of Great Peace




Northwestern Frontier Province - Modern Day Pakistan

- June 2962BCE


The trip up river takes us four days, but even against the current it is faster travel than on foot. Light is fading that fourth day by the time our guide, a tall sallow faced chief who spoke little enough to us but shouted warm greetings to virtually every canoe we passed along our journey points toward the shore. We turn in along the western bank where a treeline of tamarisks were in full bloom, along with poplars and willows which had not been present in Mehrgarh.

I'm actually quite excited by willow shrubs. If she were around, Aprus would’ve warned me, but I quickly ascertain the shrubby little willows here do nothing for inflammation. Though if you want tea that tastes like ass-water, boy did I find the tree for you.

I'm surprised to see some birds I knew well taking flight as we approach the stony bank, a flock of northern pintails interspersed with other waterfowl I definitely don't recognize. Either from Mehrgarh, or my adventures in modern north America. But the fact some of the same duck species are the same here as back home thousands of years in the future raises my spirits to an irrational degree.

We pull our three canoes ashore, unloading what supplies we had brought with us for our sojourn before hauling them up and hiding them in the brambles. Then our guide leads us away from the river bank until we say a thin plume of campfire smoke in the distance.

“There.” He informs us, pointing to the plume rising over the trees.

There are about a dozen men that greet us as we break the treeline into the clearing. They stand, bows and spears at the ready. Even expecting us, such are the times. This is a portion of the river now that adventurous Khusab raiding parties sometimes venture. The chief that brought us upriver mentioned seeing a party a few weeks earlier and bid us not speak at all the last leg of our journey, and to keep alert for movement along the treelines.

It is not safe for either us or them here. These men were neither Vadabhaat, Khusab, nor of the Alipur or any other river tribes. It was plainly seen from the skins they wore. Our movements are carefully negotiated ahead of time, but I get the impression from their wariness along with that of our guide, that these men aren't locals and may have no guarantees of safe conduct.

Their foreigness here is also spoken of by the fact we're sharing the clearing with, like, fifty camels.

“They will take you to your meeting.” I am told by my guide.

I look towards the group, who are indeed dressed differently from either the Alipur or the Three Tribes, wondering which group they are they're here. Then I see a familiar face emerging from their ranks.

“Aditjya!” I exclaim.

“Aradin.”

The young man looks, more what I’d properly describe as a young man and less as a boy. He introduces me to the ones guiding us. Men, he told me, from the Peshawar tribes, but related by blood to the Vadabhaat. They introduce themselves as grand nephews of varying persuasions of Niiva, Probodh’s mother. But in the moment I was more interested in the fifty camels.

“Where the hell did you get camels? Azahad's going to shit a brick.” I exclaim looking at the creatures busy grazing, or lounging around the clearing. Azahad fondly recounted stories of camels from his homeland. We'd even talked of negotiating something with the Mundigak tribes to go on an expedition west to acquire some.

“You’re not the only one with surprises.” Adjitjya laughs patting one of the dopey looking creature on its snout as it lay in the grass, chewing on a nearby branch. “Torrez imported them years ago. The herds have grown a great deal since then. In Peshawar, Harappa… and Khusab.”

I'd heard Torrez had acquired a handful, but I'd expected them to still be more rare. There'd been talk of elephants and even some stumpy little horses imported from beyond the mountains - I very much hoped we weren't going to have to deal with fifty elephants.

I hoped to head out that day but the man who heads the group, insists on resting the animals during the day and heading out later. “We pushed them hard to get here and will again to get to where we must go.”

“It’s usually a couple weeks trek through the hills.” Aditya explains.

“We will do it in two days.” The leader, Qobad spoke the language of the Indus Valley with an accent.

“Are you from beyond the mountain passes?” I asked.

“These days we graze the hills west of Peshawar, and keep peace between the Peshawari tribes and my fellows.” Qobad replied. “Trade has been good for our peoples. Aditjya tells me you are a trader yourself.”

“I prefer the term industrialist.” I say. “But yes.”

We wait until the night to take some of the edge off the heat as we travelled, and as Qobad explains, because he and his people really aren't supposed to be here. Most Alipur and even Reiman Dheri tribespeople will probably be pissed to see them in their lands without permission.

Qobad has more camels nearby. Four or five per rider that his people (im)patiently corral and lead for us by tethers. The whole group is quite irritable that they have to assist myself, Sudhanshu and the other warriors with me onto the animals' backs from a lying down position; though they did get some entertainment from watching us try and mount them standing. He and his people have no problems throwing themselves onto a standing camel, in some cases while it was mid-stride.

Even the camels looked kind of pissed off as they had to be prodded into slowly lowering themselves on the ground, waiting for us to climb on, before slowly rising to their feet again.

"Don't look so smug." I tell the camel. "You stink."

I’m pretty sure Qobad is ready to strangle us for the first hour as we struggle along the way. I take a spill early on. Sudhanshu and the rest of my escort are similarly unused to riding in any form. I vaguely recal being led around my aunt’s old farm on the horses she’d kept when I was a kid. I was effectively as new to the experience as the rest of them. I can't even say if camels are much different to ride than horses it was so long ago.

Here Qobad was, in what was properly Reiman Dheri territory – from what I understood none of us had standing to be in - with a war on. And he has us falling down all over the place like baby gazelle taking their first steps. Meanwhile he was clearly trying to keep us all on track for a forced ride that must've been moving us at quite a pace.

But we do move, and true to his word, Qobad drives a hard pace. We swap out camels numerous times through the night, stopping only long enough to remount. Rather we, or at least our guides, sleep on their animals in shifts, with the animals trained well enough to follow each other.

None of the people in my party, nor I noted Aditjya, were bold enough to sleep on the animals in motion. There are no saddles, no stirrups, no harnesses of any kind, save tethers tied simply round their heads.

Holding the back of the camel by its neck fur for dear life was more or less how we all manage.

By the end of the first two hours my lower back and ass both feel like someone had spent about that same amount of time just wailing on me with a stick, to the point I could barely walk or sit-down. But we didn’t stop long enough for it to matter – just remount and keep riding. Two of Qobad’s scouts lead the way in rotations. We don’t stop in the morning either but carry on, pushing up into the hills, through winding passes between the mountains. We stop once the entire time to take on water for ourselves and let the animals drink for an hour, in what I estimate to have been an otherwise non-stop 40h ride.

Until finally we arrive just short of our destination to rest ahead of our meeting.

The next day we, sorely, make a trek on foot until we're met by familiar faces from Probodh’s camp.

Karan, Neelam, Harun, Bimli - and of course Aprus come out to greet us. Nirav brings water. Prodobdh is there too, in his usual good spirits. Nivaa, I see lurking near the back of the camp, looking older, more tired, working at her weaving and not bothering to pay us much attention. It was quite the reunion truth be told.

But my eyes and attention are drawn to the two unfamiliar figures standing about, and the four standing behind them, keeping their wary distance. Bronze armour and weapons glinting in the light.

The smallest figure among them was the first to speak. She's short, looks a little older than me. Close to Aprus' age. “You must be the one they call Aradin.” She wears ceremonial regalia, that was unfamiliar but didn’t look like those of either a priestess, a chieftain or a shaman.

The figure next to her, is taller. A young man.

The rest remain stiffly silent behind them. Their dispositions are wary, but collected. Warriors I’d met could be wary, anxious, hostile. But these men were poised, calm... just ready. Not expecting a fight per se, but entirely prepared to go from 0 to 100% should the situation change. Their eyes are mostly on Sudhanshu and the others behind me.

I sense Sudhanshu and the rest of our travel party adopting a similar disposition opposite them. I don't really like the odds of our chert hand-axes and daggers against their bronze swords in a closed melee like this. I'm very conscious in the moment that this is not the fight we trained for.

“I am. You must be… Banhi? Aprus speaks well of you.” I give Aprus a small nod of recognition, but keep my attention on Banhi and her party here. I'm still not sure I have a good read on their intent yet, but the fact Banhi came is, I think, a good sign. I can sense they’re trying to feel me out. I can see the figure beside her inspecting Sudhanshu and the rest of our retinue. Inspecting them. Taking their measure. He says nothing for the moment, seeming content to let Banhi handle the interaction for now.

“You wanted a meeting.” She spreads her hand wide and offers a pleasant, if forced, smile. “So here we are. My associates here just came from Taxila – which they seized from the Khusab’s allies. Dorian is calling all his forces together. Coming north. To us.”

Well. That explains where Dorian has disappeared to after sacking Sarghodha.

“There might’ve been a time when talk of peace was possible.” The other figure speaks at last. Still no introduction though I suspect I know well who he is. “But it’s past. We have no use for such talk. But allies, allies we have use of.”

It’s times like this I’m glad I wear a hood, it keeps my expression at least somewhat concealed. They’re already committed. I try and look between Bahni and Ashoka but neither gives much away.

Non-zero chance this whole attack on Taxila was intentionally trying to force our hand. The fact the two of them came here together... I'm not sure what means, but it feels significant. I don't have time to piece it out though.

“Sometimes events do start to take on a life of their own.” I begin slowly, choosing my words carefully even as I try and figure out how to play this. I don't like making major decisions on the fly. Shaking hands and agreeing to just try and take Dorian off the board together would be an easy agreement. I decide to play for time. “One way or another we’re marching north. I still think I can convince Dorian.”

“You can’t.” The second figure says. There’s no hesitation in his tone.

“Either he will or he won't. In either event, we'll be there. He'll want to hear what I have to say."

“I don't think you know my brother.”

“I'm confident he will, for the same reason I think you'll listen. Because the three of us can do more together than any of us could apart. Because the last thing your father would have wanted is you and your brother killing each other…” Ashoka's expression does flicker a little at that mention of their father. “And because there’s much the two of you still have to learn, that your father didn’t get the chance to to teach you.”

I can see Ashoka's shuffle, irritably at that last comment. “I don’t know what teachings of my father’s filtered down into Mehrgarh over the years Aradin. But I doubt you have any lessons to give that he didn't pass down to his own sons.”

“Are you sure about that Ashoka?"

I wear the robes, with the hood and everything largely to keep the sun off me because I’ll burn like a pork roast under the sun here. But also partly because this language ability I have is such that – if people can’t see my face – they usually never realize they’re speaking with a foreigner.

Even so, for important meetings like this I usually remove it. But I didn’t here.

Mostly because I knew, sooner or later, this question would have to come up. So I peel my hood back now.

If I’m a betting man - and I am – it occurs to me that we’re presently in late neolithic/early bronze age Pakistan.

And I’m wagering that in basically all of history up until this point the number of dudes running around in this part of the world that look like they came from 20th/21rst century suburban north america instead of being a tribal south asian dude numbers somewhere around 2 individuals.

One of them was Javin Torrez.

And the other is me.

Judging by the expressions on both Ashoka and Bahni's face in that moment, I think I wasn't far off the mark.

"Honest question Ashoka: how much did your father tell you about where he was from?"





Our struggle,
Which is the inevitable condition of our greatness,
Is also the cause of our destruction,
Unless it is transformed,
By understanding, compassion,
And love.

To love another person,
And to be guided by a vision defining a task,
Are the two great, defining events,
Which a person may experience in their life.

In so doing, we become godlike,
But not just like the god who creates,
But also like the god who suffers and dies,
Because through them,
We become hostages to others,
Who may rebuff our love,
And destroy our works.

This dependence upon the Other,
Is not our doom however...

It is our salvation.

-4-
-Forward to the Way of Great Peace
Pndapetzim

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Tesserach
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 456
Founded: Apr 25, 2021
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Tesserach » Sat Nov 25, 2023 5:40 pm

The Second Great Northern War and The Way of Great Peace

My liege,

As you bid, I attended the solstice festival of the river tribes. My meeting with Chief Srittar went well. He reaffirmed his commitment to relations with us, and no longer appeared inclined to consider overtures from Khusab. The presence of the Mehgarhi, I suspect, bolstered his nerve. He even had the temerity to press us to cross the Jhelum River and join the attack on Khusab, which I declined to give, per previous instructions.

Chief Srittar was keen to emphasize how much he values the continued friendship of Harappa. My attempts to renew discussions for Alipur to seek Harappan protection were postponed until after the Mehrgarhi's upcoming 'gathering'. I did inform Srittar that we could not guarantee conditions would be favourable after - but he appears to be placing a great deal of faith in the Mehgarh tribes.

I did take the opportunity to observe the Mehgarhi tribal forces. The majority are tribal war bands of the usual fashion. Though those personally connected to Arjan appeared notably better equipped, trained and disciplined than I am used to seeing among the unsettled peoples; though still inferior to our own forces.

As rumoured, a contingent of 'professional' troops did arrive. Their equipment appeared inferior to Harappan kit, however the tribals discipline and training appeared tolerable on the march. All together these warriors numbered around 1,000. Mostly spearmen whose spears were notable for being impressively long, but likely to be unusable in close quarters combat. They were accompanied by slingers and archers. They lacked metal armour, and still carried largely stone knives and hand-axes for close combat. In particular they lacked any camels or elephants.

Despite this, it was clear that the Mehrgarhi had not suffered from fighting the previous wars as the rest of us had - and they still possess a great number of warriors. Warriors from the Alipur and remaining Sarghodan war bands have been flocking to meet them also, such that it is likely they will possess a numerical advantage in any conflict with the Khusab.

My discussions with General Arjan and Chief Utsah have all but confirmed they have established some arrangement with Peshawar. They claimed the Reiman Dheri are awaiting what happens north. I learned from Arjan that they believe Peshawar supporters engaged in a coup in Taxila, and this is where Dorian's army has disappeared to, beseiging the town.

Though our discussions were cordial, Chief Utsah did go out of his way to express that the Mehgarhi considered the tribespeople of Sargodha good and honourable people, and remarked that that the Sargodha would remember how they were treated by their allies during their time of need.

This struck me as indicating an awareness of your majesty's current planning.

I did not get the opportunity to speak at all with the leader of Mehrgarh's professional contingent, Aradin, but did attend a gathering at the festival where he presented his order's 'Way of Great Peace' before a considerable crowd. I recorded what I could remember as soon as I could so that your majesty could properly appreciate what we are dealing with here.




Ten years ago, the north was torn asunder by one man's dream.

Javin Torrez dreamed of uniting this land and it's peoples, he was not good, he was not evil - but he had a dream and where his words and persuasions failed, he turned instead to fire and the sword and the right of conquest. Such is the way of the world, so it was before, so it was under Torrez.

Yet some here remember how it was before, and what Torrez unleashed was unprecedented. Men fought, yes, men died. But certain things were understood. These were disputes among men. Among families. Only the most grievous crimes would countenance a whole camp of men be slaughtered. Only the most drawn out and violent blood feuds, with bloodshed on both sides, would countenance the slaughter of bands wholesale. Never were agricultural heartlands violated. Warriors understood, there were lines that can't be crossed, things you shouldn't do. That you pay too high a cost, and you lose a piece of you.

And something broke. Torrez smashed every tribal law down to force, violence and conquest, until now - it seems - there's no laws left to either break or mend.

But all actions have consequence. And those who live by the sword also die by the sword and so it was for Javin Torrez. The warriors of the north rose up, and the the Black Banner of Javin Torrez was finally wrested from his cold hands, his armies scattered, and the land and it's people at long last let loose a great sigh of relief.

Yet ten years have not been sufficient time to heal the wounds left behind, nor are the horrors that Javin Torrez released upon the world so easily returned from whence they came. The path that Torrez trod is plainly seen by others now. And so the Black Banner of Javin Torrez, ten years on, not only rises again but others rise to take their place, trying to out compete one another. The embers of those old battles burn still, fanned by the flames of old animosities, stoked by the fires of vengeance that burn inside the bellies of the survivors of that terrible conflict.

Until, as we see now, we see the whole land cast, as it were, under their blighted shadow.

Everyone wronged desires vengeance from what happened those years ago. Ancient honour would have it no other way. The son must answer the call of his father's death: blood cries out for blood. What man, worthy of the name, dares to draw breath resting easy while his father's killer yet breathes the same air? Is that not the way of it?

Can we not see that times have changed? The cold calculus of mass murder drives us not towards honour, but madness. We can no longer afford it. Not anymore.

There is another way. There is a better way. I've seen it. It's possible. All we need do is reach out and make it happen.

And so I say it here: there will be no repeat of another generation of sons and daughters growing up without fathers. There will be no processions of widows without husbands going every morning to their laundries by the river banks. There will be no gluts of bloated corpses defiling the sacred rivers, until holy waters run red with blood of the righteous and unrighteous together.

And why should they? These years have been good to us. We have more now than we ever did in the past!

Mehrgarh comes here, bearing gifts and riches to share with the River Peoples. Our studies of the Earth Mother and her secrets have yielded such results as our granaries run full to bursting. Our cups runneth over! New farming practices and new innovations promise more still. Every year brings more, new, and better things. And we offer them to you: these are bounties to be shared among our brothers and sisters!

Yet instead of making ploughs and implements to bring to you, we find ourselves forced to march north with great spears and weapons of bronze! And for what purpose?! To what end?! When times were worse, when harvests more meagre, when clothes plainer and luxuries scarcer: never did men slaughter one another over them as they do now!

So I ask any among you to answer: why the hell are we fighting?

You see I come here before you, but I don't want to kill anyone.

I should like to help everyone if I could - Sargodhan, Khusabi, Harappan, Peshawari. We all want to help one another: human beings are like that! We want to live by each other’s happiness, not by each other's misery. We don’t want to hate and despise one another.

In this world there is room for everyone. The Mother Earth can provide for everyone, if we learn her ways; our way of life can be free and beautiful...

But we have lost the way!

Greed has poisoned men's souls, has armed the world with hate, has marched us into misery and fear and bloodshed. Learning to coax our fields into abundance, has only left us in want - where too much has somehow become such that it is never enough. Our knowledge has made us cynical. Our cleverness, hard and unkind. We think too much and feel too little.

Some say it is the way of the world that the strong do as they must, while the weak must endure what they must and this is simply how things are. And perhaps it is so. Perhaps we do live in a world of might makes right.

But once, so the stories say, men and women lived without fire. They knew nothing of coaxing crops from the Earth Mother. But the world changed, and people changed with it. What was and what is are not set in stone.

Now I appreciate that many of you have suffered under the depredations of the of Khusab, and the Black Banner. Some of you here are fresh from those killing fields. Swept up by the currents of war, cruelty, and injustice. Justice and vengeance - I understand that righteous anger, I do. But an eye for eye and a tooth for a tooth leaves the whole world blind and toothless. It must end! Ten years ago the father died. The same vengeance that boils in you, boiling over in his son is what brings us here now. On it goes. And on it will go.

Unless someone stops it.

It must end. It has to. Nothing wrong can turn out right by saying wrong's all right to do. Men of principle must endure - must endure the unendurable if necessary - so that the truth, which is in the man, remains true. Who here, among us, has lived an easy life? Who isn't sick to death of watching little ones struck down, without rhyme or reason? Who hasn't buried a wife, a husband, a brother, a sister, a mother a father? Who here has lived a life without grief or suffering?

And yet we go on. We pick ourselves up. We dust ourselves off. We bury our dead. And we move on. It has always been thus.

I won't lie to you. I can't promise you miracles. I can't promise you easy lives. I cannot promise you that everything will be okay. I can't. No one who's lived in this world, whose seen what we have all seen with our eyes and eyes, who has suffered - as we have all suffered - can imagine any such promises to be more than wishful thinking.

What I can promise is an end to this war and that you can go on, knowing that somehow, this situation can and will be changed.

For like Javin Torrez before me, I too have a dream, though a very different one.

It is a dream deeply rooted in the people of these lands and the children of Mother Earth. I have a dream that one day her people - which is to say - all people, can sit together and recognize within each and every one of us the commonality of our humanity. To see our own sufferings in others, and to have our sufferings seen in return. To be treated as human beings, to live with dignity, to be and end unto oneself, and not merely as a means for others. To accept this as our sacred right, and our sacred responsibility.

I dream that one day we can all rise up and declare with one voice: We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men and women are created equal. That we are, all of us, brought forth out of darkness into this world screaming through blood and through pain! That we are bound to one another through our hopes and our dreams, our strengths and our weaknesses, our joys and our pains.

I dream that one day, when our children grow up, they should be judged by the content of their character and not by the circumstances of their birth, by the tribe they grew up in, or the profession of their parents.

I dream that one day the animosities between tribes will disappear. That under this new way, This Way of Great Peace, people will finally open their eyes and see the truth that has been before us this whole time; there is only one tribe, that there has only ever been one tribe, and it's name is Humanity!

I cannot promise this will all come to pass. It's a dream. But I prefer it to the reality we live in now and all the ones we left behind. I think it worth my striving for, my sacrificing for - if necessary, my dying for.

There are things I can promise though. If you follow us along The Way. I can promise that, though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, that together by sacrifice of our blood, sweat and tears, our children and our children's children will go on to live better lives than the ones we had for ourselves. This is the vision. The promise. The covenant, and it will be ours, should we choose to stand together and hold the line of dignity, and compassion against the ever encroaching darkness of apathy, fear, greed and anger.

I can promise you that we can learn to live in peace with the river spirits, that one day they will no longer destroy our livelihoods in their sudden rage. That one day, the loss of child or mother in childbirth should be a rare tragedy, and cold shadows that hangs over each and every one of us beyond counting. I can promise that pestilence can be overcome and that one day, your children should all have enough to eat - in both good years and bad. I can promise you that life can be easier, less harsh, less unforgiving than it is now.

This is not a dream, my friends, it is our future. Our destiny.

I won't lie to you though. These things. They will not come easily. They will not come without work. Not without sacrifice. And in the meantime, all the ills that we already endure - they will not rest idle. They will continue to batter us, as they have always battered us. Nor will they come soon. Some we will see - I don't ask sacrifice without reward - but the completed work we begin now, none of us here will ever live to see it done. But our children, our children's children - each in turn will see their lives imrpoved... so long as they keep the faith.

These things, yes, I can promise.

The Way of Great Peace is here, friends. And we're marching north. And when we find Dorian, and the Khusab, I will say to them what I have said to you.

And they, like some of you, may choose to accept this dream as reality. Or, like some of you, they may instead say that I am merely a dreamer. And perhaps I am.

But I'm not the only one...




It should be noted at this point the contingent of soldiers began, as one, stomping their feet, crashing their shields and weapons together and chanting "Great! Peace!." So still had they been that many among the crowd, myself included, had forgotten they were arrayed there. Many were driven to fright by the sudden clamour, some even fled in terror. A great many people among the crowd, however, began chanting along with the soldiers.

I cannot speak to the success or failure of the Mehgarhi's plan to force Dorian into their peace agreement, but their success may have significant ramifications for His Majesty's future plans for the region.

Respectfully submitted,
Niraajan of Sahuka

-Letter from Niraajan of Sahuka to King of Harappa, circa summer 2962 BCE
Last edited by Tesserach on Mon Nov 27, 2023 3:16 pm, edited 3 times in total.
Pndapetzim

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Saxony-Brandenburg
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Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby Saxony-Brandenburg » Thu Dec 07, 2023 4:55 am

Uruk
The Kingdom of Kengir
2958 BCE

Great and mighty Gilgamesh, unconquerable son of Jushur, victorious in all battles and favored of the gods. He now returns from his campaigns in the far east, from Larsa to Lagash and to the Elamite lands. He had taken blood, he had slain kings. His army finally returned to their homeland in Uruk. Eight thousand sons of that city had left walls, just over six returned. In their absence, those who remained tried as well as they could to keep up the fields and orchards, his father had done what he could. But it was not enough. The land had been underkept. There would be trouble, discontent in the countryside. Reductions of the harvest, unhappy nobles. He would have to solve these matters.

Or rather, it was not he who would have to. For all Gilgamesh’s greatness, he was a hammer. A blunt object, meant to smash problems rather than solve them. For those matters which he could not solve this way, he chose to delegate them to those around him. The kinds of men Gilgamesh surrounded himself with… were neither conservative nor content. How could they be, when their king was anything but this. Those men, who spent their days dutifully scribbling words into clay, or else being another functionary in the machine of city politics. Those were men who congregated and advised his father. And though his father had made some… tepid reforms on their advice, Gilgamesh would allow these ‘new men’ in his court to do as they pleased.

When Gilgamesh passed into the gates of Uruk, standing atop his chariot at the head of his army, the entire city came out to welcome him. Cheers and flowers showered him as he passed along its streets and towards the temple of Inanna. Brides and mothers fell upon sons and husbands who returned home. Great happiness was there to be found for those who saw their beloveds again. Sadness would come later, for those who did not return.

When he approached the footsteps of the Inanna temple, he found his father there, not with, as some my imagine, great pride for his son which had achieved greatness which would no doubt be his legacy. Instead, he bore a demeanor of grim sadness. One which trembled into a smile as he attempted to mask his feelings for the public. But the truth was self-evident. All around them, the cheers in the crowd for Gilgamesh called him ‘lord’, they called him ‘king’. Thus when the two ascended the stairs of the temple together, Jushur limping with the use of a cane, he turned back to his son, and spoke to him bitterly.

“You wear the rings of three kings on your hand, boy. The one I leant you when you left Uruk, and the royal rings of Kish and Lagash. I can hazard a guess you intend for my crown then too.”

Gilgamesh eyed his father, and grunted. “I have earned my inheritance, father, with my blood and my axes.”

“Inheritance belongs to you once I am dead!” Jushur snapped back, as the two entered the doors of the temple, and they slammed loudly behind them.



Dudu had seen life in his village of Pleasant Reeds change with the seasons. With each successive change in the news from Uruk, a new decree was handed out in-tow. At first it was the change from the scribes who came only once a year, to now twice a year. From what had been a general accounting of the village’s whole produce to take a portion back to Uruk, became a managed process. The scribes would come from the city, and stay at a house built just for them beside the granary, wherein they were then obliged to store their grain for safekeeping and accounting. Not only that, but at the beginning of every season they would measure the fields and use math of a kind he did not understand to estimate how much grain he would produce, and therefore how much they would expect.

But with the change in the kingdom, a new change came. A simple scribe was not enough. Then they sent a man to dispense justice full time over the village, a man who lived in that same house the scribes did beside the granary. The first one they received was a cruel man. He took their food for himself, and grew fat from them. That was the last time he saw his neighbors resist orders from their Lord. They nearly hung him, before the queen-mother Inanna intervened. He had been replaced by a man named Ninlilgeli. A much more humble man, he was, however, just as judicious and demanding of their taxes to Uruk. He was then called a Shakkanak, and led Dudu’s son off to war, to return without him.

Dudu was a man who didn’t want any trouble. He didn’t question when new decrees from the Lugal came from the big city. For even if every day was toilsome, and his wife still weeped for their son who was likely perished and buried far away, at least things in the village stayed quiet. His village hadn’t been looted in twenty years. Not since the great chaos which destroyed the Queendom.

But now the Shakkanak called them to the village commons, infront of the granary and by the well, wherein he stood with four men beside him. Two of those men were quite large and holding weapons, gleaming with bronze helmets which adorned their heads. Two others were men of large size, but which cast their gazes much more apprehensively towards the crowd. They waited for almost an hour for the majority of the men and women of the town to return from the fields and their more disparate homes. Then he cleared his throat, and Ninlilgeli addressed them.

“Thank you for taking the time to hear me speak. I will not take long, and I will answer your questions as needed. I have received new decrees from the lord Gilgamesh, on advice of his council, which instructs me to tell you of your new obligations, and my new obligations to you.” He paused, and squinted, trying his best, it seemed, to phrase the news. Dudu knew it had to be more burdens, more trouble. He prepared himself for the worst.

“The Lugal has decreed that as his magistrate in this land, I am now given the right to tax your labor at will. Whenever there is need of projects for the village, or for the Lugal, or for my own purposes, you will be obliged to answer them.”

Grumbles and complaints came from the crowd, but no shouts or obvious rejections were heard. So he continued.

“In addition, he has obliged me to take up permanent residence in the village, far more than I often do with my travels. Therefore, he has asked me, and all the Shakkanaks of his lands, to establish an estate within the bounds of this village for not only my residence while I am here, but for my family and my property aswell. It is in service of this order, that I will begin to build a new house for myself, on a lot to the west, with sufficient yet uncleared land for fields, pastures, and orchards of my own. I will expect you to contribute as I need and command of you in this project. It is an obligation, and one you cannot refuse.”

“And what if we do refuse?” Asked Ninzi, Dudu’s neighbor, from amongst the crowd.

“Then I have been authorized to make you, by force, if necessary.” Ninlilgeli replied, and motioned to the two armed men beside him.

“These are my servant-guards. They will be here not only for your protection against bandits and thieves, but to also make sure the Lugal’s will is done and his law obeyed.”

“And who are the other two?”

“They are my bondsmen. Men of the army of Lagash captured in the previous war. They will work on my estate, with your assistance, to help maintain it, and any projects the village may have. Digging canals, clearing land, whatever is needed. As they are my property, I expect you to treat them well. I would hate for any harm to come to both you and them, should any conflict arise…”

As it had turned out, the Shakkanak’s estate planned was much larger than a single house. The main house, as he had lain out with posts on the ground, was many times greater in size than Dudu’s. It had a courtyard with a well, it had storage barns beside it, it even had a separate house for his two slaves and two guards. Surrounding it all would be a tall fence made out of mud brick. Ninlilgeli said this was incase of attack, the village could come inside and shut the gate… though Dudu took this with a grain of sand, as it seemed far less generous a notion to wall himself away from his subordinate villagers than what was stated.

With such a large project in mind, the land that would need to be cleared was… considerable. Many large stones had to be broken into pieces and dragged away in handcarts, and there was what could only be described as a forest of bushes and short trees needed to be cut and burned. And the grass - grass as high as Dudu’s shoulders, which grew endlessly. At least, when they bundled it, dudu could take the dry grass home for kindling in his hearth.

It took almost a week of constant brush clearing for them to clear not only the space for Ninlilgeli’s estate, but for a large field and orchard behind it. Every day Dudu would have to wake up before the beginning of daylight, just to tend to his own chores and business, before leaving by mid-day to work the evening on the Shakkanak’s land. The entire village had to do this, thus by the end of the week, many men’s wives and children did more farming than their fathers and husbands did.

And as he had said, this was mandatory. The Shakkanak’s two thugs, although they did not shake down his neighbors as far as Dudu could tell, would go from house to house by Ninlilgeli’s orders, to remind their residence to come to their master’s estate for labor.

This labor, upon the clearing of the land, was largely two-fold. Making mud bricks, and gathering stone. Every day the second week, Dudu would break his back digging on the banks of the great river, scooping basketfulls of mud, loaded onto handcarts, and dragged to the buildsite. There they mixed the mud with grass and ash, before being molded and dried in the sun. This went on, day after day, until they began to stack hundreds of bricks in a row.

Soon enough, after the second week, it was clear the villagers were getting tired of their work. For the day before they had been told that, once they were completed with the estate and wall, they would have to start ploughing, planting, and tending to the Shakkanak’s fields and orchards for him. When they were called to arrive one early afternoon, Ninzi, ever the independent spirit, was first to complain.

“We are tired of giving half our time and labor to you for such little in return!” He yelled towards Ninlilgeli, who watched him with a slight scowl. “What are we to you but workers? Are you not also meant to serve us, as the Lugal’s hands? Where is your help to us? What can you do for us?”

One of the two guards of the Shakkanak began to step forward towards the man, but with a sharp hand motion, Ninlilgeli stopped them.

“I understand your grievances, I too would be frustrated with your toil, should I have been in your position.”

“Understanding isn’t enough! What are you giving to us in return? ‘Protection’, as you say, is not enough!”

Surprisingly, it seemed as though Ninlilgeli was prepared for this moment. He didn’t have to think long to come with a response.

“Although I am not obligated to do this, I have a plan which will allow our relationship, with all of you, to be worth it. The taxes which you pay on your grain, in your fields, take good food from your mouths every year, do they not? And they hamper your chances to stockpile grain, should there be scarcity next year. Therefore I will offer you this. Every month that you fulfill your labor for me in my fields, I will withhold and pay myself a portion of your grain-tax, that by, if you work for me the whole year, it will be paid in full. Is that fair?”

There were whispers and murmurs amongst the crowd, as on its face, this seemed like a great deal. Ninzi notwithstanding, the crowd slowly began to disperse, to return to their tasks as they had been the previous day. Then, with some degree of friendliness, Ninlilgeli approached Ninzi, and placed a hand on his shoulder. With a patronizing smile, the Shakkanak leaned towards the man, and reminded him: “Think of your family. It would be a shame if your lack of cooperation let them go hungry.”

As it had turned out, this deal, although sweet, had its drawbacks. In a month, when the structure of the house and wall had been largely put up, and only a small portion of the village now worked on furnishing it and whitewashing the walls, as was the new trend emulating the Gishimmari in Nippur, the size of the fields by the estate had grown by an order of magnitude more. Every day there seemed to be more land to be cleared, more fields to plough. Ninlilgeli supplied the seed-corn, but even still, the drawbacks became apparent to any man who worked there for him. These fields, in the end, would grow to the size of half the fields in the entire village. Worked by all of them, it took away time and effort to feed themselves. All of these fields, all of this grain going not to them, but to their Shakkanak. It was a different form of greed. Not theft, as the previous lord had been. But something else.

Yet despite the exploitation, no one could deny the fruit of being able to keep the entirety of their fields. Although many wondered if they would be able to tend nearly as large fields for themselves as they had the previous years, this meant more toil, and more frustration, would have to be laid on their wives and children. To work, and to have more of them, to supply enough hands to keep the family fed. It felt among the people of pleasant reeds that a wholly new lifestyle was emerging among them. One they didn’t quite know how to pinpoint. But that, either way, it would be daunting.

Ninlilgeli, however, was overjoyed. The Lugal had rewarded him, and any Shakkanaks who joined his campaign and came back alive, with an opportunity to advance past any presumed station of a mere village administrator. He felt like the Ensi of his own city, though he was such a petty master. He would be just, he would honor his commitments. He wasn’t a cruel man, but he was one who wanted better for himself. With the near completion of his manor, he would send for his wife and children in Uruk, where he was born, to move with him here. With the fields and orchards he’d planted, even with the offset cost of paying the taxes of the entire village from them, he expected to have a large surplus, of almost fifty percent of the crop, in addition to the yearly bonus for his office. With this newfound wealth, he could send the surplus crops to Uruk, and stand to make a tidy profit. What was more, to him, his was essentially an act of charity, as more food sent to the city, meant less hungry mouths in the city inwhich he was born. A less charitable man might have called this ‘exploitation’, but who did not have to labor in times such as these? The produce of the land would flow, enriching both city and himself in the process.




The Gishimmari city of Nippur.


With the death of their prophet, the already disparate Sharii faith had begun to splinter, as they already knew there would be no longer a singular authority to appeal to. Narwa bint Olifia al Yanba’awi was Umm Kharuf’s closest thing to a child, as she had adopted the girl before their crossing of the great desert and into Kengir. But she was not as interested as taking up the mantle of the leading of men as many others, and as such, she was not the only one appealed to to lead the faith. There were others, be they independent wise men and women or ascendent students of Olivia. They had thus been given license to preach in the homes and squares of Nippur and the Gishimmari communities throughout south-western Kengir. Many had attracted followers, or at least listeners, of their own. Ilyās, one of the commanders of lord Gilgamesh’s forces during the civil war, had begun to compose and recite poetry on the matter of honor and duty in battle. Jasr al-Katib had begun to take a cluster of his fellows on pilgrimages to the western wilderness, wherein he pontificated, wrote, and composed lectures on the divine presence within the forces of nature such as wind, rain, and the earth.

Narwa may not have been a born leader, but she was anything but without followers. Olifia had given her free reign for many years now to do as she wished with donations and church funds to pursue acts of charity she had found particularly inspiring. Narwa had been in the years since first seeking refuge in the Sharii camp a student of the craft of medicine, and though she had never been the finest of medicine woman, she returned to it in this time. Yet now, instead of out of desperation or an attempt to keep herself boarded within the ranks of the faith, she was in the position to direct its operation. A thing which she had found daunting, and fearsome. But in this had she recruited a number of women from the students of Olifia in Nippur who were more competent in these matters than herself, in an effort to bring their skills free of charge to the masses. For Olifia had told her, that if you were truly a person who loved virtue, you should endeavor to serve even the Black-Heads, who did not believe in the same law and customs as they did. But that, giving freely, one’s soul is given the reward, and not their pride. This, Narwa explained to those who inquired further, was warranted by the prophet’s vision of “Suhl-i Kul”, or “universal peace” which was fortold to be established and which they were now required to build.

The first village upon their pilgrimage they planned for was a black-headed village of farmers who, Narwa had heard, had been blighted by poverty and misfortune. Having lost almost all the men who were conscripted into the Lugal’s army, and receiving little fortune in that year’s harvest thereafter, the village was desolate and deprived. Though food was of primary concern, so too was the general misery and pollution which follows starvation. Sickness, suffering, and sadness lingered universally over desperate poverty. Thus had she acquired, from the donations provided after her her sermons given in the style of Olifia, not merely the staple charity of grain with her. Instead they had purchased, alongside their medicinal herbs, both fruits and vegetables, and what was more were sweets and spices.

When they arrived in the village of Adatuš, it was indeed as it was reputed to be. Mangey dogs limped between crumbling houses, and barely few souls lingered outside. Although sadness was not universal, a few passers by gave the train of women and camels friendly looks, many more looked despondant. The village’s shakkanak himself was not well equipped, and though he had done what he could, he was only one man, and not a wealthy one at that. They had met with him the day before, a Gishimmari man, as were almost all the Shakkanaks of the villages around Nippur. He had escorted them from the city to the village, to protect and introduce them to the locals. Yet he had only been there one year, and when he pointed to his home on the edge of town… it left much to be desired.

“While other men have their bondsmen work day and night in his fields for tax,” he explained, “They are too impoverished and sick to spend their days toiling for my enrichment. I would feel ashamed and sick if I should make them. What incentive is there to eschew their land-tax, if they have hardly the fields to pay for them?”

And so, when they began to pitch their tents and offload their animals, did the Shakkanak leave and return with young men to help them. Young men, nearly children, for their brothers and fathers generation was largely absent. They took sacks of grain and nervously eyed the vegetables, onions, garlic, and sweets- mulberries and figs, which glimmered in their eyes with hunger. Narwa turned to one of her sisters, who spoke both Black-head and Gishimmari. “Have the kids fetch us water, firewood, and start a cooking flame for this evening. Then reward them with a handfull of figs, will you?”

And, while sending them to that- did she return to the Shakkanak, and pointed him to the nearest home to their camp. “I should like to go from home to home, and see if there are any sick or injured inside who I could talk to. Perhaps, Al-lat willing, they would accept my invitation to give them advice and help.”

And so, as she went door to door, and had her black-headed sisters translate for her, she discovered a great deal of maladies which, although not entirely able to be cured by her, at least able to be approached. Nintuda, the young mother, who was soon to give birth in a village whose most talented midwife had died of disease earlier that year. Selibusa, an older woman with what may have been a broken foot. Upakid, a young man with a rotten tooth. And Nannamengen, a girl barely six summers old, who had contracted a harsh fever, and refused to eat nor drink at all.

And so it was that she gave each of these patients to the different women who she had brought along with her. Nintuda was kept in her home under the supervision of a woman of the cult of the lady of Lagash. Selibusa was immediately treated by Iligati, where her foot, which could not be moved or touched without great and terrible pain, was first washed, then shaved, then dried, and then covered in chalk. Then, using bandages, they wrapped the foot tight until it could not move. Then they covered it in plaster, which would quickly dry, with the order not to remove it for several weeks. Upakid was similarly treated that day, where, using a chisel, a file, a string, and a pair of tweezers - they extracted the rotten tooth. They did not give him Hul Gil, which was too expensive to purchase in Nippur where it did not grow. They bade him smoke kunibu in a small quantity, but that was naturally not enough to wholly dull the pain, as he was left screaming and brought to tears before the tooth was out. They packed his mouth with thin, clean wool cloth, along with mint and sage- to try and keep away infection from the now wounded mouth. They made him rinse his mouth of blood multiple times throughout the evening, and to continue until the bleeding ceased. Nannamengen, however, was not merely afflicted by circumstance, but was instead already sick an weak. And though they rendered aid to her, giving the girl a tea of mint and fennel, offering her clean water, and changing her bedding - there was little they could do to cure her, other than chant a prayer above her bed. Infection, after all, couldn’t be cured from the outside. It had to come from within.

By the time that the town had been surveyed, and what little they could do to help the ill-fortuned among them done, the sun had already begun its descent. In those hours had they boiled, and let sit two great pots upon the flames: one of chickpeas, and one of lentils. It was, after all, two of the staple crops of the region. The villagers ate this kind of food daily, yet often in little abundance. And so, when they called those villagers who were interested in a free meal to sit with them in their camp, and eat with them, it wasn’t the food itself which surprised or delighted many, but the amount which was served, and the subtle additions which transformed these staple foods into a meal.

The chickpeas and lentils were not alone in the pot: salt, onions, mint, garlic, and turmeric were added into the mix. And though they were not in every bite… what was a monotonous consumption of sustenance became warm, exciting even! Yet before they could be handed their bowls, the Gishimmari of the traveling group made the villagers observe their customs of purification. The washing of hands and the rinsing of the mouth before they ate. A minor intrusion, one which caused eyebrows to be raised and looks to be exchanged. Yet they were adamant, and the Gishimmari turned up their hands to the locals until they did so, reluctantly. Then they were allowed to eat.

Yet the strangeness of the foreigners actions did not stop at the handwashing they mandated upon the locals. For though they did not make them join their activities as they ate, the group of women and their attendants began to chant prayers to their strange god before eating. And though they did not understand the Gishimmari tongue, which twisted and said far too many sounds than the black-headed language needed, some among them found it interesting enough to ask their translators what they had said.

“They have praised Al-lah for their fortune.” The Black-Head among them, Iligati, replied. “They thanked Al-lat for the bounties of the earth.”

“When we eat we give thanks to Ninurta, the Lord of Barley, who fed us with the grain and its bounty.”

“I believe they call Ninurta Al-Lat, the goddess, because she is in the grain just as he is in the grain.”

“Whoever should be thanked for the grain, I am hungry, and hope for more.”

The evening passed quicker as the happenings became more tedious. Time to clean the pots. Time to wash the clothes. The sun began its final descent into the earth, the day going as it had came. To some great men in Uruk, they had done little to nothing. Their horizons ended at the city walls. These were but grain-sources to them. Yet, as Narwa sat near the banks of the river watching the sun begin to set, that something good had been made there. She wondered if Olifia, wherever she may be, could be proud of what she had done.

Iligati, who was quite fond of the Gishimmari faith and her stories of the cosmos, sat next to her as they watched the blazing colors of the evening. She turned to Narwa with those same eyes that she had once turned to Olifia. She asked her a question she would have asked Olifia. “Sister, where is Wahd exactly? In the sky? In the earth?”

“Wahd is everywhere.” She replied. Olifia’s voice in her reply.

“If Wahd is everywhere, what is it made of? Why can we never see the gods?”

“It is breath. The Breath of your chest, the breath of the earth. That is Wahd. And if you look…” She paused, and gazed out into the water. There that great shimmering ball of fire descended across. A flock of birds sailed across the painted sky. The reeds shook and shivered in the gentle wind. “...You may just see it.”




Inanna’s Descent:
Olivia Goes To The Underworld


“From the great heaven she set her mind on the great below. From the great heaven the goddess set her mind on the great below. From the great heaven Inanna set her mind on the great below. My mistress abandoned heaven, abandoned earth, and descended to the underworld. Inana abandoned heaven, abandoned earth, and descended to the underworld.”

Light, then dark. The long dark. A dreamless sleep from which I was roused not by the knocking of the coffin, nor in the slammed shut door of the tomb. A subtle vibration. An encroaching warmth. An aching, oncoming pain. Darkness fades into dim light. Encroaching upon my rest.

My eyes flick open. Like a lightswitch, the sudden spotlight shines upon me. A bright, overwhelming light which makes my eyes tear, I cower below it, unable to gaze directly upon its source. Its heat burns my bare and naked flesh. I hear the groaning of a ship upon troubled waters. Whispers, voices, shouts in tongues I for once do not recognize at all. The sound of a heart beating. Louder and louder, the noises mix together- until it is one unending mass of sound which is so totalizing and overwhelming I cannot differentiate it from the silence. My eyes cast low, until I am plunged back down, deep into darkness. A darkness which holds me for what feels like hours. Plunged into the icy cold depths of space. All consuming. Utterly unending.

From swimming in this vacuumous sea in less than an instant, I feel a cold, hard floor below me. I hear a familiar buzzing from above. A droning, monotonous buzzing which tingles in my ears a distant, hazy memory. Of no specific time, of no specific place. A vague familiarity which sinks deep inside of me. I feel my body twitch, it shivers in the cold. I feel horribly stiff, as if my body were cast in plaster and left to dry. It takes a heavy, straining strength just to pry apart my eyelids. The bright, harsh light floods my vision utterly white. So overawed was I by its volume and intensity.

But from that inundation of power, a blurry haze sets in. I lift my arm, cover my eyes. I turn off my back, I roll onto my knees. I see underneath my shadow the floor inwhich I sat. It is alien - utterly foreign to me. I run my hands along it, a mixture of… rubber and stone. A white tile, with vague black speckles - and thin, pen-stripe cracks of black between them. Wait. I remembered this…

Cedar River Highschool, 26 years prior.

“Mason!”

I turn my gaze up from the floor. My knees burn, I feel… embarrassed.

“You good dude?”

I look up from the ground to see a young man with short blonde hair standing in front of me.

“Y-yeah. I’m ok.”

“I don’t even know what you even slipped on.”
“Right…”

I stand up and look to my left, then to my right. The hall is… quiet. The remnant pieces of life remain scattered. The ceiling towers two stories above us. All around I hear the buzzing sounds of those cheap fluorescent lightbulbs which illuminate every room in the building. On my left, a large black staircase up to the second story. On my right, a line of tables leading to the cafeteria.

“Why am I?...”

I turn back to him.

“Why am I here?”

“What?”

“Here. This isn’t right… This was years ago.”

He smiles knowingly.

“You’ll miss German class if you keep talking. Actually - you probably already have. The bell just rang. Better head over there.”

Oddly, I remember what room it is. I look over in its direction. The school is utterly empty. Normal, the bell had just rang. But usually there are some stragglers… What am I saying? This isn’t my school. This isn’t right…

“Hey wait!”

I turn back to him, but he’s disappeared.

“What the hell?...”

I take a deep breath. I feel… exhausted. More empty than scared. Like the life-blood of my body has been stripped from me. With nowhere else to go, I heed his advice. I walk down that great hallway, past the cafeteria, and into the empty wing of the school where the language classrooms are.

The walls are just as I’d remembered. Or… a smeared vision of it. Vague posters of french, spanish, and german read of holidays and projects in languages for once I cannot understand. The german room is just to right right. I try the knob… It doesn’t open. So, I knock. Three times, and wait.

I hear the clicking of the lock. The door gently swings open. An old, bald, round-headed man with circular glasses stands behind it.

“Herr Kulmer?” I ask.
“Ah! Mason. Warum bist du zu spat?”

“Es tut mir lied, Herr Kulmer. Ich habe… eh…”

How could I explain myself? What would I do to explain myself? What was there to explain? Why was I?-

“Nevermind that, Junge, come in.” He turns back into the classroom. I follow behind him, passing through the door with a rush of anxiety, a cold breeze passing through me. The door slams shut behind with a sense of finality.

The classroom is exactly how I remember it. Or, at least, one version of how I remember it. Paper lanterns hang from the ceiling. “Sankt Martin’s Tag” is written in big letters on the whiteboard. It is, also, empty. Save for Herr Kulmer, who sits at his desk in the corner, watching me.

“Sit, sit… It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

From one of the desks, I pull up a char across from his desk. Behind him is a small, square mirror. I can’t help but gaze at my reflection, perfectly capturing myself. It’s exactly how I remember dressing… Graphic t-shirt, flannel long-sleeve ontop of it, the buttons undone. Khaki shorts. Not the thing I thought I’d ever wear again.

“See something interesting?” He asks, breaking my focus as I turn to him.

“I- uh.”

“Heh. It’s ok. It’s expected.”

“Expected?”

“Well… where you are is pretty eh… shitty.” He lets out a snort.

“I didn’t know you were allowed to swear.”

“I said bastard in your classroom once.”

I couldn’t help but smile a little at the memory. “You called Sebastian it.”

“He always was an ornery kid.”

“But, wait Herr Kulmer. Please. Why am I here?”

“Ah, right. Why is little Mason Ingels here?... Or, I’m sorry. It’s Olivia now, isn’t it?”

My stomach churned. “You don’t know that yet.”

“That’s right… I don’t. But you do.”

“What?”

“I think you understand, just think about it a little harder. Ask yourself where you were. Ask yourself what happened?”

“I…”

“Yes?...”

“Oh.”

“There you go.”

I looked around the room. A deep sense of dread shook me to the core. I turn to the lone window, which have their horizontal blinds shut across it. Still, through the gaps, a bright white light pokes through in long rays scattered across the floor.

“I’m dead. Aren’t I? Is this… Heaven? Limbo? Hell?”

“Ask yourself, prophet.”

Another voice, a whispering voice, a familiar voice. My heart stops, my mind swims, I turn around to see a familiar grinning stone-faced angel looking back at me from the corner. Pure mortal terror grips me, stuck between fleeing or screaming, I do nothing. I freeze. Yet he does not move, and in the blink of an eye he disappears once more. Her Kulmer, to, is gone.

I sit there in silence, my heart pounding, for what feels like an eternity. With shaking knees I stand up, and walk towards the door. The window on the door is covered with butcher paper, yet through it, a familiar harsh, incredibly bright white light shines through it. Utterly unnatural to the light which was once in the hallway. I turn the knob, and it opens. The door swings open on its own, and as I pass through it, the door shuts on its own.

I am in a space of pure, bright, light. The door behind me disappears, fading into the empty void.

I take a few steps forward, yet so blind is I in the static, unchanging blankness of all my surroundings- I don’t see the great emptiness below my foot - and in seconds I fall - face-first, downwards. Deeper. And deeper. And deeper. White turns to grey. Grey turns to black. Black turns to red. Red turns to fire as I fall farther and father and farther down into hellfire. Then, suddenly, stop.

What terrifies me then is how unnaturally I stop. I do not crash down onto the ground. I do not feel the punch of the air below me. My legs don’t even strain. I just… stop. Something feels different.

I look down at myself. My Khaki shorts and undertale shirt have been replaced with something much more familiar. Long, orange cotton robes with bright yellow stitching. My arms are tanned and my fingers adorned with rings. My arms are heavy with bangles and bracelets. My feet have well-worn leather sandals upon them. My waist is tied with a thick, braided belt. Tucked behind it is a shining bronze knife.

I am surrounded now by a black void. The hellfire and heat I passed was gone. Total, inky, blackness. Yet the further I peered into it… the more I saw ripples shimmer across the ocean of darkness. Clouds of misty-blue plumed within it.

I took a step forward. My body sliced through this liquid darkness with ease. I kept forward, step by step, blind, until all at once a new sight befell me.

Toweringly, monstrously, enormously large. It stretched into the heavens. Two large doors which glimmered with bronze. Impossibly tall, impossibly wide. The concept of its enormity was enough to confuse and confound my mind. I cannot possibly understand.

And yet, I approach this goliath. I tap on its doors, my knock impossibly quiet against it.

And yet… I hear a reply. It echoes from all around. A deep, groaning voice from where I cannot locate. From who I cannot tell.

“Who are you?” It asked.

“I am Inana, Queen of Uruk.” I answered.

“If you are Inana, Queen of Uruk, Why has your heart led you on the road
From which no traveler returns?”

“I… I do not know.” I replied, and, hearing this, I received no reply. Yet behind those doors I heard these voices speak. That servant’s voice echoing across the void.

“My Queen, a maid as tall as heaven, as wide as the earth, as strong as the foundations of the city wall, waits outside the palace gates. On her head she wears the crown of the Gishimmari. Across her forehead her dark locks of hair are carefully arranged. Around her neck she wears the small lapis beads. At her breast she wears the double strand of beads. Her body is wrapped in the royal robe. Her eyes are daubed with the ointment "let him come, let him come." Around her chest she wears the breast plate called "come, man, come!"

Then, an angered voice replies to him. A woman’s voice. A familiar voice. “'Come, Neti, heed my words: Bolt the seven gates of the underworld. Then, one by one, open each gate a crack. Let Inanna enter. As she enters, remove her royal garments. Let the holy priestess of Wahd enter bowed low.”

And with that, the gate began to groan. A shrill, painful groan which scraped at my ears, and threatened to deafen me. Overwhelming, mind-boggling. This gate, which was no gate for a mortal as small and low as I. It creaks open, slowly, slowly, until it is barely a fraction of its width open. Yet this is well enough to step through, and as I do I feel a hand, quickly, snatch at my waist. I look down, and see my belt has disappeared, with it the blade, too, is gone.

What had I entered into?

Yet before I could turn, the doors shut with an echo which crossed the void, repeating endlessly until it faded into the most distant horizon. “What is this? Who are you?”

“Quiet.” The gatekeeper’s echoing voice replied. “Do not question.”

A white mist began to cast itself across the inky blackness, from which a second gate emerged. Still massive, it towered eight stories tall. Still, a fraction the size of the previous, and as I approached it, it too began to open. And through it, I again entered.

I felt a hand upon my neck. Ice-cold, hard as stone. I grasped at my neck and chest, yet felt nothing. My necklace was gone

“What is this? What the fuck?”

“Quiet.” It replied, and the mist cleared before a third set of doors, which opened for me. With nothing else to do, I entered. On my head I felt its heavy hands. From my head I felt my diadem taken from me. With the sweeping of its hand, too, my hair was blown by a gust of wind.

“Fuck. You!” I screamed at it, fear rising through me as I understood what was happening. I received no reply. Instead, the fourth set of doors, now two stories high, opened before me. I stepped through, knowing what would happen. Yet my hands and arms, my ankles and my fingers became ice-cold as the touch of death’s hands ripped my jewelry and bangles from me. They clanged upon the ground, distantly, thrown endlessly far away. Hopeless to recover.

My anger turned to fear, as looming, as tall as a house, another set of doors. I crossed them, and a hand ripped from my feet my sandals, making me stumble, and fall to my knees upon the cold, glassy surface of the void. I pushed myself up, I took a breath. Confrontation with death was inevitable. I must be brave now, I must continue forward

As I passed the fifth set of doors, the hands of death gripped my waist, they gripped at my robes, they pulled and tore them from me. I gasped in fear, as I was deprived of clothing, and stood there, shaking, in the mist. I covered my chest and loins, only the scraps of fabric of my underclothes shielded me. And yet, there it was, a set of normal-sized doors. Opened fully for me. I knew what was to come. I hesitated. All the shame in myself, what I was below my regalia, my cover now haunted me. With every step forward, my heart skipped a beat, but as those sixth set of doors closed - that which I dreaded, and expected, tore my undergarments from my body. Leaving me utterly, dreadfully exposed in the frigid air.

And, as if intending to heighten my shame, to lower me, there was the final set of doors. Barely three feet tall. I approached it, and looked around either side. Total blackness. Not even the mist which lingered behind each doorway. I placed my hand past it. Not a solid wall, but a thickening of the inky black liquid which engulfed everything. With a deep breath I crouched down, and saw it open below. Falling to my hands and knees, I ducked below it, and climbed through onto the other side.

With a sudden and violent snap! Which did not echo, and did not give any warning - the doors behind me slammed shut! So loud, so violent, that one would think it shatter into splinters. It did not. Yet what came from before me, a booming, maniacal laughter. It shook me, it felt as though it came from inside and outside my ears, from within my mind and outwards, directed towards me. I could not bring myself to stand, I could barely lift my head to gaze upon who mocked me.

And when I did, I wished I had not. I gazed upon a throne of black stone.

Who was sitting upon that throne

But myself.

She wore the vestments of the queen of Kur. She wore robes of ash and soot and dust. She wore the crown of skulls, and held the rods of death in her hands. She laughed and rocked back and forth as she watched me. “Oh Inanna! How low have you become? How far into the depths of being have you ventured? How far from Dilmun, the lands of the living, are you now?”

And from around me those hands which stipped me bare now grabbed me, ghostly apparitions pulled me up to my knees, and held my arms out and my head forward so I could not look away, and could not pull myself from them.

“I am here to pass judgment upon you, Inanna. The Anunna, who hold you now, will judge your deeds.”


“FIRST. You have lied to those ignorant around you, and said that you were proficient in medicine. You were not. Many died because you were not so.

SECOND. You lied to those superstitious around you, and said that you were able to talk to the gods. You cannot. You have not. You can not. Many put their trust in you. You have deceived them.

THIRD. You lied to those who trusted you, and said that you could tell the future. You lead them to their deaths upon the plain of battle. You have sent thousands to the grave this way.

FORTH. You abandoned your marriage vows. You allowed your wife to be torn from your home. You slept in the beds of others. You forsook your oath to her father.

FIFTH. You abandoned your adopted homeland, and forsook those who fought and died to keep it. You convinced thousands others to join you in discarding it, their families, and their neighbors.
And SIXTH. You took those whom you deceived to a land full of blood and bloodshed. You, and your disciples, have turned a land whose wounds had begun to clot, and tore open the vein once more! It bled, it bled until it dried. From what was the end of a war, the end of Uruk, the return of Ur. YOU allowed to continue for years longer! Women raped. Homes plundered. Fields burned. All for your power. All for your “promised land”. All for your adornment.

Inanna, I have considered your crimes, and now I am ready to pass judgment upon you.”

She stood, and from behind her, a familiar face walked around the throne, and next to her. That angel of darkness, that stoney face of evil, with inhuman faces and broken bones, of horror beyond what we can comprehend. That great deciever, Ga-bri-El. He bowed his head to her, and approached me. His tongue flicked from his mouth like a snake. His face contorted and limbs snapped. He came, closer and closer to me - and I could not look or pull away. He stood inches from me, and knelt. That twisted, inhuman, horrible maw looked deep into my soul.

He whispered to me: “I promised you, Olivia , I have deceived you. You have become my puppet. I have used you to do my will. Now, you are the fool. Now, you will die.”

He stood up, and the arms all around me began to lift me up. They fastened around me a heavy chain of iron. Upon it hung the eye of death. My legs kicked and I shook my head, thrashing against their strength. I bit, I snapped, I screamed. I spoke with a cry of wrath. I uttered a cry of guilt. He struck me, from nowhere, a blade lodged itself into my chest. It was cold. It did not hurt. Yet from myself, it leeched every breath in my lungs. It leeched every drop of life in my body.

I choked, I gasped without breath. Those hands which lifted me dropped, I fell endlessly further down. Down. Down into darkness once more.

In this darkness, I sleep. I sleep and feel my body scattered. I feel my soul disseminate - like water in the ocean. Endlessly disparate. Endlessly far apart. I am swallowed whole. I am lost. From the deep below, I hear a murmur. I feel warm air upon my scattered body. I hear the breath of something omnipresent. I feel the heart-beat which echoes across all things, and all non-things.

I have no eyes to open. I have no hands to feel. I have no mouth to speak. I have no ears to hear. It is a presence which is beyond senses. A presence which holds me. A presence which subsumes me, and consumes me.

It is abstracted warmth. Warmth in the skin warmth in the heart warmth in the soul. It holds me. I am within her.

There I am, within her.

Then, a presence. A feeling. A true, sure thought. It is abstracted will. Will of self, will of unity. It gathers me, I am made whole again.

All this pain, all this remorse. I am judged and convicted to scatter and atomize, yet here I remain… but where? Is this now death?

I am a lone, naked being - but I feel no shame or guilt over my nakedness. I simply, inconceivably, am.

“Why?”

The thought comes to me, now, emerging from my mind.

“Where am I?”

I am humbled by the mystery, this space, this dimension beyond the comprehension of humankind.

Nothing responds. I am left alone, to wonder. Why?

Have I not judged myself undeserving of life? Why does death now reject me?

I feel something once more, something solid, something material. Although I do not see it, I feel it. It is a stone surface, pressing against my back.

I rub my head. I gaze out into this beautiful stary night and see my reflection magnified, a giant looks back at me.

Who am I?

The thought dawns on me, that these may not be separate questions.

I close my eyes, and hold myself there. There behind my eyelids, within my mind’s eye’s vision, the same field of stars. The same endless darkness which I see.

There, It becomes apparent of where I linger. There, I see this is not death. This is a hell and heaven of my own creation. Confined within the walls of my mind. I have condemned myself here, from here I can return. A new spirit grows within me. That which has been drained out of me, slowly trickles back inside. Carving new pathways through my mind, through my body. Life returns, will returns. All those lights which surround me accelerate, forwards and backwards - an utter blur all around me. That blurred void coalesses, grows, encapsulates my vision with the most beautiful, shining colors no mortal mind could ever conceive of. Spiraling, spinning, growing, faster and faster - that beauty of all souls and all things intermingling together and dancing and singing until all at once ceasing.

My eyes open. I am laying there, alone, on a cold stone slab.




A quiet stillness fell upon the land, the rolling hills and rocks of the valley, the wind-swept grasses, the rustling trees, the singing rush. All fell quiet in the night. Even the fire, which smoldered and smoked, cracked not in this moment. The moon glowed bright and full, and illuminated all, and cast long shadows behind that which stood tall. The city of Nippur, so far away, looked as small as a dollhouse. The Prophet’s tomb stood closed. The oil-lamps, which flickered and licked the air, blown out in a sudden gust of wind. The smoldering fire, which dimly glowed, suddenly snuffed.

Yafid stirred, he pulled his cloak of wool closer to himself, the chill of the wind nipping at his skin. The sudden death of the flame disturbed him. The wind was unnatural. It felt as though something, or someone, was watching him. He stood and gazed around the valley, yet he could find nothing. He paced around his campsite outside the tomb, but he could see no one. Yafid shook his head. He must have been getting tired. He took from his belongings a hollowed gourd and drank. The black bitter drink had become cold. Still, it made his head swim as he clawed himself back awake.

From somewhere in the darkness, he heard a sound. The tumbling of a rock, the cracking of a branch. He jolted, looking around. Yet he saw nothing. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He was afraid, for something was most certainly near. He clutched the stone pendant around his neck, muttering to himself.

“I have no fear, fear is poison death. Blessed is he who has no fear. It shall pass through me, my eye sees it pass.”

Just as he said this, from behind him, a THUD! Came out. He snapped backwards towards the source of the noise, his heart racing, the beat echoing in his skull.

“Allah help me!” He gasped, as another THUD! Came, the doors of the tomb, tied shut and sealed with clay, shook and rattled.

He stood there, watching, staring. And for a third time, THUD! The doors shook.

He could barely speak. “A Lilu”, his mind thought. “Surely, this is a ghost.”

Once more the pounding on the door continued, once more, until the clay seal finally shattered! The doors flew open, slamming against the stone pillars on either side. A cloud of dust came from inside, between the doorframe a figure emerged.

Yafid’s heart stopped. In utter shock. He was unable to understand what was before him.

From the darkness, staggered none other than Umm Kharuf. Shaking, weak, and thin. From her hands she drops a stone, it tumbles to the ground. She falls unto her knees.

“Water.” She gasps, and he stares at her, frozen.

“Water, please sir.”




"From the lands of the dead, she passed. And there she passed for seven moons. Seven moons passed from when she was entombed, and there she passed through the waters of Death. There she surrendered herself unto Wahd. And when seven moons had passed, did the earth shake, and did the tomb burst forth with a violent eruption. From there emerged Umm Kharuf, free from death. The prophet emerged free from death. She had intermingled with Wahd, who embraced her and returned her. Her wounded body was healed in the divine waters. Her wounded soul was given the breath of Wahd. The breath of Life. She was nursed in the womb of Allat, given new life at the hands of Allah. So she rose from mortality, so she became divine incarnate. God in flesh, flesh of god. Praise be her name. Praise be her victory. Praise be her resurrection. Bi-lal kaifa. It was a miracle which testified to her truth."

-Al shadaha al Awliyā Narwa bint Olifia
"When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?"

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Tesserach
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Posts: 456
Founded: Apr 25, 2021
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Tesserach » Thu Dec 14, 2023 1:12 am

Balochistan - The Second Great Northern War and The Way of Great Peace


The tapestry of life is vast,
Chaotic, non-linear,
For there exists no perfect knowledge,
No guarantees.

For every action,
There is reaction,
There is no treatment,
That comes without side-effect.

Actions made with good intent,
Do not always yield good consequences,
Nothing worth doing comes without effort,
Nor without risk.

A person that has never failed,
Has never known real effort.

-Musings of the Saasan Anthaathi




These stairs don't have anywhere to lead you
Who cares if you're lost like the others?
Don't let anybody step into the circle now,
Don't let anybody tell you that you're safe.

All these days gonna pass like a grass fire,
Don't let anybody tell you that you're safe,
One of these days I'ma head for the last mile,
Don't let anybody tell you that you're...

These are the eyes that saw them die,
These are the hands that dug their graves,
So don't let anybody tell you that you're safe,
So don't let anybody tell you that you're safe.

You gotta let go, let go, let...
Tell your father you ain't coming back
You gotta let go, let go, child,
Tell your mother that you're gonna die
You gotta let go, let go, let...
Let them know you're gonna be awhile
You gotta let go, let go...

-From Songs of the Mehrgarhi





~15km South of Taxila, Pakistan
July 2962 BCE


The skies are hung with curtain clouds of dull grey, the earth here is black and slick from feet and freshly fallen rains. Rains that fell upon us in a heavy downpour during our march north from where the river tribespeople had put us ashore. For now at least, the skies are resting, but it could come at any time now. The south winds blow fiercely in way that catches my cotton robe, tossing it about with recklessly abandon; the rain could return at any time now.

There's a distance that separates us. Across from me, Dorian looks impatient I think. And young too. He's taller than most people here, nearly as tall as me. Soft brown hair, brown eyes. But to me at least, he looks still a boy playin dress-up, posturing - not a chief, not a general, not a warlord. The confidence, the poise - much prized - to my eyes reads too much as affectation.

Neither of us say anything though. We watch instead from a distance.

Between us, it's the elders doing the talking. The two groups, dressed in feathered headdresses, beaded necklaces and bracelets. Offerings being exchanged, of earth and water. On our side, elders from the Alipur and Sargodha peoples along with our own. They pause, their young family members setting cushions on the dark earth, setting a fire, preparing tea while the Khusab elders give greetings. They take their tea, falling into conversation. The Alipur, Sargodha and Khusab elders seem to know each other. Speaking in low tones, so we cannot hear. Like having a casual chat almost.

There's even laughter, and each time they do, I can almost see the gears grinding inside Dorian. Beside me, Arjan too seems tense, though he's an old hand at standing impassively by while elders chat back and forth as though they're discussing the weather.

It's comical in a way.

A couple old people sitting around a table, seemingly nary a care in the world, flanked on either side by a bunch of sour looking warrior chieftains, with somewhere 5,000-8,000 people standing only a few hundred meters away, waiting to find out whether we're all going to murder the fuck out of each other.

Beside Dorian are his two senior lieutenants. Some would say they were the real powers behind the boy. General Ikshan, his hair streaked with grey - not unlike Arjan beside me - was as far as I know the only surviving war chief that trained and fought with Javin Torrez in the first war. Arjan and Ikshan had fought opposite each other during the Peshawar campaign. On Dorian's other side, is his uncle Kishawn. I know from reports he was favoured over Dorian as chief, only for him to renounce his claim in favour of the boy.

Behind the Khusab generals, in the distance, I see their battle lines drawn. Elephants, camel riders as cavalry. Their main lines had archers, backed by their line infantry with their shields and spears spread out. The black banner of Javin Torrez was raised high above them catching the wind as the skirts and sleeves of my robe did even over the leather armour I wore.

And, of course, it was hot as balls.

Utsah, the oldest present, speaks last.

We prepared for this. Despite his age, despite his failing health, he would be reciting old histories - some only half remembered but which we managed to record. Some would be familiar or perhaps only tentatively remembered by the others present. These were stories of when peoples first descended into the Indus valley from the hills, of the man and family who allegedly would found the Khusab tribes. Stories pacts made in those ancient days. Similar stories he would tell of the Alipur, the Sargodha the Reiman Dheiri and even the Peshawar - who were said to have married with the northern mountain peoples.

Peace was our aim, and the Khusab had never before been enemies of the Three Tribes. Indeed the peoples of the lowlands had once been brothers and sisters.

Dorian's impatience through all this was visible enough Kishawn even leaned in and whispered something I couldn't overhear, but took to be reproach by the way he straightened himself after. Truth be told my legs were becoming fidgety standing there so long myself.

When Utsah finished, the Khusab elders seemed to reply in detail. The Sargodha seemed to protest something, our elders and the Alipur seemed to calm them, respond in turn. The conversation continued.

Truth be told my own legs were tired too. In these leathers, the sweat pours down my forehead, only slightly mitigated by the hood I wear that keeps the sun off me. I take a sip from my waterskin, shaking it, realizing I've been going through it too quickly. If there's a fight I won't have much left and if I can even get a refill, I know it won't be boiled.

There's two dozen men in the medical tents from my unit alone and we haven't even fought anyone yet.

Behind us are our own lines. Opposite the black banner of Javin Torrez, is the standard of The Earth Mother spirit - her statuesque visage held aloft like the eagle standards of the old roman armies. Despite the battle, the standard bearer is surrounded by earth mother priestesses who insisted on accompanying it. I hadn't wanted them there, but I'd wanted the standard front and center.

The Khusab too prayed to the earth-mother. From what I understood, only the Kalibangan and a few others did not. It was something everyone here held sacred. When I asked if any of my own people, or the Alipur or Sargodhan warriors would feel comfortable fighting or attacking - almost all of them admitted it would give pause.

Even the Khusab elders, in their greetings, looked to our standard and offered a prayer.

The flip side is that some did not think it proper for us to have brought the earth-mother standard to a battlefield.

The heat and the talks continue. In the distance, there's the sound of distant thunder. I can see a rain curtain somewhere in the northern distance.

And so we continue to stand. Waiting. There's no wind. Just hot, humid, stultifying air. By the time the elders stand, I can hardly imagine anyone has the stomach to fight today having stood arrayed for so many hours through this heat. Dorian and his people look equally miserable.

So it's a relief when the Elders approach us looking to Arjan, to myself, the other assembled warchiefs.

"There will be peace." Utsah, supported by his young grandson declares as he approaches us.

One of the Alipur elders relates the story, one of my students standing behind Utsah holds a written copy of what was discussed. But the basics are there. The gifts we brought will be handed over. There's some marriage arrangements, including Dorian himself, the specifics having not been finalized. The Khusab will allow Ashoka's supporters to leave Taxila unmolested, and the Khusab will enter the community. Certain Sargodha prisoners will be released, some Khusab will be returned to them. The river ways will be opened, but no Khusab war parties will venture south. The Khusab will send their elders to attend a peace summit next year to lay the foundations for a new agreement.

There's more. But it's something to work with. Our armies will separate - to prevent trouble or disputes - in order to make camp and celebrate. The elders will celebrate together with some of the political chiefs.

The warriors can fuck off. The last part wasn't said, nor I suspect intended, but I got the impression Arjan and some of the other warrior chiefs felt that way. I doubt they were alone in that either judging by Dorian's posture as his own elders were giving him a similar speech.

Then it was our turn. The warchiefs approach each other, pay respects. There's a strict hierarchy, I'm somewhere near the bottom. Arjan and Dorian approach each other first, the rest of us flanking them.

Arjan, as the elder of the two, speaks first. There's customary greetings, names, tribal affiliations. It's interesting watching the two of them lining up opposite each other. Dorian looks like a classical era warrior, a chestpiece of bronze, plumed helmet, a black cape draped over his shoulder. Compared to him and his soldiers, my people look like scrubs. Crude leathers, not always well-fitted. Arjan is not short, but Dorian is taller. Still young, his face not as weathered as Arjan, whose nomadic life in the sun has left him hard, stout and despite his grey hair, still strong and with years ahead of him.

Arjan opposite him is another creature entirely. His helm, I know, is leather but beneath a remarkably preserved skull of a tiger that holds his head in its jaws. The creature's paws are almost lifelike, clasping his shoulders, holding up the skinned pelt clasped by a copper chain around his neck and shoulders. His armour, unlike ours, is made from banded bronze, salvaged ten years ago from an officer of Torrez' army Arjan claimed to have killed.

I'm no Arjan fan, but he showed up today looking like a fucking badass and he'd definitely win my vote for best dressed today.

"So. There is to be peace." Arjan looks from Dorian, to Ikshan and then Kishawn. "Allies then?"

Arjan's tone is not warm or welcoming, but it is edged by a sort of grudging respect and perhaps the sense that he feels those before him probably feel the same way he does about this whole affair. That the political chiefs and elders scored a coup on them, stole from them this battle.

Dorian does, eventually speak. "It seems so." His tone matches Arjan's.

"You can thank this fellow here for the peace." Arjan directly their eyes to me. The thin note of derision is not lost on me. Nor the hostility of the stares I receive. "Aradin of Mehgarh."

"My brother wrote of you." Dorian says. I can't quite tell whether that's a good thing or bad. If anything, I'm surprised Ashoka and him are still on speaking terms.

"Good things I hope." I smile, trying to disarm the tension though feeling more like I'm grinding people's gears.

"You speak our tongue well for a foreigner." Kishawn speaks next, interrupting. There are other more senior warchiefs than I who have not yet spoken, but I was addressed. He's just salty I decide.

"I speak others." I reply, looking to Dorian and switching to english. "Do you understand me? Did your brother tell you everything?"

Dorian's face scrunches. I'm not sure if he understands the words, but he recognizes the sound of the language. Ikshan too, his face lights up in recognition. Kishawn looks a little lost in the moment, but seems to realize they recognize something he doesn't.

"So it is true." Dorian replies in the local dialect. His brother had known only a few words of english. Javin hadn't taught them at all. But he recognizes it. What it means. "I suppose it's fortunate. You have no camels, nor elephants."

Arjan pipes in. "We have you outnumbered."

Arjan, Ikshan and Kishawn exchange looks, and a small smile. "Elephants are worth more than a few tribal warriors."

I pipe in this time. "I think that assessment is accurate. But there are other factors worth considering that work to our advantage."

"Such as?" Kishawn asks.

"These two know." I nod towards Dorian and Ikshan. "If I were in your position, my safest bet would be to assume the man opposite you knows at least as much as your father did." I give a brief glance back towards the arrayed ranks of the spearmen behind me. They'd perhaps heard our spears were 'long' from their scouts, but it was probably another thing for them to see them in person. We weren't really armed with spears. These were pikes, more than twice as long as the ones the Torrez infantry used. "They're green though. Untested in battle. You could've still won it."

"You're making me curious with your teasing Aradin." Arjan muses though there's a touch of humour in his voice.

"We're allies now. Let's put aside maybes and what ifs and share a glass of wine. I brought this one special, for us, if the peace lasts there will be more like it. Better even." I gesture behind me to Ravi, who accompanied me as something of a paige to bring forward the sealed pot, along with a horn.

There's enough tension in the air that no one feels empowered to act upon that everyone gladly accepts the change of direction for the conversation. Even so, I note the uneasy glances as they wait for me to pour for myself - and drink - before they offer their own containers to be filled. "Shall we drink to The Way of Great Peace?"

"Let's just drink to the peace for now." Ikshan offers in return.




The Way of Great Peace[/align][/size]

"Peace in our time!" I find myself declaring before the standard of the earth-mother and the arrayed ranks of our little battalion after a brief private chat with Dorian and Ikshan following the parlay. The surprise, by this point is gone, but the cheering, chanting and expressions of joy that follow seem genuine. The night before the talk had been of what a shame it would be if all the training they'd done came to nothing.

But now, it seemed, there was relief.

Azahad, Sudhanshu, Chief Inpam as well as my section leads all come forward. Hugging me, hugging each other, patting on the shoulder. Smiles. Jubilation.

If I'm honest. I'm stunned by it all. I spent so long pretending I was confident this would work - when really, I expected something would happen to cause it to fall apart. Even now my mind was running through possibilities. A skirmish between scouts. Ashoka would back out of his part of the deal. Someone would seize upon something to claim someone wasn't honouring their part of the agreement; there were a lot of conditions that had been discussed.

I finish the appearances. Give an ad hoc little speech to the men, praising their training and dilgigence - something, something, we trained so hard to fight so that we wouldn't have to and it paid off. I went to the women's camp, thanked them for their support making the journey with us. I went to Utash and the other elders, off in their own little camp now, a closed tent, filled with smoke and incense where they and the Khusab elders were drinking - and I think doing some weird drugs - together and would continue doing so well into the night. I paid my respects there.

I go next to the priests and priestesses while our forces began withdrawing to their camps to celebrate, and participated with them in giving thanks to the earth, sky, river and mountain spirits.

I go and pay my respects to Arjan, to the other warchiefs. I'm obliged to do some drinking with them. I think half of them preferred the fight, I half expect Arjan to betray me and sell me into slavery to the Khusab again, but it seems they seize upon any opportunity to celebrate in earnest. As celebrations go, it's decent. Arjan and his people can be fun at times.

"The battle hinged on my people taking their flanks - you don't seriously expect your untested boys to stand against the Torrez veterans. They were all pointed at you. Their regular infantry had you outnumbered." Arjan was jubilant but curious. "Even you must've known it would be my warriors that would turn back their tribal auxiliaries to seize the win. Like they said, you had no elephants. No camels."

Part of me suspects I've been telling Arjan too much all along. The man's too ambitious by far.
Too untrustworthy. I shouldn't say that. He still sees me, I think, as untested. And I think he's mystified that I've done what I have, and so far he's been the only one to call my bluff. "Our spears are just too long." I say, giving a half answer I think Arjan can sense is not the full truth. I go into a little detail, spin a few tales from The Punic Wars - the sort of history Arjan loves hearing about. He likes hearing about Scipio Africanus like he likes hearing about Genghis Khan and, if I'm honest, that concerns me a little but if I'm going to shoot myself in the foot, it might as well be while telling stories about history.

Eventually, I manage to make my escape, waiting until some of the other chiefs make take their leave - at which point I'm fairly sure no one can take offence with me too returning to my camp. A little, tipsy, and joined by a bodyguard from Sudhanshu's cohort, I start making my way back to the main camp.

There'll be a congress now, at Alipur.

Elders from up and down the Indus coming to hash out a loose confederation arrangement. I'm not sure Dorian and Ashoka were completely reconciled with each other but there was a tentative understanding I think - that the Peshawar, Mehgarh and Khusab militaries would be underwriting this peace.

Harappa was the last wildcard standing, but if the Torrez brothers stood together, Harappa had already alienated many of their neighbours; if the riverlands all took a stand and Mehgarh backed them, they'd have no choice. They might, as before, trust in their walls, but it would be the last mistake they ever made. While I'd never made a trebuchet before, I'm fairly confident all I need is an excuse an a few good men willing to take on a cool project.

"You should celebrate." Sudhanshu prompted, seeming to sense my mood was not in lock-step with the festivities. I can feel him pat my back, leading me back towards the fire. He's probably right. "You, of all people, deserve to relax some."

I take a long drink, taking a deep breath as we weave between the crowded campfires, dodging soldiers, women from the women's camp - several of whom pause to thank me, which I respond to with a forced smile and even more forced cheeriness, until eventually we find our way back to one of the central camp fires where people are circled.

It's more or less my inner circle, as it were, at least where this expedition is concerned. Azahad is there, smiling, but I can see him missing his wife back home. Ara is dancing around the fire, while the others clap in rhythm and cheer her on. Yogitha and her husband are there together. One of the other section leaders and a woman from the women's camp I only tangentially recognize.

"Where's he been hiding?" Azahad looks up from the fire as Sudhanshu and I step into the firelight.

"I found him stumbling around. Moping in spite of the circumstances" Sudhanshu declares, slurring his words a little himself as I feel him rubbing me a little on the shoulder.

"Not moping." I say. "Brooding." Wondering what was going to go wrong with all this.

But in spite of my overly skeptical nature, it's a good night.

Despite refilling my water skin with boiled water, and judiciously making use of it between imbibing in drink throughout the night, I eventually make my excuses to retire when I sense myself reaching the point that if I drink more, I'll have to deal with a hangover I don't really want to deal with.

Heading back to my tent, I do a detour passing through the medical tent. Most inside are sleeping, as I waive off the woman serving as the night nurse who decides I should be escorted around. Eventually she relents and goes back to sitting by the front of the tent, talking with a soldier and another of the 'nurses' I've trained who are standing outside.

No horrific injuries. We managed to avoid that, at least. But sick people? Some of them probably dying. They're here. The ones that are awake I offer small assurances to, what I can anyway. Most will probably recover. Not all though. We've lost twelve people during the march. Probably another twelve going home. Mostly because of a lack of clean water - just too many people to boil everything, much less distill it on the move.

All this way, 20-30 dead people, and we didn't even fight anyone. Probably saved thousands of people around the riverlands, but that was 20-30 dead people from Mehgarh and the Three Tribes who otherwise might be alive.

It's with these thoughts that I settle into my tent, closing my eyes knowing that the first whispers of dawn aren't far off the the eastern skies. Tomorrow is going to suck a little, but despite the insufferable heat, despite the exhaustion, I do feel, at least, somewhat at peace with what has occurred through the day.

We should be proud, right? Against all odds, we'd somehow pulled it off. The Way of Great Peace was here.

And that was about the time I heard the first distant drums and screaming break through the fading sounds of celebration.




Chaos. Utter chaos. The rest of the night.

No one knows what's happening. I get no answers. I proceed to the main tent. Chief Inpam is the watch officer there. The others gather. But we've nothing concrete. We send scouts and messengers everywhere. The sounds grow worse. They don't stop. It takes far too long for us to even confirm it's not us being attacked, nor - as far as anyone is aware - our other allies.

It takes hours to find out it's Dorian's camp that got attacked. By the Peshawari. By the Harappans. No one knows.

I try to get confirmation all our people are accounted for. That it's not one of our warbands that've gone rogue. The Sargodha perhaps? Again. No one knows goddamn anything.

Then we've got scouts and messengers saying they're being told to hold back while the Khusab beat these attackers back. Reports they're talking with Dorian's scouts, telling them it wasn't us.

Then. Nothing.

Arjan orders everyone to form up, get ready.

And as dawn approaches, as we form up, as I get messengers from Arjan and my own scouts it becomes clear the war is, suddenly, inexplicably back on - we're all half-hungover - and no one can properly explain why.




The Battle of Taxila

August 2962BCE


The rains begin to fall as the Khusab army appears from out of the fading darkness. Some of my people can barely walk after last night, but we form up best we can. There's not much time for new plans. Everyone's scrambling, mostly it's a repeat of yesterday.

There's not much guesswork either.

Dorian's regulars see us and start shifting in our direction and we do likewise. Their right flank, our left. Arjan and his warriors form the center, our allies the right flank. The Khusab's tribal warriors and allies line up opposite them. Our tribal warriors outnumber theirs.

Dorian's regulars outnumber my little battalion not quite half again, plus their cavalry and elephants.

There's little fanfare. Dorian sets his elephants, forward. I think it's Dorian leading the cavalry sweeping to our left. Their infantry follow behind in their typical shieldwall.

I let Azahad take command of the formation. He led the men in most of the training, most of the drills, especially near the end when we drilled and redrilled the things we'd be applying today. Chief Inpam, commanding the archers and the other unit leaders were more used to him than me. It made sense. I was moral support moving up and down the lines. "Everyone ready for this?" I asked, cheerfully doing a run of high-fives all down the line. No one left me hanging, but not a single fucking one of us is properly ready to face an elephant charge. Show me the man who's confident they are and I'll show you a liar.

But I take take a deep breath, put on a face, and pretend.

The elephants are moving now as I turn and make my way down the front rank of the formation - the bleeding edge of our fighters. There's no veterans or young troops here to go first. No. It's just the biggest, most reliable, most aggressive close quarters fighters we've got. I make my way down inspecting them, encouraging men - some of whom probably won't make it out. Until I find what I suspected I might find and tap them on the shoulder. "Go to the back." I tell him.

He tries to protest but I insist. The guy behind him takes his place. There's a few more the unit leaders missed. The last one I tap on the shoulder and take his place myself as the trumpeting of the elephants grows louder, their steps more hurried.

You can, apparently, feel an trumpeting elephant pretty much through the entirety of your body. Like, you can feel the vibrations in you bones. You can feel the ground shake when 20 of them are running at you. Watching them grow from distant things until it seems the whole world is barreling down ontop of you.

I chance one final glance to the men on either side of me. Kiriprasath, Janooran. I know nothing about these men save that I've seen their names a dozen times apiece or so in my records for the unit. They both look dreadfully young to me. But I meet their nervous gazes with, what I hope, is one that looks confident. Reassuring. Like we've got this.

And then the rest of the world disappears, as it does when you turn to face a herd of rampaging elephants bearing down upon you. Part of me hears Sudhanshu, this units commander, and joins his refrain to listen for the signals from the drums so that everyone remembers - that yes, the sound of the drums is still there. And part of me says, we've practiced this now, dozens, if not hundreds of times. It will work.

And another of me sees the elephants. Barelling towards us as quickly as they can through the mud, thinking, nothing on earth can possibly stand in front of all this.

The drums hit the ready rhythm, then shift together into the steadily building roll, the last note of which is the signal to move together. The manoeuver is known. It was already declared and even if it hadn't been: we all know what we're about to do.

The drums break, and the whole formations splits apart. The archers fall in behind the pikes. Columns open in the formation as the elephants bear down on us and we all lower our pikes down to elephant eye-level, and start screaming and banging our shields like our lives depend on it...

Because they well and truly do.

And in the face of our bristlining pikes, in spite of the arrows rained down - the elephants are indeed the ones to blink first. Slowing, rearing. I see a few pass right through immediately, right down the corridors opened for them and right out the other side as a few men give them judicious jabs to the flanks to encourage them on their way. And then we, up front, move forward.

"Push them!" Our voices yell out together. Pikes raised, trying to dodge arrows from the men atop the beasts. Pressing forward, around them, getting behind them... until the elephants have had enough and break, trumpeting, barrelling down the corridors. I remember somewhere in it all hearing the whistle of an arrow close. Watching Janooran lose his pike and catch a trunk to the face, I remember pulling him from the mud.

Us laughing and cheering together as the last elephant finally leaves and we start reforming. Start moving forward.

The mud and rain, though not heavy, works to our advantage. The camels certainly don't care for it; they look miserable, mud clining to their long hairy fur legs as they trudge forward trying to circle round our flank. They're discouraged by our rear left pike block shifting out to interpose themselves between the camels and the rest of us. The slingers that accompany us are only slightly impeded by the rain pelting them, several of them moving forward to screen our advance but unwilling to venture too far with the camel riders about, and eventually forced to give way as the length of the Torrez shieldwall, under their black banners, surge towards us.

If the Torrez veterans are disappointed by the lack of effectiveness of their elephants breaking our lines, they don't show it. They move forward through the mud, determined, it seems.

Arjan and his people holding our center manage to keep pace with us, but the others - on both our and the Khusab side - seem to lag behind. I can see Dorian's camel riders positioning, waiting for us to be engaged with their main line before engaging us. I can't see what's behind us, but I have sense of what Azahad has likely signalled to the other units.

The command square will shift back a little while the square on our right rear shifts to cover the square that moved to screen the camels.

The Khusab archers start loosing their arrows. Though in the rain their initial volleys at distance are somewhat off the mark. They adjust, and the drums keeping our marching cadence start switching up pacing to mess with their range-finding. Raise shields above our heads. The steep angles we practiced at range to provide maximum coverage as we continue to move forward.

My legs are caked with mud but in a way, I'm glad. The rain and mud, though unpleasant in its own way is better - to my mind - than trying to fight in brutal heat. It's still hot, but the water has a cooling influence. "Are we having fun yet?!" I call out after the third volley of arrows lands somewhere behind us. Someone else's problem. Not ours.

The distance closes. The Khusab archers, displacing ahead of the Khusab main line start retiring. By contrast ours archers have yet to fire a single shot. They might not even have uncovered their bows yet in order to keep the strings dry. At this point even if I could see them the Khusab wall of bronze spearheads and shields and armour is close enough its hard not to fixate on anything else.

Tunnel vision is a real issue at this point. "Listen for commands, hold the line..." I say, not the first to do so, in part to remind myself even as, instinctively I find myself starting to eye the opposite lines. Which one, amongst that wall, is going to be the guy I square up with? I try not to think about how far their shield wall extends past our flanks.

Closer. Closer.

You can see then men opposite us approaching, inside 100m. Can see the men behind the front rank getting ready with their pilums.

Around 40m the shields go down and they start coming forward to loose their first volley. I see, for the first time. Our archers loose arrows in return. They have trouble with their footing in the mud with the pilums, but our archers - again the tribes produce some very excellent archers and many of the best joined our archery teams - seem comparatively less effected at this close range.

The trajectory is flatter than they anticipated, short probably, but even still pilums in flight heading directly towards you are... terrifying? One heads at me, like, directly at me. And there's not a lot of time. There's dozens of them flying at once, and you've got to find somewhere in that haystack the one coming at you with enough time to...do something. Your shield is obviously coming up already, but you've got a fraction of a second maybe to see, to move and then... just pray you got it right.

And THUNK!

The force of the damn thing hitting the shield nearly breaks my arm. I'm pretty sure it tore a muscle in my side as my arm was jerked to the side and down. I try to break it off, but when that fails I've got no choice but to brace my pike under my arm and try and unfasten the thing, realizing as I do that the point went straight through my shield, and probably a foot and a half past it... narrowly missing my arm, and a few inches to the right and it would've probably caught me in the lower abdomen and I'm not sure the leather armor would've held or not.

I try and keep pace, but it's hard with the pilum dragging on the ground. I try and unfasten the shield, but at 20m their formation stops against to loose their final volley of pilums. As they lower their shields, I can see the archers once again pre-empting them. The archers aren't as numerous but at this range but I swear they got off 3-6 volleys and at only 20m out there's no question we disrupted their formation more than they did ours...

But I strain to hold up my shield as another pilum comes directly in, bracing with both hands this time as...

THUNK! With the pike braced under my arm and two arms the jerking motion is less pronounced. But they're forming up, getting their spears out again and preparing to charge now, and we're lowering our pikes, preparing to counter. I'm trying now with one hand to unfasten the leather strap and get the shield free.

10m, 30ft or so, they're charging forward now. I finally feel the weight of the shield and two pilums drop away into the muck, rushing back into step which I'd fallen out of. Their shields are locked together, their spears forward, coming on now. Confident that green troops who've never seen battle before will break before their charge like every other opponent the Torrez veterans have ever fought before.

To meet them our pikes shift down. In the first rank, a high grip - angled down - coming over their shields - but also the only way for us to adjust our haft back without hitting the ranks behind us. The drum beat increases and we surge forward to meet them - we trained this... a lot. I seem to recall reading in a manual that 5-6 weeks training was considered sufficient for a new pike unit to be made effective.

We spent a year. And while they'd never fought anyone like us before - no one had - we'd spent that year wargaming and drilling ways to break their shieldwall.

Still they were veterans and our theoretically superior weapons and tactics were still just that; theory, untested.

One last second before we come together. High attack - my shield gone... I'm more or less completely exposed. Just 17ft of indian rosewood and a bronze tip between me and oblivion. And there's no more time. Opposite me there's a shield. Bronze helm only slightly peaking above. A spear over top, coming towards me.

No more time.

My spear lands, coming above the shield, glancing off the helmet as he ducks his head. I try and control the bounce, shifting to the row behind him. He still still can't reach me with his shield. I shift away from his spear angling myself away.

Now our second rank of pikes crash into their front line - and they're frontline still don't have range to thrust back at us. And I see the fellow's helmet duck a little lower. I can't see his eyes. And perhaps these men are beginning to undertand what they're up against now.

Then our third rank crashes in. I'm already thrusting at their second rank, keeping them back. Isolating the front rank.

Now their first rank is finally close enough to thrust at me and the rest of our line, but our fourth and fifth ranks are charging home, as we press forward. And perhaps now, as they find themselves in a push of pike - with no pikes of their own, they realize someone on their side has made a mistake.

"People don't rise to the occasion. They fall to the level of their training." So I had once been taught. So I had passed on to those I'd trained. And now, the Khusab and Torrez men were being taught in turn.

They are professionals though. They try and do what they were trained. But hunkered behind their shields, absorbing 3-5 blows for every one they could return, the men in the ranks behind them similarly pressed. It's tough.

At this point we do what we practiced. Their charge halted, their front rank shelled up, we drop low letting the ranks behind us close tight, working to widen the gaps in their lines our charge created, keeping men isolated while those of us up front pull out our close combat weapons. Gesturing behind me someone from the far back ranks further back crouch-runs forward, handing me a shield and helping me strap it on.

There's chaos in the ranks ahead of us. Their front ranks are pulling back, away from the wall of pikes, even as the ranks behind them continue to come forward creating a crush of men. The men at the front yell for them to stop, to back up, the men behind - doing as they were trained - urging and pushing them forward into our pikes.

The drums rhythm starts to build again. The front line's ready, Sudhanshu's preparing to have us resume the advance. Slow, steady, push forward. The last beat and we step forward again, into close melee range. By now, pressed too tightly to use their spears effectively, their front rank is drawing their swords now too.

Bronze armour, swords of bronze and copper against our stone adzes and hand-axes and copper armour. Even with 4 ranks of pikes backing us pushing them, pressing them, it's daunting. We push forward. A thrust kick to the lower part of the shield to dip it, a hand axe over top. The pikes work to protect us and isolate our opponents, one by one, so those of us up front can engage and finish them two on one. It's slow, steady, methodical work but without weight of pike behind them, they can either give us ground slowly or start dying.

And in the meantime our archers are raining volley after volley after volley into them at near point blank range.

Even so, it's a blur of activity. They do give ground to us. Try and keep in step, keep the line even. Keep pushing forward. Keep them on the back foot. Kick the lower corner of their shield, come over the dip. Pull it. Twist it. Getting through the shield is the tricky bit. They're professionals. They do thrust back. No wild swings. Javin taught them the tip of of the sword, not the edge.

They try hacking the spearpoints off. But indian rosewood is tough stuff. Given time, maybe they'd have success, but we keep pushing into the yells. I take a shield to the face a couple times. At one point we're shield against shield, each of us trying to swing blindly over at the other until someone gets a thrust in over top and they scramble away leaving a trail of blood.

I can't even say how much time passed. I remember my stone axe shattering on someone's helmet. And I remembering them blundering a mad thrust that might've landed had they not just had their bell rung by an axe to the dome and the two of us ended up going to the ground. I remember him being on top, getting punched in the face, my face getting pressed into the mud. He had a dagger he went for at some point, but he was high up and gave an easy hip-bump sweep.

And then I was on top but he had the dagger out. And I tried to get it out of one hand, and he just passed it to the other. At one point someone - on my own side - tried to 'help' me by impaling him with the spikey counter-weight on the end of our pike hafts put there for the very purpose of finishing off guys on the ground... but nearly stabbed me through my groin instead.

"Stop helping!" I remember yelling, and getting punched in the face again for my trouble.

There was some head butting after that. He tried bite me one I - finally - fucking got that dagger free. Eventually I got mine free, but he seemed even less keen on getting stabbed by it than I'd been.

Who knew killing people could be so much fucking work?

"GET OFF HIM!" Someone, presumably tired of watching all this yelled. So I roll off him and they put a spike right through his chestplate.

That works much better. I think we actually trained that one too...

I eventually stand, drenched in sweat, bruised in several places. I'm bleeding from several cuts, including a wound that went right through my armour I didn't even know I had but seems not especially deep. My left arm hurts, and there's definitely muscles up and down my left side that got pulled. And, looking around I'm uncertain when it was that the rain actually stopped. I am somewhere well behind the front, which had passed on. "How are we doing?" I try an ascertain where I am in our unit.

"We're winning sir." Someone answers.
Last edited by Tesserach on Mon Jan 08, 2024 6:04 pm, edited 4 times in total.
Pndapetzim

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Left-Leaning College State

Postby Orostan » Sun Jan 07, 2024 4:00 pm

THE EMPIRE OF CHINA - AARON DAWSON
2959 BC


THE ADMINISTRATOR

The Empire was divided into provinces, nearly demarcated by geographical boundaries and sign posts. Every village knew what province they belonged to and the care that was taken to avoid overlapping areas of responsibility simplified administration greatly. However, with provinces that would make decently sized kingdoms on their own administration from one city was impossible. Provinces had to be divided into counties and those divisions were by necessity fluid and subject to frequent change. Zhao province, being China's most northwestern possession, was governed much more like two provinces. The east of Zhao could be ruled from its capitol of the same name well enough but the west was more difficult to reach and to govern. While military authority was delegated to a number of military commands that often shifted as armies redeployed in the case of a newly conquered area like the half of the Yiqu Kingdom that had been cleaved off the coordination between military and civil authority as well as the different organs of both of those complex structures became extremely difficult. It was not a situation where a few elite bureaucrats and military commanders could organize order quickly, although they could and would do it in time.

Rather than simply let his newest and potentially most dangerous human asset be inactive in Luoyang, or worse active in ways that Aaron couldn't oversee, the Emperor decided to deploy him. Dispatched from Luoyang it would take perhaps a week for him to reach his destination in the far west of the Empire, where due to the heavy military presence and distance from Luoyang it was unlikely he could harm anyone or any harm could come to him. It was also a place to see what skills they could display and evaluate the only other time traveler Aaron had control over. It was a miracle that such an important person had almost literally fallen into his Empire. Even though the Emperor had conversed with the man and always had people observing him being able to see what he did when put to work and given some degree of power could show his real character. He wondered if Rain had some common feature that caused him to be transported to the past. Time would tell.

Time would also tell if Kong Liang was a man who could be trusted to manage Rain. While normally the Emperor would publicly receive people in a room designed for the purpose, giving orders was much easier done in an office.

Kong was let in by a guard and pushed open the thick door to the office slowly. The Emperor nodded to him from his simple but finely made wood chair, and Kong took a seat opposite Aaron's. The evening sun and limited natural light was only relieved by the presence of a few candles around the room which caused the Emperor to appear almost like a dark spirit behind his large desk. Kong's nervousness was less evident without the light to illuminate all of his facial features.

The Emperor adjusted his sitting posture and cut off King . "You know the area, yes?"

Kong nodded. "Of Zhao province, your excellency?"

The Emperor rummaged through a pile of parchment while answering. "Where else?" He withdrew a sheet and rolled it into a scroll, sealing it with a band of black silk tied around. He handed into to Kong who hesitantly accepted. The black silk was a symbol that the scroll carried the highest level of secrecy and to read or handle it without permission was harshly punished. It was reserved for reports to the Emperor or direct orders from him and to receive such an order was either very good or exceptionally terrible.

"These are secret orders for both you and others. Deliver them to the governor of Zhao province." the Emperor commanded.

Kong turned over the scroll and examined the black ribbon. "M-May I ask why I was selected to deliver them, your excellency?"

"You will be taking up a position and told some of the information contained within. The governor will understand."

Kong stiffly nodded.

"That will be all. I hope you enjoy your new position in Zhao."

Kong bowed and quickly exited the room to leave the Emperor once again alone with his thoughts and paperwork.
Last edited by Orostan on Sun Jan 07, 2024 4:01 pm, edited 1 time in total.
“It is difficult for me to imagine what “personal liberty” is enjoyed by an unemployed hungry person. True freedom can only be where there is no exploitation and oppression of one person by another; where there is not unemployment, and where a person is not living in fear of losing his job, his home and his bread. Only in such a society personal and any other freedom can exist for real and not on paper.” -J. V. STALIN
Ernest Hemingway wrote:Anyone who loves freedom owes such a debt to the Red Army that it can never be repaid.

Napoleon Bonaparte wrote:“To understand the man you have to know what was happening in the world when he was twenty.”

Cicero wrote:"In times of war, the laws fall silent"



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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby G-Tech Corporation » Sun Jan 07, 2024 5:03 pm

Part 7, Chapter 10: Cost, In Human Form


July 7th, 41 AG

My ears hummed, rumbling with the thrum of industry, the blood shaking in their tips. I was glad of the two pieces of felt which I had been given prior to entering the factory, and noted as my boots hammered on the neat sawdust-laden floors of the mill that the workers had been outfitted with the same. Thick porous plugs, hardly a fit substitute for proper hearing protection, but certainly a damn sight better than nothing. They did, of course, make the guide rather impossible to make out over the din of the machinery, but thankfully Leena had courteously explained most of what I would be seeing in the relative quiet of the antechamber to the main factory floor.

I walked with my hands at my back, customary parade rest, partly out of long habit, partly out of what I mentally called judicious respect for the pace at which the dance of iron and leather about me moved. Men and women watched the great gears and flywheels like hawks, intermittently feeding in pieces and lengths of timber toward the lathes and cutting instruments, but despite my knowledge of the working of these facilities I did not venture any of my appendages anywhere near the workfloor. Discretion, here, was most certainly the better part of valor, as the bright little scrap of our guide had emphasized half a dozen times.

After a few dozen strides we rounded one of the main lines, and I had to deftly step to one side around a spreading pool of water that smelled suspiciously of acrid lemons. An older man with deep black bushy eyebrows gestured apologetically with a mop, his eyes roaming curiously across our group, then he returned to his task of unhurriedly pushing around the caustic mixture. The entire affair obviously contributed to the overall scent of clean soap and hot wood, which was not exactly unpleasantly, though hardly a perfume I would voluntarily don. My boots came away from the floor more easily in the wake of the cleaner, a phenomenon that Leena had noted we would observe; it was effectively impossible to keep the entire mill clean, but without regular and diligent scrubbing the oils from the timber and castoff resin would bond with the cloying layer of sawdust into a sort of organic concrete, an organic concrete which could easily ruin saws, clog machines, and bring the whole operation to an unceremonious halt.

Well, then, that the workers here were fastidious about cleaning their blades and implements, and men and women labored for the very necessary purpose of arresting the growth of that potentially disastrous outcome. It was not one with which I had had to deal when crafting the first mill on the Kniepper, but then again our volumes of process were a literal fraction of what this single facility could handle, and the speeds of the work likewise laggardly in comparison. What large gears and slow work could keep up with were hardly fit standards of examination for an altogether more modern and refined effort.

As we progressed away from the main driveshaft the belts which bore the motive force of the river became smaller, and slower, their gearing shifting the power down so it could be used for purposes of greater refinement than bulk processing and the rude works of dissecting forest giants. Here young woman sat at cheaply but solidly made tables, carefully moving blades up and down against spinning lathes in a delicate dance that they had no doubt accomplished a hundred times before. Pictures of table legs, barrel spindles, and dowel rods were marked in chalk on nearby boards of slate, greased with wax to inure them against the drifting grains of sawdust which still suffused the air. Eyes flickered up from workstations as our party tramped past, but the familiar figure of Leena nearly instantly provided enough context for the carpenters to return to their stations; simply another factory tour, probably for some new investor or prospective buyer. Not exactly common, but definitely not worth comment.

Anon the hubbub of the mill had all but died away, and the lady ushered myself and Jakobs into another small room away from the main floor. As the door closed behind us, a neat and sparse hallway lit by dim bulbs overhead unfolded, and the bright smile on the blonde's painted face grew wider as the last of the racket was cut out.

"As you can see, we are very busy this time of year - following the spring ploughing we usually see orders spike precipitously, an outcome the administrator believes is attributable to goodwives assessing what they will be able to afford based on the land their husbands managed to seed. We'll work off most of the glut of those purchases and needs until nearly September, when better timbers come down the Saar for more refined shaping."

A nod at my side, the wintry head of Jakobs moving up and down slowly.

"That's all well and good. It puts faces to names, but the account books, those are what I need to see before we can consider further investment here. It is not an easy thing to look at a shop floor and divine whether it is busy or idle unless one has been long upon that particular floor."

The bright lady smiled wider, and her response had the air of a minx in it.

"Heldenstaat has four mills now, all serviced by the take from up the twins. I know Messir Garovan had hoped to be able to show you the entirety of the recent workups over dinner this evening, so perhaps it is best to wait until then? Or I can send word that you would prefer to immediately move to that portion of our inspection?"

I didn't bother waving Jakobs off. His mollified grunt was exactly what I expected - it wasn't as if we were here suspecting foul play that needed to be ferreted out before alterations could be made. Matis had given me nothing but good news lately, and an expansion of operations omened well, if anything. Such liaisons could keep at least a few hours, when legs might be weary of wandering and happy to be trammeled at a table to burn the midnight oil.

Leena turned, the bright red ribbons in her hair bobbing under the gilt of the lighting, and cast a glance in my direction.

"The administrator mentioned that you would like the academy to be included in your tour - if you will follow me, the pupils are just beginning fourth-bell instruction, and we can probably pop in at the back without too much interruption."

Along the quiet hallway we padded, the sounds of the machinery now muffled and my ears thankfully divested of their felt restraints, which I dropped into one of my many pockets. At length the whir of waterpower was replaced by the quiet murmur of occasional voices, mostly men talking at an unhurried pace, and the intermittent response in lighter, youthful tones. A series of doors now stood on either side of the hallway, doors with names and numbers cut in Standard above their lintels. Leena's eyes were up, searching along the ranks of names, until she stopped at one with the name "Wiesman" above it.

"Please be quiet - Master Wiesman works with some of our more advanced students, the apprentices, and their course material is somewhat demanding of their attentions."

So informed I held my tongue as the guide knocked on the door then, barely waiting a breath, pushed it open. A dozen pairs of curious eyes greeted our entry, belonging to a coterie of young men of a variety of ethnicities who were huddled around a small spinning genny. An older gentleman with an impressive Imperial moustache above a neatly-kempt beard cleared his throat as the door closed behind us. His slate-gray vested greatcoat, I noticed with some apprehension, was pinned up at the left shoulder.

"Please return your attention to the flywheel, class. As Erasmus noted, the deviancy in the primary axle could lead to an instability across the long-term, if the device is turned to piston conversion. Now, who can tell me the average moment of action of the axle if we maintain a steady input of two thousand revolutions per minute? Use your pads to write down your answers, and we will solve together once everyone has their answer."

Somewhat begrudgingly, the students turned away from the very interesting sight of guests, and began to scratch at their slates with chalk and manipulate counting frames which sat at each table. The teacher, Wiesman, padded over to stand with our party, pitching his voice low so as not to disrupt the thoughts of the pupils.

"Leena, gentlemen, welcome to my class. These are apprentice machinists, who we hope will be ready for their guild certification come winter. Please, if you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask. I'm always happy to have visitors."

A degree of hushed conversation took place then, mainly on my part, to which the aged worker was only too happy to respond - Tanya took particular interest in the mill-schools of the Imperium, having been the progenitor of their system and being still intimately involved in their operation on an abstract level. She would be very pleased if I brought back a report on their condition this far north, beyond the Erzgebirge, and so I took several minutes to probe the man's understanding of the curriculum and the general conditions of the academy. Some small areas seemed deficient, such as the nutritional support for the younger students, but pound for pound there seemed little about which the man felt there were grounds for complaint - or, at least, for which he was willing to share his misgivings with a relative stranger.

At intervals I felt his eyes on the tabs at my shoulders, and eventually as the conversation lapsed he worked up the nerve to ask what must have been on his mind for some time.

"Ah, excuse me, sir. You wear insignia with which I am not overly familiar. You are part of the Imperial Armies, then?"

I smiled half of a smile, and nodded.

"Yes, I have a special commission. You have good eyes, or rather more bravery than most. It isn't everyday that anyone even asks me if I'm a military man."

The graybeard nodded, his moustache moving as he pursed his lips.

"I served in the Fourth, during the Great Northern War. A rough time, but we got through alright. Years I look back on fondly. I hope your own service is less eventful than mine."

I hesitated, then asked a probing question of my own, since it was apparently time for those.

"Hopefully so. It is in God's hands. Not every man is so lucky to take a wound which costs him his arm and walk away from the field. You'll have to lend me some of your fortune."

The face of my guide grew drawn, frozen in a polite smile, and after a sharp inhalation of breath the teacher sighed.

"I'm afraid I didn't pick up this wound quite that honorably. This is a badge of my time in the mill - I came back to work as a carpenter after my discharge, and was adjusting a bandsaw when one of the cutting edges came loose. I'm one of the fortunate ones indeed, because I knew the work well enough to get a position teaching here after I couldn't work on the floor any more."

Ice coursed languidly through my veins, and I muttered some polite nothings about the quality of his teachings. The conversation lapsed, and I took the opportunity to step away toward the door, hearing little of the blandishments Jakobs laid upon the teacher and his class as I stumbled out into the hallway.

Damnation. I hadn't expected that. Intellectually, it made sense, sure. But it was another thing to take reports of workplace accidents and render them in very solid flesh and blood. Perhaps this was how my forefathers had felt, when men perished building the Brooklyn Bridge, or good engineers had to be buried in shallow graves alongside the course of the Panama Canal.

Jakobs and Leena followed me out into the hall several minutes later, mercifully after I had regained a measure of my composure. The guide looked at me oddly, and politely inquired if I was quite alright, which I deflected with a few diplomatic words about sawdust in the air making me short of breath. As we walked toward the entrance of the mill again I was alone with my thoughts, the noise too intense to do much in the way of conversation.

In a way, this was all my fault. Without the introduction of machines, mechanisms, Wiesman might have lived a happy life, unmaimed by the ravenous maw of industry in simple peace on some tiny farm or in a humble hunting village. As much as the charnel-houses of Danemark and Icedonia were laid at my doorstep, I had made a sort of peace with the costs of war - war, after all, took two men to accomplish, and it was fairly easy to cognitively accept that conflict, applied judiciously, prevented further human suffering.

I turned the matter over in my mind. Perhaps, in some ways, good industry also prevented human suffering? I would have to think about that. There had to be some safety measures that could be adopted to prevent more maimed men like Wiesman. I doubted I would sleep well tonight, bedeviled by the counterfactuals of misery once more given life and breath in my new black-hearted industrial revolution...
Quite the unofficial fellow. Former P2TM Mentor specializing in faction and nation RPs, as well as RPGs. Always happy to help.

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Tesserach
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Posts: 456
Founded: Apr 25, 2021
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Tesserach » Mon Jan 08, 2024 7:00 am

Exit Stage Left: The Way of Great Peace, Pursued by Bear
Enter Stage Right: Ashes of Victory



Oh happy dead! who sleep embalmed in glory,
Safe from corruption, purified by fire,
ask you our pity? Ours, mud-grimed and gory,
who still must grimly strive, grimly desire?

You have outrun the reach of our endeavour,
Have flown beyond our most exalted quest, -
who prate of faith and freedom, knowing ever
That all we really fight for's just...a rest.

Oblivion cannot claim you: our heroic,
war-lustred moment, as our youth, will pass
To swell the dusty hoard of Time the Stoic,
That gathers cobwebbs to the nether glass.

we shall grow old, and tainted with the rotten
Effluvia of the peace we fought to win,
The bright deeds of our youth will be forgotten,
Effaced by later failure, sloth, or sin...

Writings of the Great Northern War, #37




In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud,
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est,
(Nothing so seemly or sweet)
Pro patria mori.
(as to give one's life for one's country)

Writings of the Great Northern War, #51





15km South of Taxila


I limp my way to the medical tent, the wound at my side being both caked in mud and bleeding more than is ideal.

No longer just the sick and ill here, I can hear the inhuman wailing long before I reach it. I remember, one time sitting on a man who had his arm amputated. It was at a teaching hospital, one of the best equipped, best staffed in the country; you think it'd been a clean cut. But it was more like... loose hamburger clinging to a stump that they gradually cleared away.

That, with among the best medical treatment the 21rst century had to offer.

None of that here. No dedicated hospital beds, with their clean white plastic contours. No vitals monitors. No bottles of milky-white propofol or fentanyl hung by IV drips, no antibacterials; we don't even have opium yet though I know the right poppies originate somewhere around here or the middle east.

There's men, and women lingering in and around the tent, listening, anxiously awaiting news. It's their friends inside, their husbands, brothers and sweethearts. They can hear exactly what's happening, leaving them in various states of anxiety or distress.

I step inside.

People everywhere. The smell of sweat, human fluids and burnt flesh assaults the nose. Blood drenches the floor between the smoothed logs laid out as a floor in the mud between the cots of straw and grasses. Blankets - even strips of cloth - these are precious things, months of labour. They simply can't be thrown away, used and disposed of. Even if it were possible to clean and reuse them without infection risk, there still wouldn't be enough. The camp followers I'd trained are, plainly, overwhelmed. Basic first aid is so far from adequate to the severity and scale of what's presented here that words to describe it fail me.

A tourniquette here to staunch the bleeding? Great trick Future Man - but what next genius? The arterial bleed isn't going anywhere. You expecting a trauma team to come swooping in? Do you even know where the arteries all are? Of course not, because you're not a fucking doctor.

I can see it in the faces of the camp followers I trained for this. They are not prepared. Not even close. Too preoccupied with other things, I threw these poor women to the wolves. Better than nothing, I thought at the time - but this is worse than I imagined.

"Where's Yogitha?" I ask one of them, her name, momentarily escapes me. It takes several attempts and grabbing her by the shoulder to get her attention as she's trying to direct several warriors to help move their wounded comrade from the tent. There's so much movement, so much screaming, so much yelling I can scarcely recognize anyone.

"Gone." She shoots back, in a hurry. No additional information. Just 'gone'.

The warriors she's speaking with are Arjan's, or one of the warbands. I don't recognize their dress. They're arguing. Their friend needs help, they don't want to move him. They even argue with me before I convince them everything we can do, we've done - we need the space and frankly with the rain stopped, it's probably better for their friend away from all... this. That part they agree with finally. They'll move him.

The screaming is deafening. Wounded men. At least three men, I can plainly see have had arms or legs taken right off.

Might as well treat myself, since everyone's busy, and I need time to sort out how to sort this mess out. I check the corner of the tent where we keep the pots, and baskets of supplies. Empty. Empty. Empty. There! No, the water basin is nearly empty and there's blood and something else in it that I don't care to contemplate.

Deep breaths. Of course everything is gone to shit. Everything is always going to shit. Even in the 21rst century in 'good times', why would you expect pseudo-bronze era Pakistan to be different?

Intrusive thoughts out. Useful thoughts in. Focus.

We need more people doing work and fewer spectators.

I look for familiar faces. Ones who know me, ones we trained who accept that when I give orders they need to get done. They're exhausted. Some of them have some superficial wounds themselves, but are standing around with comrades whose wounds look more serious.

I take a deep breath, put on a cheerful face I'm sure looks anything but. "Good news fellas, we're half-way there!" I have to yell as I stagger towards them, trying to keep my weight away from the shooting pain on my left side. There's a momentary laugh on their part as they recognize me, and the callback to our runs up that mountain. Then the slow dawning realization hits their faces as they realize where this conversation is going. "There's work yet to be done."

Did you think the work stopped just because we won? Oh sweet summer children.

We start pushing out anyone not doing anything useful, setting people to work. We need more water. More fires to boil it. More dry wood for the fires. Right now I can see half the 'medical staff' I trained trying to do it themselves and I need them in the tents, working. Get warriors and my soldiers to work hauling water, wood, getting more of the camp women from the supply train up hear washing everything. Clean everything.

I need the people I crash-course trained to do half-assed medical stuff freed up to do half-assed medical stuff.

Once things are slightly less fucked, I head outside, to where some fires have been started. There's still some boiled water left. I start washing out my own wounds, trying to find some alcohol.

Wash the mud away from the wound until the skin is clean, until I can see the gaping wound opened in my side, three inches across, more than an inch deep. Once its just tissue and the mud is gone, I douse it with alcohol. That smarts. Fabric is too precious for packing a wound, we need something disposable: there's leaves we collected and dried on someone's advice. It stings like a motherfucker; funnily enough I didn't even feel it when it happened, not even sure now where they got me. Another leaf over top, hold it in place with... I dunno... my belt.

Best I can do.

As things in and around the tent start clearing out, I finally spot Ara. I touch her shoulder. "You need anything? I'm looking for Yogitha."

Hands covered in blood. She shakes her head, concentrating on what she's doing. "Outside." She points, her red hand dripping blood everywhere. Not that it makes a difference, but some things stand out to you in the moment, and the image of Ara, her outstretched bloody hand pointing, did for me.

No time to dwell on it now. That'll come later of course.

It takes some searching, Yogitha's away from the tent a ways, where the crowds thin. With one of the other women working the tent, hunched over. Sobbing her guts out.

"Tough day?" I say, ambling up toward them.

Neither of them apparently find my sardonic humour helpful. The woman at Yogitha's side, Canoba, whose name I do remember, looks up at me. From her expression its not good. Her voice is hushed despite there being no way Yogitha can't hear her. "Her husband."

I stop in my tracks, pausing. Considering. I make eye contact with Canoba, can see her almost pleading for help with this... with everything. I mouth the obvious question at her. Canoba just shakes her head in response, before turning back to Yogitha.

Her husband had been in Jasvin's cohort, other side of our formation. Front right. Looks like he didn't make it, probably got dragged into the tent for Yogitha.

I take a deep breath, hovering over the two of them. "Hey... Yog." It's my quiet, neutral, saying-something-without-saying-something-just-to-draw-a-response-and-gauge-her-reaction-to-my-presence tone. She doesn't look up. Take another deep breath, then take a shot in the dark: "Need a hug?"

There's an emphatic, wet sounding, snivelling nod. Then I lean in for the awkward hug. Pat the back, feel her clinging to me like a baby sloth hugging a tree for the first time. "We'll sort things out here. Take whatever time you need." I'm not really sure how, I just know we don't really have a choice. Whatever is going to come crashing down on us in that tent is just going to come crashing down and that's just how it is.

I can't say everything's going to be all right. Because things aren't all right. For people inside the tent, things are going as catastrophically wrong as they can possibly go.

There's a moment that passes before I gesture Canoba over, whispering to her. "Find someone that knows Yogitha to keep an eye on her for us, but otherwise I need everyone trained to work in that tent working in that tent." That means you Canoba.

"I'm sorry..." I hear Yogitha muttering between tears. "I just need..."

She trails off, snot dribbling down her nose, onto my shoulder I'm pretty sure. It doesn't matter. She's already covered in blood, not her own. Her husbands? Decent chance. I'm still caked in mud in a lot of places after mud-wrestling a dude to the death. Besides, what's a little snot dribble between friends? "Don't apologize." I tell her. "We won't leave you alone. Promise."

We stay there a time though, until I can get Canoba to return with a couple of women from the women's camp. Friends Yogitha knows. She's asking after her son.

We do a careful hug hand-off like in Indiana Jones - I slip out, one of them slips in. Canoba and I head back to the tent. I've spent time in hospitals, quite a lot in fact. But this is different. There's the obvious difference - that we just fought a battle. There's also the fact that we're a pseudo bronze age army, and there's only so many things we can do.

But the biggest difference? I know these people. I may not have kids with any of them, like Yogitha, but I know their names, their faces, and I know the wives and kids they're leaving behind. Even the ones I didn't train or don't know personally, I've seen most of them around. But it's mostly the guys I trained with here, not many of the tribal warriors in the warbands about. Our guys did the heaviest fighting.

I pass Raj and Kumar standing together, Raj's hand is bandaged. "It's nothing, compared to this." He gestures to those around us. I want to ask more, see how they've been, but I have no time, and I'm just glad to see they both made it.

Then its on to putting out more fires. Start getting the area outside the tent in order. Get security posted, especially since there's some triage decisions that need to be made are going to cause serious problems if the wrong people overhear.

There's an embedded arrowhead that needs an amputation that's been waiting for someone to actually do it. Canoba straight up refuses. "I can't. I just can't." Who did all the amputations I've see already? Yogitha, obviously.

Someone needs to. Blank stares from those nearby. Eyes looking at me.

Now, I trained them but I've never actually sawed off a man's leg before. Neither have they, apparently. Even so, the saw ends up in my hands.

If I'm honest, I just fought a goddamn battle. I'm tired and wounded. I am a little cheesed off at them passing the buck on this, but at the same time holding that saw in my hand - looking down at this dude. I get it. Fuck this. Fuck everything.

But we can't pull the arrowhead out. It's deep inside his thigh, lodged in the bone maybe. Coin flip whether infection gets him even if we take the leg off. None of us are doctors, but... just looking at the injury, it does not look good just stitching this shit up.

Someone's gotta do it.

So I'm a little surprised when Ara - appearing out of nowhere - takes the saw right out of my hands. "No. You're injured." She sounds tired, vaguely annoyed at me for even thinking about this. "Make sure that tourniquette is tight as it can go, and help hold him down."

I don't argue.

More alcohol. More after that. He's absolutely losing his shit - as one does. I crank the makeshift handle on our touniquette as tight as I can - full body weight into it, till the leg starts going blue. We have to wait for the saw to be cleaned: we only have the one. Doused and scrubbed in ammonia solution. Boiled in water. Get some of his mates from his file to help hold him down. Something to bite down on. That's all we can put between him and the bonesaw.

Is he ready? No? Too bad, it was more of a rhetorical question really.

Then down comes the saw.

Those screams. Holy shit those screams. In retrospect, it's kind of a toss up though which is worse. The screams, or the subtle change in tenor caused by the frantic motion of the saw as it starts cutting into bone. Or maybe the smell of burnt flesh when we cauterize it with a red-hot bronze. Hard choice.




I only have a vague sense of time or where the day went. I know the fighting wrapped up before noon. Most of the rest of the day I spend in the tent until, finally, mercifully we'd done what we could. I think it was getting dark around the time the bell curve tolled, and the people we were able to successfully do something for started outnumbering the ones we were losing.

I reckoned perhaps fifty dead. For now. We'd have to see what the next week brought. Things could be worse, I tell myself, looking down at Ara, wrapped in a blanket, propped up against a rock just outside the tent, sleeping in something resembling peacefulness.

Yogitha's back. Her eyes puffy and red. She claims she's well enough, thanks me for being there earlier, for sticking around to help but they've finally got things in hand, but now I'm taking up space in her tent and would I kindly get the fuck out of her tent.

Gladly.

It's dark. People are celebrating for the second time in as many days. This time for realsies.  There's stacks of weapons and armour of bronze. Items looted from the Khusab supply train. The spontaneous, reckless joy of people just happy to be alive; that it was other people not them.

Yogitha's thanks sits uneasily in my mind. I dragged the poor young woman and her husband all the way out here, got her husband killed, put her front and center in that fucking tent. Somehow she winds up thanking me for it?

Azahad's somewhat put off I wasn't around to make decisions that all fell on him; few of them good. Arjan wanted to press on to Taxila. There's a bunch of reports come in from scouts. I tell him about my day, and that I'd gladly have switched spots with him. There's a reason, I think, generals generally don't spend much time in the medical tents. There's no distance or amount of singing or drumming that can silence those screams. Tiredness and sleep deprivation don't help, the memories seem to insert themselves at will, like a waking dream. Exhausted as I am, everything kind of seems like a waking dream.

Mostly the complaints are fiddly stuff. Resolving disputes over loot. Keeping order. Arjan being pissy we're not on the move.

We're a green force. First battle ever. Did most of the heavy lifting. We were outnumbered on our flank, shrugged off elephants, force fed Dorian's camels their own guts, and otherwise smashed to pieces the best army the region had ever seen; or at very least, the remnants of it. The black banner was being burned on a funeral pyre as we spoke.

As far as I was concerned, Arjan could go suck a dick: we were taking a day to rest and see to our dead and wounded. And I said as much to Azahad. We get watches posted, get the supplies taken put under guard.

And then we'll take turns on watch, and take some fucking time to rest and recover ourselves. I take first watch. Azahad, who's been running things so far, I tell to fuck off in precisely the same voice Yogitha had used on me.

Utsah at some point arrives in the command tent, with some of the other elders. They're pissed.

What the fuck happened? There was supposed to be a peace. Why was there a battle?

I don't fucking know.

There's some confusion over who saw what among the few Khusab warriors we managed to keep alive, but most of them agree in broad strokes:

As in our camp, there'd been some initial wariness as they withdrew. But as our camp began celebrating, with women, and elders present they fell into celebration themselves. As the night went on, the mood grew brighter. Then as people started settling in for the night, one of their patrols was attacked and their camp came under attack by a large, well-equipped band of tribal warriors who were eventually fought off

The general consensus is it had been one of ours. Arjan, specifically, was the initial rumour among the Khusab. There was some indecision, as it seemed an obvious - and easily defeated - attempt to disrupt the peace by a potentially aggrieved 3rd party. But then word came that Ashoka's army was advancing from the West.

Now a lot of the Khusab thought maybe it was Peshawari tribespeople. The other rumour was that Arjan had arranged a disgruntled group of Sargodhan warriors to do the deed.

Arjan, by contrast claimed it was the Harappans, who had arranged the attack. He even provided several items of Harappan equipment he claimed to have recovered from outside the Khusab camp. But when I went to inspect the bodies, to see if any could be identified they'd already been burned.

The Khusab said they had not burned the bodies, Arjan said his soldiers might've but such was common practice.

Apparently we got a messenger from Ashoka while I was busy, and he did start marching towards us; but only after the contingent of Khusab maintaining the seige on Taxila slaughtered his people as they tried to leave.

Which, I learn, they apparently did do, but only after they learned we broke the peace agreement by launching a sneak attack on Dorian's.

So who the fuck did it? Ashoka? Arjan? The Harappans? After having spent a year getting raided and pillaged, did a bunch of Sargodha warriors decide to torpedo the peace process on their own?

I don't fucking know.

But since no one knows, and it was my plan, I'm the one the elders are pissed at. Obviously, this reflects poorly on them, and that's the real fucking tragedy here. I'm still replaying all the fuckery I've just been through, while getting reamed out, so you can imagine the mood I'm in as this is all happening.
 
Fucking politicians never change. And maybe I'm one of them, because I started spinning the situation for them right then and there.

We knew a fight was possible, likely even. Dorian had spent the last year and a half terrorizing the Northern Indus like a colossus, and while everyone else cowered, we'd come up here and stomped his guts out. Sure it was a mess, but we won it. Us. Not any of the candidates for scuttling the talks. The victory was ours despite elephants, despite the camels, despite being outnumbered.

And if we could do it to Dorian, we could do it to any one of them. So let the word go out: there's a new big dog in town.

People could say what they like. The summit is still on - minus maybe the Khusab. The Way of Great Peace is still on, maybe minus some credibility. And if anyone doesn't like it, they can file their complaint to the office of the guys that just curb stomped Javin Torrez's elite dudes all up and down the plains of Taxila.

I send them away from the tent, if not happy, then at least confident they're still on the winning side.

My gut reaction is still Arjan. I had our own scouts keep careful watch, just in case; a bunch of Vadabhaat elders skulking away like rats in the night would be a sure sign something was about to go down. But nothing. Arjan's people eventually fall to celebrations in their own camps and eventually Kumaran takes the watch from me.




I should sleep.

Get rest. But I find myself walking through the unfolding celebrations in a daze. People lead camels this way or that through our camp, some leading them, some trying - and mostly failing - to ride them. Someone is riding an elephant as soldiers, half laughing, give chase demanding they get it the fuck out of camp. There's a set of Khusab armour, stuffed with straw, being danced around a fire while people stab at it with spears, swords, axes, adzes or throw stones or other things.

There's warriors and women carousing everywhere, at one point I pass a group of warriors passing a woman round between them singing, laughing. I pause just long enough to confirm the woman in question seems to be in on it. Dancing. Singing.

Some of the other scenes I come across aren't so great. I see men scatter as I approach, no doubt having been gambling. Yelling, disagreements over turning over loot. There's bodies, and parts of bodies, being picked at and fought over by dogs who carried them back into camp. I nearly get into a fight with a bunch of warriors I don't recognize when I find them parading Dorian's dismembered, headless corpse around, and it only deescalates when a bunch of our soldiers surround them.

But it's over. It's finally over.

I keep telling myself that but my mind keeps taking me back to yesterday, and the idea that this fight, this battle, none of it needed to have happened at all. So much work to avoid a fight just for, well, this. I knew it was a possibility, even at my most optimistic I'd never really thought it would work, but then to nearly pull it off only, at the 11th hour, for this?

I really do need sleep. Or to go back to the medical tent and do something useful. Anything other than gimping my way around the camp, watching people from the shadows like a crazed Gollum creature. I can't even remember the last time I did something that wasn't directed toward preparing for this day. And now it's over and I'm simultaneously impelled to do both everything and nothing.

I find myself watching Probodh's little encampment within our encampment from a distance. He's been my spymaster of sorts for nearly a year now, building and maintaining contacts in the north. Him with the northern tribes and Aprus, who's handled most of my back end contacts with Banhi and Ashoka.

It's been a year since aprus and I held our first conversations that carried us well through the night. I've spent a lot more time with Lily, who I realized some time ago, had started treating me something like a father figure. They've built a fire for themselves. Lily's there too, dancing. Goddamn, we brought kids? what is wrong with us? I mean, Lily's a little older now, in her young teens - they'd probably call her a woman now but still.

Their faces are ringed with mirth like everyone else, and there amongst them, is Aprus. Dressed up, laughter in her eyes. Relief. Happiness even as she sits, leaning against Harun, Probodh's younger brother. He runs his hands affectionately through her hair.

It's funny the creations we construct in our own minds, of how we imagine things will be in the future - but the future's never quite what we think it will be.

I had, myself, the vague notion that now that things were finally settled, we - Aprus and I - could pick up where things had left off, before all this had begun. But it's been over a year now, hasn't it? I was the one that sent her away. There's no one to blame but myself really. I'd just had other priorities at the time.

It'd been a silly thought anyway, I decide. Passing fancy. I'm married. I've a wife to go back to, somewhere. Maybe. I don't know anymore.

I jolt a little at Sudhanshu's sudden appearance. "There you are!" He's half drunk. "That was some real fighting we did. You need to celebrate sir."

Part of me wants him to just fuck off in that moment. Part of me is glad not to be alone with my thoughts. Force a smile. Force a greeting. The usual shit.

"You wanna go hang out with your other friends?" Sudhanshu gestures towards Probodh's fire, swaying unsteadily on his feet, trying not to sound hurt by the fact I might abandon him.

Obviously not. She's lying on the lap of another dude right now. There's an edge of bitterness to my thoughts I don't care to give voice to right now. Sudhanshu doesn't deserve it. No one deserves it. Just, surplus feelings with no proper use or home; the sort best left to whither and die of their own accord.

I'm surprised though, when I feel Sudhanshu's hand on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. He's watching me closely.

"No luck with the scholar lady?" His voice is sympathetic, there's a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I am, apparently, just that transparent.

"I think she's good." I manage to force out in as neutral a voice as I can muster just then.

"I think you deserve to know you're appreciated." Sudhanshu his eyes watching me in the firelight. "This was a great victory!"

"You've been listening to me too much." I'm still unable to match Sudhanshu's celebratory energy, but Sudhanshu doesn't notice because he's, well, drunk as fuck.

And that's about the point when the evening starts to get a bit, well, weird?

Because around this time his face is getting really, strangely close to mine, and I think to myself: this is a bit weird. It's almost like he's about to...

Sudhanshu kisses me. Full on. Lip on lip. No tongue.

There's part of me, surprised and obviously shocked by all this that just wants to push him away, and be like: wtf dude?

But there's also a part of me that recognizes, suddenly, that Sudhanshu is quite drunk, maybe a little bit - well, probably more than a little - gay. Something I hadn't noticed before but then, thinking back, seems so obvious I can't imagine how I'd missed it. But he also, genuinely, drunkenly, wants to be of some comfort to me after having just gone through, well, basically all the same shit I've just been through.

And, just like me, he's probably looking for something. Something he can't quite put his finger on. Something to feel. What? Seen? Alive? Like someone gives a fuck?

I don't even need to break the kiss. He does it himself. Even he can feel whatever it was he was looking for isn't there. And I can see the disappointment in his eyes. In the grand scheme of disappointments that have played out recently its nothing; what's my discomfort or Sudhanshu's disappointment and embarassment next to the men screaming in that tent?

"Welcome to the club." I laugh throwing a hand up on Sudhanshu's shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. No harm no foul I guess.

"Fuck..." He says, looking away, ashamed, but a touch of a laugh on his lips as he realizes we both got skunked tonight.

"Flattered, honestly."

"I just thought..."

"Don't worry about it. Some day we're both going to laugh about this."

There follows this, a weird ass conversation on human sexuality. I think I lift his spirits a little by telling him stories about the Theban Sacred Band. I think I lift his spirits a lot more by telling him that, statistically speaking, probably 1 in 10 dudes here is cruising around right now looking for someone like him to spend their evening with.

"Hey remember that time you kissed me on the lips!?" I say, and we do both laugh about it as he departs, in better spirits than before we talked.

So, mission accomplished I suppose. But at the same time, I feel like I finally put my finger on what's bothering me. There's just a sea of frenzied celebrations, and people around me and no one - not a single one - I feel like I can talk to about any of the things I want to talk about in that moment.

I recall reading The Seven Pillars of wisdom, by T.E. Lawrence - better known as Lawrence of arabia - and his time with the Bedouin tribes. There's one point, having just executed a man to resolve a tribal dispute he describes, I think, what I feel now. The desire to go home. Of just being... done with this. Done with the heat. Done with the isolation and the feeling of being out of place, and having thoughts I'd have to spend weeks lecturing on for anyone to quite understand. Of burnout from going around, constantly putting out fires, constantly dealing with other people's problems.

I'm tired. Just... tired and we're still 500km from Mehrgarh and 5000 years and 9000km from home. Or is this my home now?

I don't really know anymore and I'm not sure I much care. Let's just get it over with.
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Tesserach
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Founded: Apr 25, 2021
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Tesserach » Mon Jan 08, 2024 7:02 am

Ashes of Victory: Continued...

Fallout from things like battles take many forms. The ripples of the event carry forward, through time, through space. The 'great victory' at Taxila being no different.

There's the early, proximal consequences. These I can measure, or describe in the usual manner in which historians describe such events. There's a slaughter of Khusab warriors and their affiliates. The Sargodha taking their bloody vengeance on the Khusab; me trying to intervene, arjan intervening between us and them as they avenge the Khusab's earlier depredations. Numbers of northerners lost cannot be counted, but in the thousands I have no doubt.

There's the nuts and bolts follow ups in the immediate aftermath. Those of us in the, we'll call it the Indus Guard Battalion, walk the battlefield together going over everything. What happened, who did what, what did we do well, what went wrong, what do we need to do differently? I force us all to go through it, relive it, same as training. Next time we'll do better.

There's the inevitable sequence events that follows in the wake of injurious violence in a world devoid of sanitation and healthcare. There's the first wave of injuries. Then the infections start to set in over days and weeks, there's people who didn't bother to have their wounds properly treated start to show up. We do what we can. Some make it. Some don't.

Raj dies.

He seemed fine after the fighting; amidst the screaming throngs that day his injury was beyond insignificant. He even got it cleaned. I learn he came into the medical tent days later from his brother Kumar, his minor finger injury growing black and purple, then greenish yellow. He didn't want to lose the hand; it was his right hand, he's right-handed. So they took the finger first.

Then we had to take the hand anyway, once it became clear the infection had already spread. Then the arm. And, finally, when it was clear it had already reached his chest, there was nothing more we could do.

"You'll make sure they're taken care of, right?" He asks me, at some point between gritted teeth. The pain of the infection, at this point, was nearly unbearable. "The kids. Vrittika. Kumar. Right?"

"You know I will. I still don't understand why you both did this." Because I don't.

Raj, pain in his eyes away. "Not all of us pull miracles out of our asses, like you."

It drags on until it can drag on no further. Once everyone's said their good-byes, I find Kumar outside a short time later drinking something alcohol out of an enormous waterskin. "Is it done?" He asks.

"It's done." I tell him.

He nods. Takes another drink. I join him.

Days wear on into weeks. There's still a peace to secure. Finish the fight. The Harappan army is on the move pressing into Khusab lands.

The Sargodhans demand fire and the sword, and arjan backs their right to vengeance and after the depredations of the Khusab, after the debacle at Taxila and the likely animosity it engendered, the elders side against me. Khusab the town is captured almost without a fight, their stronghold destroyed. arjan and the other tribes enslave whoever they can - including people enslaved by the Khusab, whose exhorbitant ransom demands anger many of our own allies. Such is the way of things.

The main column takes its own prisoners, especially as word spreads that we are - by far - the least bad option. Those kidnapped by the Khusab, we release back to what remains of their kind - assuming any are left.

The Khusab themselves are another matter. To them I offer a choice. They can stand by the old ways, be treated as they treated others. Or they can embrace the new; the way of great peace, and be welcomed into The One Tribe, free, as equals, to take up The way, and earn their place among us. Having expected little mercy or quarter, most agree readily. It's not like I've really offered much choice.

It's hard to count how many died as the conflict winds down. The Khusab raided farms, granaries. People relied on those, especially as the war pushed people off their lands and took them away from their flocks and fields.

So to my estimate of thousands dead from the Khusab, or in the fighting and slaughter that followed let us add the aftermath - from raided graineries, destroyed crops, lost harvests and disruptions of essential facets of daily life the true death toll likely saw the population of the Indus Valley decline several tens of thousands.

Each one of those deaths is felt. Each spreads its own ripples out, through the lives of those that knew them. Some such deaths, like Raj's, you'd have to know to feel. But others are felt more acutely.

I wouldn't count this one as necessarily related to the war. His health hadn't been great even before our march north, but before we can return to Mehrgarh, Utsah, Patriarch of the Darshana and Mehrgarh itself, breathes his last somewhere near alipur.

Chiefs, elders, Sarvesh - who I've not seen in ages - his brother Jayesh; all gather to pay final respects. There's prayers. Shamans and priestesses come. Dignitaries from other tribes.

I could go on at length on how things shifted. But the fact is, even just thinking about it all wearies me. Things start going back to a sort of normal, but at the same time, everything is different. The Indus is different. Mehrgarh is different. Our temporary mobilization of the warriors and tribespeople falls away, but what's left behind isn't what was there before.




Return To Mehrgarh

- Early 2961BCE


Perhaps against my better judgement, as the dry season wears on into the new year we hold something of a triumph - in the classic roman sense - celebrating General arjan's great victory, as well as the defeat of the Black Banner before the standard of the Earth Mother. It is, as we tell the story, a victory for the old ways over the ways of Javin Torrez. But of course there's no actually going back.

If you squint though, its easy to be fooled. They resume something approaching normal. The warriors disperse again, though I make sure some stick around and we continue our training, maintain readiness. There's the neglected work around Mehrgarh, the school, the captives to deal with.

But there are other consequences that still make themselves felt. Some of it's the obvious stuff. The stuff you'd expect. But other stuff sneaks up on you. Stuff you wouldn't think would effect you as it does, but then... it does.

Like seeing Vrittika the first time after we get back. My eyes glancing to the faces of Yakta and Tarana - my students - gathered around their mother. Yakta, who smells, because she helped look after the pigs, loves animals and I thought had the curiosity and interest to do some interesting biology or veterinary care work. Or Tarana, who by contrast, seemed less not terribly interested in learning unless I could tie it back to making necklaces or chasing boys in some way.

I'd already watched Vrittika come apart once just before we'd left. She still looked frail and sunken compared to her old self before she'd fallen sick. Now, watching it happen again? It sticks with me.

People outside are throwing a wild party, everyone's celebrating outside, but in this tiny little mudbrick home you're telling her Raj, her husband is dead. Then all you can think of is that plague before, of her little boy dying in her arms, about Yogitha and her husband and they're all hitting you all at once; and what can you do? It is what it is. Try and look solemn, be there for her. That's what you're there for right?

Others don't handle things as well as I do. There's a lot of problems that come out. Guys I trained, guys I worked with who are not okay after. I try doing what I can, try and fight with the elders, chiefs and people to make sure they and their families are taken care of. Try and talk them through it. Try...

Kumar is a case in point.

He'd had an unhealthy relationship with alcohol even before all this. Now? Losing his brother? The two had been close. I get front row seats as his wheels start coming off. You try talking to him, but sometimes, he's three sheets to the wind and you might as well be talking to a brick wall. One day, we lose three digesters to a fire. Sure enough I check the logs, and Kumar was on watch, didn't fill out his checks. Overpressures, cracked seals. Methane leaking everywhere. Everything made of wood.

Find him drunk in a field afterward. Can't really talk then. I have to wait till he's half sober to give him the fucking speech.

"I get it." I miss Raj too. Miss the lot of us hanging out. I'm busy, I got a fucking peace summit, elders coming from all over, and a third of them are greedy fucks, a third are looking to settle old scorere, and a third are basically just there to add another feather (in some cases literally, because we're in neolithic tribal times) to their hats. I try explaining it. Try explaining it diplomatic, trying explaining it straight and dirty. "It's just us now Kumar. Raj is gone. There's no one else now. It you and me. You and Kishori. You and the kids. No one's coming to help us sort through this shit. Kishori needs you. Your son and daughter need you."

He nods. Says he gets it. Says he'll straighten up. I can see it in his eyes he believes it himself, but I've seen that look a hundred times before in other guys. The moment of illumination comes, like the sun spilling through the clouds, but then the clouds come again and just like that, it's lost. Gone.

Then he's drunk again. I show up one day at the digesters and he's got his 12 year old son doing his checks for him.

I try and cover for the guy. He's a friend. He's this fucked up because his brother died in a war I had a hand in. But then, visiting Vrittika to drop off some exta things to help her and the kids, there's Kishori, with the kids and a black eye.

I start hearing stories, he's going out with his two cousins starting shit with neighbors. Getting in fights.

I try and get other people in. But there's no elders for the Shithouse Mafia. They're not Darshana, not Guarang. Even Kishori's family are unclean leather workers. No one will touch it. If there's a problem, let the brothers handle it. That's what I get back from them.

That's more or less how that story ends too.

Vrittika and I lean on Kishori to leave. But of course she won't because they're SO IN LOVE! Give her the talk. Girl, he's beating on you. No one's coming. This how you want your kids raised. Until she sees the light. You can see it in her eyes. She's leaving him. She gets it.

Then the next day she's back over there again and they worked everything out and it's going to be different this time.

Back to Kumar: what the fuck are you doing? Hell, we nearly get in fist fights. Him variously swearing, threatening, disappearing, reappearing balling his eyes out - poor Raj - promising he'll do better. This time he'll do better. On it goes.

Finally - finally - Kishori's had enough. Takes the kids. Goes to stay with her brothers. There's the arguments around town. Kumar drunkenly going to the other side of town, swearing at leatherworkers and their unfaithful daughters.

Then one of Kishori's brothers' tanning huts goes up in smoke and we don't hear from Kumar again. Not for days, until someone takes me a few miles southeast to where we find him, and his two cousins, with their necks cut out. The word is something went down between the Shithouse Mafia and the leatherworkers and the leatherworkers won.

That's how the tribes used to settle things - old school - before Torrez came in and introduced some real industrial grade - cold blooded slaughter.

So how do you tally that? Do we chalk that one up to Kumar being unable to handle his shit? Or is that just the Battle of Taxila reaching out a year later to claim one last group of victims, and give Kishori and Vrittika and their kids one last fuck you from beyond the grave?

I don't know.

But that story, with all its drama and all it's purple prose spilled out in drunken rants of love, and hate, in all its myriad variations, plays out - I have no doubt - a thousand times across the Indus. The Battle of Taxila leaves a trickling wake of broken soldiers, battered wives, and orphaned children and casts them wholesale into the rocks. In life, unlike story books, there's no neat endings. Instead it's just one long, unending trainwreck that keeps on piling up as it plays out in generation after generation.

The more you try and change it, the more it stays the same. Is there really much difference between a Javin Torrez and me? Does it matter that I didn't start it, I just helped dragged Mehrgarh into it?

Ruminating solves nothing. I know this. I handle things better than most people. The intrusive thoughts come. I can shift through them like pages of a picture book. Close my eyes and relive it. Turn it around, upside down, run through all the variations. The men with severed limbs. Fighting through the mud, feeling my face going under water, the mud filling my mouth and nose. That same guy gurgling up his own blood. Raj. Vrittika. Kumar. The way their kids would try and get me to do the things with them their father's used to do.

That was always my secret. Let the intrusive thoughts come, welcome them, dare them to do their worst and run through them until they've run their course and you're left with the numbness of knowing they can never hurt you again.

I still don't know who fucked up our deal with Dorian. I'm not sure I'll ever know. I learn at some point the Harappan army crossed the Sutlej River right before any of this went down; like they knew it was coming. So was it them? Do we want another war with Harappa? Of course not. It's the way of great peace, not settling old scores with people who played us for chumps.

But life goes on. You pick yourself up. Dust yourself off and put one foot in front of the other. That's what I tell myself. I have students coming in from all over now, looking to learn our way of great peace. There's promises to fulfill, production to organize. a peace summit to organize. Vrittika and the kids to check in on. Khusab 'recruits' to organize.




December 21, 2960 BCE, Bolan Valley

There's no work being done right now.

I slip away as Rajni, a former warrior from the Khusab I'd quickly formed a working relationship with, is giving a sermon on the way of Great Peace. He's a controversial figure. He'd been lead of one of Dorian's most vicious warbands. Lost his leg and pretty much everyone else in his life in the process. He hobbles around on a wooden peg, held in place by straps salvaged from his old armour. He talks about the way of Great Peace with the fervour of a man digusted by everything he did in those times. He speaks well too.

But a year in now and I've heard it all before.

I find myself missing the old faces though. That's what the solstice is about. Gathering together with those close during the darkest day of the year. Lighting fires against the darkness. Rajni's sermons, I think, sound even more desperate and frenzied than they usually are. Stirred by the ghosts of his past, the ones he killed and the ones that died as a result of the war he fought. Or maybe that's my imagination running away with itself.

Then, of course, we'd had some refugees from them appear - interested in the way of great peace. Looking to sign up. Only to find out they could be working alongside Khusab. There'd been a few that stayed. Mathujana was a Sarghodhan earth-mother priestess, who'd been taken as a slave to Khusab and after opted to stay with us. She didn't come out here to the Bolan Valley, she'd stayed in Mehrgarh, with the temple and school and her two half-Khusab children. But I can only imagine what she'd be thinking, and who she'd be thinking about hearing Rajni talk if she were here.

Too many new faces. Last year I'd been too busy preparing for the peace summit to pay much mind to the solstice. Back home I remembered, this time of year, gathering and thinking of the family members we'd lost - no more grandparents, or mother, or my brothers. Just my wife, father and mother in law. Five years now, away from them. Them with one more loss to worry on.

But that's all gone too.

I did see azahad and Mahsa a short while ago when we did our new annual exercises for the Indus Guard Regiment out here in the Bolan Valley. But they'd left right after, along with their new little one; azahad is helping oversee our new camel breeding program and that keeps him on the move. I still see Vrittika and Kishori and their kids regularly. Kishori's already got herself a new man. Vrittika's children are older, old enough to help and ajah the youngest is one of my better young students, I don't think she's looking for anyone else in her life and I try and make sure they have what they need so it doesn't distract from any of the kids studies.

Sarvesh I've hardly seen in more than a year. Son of a later wife, he's low in succession among the Darshana, whose elders distribute resources across the tribe. He hadn't stood to inherit much, but he'd been offered more than his share to oversea Darshana grazing lands to the north they thought might support a new settlement by the Nari river, using some of our new agricultural techniques which Sarvesh was well versed in. He knew my techniques, knew how to supervise fields.

But I suspect part of the reason he got the offer was Sarvesh's older brother and arjan wanted to split us up.

Yogitha left without a word.

Priya was still around, but she never left Mehrgarh and was still basking in her shiny new temple to the earth mother; now all but completed. There was aprus, who'd returned with Harun to Mehrgarh. She'd taken up managing the Mehrgarh Institute in my absences, and using her horticultural knowledge to help Priya manage the experimental farm. There was also ara, who somewhere in everything had gotten herself pregnant last year and now had a little daughter of her own.

It's a new world, a shifting mileu of faces as the old ones slowly fade away.

Once again accompanied by such thoughts, I collect my survey apparatus as the preparations for the night's festivities continue around me. The work is something to take my mind off of thoughts I prefer not to dwell on right now. The thoughts will continue to fade with time, they already have, you just never know when they're going to pop up. This time of year, right now, they're not something I want.

I found myself sitting atop a raised hillock overlooking a dry riverbed of the Bolan, some water still trickled underground, but the surface water is gone here for the time being. Just loose sediment, rocks and a few green shrubs who've found their way to the groundwater.

The main course of the Bolan right now was a stream about 8 kilometers east. By my calculations - a series of triangulations from reference points in sight of each other linking back to Mehrgarh - we're at about 400m elevation relative to Mehrgarh. No idea where that is relative to sea level. But the headwaters of the Bolan come down from the Quetta plateau, so they climb higher still.

Scratching down the angles to mountain peaks, and terrain features I stand, startled by the sound of something approaching behind me.

I draw still. My mind, immediately, shifts to the night I encountered a lion south of Mehrgarh however many years ago. I'm armed with just a bow, and a single stone dagger. Not even one of the fancy copper or bronze ones we took - I distributed those amongst our men according according to their deeds. Simple stone arrowheads and knife for me.

The figure I see though is a person. It's a woman, dressed in ceremonial garb. There's a few accompanied our work team and soldiers out here. Even so it takes me a moment to recognize a face, it was going on two years I'd not seen. "Yogitha?"

Just hearing her voice again raises unpleasant memories for me. If I'm honest, it was a chore forcing myself to interact with her after everything; we had to of course, but I imagine the feeling was mutual.

"It was said you were at the festival. Then, I hear, you had wandered off." There's still a tiredness to her voice that - maybe it's my imagination - wasn't there when we'd first met out here when we'd been doing our training.

I look at my half set up survey instrument, squinting at the pendulum that indicates how level the apparatus is. Then up at the sky and the peaks. "I thought I'd get some work done." I take a breath. I'm not sure what brought Yogitha to chase me out here, but there are a few human beings I feel I owe a debt of my time and attention to, and Yogitha is on that list. "It's good meeting you again though. I didn't know you were here."

Hadn't bothered to ask. The thought occurs to me that I knew she was from the Guarang tribes, and most of the main tribe gathered here in the Bolan Valley for the solstice. I could've looked her up if I'd cared to. I'm busy. That's my excuse. It's always my excuse. My dagger slides back into its sheath. If Yogitha's my assassin, at least it's someone with cause to hate me.

It was nothing personal Yog, sure I fucked you and your entire life up. Maybe the world will be slightly less terrible thanks to your sacrifice. I don't really know.

That sort of sums up my mood out here at the moment.

I probably shouldn't lead with that though. Yogitha looks half prepared for the evening's festivities - the usual beaded necklace, along with a matching headress that covers her forehead and hangs down over her ears. I think the one she wears indicates status as a healer among the Guarang. She'd just been a bonesetters daughter when she'd left, so at least she had something to show from her work.

"Is that a Healer's headress I see? Glad to see we didn't scare you off the practice entirely."

"No. But I will not be working another of your tents again." There's an stark finality to her voice that I don't question. I can't blame her.

"I hope we never need another one."

"But you're not sure."

No one was ever, definitively, connected to the attack on Dorian. Having heard more since, people talking, I have suspicions the Harappans may have set it up with some Sargodhan warriors. Some other rumours, people in or around arjan's camps, who suggest arjan had recieved Harappan envoys and was in on it - or found out and let it happen.

The peace summit, the declaration of the formation of the Indus Valley Concordat. They don't do acronymns, and it doesn't work in the local Dravidian dialect, but it amused me to unite the tribes of the Indus Valley, north and south, under that name. Supposedly it was supposedly a grand accomplishment. The triumph of the way of great peace.

There were some good things in there, but mostly, it was just an understanding we agreed not to fight, that the elders would get together in alipur and decide on disagreements, and that we would cooperate on trade.

It wouldn't last.

"Nothing lasts forever." I say simply.

The awkward silence that follows drifts on. I can see Yogitha really doesn't know what to say to that. She nods, agreeing with it perhaps. Or not. Yogitha was always task oriented, one of those people eager to help others and looking at her sober disposition here, I'm pretty sure we jaded a lot of that youthful exhuberance out of her. "I did not say farewell before leaving your camp."

I expect more, but the statement lingers. I can read the hesitation in her voice as she speaks at last. The, reluctance to say it. Can see her searching my expression to guage my reaction.

So that's it, why she sought me out. Guilt at some tribal custom. I've been worried she blames me for ruining her life, meanwhile Yogitha's been concerned I'm harbouring some grudge for her dipping out on me. I expected something... more. Blame maybe? For what I put her through, getting her husband killed. But no, it was just her worrying over some tribal custom.

Leaving, without saying goodbye or explanation, is usually interpreted as a sign of both disrespect and a vote of non-confidence for a tribal leader. Big social faux pas in the tribes.

Yogitha winces when I laugh at it, because I do find it funny in a way; we're such simple creatures sometimes. She looks confused at my reaction. "I knew why you left. There's nothing to apologize for."

Yogitha's posture sinks a little at my response. Deflating even more. "I had thought you might be immune... to the ghosts." Once again the realization that I've misread. Yogitha didn't come here because of guilt. She came looking for some cure to PTSD. Thinking I knew some miracle to stop the thoughts and dreams. Now she knows I can't, it's like watching the hope drain out of her face. Or maybe it was both.

How do you respond to something like that. I look over my shoulder, thinking, searching for... something. But it's just more sandstone rock. Barren lands. The only signs of anything is the solstice camps dotting the valley floor below us.

"They're not ghosts."

"Then what?"

I like to think ghosts would be easier to deal with than one's own mind. "They're memories. Strongly imprinted. Experiences so powerfully felt, our minds can't let them go and it starts weaving them into our thoughts and dreams, and all it takes is a smell or sound and..." I trail off, remembering my face getting pressed into the mud - like the earth itself was swallowing me. Then walking through that tent, emerging from it to see Yogitha, her back to me, turning only it's Vrittika holding her dead baby in her arms. Or was that Mahsa?

"You see them too?"

I'm drawn out of it, remembering where I am. Back to Yogitha, her eyes staring at me. Her brows arched with something I interpret as concern, but I also read as someone wondering to themself: is that what I look like? "ara used to say you were haunted by ghosts too. That's why you always look sad when you're alone."

I laugh. "I don't remember having time to look sad." Yogitha smiles indulgently in the manner of someone who is waiting for a proper answer to their question. "The things that come to me aren't ghosts. Just restless memories."

"How can memories haunt a person?"

I laugh. It's a nervous response of mine. I'm not really comfortable talking about this, but I remind myself, sometimes those are the most important things. There are times when thoughts and feelings distract from what needs to be done, but when we shy from unpleasant feelings we give them power. "This is something I try and teach my students. Our minds create places for the people we meet inside itself. Even people we don't know, when we see them happy - our minds know what it is to be happy. But we're especially primed for pain, for fear - these feelings are unpleasant, but they keep us safe. Our minds remember them. So we keep ourselves, and others we care about safe.

But sometimes things are so bad, our minds get stuck thinking about them. It's what we call a loop, a cycle. Everyone has thoughts of bad things that happened, but most times, they go away. But if they're bad enough, they keep coming back. Sometimes to the point we can't focus on what's in front of us."

"Is it the tent?"

"Yes. That, and some of the fighting. One point I was on the ground with some guy, he was pushing my face into the mud, and mud and water were getting into my mouth and nose and I couldn't breathe. I remember thinking: I think he's killing me. That one sneaks in sometimes too. Other stuff too." I shrug, like it's no big deal. "Sometimes, when it happens I force myself to relive it. Tell myself it can't hurt me. Other times I intentionally think about them... and they get easier."

Yogitha nods again. Silently. Thoughtful. "I may do that." I can tell part of her is running through the notion that other people experience what she's been experiencing.

The silence drifts on.

Out of that sober thought though Yogitha's eyes suddenly dart up, alert. I can see a thought has formed in her mind. "I will show you something. Come." Not waiting for a response, Yogitha starts off down an escarpment of loose rock past some thorn bushes that catch the sun leaving me standing momentarily confused atop the hillock.

"Come along!" She calls again, not stopping, raising her hand in the air in what I recognize as a pantomine of me during some of my more manic episodes. "I will show you a very special place. It is not far."

I look to my survey instrument. Far as I know its one of only two sets capable of making, reasonably quick but precise, measurements for survey work that exist on planet earth right now. On the other hand, Yogitha is quickly disappearing around the side of winding mountain cliff. "This way! You will not be disappointed. You should see."

It's empty wilderness in every direction save the camps which are the other direction, but this is Yogitha's home territory. I trust she must know what she's doing and where she's going so I head off after her.

It's a cat and mouse game trying to tease out where we're going from her, but Yogitha clearly wants it to be a surprise. There's also the fact that what nomadic tribespeople consider 'not far' and what I do, and the two are very different things. Certainly we're travelling for some time, though - I reflect - December in the Bolan Valley, in spite of the dryness is actually a pleasant time of year. Temperatures sometimes dip here to a positively frigid eighteen degrees celsius. If it weren't for the fact it hadn't rained in almost three months it'd be paradise.

Despite the roughness of the hills, there's a distinct, well-trod trail Yogitha follows, winding its way up into the cliffs, though the further we climb, the more the cliff faces around us seem to rise higher. It's well over an hours, maybe two, before we finally round the final bend and I find myself looking down upon our destination.

It's a patch of bright vibrant green nestled amidst the light sandy colours of the barren rocks and dry shrubs that cling to the arid landscape. Trees - a whole little forest even where the cliffs part into some form of gully. Large, tall palms I see sticking up, towering above the whithered shrubs of the dry rocks that surround the gully on all sides.

"This is a sacred place for my people." Yogitha's voice is almost lost amidst the splashing of water, winding our way down, where the palms plunge us into the shade, I realize it must be waterfall. The plants here are absolutely like nothing else in the whole region. I follow her down towards the pool of brilliant blue water fed by a waterfall tumbling down from the cliffs above.

"This is... something." I honestly have no words. Having surveyed up and down the Bolan I'd seen the valley come alive and green after the rains, seen stands of trees, even forests, but I never imagined this mini tropical forest hanging out in the middle of the Bolan scrub-brush.

"I am sure you prefer scratching your little pictures." I find Yogitha sitting by the side of the pooling water, beneath a modest waterfall tumbling forth from the darkened rocks above. The sandstone is worn smooth by water action over many years. "But, I find coming here helps."

Looking around I notice another little spring, issuing forth water from out of a crack in the stones. "I imagine it would."

Yogitha dangles her feet in the water and is silent for a time, seemingly content with the moment, the surroundings, the sun above us beginning to dip back towards the horizon and the bright blue sky. Even so as I test the pool with my feet, and start wading into the shallows I can tell Yogitha's still thinking about our conversation earlier. "I knew you would like it. Very few outsiders see this place. It is special."

Of course there's a story about it, and of course she needs to tell me.

In the story, the mountain spirit and river spirit had a disagreement over the course of the river. The two argued, and fought - so much so that the earth itself was rent asunder and the Earth Mother Spirit came and sat them both down in order to make amends. It was a funny thing though, because where the mountain and river spirits met, this verdant pool and forest grew up and the two spirits agreed they would fight and rend the earth asunder no longer - though from time to time they still argued, and this was why sometimes the Bolan would flood, and the passes would collapse.

Or so the story went.

By this time the sun was starting to become very low. I could see Yogitha too noted this. "The sun is low. The festival will begin soon."

"It is, we should head back." Yogitha doesn't seem happy about the prospect. Indeed, her shoulders sink a little even as she speaks. "Perhaps... if you wished, we could stay awhile yet."

Suddenly I find myself having to think about where this evening is heading. There's a heaviness in Yogitha's bearing that hasn't really gone away, a weariness in her voice at the prospect of returning.

"You don't want to go back?"

Yogitha looks down into the waters, shakes her head. Says nothing.

"Don't you have a son waiting for you?" It was meant as a bit of a light-hearted comment, Yogitha was always sensible, but the words are out of my mouth before I realize this might be a sensitive topic. First I think she laughs from the sound and the way her shoulders bob, but then I see them sink deeper, and I realize she's started to cry.

There's nothing else for it. Go over to her. Give her the preliminary 'there there' pat on the shoulder.

"Sometimes... when he cries..." Yogitha buries her face in her hands. "It's like I'm back there..." There comes another spasm of wracked sobs. "Eveything we did and... I can't even care for my own son."

I make some consoling noises for Yogitha, put a reasurring arm around her shoulder as I sit next to her by the little blue pool before circling back to my real question: So, uh, where is your son? He's safe, of course, with her sister and mother. But not only is the boy's father dead, but his mom is plagued with ghosts, and now at last - I hope - we've come to the real reason she sought me out. I'd honestly worried more about Vrittika. Yogitha, I thought, would take care of herself.

"You said you had a woman. Did you have children?" She asks after a time.

That is the one question that no one here has never dared ask me, and it's one that I'm surprised, even after all this time, causes my blood to run cold all of a sudden. "No." There'd been an operation, before we'd even met. Children had never been an option and it had never sat easy with my wife. "It just... never worked out for us."

"I am sorry to hear this." She doesn't ask details. I imagine people here know better. Children get born stillborn, they die, it's just what they do here; what else need be said?

I nod. Unsure what further to say. This time I feel her giving me a reassuring squeeze of my hand.

"If you want, we can stay." I offer after a period of silence. There's no response, no just another squeeze.

The sun dips below the cliffs, casting the whole gully and pool into a haze of orange cast against the rocks and splashing waters. In turn, darkness falls on the land, but we don't stir. By now the festivities are in full swing, and it will take most of the night to make it back and as the night wears on, talking occasionally, leaning together, me at some point trying to teach Yogitha how to swim, I get the sense there's an unspoken agreement that we're not going back tonight.

If you'd have asked me a week before, or a year or some time after we'd have met I don't think I could have ventured an opinion on Yogitha; save that she was the most competent of the camp women we'd manage to cobble together. I'd have never have imagined this future waiting for either of us.

But I get the impression Yogitha doesn't want to face the festival or crowds. She doesn't want to see people asking her questions about where she's been or where her son is, trying to circle around questions she doesn't have answers to, or that they won't understand. Somehow, I think she realizes that - sometimes at least - I feel the same way.

The long night of the solstice descends upon us. Beneath the canopy of the trees, no light penetrates. Both past and future drift into forgetfulness as the world descends into a black nothingness in which there is only the sound of our hushed voices, and the tactile reasurance of our touch as we desperately seek to assure ourselves that there still exists something, someone - some hope - out there in the expanse that exists beyond ourselves.

It is in that place that we become lost, falling endlessly into one another.

End of Chapter 2
Last edited by Tesserach on Mon Jan 08, 2024 6:05 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Postby Saxony-Brandenburg » Sun Jan 14, 2024 10:22 pm

Al shadaha al Awliyā Narwa
The Testimony of Saint Narwa
2958 BCE


When I first sat eyes upon Umm Kharuf upon her resurrection, upon her reconquest of life, her body was thin and tired from her long battle with death. Her skin sagged, her fingers trembled. She could hardly stand, and there sat all night long against the rocks outside her tomb. She drank little from the cups of her astonished followers. She closed her eyes, and there amidst the wind and the cold turned her head upwards to the sky. There she sat in silence for hours until the sun began to paint the horizon purple and red with light. When then she opened her eyes, she stood, and from the belongings of her followers she took a blanket, and laid it out upon the rocky soil. As the sun began to crest above the earth, she prostrated herself towards the east, and there prayed aloud:

“Glory be the Allah,
the almighty, who has preserved me.
Glory be the Allat,
the merciful, who has given me new life.
Glory be to Wahd,
and the spirit of Wahd in man.”

Then she sat up from her prostration, and then took from her neck the string of beads which she wore in her funeral rights, and took one of the beads between her fingers and prayed, and with each prayer prostrated again to the east:

“In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful,”

Then she moved to the next bead upon the string, and prayed:

“Beloved Allat, full of love.
I surrender before you.
Blessed is your divinity, blessed is the fruit of your love.
Holy Allat, mother of life,
cleanse our soul’s pollution now,
and at the moment of our death.”

She passed to the next bead, and prayed:

“Glory be to the Father, and the Mother, and the Spirit of Wahd. For they are the hand, and the key, and the gate to our salvation.”

She passed to the next:

“We are of one soul, we are of one spirit. From it I have departed, to it I shall return. Bi-la kaifa. It shall be done forever more.”

And one final time she prostrated, and then raised her hands towards the east and stated:

“Praise be to God.”

When she rose from her prayers, the prophet staggered, and fell oncemore to her knees. She called her followers to her, who raised her up, and carried her to a camel they had prepared for her. From there she departed the valley of her tomb, as they carried her to the city of Nippur.

Along the road, dozens of onlookers stopped to look in wonder at the miracle which had happened. Each time she passed one upon their path, the Umm Kharuf would raise an open hand to them, as a sign of peace. The most faithful among those who saw her fell to their knees, and exclaimed: “Praise be to God!” So overwhelmed were they by the sight.

But one of these onlookers, who met Umm Kharuf upon the road stepped in front of the caravan, blocking their way. He fell to his knees and prostrated himself before us. I looked down at him, and asked him, “Why do you block the Prophet upon her return to Nippur?”

He looked up to me, and then to Umm Kharuf, and said: “Oh mistress! Forgive my trespass. But I am a poor and ailing man! Please, I beg for your aid!”

As I turned to Umm Kharuf, she had already dismounted from her camel, and approached the man kneeling before us. I could see that he had blisters and boils across his skin, of a highly contagious disease which medicine itself could not cure. Yet I saw the prophet, uncaring of his condition, place a hand upon his shoulder. She bade him sit up, and there whispered something in his ear. She then held a hand above his head, and prayed aloud to the sky.

“Mother of Heaven, show mercy upon your child. Heal him of his affliction. Save your child from the sickness of the body. This, I beg of you.”

She then embraced the man, before staggering back towards her camel, nearly falling as her followers helped her back up unto her mount. The man stepped from the path, weeping, and waved goodbye to her as we passed him and towards the walls of the city.

When we passed the gates of the city, and entered nippur with our mistress - the sight and the shock of seeing their mistress, formerly dead, now above the earth was enough to shake Black-Head and Gishimmari alike. From what had been a quiet day in the city, soon a small mob of onlookers began to follow them. She told us: “Take me to the house of wisdom, on the eastern hill. There are respects that must be paid .”

The house, which was once the temple of Enlil prior to our coming, had a flight of stairs which marked ascendency to the divine. One flight of stairs. We asked and begged to help her, but, unrelenting the stepped off her camel and attempted to climb. I saw Olifia not make it up three steps before slipping and falling down. The crowd behind us gasped. They were truly looking at a woman who only just narrowly escaped Kur. We soon rushed to take her up, and, with her arms around our shoulders, carried her up and into the house.

The guards at the door were equally as shocked. They did not even bade us wait, the doors were let open as we brought the prophet inside. The small square room had but three men inside. Yassib, the wise man, our Ensi, stood as we entered. He let out an utterance of confusion, before his eyes turned towards Olifia.

“Oh, Goddess…” He whispered to himself. “So it has come to pass…”

Olifia nodded to him, and made us let go of her arms as she approached him.

“Yassib, it seems you had outlived me. How lucky am I to see you still.”

“My lady- I should not think… Oh! God! How I have wept for you… Please, mistress, sit. I must go- I must leave you. I must get others.”

When they had abandoned us alone in the house, but I, the prophet, and our companions, she sat upon a cushion on the floor, and for once I could finally speak to her.

“Mother…”

She reached up a hand to me. “Have you done good in my short absence?”

“I should believe so.”

“Have you helped others?”

“Yes. I've-”

She raised a hand to my cheek. Her gaunt face finally made her look older. Older than a child. But subtle features gave away how little she aged underneath her weakness. Now, she felt more like an older sister than a mother.

“I am proud of you.”

“I've done what I could. I convinced the tribe leaders to donate to me grain and coin, medicine and hands. We’ve gone to villages of black-heads who are poor and ravaged by misfortune. We’ve fed them and treated them. Some even praise Allah and Allat.”

She paused. Tears seemed to well upon the corners of her eyes. “You have made the world hurt less. Bless you, Narwa. You are a bringer of Sulh-i-Kul.” Her voice trembled when she said “hurt”, as if remembering her own pain.

“But… How do you feel, Olifia? How did it feel to… you know.”

She gazed into my eyes, searching for something. She shook her head. “It is impossible to compare. The pain is impossible to understand. I died of pain, not of a blade. I felt it, I still feel it. My body shivers beneath the memory. My mind cannot cease remembering...”

She grasped my arm, boney fingers digging into my skin. “Narwa. I beg you to understand this. Look at me… Look into my soul. What have I told you? The body and the soul are one. Interlinked. When the body dies, what do you believe happens to the soul? I beg you to understand me now, as best as you can. I am not myself. I am not the same person who entered the tomb as who left it.”

I didnt know what to tell her. “Surely you… you are. I see you, you are weak but you are you Olifia!”

She shook her head. “I wish I could open my mind to you. Let me show you what I see. What I feel. I was spared only by Wahd, which brought me to this land through time and space. When I returned the right and left hands, Allah and Allat, nurtured me. They held me. But only by filling that which had left me with some of Wahd’s essence. That which gave me life distorted my mind. I feel… not a void, but the opposite. A cacophony of voices and urges of that sliver of Wahd in all people swollen. I feel the essence of the waters of Abzu filling my veins. I am not Olifia, no matter what you may see. I feel myself lost, I feel divinity within me. And it is… horrible. It is beautiful. It strikes me, that this mass of all things will swallow all mortal things, you included, on the moment of your passing. A foot out either door. And I am left to wonder…”

I didnt know what to say. Or how to answer. “You still love me, mother, yes?”

She sighed. “I will bury you with my own hands.”

“What will become of Umm Kharuf then?” Asked Yafid, among the entourage who listened from a distance.

“You are mortals. You will all become dust and earth when your time has come. I… I will perpetuate, just the same. Humans, they die. Gods do not, or at least, not the same.”

Before I had time to respond, from behind us, the doors slammed open- and from them a crowd, hastily controlled by a few armed men, was sifted through- as but a few were shoved through and allowed to pass into the chamber.

They, likewise, could not believe their eyes.

The dozens of people who pushed themselves into the room crowded her, uttering prayers and comments, asking questions- she could not answer one. She only stared at them.

“Back, do not crowd her, for God’s sake!” Barked Yafid, as we tried with them to organize ourselves. Among the crowd were the some of the highest of men among our tribes. Yassib the Mukharrib, Ilyās the warlord, Ghassan the rider, The Clans Headmen of the Banu al Hilal and Headwoman of the Banu al Udd.

Mukharrib Yassib approached Olifia first, his head bowed low, and knelt before her. “My lady…” He reached out a shaking hand to her. A dark hand of bones and wrinkles. She grasped it, and from her stool knelt down with him.

“You were always the first to serve me, Yassib.”

“My lady - I have followed you from the great southern sea to the white sea. I followed you from the mountains of Aden to the city of Kish. I have served you from sunrise to sunset, for so long… My one regret, that I could not follow you into the grave.”

She raised her other hand above his forehead. A shaking, thin hand. “Regret nothing, Yassib. Death is neither to be feared nor embraced. It should be a sin for you to follow me before your time is to come. Even entombed, you served me here in Nippur. Have you upheld the law?”

“With every judgment, I put the law of the Sharia first.”

“You are a good and wise man. The best of men to be Mukharrib of our people.”

“You flatter me.”

“Have you judged fairly and without bias? Have you allowed any guilty man to walk free? Have you applied punishment in proportion to the offence?”

“My lady, I have done everything in my power - written the judgements with my own hands in your script. I have done everything to see that the law was upheld evenly.”

“Then may his glory be glorified, Yassib, you are deserving of my praise. It is not mere flattery.”

“But if only-”

“No more. Yassib. Your piety is great, you accept praise from those beneath you. Yet you find it difficult to take it from those you consider your superiors.” She smirked, and pulled herself back upon her chair. “Now go with Al-Lah. I will speak to you again soon.”

He prostrated before her, before returning to his knees. The old Mukharrib reached for his cane, but two of his attendants grasped his shoulders before he could lift himself up. They carried him up, and with another bow allowed Ilyas to pass from behind him, and before Olifia.

Ilyas, the mighty man, wore a lion’s pelt above his robes. He bowed his head to Olifia, and knelt before her, and spoke with his eyes directly into her own. His respect, I saw, was not in humility, but in his directness. For no other did he kneel but the Lugal in Uruk, and Olifia. And no other did he lower himself to equal height than her.

“Forgive me, Lady, I failed you. Your martyrdom was of my mistake. I beg you, humbly, for forgiveness.”

She nodded slowly, wincing, something in her mind visibly showed on her face. The prophet closed her eyes, and took a breath. She reached out a hand to him. “Give me now what men before called ‘the kiss of peace’ upon my ring.”

And with a nod, Ilyas the warlord kissed the hand of the prophet, and looked back to her.

“That is all the penance I require of you, Ilyas. You fought bravely for your tribe and your master in Uruk. You, and your warriors, shed much blood that day. Much of it was your own. My… martyrdom, was mine own to make. I decided to follow your camp with the sisters. I decided to become one of many on that field. Bless you Ilyas, you are a great man for your responsibility just as much as your courage.”

He nodded his head. “Then, Lady, I must tell you now. The Lugal, your Son-In-Law Gilgamesh has sent word to me and my warriors. War has been brought to us by the Hivites, who have broken their friendship and agreements with us and Uruk. The Lugal asks us to obey our charge which you swore to his father and that we swore to him. To go to his borders to defend and repel their aggression. To shed blood in his defense.”

She placed her hand above his forehead. “You have made this oath, and now the law requires you to fulfill it. You have my blessing, as does your men. But, before you depart, I ask that you go to Allat and take an oath in her name: To not despoil the enemy in excess. To bring no harm to women, the elderly, or children. To not allow your men to dishonor the enemy in their body or dignity. To value life, of your men and the enemy’s, to not throw it away with frivolity. And if you conquer them: To respect their customs, and to subjugate them - but do not destroy them. The enemy may be barbaric, they may know not peace, they may be oathbreakers. But in the name of Allat I tell you to uphold this charge, which gives you the right thereby to conquer them.”

“I will make this oath to Al-Lat, Lady, before I depart the city.”

“Then Al-Lat protects you, Ilyas. Be wise and not arrogant. Do not be addicted to victory. Do not value your bravery over wisdom. That, will secure your defeat. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

She nodded to him, and as he turned, she stood.

“I will speak to each of you individually another time. But I must address all of you, and then those common folk who seek me outside, and who I owe my presence to most of all.”

She staggered to the middle of the chamber, where all the esteemed men and women who were allowed inside could hear her speak.

“When I met Al-lah and Al-lat, when I waded in the waters of Wahd, I was given a revelation from Heaven. A necessary one, which I will now deliver unto you. Our original charge, which was once to uphold our honor, was added onto by the law. Then the Sharia and our honor was our charge. Then, when we crossed the desert to Kengir, it became to see all men as our brothers, yes? Al-lah spoke to me, and he gave me a new charge in our pact with him. For we serve him now within our clans and communities, yet how selfishly do we keep the fruits of our piety within ourselves? I tell you, that Al-lah spoke to me, and he said this: Go to the blackheads, go to the Hivites, go to the Elamites, and all the men of the world. Show them the meaning of our Sharia. Show them the beauty and nobility of our faith. And so I share this with you, to give you this charge. To make believers in Wahd out of our neighbors. To show them the unity of being, the Wahd in all things, and the Wahd in all men. My beloved Narwa has told me, that she has gone to them herself, and given them the charity of food and medicine. Let all who believe themselves of good character and faith follow her example. To share with the poor what you are rich in. If you have wealth, let those who do not share in it. If you have grain, let the starving eat of it. If you have medicine and health, go and tend to the sick and suffering. This charge is not a suggestion, it is a demand of you. For all the wealth of this world means nothing. For even the mightiest of Kings are paupers compared to the riches of Wahd. The tallest of Zigguats will one day crumble to dust, while Wahd persists. The most precious wealth, for any man, is measured in humanity. That is richness not of physical things, but of the spirit. For the spirit is the Wahd within all men. And while the body may die, and the soul may die: but that spirit, that fraction of Wahd is the only thing which will persist, it is the only thing of immeasurable value. It is the only wealth you will have in the grave. In short: To ease the pain of the suffering. To save the burning world.

The Headmen of every tribe, of every clan. The Ensi of every city. The Mukharrib of every people. That is your charge! By this charge your greatness is measured. And I tell you, that those among you who take on this charge are the greatest of men before me, and are the ones most worthy of my praise and favor. For this is the will of Al-lah and Al-lat, the right and left hands. So shall it be my own. Bi-la Kaifa. Who among you will accept this charge?”

And to my great pride in my people: I heard the richest and most powerful men amongst our tribes, to this charge of the sharing of their wealth, reply with resounding acceptance. “Praise be to God! Praise be to Goddess!” I heard them cry. “I accept this charge!” “The clan accepts this mistress!”

I could see her grin, and lower her head. Out of breath, she leaned on her knees. We came to her, and grasped her shoulders with our arms.

“I must go outside now, to speak to those who await my word. Please, help me out.” She asked, and dutifully did her companions help her walk through the doors, and out into the open air.

Indeed, as word had spread it seemed as if the entire city had surrounded the house. For atop the steps I could see thousands of heads of Black-Head and Gishimmari, who screamed and shouted at the emergence of the prophet from the house. She stepped out atop the platform above them, before the steps down, and bowed her head to them. I saw her look to the east, and to the confusion of all prostrate herself - even as thousands cheered her name. She kissed the earth in prayer, until staggering back up. She turned to her companions, her voice sore and weak from what she spoke before. “I ask you to shout for me what I have to tell them. So that they may hear me, when my voice does not carry the weight my words deserve.”
To silence the crowd, the companions of Ilyas took up a horn which they play in battle, and let it blare its loud call several times, until the roaring turned into a loud murmur overwhich her companions could shout.

“Allah and Allat bless you

I have returned to you in the service of Wahd.

I have come to deliver you a charge

By which I have been instructed.

I have charged your headmen and leaders, and they have accepted.

Now I give you that for the common man.

If your neighbor is in need, aid him however you can.

If you have wealth, share it with those who do not.

To those who do not follow Wahd and the Sharia, show him this same love and companionship.

Pursue true virtue above all else.

If you will follow me, in service to Wahd and universal peace- you only need to do this:”

There she fell upon her knees, prostrated herself once more to the east, and raised her hands to the sky:

“To profess this oath: I testify that all men are of one soul and one spirit.”

And among the crowd, I saw hundreds, nay, thousands of bodies fall to their knees. And above the crowd, filling the air, in both Kengiri and Gishimmari tongues I heard this oath repeated.

“I testify that all men are of one soul and one spirit.”

And from thousands of individuals, one body and one spirit was created. As the prophet looked to the sky and cried: “Praise be to God. Praise be to Goddess.”

And when they rose they looked to her, who could barely stand, and could say no more. I saw the Prophet Olifia weeping. She had moved thousands, though she could no stand, for she was so frail. And from her I heard her mutter: “Help me, mother Goddess. For I have climbed a mountain, and now I quake at the summit.”
"When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?"

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Postby New Arcadius » Mon Feb 05, 2024 7:30 pm

Roxanna Wilson
Chapter I - As We Stand


December 20, 2024, 4:00PM, near Modesto, California
The sound of the train wheels were heard going along the tracks, as the engine roared up front. The strong "chooooooo" was heard from the passenger train. Indeed, it was AmTrak again, taking hours to get to one location to the next...

But I found it soothing.

The exterior of the train was nice to look out of, even though it was dark, and cloudy. I sighed as I fitted my supposed "long hair". It was very annoying wearing this wig, but it has only been about a few years since I took the medication that I was given for my HRT. Even still, I was pretty excited to finally visit my parents again.

I always enjoyed the time we have up there during Christmas. Watching a football game, grilling outside, or visiting the coastlines of Northern California, it was always a blast to do. I always do miss living with them. They're getting older, and I'm not getting any younger... it makes me worried that one day, they could befell an illness, and I may not even have enough time to say my final words and be by their side. That inevitability had kept me up at night sometimes.

"Next stop, Modesto." the announcer said. I would glance up, and fixed myself, glancing at the meal that I bought from the food cart. Typical, it looked indeed like microwaved food, but hey, at least it was good. I took a small swig of the Jack Daniels I got, namely because I felt it was that season. Closing my laptop, I would feel quite tired. Sleeping has been one of the worst things I attempted to overcome, but it is a good thing it has been improving. Going to bed earlier than before, its always a good thing. Closing my eyes, I would only hear the sound of the roaring engine and some people talking among eachother, before everything went silent...

...

Unknown time, Unknown Place on a beach
About an hour and a half had passed since I fell asleep, but for whatever reason, despite my heavy sleeping and dreaming, as I woke up, I noticed that the sun was at my eyes, the sounds of the train was gone, and...

"WHA- WH- WHERE-"

I freaked out as I glanced around my bearings. My clothes were gone, even my wig was gone, exposing my actual hair, which at first I assumed was my shaved hair that I ensured was kept like that until I felt confident in my actual hair growing back. But it was... curly and... oddly felt untangled and neat and... straight too? Since when did it grow back?! I glanced around quickly at my surroundings. A sandy beach, the trees looked sort of tropical, and I even heard birds, some I don't even recognize by the sounds. The waves crashed to the shores, but they weren't hostile, rather, pleasant. The water even looked clear.

What else also came at a shock, was things even looked clear from the distance. I shook my head, squinting my eyes a bit, but the sharpness would be the exact same. Letting go of my eyes, I rubbed my head, at a particular vein where I know my allergies were, but... the vein did not pop or anything in pain. Was I... dreaming? Moving my hands, I started to wave them around, and punched the sky, everything I could to be sure this was not a dream.

This was not at all a dream.

"Alright... don't panic Wilson... this has to be a mistake. You probably fell asleep for too long, and probably got dropped off... But why would they take your clothes?! Amtrak would NEVER do that! Not unless..."

I looked around frantically for my laptop, my wallet, my keys, those items that I hold VERY dear to me. My phone as well. Nothing. There was nothing but rocks, grass, sand and whatever was around. After about five minutes or so searching, I stopped and started to yell to myself "WHERE ARE THEY, WHERE IS MY WALLET?!?!?" repeatedly. The more frustrated I got, the louder I got.

Then after about fifty minutes, which included me on the floor, having a breakdown, I would finally calm down, and breathed deeply. "Okay... okay... No clothes, no technology..."

But... I realized something, very perculiar.

The air. It was indeed a nice sea breeze, and it was... hot, but, not smoggishly hot, or hot where the point I want to go mad. It was a seemingly natural feeling hot. The beach side also didn't seem polluted. There was no plastic bags, no trash wrappers, or any of that sort of normal waste I'd typically see along a supposedly public area. There wasn't even any signs or anything. There was no vehicles, which... I would figure by now, I'd be picked up by paramedics or by police and taken in. But none of that happened. I would of also been shrugged by a train worker to wake up, and I would defiantly not be naked.

This didn't made any sense at all. None of it did. I had no words to explain what actually just happened.

"Well... I shouldn't continue to linger around here..." I said to myself.

I would begin to get up from the place I was in fetal position in, and walked around to explore my surroundings. There was no turning back, this was the situation I was in now... it is time to get out of it.
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Arlye Austros
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Postby Arlye Austros » Tue Feb 06, 2024 8:07 pm

North of Gardubba, Right margin of the Rérkes River.
2950 B.C.


Diego’s eyes gazed upon the valley once again. He imagined old age would get him before. That his knees would falter and his sight would be clouded before he was carried over the mountains. But his own feet made the journey and his eyes guided the way. Eighteen years after he lost contact with the League, he was finally returning.

It wasn’t home. But it was something.

“We set camp here. Tomorrow we will make our approach.” He told his escort. Not the men who’d left with him so long ago. Those had died in various places during his journey through the north. The first at the shores of the Atlantic, somewhere north of the river he presumed to be the Tajo. Two others had been killed by a pack of wolves near the Finisterre. The rest had settled with him and died of disease or combat as they stayed with the locals, finding new sources.
It was five years of prospecting, but he had a good idea of the tin deposits in the area, enough to sustain some industry.
The problem were the nearby wars, and the economy of the region was damaged, as he could attest: crops left unattended led to human groups migrating far and wide, causing more demand and instability. The little trade that already existed was disrupted, leading to starvation and freezing in many cases. Diego did the best he could to help the people who harbored him, but even then things went sour, and the time to leave came.

“Should we send somebody to scout ahead?” asked Golzal, one of the Aitzura who came with him and led a few others of his party.
“No. I don’t know what we can expect, but I also don’t want to warn anybody whom we might not want to be warned.” Diego replied while sitting on a rock that allowed him to overlook the valley. He’d worn the same tunic and travel cloak when he left the village in the north, made of bear skin. It was a gift to acknowledge his… supremacy? Oddity? He wasn’t sure. But it was meaningful. He decided to wear it upon returning.
It was, perhaps, the right decision. The group of twelve people walked down the valley, following the stream and passing between some ruins at which they saw vague figures quickly running to hide. Diego didn’t try to call upon them, and they continued on a southwards direction. This led them very close to another stream to the right, and Diego decided to follow it, as it seemed more vivid and constant. Short after that they came across a man and two youths, all armed with spears and looking at the strangers from afar.
“Stop there! Or I will have the boys up there will pelt you down.” The man, with a well-cared beard and wearing a hemp tunic, aimed with his spear to the hillsides and woods.
Diego raised his hand to keep his party at ease. He knew they didn’t understand the man. “Hold down your weapons.”
Both sides understood, but only the eleven with him obeyed.
“My name is Tiago of Gardubba. I am returning home after many years.”
“I’ve never heard of you.”
“That is fine. I’ve been gone for years and only long for home.”

The man and the two boys still held their spears at the ready. “Then you are almost there, but you will have to travel through our lands. And we don’t let an armed party go through them just because one claims to belong to the old settlement.”
“Didn’t the League issue a freedom of peaceful travel near the settlement?”
The man chuckled. “Were you a boy when you left? The League hasn’t enforced that since… a very long time. I remember it, but nothing of that remains.”

A chill crawled through Diego’s spine.

“Follow me to our home, then. We will decide there what to do with you. Drop your weapons!”
Diego hesitated for a second. He was about enter the land again with a killing. He assumed “the boys up there” where probably children, and his group could overpower the man and the two teenagers in a matter of seconds.

“Put your weapons down.”

They were led by man, who introduced himself as Bazfalza, while the two boys and three other children who came out of the woods carried their weapons and kept a close watch on the newcomers. They followed a path into the hills and reached the edge of a small pond. A house laid at the other side, across the river that fell into the pond with a small waterfall.
“This is my house. You may camp here at this side of the pond. We will, however, take your weapons.”
“I understand.”

This was one of several families living in the area of ponds and rivers north of Gardubba, at the foot of the hills of the ranges north of the River. They called themselves “Agarmasskan”. Although they considered themselves to be a part of the League, Bazfalza admitted the League was only a thing to be talked about, not to heed.
“They sometimes meet at the river crossing. But only to deal with petty disputes.”
Diego and the master of the house broke bread at one side of the pond.
“What of the Lagosshkan? Last I heard we were at war.”
“The Southerners? They are long gone. After a winter they just… stopped raiding.” Bazfala chuckled once more. “I suppose without anything to fight there wasn’t really a thing to unite us. The League stopped being useful after that. It was the Ukoesshkan to the south that led the final stages of the war against them. They led many other groups, but after their victory most stopped talking to everybody else. The League broke down.”

Diego looked around the small encampment, where the northerners talked and rested. Was it worth it? The League was the greatest thing he’d achieved when he thought himself mortal. Somehow, he felt anything he could accomplish from now would be somewhat lesser.
“It is a petty then. I had plans to expand the League’s trade across the river all the way to the sea.” He mumbled. Bazfalza frowned.
You had plans?”
“I am Tiago the Unwithering, once Keeper of the Crossing.”

Bazfala watched in awe, his eyes widened and his expression frozen. But then it melt and began to crack into a growing smile. Then laughter.
“HAHAHAHA! That is a good one. Make sure you tell it by the fire in the settlement, boy. And play the part to the end. You will have them inviting you to a drink in no time!”
Diego, however, didn’t smile back, and grunted at the man. Some of the men at the encampment looked at the pair, and Bazfalza realized he was for real.
“You are mad. Right?”
“I am not. I believe. I left many years ago. Now I come back to see what remains.”
“You are just a young man. Tiago the Unwithering was…”
“Unwithering. Ageless. They said it as a joke at first. But more and more people seemed to believe it by the time I traveled west. I refused to believe it myself until I lost contact.”
“It is impossible…”

They crossed the lands of the Agarmasshkan the next day and reached the northern wall of Gardubba. Bazfalza send one of his sons with him, to make sure they wouldn’t be hindered. Thus, the party entered the northern gate, made of oaken boards tied together, by the time the sun was hallway down towards the horizon. They were distinctively different from the people in the town, and Diego thought it was somehow larger than he left it, but the amount of people on the paths and looking from the doorways was pale in comparison to his memory.
They reached the opening in the center of the settlement, where a single pole with several carvings stood. It seemed old and ill-cared. Diego stood at its base and looked up. It was the ornament that had overwatched the assemblies of the League. His group surrounded him and waited for their leader to do anything.
“This is it. Let’s see if I can reclaim my post.”

Golzal nodded and produced an auroch horn with engravings on its edge. After he took it into his lips it made a loud cry that evolved into a deep calling. The people around the clearing gathered, and more started to come from the streets as the blast echoed in the distance.
“My name is Tiago. I once acted as Keeper of the Crossing, many years from now. I worry for the state of this city. I call upon the inhabitants to meet me tomorrow at sunset in the southern side of the Crossing, at the groves of the River, to discuss the future of this settlement and the League it should command.”
Upon finishing, Diego took off his bear cloak and climbed to the top of the pole, using the carvings as holding points. When he returned to the ground the figure of the bear fluttered to the wind.
“The invitation is laid. It’s up to you to answer it. Send word to those that would heed it.”
Last edited by Arlye Austros on Sat Feb 10, 2024 11:56 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Patagonia and its regional neighbours are dominated by the Frankish Kingdom of Argentina and use Modern tech for their affairs. -Modern/Post Modern Tech-

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Postby G-Tech Corporation » Wed Feb 07, 2024 8:21 am

Part 7, Chapter 11: The City on the Lake


January 10th, 50 AG

Beyond the low palisade the wind whipped and cracked over the spans of ice and choppy black waves, piling the formerly frozen veneer of the deep waters of the Adriatic into sheathes of shear white death about the pilings and moorings of the bay. My cheeks stung, even the tiniest grains of sand picked up by the gale the smallest of knives born on the wind to assault deadened senses on pieces of skin warding themselves against frost. Without more than a moment's thought I replaced the thick woven scarf about my mouth and nose, letting the welcome warmth of my breath drive the chill away from my face even as my eyes squinted against cold and tempest alike.

Mishael's voice was pitched low, but loud, to carry over the battering of the wind.

"Well that we made port when we did, sir. Truly, the governor would rather you were indoors in this weather. As would I."

After another breath I nodded fractionally, and turned away from the storm-lashed sea toward the calmer waters of the lagoon where a small forest of masts huddled in the lee of the island. Even with the back of the Rana to break the fury of the winter winds, and despite the heavy build of the large vessels tied up to the sturdy pier, they rocked in their moorings. I could not hear the creaking of the lines which tethered them to shore and heavy pilings sunk into the stodgy soil, but I knew the sound all too well, and those unlucky souls who were standing watch over the vessels would be nervous to hear ropes as thick as men under such stress.

A dozen strides, two dozen along the top of the earthen rampart which encircled the kasr, then a door opened in the heavy brick building near at hand and welcome light and warmth flowed out to do battle with the flurry. A faint strain of a fiddle's snarl beat its way through the cloth round tight over my ears as I hurried through the opening, and behind me one of the black-clad guards pulled the passage closed once more. It shut out the pale half-light of winter sun, replacing it with the low lurid glare of fire, but the abatement of the howling gale and the familiar beckoning of logs atop embers were certainly a finer riposte.

Some of the men in the common room looked up when I entered, those who were not engrossed with cards or already deep in their cups, but their glances didn't last for long. Officially, of course, there was nothing wrong with looking at a man of my rank. But even here, with soldiers sworn to the service, the eyes of my guardians did not rest, and few could hold their gaze for more than a moment or two. Studiously men found occupations elsewhere, or suddenly became fascinated with the meat and bread on their plates, and so as if by magic a path to the deeper places of the fledgling fortress opened before my tread.

It was not a real outpost even, in truth - a hundred men with will and might in their hands should have overthrown it in a fortnight. But the locals here were still all but Neolithic, and they made little use of the island save as a place for fishing and the gathering of reeds, and that but seldom. Arranging with one of the nomadic bands which nominally called this headland their manse to allow the construction of a trading port had been simplicity itself, and it didn't hurt that when the first ships arrived in late summer the hunters and gatherers were afield near the slopes of the Alps. By the time the Velosci had returned to the warmer shores of the sea, there were three dozen soldiers in black and white staring down at them in a not-unfriendly manner from a set of sturdy watchtowers and a rampart which could easily resist casual assault or even a reasonably prolonged siege.

None of that had been strictly necessary, but it was best to be prepared for every eventuality. Expansion west from Tergestum had been hindered overlong, in the view of the Rose Council and indeed the Emperor, for the "surface of contact", as it were, was but a small thing through the Karstwasten and the interaction of Imperial authority with her peoples light. Naturally, it might have been generations ere the permeation of culture and trade brought about a consolidation ample to reach toward Tarcuna and beyond, and those timetables were not optimal for the ambitions of local men.

My boots drummed on a heavy timber floor, rough-hewn logs making do where in better areas planks would have served, or even dressed stone. That would come in time though. I passed a half dozen doors, before coming to one that was ajar, and knocking deferentially despite my invitation.

"Come in! Come in. Servius just returned from the patrol. Good news, that which you should hear."

The accent of the aspiring commander was thick and melodic, having more of the Greek about it than proper Imperial, but that said little. Ygressos had once come from Athens half of a lifetime ago, but the auxiliary skirmisher had risen through the ranks steadily over the years in the brushfire conflicts of the Illyrian coast and proven doughty. Oversight of a small swathe of land such as this was just what he needed to make the transition from military man to administrative official, if he was capable of the same.

I crossed the small cozy chamber, judiciously sitting at a respectful distance from the tiny pot-bellied stove which was throwing off waves of heat in the corner. Southerners who hadn't dealt with such winters often were more prone to turn their chambers into saunas than any comfortable temperature, for all that regulations recommended against unnecessary usage of wood for heating. It couldn't be helped, and it wouldn't help affairs to swelt in heatstroke. The chair that creaked under me was a crude thing, but sturdy enough, and truth be told you couldn't expect much more.

A young man with pale blonde hair, so light it might have been white in other radiances, nodded in my direction before looking back at the governor. Ygressos gestured with broad swarthy palms in theatrical fashion back at him, so the scout turned to me and began to speak entirely too quickly - nervousness, probably.

"Conditions to the Averfells are better than expected. Roads are clear, and we saw no sign of any brigandage or attacks on caravans. A congregation outside of Padus, near the wash of the river, was very welcoming, and if my men had eaten everything we were offered we should have had to roll back home. The countryside seems to be rich enough, if even during this harsh winter they have ample to spare for travelers. There were some suspicious glances for so many men ahorse, but I based on conversations with locals I would chalk those up to natural inclinations more than any directed hostility. All in all, rarely have I seen a country less ill-disposed to Imperials."

The governor grunted, drumming fingers the thickness of lead bars on a slightly careworn map of the countryside. It was a rude thing, with only guesses at the locations of some settlements and rivercourses, but even the Explorators hadn't had too long to go over the countryside so that could hardly be faulted.

"Helps that we haven't fought a war with them, unlike every other damnable upstart prince from here to the Hellespont. Brightlord Averisos knew what he was doing when he sent us here."

I didn't offer any input there - mainly because I agreed with it. In the south of Europe the Imperium's borders had been reasonably stalled for the better part of a generation, largely on account of being buttressed against the petty kingdoms and minor polities of Anatolia and Greece proper, who for a variety of relatively cogent reasons preferred to rule themselves. Vladimir understandably was reticent to wage wars of conquest for the purposes of territorial acquisition alone, a virtue I was thankfully I had instilled in him at a young age, and the truth was that those lands offered little which could not be found elsewhere without bloodshed. The wash of the Black Sea had arable land and sunny seasons without remorse, and of the silver and copper of Thrace the Erzgebirge and Alps offered unstintingly.

Still, men without ambitions to accomplish could turn their aspirations inward, and for that reason there was still value in offering new frontiers to tame, safety valves for rising populations and second sons. With a touch of providence and the will of my Father, northern Italy and her fertile vales and welcoming populace would prove just such an opportunity for a generation of potential miscreants.
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Arlye Austros
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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Arlye Austros » Fri Feb 09, 2024 1:12 pm

North of Gardubba, Right margin of the Rérkes River.
2950 B.C.
The following nightfall.


People started trickling into the grove from the north, carrying torches and keeping a stern watch for their surroundings. According to what had been reported to him, Diego’s arrival had been met with a fair quota of mistrust. After all, people don’t just live that long.
The again, legends are a thing. And stories of kings and heroes of great age and slow death are not strange here as much as they aren’t up north. And Diego was extraordinary already.
They didn’t seem like warriors, though. Their clothes were simple and practical, although many had simple elements of mild luxury: pendants and bracelets, hair knots with talismans hanging or small capes of skin.

“Softlings…” Golzal scoffed, hitting the ground with a spear that had its tip covered with a cloth. Diego gave him a stern look, as the group stood on an islet at the grove. “Well. They are.”
“That is why I have you.”
His comment made the whole group of northerners chuckle. The incoming townsmen walked over a series of plank crossings and reached their islet, which had a sacred pole at its center with the carvings of Etagina on one side and Koshe on the other. Diego nodded as they started to arrive, until some thirty people stood in a circle. The crackle of torches merged with the whispers of the grove; croaking and buzzes over the running of the water.

“I thank you all for coming.” Diego started. I would-”
“We came because we are curious.” A woman, who had the signet of Etagina on her robes, interrupted him. She spoke in a way that made Diego think she was used to authority. A priestess, most likely. “Not every day does somebody claim to be a man who is dead.”
“What proof have you of that man’s death? I never died. I merely went away too long.” He replied. “Only with the guidance of the divine did I come back.”
“If you are who you say you are,” another one, a man without any ornaments and simple-looking, seemed eager to question him. “then you should explain why you left in the first place.”

There was a general grumble and whispering.

“I left to find new way to combat our foes. War was going ill.”
“War did go ill.” The priestess went on. “Orumbár is right to question you. His grandfather, Reidás the Mute, led the fight as best as he could.”
He looked at the stern, humble man. This was the grandson of the mute boy that had saved him.
“Then he managed to save Gardubba.” He complimented. “I knew your grandfather. He saved my life once.”
Orumbár frowned. “I find that hard to believe. He was only a boy when he participated at the lost ambush. There is not a chance you are that man.”
“You are right to doubt.”

More whispers amongst the crowd.

“I don’t know if I can ever prove to you who I am. But I can still bring you news. The League, I am told, is shattered. But it is the best choice we have to keep ourselves, and our allies and neighbors, safe.” He turned to the priestess. “I witnessed the campaigns of Ors-Lakosshkan against your ancestors. I might have incited them. I showed them the paths and talked them into greatness. I can never pay back the pain I caused. But I can make sure those who survived continue living on.”
His sight then turned to the man. “I saw your father tied up and ripped apart form his home. I was told from my master how he died, trying to flee and fight back for the little one. And for that he paid dearly. Nevertheless, he kept on fighting. You ought to be proud of him.”

A faint smile appeared in the man’s face. Diego carried on.

“What I did could be done by anybody. The right thought can instill greatness, but also great terror and pain. A time could come in which another one, Lakosshkan or others, may fall on us once more. My companions can attest to those things already happening all over the world.”

He walked to Golzal’s side and grabbed him by the collar of his fur coat. “This man is the fiercest warrior I’ve seen. But only because he witnessed his friends being slaughtered in an altercation. His home was then raided and he alone escaped. This other one heard of the marches of armed warriors on villages. That one served in one such march, and caused great pain to himself and others.” His finger when from one to another, and each seemed to grow uncomfortable at being talked about.
“The world is big, but the ghosts of death and war are fast. They may not come. The will come. The question is, Gardubba, how will you chose to receive them.”

Somebody said something about “lies and profanities”, but was shushed. People seemed to grant Diego a weary and careful good will. Then silence ensued.

“For your grandfather I ought to answer, Orumbár. I left to find a tool that might help us defeat Ors-Lakosshkan if they were still a threat to us. And they were on those days. That tool might still be within our grasp.”

He gestured at the teenager who had led them into the town. “Come, Belzedan, son of Bazfala of the Agarmasskan. Bring out the shield I lent you.”
Belzedan hesitated, but then produced a disk from the bag he’d brought. It was made of wood, but plated in layers of copper. Diego had overwatched its making near what he believed would be León. The copper was laid in small disks mounted over each other, forming a scale-like pattern. It was strong enough to deflect any arrow, and to resist most blows.
“Lay it on the ground, against that log over there. Golzal of the Aitzura is the best javelinman I’ve seen, and he will strike that shield from the holy pole of Ettagina.”

The shield was laid tight at the log and the boy walked back. Golzal removed the cloth and a yellow-green shimmer emerged, moving fast in the night as the warrior prepared his throw. A second later the object pierced the shield and stuck itself in the log behind.

“I think you stuck it deep.”
“I’ve aimed stronger.”

Belzedan walked to the shield and took it. “It’s pierced. From side to side and even to the log.”
Orumbár walked to the spear and pulled it, having to step on the log to release the weapon from its imprisonment. Belzedan took the shield and peeked through the hole in it.
“I will have it repaired, it’s my gift to you.”
Orumbár admired the blade of the spear. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I am not surprised. It took me years to find the right ingredients. It’s a powerful metal to be used against the red metal of the southerners. We just need to travel and find the means to make it.”
The priestess was fixed on the effigy of the Goddess. “I must ask her Ladyship about this.”

Diego understood. “Do so, then. My companions and I will camp outside, as it is proper, until She grants us passing.”
The woman produced something from her tunic, and Diego recognized the horn he’d stolen form Ors-Lakosshkan when he ran away. She blew a long blow through it. A single voice replied from the crowd.
<<Sostibesh, Priestess of Ettagina, demands the night to convey her thoughts to the Goddess. Let everybody return home and leave this holy site. Foreigners must leave our walls immediately until the Horn calls them back!>>
Last edited by Arlye Austros on Sat Feb 10, 2024 11:56 am, edited 1 time in total.
Arlye Austros, the New South. In the Nibaru Expense. -Future Tech-
Patagonia and its regional neighbours are dominated by the Frankish Kingdom of Argentina and use Modern tech for their affairs. -Modern/Post Modern Tech-

Chilean-Argentine, Pro Union of the Americas (all three). Anti Chavism, anti other stuff. Conservative, but not in extremis (hope so).
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New Arcadius
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Postby New Arcadius » Sun Feb 11, 2024 2:22 am

Roxanna Wilson


Eastern Cuba, Western Nipe Bay
0 years, 0 months, 0 days since arrival


Several hours had passed. Glancing around at my surroundings, there was indeed no one around that I thought would come and help me. Surely, if there was an Amtrak station nearby or some police station, I would of seen it by now. But all I saw, was tall palm trees, fresh forest trees, and hills that rolled. The sky was clean, I could actually breath... but good god the bugs! They were all over me, trying to get a bite. I tried to flinch as many of them off me as possible as I hated when they got on me. But I think... I felt a mosquito bite me. The bump on my skin appeared, which I wouldn't see until I felt it start to itch. Trying to resist trying to itch it, I continued to explore around a bit more.

Going through a passing, I would hear something rustle within the bushes. I glanced over, alert. I would give a soft gulp. "Hello?" I would say, my heart racing in anxiety as I would continue to trek through. It was not easy trying to not feel paranoid, as I always felt that I would some day die, but goodness, being in a forest? What if a snake found me and bit me? What would I do then? I would keep going trying to go a bit faster, speeding up my walking. The rustles got more and more pronounced as I would keep going, and going... Until...

TWANG!

An arrow was sounded right next to me. Barely hitting my face, it was SUPER close. I glanced at the arrows back and the stone. I would turn around to see that it was a woman, but it was not the woman I thought I would see. It wasn't a tour guide, it wasn't a hunter or anything...

Infact... she looked more like someone I saw out of a drawing I saw on Wikipedia. Only... vastly different than I thought she would look like.

Dark skin, headdress with feathers, wearing nothing on top, with nothing on the bottom, tattooed, and had a particular bow and arrows. Everything looks very familiar. But she isn't what I thought she was at all. Regardless, she NEARLY killed me. I panicked and spoke.

"Look, whatever cosplaying convention this is, please, don't try and kill me!" I would beg. "Please... please just don't kill me. I'm sorry I-."

I would glance away, but the woman glanced at me very confused. She had no idea what I was saying, but my gestures indicated that I was fearing for my life. She had her bow again ready, but more in a protective stance. "<You aren't a bird. Who are you?>"

As she spoke, I would open my eyes widely in absolute shock. Not only she was speaking a language I had never heard before... but for whatever reason, I understood what she was saying. There was no way I could of- "<Roxanna. I am lost, and I have no idea where I wa- Oh my go->"

I instantly stopped my speaking as soon as I repeated the words perfectly in her language. As if I was some kind of linguistics magician, I just spoke a third language I never thought I'd understand. An unknown language that was lost to time. What is this?... How is it possible that I was able to understand her? Even the woman seemed shocked that I even knew what she was saying. She would lower her bow a bit more. "<Lost?...>" she said in a now confused tone. "<I don't understand. You speak the same language, yet you claim you are lost. Are you one of the Kewak?>"

"<Ke... wak?>" I replied confused. I was shocked that for whatever reason, her wording was sounding as if I have been speaking it like English for many years. Maybe I could use this to my advantage to ask for directions?... "<I apologize, I do not know what the "Kewak" are. I was sleeping onboard a train heading to see my family in Santa Rosa, when suddenly I just... woke up out here. Then of course, I met you.>"

As I was speaking, she would come close to met and pull the arrow out of the tree, now seemingly no longer being that alert, as for what a naked human like myself with no weapon, can even provide a threat for. She would straighten the tip and spoke again. "<"Train"?...>" she asked confused. I would laugh a bit. "<Yeah... you know... a choo-choo! A thing where you go from point A to point B on board, and it goes very fast!>" Looking more confused at me, the woman would place her arrow back in the quiver, where she shook her head confused with all of the terminology I mentioned. "<I'm sorry... I never seen or heard of such a thing before. A "choo-choo"? A thing that goes faster than a bird?... Interesting. Regardless. I am still confused. You say you were visiting a tribe called... Santa Rosa... huh. Who is a holy figure named Rosa? Must be a very wise woman, if your family lives among her people, much like my tribe.>"

I would tilt my head. "<Who is your tribe?>" Oh yes, this probably is a reservation or something. But I don't remember California being this jungly.

"<The Deleite.>" She answered. "<Our home is not far from here. Where you are, is where we normally hunt.>"

Deleite? I never heard of that name before. But the way she said it, it sounds like it was some kind of Asiatic name or something. "<Right... Uhh... So what is that body of water down the way over there.>" I pointed in the direction of a bit more downhill.

"<The water? That is what we call the NIpe Sea.>" she said. "<We honestly never ventured out far beyond to get our fish, so I assume there is more out there.>"

Nipe Sea. Okay, now that sounds more like a name that I can sort of remember... Something sounds very familiar in terms of that, but I can't really pinpoint what it was. Man, I wish I had my phone right now to determine where I was.

"<... Right...>" I said raising my eyebrow. "<Uh... So are all of your people naked or something?>"

The woman searched around a bit trying to track some animals nearby. "<Almost. Us hunters are naked since it gives us more resistance when we are hunting, or in battle. The markings on us is that of the warrior and hunter caste, an honor us women have.>" she said. A warrior and hunter caste? Us women? Interesting... a matriarchal society maybe? I curiously crouched watching her trying to track. "<I see...>"

She turned to my eyes. "<You know, you are a very curious person. I think you may be okay.>" The woman said. "<I am Acaguax, a pleasure to meet you.>" she said. I nodded. "<Yeah, a pleasure to meet you too, Acaguax...>"

Her name was already off. Defiantly not like a name I ever heard of before. But who am I to judge? She would continue along a path where she was tracking and stopped, before doing the tracking again.

"<So... if it is possible, could you uhh... take me back to your tribe? I don't really know how I'm going to get home or anything. I->"

"<Worry not, Roxanna.>" Acaguax said. "<Though you may look strange, and somehow speak like us, I do believe that you are potentially from a nearby tribe or something. Perhaps you are a refugee from a tribe that was destroyed recently? It does quite happen a lot in Nipe. There are many tribes around here that fight for supremacy, and the Deleite are no different.>"

I would raise a brow and looked shocked a bit. "<Really? You would shelter me?! Thank you so much, Acaguax, I->"

"Shh."

She would glance forth before taking out an arrow from her brow again. She would aim it toward a large lizard walking around, before it stopped.

TWANG!

The stone arrow pierce into the lizard's head, where it would gush, and drop. A small fist formed, and a cheerful expression emerged from Acaguax. "<Take that, Caciulex!>" she would exclaim before picking up the lizard.

"<Nice shot!>" I would say with a smile on my face, but looked a bit weirded by the dead lizard, looking away a bit.

"<Thank you, Roxanna. Wait, is there something wrong?>"

"<No!... no nothing at all.>" I would say, smiling a bit. Dead animals was not really much of my fortae. Just jumped my heart.

Nodding, Acaguax would place the lizard on her back, and placed away her bow. "<Come with me. Even though it may feel like they won't accept you right away, they will, if you help us, and act as a part of our community. You are a woman, so it shouldn't be that difficult.>" she said. Saying that it won't be difficult with me as a woman? This is just getting better... "<I have a curious question before we go.>" I asked. "<Is your tribe, a matriarchy, perhaps?>"

She would give a nod. "<In the sense of many things, women do indeed run things.>" she said with a smile.

"<... But unambiguously? Such as women completely leading?>"

She would look confused. "<Well, we do have men who sometime rise to the posts... but a lot of women do things moreso then men so... I suppose?>"

I knew it. I knew there was such a woman lead society! That seemed unambiguous enough!

Though, I still had to stir through my head of what she said... Nipe Sea... Nipe... Where did I heard this name before? Urgh... it is in my head, but I can't imagine what it was. Maybe I should try to listen in on these people's conversations of what they said for more information... Either or, I would follow my new acquaintance to her village.
Last edited by New Arcadius on Sun Feb 11, 2024 2:25 am, edited 1 time in total.
Transfemale roleplayer, worldbuilder and country-maker that has been around since 2013! Sorry if I keep on deactivating.

CERTIFIED BRONZE AGE ENJOYER

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Tesserach
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Founded: Apr 25, 2021
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Tesserach » Tue Feb 13, 2024 12:50 am

Birth is No Beginning, Death is Not an End

A Prologue


We live, like fleas,
Who trudge through jungles of dog's fur,
Imagining this forest to be,
The whole of truth,
The whole of reality.

Like people shackled inside a cave,
Who's only sense of the world,
Comes from shadows cast upon the rock,
By light filtered down from above;
For them, the shadows are Everything,
The totality of their percieved reality.

The Way of Great Peace,
To see beyond the shadow,
To venture, boldly, into truth,
To see the parts for the whole,
To stair, unblinking, into the void,
And show those who do not see,
The Way, out of darkness,
And into the light.

-From The Way of Great Peace




Look at how they crawl around,
Upon the ground,
Like little ants.

Yes, but how they fascinate,
Confusing Fate,
With what is merely chance.

Isn’t it a laugh?
Isn’t it a shame?
Thinking there is someone in Heaven to blame!
Yes, but even while blaming Fate for the lives that they lead,
They hope for the lives that they need.

Living every day
‘Til the day they die
Never getting answers
Yet still asking 'Why?'
Going through the motions as if there will be a reward...

They’re only human,
They don’t see!
Who they are is who they’ll always be.
Only human, after all!

So they push and they shove
With this thing they call love
‘Til they fall!

Isn’t it a farce?
Isn’t it a waste?
Struggling to face what can never be faced.
Yes, but maybe Death can release something more than we share?
I really don’t know and don’t care!

They’re only human,
Standing still,
Doomed to live pushing boulders uphill.
Only human, after all!
So they give and they take!
Till their silly hearts break!
Hoping someone will come break their fall!

-The Duality of Mankind, Mehrgarhi Performance Song




The Sulaiman Mountains, Northeastern Hindu Kush,

2951 BCE


The riders passed along the banks of the stream where morning mountain mists drifted over the gently trickling water. Sunlight scarcely touched the land, the morning silence punctuated only by the camel's occasional gluttoral vocalizations and the wide, elegant wings of a pair of cranes, their elegant wings and crests taking flight and attracting the noisy attention of the dogs in the distance.

The camp lookout, a youth, stood up from his haunches then. A spear in hand, watching the rider's slow approach warily.

The riders were lightly adorned in dark, coarse wools, though they were heavily armed with compound bows, javelins, and long spears that hung from their mounts and packs. The first rider held a standard, bearing the likeness of the earth-mother spirit.

The dogs maintained wary distance from the camels and their riders though their barking was incessant. Neither the riders nor the camp lookout seemed to pay them much mind, though others from the camp were already arrayed, armed, but watching from a distance. They parted as the camp chieftain, his hair braided but unadorned, proceeded forth with two warriors.

"He's not here Azahad." Chief Yagha's voice carried over the lowland valley as he approached the riders.

One of the riders shifted forward on his camel at that, dismounting along with a pair of his own riders, approaching the chieftain on foot.

"We know." Azahad, the lead rider's eyes, dart off into the distant mountains. Somewhere out there. "That way, with his cousins so we hear."

There's an awkward silence as the two groups of men come together, facing one another. The lookout and a few others from the camp take hold of the dogs' leashes and begin pulling them away back towards the camp as the camels continue to eye the creatures uneasily. They wait for the dogs and their barking to be led away before saying anything else.

The chief eventually nods and takes a deep breath. "Shiraj talks too much when he drinks."

"He does." Azahad agreed as he held out bundle wrapped in a gazelle pelt. "I'm here to talk."

The old chief's eyes regard the bundle with tired reluctance. Gazelle usually indicated a peace offering, or at least, not war. Unwrapping it revealed assorted gifts befitting a greater chief than he was. A polished bronze mirror, a fine beaded necklace, copper bangles, and leaves of the soma plant, and other healing plants.

"Your great nephew killed a Vadabhaat." Azahad speaks into the silence, brandishing now a steatite seal indicating he acted as an officer of Great Grāmasabha of Alipur and a member of the great council's Eagle Society.

An enforcer of the peace, as it were.

"It was an honourable killing. The Vadabhaat used to respect debts of honour." The old man said. Looking at the gift, the chief contemplated it a time, withholding his acceptance.

Azahad could not feign pleasantries as Aradin did. The hesitancy annoyed him. Being out here, so far from his wife and children annoyed him. Putting out fires among petty chiefs, trying to save them from their own squabbling warriors annoyed him. Azahad wondered, had he been like this when he'd been young? Probably he had. Probably the Sherikhan Terakai chief had been too, but they were young and foolish no longer. The annoyance crept into his voice. "And the Vadabhaat will... unless your nephew returns with us." The young warriors didn't understand what was at stake, but they did. "Did your nephew mention the dead man's cousin is a Vadabhaat warchief? The mother and widow are in his camp now, asking he take up their cause."

The chief's eyes drifted as the implications of that settled in. It seemed he had not been so informed.

"They'll come this way first. There have been too many honour killings. Your nephew's life will not be taken if he comes with us - of this you have my word." Azahad promised. "But a man is dead. A price must be paid."

Still, the nod of acceptance came only reluctantly. The old chief handed the gift bundle to one of his warriors and turned away back towards the collection of tented hides that composed their camp. "Let us take tea. We'll talk. That is all I can promise."




Mehrgarh, Banks of the Bolan River,

2951 BCE


It was still pitch dark when they made their procession down to the banks of the river. Despite the darkness it's still a sweltering, dry heat in the air. In their column they march together, the men of Mehgarh's Indus Guard detachment. By the banks of the river they wash themselves, and peform their morning exercises before the sun peaks above the cliffs.

The young men, youth - those at least with the inclination to become warriors - who've passed their manhood ceremonies follow behind them to take part in the exercises. Among the four boys, Bharat the eldest - though not to his chagrine the tallest or strongest - leads, with the three others following behind.

The four friends jostle one another as they approach the banks of the Bolan. "You sure you're going to be able to keep your eyes open?" Sarujan, the outgoing one, presses his finger into the face of his friend, Javish - the Khusabi.

Javish irritably slaps the hand away. "Stop!" He growls irritably. "Just do your exercises."

Sarujan's face sours, but he steps away, waiting for Javish to turn his back before silently mouthing a series of mockingly angry comments towards the other boy accompanying them, Daya who laughs.

"Enough." Bharat exclaims. "I'm not getting kicked out again because of you three."

The three boys look over and can see one of their teachers, Ajah - by far the scariest of their teachers - glaring at them. There's a few quibbling remarks before they set into the exercises alongside the rest of the men.

Even those not looking to join the guard itself, it's become something of a custom for young men interested in becoming warriors to join the morning exercises.

Bharat continued. "Maybe you two don't care, but Javish you should."

Daya was son of a Darshana chief. Sarujan was Aradin's own adopted son. There was no chance they'd fail to be selected. No matter how much the priests and priestesses went on about The Way of Great Peace, most of the warriors of the Three Tribes made no secret that the Khusab among them were not of them.

"You just need to ask commander Sudhanshu for a little special training." Daya stopped in front of the others, turning to face them while he judged their reactions. "He'll take care of you."

Bharat ignored the comment, rolling his eyes. Sarujan snickered. Javish already in a foul mood, simply pushed through the three others, pushing Daya out of the way forcefully enough for the other boy to stumble.

"Hey!" Daya looked irritated now.

"He's thinking about it." Sarujan laughed, briefly, before Javish punched him right in the face.




Tidings of the West Wind,

2965-2955 BCE


The travellers, beleaguered, their wagons packed to the brim looked sullenly off into the distance. The sky was red with fire, and black with smoke. The air filled with the acrid scent of the burning of the place that was to be their salvation as it was rocked by distant thunder.

Clutching their fine shawls they turned away from the coast and their abandoned boats. Looking to the east.

Through mountain and desert they travelled. Assailed by wind and rain, attacked by the rough men of mountain tribes who saw wagons, heavily laden under weathered skins and believed them to be treasures. They were correct, in a fashion, but they were not the sort that such men would have found interesting.

Days turn into weeks which turn into months. Their arrival in lands to the east met with the closing of gates. Too many refugees. Too many mouths. Only those they will take are those who will fight for the army, or work the fields or in the mines. Their hearts are closed. Their merchants demand outrageous sums for food. The soldiers urge them onward, further to the east. They will find no shelter here.

Pelted by rain, and in turn, by frigid colds on they make their way. Their wagons break. Their fine shawls and clothing sold away for food and safe passage. Faces, once beleaguered yet healthy, grow sallow. Eyes grow desperate. Some turn to theft. Others, in desperation, make the unenviable choice to take what is offered.

The ones that carry on call them weak, accepting slavery for safety, but who is to say who is right and who is wrong. East again along the broken roads, through rain, sleet, snow, and sand. Was slavery worse than the slow freezing or starvation that awaited them on those roads. Was it better than the screams being dragged off, never to be seen again, by the savages that descended upon them. All the roads were unsafe.

Still they carried on. Buried their dead. Said farewells to those that disappeared. Onward, onward, ever onward. Maybe tomorrow they'd find a place to settle down. Maybe tomorrow they'd find employment, safety, succor. But it was never tomorrow, so what did it matter that they were hungry? What did it matter than their sandals had fallen to scraps, or that their feet grew black and toes fell off? What was there to do but carry on.

Letters gave them hope. In Sumer, in Nineveh, in Larsa. There was this eminent name or that, promising succor. But as months turned to years, the letters one by one ceased to come. The roads in Sumer were no better. In Larsa they'd hung the scholars from the streets. In Nineveh, overwhelmed by refugees from the south, it was no better than back west. Where were they to go?

It was there, all those years ago that forlorn hope had flown into their hands. It promised everything they'd been searching for.




Tidings of the East Wind,

2950 BCE


The drums beat like a beating heart. Around which the singers gathered, their voices raised high, the dancers moving, their skirts spinning as the laurels of widlflower were laid down upon the path. Around the streets of Kalibangan the people raised their hands, full of hope, full of joy as the procession made slow and steady steps down the long and street towards the altar.

"Blessings be upon!" They cried as the procession past. Their hands reached out, seeking but a touch of the blessed favour of their annointed saviour. The temple guardians, carrying sticks were gentle pressing the crowd back, reminding them to keep a distance. Even so, it was considered lucky to touch one so blessed and people tried anyhow.

Before the steps of the stone altar platform, rising towards the sky, where the sun hung, framed perfectly centered between the stone pillars, such that when the high priest bowed before the Sacred One, and raised his arms again, it seemed as though he carried the sun itself in the palms of his hand.

"I am unworthy!" He exclaimed, his voice straining to ring loud and high above the clamour of the crowds. "Your blessings be upon us, for you, oh Annointed One, are blessed before the great spirit."

Rising to his feet, the high priest descended the sacred stone steps to where the procession stopped. The Temple Guardians and the lesser priests fell to their knees as the priest approached the Annointed One.

Leaning in he whispered in His ear, the priest's voice is low and calm. "Do not struggle. For you are Blessed of the Sacred flame, and your spirit watchest over the earth from the Heavens."

He strained within the gag, and against the bindings that wrapped his arms and feet as - with a gentle lifting gesture the Temple Guardians of the Sacred Fire arose as one. Neither the liquor, nor the copious amounts of the white milk of the soma nor the dreams it brought seemed entirely to arrest the fear that gripped Him then.

The Anointed One tried to cry out, but the gag held firm. The high priests voice rose in that moment too, drowning out the sound so that not even those nearby could hear the protests.

"Oh sacred fire, Agni - Minister of Sacrifice. Agni who is magnificent. Agni who brings man his wealth. Agni, the perfect sacrifice. Verily, goeth to the gods!"

The crowd to raised their heads, the singers and dancers - silent now - watched with impassive eyes from the rows they formed on either side of the altar. The drums alone rose up, building as the temple guardians seized upon her arms, lifting her effortlessly, up the steps, towards the top of the platform, where the pyre had been meticulously stacked and formed.

It was there the temple guardians deposited, to the raucous cheers of the crowd. The scent of animal fat and vegetable oil was everywhere in evidence about the pyre.

Turning the high priest faced the pyre, as one of the temple acolytes, head bowed scurried forth from the crowd and up the steps, bearing in their hand a torch made of sacred wood.

The High Priest, his hands outstretched, accepted the torch into his hand without needed to glance away from the fire. "To thee, dispeller of the night, O Agni, day by day with prayer, bringing thee reverence, we come. Ruler of sacrifices, guard of Law Eternal, Radiant One, increasing in thine own abode. Be to us easy of approach, even as a father to his son: Agni, be with us for our weal!"

To cheers, the high priest committed the sacred torch to the pyre, and brought Light to his people.
Pndapetzim

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Remnants
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Posts: 83
Founded: Jan 30, 2024
Corporate Police State

Postby Remnants » Wed Feb 14, 2024 11:14 am

Biggest of the three Islands of Hawaii
Chapter One: The Alone
Day 1

Vinson was going about his day as usual. He attended his classes, chatted with his friends, and had lunch. However, things took an unexpected turn when he went to the bathroom before leaving. As he sat on the toilet, he suddenly passed out. When he came to, he found himself lying on a tropical beach covered in sand, with the sound of ocean waves and birds chirping in the background. Still groggy, he got up and looked around, and realized that he was alone on the beach and naked. As he stumbled down the beach, he wondered how he ended up in the middle of nowhere and where everyone was. He began to yell for help, hoping someone would hear him, but no one came.

After running and screaming for a long time, his throat became hoarse from all the yelling. Finally, he sat on one of the larger rocks on the beach and pondered for hours how he ended up there. He had four possibilities in his head. The first possibility was that it was a prank, and whoever did it was going to have their nick throttled. The second possibility was that someone had kidnapped him, but he managed to escape, or the ship he was on crashed, and he survived. The third possibility was that he was in a coma, and all of this was just a dream. The last and most out-of-this-world possibility was that he was in a fanfiction story, but it would suck because he had no magical powers to do anything around there. With a shrug and a heavy sigh, he got up and slowly walked along the beach. He found a vine with a bunch of tiny flat green leaves that looked okay to strap onto his feet. After tugging on the vine and grabbing a nice-looking rock to cut it, he got enough to wrap around his feet to keep the worst of whatever is on the island floor.

Once more with a Heavy sigh, Vinson started to explore the outer edges of the island's jungle that met him from the beach.....
Last edited by Remnants on Wed Feb 14, 2024 11:27 am, edited 6 times in total.

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