A Different World: The Noble Cities [IC|Closed]

by **The Empire of Tau** » Sun Feb 07, 2021 5:12 pm

[Machaka turns into a Republic.] A lore post will come soon.

by **The GAmeTopians** » Sun Feb 07, 2021 11:21 pm

The Republic of the Great River

"Right this way, Mister Speaker, Madame Archon."

The banging of hammers on metal and the roar of furnaces had long since become a common background noise in this part of the River's Jewel. As the specialized environs for the master metalworkers drew to completion, and the materials began to flow in, soon a near endless sea of production would flood the markets of the Great River. As such, the Council had deemed it necessary to dedicate their attention to such an integral part of their city's flourishing economy. Though each politician wore simple cloaks, their confident strides and air of nobility had become recognizable to even the most ill-informed of locals. Slight interruptions in the workflow of the day abounded as the two figures drew stares, only to be quickly warded off by glares from their escort.

"Thank you, Master Smith. I'm sure this will be a most illuminating visit."

by **Ralnis** » Mon Feb 08, 2021 12:20 am

Island of Lo,
Warcyfle

The building of the farm had came at a coughing fit from Gu but a happy nod from his supporters. The farm was a mixture of breadfruit, tubers, and Child Birds. They all served to do just as much as two hundred peasants could from just hunting and gathering from the fishing schools. The very idea was still good. Gu's renovation project would have enough manpower to complete it and serve as a point to never have slums on the island anymore. It would be the last thing that Gu would see before his son takes power. Of course his son is looking at the need of combining Teslanite with the human body.

The boy was already looking to gain more power and prestige for his sake. His ambition was made clear but the idea of forwarding the power of Tesla and learning his mysterious ways of the world. The Path wasn't an obsession for his son, it was a tool to conquer the Aun'kal in secret. Of course he has the support of others in order to try and get back at the slight that the Aun'kal did to them. However he made sure that the people would make themselves healthy and happy but for now, the next generation was getting ready for the adult rituals.

by **The National Dominion of Hungary** » Mon Feb 08, 2021 1:31 am

The Land of Penithel

"Slowly, peacefully the Pennenthelli live, new buildings rise, the herds of Unicorns Grow and as the people labor the priests attempt to make a device to glide across the waters of the river. The wheels of industry turn as new workshops turn out finely fired and glazed pottery filling the homes as people gather to purchase at the market, the trade taxes filling royal coffers all while beyond the walls, a new tanner's workshop emerged, kept far from the town for reason of the stench and sheer repulsiveness of the process, but it could not be denied that the tanners would surely reap their own wealth at market day, for fine leather was also much in demand."

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Mon Feb 08, 2021 8:42 am

The Deepkin

Greensward Plateau, Forgefend
Ninth of Last Seed, Year Twohundred Twentysix of the Reckoning

It was a depressing sight. For all the labor the new settlers of Forgefend had put into their endeavors, despite the careful weeding and land clearance and carrying lovingly preserved seedlings from the motherland, the crops were failing. Most were stricken by black patches, and rotted where they stood, perhaps one in five of the plants already dead, and many more dying. Talinos, one of the leaders of the city, knelt near the stand of squash to touch the blackened patch with a gloved hand. It crumbled underneath his finger, already dry and desiccated, almost as if it had been consumed by fire.

"All the fields are the same, Master Heridan." The farmers bowed slightly, respecting the position that Talinos commanded as a rich stonemason. "Even if we bring more seeds from afar, who is to say that they will not succumb to this blight as well?"

Talinos frowned behind his thick black bushy beard. Forgefend had much potential, aye. But if she could not feed her own people, what hope did she have for the years to come? It was all well and good to live on fish and forage, for a few dozen families, but the resources that could be extracted from the wilderness were limited. He would have to speak to the wise men, to the scholars from Government Hill that were recently arrived in the city. The Deepkin had overcome many obstacles, but he did not see an obvious solution to this one.

by **Lazarian** » Mon Feb 08, 2021 12:29 pm

Corvus

A small crowd gathered around a man and his wives, sitting upon a stool in the city’s marketplace. They all listened closely - mostly humble merchants and artisans, though a few spirit-guides stood at the edges of the congregation, keeping a keen eye out for the warriors of the city.

“Alas, our poor clinic,
Meant to ward away the foul spirits of the mists,
Instead tends to hot-headed youths with bloodied fists.

Bravery and courage is the way of Vennon, ‘tis true,
But is senseless bloodshed truly walking in his way?
I pray our hearts can still keep the Beast at bay.

Our young no longer praise wisdom and progress,
They brawl and scrap and wish for glory,
To become heroes of their own story,

Selfish desires lurk amongst our souls,”

Suddenly, a boy, one of the young spirit-guide apprentices, ran into the square, panting heavily.

“They’re coming!” he said shrilly, gasping for air, hands on his knees. “The guards are coming!”

The crowd quickly dispersed, fleeing this way and that away from the musician. It was unwise to be present in the audience of such treacherous dissent. Lenan Twice-Cursed Songweaver, Lead Storyteller, froze. A single discordant note echoed through the air as his fingers instantly halted on their harp.

Someone had tipped the Tribelord off, apparently. As the boy hid behind a seller’s stall, a posse composed of ten members of the Bloodred Pack entered the marketplace, with Craenon at the forefront. His hard and scarred visage was cloaked in a deep scowl, and his followers and cronies cracked their knuckles, ready to disperse some “law and order”, as they liked to call it.

“Well, well, what’s this!” inquired Lanon Longfang, Craenon’s right hand man, as he approached the stool with clenched fists. He leered at the musician, who now sat alone in the middle of the square. “Don’t tell me Songbird here has lost his voice?” he continued, stepping forward with a haughty swagger.

Lenan looked up, hands quivering slightly. The Longfang youth was impetuous, ambitious, and hardly pious at all. He’d have no moral qualms whatsoever about delivering cruel blows to a spirit-guide.

“Leave him alone, Lanon.” ordered Craenon, holding a hand up to stop his men from acting rashly. Lanon scowled, before backing away.

“Good afternoon, master storyteller. I’m afraid that I returned from the hunt to some rather unfortunate news. See, I’ve heard that you’ve been playing some new songs recently! Ones that...seem to be stirring up unrest. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to hear them for myself. Please, play that song from the beginning.” the warlord said politely, although Lenan knew that this request, though framed in courtesy, could not be denied.

With a cough, Lenan cleared his throat and began to pluck the harp once more.

“Hail the Lord of Corvus and his thrice-blessed eye,
Who hath brought many foes their time to die,
And slain a raging wolf with bare hands alone,
Whose mighty strength has only grown!”

Craenon interrupted the song with harsh, guttural laughter.

“That’s enough of that. Do you take me for a fool?” he said, his amusement fading quickly. “I have eyes and ears all around this city, master storyteller. I know what you say about me when we’re out on the hunt. And it’s nowhere near that flattering.”

He paused for a moment, anger mixed with remorse.

“Do I truly inspire such fear that my people cannot be honest to my face? Or are the hearts of those closest to our gods truly so feeble that they do not dare speak the truth to their own brothers?”

A few moments of silence passed, and Lenan began to play once more, his trembling fingers dreadfully stumbling through the melody of the tune.

“Men of Corvus, listen to my plea.
Long ago, before man grasped fire,
Hearts were filled with malice and ire,

Through piety and prayer, we received gifts,
The power to forge our destiny and path,
To push away the foul Beast’s wrath,

But in recent times, we have turned away,
Embracing darkness, violence, and strife,
Pitting man against man and wife against wife,

Alas, our poor clinic, so recently erected,
Meant to ward away the foul spirits of the mists,
Instead tends to hot-headed youths with bloodied fists.

Bravery and courage is the way of Vennon, ‘tis true,
But is senseless bloodshed truly walking in his way?
I pray our hearts can still keep the Beast at bay.

Our young no longer praise wisdom and progress,
They brawl and scrap and wish for glory,
To become heroes of their own story,

Selfish desires lurk amongst our souls,
Our artisans are filled with greed,
And our beloved gods paid no heed,

A harmonious people value men of every kind,
Not just those of physical might,
But men with minds and spirits bright,

‘Tis not too late to return to ancient ways,
To follow our trusted spirit-guides once more,
Look deep within your soul, and open up its door.” he finished, fingers trembling and voice cracking in fright.

The guards looked to their leader, waiting for the command to rough up this impudent singer. There was no official law in Corvus about spreading dissent, but there were certainly unwritten expectations for the populace. It was generally accepted that a Tribelord was not to be disrespected or worked against - after all, as the chosen one of the gods, such disrespect was greatly offensive to both ancestors and Aspects alike. Some cracked their knuckles, others gripped staves closely.

Craenon placed his hand on his chin, tapping his fingers for a few moments.

“Not many men would dare say such things to my face, Lenan Twice-Cursed.” he stated bluntly, staring down the quivering prey before him. “I admire your bravery, as foolish as your words may be. And I hear your concerns.”

He cleared his throat. “Let all men know,” he said, shouting across the square, so that everyone nearby would hear, “that I have no fear of songs, or words, or criticism! I shall hold an audience tonight at the Scriptorum with Elana Dreamweaver and the other dissenters tonight. All men and women are welcome!” he finished, before strutting off, his pack following their leader.

Was it a trap? A trick? Would they be herded and slaughtered like bleating goats? Or would their Lord listen to their valid concerns?

Regardless of the outcome, there was no turning back. Taking a deep breath of relief, Lenan picked up the stool and left. Perhaps there would be a home-cooked meal waiting for him, he thought wistfully.

Maybe even two.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Mon Feb 08, 2021 5:15 pm

Year 226 of the Reckoning
Turn 14

Zhai Cheng: The moths that flutter through the woods of the high hills near Zhai Cheng have been known to the Huang for generations, their cocoons theorized as a source of fiber for clothing since the ancient times. Now methods have been devised to carefully harvest these cocoons, boiling them with thanks to the Ancestors for their gifts, and laboriously melding their silk into long delicate threads which are as light as the clouds, as strong as iron, and beautiful to gaze upon.

Varra: Of the barbarians, there is no sign, though multiple expeditions are mounted into the known hinterlands. Even private citizens search for the foe, and return emptyhanded. It is almost as if they vanished into thin air...

Daru: The sons of the city, encouraged by the ascent of the new First, have taken up a donation so that their efforts might be well provisioned. Two Wealth and one Industry will be available as a bonus this turn. Some, however, as men always do, mislike the change, and grumble against an alteration in leadership. -6 Stability

Eleskar: The explorers dispatched to the north and west report no break in the temperate woodlands which the Eleskar call home. This area is bordered, however, by chill pine forests to the north and west beyond her confines, and it is clear that harsher regions lay beyond. Tall trees, taller than any the scouts have seen before, with timber the color of fire, loom over the landscape. There is also ore to be found here, strips of pale dun green malachite, and deep red cinnabar.

Machaka: Raiders have struck again against the Machaka, but their band is soundly defeated by the warriors laying in ambush and the God-Spiders. Many dozens of them are slain in the ambush, and the rest flee back westward in dismay.

Warclyfe: Despite the frequent feasts and fetes the government holds, men struggle to forget their poverty. The Scholars of the fair city on the sea have laid down their quills, demanding that Gu do something about the deprivation their fellows feel. +4 Stability

Kharbarinth: After some study, it is clear that the reason for this failure is the salt which pervades the soil of Forgefend. Luckily, the strains of barley appear to grow well, despite the diffident soil. New plantings are started, farther from the beach, and the barley fields placed where other crops will not flourish. By harvest time the hunger and concern of the last year is no more than a memory. There is strange news out of Stalheim this year though - wild men from the east, apparently having observed the city and her prosperity for some time, have approached the gates and asked to be allowed to settle within the City of Iron. Their hair is red, and their skin darker than the pale milk of the Deepkin, but their aspect polite enough and their tongue simple to understand. Some mistrust these outsiders, and agitate against including them... -8 Stability

Corvus: With the concerns of the Spirit-Guides placated for now with a position on the Council, Corvus' unrest subsides. It is clear to the more pious of the city that the warriors are men who respect the gods and their messengers, or at least will not show them undue disdain. Such bureaucracy is somewhat expensive to maintain, and slows the functioning of the government, but what price is that to pay for peace between the sons of Corvan? But alas, there is more bad news to report! Peasants sent to labor in the fields of grain near the city have disappeared once more, even as the soldiers of the Wolf scouted for their lost brothers. A dark cloud, it seems, hangs over the city, a threat of the men beyond which has never before been so oppressive...

Aled Aedryn: The sickle is a simple cutting instrument, conceptually at least, to hew down cereal crops so men may not waste either time or energy when the autumn enfolds the land. With this innovation, the people of the southlands will now bring much more food into their larders, and when is that ever a bad thing?

Skras Tor: When one places a stone in a fire, most of the time little of interest results. But the artisans of the Hesukar, spurred on by a devotion to their dark gods, have begun producing weapons and armor of gleaming copper metal, to armor the twisted bodies of their brothers. Let all fear the war-monsters of the Black Kings, for their hands shall be soaked in gore, a paean of worship to the Lord in Crimson.

by **Novas Arcanum** » Mon Feb 08, 2021 5:48 pm

Bronze Age Shao Dynasty Theme

The silkworms would consume the leaves of the forest trees for many days. Then after much time passed they would spin their heavenly silk cocoons creating the substance worth it's weight in gold. Many Huang poets would write poems on the elegance and beauty of silk. Many would praise the ancestors clever and cunning they were. More importantly the gift of silk would provide a significant and powerful boost to the economy of the Shao Dynasty, of the Middle Kingdom and the wealth generated from silk would swell the coffers of the state allowing many things to be accomplished.

by **The Knights of Azorea** » Mon Feb 08, 2021 6:03 pm

The Velathrii

Velathri
The Archonate of Kelvus and Clusien, First Day of The Saecrun

An old Augur sat upon a hillside, and watched three sparrows twirling overhead. A hot wind had blown in from the jungle, and the valley sweltered. Many free folk bathed down at the banks of the Hiero, while the wives of soldiers and captains rested in the shade of the holy hill of Suvae, imperious and confident under the glares of the red-painted priests of Saec presiding from within the old shrine above them. The sparrows dived, and the old augur sighed, stroking his lank beard and coughing in the humid heat. It had not been like this, he could have sworn, in the old days. Still, his daughters would have brought fresh water, and he'd finally grown tired of watching birds after he'd turned sixty, and been retired from the Legium. He rose, and set out towards the collection of huts on the hilltop.

Down by the river, three women preened above the rest in their eminence - the wives of the two archons and one black robed widow, who would have been called mother to Clusien before her cloistering and the severing of such legal bonds. They were not permitted, perhaps, in the temple above, but down here they could bask in their achievement. None of them had, as the saying went, swept their men to the archonate in their skirts, but they had managed clients and won over old chieftains sufficiently to help theirs ascend the sacred hill. In normal life, theirs was the greatest honour to which a woman could accede. Looking out over the fields - the distant lumber camps and the peasants wading for fish in the river, they breathed in their triumph deeply.

High above, their menfolk did likewise. The hill of Suvae - a narrow and raised pinnacle at the city's heart, had been waiting for Ereus Clusien and Murius Kelvus since their births. Sons of archons, grandsons of archons and great-grandsons of kings, it was in their auguries to climb the Narrow Way. Like pilgrims of centuries past they stooped as they approached the sanctuary, even if its once solemn hill was now surrounded at its base by clustered huts, shrines and forge-fires. They walked together in silence, unfaltering in the heat despite their ceremonial red-striped tunics and wrappings. Clusien stared forward at the aweful and ancient stone-work of the temple, built into the stone of this acropolis. Kelvus glimpsed back - out beyond the new-dug track of the wall's foundation and across the hills of Skithro, where small columns of smoke arose.

The path narrowed, until the men walked shoulder to shoulder. Kelvus' heart pulsed, his arm shifted to go for his sword - his hand remembered the press of the fight always. He gritted his teeth. His hand remembered it in his tent, in his bed, at dinner - it would never forget the press of men, the awful tension of pushing with all one's might, and knowing that to fall was to die. He dared a look at his comrade's face, but saw no sympathy in the grey of his eyes. He expected that he had shown none himself. He had seen death, had tasted battle, and he knew it as well as his companion, he was quite sure of that. He was proud, even - it was his glory in battle that had won him this honour of the gods. Still, the bronze lots by which they would choose commands waited before him, just as the assembled army waited at the path's base. One would stay, and one would turn from the temple and march straight west to face the fire. There would be no pause to celebrate - as was tradition.

The horns rang out from the temple above, and the two men turned to face one another. They stared, iron-hard, and each drew the other's sword. They stared, silent, as each placed the tip of the blade at his fellow's throat. Neither moved. It had always been so - if an archon hated his companion enough to kill him on sacred ground, it was better that he do it before he had been sworn into the office. The moment hung in the heavy air. Hundreds of eyes darted to the raised Narrow Way, and watched for either man to fall. Two wives, and one mother, held their breath.

Then, the swords sank. The men turned. And the sparrows twirled overhead.

by **Nuxipal** » Mon Feb 08, 2021 6:26 pm

City of Daru
Year of the Ancestor 128

The city was quiet. With Teroh as First of the Nirari, things worked just about the same as they did with Kirtar in control, however, he seemed much more focused on the here and now instead of planning for the future. New homes were being planned for and even watchtowers placed in the outlands to help prevent attacks against the people there. However, there was a sense of urgency to everything he did. As if the city was to be preparing for something major. Activity about the city felt new, and with the additional work being put into their work, the city was preparing for a new future under the youthful leadership of First Teroh. Though, it seemed the young First was very busy paying attention to the ins and outs of his soldiers. He patrolled with them and trained with them, a very martial First was not unknown to the Nirari. Nearly a century ago the First had conscripted the whole of the newly settled city and attempted to resume the nomadic ways of their ancestors. He was unsuccessful.

It didn't seem to be the same case with Teroh. Daily visits to the shrine of The Ancestor showed his piety. Indeed, additional wealth was dedicated to the Ancestor in a long and elaborate ceremony that was attended by most of the soldiers, Teroh, and the High Priestess, Serra. Teroh left instructions for the city with Serra to be completed while he and the soldiers went off to drill and train to become better soldiers. While Daru has a good location with multiple cities around it, none seemed willing to trade their finest materials for what the Nirari could offer them. If their military was strengthened, it was possible for them to hire themselves out in exchange for what they desired.

by **Lazarian** » Mon Feb 08, 2021 9:00 pm

Corvus

The City Gates
First of Sunsheight

“No!” Lupan Annwyn shouted, crossing his arms. “We won’t go, and that’s final!”

The mob of peasants behind him shouted cries of support and agreement, throwing chunks of mud and stones at the city guard attempting to prod them out of the city walls. A group of spirit-guides bearing long robes and crests of dried vines attempted to convince the terrified peasants out into the fields once more, to little or no avail.

Dark days had plagued Corvus as of late. First, the families sent beyond the walls to gather the grey ore had vanished into thin air. Soldiers had been sent to find the missing citizens, only to find a desolate canyon, dotted with the bodies of brave men and women. And even as they searched for the perpetrators of such a foul deed, tragedy struck again - the workers of the plains outside the cities had been abducted, swept off into the night!

It was enough to make one’s blood run cold. Had they been devoured? Captured and pulled in tow to become slaves? Sacrificed upon altars to foreign gods? None knew.

Unrest, needless to say, permeated the city. As soon as the Spirit-Guides defiance had been quelled, other issues had arisen in their place! Worse still, the organs of the sacrificial goats had not given any signs of foul portent, meaning that the gods had chosen not to warn them...or approved of such dreadful events. Craenon’s newly founded council was able to convince the priestly caste to hide these dreadful findings, though rumors escaped and lurked in every whisper.

The fighting men of the city had been dispatched in hot pursuit of whatever foul bandits had taken their brothers. The Spirit-Guides consecrated their newly forged armor in the blood of goats, painting the four lines of the Aspects within the circle of the Mother-Moon on the Soulstone chestplates. Equipped with bows and sharpened stone-tipped spears, the warriors set off with prayers and provisions upon their backs.

Unfortunately, while Craenon and his trusted pack were gone, the city was left in hands without the strength of his bronze fists. And now, at the height of the year, the peasants were refusing to work. The current temporary Tribelord, Jevon Dreamweaver (a commander of twenty-five) did not commend or inspire nearly the same confidence or respect, and had not been able to force them out.

“Fine.” Jevon said to Lupan, his weary shoulders slumped. “We’ll be fine. We have enough food."

"Are you sure?" whispered Elana, his older cousin and current Divine Voice of the Spirit-Guides in his ear. "Jevon, they'll give in eventually."

"They're our brothers and sisters. I can't send them out to face an unknown danger without good cause." he replied, standing a little taller.

"Stand down! Halt!" he shouted to the few citizen-militia, who happily obeyed, falling back immediately. They were hardly pleased about the whole state of affairs either, frankly. Relieved, Jevon sat upon the ground, the weight of the world falling upon his shoulders as the peasants rushed in to safety. Was this what it was like to be Tribelord? To be responsible for a thousand men and their families? He detested it!

Despite the immense stress he was under, he clenched his jaw, straightened his back, and put on a brave face. Though he was not a ruler by nature, the Aspects had put him here for a reason. And perhaps that reason was because he wasn't a hard-faced ruler - he was a man who would watch over and care for his city during these turbulent time.

For his people, he just had to bear the world for just a little longer.

by **Pragia** » Mon Feb 08, 2021 10:29 pm

The Eleskar would stay behind their walls for a time, Halan directing his council to begin to take stock of what they had. Simply put, there were more young Eleskar than the master magi could teach in the scriptorum, and some of the less-able would be failed by the masters, not even being able to read like the other Eleskar. This concern would result in calls for more scholastic focusing, even as the scholars had begun to fashion rags from tree pulp on their path to the ever-elusive paper. The magi were aware of the concerns of their lower ranks, but tempered this desire that the need for homes outweighed the need to learn in the current situation.

The fears of the Eleskar have been mostly addressed, the large wall seeming to have deterred the barbarians beyond for a time. They were unaware of the tactical prowess of the Machaka, or their recent changes in government, the largely insular people relying on the Kelskar to provide information. Shortbows would be made to project force over their defenses, the council approving the proposals by Harksa. The wall was initially made to house many more buildings than the town currently held, its geometry stylized to respect the ley-lines in the region creating a hexagonal formation. Its size would be too large for the small number of defenders, and there would be suggestions among the Council of Seven to train those who wished among the newly uneducated to be soldiers. This roundabout method was declined initially by the Eleskar, Halan not appreciating the militarization of their society, and the Council being in concordance. They would be taught when the Eleskar had the capacity to do so.

The Kelskar, on the other hand, were continuing to bring back resources of all sorts with their travels, cursory amounts of malachite and cinnabar now laying on stone tables of some magi who toyed with the material under all sorts of conditions. They would now shift their sights to the east, as they made simple, unscaled maps detailing a great icy north that was a dead land, and perhaps the origin of the raiders which plagued the Machaka. Their theories and ideas were kept separate from the speculation of the council. The idea of a group of Kelskar-backed people establishing a satellite town north of the City was floated around the group, but little would come of it for now. Silver was of interest to them, and the scholars were finding odd properties in the foul-smelling stone. This harvesting would be secondary for now, as there was a large world around them to explore.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Tue Feb 09, 2021 10:10 am

The Deepkin

Street of Soot, Stalheim
Twentieth of Chillwind, Year Twohundred Twentyeight of the Reckoning

Men stripped to the waist hammered and twisted, forged and bent. From the gleaming hill outside the city the iron had been slowly coming in by cartloads, and here in the newly built workshops of the Street of Soot many apprentices and journeymen manned the forges and anvils which fed the city's desire for their wares.

It was no secret that Stalheim, Kharbarinth, indeed Forgefend were rich, and lacked only for things upon which to spend those riches. The men at the docks who dreamt of a navy to carry soldiers and explorers across the Endless Ocean had been backordered with the smiths of the Street of Soot for many moons, even as the city fathers mumbled about needing more implements for scholars on the Way of Quills, or indeed that the gleaming ore would be better directed to the armorers and weaponsmiths.

A conundrum, the axiom of plenty written large on the face of the further city of the sons of the Father. Too many men with riches, chasing too little skilled labor, and a man could name his price for even a few hours of his time, while the poor languished. If you needed a pot mended, or a drainpipe repaired, you merely had to hope that an apprentice might be available in a month or two. Not a good way of making the world work, but such necessities were hard to control otherwise.

by **Ralnis** » Tue Feb 09, 2021 12:42 pm

Warcyfle,
Island of Lo

Gu was beside himself and a coughing fit. His son was organizing the building of another couple hundred huts while making sure that he fulfills his father's promise. Already bedridden he tried to move but he couldn't make it to the adulthood ceremony. It came to be why he couldn't leave when the scholars came. Despite their strike, they still cared for the chieftain and one look had saw that he died in his sleep. The Spark of Life went back to Tes'la because of his old age.

His son was ushered in as the new chieftain and went through the naming ceremony. The new council of elders had attended the ceremony and the remembering of Gu. Despite the ambition of the chieftain, many had considered him ineffective and only after the last fifteen years of his rule did he manage to circumvent it a bit. After a total of sixty-five years he has led the civilization and many did not feel he did much. Yet he did, from agriculture, writing, reopening trade, renovations and making lives better in his last years.

Now his son, named Grum, had taken up the reigns as chieftain as he would continued his father's promises openingly while also planning on what to do in order to conquer the Aun'kal. To him, the slight of them embezzling wealth and stopping them from trying to take control of the Mirror Sea had made him angry. Make no mistake, he was equally angry of his late father's blindness but he had time and planning on his side. The Aun'kal were numerous and has bronze but they didn't have the power of Tes'la on their side.

It would take time on Grum's side of things but he will make sure that the two islands were under his rulership before he died, this he swore on his family's name. To him, there were many ways of winning this war his father started. All he needed was time.

[spoiler=Year of Gu 15/Year of Grum 1]Lo
100 scholars, 200 artisans, 200 peasants
Wealth 10, Labor 4, Breakthrough 1, Stability -5
Domestic Food sources: Breadfruit, Child Birds
Technology: Village Councils, Writing, Composite Bows, Soap, Sailing, carpentry
Arcana: School of Elecrtomancy, Electromantic Storage, Electromantic Attunement, Tesla Forging, Electromantic Entrapment
1 Hut
1 slums
1 Urban( 8/20 slots used)
1 granary
1 rural(1/20 slots used)
1 farm
Electromagnetic Forge(III Urban) Upgrade with Entrapment upgrade(8/8 charges)

100 scholars on strike, the peasants!(+4 stability)
100 peasants work the farm(+9 food)
100 peasants and 200 artisans built another hut( 1/1 wealth, 1/1 urban slots used, 3/3 labor used)
4 food used for the festival of a new chieftain
3 wealth generated( 12 wealth)
Stability now at a -3
[/spoiler]

by **Holy Tedalonia** » Tue Feb 09, 2021 1:45 pm

Pillar of Varra
Varra, Urban District

"I wonder if they are truly gone now," stated an elder disappointed by the lack of news regarding the barbarians.

The barbarians are gone, Disappeared, a haunting specter that had returned to its grave. Their location, they knew not of, but perhaps like Varrus the father of Varra, they had returned to a nomadic life. Perhaps running away from the beaming light of civilization. These foreigners who looked savagely down on civilized men, could not dare face the combined forces of man. Atleast... that would be what Varra's government would say.

"Indeed, it seems like I won't see them again in my lifetime," stated Elspeth with a frown, "I wanted to destroy these barbarians, so that my children would never see the darkness of man. However, we will not be able to afford that luxury."

It was a disappointing result. Perhaps in her veins she knew, she knew that their despicable kin and savages would return- that they would return one day and attack whilst she was no more than ashes. This was out of her hands now, and she will need her descendants to carry strong the torch of Varra.

"If they are to return to the lands of Saladon or are found hiding in it's vast plains, kill on sight. We will not welcome such barbarians to these lands," she added coldly.

This would end the meeting, but a another matter came forward...

"Chieftain, you are reaching the waning stages of your cycles... perhaps its time to designate an heir?" suggested an elder carefully.

"I will announce when I am ready, elder," she shot her eyes of daggers into his direction, "do not overstep your position. You may be on the council, but this is my choice, and my choice alone. Council dismissed."

Still though, even as the councilors left the tent. She still remained in her seat, perhaps it is time I consider my heir? All was well on the verdant plains.

by **Olthenia** » Tue Feb 09, 2021 4:39 pm

The Plains of Silence
Tenth Day of the Arc of Still Waters, the 228th Year of the Star-Count

Onwards, ever onwards, wound the camel-train. Beasts braying. Packs straining. Men and women sweating – tense, despite themselves, in the deafening silence.

Oddar shielded his eyes with a wide, brown hand and peered – dark eyes scanning the sunscorched wastes. The land about him was a sheer, lifeless nothing – as hot as a forgemother’s oven. The very air shimmered and shifted, like a strip of leather caught in an impossible breeze. It was a heat so bright and blazing it hurt the eyes to glance about too much. And yet here Oddar was – him and all his fellows. For beyond the desert wastes lay the land of Corvus – of the wolf-brothers and all their hungry forges. And the bronze the Khortuun mothers so desired.

“Why can’t they dig their own copper?” Little Meddoc had asked – curious as ever – and Oddar had smiled at his son’s words. “Might as well ask the Mother-Moon,” he had drawled – and lifted the lad up to sit on his knee. “They don’t have it, down where they life.” Meddoc nodded, his father’s words alive in his eyes. Like a a hand that feels a stone for the first time, the fingers testing it for a throw. “The wolf-men don’t have copper?” Oddar shook his head. “They don’t. But we do.” And that, in the end, had been that. Now Oddar’s bushy eyebrows scrunched together in a single uncompromising line – and there? He saw it!

Two figures – lean and brown – shimmering out of the blinding heat. The scouts, returning.

“Hold!”

Oddar barked the word and raised an arm above his head, just to signal. Behind him, the rest of his fellows lumbered to a halt – grateful for the stop.

“They’ve gone east,” drawled the eldest – a suntanned tracksman with three days’ worth of bristle. Beside him, her face hidden by the brim of a woven-grass hat – his fellow scout nodded. Just nodded.

“How long since?” Oddar wondered, eyes on the tracksman. But it was the women who answered. “Hard to tell on these rocks. A day, maybe more.”

Oddar didn’t like that word. ‘Maybe’. Maybe, out here in the blinding white, maybe meant uncertainty. And any man with sense in his head did not take kindly to uncertainty – least of all when faarn were involved. Vicious, wild and horrifying to behold – all mean feared them. And stayed clear of them. Alas, if only the faarn had felt the same way about men and their camels.

“Do we press on?” queried the tracksman. And Oddac grumbled. “…No. No, we’re good, for now.” With a nod back across his shoulder, he settled the matter – and the scouts filed past in mute compliance. To rejoin the caravan. To sit a take water with their fellows.

To wait for darkness – and less damn heat.

by **Lazarian** » Tue Feb 09, 2021 8:49 pm

THE BATTLE OF VELENDI

As unrest envelops the city of Corvus, the hundred and fifty men sent to deal with the foul scourge that haunts the fields of their city. Craenon and his Bloodred Pack march through the wheat-fields, wolfhounds at the forefront, sniffing the trail.

The trail of the bandits is clear to follow. It leads north, and then after two weeks of journeying, West, towards the coast. Many footprints shod in hobnailed boots move amidst the sandals and bare feet of the laborers - perhaps even more than those of the warriors which pursue them.

A few of the quietest and most stealthy men - those used to avoiding detection of patrols - are sent forwards to scout. Do these men come from the ocean itself? Or do they merely have a settlement nearby? The remainder of the soldiers set up camp, unwilling to be caught in an ambush.

The scouts return after some days - they bear news that they have located the raiders, camped just north and west of Corvus in the plains there. They appear to be in numbers, and what’s more, have many prisoners with red hair... what provenance the barbarians possess is unclear though, as is whether the scouts were spotted or not.

Some argue that they should return home, and wait for help from Sorrowfree. In the prior century, when the newly created paths and trade routes were swarmed with bandits, the Bonadar swept through the hills and slaughtered the foolhardy raiders. Alas, there is to be no foreign aid of the Moon Daughters this year - the scouts report that the camp is temporary, and by the time the Bonadar arrive, their captive brothers will be long gone.

Craenon rallies the men, claiming that the Crow, god of chance and fate, favors the bold! The Corvidian forces march a few days time, until they spot the enemy encampment. It is a crude defensive encampment, surrounded with a small palisade wall and a few sharpened stakes. Many tents fill the temporary walls - the Velendi, as the Corvidians have named these people, are many.

After some deliberation, the army creeps towards the encampment, moving quietly and attempting to get as reasonably close as possible without being spotted. Moving swiftly and quietly across the terrain, the one hundred and fifty warriors swiftly approach the encampment of their foe. However, a horn blares before them - they are discovered! Not much further than two bowshots from the encampment, a sentry must have sighted the approaching host. There are shouts and the sound of running in the encampment.

Harron Truearrow breathes heavily, his heart pounding and adrenaline racing through his veins. Second son of the Truearrow patriarch and a skilled hunter, he is a relatively new man among the ranks of the Bloodred. He has not earned his second eye-stripe - a single line of paint is drawn from the left side of his forehead to the chin, indicating his inexperience.

While inexperienced, he is brave, and certainly strong enough. Taller than most other men, he bears the Soulstone armor proudly, clutching his flint spear tightly in his hands. The armor is heavy, composed of greaves over the shins, a kilt of Soulstone sheets over the hips, a weighty chestplate, and a metal cap. In all, it weighs nearly sixty pounds. Around him are the other armored men. Some show fear in their faces, while other old veterans grin in excitement. Lanon Longfang, the Pacate (captain) of his group of 25, looks positively bloodthirsty.

“CHARGE!” shouts Craenon, pounding on his shield with the hilt of his khopesh. The men begin to charge forward, plodding forward at a steady pace. It is clear that they wish to engage the Velendi in close quarters combat - a prolonged archery battle would be to the army’s detriment, as they are severely outnumbered.

Once they reach one bowshots distance, the fifty archers fall out of the block, spreading out into a wide arc. Pulling arrows from their quivers, they squint at the fence, waiting for foes to raise their heads. It is inevitable that the enemy will attempt to cut down the charge before it hits - however, suppressing fire will certainly increase their odds.

Harron’s wolfhound sprints in front of him, fangs bared. Some men liked to name their war-dogs, though Harron had not named his. It was best not to get too attached to the animals, he thought. They approach closer, within a bow-length’s distance. Velendi archers rally to the fence, lifting their bows and aiming at the charge.

Behind him, Craenon blows his goat-horn. It echoes loudly, blasting behind them, scaring away a horde of birds, who watch the ensuing conflict closely. They will feast at the end of this, regardless of who wins. Over the fence, Harron can see a ramshackle wooden pen. Presumably, a fenced pit in the ground in which the captives are kept. It is unknown how many are captured there, but the scouts claim that nearly all the unaccounted men are there.

“MEN OF CORVUS!” Craenon shouts as they surge forwards, attempting to rouse the captives. “RISE UP AND EARN YOUR FREEDOM! YOUR BROTHERS HAVE COME!”

It is no use - his call is drowned out by the sound of the Velendi rushing to the walls and preparing for the engagement. They have a howling war-cry of their own, a piercing scream which chills Harron to the bone.

In a minute they are within range. Arrows flit out of the encampment, striking several of the men in armor. One strikes Harron in the breastplate, but it shatters on impact, leaving him bruised but little more. Most of the shots are turned aside by the thick scale-mail of Soulstone which the warriors of Corvus bear, but some take men in unprotected necks or unluckily slip through the armor, and some of the men fall. Behind them, arrows whistle over their head towards the enemy - an answering hail of arrows from the fifty men providing supporting fire. Several of the enemy archers fall, crying out with shouts of dismay from within the encampment, perhaps buying time for their armored brothers to close the gap.

The entrance to the encampment will be reached soon, perhaps after enduring one more volley of arrows. The Velendi cluster there, wielding crude weapons of flint and bone, but their blood up and clearly unintimidated by the men of Corvus.

For a moment, Harron is tempted to run away. Such cowardice would dishonor his ancestors in the Dreaming World for all eternity! He shrugs aside the temptation, and braces for impact. Lanon is yelling orders, though most are drowned out in the din of battle. It is clear, though, where they must go. They press on forward, through the hail of arrows!

The charging men begin to whistle sharply, adding to the cacophony of the fray. Harron places his fingers of his right hand to his lips, whistling three sharp blasts. A simple command - to hunt and devour. The same commanding call is used for all prey, whether deer or men. The hounds burst forwards, occupying the front of the enemy lines and weakening their formation. The Corvidians form a loose wedge in their charge, intending to burst through the barbarian line forming at the entrance to the encampment. It is a simple plan - reach the pen, free the captives, overwhelm the barbarians. A full charge of heavy infantry is surely enough to break their battle line!

The hounds howl and charge, snapping and snarling ahead of the onrushing warriors, colliding heavily with the barbarian line. The wildmen howl and curse, falling back somewhat before the onslaught, some of them falling with wolfhounds fastened on necks or limbs. Arrows whistle to and fro in a costly exchange, the barbarian archers now turning on the men who are peppering their brethren.

And then the lines collide. In a great clash of spear and armor and flesh, all is chaos and death. Through the entrance of the encampment the Corvidians surge, bronze armor turning many blows and pressing their charge forward despite the braced spears of the foe. Few fall, though few is not none - it is a brave thing to be at the forefront of the wedge, for even as the wedge opens the enemy lines, it is blunted in turn. After a few moments the charge falters, the narrowness of the entrance forestalling most of the Corvidians entering the fray directly, and their brothers being heavily engaged fighting for their lives.

It is a brave and noble thing to die for the good of the city, and their souls will be honored in the ranks of the ancestors. And yet, such losses are hard to bear! The wedge collapses upon impact, men faltering for a few moments, before their captains rally them once more. Harron acts almost instinctively, overwhelmed with fear and fright and rage. The Bloodred Pack are surrounded with enemies on all sides - the screaming Velendi hurl rocks and stab at them with a hundred spears. In response, the armored warriors jab and strike and stab back in return, the sons of Vennon himself! The Velendi must pay for what they have done!

The chaos begins to unravel slightly - after the impact of the initial charge, both forces break back slightly and form battle-lines. Harron finds himself next to Jeron Annwyn and Ginnan Desertstrider, lined nearly shoulder to shoulder. They stab at the enemy, and attempt to press their line forwards to the slave pen. Craenon shouts out with his kingly voice, calling out for the captives to break free and join them. Surely some men will recognize that freedom awaits!

In the background, arrows fly back and forth. Some fall, pierced through by the deadly hail. The men scramble for any sort of cover - shrubs and lone trees and brush - before resuming their torrent of missiles.

In the pit, Ceron Stonebreaker languishes. Surrounded by his family and the other workers of the flatland plains, they weep and mourn fitfully, drowned in despair. It has been over a year since they were taken - the Outland Raiders, as the captives called them, had swept into the fields with incredible speed. Before the peasants had even fully comprehended that they were under attack, they had been surrounded. Some of the younger men had attempted to fight back, though such efforts were utterly in vain, and they were slain for their valiance.

Their captivity is one of misery - the Outlanders feed them meagre offerings of watery gruel and the scraps of their hunts. Many men are clearly starving, their ribs visible and eyes sunken in. Their gods have abandoned them, it seems. Their brothers and sisters have not come to save them - it seems as if their future is one of servitude and anguish.

This day, however, is different. As they lie in squalor and defeat, the captive Corvidians hear something strange. The Outlanders are shouting. Their rough language is now somewhat understandable to the more clever peasants.

“Enemies! Enemies advancing upon us!”

Ceron’s eyes lit up for the first time in months. Perhaps these were merely other raiders, seeking to claim what the Outlanders had taken. It was dangerous to hope - nothing was crueler than the disappointment of shattered dreams. And yet he dared hope anyways.

The sound of a horn broke the air. A goat horn.

The Tribelord’s horn.

The captive peasants stood, murmuring among themselves. Could it really be true? Could their salvation be at hand? The sounds of a battle erupted from direction of the entrance to the encampment was, and the cries of men filled the air.

Ceron stood, brushing himself off. The others looked to him - as one of the elder patriarchs of the captives, they would follow his lead.

“Our gods have not abandoned us!” he said with his remaining strength, raising his fist to the skies. “Let us break free from this bondage!”

Many seemed excited and ready - but many quivered in fear, afraid of more beatings and whips. What if they were mistaken about the source of the sound? What if the fighting men of Corvus had already been slain? Their uprising would be met with cruel punishment if it failed.

“It is better to die as wolves than to live as prey!” screamed Ceron proudly, beating his chest. “We are the Corvidians! Sons of the gods! There is no fear in death!”

This was enough. The men and women shouted and cheered, and they began to surge to the sides of the pit-pen, pulling and pushing at the fencing surrounding them. The weary, beaten, and famished men pounded and pushed on their prison with what remaining strength they had. The sound of thick logs and boards cracking joined the chaos outside.

And then it snapped. A section of the palisade fence broke, falling to the ground, and all hell broke loose. Men, women, and even children charged from captivity, assaulting the Velendi with fists and stones. The Outlanders in the back ranks began to turn and shout in fright as a furious mob broke free, clamoring for blood and vengeance. A particularly cruel overseer who had been guarding the pit attempted to run away, but he tripped over a stone. In an instant, he was surrounded by furious, starving men. At their forefront was Ceron, lifting a heavy stone above his head.

For a single moment, he stared the tormentor in the eyes - and then smashed his face in with the stone.

Harron is breathing heavily now, on the verge of exhaustion. Blood streams from a wound in the gap between his kilt-armor and his greaves, and more still drips down his forehead and face. They are shallow wounds - if he survives the battle, he will survive them.

Of course, it is unknown if the Corvidians will survive this.

The battle at the gates is faring poorly for the Bloodred Pack. Not on account of a lack of skill, or armor, but merely because only a few of the Corvidians can press through the gate to fight at a time, and outnumbered two to one, even skill and equipment counts less than it should. Moreover their kinsmen in the field, sheltered as they are, are struggling to overmaster the foe. It does not take a clever archery to shoot more or less randomly into the grass and bushes, and normally this would be an advantage, but the enemy archers are equally invisible behind their kinsmen and the cover of the tents, and so the return archery of the Corvidians is less effective than it could be.

In short, by the numbers, it is soon clear that the enemy is wearing the men of Corvus down. Their own numbers are thinning, aye, and if the slaves can break their bonds they will be a great weight against the foe - but the balance is uncertain. Many men fall, their blood pouring out upon the ground and mixing into the mud. Jeron Annwyn, the man to his left, takes a spear to the throat, and falls, the life leaving his eyes as he gurgles blood.

“FALL BACK!” he hears behind him. “FALL BACK!”

It is clear that they do not have the strength to smash through the choke-point at the gate. If Harron could think rationally, he would realize that they are attempting to lure the Velendi out into the open, where their gateway advantage is lost. Of course, Harron cannot - he follows orders out of instinct and memory from prior scrims, his rational thought lost almost completely in a mixture of adrenaline and panic. All around him, the men fall back in a feigned rout, quickly retreating backwards, though still facing the Velendi. As they retreat, they jab their spears to keep the enemy at bay. Their losses are mounting, but they refuse to give - failure here will not only cost their own lives, but the freedom of their kinsmen.

Behind them, the archers run from their cover, flanking to their left. The captain of the archers, Kadima Keeneye (a Khortuun immigrant, and one of the infamous woman-warriors of Sorrowfree) sings out orders to the men under her charge. Though the auxiliary forces have sustained losses as well, they are undeterred and unafraid.

As the men retreat, the barbarians charge after them, obviously eager to come to the slaughter. Some fall as arrows strike them while they pursue the retreating Corvidians. Some of the Corvidians fall as well - two men stumble in the retreat and are set upon like rabbits before starving wolves. But now the entire Corvidian line can fight, and it does so, bloodletting wetting the ground swiftly. The arrows of the outlanders have been focused on the heavy infantry, and this is fortunate perhaps, for armor resists better than flesh and blood.

Within the encampment come the sounds of breaking and splintering. The barbarian archers suddenly fire no more, and the sounds of combat and bloodshed come from within tents and hovels even as the Corvidians struggle to overwhelm the barbarian melee fighters.

With the numbers of the barbarians dwindling, some look about them for their kinsmen, while others seem less interested in the melee, mainly defending, not attacking. Their leader should have prevented them from pursuing, but they had not the discipline for this, and now it is their turn indeed to be outnumbered by their enemies.

The gods have smiled upon the Corvidian soldiers this day! To a limited extent, of course - the losses are beginning to heavily mount. Nearly half of the armored infantry have fallen. Despite these losses, the tides have changed dramatically. The foolish wild bandits have overextended their hand. In the choke point of the gate, their inferior skill and lack of armor was not a fatal weakness. But out in the open, these deadly flaws rear their heads!

It is time for the stratagems proven in the scrums to be enacted on the battlefield. The remaining captains shout and order, having time to reorganize. Quickly, the main line of approximately forty warriors forms up into two ranks, pressing forward to occupy the enemy. Whilst they do so, the twenty men on the right side quickly make a sprint to the flank of the wild men. Ideally, they get behind the ranks of the enemy and crush them, like a flimsy piece of tin between the hammer and anvil-stone!

As the stratagem falls into motion, the archers run closer to the fray, flanking towards the left. If the foul outlanders commit too hard to fighting off the hammer, then their backs and attention will be exposed and vulnerable for a deadly rain of arrows!

The sounds of a slave revolt echo from within the encampment, but their captive brothers have no weapons to fend for themselves with, and are likely starving and weak. They cannot be left alone for long!

Harron surges forward with his brothers on the right line, led by Lanon Longfang, who screams guttural praises to the Beast as he charges forwards, bearing a heavy stone axe ripped from a fallen raider. The barbarians panic, as there is nowhere to turn! If they turn to address the flanking men, they shall be cut down by archers from the other flank and destroyed by the main battle line! If they focus on the main line, they shall be destroyed by the flanks! As the men of Corvus outflank the barbarians, the wild men break and run, fleeing for their lives.

Many are cut down as they flee. Lanon catches one in the leg with a mighty axe blow and blood sprays everywhere. As the man screams in pain, Longfang decapitates him with a single strike! As blood coats the captain, he laughs madly with devilish and manic joy as many other Velendi fall. Harron hurls his spear at a retreating outlander, and it catches the man in the back. Incensed through rage and inspired by revenge, the Corvidians are merciless. Though some of the outlanders make it back into the camp, even this is not a safe harbor! To their despair, the slaves have overrun the archers, and slaughtered them in whole!

With their kinsmen overwhelmed, and the slaves fighting them tooth and nail, the rest of the barbarians take to flight, fleeing northward. The exhausted Corvidians, clad in heavy armor, do not pursue.

The battle is over.

It was a brutal fight. Only eighty men still stand, of the one hundred and fifty which set forth from Corvus not a month ago, and only a dozen of their number bear wounds which might heal. The rest lie dead or dying upon the field. The Corvidians grant a quick death to their mortally wounded - a brief prayer, consecrating their souls to join their brothers in the afterlife, followed by a powerful strike to the back of the neck. It may seem cruel, but it is far more merciful than a slow and agonizing death.

The Velendi, on the other hand, do not receive such mercy. The dying outlanders are beaten and stoned to death by the hungry peasants, with Craenon content to let the captives enact their revenge. Many still are eaten and torn to shreds by bloodied wolfhounds. Though the Corvidians suffered many losses, the Velendi suffered at least double those losses in turn. Over a hundred of their numbers lie dead upon the ruins of the encampment.

But most importantly, the stolen brothers and sisters of Corvus have been recovered. With great shouts of joy and triumph, the Corvidians return home.

+200 Peasants, +10 Wealth

by **The National Dominion of Hungary** » Tue Feb 09, 2021 11:40 pm

The Land of Penithel

Pardon the lack of lore today

by **The GAmeTopians** » Wed Feb 10, 2021 9:31 pm

The Republic of the Great River

Tales of the River's Jewel in the morn, mayhaps. For now... development.

by **The Empire of Tau** » Thu Feb 11, 2021 8:30 am

[Co-write between Tau, GAme, and Pragia]
The wind is calm, and the warriors of Machaka sit along the river. A group of five dark-skinned men passes the time by playing a game of tic-tac-toe, with two or one of them occasionally looking beyond their game to check if anyone or thing approaches. The scholars of Rivermouth and the warriors of Eleskar are said to be met here, some miles off from Machaka proper. The Rivermouth scholars want to gather knowledge from the books of Machaka, and the Eleskarian warriors wish to aid in the defense of Machaka.

Black dots begin to form along the horizon, steadily growing larger - nearer. The footfalls are far from audible at first, but as the minutes pass by the dozen, the steps of hundreds become clear. Judging both from their direction and number, this must be the Republican scholars - here to learn the writing of the Machaka, among other things. It wouldn’t be long now before they arrived.

It was the will of Kelska, first of the council, that the warriors of the Eleskar would be dispatched to the Obobakar (Machaka) along with Kelskar guides. They did not speak the tongue of the Machaka, but were patient and not on edge. The murmurs of the magi had inflicted damage to the morale of the warriors, hearing rumors of dark magics and bloody rituals being conducted by another unidentified neighbor. While the scholars would construct high walls around their home, this party would be sent to seek out and ascertain the nature of these potential enemies. Some believed they were being sent as bait, doomed to die, but the special direction of the Council to seek out the assistance of the Obobakar would mitigate the sense of doom somewhat. Prior to this, the Kelskar only had cursory contact with their neighbors, having neither deciphered the language nor even come to know of their new written script. The Kelskar moved ahead of the small contingent, speaking to the locals in gestures and drawings, and keeping an amiable demeanor to keep their potential allies at ease. They brought with them some of the stones found at the ritual sites, trying to explain what they had found. It was only after basic communications could be established that the Warriors, led by a Ghenar Harksa, fair of skin and hair, would arrive to try to speak.

The warriors of Machaka stand up from their seats on the floor and walk closer to the masses that were moving towards them. Before long, everyone is here, meeting face to face. The warriors of Machaka were wearing nothing but their normal clothing of locally spun fibers, along with carrying simple stone weapons.

Out of respect, and a symbol of good faith, Ghenar would approach with two warriors and a scout as a delegation, the remainder of the Eleskar staying on the opposite bank to watch the exchange and not to crowd them. The throng was mixed in armed soldiers and scouts with simple stone hand axes and hammers. The Warriors wore animal skins with bone-tipped spears, not organized in any regimented manner, and were not in great numbers, perhaps two score. Ghenar would offer a raised hand with an open palm, a simple greeting among the Eleskar, typically accompanied by a bowing of the head, but such a gesture was a symbol of trust, which was not yet earned. “I am Ghenar, I speak for Eleskar. Rocks, Enemies, do you know them?” his mix of gestures and simple words in the Machaka tongue would seem forced, the two languages quite different.

One of the warriors shakes his head. “We don’t know of these things. We only know that they have attacked us, and we have killed all of them that tried to kill us,” he responds back. For the most part, Machaka does have not a damn clue about these raiders and attackers. Anyone that tried to raid Machaka for its wealth has been met by God-Spiders. In fact, Machaka does not have much of an army since the God-Spiders have been serving as protectors for Machaka.

Ghenar would grunt as he begins to parse what the warrior says to him, looking to his scout and speaking in his own native tongue, a curt set of notes dictated to him, which he would transmit to clay tablet with surprising haste “My men will find them, will you help crush them?” he would offer, assuming the warrior he spoke with would be their leader as well. The Eleskar were equipped, but the number of men they brought was limited, most of them not soldiers by profession, though their explorers would seem of sufficient physique to be a threat on their own, albeit less powerful than the warriors.

“We’re not soldiers either. We are protected by God-Spiders. We don’t go outside our city,” he notes.

“Will your ‘God spiders’ fight with us?” He would respond, not knowing the word which was used, and merely parroting it. It struck him as odd, these men seemed of a more brutish disposition than theirs, but the revelation that their men were also defensive in disposition would change his thinking. “Will you allow enemies to attack you? We attack them.” He would again insist, this miscalculation by the council would be worrisome if their neighbors were also disinterested in driving off these savages.

“We killed many of them before and will do so as long as they come. But we need to prepare ourselves more as their raids get bigger and stronger,” the warrior says. Machaka had just survived two raids from the strangers, and more will surely come by. The people of Machaka are fearful of more threats coming, and thus have an interest in ending these damn attackers.

Ghenar would seem openly annoyed with this “You do not wish to stop their raids with your own?” he would propose. He supposed he could still locate these raiders for future information, but this was seeming fruitless. His aggression toward a potential enemy was atypical for his people, but the notion of dark rituals and raids plaguing this other people was not something he wished to reach the Eleskar.

“We do not control the will of the God-Spiders, nor move them,” the warrior says.

The leader nods, getting a new insight to the culture of these people. As his people clung to the magi, these people clung to these ‘God-Spiders’. “Do they not want to strike these raiders down from where they come from?” he asks, almost pleading. He feared the large creatures, perhaps a contingent of warriors could successfully hunt one, but such a fight is risky, and these large creatures were as intimidating as they were deadly.

“We cannot afford to go on the offensive with our city commonly attacked randomly at any time. We can’t afford to do anything but defend right now,” the warrior comments. Machaka was not in position to do anything outside of its borders as it barely has an army to speak of.

Ghenar grunts, nodding in comprehension “Very well, we will find these raiders, and keep track of them. Perhaps, when your strength has been mustered, we can crush this threat.”

By this point the visitors from the south have been standing around for several moments, talking amongst themselves rather than interrupting the discussion of the warriors. One man, who seems to be the leader of a group of well-dressed scholars, clears his throat.

“If it would suit you, gentlemen, might we move to the city proper? My men have much work to do, and these environments are not the place for it.”

Noticing the interaction, the various wise men behind him start to slug their packs over their shoulders, nodding to each other silently.

“Very well. Follow me,” the warrior says as the band of Machaka peoples guides the scholars towards the city proper.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Thu Feb 11, 2021 8:44 am

Year 228 of the Reckoning
Turn 15

Zhai Cheng: Raiders have struck Zhai Cheng! They came out of the north and east, wild and fierce, but were seen off by the defenders of the city with minimal losses. Fifteen men perished in the attack, but they claimed many their number of the lives of the foe. Two hundred Freemen and two hundred Peasants are added to the numbers of the Huang.

The Velathrii: The soldiers are protesting their living conditions, as they are wont to do, victory or no victory. -1 Stability. A hundred Freemen and a hundred Peasants are added to the numbers of the Velathrii.

Daru: A hundred Freemen and two hundred Peasants are added to the numbers of the Nirari.

Corvus: As woodlands shape the world, now the sons of Corvus shall shape the forest giants. With plane and saw they make planks and many other clever things, to fill homes and raise high mighty dwellings. Two hundred Freemen and two hundred Peasants are added to the numbers of the Corvidians.

Eleskar: East of Eleskar, the land continues, wild and heavily forested. As the explorers begin to survey the land, however, they must interrupt their expedition - a barbarous camp has been discovered not far from Eleskar herself, bestrewn with the bones of men and wild banners daubed in charcoal symbols of fell provenance. The Explorers hurry back to the city with news of these foul men... what's more, as the Explorers return, they see a band of shadowy figures moving in the woods, inhuman, lithe. It is to mourning that they return - the Freemen who went to the forests have not returned! Two hundred Freemen and one hundred Peasants are added to the numbers of the Eleskar.

Kharbarinth: How men should be ruled, and what men should guide them. This is an abstract thing, but with mechanisms now in place for local input on society and rule, and centralized bureaucracies in their infancy, a part of this axiom is now understood by the Deepkin. How to mount horses and journey far and wide upon their backs is now known to the Deepkin as well, and will doubtless be of use as their reach expands and their sons live under foreign stars many months journey from the Mother Tree. Three hundred Freemen and two hundred Peasants live now in Kharbarinth. Two hundred Freemen live now in Stalheim. Two hundred Peasants live now in Forgefend.

Warclyfe: Traders from the south have come on great ships, as powerful as the bireme which is the pride of Tes'la. They offer an exchange - if the people of Warclyfe will sell a hundred of their sons into slavery, the outlanders will sell them bronze armor and weapons, to use in their acrimony with the people of the Aun'kal. A hundred Freemen are born in the lands of Tes'la.

Varra: The men sent to the Manisaharu return with an affirmative message about the desire of the flatlanders to learn the ways of stonecutting. For nine cartloads of precious goods, or the work of the sons of the city for five years, the Manisaharu will allow access to the secrets of their masons. For double this price, they will send their own men to teach the flatlanders. There is good news to report though - a vein of gold has been found by men washing in the rivers, and flakes found washing up out of the south. This wealth, if the men of Varra seek earnestly after it, could enrich the city beyond measure. A hundred Freemen are added to the numbers of the sons of Saladon.

Sorrowfree: A hundred Freewomen and three hundred peasants are added to the numbers of the Khortuun.

Avnelin: Dark days haunt the city. Raiders and sackers have come against the city, and overmastered the sons of Pennithel. Though many of their kindred lay broken before the doors and at the base of the walls of the city, the enemy was eventually victorious, and the city elders stood down the young men to prevent more deaths. All the twenty five soldiers perished in the defense, alongside a hundred untrained men who stood forward to fight for Avnelin... the raiders took off with a herd of unicorns, and a hundred sons and daughters of the city into bondage and burnt all the homes they could find outside the city. A hundred Freemen and two hundred peasants are added to the numbers of the Pennenthelli.

Riverlands: Two hundred Freemen and a hundred Peasants are added to the citizens of the Republic.

Skras Tor: A hundred Freemen join the ranks of the worshippers of the Black Kings.

Machaka: A hundred Freemen and a hundred peasants are now part of the Machaka.

by **Novas Arcanum** » Thu Feb 11, 2021 9:54 am

Bronze Age Shao Dynasty Theme

The heavenly steeds where brought in tow from the North. Many did not know what King Yuan Qiang was planning when he sent the soldiers on a expedition to the north. Many did not know that he was working with the Niari to strike against a ill-prepared people. With the bloomery nearing completion the Huang warriors would soon be shod in iron.

Meanwhile much happened in the Homefront. The stalwart warriors of the Middle Kingdom had repelled an attack from the north and east. The raiders seemed similar the Huang indeed they may be related like with the Yue. They had black hair and eyes like theirs. It seemed there where many kingdoms to the east that may be related to the Huang. The Huang would name the Chu of the East. The raiders would be brutally tormented to reveal the location of their encampment and also to learn their patrol times so that they could catch them by surprise.

It was not known if these barbarians had a tongue similar to the Huang but given how similar they looked it was assumed that any differences win their languages would be minimal but this may not be the case of course. The Huang tormentors would explain to their captives that scouts would be sent to verify their claims and they also went into fine detail the brutal torment that would commence details too gruesome to describe in this tale if their claims were proven false.

That is if the damned barbarians could even understand them.

Archives opened for the Niari

by **The National Dominion of Hungary** » Thu Feb 11, 2021 10:21 am

The Land of Penithel

Young Laodrith looked to the Blue King as he stood there, above the small grave-mounds chanting his sermon, asking the River-Father's Deadbrides to take the spirits of the departed safely down the River until the reach the Sea of Souls where they would know eternal peace, becoming one with the Waters of Life. A solemn chant his lord led, was taken up by half a dozen Blue Priests and echoed out through the great plains along with the sobs and low crying of dozens upon dozens of wives, parents and children who had come to bid the fallen defenders of Avenlin farewell. Just as Laodrith was taking his farewells of his brother who now lay below one of the mounds. The man dried a tear from his cheek, his brother had been one of the first to take up arm as the Blue King's call, taking up a stone axe-hammer and rushing to join the militia, it was not hard to see why, he had several unicorns in one of the paddock, of course he wanted to drive those devils away before they could take what was his and despoil the town. The sermon ended in due time and the mourners went back to the city in a solemn march, barely a word was spoken. Some people were still cleaning blood from the walls. One could have though that anger would have spread through the city after such a defeat where a hundred sons and daughters of Penithel were taken away in chains as they begged their fellow kin for aid and their cruel captors for mercy. It seemed however that the shared tragedies brought people closer together, many lost wealth when an entire herd of Unicorns was taken, leaving two whole paddocks empty and silent and not even the pretty daughters of the Priest-Lords were spared the evil eye of the raiders.

The King, his brown hair slowly graying walked solemnly back toward the Royal Hall with his closes advisors while Laodrith returned to his modest hut, there his feeling stirred a storm of emotions within, fear, rage, despondent sadness. At the loss of his brother, at the humiliation of his people's defeat, at the enslavement and taking of his brother-in-law, now his sister was staying with him and his wife, doing little but crying in the fur bedroll she barely ever got out of. Laodrith sat there for hours, fists clenched, his thoughts raging, the words of his wife could barely wake him from his strange stupor and there he sat on the simple bench in front of the fireplace until the embers died, and his heart filled with rage...

A few days passed, Laodrith was hard at work taking care of the remaining Horned Ones grazing in the paddock, their lightly blue fur coats shimmering in the gentle sun, after so much death, so much violence, the sun was still as gentle upon the land as it had ever been. As he cared for the mighty animals a voice resounded.

"Good folk of fair Penithel, your King brings word." A Blue Priest said, trudging out toward the men working in the paddock who turned to him with tired eyes. "Those who are strong, those who would seek rightful vengeance and the return of our lost kin are bid to immediately go to the square outside the Royal Hall, his Grace would address all those mighty men personally. Swear yourselves to him and you shall receive steady pay and a chance to claim vengeance in the name of our lost people, to return our lost friends and loved ones to us and slay ever last one of those devils should go to the square at dusk, River's Blessing upon you."

Laodrith stood in thought for a while before retuning to his work...

by **Nuxipal** » Thu Feb 11, 2021 1:06 pm

City of Daru
Year of the Ancestor 130

The Ancestor's own voice had told the Nirari who it was that had raided their lands, scattered their herds, and stolen beasts from the Ancestor's chosen people. It was she alone who could grant authority to tame and tend these beasts. The success of the assault in the previous year showed just that, no matter what was going on in the world, the Ancestor would keep watch over her people and guide them to victory over those who had defiled their lands in the past. For while the foe was living in the present and the NIrari looked to the future, it was the Ancestor who had lived in the past and it is the Ancestor's Chosen who do not forget. The chosen would need to begin to form a new plan for how they were going to start and finish their defense of the lands in and around Daru. Not to mention, ensuring that the Defilers released any other Unicorns.

Teroh had been wounded in the fighting, but was able to recover from his wound with the help of the Priestess Serra, who had gained quite the reputation for being a kind and generous leader while Teroh had been off campaigning. She'd prepared enough housing for the entirety of the population both current and future. Though with Teroh back in the city, a focus shifted back towards some kind of economic model. They would need to expand their industrial capabilities, expand the size of their army, and most importantly grow their economy.

The new slaves were put to work in a similar scenario that they saw in their home land. Tending to Unicorns and hewing stone from the rural region of the city. The soldiers which brought them to this land oversaw the lands from the watchtowers that the city had established across the landscape. These slaves, along with the slaves already in the city, were being educated in the teachings of the Ancestor and how salvation could be gained through worship of her greatness and veneration and respect of the lands and her sacred beasts.

by **The Knights of Azorea** » Thu Feb 11, 2021 1:11 pm

The Velathrii

The Hills of Skithro
After the Battle of Amaer Hill

The hills were awash with thick, rank smoke. Barbarian tents lay piled amidst kindling, and upon them four dozen sons of Skithro lay, rising to their rest. Their brothers, in black rage, went amongst the fallen hillmen and made sure none would be able to tell whether their kinsmen had been slain in flight. In stabbing the foe in his back, the Velathrii sent him running to the fields of heaven as a coward. There was respect for the foe, aye, but that was for later. When the grief did not weight so heavy, and the rage did not burn like bile. Kelvus lay upon his cloak in augury, as duty demanded, staring up into the iron-grey sky. Buzzards wheeled amidst the clouds, waiting for their food, until frighted by a great, red-feathered kite. His glazed eyes passed the omen in quiet. Kite or buzzard, he wondered. Had he conquered, or would he yet be scattered by a greater foe. By a louder battle cry, by a wash of blood and smoke and death.

He sighed, and rose to his feet in the evening. The men had calmed, and the pyres burned low. Only once they began to dig around the scattered and burnt husk of a camp did they begin to think themselves the victors. Lives had been lost, and the dead mourned, but much plunder had been won, to the glory of them all. Two young captains of priestly lineage lead the others in thanking the heavens for their victory, and for the bounty they had claimed back from the hands of barbarians. Soon enough wagons were filled - with bolts of cloth, furs, silver and gold - black gemstones, cowrie shells and the sundry riches of the hill-folk. A trophy was built atop a pyre, with three tattooed heads on spikes in the ash.

The Kaevine Way
The Ovation for Kelvus, Third Day of Ieros

The ancient path west to the hills was well familiar to the marching boots of the sons of Skithro. A dirt-track, cut into the rich black loam, that bore plunder and battle either way as it was called. The goddess of grief presided here on the black, ash-like earth, a colour befitting the widowed god. To walk the Kaevine way was tradition and ritual both, in these days. The way-posts between city and hills bore carven visages, the faces of Kaeva. At each hour's march another face of marble, scrupulously clean, and marked by trophies and graves. At the boundary of the hills, Kaeva's face was stark-blank. As the Archon marched, the face grew less composed - harsher, grimmer and more haggard. Half way to the city, the goddess wept, and the men wept with her. The soil here was washed in sorrow, but the men left it with them there at that middle-marker.

Then, the goddess grew quiet, and stern once more, and the men were silent. A quarter day's march from the city, the goddess' face shifted suddenly to warmth, and to the smiling joy of the homeward march. Here was the furthest any could wait for the returning sons of the city, and so it was. As the land settled, and the taro paddies washed by jungle-streams flourished, a steady trickle of friends and countrymen waited to meet them. A priest washed the mourning ash from Kelvus' face, and the men began to sing of triumph and victory. Farm-hands and peasants looked up from the paddies, and old crones looked out from the sturdy timber huts to grin in memory of heroes long past.

The city drew up in the distance. The wall had flourished in their absence, though not quite yet at its completion. The loose hunks of white marble, run through with veins of grey and black, stood out against the sky, and Velathri seemed wreathed, like a bride, to meet them. The smoke of the forge-fires blossomed, and the temple-hills around the Suvaeum bristled with watchful priests and augurs. As Kelvus drew up to the new-carved gate of heavy timbers, he drew out his sword, and grasped it gently by the blade. Clusien waited, dressed in plain white as Kelvus stood in the red and black of war. The soldier handed his counterpart the hilt of his blade, and Clusien clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. The men met eyes, and the ritual was done - the peasants upon the walls cheered, and long-haired priests chanted Kelvus' name.

Venison and taro, songbirds and dormice were served up in feasting, and the people drank deep the joy of victory. Children gazed at the silver that rolled up the Narrow Way to the Suvaeum, and Kelvus was washed with glory. The men had conquered, they had mourned, and now it was theirs to celebrate, and to rest. As a mark of esteem for his achievement, the Maphron voted their victorious general the right to hang stag's antlers above his door, as a mark for all men of his victory over the men of the wilds. The city cheered, drank, slept off its excess, and rose again to work. Another year passed in Velathri.

A Different World: The Noble Cities [IC|Closed]

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