He was alone in his bedchamber, and while his eyes were closed he was no more asleep than he was heretical. How many times had he laid awake like this? Focusing on his breath, his heartbeat, listening for the slightest sound. He shifted slightly, his long white beard tugging on his chin, when was the last time he’d truly left the Palace-Temple; after all in his age, he’d could barely fathom to move without aid. How many years has he done this, led a nation, a faith forward?
It was no matter, he’d never felt this before. Every night for countless decades he’d rest assured, with grace of God he’d rested with knowledge of his nations security. For the first time in almost a century, the Ahnsijn felt alone. There was no Comfort of the warmth of God.
His eyes, aged and wizened, fluttered open and in a voice, near in shock, simply stated: “He’s fading…”
[center]Ixthenpijn, Ahkmaur River[/center]
Tkiir stood over the river, it’s blue shimmer just barely now illuminating his face, blocked by a thick black substance coating its surface; he was there only a day ago when the first Expeditionary force to the Frontier arrived back in Ixaleft, he could only think of what did something like that. Those within the Grotto-City had tried to rid themselves of the substance in the water, the Expeditionary Soldiers informing them that it was this very substance that polluted the underrivers in between Ixthenpijn and the Frontier-Hold of Abyan. They tried to bury it, but the substance spread disease to whoever touched it; they tried to hold it back but it flooded through the canals of the city in waves; finally they tried burning it but it filled the air with a toxic fume faster than could be blown away by the natural cavern air-currents.
The clang of a bell tore him from his thoughts and he drew his blade, out of the corner of his eye he saw practically every other soul on the docks doing the same, dawning looks of both pride and fear. Looking out, he just saw up the river before the grotto bled into the outer caverns. It took him a moment, but soon he heard it… sound of water was getting louder. Suddenly, the source of the noise flashed in the distance, brightened as it pushed the black substance out of the way, allowing the natural river’s shine to cut through. It was a small boat, much to Tkiir’s surprise, but the man a’front rang his bell with a fury.
The water behind him exploded, a dark shape lashing out like a whip, a vertical maw and concentric rows of teeth slammed into him, pulling him off his vessel. A bone-chilling scream echoed through the cavern.
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[center]Vomándak, Viteskt River[/center]
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The Priests eyes were wild in the firelight, scanning maddeningly over the sorry excuse for guards standing groggily before him. Shadows danced along the wide cavern chamber from braziers running the length of the rough rock walls, cool air flowing in from the archway in the cavern-wall behind him; The click of a lock and he looked up, the grand doors of the Palace, a gallant stone structure carved directly into this cavernous enclave, slid open into the walls revealing 6 Soldiers and a woman wearing the distinct uniform of a General-grade within the Priest-Caste.
“And?” he shouted, “What of the boy?!”
The woman shook her head, walking down the stone steps toward him, “Gone, his bedroom seems to have been ransacked, and none of the guards we’ve found were stationed in the Eastern wing near it.”
“Damnit unto Xathii,” Glancing toward the soldiers in front of him, the guards they’d found during the first sweep, “These men are to be tried for Heresy against the Church.” Turning around to another platoon of soldiers behind him, “Sweep the area and send a message to General Vkain Al’tchakohd, the Urcilāo must be found!”
[center]• • • • • • • • Two Weeks Earlier • • • • • • • •[/center]
Kyasii Cavalrymen glinted under the soft blue light of the M’tchnesk Fungi, riders standing tall in their saddles, Khopesh blades raised. Their K’kasa mounts, Moth-like equine analogues, stood read to charge; behind them two ranks of Ach’mult Reapers waited to start a secondary assault, wide pincers hanging just below the saddles of the cavalry. Ahead, 4 Hanzein Squadron-Independencies scouted along the river, metal armor sparkling. Across the battlefield, Yrutan Heretics crouched behind their fortifications —a scroll, a black ink stone, and a line of bronze styli— knowing they stood no chance against the might of Asil. But a row of Yrutan abominations loomed behind them, ready to devour any who dared retreat.
The attack had almost begun when Va’el Il-Axao Mtchan, Urcilāo of the Greater Asilic Ahnsijnate and the Kyasii Faith, thought he heard someone outside his door… He took a soft step toward his bed, a mattress placed into an ornate stone basin—then froze in place, listening hard. The b’kahp, a garden-variety lichen, stirred in a soft breeze along the balcony outside, but otherwise the cavern from his vantage was silent. His chief instructors were in Arcthaur, after all, in attendance with the Curate, and the servant-grades wouldn't dare disturb his sleep. Va’el turned back to his desk and began to move the cavalry forward, grinning as the battle neared its climax.
The Ach’mult walkers had completed their assault, and it was time for the tin k’kasa to finish off the hilariously outnumbered Heretic archers. It had taken most of his sleep-cycle to set up the attack, using a military-tactics scroll borrowed from his Instructors study. After all it, it seemed only fair to have some fun while his instructors were off watching marches and ceremony. He'd begged to be taken along, to see the glinting ranks of soldiers striding past in real life, to feel the rumble of chariots through his boots, and stare upon the the massive Ach’mult Reapers and Land-striders. The Priests of coursed denied it, claiming something along the lines of his studies being more important than militaristic fervor.
The last tin cavalry unit had just crashed into the final enemy lines when the soft sound again came from the hall: jingling, like a ring of keys. Va’el turned, peering at the gap beneath his bed chamber's double doors, wide fibrous constructs with bronze metal plates. Shadows shifted along the sliver of natural fungal light, and he heard the hiss of whispers. Someone was outside; Silent in his bare feet, he swiftly crossed the cold stone floor, sliding into his bed just as the slid open. The boy closed his eyes, wondering which of the servants was checking on him.
Fungal low-light spilled into the room as the doors opened and someone slipped silently inside. The figure paused, staring at Va’el for a moment, then crept toward his dresser, a ring of ornate hexagonal cubicles carved into the wall opposite his bed. he heard the click of an open lock, the wooden rasp of a drawer sliding open. His heart was racing, none of the servants would dare steal from him…but what if the intruder were something worse than a thief? Then he heard it, a soft, gentle click. Then another, two more! There were other figures outside, resorting to echolocation rather than light. Another figure came through the door, boots clomping, a sword-hilts metal clips jingling like keys on a ring. The figure tromped straight toward his bed before stopping and smacking his boot on the ground twice;
“Your holiness,” he started in a low voice, “it’s time to wake.”
Va’el let out a sigh of relief, he knew the voice well; General Vkain Al’tchakohd, commander of the third Hanzein Legion of the Ahnsijnate had been assigned to him to instruct him on basic military maneuvers.
“The young master has been awake long before we arrived,” Ithrunes Ksaomit’s low voice said, the man pointed to Va’el’s desk, “playing a bit of soldier? A bit of advice, Your Holiness, when pretending to be asleep, it is advisable to better control one's breath.' Va’el sat up with a scowl, eyes flashing to the first figure near his dresser. His Writings Teacher had an annoying knack for seeing through his wide array of deceptions.
“Both of you, what's the meaning of this? Did I miss the gong?”
“Erm, well no Your Holiness, we woke you early as to make good time.” Vkain stated flatly
“Good time? General, where are we going?”
“Erm,” the Man shifted and glanced at Ithrunes; the Priest let out a sigh before speaking, “Young Master we’re moving to Shdant’il-amuraōt, 20km from the Arcthaur.”
“Shdan…Why there…”
He was cut off by Ithrunes, the Priest was noticeably becoming impatient, “Your Holiness if i’m to explain the full story now it’d defeat the purpose of us waking you so early, now lets go.” Tossing him a silk green tunic, with formal golden stitching signature of the Upper-Caste, alongside a pair of formal pants, Ithrunes ushered Vkain outside with him to what Va’el presumed must’ve been a full entourage awaiting him outside. Taking only a moment to gather and put on his clothes he quickly opened the sliding doors to the hallway. Lit a gentle blue-green by the M’tchnesk, an egg-shaped mushroom, he found himself surrounded by four figures: the first two he recognized as Ithrunes and Vkain, but accompanying them were T’kanha Vaodain Jtsa and Aesh Saod Bfilmutzet — his technical and mathematics instructors.
Without a word the group of five moved quickly down the hall, barefeet moving near-silently across the smooth stone floor. There’d been a noticeable lack of Guardsmen as they reached the entrance hall illuminated by a single Brazier in the center of the room. Taking a moment to put on footwear, the group exited the building into a small cavern, a row of braziers on either side of the wall leading toward a Gateway opposite the building which’d been carved directly into the Cavern. The small Enclave housed the Palace Va’el had lived in for the past 8 years of his life, training for his new position. Outside waited nothing but a small carriage and its rider, two six legged insects strapped to the construct tapped their tarsus against the rocky earth — Ai’zaan, given away by telltale soft white fur and feathered antenna.
In moments they were on their way, passing through the rocky corridors of the underground. They’d been travelling for what seemed to be an hour before Va’el felt something was wrong. Maybe it was his grogginess, but he didn’t remember it taking this long to reach the Thaur-Cavern. And not one of the others had spoken a word since leaving the Palace. Adjusting his collar he coughed slightly; “I’d’ve thought we would’ve reached the central cavern by now?”
“We’re taking a backroad, Your Holiness, the Path East is blocked by a Military Convoy.” stated Vkain, flatly, the man looking out the window.
“East? Shdant’il and the Arcthaur are toward the South are they not?” Something was wrong.
Vkain paled and was met with a glare from Ithrunes; In a soft voice spoke, “I-eh, suppose you’re right Young Master…”
“Vkain.” The air hung still as stone, “Where are we going?”
Ithrunes cut the poor man off before he could say anything more, “That is not for you to know right now, Your Holiness.” he stated sternly
“Ithrunes by the power vested in me I demand you tell..” he was cut off by his master: “Be silent,” Ithrunes hissed, “this is for your own safety.”
“My Safety?!”
“Did I say speak again? Keep your voice low. Did we not warn you about the dangers of your position? Have you forgotten your birth?”
Va’el had not forgotten, he’d been born a Middle-Grade Scribe. A Legislature. They’d called for his execution after Ithrunes proposed him as a candidate for Urcilāo. He knew that they’d tried to have him killed formally before his initiation, but they’d never try such a stunt after he was chosen as Urcilāo. Would they? “Th-thats impossible,” he stuttered, “my birth has nothing to do with this, it’s my fate that’s been decided.”
“Are you blind, child?” interjected T’kanha, the woman silencing both of them, “Urcilāo you know full well that no position but Ahnsijn is beyond the Priesthood. I’m happy to explain on the way but please remain quiet until we reach Nquesk.”
Nquesk? They were heading to the surface?!
“With any luck, we’ll be halfway to Lexidus by the time they catch on to us.
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[center]Abel, Lexidus[/center]
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Amón almost felt sorry for the creature standing before him, a strange amalgamation of what could only be described as a snake-pit and a woman. Yet, this was coming from a man who crossed the dreaded Mire’s of Asil on the back of a tree-sized spider, so he wasn’t completely surprised when it started talking, almost. The creature, It, was equally dressed in quite the outfit; Her accent was odd, yes, but distinctly Quijainic evident by her pronunciation and vocabulary. She was accompanied by a Lexidian-woman with light grey hair and dressed in Blue, who was introduced as “Chief Merchant” of what he could only assume was the Lexidian equivalent of the Consulate Guilds. Turning to meet the group, he immediately flashed a smile, best to hide his thoughts for now, before doing a slight bow.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” he started, hoping that the creature obviously acting as a translator could understand him despite his dialect, “I was simply looking for a few of my fellow associates, first time on a formal expedition after all.” pausing for a moment to construct himself, he started again; “Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Amón al-Hasiid, Captain of..”
He patted his pockets for a moment before pulling out a thick bronze disk with golden edges; on it were engraved two columns sprouting from a wide trapezoidal base, each column bore 7 —what the squidspawn could only assume where— names in the Kajic alphabet, with the base reading “CONSULATE-PASSPORT”. With these, the center of the medallion exhibiting a strange Diamond-symbol from which sprouted an array of sunbeams running beneath the two columns.
“of the Western Expeditionary Initiative sent on behest of the 6 Consulate Cities; if you’d like to accompany me to my Wagon i’m sure we could have a far more civil conversation away from the crowd?”
Waiting just a moment, Amón turned around and started heading for a cluster of wagons in a circle away from the main hub; upon reaching it he turned left into a squat structure, more of a tent than a carriage but with wheels the size of boulders. Upon entering, the two Lexidians were seated opposite him, split between a small swing-down desk. Hanging from the walls, however, was what easily caught their attention: Scrolls. Similar to the ones they’d seen in the de-facto marketplace only this time open, revealing a treasure trove of foreign symbols, most strangely however, was that they seemed to not be written from side to side, but down. Pulling out a black stone filled with what they assumed was ink, Amón drew a Brush out of a small compartment and began writing;
“Now, to begin with, are there any laws that we should take into account when traversing Lexidus, that or paperwork that’d need to be sorted out here?”