The Ascent of Man [IC|Closed]

by **The Empire of Tau** » Tue Jan 15, 2019 4:30 pm

MY LAZY ASS IS STILL LAZY - OK?

Action : GO MINE STONE BACK AT XCOTOL OR WHATEVER IT'S CALLED AND GIVE STONE NOVAS TO BUILD WALL.

by **Elerian** » Wed Jan 16, 2019 12:21 pm

Delisle and Sons

Placeholder

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Wed Jan 16, 2019 4:15 pm

Year 361 of the Common Era - Turn 19

The Paean of War

From out of the north-east they come, banners as black as a swarm of locusts before the sun. Over the burning sands that no man dared to cross, they covered the horizon as a tide of silver and midnight. Red symbols floated above their heads on the tattered standards of the Midnight Horde, and in their marching companies they came on. Before even the rumor of their coming had touched the city, outriders in black leather bearing glittering bronze seized nearly two hundred souls from the fields and wilds where they had been foraging for food away from the walls of the Xcotl. A dire time, a time of mourning and tears and ash, approached.

Soon near to Xcotl, mighty mother of the desert, the host was drawn up in its array. Forward, still out of bowshot, the men of skin like burnt bone sent a herald, his stature massive and his mien fell. He bellowed in a foreign tongue, his countenance that of a man accustomed to being obeyed, his shouts and brash language echoing back from the walls still only half-completed. The eyes of the warriors of the Horde gazed upon the patchwork of stone and scaffolding with the eyes of predators. It was clear to those who watched that the man expected subjugation, obeisance. And threatened harm if he did not receive those things.

Elsewhere a marching host of the warriors of the Bloodright have passed again through Ita. Their campfires cover the hills to the west of the mountain vale in a sea of light beneath the stars, driving back shadow and slumber with their raucous drinking and reveling. To the gates of the city of the mountain-folk an emissary comes, speaking on behalf of the Lord of the Earth, and asking a tithe of the people of the city to serve as levies for the Great Conquest to come; a sign of Ita's fealty to the Chief of Chiefs.

The Chyrsi Aspida: Much wealth is to be had escorting nervous merchants of the Alliance in the lands of the Xcotl - the refugee problem and rumors of death have only exacerbated this situation. The Chyrsi return home much richer, and slowly grasping the nuances of lighting raids that patient teachers from Cadmus were instructing them in. +Wealth II

The Legion of Mithras Karaunos: A dismal year for the sons of the Legion, made slightly brighter in the midst of the endless training by the firming of arms and the strengthening of strikes. Not all those drawn from the city of their origin are yet fit to be called soliders, but a hundred of their number are now capable of holding their own in a fight. -100 Peasants, +100 Soldiers

Orleans Folk: It is a struggle, infiltrating the military defenses of a city like Fergdal with an established guard. But the Folk of Orleans are no slouches - by the time the assault on Fergdal is begun, they have already disrupted several guard patrols, and are ready to strike...

The Shambling Legion: Across the desert sands the Legion marches, undead ready for war. A fortunate thing, since the black banners of the Horde arrive on the horizon only just after the Legion enters the city.

Delisle and Sons: Finally, called down from their existence as tin-miners, the hopefuls of the company set up shop in the verdant lands west of the mighty city of Serrith, a land teeming with milk, honey, strange ungulates, and valuable marble. A humble existence, living in tents on the land, but the start of something great perhaps. Of the coup attempt, though, no further information is heard save for the emptying of a part of the Company's coffers - whatever men or women of the guards might have been unscrupulous enough to consider overthrowing their king, they were not willing to risk death for the sum paid to them. West of the new unnamed settlement of the Company, fertile plains of the Valley stretch to the horizon. Shiny copper ore is in evidence in the low hills here, though wolves roam the landscape. Mighty beasts taller than the trees with skin covered in moss and earth, bushes and undergrowth growing from their scaled hides, also wander slowly across the green plains, grazing with sharp beaked-faces on the long grasses.

The Battle of Fergdal

It is near sunrise when the warriors sent by the Zhou Empress arrive near the walls of Fergdal, and they swiftly seize nearly a hundred of the peasants of that land in the fields as prisoners. The gates of Fergdal are shut then, and her guards turn out to the tops of the impressive stone battlements, frowning down towards the invaders. Surrounded to the north by the winding river, Fergdal will be a prize to take indeed...

by **Olthenia** » Wed Jan 16, 2019 5:01 pm

Fᴀsᴛᴀǫᴜɪ

Queen of the Skazahad Delta
________________________________________
The First Matriarchate of Shoreg the Old
The Twelfth Day of the Arc of Wings, Year 361 of the Common Era

The tiers murmured.

Poets might roll their eyes had they heard him say it, but Zaron always thought the sound was a lot like waves on a beach. A constant, ever-present murmur of a hundred whispered conversations just at the edge of hearing. Small wonder, really – for the tiered seats in the Hall of Many Mothers were always packed. Not even the coming of the Midnight Horde had soured the crones’ appetite for talk, and Zaron didn’t know if anything ever could. The sea’s rising, perhaps. Or the sky falling.

Either or wouldn’t have been entirely unwelcome just then, Zaron thought. Because gods help it, but the tiers were murmuring about him. Or, well, his work. The Hall of Many Mothers was a rising wall of wooden benches, peopled hip to hip with lean, taciturn clan-mothers from every one of Fastaqui’s citizen-families. Crones, they called them – and small wonder. Grey hairs and swaddling robes of fur and grass were the norm as far as looks were concerned, and Zaron had even heard that younger mothers, new to their place in the tiers, would colour their hair with ash. Just to fit in, presumably.

Ah, well. He was a man. And men, Fastaqui wisdom dictated, could not truly understand such things.

“None.” He repeated the word, and was almost surprised to find a note of defiance in his voice. “We have had no luck what-so-ever this past year. No tribes, clans or families have taken up our offer.”

Behind him, Shoreg the Old coughed into the hem of her cloak – its edges marked with the patterns of the First Speaker. “And why is that, in your opinion, Captain Zaron?

«Because they’re afraid.»

Fastaqui was a wide, sprawling city. A beast of a place; bright and beautiful, muddy and mean. And empty. Well, not entirely, no – but still far too much! Ever since the terrible night a mere four years ago, when the gods above and below had looked upon a city red with slaughter. Ever since the beasts of the Midnight Horde had made the quays and gutters red with gore. Since then, Fastaqui had limped on – wounded in body, but proud in spirit. Perhaps poets could put it better. Better than empty clan-huts and quiet quay-sides. Either way, not a single citizen of Fastaqui could say for all the sunlight in the world they hadn’t lost someone that night. And now, the memories of those lost were fading. A city did not live on memories. Which was why, at the Tiers command, Zaron and his stalwarths had combed the bayous and hills beyond fair Fastaqui, seeking nomad camps and lonely campfires. Talking. Persuading. Tempting old and young with what their lives might be like in the Queen of the Skazahad.

«Afraid? Of what? Are you saying every nomad, wanderer and marsh-dweller out there is still so frightened by the Midnight Horde they dare not come within sight of our walls?”

«A little, perhaps," Zaron replied. "But mostly, I think it’s the city beyond our walls that make them wary. They don’t know what they’ll find there.”

“They’ll find us, I should hope! And we’re friendly enough. We don’t bite – you can promise them that.”

“Mild Mother, they don’t suspect you will. But what they know is freedom, yes? Life out there in the delta isn’t like what we have here.”

The Tiers listened now. Because this was a truth Zaron knew, deep in his heart of hearts, and perhaps something in his voice told them as much. Oh, they could hiss and murmur and mutter at him all they liked – but this? Zaron was a Captain; the leader and steersman for a host of men and women under his command. Within the Queen of the Skazahad’s mighty walls women ruled, to be sure. But beyond it? Beyond it lay clear mornings, golden sunsets and the sound of the swamplands bathed in the glow of strange stars. Men steered rafts there, kings of the tiller and lords of the winding water.

"It’s a life of freedom they’re familiar with. Danger too, of course – but at least there’s certainty in it.”

He spread his open hands like a barterman, gaze sweeping the tiers of seated Crones. “Would anyone here give their certainty in exchange for foreign walls and new, foreign neighbors?»

That earned him a bevvy of… not approving murmurs, but thoughtful ones? And Zaron took that as a good sign. He’d struck a chord there. Made his listeners think.

“It isn’t an unknown future they fear. Tomorrow is as unknown outside these walls as it is inside them. But out there, at least they’re free to deal with it. In their own ways.”

“Then what do you suggest we do, honoured Captain?” asked Shoreg.

“Do?" Zaron began. "First Speaker, I-“

“What do you suggest we do to deal with these fears?” Shoreg pressed.

"...Goods, First Speaker," Zaron replied. "We give them some. To sample. If we show them the delights of life in our fair city – how safe and sweet and beautiful it can be, then-“

“So, bribes, then?” A portly crone dressed in the belted shift of a Forgemother called from midway up the tiers. An artisan, no doubt responsible for the casting of copper. “You’re actually suggesting that we just hand out good wealth to… to wanderers and vagabonds? And see if any of them are greedy enough to come looking for more?”

“I’m saying, Mild Mother, that if we can not appeal to them with reason alone, then some of them, at least, will come for food,” Zaron replied. “And those that aren’t hungry might decide to chance it if they got something to drink. Or a copper mirror. Or something just as pretty.”

“And what if they do?” the Forgemother persisted. “They may as well come here and buy or steal whatever they like – then just pack up and leave. You’re saying we should pay strangers good wealth for a glance! A merchant doesn’t pay customers just to look at her wares!”

«No. No, they don’t. But yes. Yes, I am. Because they might leave, aye. And we need to let them. Leave, that is – if that’s what they want. Or did you send me to persuade them into bondage? Look, Mild Mothers, all I can do is persuade strangers to come. Look around. Give us a try. Whether they stay or not is… That’s up them. And us. And time. But if a foreigner leaves because our city isn’t good enough to stay for, maybe we’re better off without them. Some of them will come, and some of them will stay.”

For a long moment there was no response. Then a crone in the crowd shouted “Aye!”, and then another, and another – and soon the Hall of Many Mothers was filled with the solemn clamour of their approval. It wasn’t the kind of response an armored Warmother might receive. But it didn’t have to be. It left Zaron smiling from ear to ear all the same.

And he was still standing on the dias, grinning like a fool, when the crash of a great gong jolted him out of the sudden, absurd rush of relief he felt. Shoreg the Old stepped forth onto the dais, her wrinkled hand high to signal the meeting’s end. Except-

“The only question, in that case-“ husked the First Speaker. “Is who pays.”

by **Novas Arcanum** » Wed Jan 16, 2019 6:45 pm

Battle of Xcotl

May The Ancestors be with you always

The Archmage said nothing. He gave no breath, no fear no respite gave them no time to respond. This was War, Blood War, and unlike others who came before the Xcotl would not exchange words with barbarians who were foolish enough to talk first. Itzcoatl had no time for fools, the Xcotl had no time for fools and the tide of blood would commence immediately.

The 700 hundred strong Battlemages gathered togeher.They glowed with the power of the sun and raised their hands summoning balls of pure fire and light.Then they launched them at the savages that stood in front of them.It was the stuff of legend as innumerable fireballs flew across the heavens and blasted the Bloodright to oblivion burning bone and flesh alike. Death spread like a Maelstrom across the desert sands, and the fires burned all who opposed them.

Immediately afterward the troops poured from the city. Soldiers battle hardened Sons of the Ancestors and the Undead Warriors, those who came before. They marched in unison and attacked the Bloodright 300 strong with the fury of all who came before them all that had died before them.

Along with that 240 Undead Soldiers, Legion of the Dark Lord Ulm Khadar joined the glorious battle. Together 1,240 Sons and Daughters of the Xcotl, consumed by fury of those who dared to attack their city-state fought as a unified front. Soon 220 Soldiers of the Chrysi Asipida joined the fray. Together they would crush all who stood before them or die trying.

For today was the day, day of Valor, the day of Heroes, where the relentless tide of Chaos and destruction that threatened the very heart of civilization would be turned back to the Hell from whence it came. Evildoers, demons who would be destroyed and banished to the Darkness from whence they came. turned back forever more.

by **Pasong Tirad** » Wed Jan 16, 2019 7:04 pm

Ita
The Last Day of Chief Agung the Great

Agta got his spear and was ready to gut the emissary straight through as a response to the Bloodright if it weren't for his father, the former chief, Agung, who simply, calmly, placed his hand on his son's shoulder to soothe his wounded ego. "Ita will answer the call of the Chief of Chiefs, because Ita is his loyal subject," Agung said, bowing his head. Agta merely looked at his father in disbelief.

"Who would volunteer to go with them?!" Agta said, brandishing his spear at the emissary. His father simply looked at him, and proceeded to walk down from the meeting hall, towards the Breach. As his father walked, many other people were beginning to follow him - mostly the elders and those nearing middle-age, the Ita who remember vividly the violence and destruction wrought by the thralls of the Chief of Chiefs. Around a hundred of them, bearing with them all of their valuables in bags and carts, some even bringing along food for the sacrifice. This procession stopped at the Breach, wherein Agung stood on top of a few boxes to speak to the people who have followed him out.

"Father, don't!" Agta said, attempting to rush towards him - but the crowd stopped the young chief before he could even get close to the great old chief.

"We're ready to do what must be done for the future of Ita, son," Agung said to Agta, after which he redirected his voice to the crowd that gathered. "We the elders of Ita are ready to do what we have to to protect the future of this city. We are mourning. We are terrified. We are tired of waking up in the dark begging to embrace the loved ones we lost a decade ago. And we want our pain to end. Being turned into obedient servants of the Chief of Chiefs will end all of this."

He directed his attention once again to his son. "Ita is for the young. We want our pain to end, son. That's all this is." He stepped down from the boxes he used as a pedestal and gave Agta a big, tearful hug, which his son didn't return, refusing to acknowledge the truth: Agung, and a hundred people of Ita, will be leaving the city and will most likely die. Instead, the young chief just stood there, trying and failing to hold back tears as his father took a bag filled with silver and lead the procession of a hundred willing and tired men and women of Ita into the arms of the Bloodright. As Agung was heading out, Agta began screaming, in a rage, attempting to claw his way towards his father to stop him from leaving. It took four people to stop him, but his screams were heard as far as the wind could take them. The screams of a child who wasn't ready to lose his father - the screams of a city not willing to suffer any further.

As they arrived, Agung introduced himself. "I am Chief Agung, former Chief of the Ita. I and a hundred like me offer ourselves up as tribute to the Chief of Chiefs. We bring with you gifts: the city's wealth and silver, as an offering of apology. Ita can barely afford to give the Chief of Chiefs anymore bodies, lest its future productivity for him suffer."

Agung could hear, from a distance, a familiar sound being carried by the winds from the city. A cry that he first heard years ago when his wife gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. It was the cry of life, and it seemed only fitting to him that the last thing he would hear from his son - who refused to even hold him on this last day of their lives - was a cry not of life, but of death.

by **Toaslandia** » Thu Jan 17, 2019 9:20 am

The Chrysi Asipida had been given a contract by the Xcotl to help them fight against the horde, and they began to march towards the city to help it in its defense.

by **Nuxipal** » Thu Jan 17, 2019 9:31 am

Kingdom of Nekhen

Seventh Year of the Rule of High King Tafari

The lands of Nekhen were dangerous and as people migrated to the capital. The country-side becoming less safe than in times past. Even his own soldiers were starting to notice the dangers of the land outside of their small walls. They would have to increase the size of the walls, but for now, Tafari and his wife welcomed a new son. This was his future heir and named him Ramesses after his great grand-father. Because of this, Tafari and his wife were a bit distracted. Because of this, the first year following the birth of his new child, Tafari had sent his court officials to give out orders for the various workers within the city.

The second year however, Tafari started to reclaim his positions from the officials, many of which were removed entirely for their failures. He heard that 100 of his people died during their migration. He planned for them to start building a monument to them in the future. For now, however, the farmlands around the city would need to be expanded as his population seemed to be growing faster and his predecessors had failed to prepare for a larger population.

by **The Hierophancy** » Thu Jan 17, 2019 11:20 am

Honori Borderlands, Winter - 361 CE

Ny-Kar approached the outer edge of his Fellow-Soldier's camp as the soft, reddish glow of the young winter sun began only just to lighten the skies, filtering through the towering forest canopy in gentle pillars and illuminating the slipshod homes of freedmen, blanketed in a thick, fresh layer of snow. It was a beautiful sight, despite the crude and robust nature of the warcamp, but Ny-Kar had not the patience to stop and appreciate it - Shulra was seven days late, per his own estimations some months prior, and while a week was little and less when concerning a journey across half the known world, they still weighed on the Slave-God's prophet. His rangers had departed not long after their return to the lands of the Honori, trailing the fell horde, vowing to report back on the horde's movements while the rest of the men combed these mountains and vales for materials, recruits and a suitable location to build themselves a more permanent hideout.

The scattered bands of half-wild deserters hiding among the dense cedar woods had, once introduced to the Creed, brought their numbers up to a respectable hundred, and among the wilds they'd found wild fruit, game, lumber (of course) and, most interestingly, obsidian by the hinterlands edge. They remained to those hinterlands, however - a hundred was too little to waste men in potentially suicidal missions Mara-ways, where for all Ny-Kar knew the Midnight Horde still prowled in full strength.

The prophet passed a sentry - if the man had not stood up and bowed his head, Ny-Kar would never have noticed him - wrapped in white wolf-pelts, dead branches and snow, in the style preferred by the borderlands nomads on their long, winter stalks, the sentry muttered something in barely-comprehensible Honori. Ny-Kar tilted his head in respect and moved on. The meeting place was a good few hours walk through rough, steeply sloped terrain from their current mountain-side encampment, near the valley floor, on the shore's of it's humble, frozen stream. Ny-Kar drew his sun-bleached robes closer - the garment, acquired a long time ago in his arid home, wasn't exactly meant for cold, mountaintop weather to begin with, and while the rough fabric had been softened by it's years of use, it had been worn thin as well. Though the plain white vestments had become a status symbol of sorts among his followers, he would likely have to supplement it with furs and hide soon enough. The biting cold reminded him of days long past, though, of the humble alter his family would build each Assur night, of prayers to Lunda. He spit at the thought of her name. A false god, he now knew - words spent upon her were wasted unless accompanied by riches and status, though even then she seemed a weak god, considering how her great city had fallen so low as to do homage to the darklings. Ny-Kar's own Slave-God would not fail when called upon - or so he hoped. Even having come so far, the ex-serf still harbored doubts and worries of his visions, fears they were a cruel jest by the gods to give him false hope - how like them that would be - but no, he had to have faith. A prophet could not doubt his own God.

The meeting place was as he remembered it, though now covered in a thick layer of wet, virgin snow. It was a humble sort of place, a simple clearing in the forest, in it's center a great tree, at least a dozen men tall and with branches stretching just as wide. Ny-Kar pushed his way through the snow - he'd have some of the mountainmen they'd lured in with grain and spirits make him a pair of those hide bearclaws they wore to traverse the deep snows. Floundering his way to the base of the great cedar, Ny-Kar half-fell and half-sat down, leaning back against the rough bark and bringing his legs up close to his chest. Hopefully he didn't freeze to death before Shulra deigned to make an appearance.

Thankfully, it wasn't longer afterwards that the prophet heard a rustling in the bushes to his side. Glancing over, he was treated to the sight of his long-lost ranger gingerly making his way through a particularly dense looking bush, trying to navigate the vegetation while in a pair of wide, unwieldy looking boots Ny-Kar recognized as bearclaws. Emerging from the bush, Shulra brushes himself off while Ny-Kar straightens himself and turns to face the scout.

"Hail, Slave." the ranger spoke in Honori, heavily accented with the exotic tones of the Fastaqui - "I bring fair tidings. The abominations have left the desert vale."

"Truly?" Ny-Kar rubs at his short-cropped beard. "I thought it would've taken longer for them to replenish their host. The bodies at Fastaqui we-"

"Word on that is, I fear, less encouraging. Our previous guesses were clearly lacking. Though the losses at Fastaqui were great, it appears that to the darklings, they were of little consequence. They march again to war, heading north, numbering far more than we can hope to face." When Ny-Kar had tailed the horde those long miles, joining the loose shadow of vultures that descended upon their leavings, he and his men had been forced to observe the enemy from a great distance - all the carrion birds knew that to catch their attention was death, and his band was larger and more noticeable than most. Still, from Shulra's tone, their earlier counts had been much further off than Ny-Kar had feared.

"But they have left Mara? All of them?" Shulra shrugged.

"Not all, but most. The darklings still take the place of the corn-soldiers, or did when we left to track the host. They are many, but not near so many as before." Ny-Kar nodded.

"Thank you, Shulra. I think it's about time to take the plunge. We'll head back south soon, and start this in earnest - but before that, I think it best we head back to camp - our chances seem significantly slimmer should I freeze to death here and now. Awful choice of a meeting place, by the by." The ranger grinned through his hide face-wrap.

"It was much nicer when I first found it, Prophet. Far less snow."

by **Holy Tedalonia** » Thu Jan 17, 2019 11:55 am

The Imperial Republic of Salli
Malix Varly’s Hometead

Malix Varly arrives home after a long day of work. It was a fine homestead, first of its kind. A novelty among the elites, so they say. Upon entry he was greeted his wife, Marta Varly, a kind women around the same age as Malix. After the realization that he was home, children not of Malix’s own flocked around him. These children were of Khafra, a man who was friends with Hanson, before his death in Sarfuth.

Lord-Imperator Malix had taken them in, he was a serious man but some said he had a soft spot within that jagged heart. Perhaps he some them as tools, or perhaps he truly cared for their wellbeing. Regardless they were in his wife’s loving care, and no one could be opposed to that. She loved children, and was saddened by her children moving out.

Malix on the other hand had been a instrumental role of developing the children’s skills. He would teach them things, they could do and the ways of Saeling culture. Kiya the oldest Tjenu, was resistant to the culture, but quite interested in learning combat and hunting. Having been the oldest and affected at such a young age, no doub the horrors of that day, that monster was created weighed heavily on her mind.

Whether it was vengeance or to protect her siblings, it was clear that this was the path she had chosen. Tjenu twins, however took on training in scholarly work, perhaps hoping to become scholars and learn about many cultures. The youngest Setnakhte however wanted to follow his fathers path, a strong leader.

Necromancy was a prevalent question within the government of Salli. Originally being on board using the bones of the ancestors, they had allowed it. It was the recent events however, that put the question of allowing necromancy being allowed in Salli. With much debate, they had declared that, that foul magic, the one that summoned the ”Creature born in Sarfuth,” that ultimately banned necromancy.

It had been hard on Kiya, who wanted to consider using necromancy, but ultimately accepted the cities decision. She found adapting to living in Salli, quite difficult. As opposed to the Chosen lifestyle, the Saladonian one was more rugged and more primitive. It was doubtful she would become a true Saladonian.

As for the other kin, they took it on easier, being younger had certainly helped their adaption to Saladonian life. Neferati, Ambrose, and Setnakhte, found it quite easy living with their guardians, Malix and Marta. Ultimately, becoming more Saladonian then chosen. They found their older sister, different... a person who’s upbringing was vastly different then their own. They paid no mind to that however, as life was good in this fertile valley and they had each other.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Thu Jan 17, 2019 4:29 pm

Ita
The Last Day of Chief Agung the Great

When the people of the Itans emerged from the walls, they were at first met by expressions of disdain on the faces of those who had called for levies from their vassals. Men with faces partially covered in burnished metal masks sneered, or seemed somewhat angered by the paltry hundred who gamely walked to where the Herald had spoken of the Lord of the Earth's requirements of those sworn to his service. Their expressions, though, were somewhat mollified when warriors of the Chief of Chiefs inspected the carts drawn from the city by the hundred.

There was no big celebration, no farewell or leavetaking. Apparently the Midnight Horde did not believe in such things, or their customs were inscrutable to the Itans. But whatever passed between Chief Agung and the Herald when the two spoke quietly beyond the walls, the massive emissary of the black-faced men seemed content with his explanation of the decision of the Itans. It was only a matter of days before the horde departed north, barely pausing to camp and feed and water their mighty beasts, and then the only memory of the passing of the brave men and women of the Ita was their empty beds and the singed circles of dead campfires that the conquerors had left in their wake.

by **The Empire of Tau** » Thu Jan 17, 2019 4:36 pm

Don't die, Novas.

Action : Aid Novas in the battle somehow.

by **Saxony-Brandenburg** » Thu Jan 17, 2019 5:45 pm

The Honori People

The Matriarch of the city reclined on her stool as she listened to the days musings. Word had spread throughout the city of hearts most disloyal and critical of her actions, which she quickly dismissed out of hand. Her foreign guards would quash any open resistance, she declared, and would shatter any distaste with her rule with the aid of public opinion. She had her scholars write her a speech- to be presented before a season of plenty to be unveiled. As the city grew, they would celebrate what they had recieved, the bounties of the gods brought here upon the earth. And months of extra rations, performances, races, and more would cement the people to her in heart. Disloyalty could be snipped at the bud if the people simply do not wish to be disloyal. Or so was the hope...

"...That we must celebrate- and thank the gods, for this prosperity. For their bounties of the earth. For their gentle guiding hands that push us forwards towards the dawn. For all those who have fallen, or sacrificed themselves so that holy peace may ensue. It is in their memory- that I raise my glass. To the fallen. So Mara Endures!"

"So Mara Endures!" Responded the women at her table, overlooking the square. They each took a long sip of alchohol, and toasted to the Matriarchs health.

"For the Goddess's wisdom to your soul." "For Long life, and peaceful reign." "For unity!" "For the greater good."

"For the people." Responded the last, the youngest, and most naive of the dignitaries assembled in her hall. "For our traditions, our faith, and our people." She restated, and as all eyes fell upon her for not entirely outlandish praise, but certainly most individualistic of the group, which soon shifted towards the Matriarch to see what she would do.

"For Tradition, Faith, and the People." Responded her, only the slightest bit sounding discomforted to this toast, and all drank to it until their cups were dry. "And for that! Let the gods be praised!" Shouted the woman, and the crowds before her cheered. Scribe women, carrying large jugs of the sweet corn drink beloved by the common folk, began filling the cups of hundreds along the streets, while dancers and musicians followed. Extra rations were issued, so every family could feast that night, to the Matriarch's health, that was. Dancing, plays, camel racing, and sport would fill the streets, the squares, and the surrounding countryside in the coming weeks, as the city's coffers began to be given out freely to the common folk. Buying their compliance and love, if not only temporarily.

A Field outside Mara

A group of just over a hundred men lay out in the shade of the occasional trees, in the shallows of the wandering stream sweating. They had spent the past few hours in rigorous combat training- with staves and the fist, many among them had deep purple spots that would not go away anytime soon. Their knees still weak from the previous night's march, across the hills and valleys, they would be forced to learn how to endure the suffering of the land. To be the defenders of the city from threats the horde warriors couldn't care enough to pay mind to. To keep the people safe, not simply the state. To enforce virtue, obedience, and custom. To be Silar's own sons. Upon the several long month's training, the two hundred total would gather in the training grounds inside the city, and kneel before the Sunnwarior, and swear oaths unto him.

"By light of Sun, for earth below, for those to come and come before. For family, for nation, for custom and faith, blessed be our cause. We hereby give up our lives to the defense of these things we hold dear, and sacrifice ourselves unto the noble God. To be steadfast and strong, to be fierce and restless, to be servants to the king and his reign. This day we take upon our new names. This day we take upon our new titles. No longer men, no longer apart, but warriors of the sun. Bless it be. Forever more."

The Division of Labor

by **Holy Tedalonia** » Thu Jan 17, 2019 6:12 pm

Treaty of the Saladon Pact/Blood-Pact of the Brother-Bond
The Freehold of Brexonburn

Today was a great day, for the kin of Salli visit their kin in the uplands of Brexonburn. The Sallian men bring with them, prized drakelings and hides of many beasts. Led by the Lord-Imperator himself, lead No more than a grouping of 30, 11 of which was close kin to the Lord-Imperator himself. The rest of the group was filled with great warriors and men, guarding their cities leader.

Many were eager to meet up with their kin, that had left the Republic. It spurned them it did, and while the Saeling arent the most forgiving of people, they knew the honesty and bravery of the choice they made, and grew to value that. As group marched there was much chatter in the air, eager to meet their kin and happy to feast.

As they continue their march, the hill that once obscured their view, had revealed the village. It was nothing of grandeur, but in these uplands, there was something magical about these highlands that awed the city folk of Salli. Whether it be the wonderful view or the greenery and plantlife.

As they approach the village, a welcoming party could be seen, and as they met their welcomers a exchange of hugs and greetings began. Eventually they would be brought to the Free Hall, a hall of the Theig Zarin Rylander. The hall could fit 65 good men, but Malix ordered half his guards to stay outside to make the hall more open rather than filled.

Many boast and laughs were made in the halls of Brexonburn. Smiling kin and happy warriors were present in the halls. No despair could be seen, and happiness knew no bounds.

And upon the evening, where the orange sun formed a crescent. The leaders spoke their about their honor, and slit their hands. Upon those bleeding hands they shoke, a pact was formed through honor and blood. A bond between kin was made, and the hall roared with happiness. A pact was formed with honor and blood.

by **Pasong Tirad** » Thu Jan 17, 2019 6:37 pm

Ita
Beginning of the third year of the Chiefdom of Chief Agta,
son of the late Chief Agung the Great,
who was a former adviser to the late Chieftess Bacani

Chief Agta was once again looking out into the valley from Ita's wall - its grand, new wall, that his father built. He stood at that very wall just a few days ago, looking at his father negotiate with the herald of the Bloodright. He stayed there for the whole few days that the Bloodright remained in the valley, and he stayed there as he watched the campfires die out. He stayed there until the horde packed up everything it had and left right where they came from. He stayed there watching as his father and a hundred of the elders of Ita voluntarily gave up their lives for the city they loved, just so they would no longer feel the pain of remembering the tragedy that was the sacking of Ita. Their pain ended, but the horror of their loved ones remained.

Very few elders were now left in the city of Ita. Many, like Agta himself, were either too young to participate in the siege of Ita or even too young to remember it. It has been almost fifteen years now since the siege happened, and Agta was merely three when the horde burst through the old wall with what his father called "demonic power." He was too young to remember - and now, there was barely anyone in Ita left who was old enough to have participated in it all those years ago. The old generation is dying, the generation that feared them so much that they would cry out in agony as they relived the traumatic moment the monsters burst through Ita again and again and again every single night. This generation that Agta is himself leading does not have that memory. They grew up remembering the sadness of their parents - if they still had parents - and the rebirth of Ita from the ground up. They grew up remembering a great man trying to keep his city together in a time of mourning, a man who would take part in the night watch and weep as he heard the cries of his traumatized neighbors clawing for the dark to disappear. That was Chief Agung, who the people were now calling a great man. Chief Agung the Great. He would have loved that, Agta thought. They might even still be alive right now, way beyond the valley, but he knew that while their bodies may still live, their souls are gone. They won't even have a body to bury, or ashes to scatter in the mountains. Just a memory, and a prayer that their souls may find their way back home.

But enough was enough. Agta was ready to fight back. He would hold his father's wishes to his heart, that the city live on and no unnecessary actions be taken against the hordes of the "Chief of Chiefs" until such a time when they can reliably fight back. Ita needed to fight back, and they needed to do it better. To do this, they needed help. They needed to go to Mara, to the Honori. They were going to help them become better. For this, the city's apprentices would be sent out to help the Honori learn better ways of storing their food, so that their stores would not be easily depleted. Stronger neighbors means a stronger response, once that day comes, against the blight on this land that was the Chief of Chiefs and his roaming hordes.

For now though, the Ita would stockpile once again. The city needed to come into more wealth, and her soldiers needed better equipment. Her arrows and sling-bullets were made of rocks and flint. Weak materials, barely able to make a dent on metal. The "artifacts" from the siege would agree with this finding. Agta had seen the shield of glistening metal in the meeting hall, and the tiny scratch marks on its surface that the sling-bullets and arrows made. It scratched its surface, it didn't even dent it. For Ita to even consider being able to withstand a siege against the Bloodright or the Midnight Horde - or, heavens forbid, both - it needed to be able to fight back with better equipment. Better arrows and bullets was one thing. They also needed better metals. Metals that, if used correctly, could even fight back against the horde. For this, the ancient guild of the Wanderers needed to be reestablished, and that guild had to venture east from Ita, to the land of the Truesilver.

Agta had his plans all laid out. A new mine had to be built, weapons had to be produced, alliances had to be made, and a horde had to be destroyed. In a few years, maybe even in a decade, Ita was going to go on a warpath.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Fri Jan 18, 2019 12:46 pm

The Battle of Xcotl

The Herald leaps aside, barely avoiding a fireball, before shaking a dark fist at the men of the city. Many of the fireballs conjured by the mages of the Xcotl fall short, or fling wide, the Horde having drawn itself up beyond the range of an easy shot even with arcane forces - but those that do reach the lines of the Midnight host do damage to the serried ranks of warriors that seems to surprise them, soldiers accustomed to foes falling with ease before them. Some of the sunstrikes glance aside off of upturned shields, or seemingly dissipate even after striking enemies full on in their tattooed faces - others though cut holes in the ranks of the foe.

This assault, however, did not seem to perturb the warriors of the Bloodright overmuch. Certainly not their leaders, not enough to change their stratagem. Out from the ranks of the black host stood mages in grey cloaks, grey cloaks which visibly pulsed with strange red symbols where fireballs struck them. Some fell, but others merely walked on into their positions, robes singed with ash but still whole. And with them they brought familiar faces - Cadmians taken by their outriders, struggling against bonds.

And yet, they merely waited. Men balanced atop strange beasts sauntered forward from the lines of the Horde, and they loosed arrows against the soldiers of Xcotl as they tried to close the distance to the foe. The warriors of the Gate Council, lacking armor proof against their shot, soon began to fall. Singly at first, then in larger numbers, and even the undead toppled back into slumber here and there.

And still the Horde merely waited, and watched, weathering the onslaught of the mages of the Xcotl.

The soldiers and undead press forward in the face of the arrow fire from the Bloodright skirmishers, the distance to the lines with banners of black and red closing rapidly. When they come near, though, the ranks of the Bloodright warriors open, in a manner that must be well-practiced; from within their ranks issue forth strange contraptions, clanking and rattling across the terrain - beasts held by chains to the contraptions snorting and snarling, each taller than a man. Upon each of the contraptions, graven of black wood, three soldiers of the Horde stand, and they pelt at the assaulting warriors of Xcotl with surprising speed and force.

Perturbed by this strange and frightening development, the living warriors of the Xcotl hesitate, and the beasts ram into their lines without trepidation. Upon the contraptions the black-clad warriors swing heavy two-handed axes of glistening bronze, cleaving men asunder with ease, propelled through the ranks by the force of their beasts. Men wield spears and axes against the beasts in the moments of their upset, and down several of the bizarre contraptions, but the damage is done; their lines utterly broken, several of the warriors break and flee to the rear, while the line struggles to advance forward under the shouts of its captains. Behind the Xcotl warriors the contraptions whirl away faster than a man can run to either side, the blades of their cheering riders red with blood.

Elsewhere, though, the undead continue their remorseless advance. Seeing that they are not frightened of the contraptions, the warriors of the Bloodright advance to meet them man to man, and battle is joined before the reanimated corpses are able to approach the mages. Corpses remorselessly swing weapons against men with tattooed skin, and the affray unfolds rapidly. Though less skilled in combat and wielding inferior weapons, the sheer tenacity of the undead and the strangeness of fighting against opponents who do not die easily and do not know fear allows them to slowly cut their way into the lines of the Bloodright, though dozens of corpses fall in the first minute alone.

Behind the first few ranks of struggling warriors, caught up in combat with the undead, the gray clad figures in robes move. With some of the mages of the Xcotl moving forward from the city to heal the wounded, some nefarious overlord must have issued the order. Mewling peasants of the fields of Xcotl stare wide-eyed at the heavens as the lifeblood courses from their bodies, and in moments of frenetic gesturing the fell dead is done. Fires spurt suddenly from the ground beneath the altruistic mages, and lightning falls from the clear sky to consume men whole. Living candles shriek upon the battlefield, attempts to heal their brethren disrupted by sudden conflagration. Doggedly others of the Magus continue their work, healing those who were trampled by the beasts or run over by the strange contraptions, but for many there is nothing that can be done... and in the distance some of those watching the battle notice a shifting in the enemy ranks. More peasants are being dragged to the front of the enemy's lines, and to either side of the main host rabid unorganized throngs are moving forward.

Stricken by lightning and flames, the Battlemages of the Xcotl retire from the field, marching hard for a part of the city not yet invested by the Bloodright; the ant-hound pastures. Once there knives flash in a desperate cacophony of death, animals slaughtered for necessary use, and corpses in a nearby graveyard stir. Newly risen dead march slowly back towards the ongoing battle in the east at their masters' behest.

Through the streets of Xcotl a man runs at speed, one of the Gate Council. His words are a clarion call to battle.

"Foes come! Fire and death! To arms Xcotl, defend your homes!"

It was contrary to the earlier orders, to hide and await salvation, but it stirred the hearts of the men of the city. Women, lovers, to be defended. And indeed, women came too, with the host of peasants that poured into the alleyways and byways; hundreds all told, ill-equipped and only capable of what could be generously termed combat. But they came nonetheless, to defend their homes - and just in time too.

Upon the field the fighting had turned for ill. Up from either flank had poured forward the slave soldiers of the Bloodright, men and women taken from other homes to sacrifice their bodies upon the pyres of war - a host originally held back to break themselves upon the defenders, now committed to envelop those same men who would defy the Lord of the Earth. Some marched with eyes wild in bloodlust, indoctrinated by whip and word to kill for their masters. Others rushed forward unthinkingly, faces blank and eyes inhuman, killing without expression. But they were many - hundreds - and in minutes they had all but surrounded the brave warriors of the Xcotl who had remained, along with the undead.

Pressed from both sides, the shields of the Bloodright before them, wild slave-killers to either side, the spirits of the warriors of the Xcotl broke. Of the few that remained, they fled for the dubious safety of the city, their foes striking them as they fled. And the undead perished to the last undying corpse, fighting as hard as bone and flesh could allow, never fearing until finally they embraced true death once more.

Their enemies reduced to a pile of slain, the warriors of the Bloodright reformed their lines, and prepared to advance on the city - only to face a swarm of hundreds of carpenters, tailors, day-laborers, and farmers boiling out from between the houses. Pitchforks and scythes and axes met cool bronze in a dance of death. And behind the walls, the men of the Opus percieved that more was needed - more blood, or the world would drown in crimson. To those few who had remained behind, hiding in the city, they came and spoke in hushed voices. Lives they needed, to power their workings. There were no more ant-hounds to slay. Now the blood magic required the lives of men, if the dead were to rise and protect their descendants.

Unfortunately, none of the peasants are that seduced by promises of a glorious afterlife. Men and women cowered away from mages. They had given enough. Those who might have been willing, full of the love of the state, have apparently already rushed to her defense. A bloody but glorious defense.

From the city they stream, throwing themselves into battle without any thought of life hereafter. Slave-soldiers forming for the attack clash with men and women of humble origin, bodies falling where they stand by the hundred. Intermittent fireballs, and the timely arrival of the Undead, are answered by the deaths of the last one hundred captured peasants of Xcotl, and fire that rises to consume those brave souls who stand forth to defend the city, focusing again a sorcerous blow against the arcane powers of the Magnum Opus.

It is a confused mess of death and turmoil, but as night falls the enemy retires from the field, still hale, but obviously having had enough. For now. In his wake he leaves hacked corpses by their hundreds, the flower of the manhood of the Xcotl... not in servitude to the Lord of the Earth, but having paid with their lives for defying him. In their hundreds too have fallen those who carried his sigil, his mark, but those could be replaced. The Lord of the Earth was nothing if not patient.

by **Novas Arcanum** » Fri Jan 18, 2019 2:06 pm

Xcotl, City of the Dead

Brusied but Unbowed
Year 361 Age of Maelstrom
23rd of Hearthfire

War, battle, death a grim reality but hope shined like a beacon through the desert skies. The Barbarians had been driven back, the Ancestors smiled on the Xcotl that faithful day granting victory to the City of the Dead but at what cost? So many had died, so many had drowned in a crimson pool. Through the streets, one could see the death radiating from the buildings. From the top of the Pyramid, silence reigned, for so many of the Gate Council had died defending their homeland.

The streets too were silent in the coming days. Not out of fear or sadness but to respect the many Spirits who walked amongst among them both from centuries past to the days of Battle of Xcolt where so many had perished. Xcotl was an ancient land full of such superstitions but such beliefs seemed real especially since Death stalked more readily than ever before.

The Archmage gave a vigil, and thousands raised their hands in remembrance of those who gave their lives so that may live themselves. A Monument of Cuauhtemoc, the Fallen, the Warriors would be constructed, in the future to commemorate the massive sacrifice given to ensure Xcolt's victory. For they fought alone and proved that they would not bow, that they would not give themselves in, that they would not become slaves to any overlord.

And for that, they were proud, proud of the actions taken to ensure the survival of their civilization. Their efforts were not in vain, was not for naught. They stood against the most powerful force the world had ever seen and stood resolutely. Stood as a mighty Great Wolf in the eyes of the hunter who sought to slaughter and devour them. Their valor was too much for the Barbarians, and though many died it was not a sad affair for the Xcotl knew that death was not the end but the beginning. They arose hundreds of alters and shrines for each person killed defending Xcotl.

They where simple constructs, yet they would honor the people who risked their lives to ensure that they would never be made slaves. They would honor the people who repelled the barbarians and they would pray to these new Ancestor-Spirits that they would never face such a horror ever again.

Xcotl would surely grow stronger and continued to place their belief and veneration for the Ancestors who saved them yet again from oblivion.

The Archives are barred to the Hiearchy.The wooden sealed doors of the Chamber of Knowledge block their entry

by **Kelmet** » Fri Jan 18, 2019 2:18 pm

The Kingdom of Lordaeron

Year Thirtysix of the Reign of King Varian Menethil

Turn 18

The City of Stormwind -1500 Citizens
200 Scholars - Researching Shipmaking (Coping from the hierarchy) (2/10 Points)
200 Artisans- Upgrading Huts to Houses (O/7 Huts replaced)
300 Freemen- Building Fishing Docks (Docks District)
100 Citizen Soldiers- Working the Mine (Extracting Iron ore)
600 Peasants- Food Production
100 Citizen Soldiers- Mobilizing
Trade with Members of the Alliance.

*Unique Building Bonus- Free Attempt at Arcana Research (Preferably, Improving my Healing Light Arcana) -

The Village of Brewnwall- 600 Citizens
200 Peasants - Food Production
100 Peasants - Operating lumber mill
100 Peasants - Working the Quarry
100 Explorers- Diplomatic engagement with Wastelanders
100 Citizen Soldiers- Food Production
Governance
Bureaucratic: Gain extra Wealth from every Citizen.
Forward-Thinking: Gain one Civic every fifty years. (Turn 28 I should gain another civic)
Militaristic: The might of your Soldiers is substantially increased
Arcana
Sunburst
Healing Light
Sun touched Weapons

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Fri Jan 18, 2019 4:44 pm

The Battle of Fergdal

The soldiers of the Zhou struck at night, as their empress had commanded. In darkness they swarmed up the road from the west, marching hard to take the city by surprise. It was a chaotic tumult, despite the men having trained for the day, but that was the way of night assaults. The gates of the city had been closed for the night, of course, and so the Zhou rushed forward to the attack, determined to set their siege ladders as quickly as possible against the walls and so breach the city.

They were about halfway through the first lines of fields outside the town when they were spotted. Somewhere on the walls, horns winded and men shouted in the darkness. Torches kindled into brightness, and even at a distance the sound of running soldiers was audible. Confusion seemed to reign above the walls of Fergdal, men shouting confused commands, but it didn't take a genius to determine that the city was under attack. Anon, as the soldiers grew closer, javelins and arrows began to fall in their ranks from those of the Fergdalin guard who must have been on watch.

As the soldiers make the final approach towards the wall, the hail of arrows and javelins thickened. Some arrows penetrate surprisingly well through the iron armor of the Zhou warriors, compared to what the soldiers might have expected, and here and there a man staggers out of the line in the darkness with serious injuries. Most of them merely shrug off the minor wounds, the Dao sustaining them through their pain, and soon the ladders are raised against the wall. Overhead shafts flitted through the darkness, some from the defenders, some from a few of their number who had unslung bows from their backs to exchange fire with the Fergdalin. Up on the wall many voices could be heard, some arguing, and it seemed the defenders were uncoordinated but in numbers.

Shouts of alarm came from the apex of the wall in moments as, no doubt, the defenders noticed the tops of the ladders. But strong Zhou men braced the structures at their bases, preventing the enemy from easily casting them down again - and the attackers began the climb. It was difficult in the dark, shimmying up even sturdy siege ladders, lit only intermittently with the glaring light of the torches of the wall above. Here and there men slipped and swore dreadfully at almost tumbling back upon their comrades - and some did indeed fall, though usually because a stone cast from above had crushed a skull or knocked a man into unthinking oblivion, rather than clumsiness. It was a dreadful climb, and as men sought the apex of the walls they had to awkwardly hold their shields above their heads, or else receive an axe to the face for their troubles.

A desperate struggle ensued at the top of the walls, Zhou soldiers in heavy gear striving to gain purchase on the stone parapet even as increasing numbers of roused defenders tried to push them back. Some men, in armor glittering in the firelight, were cast bodily back over the wall to lie broken on the ground meters below. But soon the stone was slick with the blood of Fergdalin defenders as well, for a man with a mere club and an axe, whatever his spirit, would struggle to injure a person clad in gleaming scales of iron. Still, keen blades could cut sinew and sever limb, where the wielder was lucky, and as the warriors of the Zhou mounted the walls only a few at a time the defenders still held the advantage. The numbers of those climbing began to dwindle, and those men roused to the defense of the city remained ample to hold them from a sure foothold atop the stoneworks.

The attackers would not be denied though; the Empress commanded it. The Zhou soldiers pressed forward despite their losses - nearly half of their comrades, dead or injured. It was a bloody fight, but they would be the victors, or dead. Throwing a measure of caution to the wind, the men who had been bracing the siege ladders began climbing to the aid of their compatriots. It was supposed to have been easier - take a foothold on the walls, climb up, overrun the city. But these things never went according to plan, and so the Empress' finest would have to rely on brute strength and thick armor to win the day.

Easier said than done, of course, when you were outnumbered better than two to one.

A desperate fight at the apex of the wall. No quarter asked for, or given. In terms of skill, the soldiers from the west were as near to equals with the men of the city as made little difference. Their main advantage, now that the Dao within was dimmed, was thick armor. Iron could turn a blade, if the blade caught it wrong, and even a hefty axe-stroke might not cut through the shimmering scale mail of the invaders, now beginning to glitter in the pre-dawn light. But they were still too few, and the Fergdalin were fully roused, fighting like a shark in a fisherman's net to protect their homes.

Javelins. Arrows. Stones. Where they could the defenders cast these objects at those men climbing the siege ladders, and even burnished iron could only get lucky so many times. Men dropped to one side and the other, reeling, pierced through by keen arrows fired by wicked composite bows, or impaled on barbed boar-spike javelins, even as their brothers fought and died on the ramparts above.

Fought, and died. The crush of the defenders came hard against either side of the small foothold the Zhou had carved for themselves, and try as they might, two men were a match for one. The assault ended abruptly; the weight of too many guardsmen cut through a thin line of iron-armored soldiers, and one of them grunted and heaved. A siege ladder toppled with screams, and crushed those who had been climbing it.

And then it was over. On the ground before the city's wall the dead and dying lay scattered. Those who had been climbing the other siege ladders lost heart, and fell back in dismay. A young sergeant who had been overseeing the harassment force before the walls ordered the retreat hastily, the ears of those who remained ringing with the last cries of their few comrades still upon the walls being cut down by the Fergdalin. Obviously, they were in no mood for prisoners.

Bearing away what of their wounded friends and fellow warriors they could, the soldiers of the Imperium retreated from Fergdal.

by **Elerian** » Fri Jan 18, 2019 6:25 pm

Newly Established Village of Ellander

Letho Delisle felt his family’s new settlement was both sad and impressive. The menagerie of tents, cook fires, latrines, and various assorted other furnishings elicited a number of emotions from Cecil’s eldest son. For perhaps the first time in generations, the Delisle family now had a place that they could call home. Although it wasn’t much at present, if he had anything to say about it, the settlement would one day rise to greatness. For better or worse this was to be the new headquarters for the Delisle family. Their Manse in Serrith had been confiscated by the crown when their attempted coup had been uncovered.

Their exile from Serrith had led them to this place. A handful of tents and unwashed bodies was their legacy. To some in the family Ellander was a testament to the greatness that their family had once held. As if they could really say that their family was better off before Letho’s father had taken the mantle. Only a year prior they had been wealthier than even the King of Serrith. That wealth had been invested in the future of the Delisle family, but some of Cecil’s detractors said he’d gambled away all his wealth.

Regardless of its implications, this was to be the new homeland of the Delisle dynasty. Their first overarching objective was to build up the settlement into something that they could be proud to call their own. This was a daunting task when one considered the relatively few men and women that inhabited Ellander at present. Their task was made all the more difficult by the hostility that the nearby Serys now held toward his people It would be difficult, but if anyone were to do it, he should be the one.

by **The Hierophancy** » Sat Jan 19, 2019 9:33 am

Lands of the Honori, Spring - 361 CE

Ny-Kar and his followers trudged down the dusty path - little more than a snaking, narrow line free of vegetation, really - towards the distant cluster of squat, mudbrick homes, nestled among the arid brush and brown winter grass. Small gardens which, in the wetter summer seasons, would be planted with corn, were barren and dry, though the agave remained - further out, a herd of camel grazed, their herder watching the distant procession with interest. The was a herding community, making their living on the backs of the camels they cared for, though unlike the tents and humble earthen shacks Ny-Kar had already preached in, this settlement was permanent, inhabited year-round. About now - just before sunset - was when the herdsmen started bringing their camels in from their pastures, and when the rest of the village began waking up to set about the myriad of tasks required in keeping a settlement thriving. By the time Ny-Kar arrived in the hamlet, it's inhabitants would no doubt be up and gathered. So far, everywhere he'd visited, even those folk fearful of bandits or barbarians, had been interested in taking a look at the strangers.

Half-a-hundred men and women marching about and waving a plain white banner wasn't exactly a common sight in Mara's humble peripheries, and as he drew closer, Ny-Kar could see the peasants gathering on the "road", lighting torches and trying to get a better look at the new arrivals in the fading light - it would be a dark night, and moonless. Ny-Kar gestured for his own men to ignite their torches, and gave a nod to Xe'Acolai, who stepped up beside him without comment. She was one of his lieutenants, competent to be sure, but, more importantly, a woman, and a respectable looking one at that. He'd found his countrymen far more receptive when she was at his side - while Ny'Kar had in recent years grown to doubt the priestesses' teachings on gender, he did his best to show respect for such traditions and beliefs while proselytizing. The time to dispel those lies would come, but later. Up ahead, one of the herders stepped forwards - a small, wizened old woman, wearing a supple and modestly decorated costume of camelhair whilst the rest of her people, by and large, were in either the harsh, stiff "cloth" that was weaved of agave fiber or camel leather. Ny-Kar approached the woman, he and Xe'Acolai giving bows of respect. "Honored Elder, I and my fellows come from the north-east, bringing news, and truth. With your leave, I would like to speak to those who would hear of them in your meeting-house, or should that not please you, here under the stars."

"Well then, far-traveler, it seems fitting for you to tell your stories where you stand. I do not know of a home outside the city where so many could hear your words."

"Well, if all wish to hear, then I suppose there is no other choice." Ny-Kar took one of the sturdy wood-framed packs from his comrade, placing it on the packed earth and stepping up onto it. "The world is changing, my friends. The dark horde moves on to sack another city, it's numbers stronger than ever, and a serpent with two heads was seen devouring itself in the shallows of the Tchokan. Ita is said to have sacrificed their very chief to the darkness, along with hundreds of their finest - men to kill and die for their new, fell lords. In Mara, a new force of Honori warriors has been mustered, men sworn to aid the darkness in their occupation of our land, to enforce their puppet-Matriarch's "virtues" upon her people. As, I said, friends, I am not here only to tell you of the goings on, but to speak the truth. And so, I ask you, what do the new Matriarch and her cronies know of virtue?"

Ny-Kar pointed towards not-so-distant Mara, fixing upon his face a look of stern reproach.

"I'll tell you the virtues known to the Matriarch. They are the virtues of simpering submission, of lust for power, for drink, for gold and jewelry. Abominations, savage barbarians, walk freely through our lands, having their way with our people, taking the fruits of our labor by virtue of brutality. And what of the priestesses who invited these men into our home, who decided to swear away their dignity and our prosperity, who told us it was a sacrifice necessary to prevent further suffering? How have they bore the burden of their decision?

They have not. They slide close to our occupiers, they speak of their so-called virtue, they use them to do their dirty work, and while we sacrifice our labors for them, they feast and drink and prance about in their temples-high, wearing ever more expensive clothing, ever more heavy and elaborate ornaments of gold, silver and opal - of priceless trinkets that they buy with the wealth we give them, wealth we give them meant to serve the Gods, to enrich our common wealth, but which is siphoned off, which is stolen to sate the greed of our rulers, them and their barbarous, savage allies. I tell you, friends, these priestesses are not their progenitors, women who nurtured our nation, leading it to a bright future with hand benevolent, gentle but fair - they have lost touch with the Gods, with justice.

If this were not so, why did the sun and moon allow the darkness to conquer them, to conquer us? Why did they create these monsters, if not to send a message, to tell us that we had strayed from the path - I tell you, friends, they have sent these men, whom all good people agree to be reprehensible, to show us the truth of our rulers. Godless, greedy things, who steal, who enslave, who give nothing back to the people, who kill and oppress for their own betterment - and who plays their host, opens our doors, coffers and spirits to them?

Our rulers, once paragons, now fallen. They tell us we could not fight the horde, that this was the only way - they tell us this because they do not trust our gods, they do not trust us, and they are fearful, fearful that if they told the common man, if they tell the common man, to rise up, to destroy the invaders, Silar at our backs and in our arms, they know we will find out how truly strong the people are, and that when we do, they shall lose their luxuries, their vices, their stolen wealth."

A man of middling age in a simple agave-fiber skirt and hat stepped forwards from the crowd, clearly weary and fresh from the pasture, but eyes alight in righteous indignation. "And who are you, then? Serpent-tongued one, to come into our streets and speak of fire? You ignorant one. You fiendish one? You speak of freedom, of the end to shackles- but what would come from an overthrow of the Satrap? Murder and blood. Hundreds more would die! We would end up as the Ita- slain, in droves! Our houses burned! Where did you come from? From the great north? Where were You when the city struggled? Where where you all when the harvest came in? You were in the woods! Living as wildmen! You lived in the mountains! As so-called "free men", abandoning thy families and homes! I say unto you- that you are cowards. Where is thy mother? Where is her's? Where did her's die? You wish for us to leave them? I am all one for change, for revolution! For the fire of the gods to lick the heels of those who oppress us. But be that not hurdling towards suicide! Who would rule us? You?"

"It is perfectly fine to levy doubt, my friend." Ny-Kars face darkens.

"But I would not have you levy against me slander, even if you believe it truth. I will tell you where my mother is, and her mother - they are in the Honori earth, buried by my hand, killed by black blade, raped and killed for pleasure, for greed. They are dead because the priestesshood of Mara did not see fit to protect them, to call up their people to arms and confront the godless. I will tell you where I was when the city struggled - I was orphaned, wandering the waste, only a child in truth, confused and afraid. And I'll tell you where I was, I and my men you so readily call cowards - at war. Among the wastes, among the horrors caused by these overlords who you claim to wish gone, among the blood and ashes, we helped those we could and reaped vengeance upon the dark ones at every opportunity while the priestesses and their dogs sat in their palaces, dithering and eating and drinking and dancing and sleeping and working in concert with the dark and terrible horde. And you are right, my brother - you are right to fear blood, murder and war, for they are terrible things, things I do not wish to bring to my home, our home.

But neither do I wish for our people to live in fear, in oppression - and so I seek a middle path. I say to you, who wants reform - follow me, join me and mine, and we shall march upon Mara, show the priestess, the satrap, the barbarians our strength, our numbers, the righteousness of our cause. Let us offer them the chance to cede to reform peacefully, to surrender themselves to the people, and to our fair judgement of their crimes, so that those who deserve to rule can. You ask if I would rule? No. The walls of Mara are not for me, and mine own mission is not limited to her palaces of bureaucracy and governance. I have not lust for power, because I am but a slave - a slave to my gods, and to my people. I say, let the people rule, let them dictate and legislate and tithe as they wish to be - let our rulers remember that they do not live and work for their own benefit, but the benefit of their people, and let us show them and their fellows the way to best do so."

The heckler shook his head. "This is not the way forwards. It is the way to our deaths. We would go to Mara, and we would be slaughtered, or worse, we would take the city, and [i]then[/i ]be slaughtered, our sons and brothers and sisters and daughters put in chains and forced to die in turn. You would kill us all, demon. You would have peasants die in their hundreds so they may play at priests, have the occupiers slain so that their masters may slay us. No more blood, I say."

"You would have us wait, would you? Have us act the slave to the forces of evil for all time, have us give them what is ours, out of fear? Out of lack of faith? I tell you, friend, that way leads only to more fear, more oppression, more hardship. The horde is strong, yes, but it's star is no longer rising as it once did - they lost a great battle, as you no doubt know, and they now march to lands of dark magics and dread powers which even they will no doubt struggle against. The time to strike a killing blow draws near, and no doubt others sense the same. Here, they are few, and we, the people, are many - and if their greater host returns, we shall be ready, we shall not surrender, and with the Gods at our backs, we shall turn them aside."

The herdsmen threw his hands up, muttering something about fools, and sulked back into the crowd, which, sensing the speech was over, immediately dissolved into conversation and debate. Some excitedly swing about imaginary weapons at invisible foes, others look on towards Mara with grim determination, pr glance between their compatriots with fearful half-smiles, and some stare sullenly at Ny-Kar, laying upon him already the weight of dead sons and daughters.

by **Pentapolitan Kyrene** » Sat Jan 19, 2019 3:49 pm

The Legion of Mithras Karaunos
South of the Palinate

"My boy, you must find a kingdom big enough for your ambitions. Gergan is too small for you."

"I had rather be the first man abroad than the second man in the Palinate."

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Sun Jan 20, 2019 3:24 pm

Eastern Marches of Cadmus the Fair, Stalheim Hierarchy
Fifth Day of Blacktide, Year 361 of the Common Era

Along the high hills out of sight of the sea the soldiers walked. Most were fresh recruits, or yearlings, barely out of their training. It showed. Their march was even and measured, so precise they might have been clockwork automatons turning the gears of a lumbermill. A disciplined, but inefficient pace for the ground they covered. The highlands here were craggy and broken, white bones of marble intermixed with a flesh of clay and stubby emerald-hued grass which stretched for leagues, out towards the great wheat-wastes of distant Shoval were the blood-traitors of the White City had once made their bivouac. Not the streets and parade-grounds of the civilized south, where lands were ploughed and roads paved with cobble or flagstones. But it took time to beat that organized drill pattern out of the raw soldiers. They could take an axe and still fight, aye, and form a shield wall in the blink of an eye at the tap of a spear in Battle-Speech. Out on the land, though, they had a tendency to hold formation even when scouting for enemies, and other less than useful habits.

Marius sighed to himself, and slammed the tattoo on his burnished shield as the company came to the crest of a small hillock. With the speed born of long practice and harsh discipline the line of glittering warriors halted, and at a barked command from his second, half of the command spread out to set up a perimeter.

Overkill in these days of relative peace. Though, truth be told, the news out of the east was concerning, and that was part of why the patrol was out here, leagues from Cadmus, watching for foes. Men with faces as black as night. Warriors who rode giant beasts as large as oxen, but twice as fast. Fell magicks that could set the sky on fire and cause the earth to vomit forth death. If you believed half the stories, and Marius Sunshield did, the butcher's bill was coming. Dark times. The Keen-Folk would have to be ready.

"Fucking thinking. Sergeant, can I swap with one of the Redshields for a patrol slot?"

The words were said too loud by one of the new recruits, and heads turned to look at him, making the farmboy grimace. And, as it happened, one of those heads was that of the Lord-Commander. With heavy tread the master of the hundred closed on the hapless volunteer, and nodded to his section leader.

"Istvan, training is important. Your mind is your weapon, as much as any shortsword. And the northern battle meditation will carry you further than most things. Strip away the mystical ignorance and mumbo-jumbo, and the reshaping of the body to suit the warrior is a boon that cannot be underestimated. You've seen the Third in drills, fought them. They march harder than we can, and fight harder than we can. I will not have any soldiers under my command giving less than is expected of him in the service of the Hegemon - is that clear?"

Wide eyed, the recruit nodded, and saluted, his hand rapping on the iron segmentum over his breast. Marius merely nodded, and went on his way, inspecting the resting soldiers. It was a funny thing, trying to use the frankly esoteric instructions of the Collegia in order to reshape the 'core of the spirit', but the results were hard to argue with. A difficult thing to master, but the ability to fight on when other men's sword arms grew heavy could not be denied in utility. And so the soldiers of the Stalheimadrin trained, and patrolled, an uneasy peace laying on the plains of the north.

by **The GAmeTopians** » Sun Jan 20, 2019 8:16 pm

The Great Zhou Imperium
Turn 19

Excess food is made available to Xcotl for free, in their time of need.
Has been engaged in a Diplomatic Union through marriage with the Xcotl City-state, deepening diplomatic relations and increasing social cohesion.[/quote]

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Mon Jan 21, 2019 10:05 am

Year 363 of the Common Era - Turn 20

Rumors of War

Rumors in the north. Rumors of devastation, of black banners, of refugees fleeing to fair Fergdal from savage lands.

To Salli also come refugees, from the south. They flee out of the western mountains, a hundred souls seeking succor wherever it can be found.

Moreover, rumors of destruction and death come to Steelsworn, settlement of the Hvasskyn, rumors followed by peasants and nomads out of the eastern woodlands. They are on the road looking for salvation anywhere they can find it, and speak of crimson banners and men with teeth of brightest white in faces of obsidian darkness.

Chyrsi Aspida: The Chyrsi arrive to Xcotl some time after the Horde has been repulsed, but their scavenging of the battlefield for loot is still profitable indeed. +Wealth II

The Poor Fellow-Soldiers: The amount of obsidian harvested from the mountains of the home region of the Soldiers is poor, and barely enough for a few weapons. Luckily, efforts to gain more men for the cause are far more fruitful. The recruits from the Honori homeland are perhaps more murderers on the run and less activists seeking reform, but even society's desperate could be put to good use by the Slave-God. +100 Peasants

The Shambling Legion: Marching hard out of the west, and arriving merely a month after the battle of Xcotl, Ulm Bahadur's coming is a touch late, but the loot of the fallen Midnight Warriors is impressive. +1 Bronze Weapons

Delisle: The food stores of the Company will serve, for now, subsiding on the plenty of their new home. Some Slums are rising, slower than might be anticipated, but time would tell the tale. [Slums 1/2]

The Ascent of Man [IC|Closed]

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