“The weak follow the strong. The strong are meant to lead, are meant to bring upon the new eras, to create and destroy civilizations. If you are not strong enough to defend yourself, then you live to serve, if you are too weak to protect your independence, then you were meant to be subjugated.” - Proverb of Kyras Dravon
The Northern Collective, a land known as Norstica by it’s people, and barely known by those outside of it. The Collective is a fractured place, factions vying for power, an almost modern Sengoku Jidai. A person could be trading with a man of one power one day, a different the second, and a week later a third.
The lands are frigid where there is value in minerals, and harsh where most of the people inhabit. There is little in the way of crops in the diet, mostly meat and milk. The lands produce behemoths, a people who have become inhuman, however humanoid they may seem. Much taller, much stronger, but at the cost of numbers, the Norsticans are a people of their own subspecies. The country has been war torn through most of history, from when it was first settled, to the current age, and left almost untouched by those who are unwilling to brace the icy and dangerous straits that surround the island, where a peaceful nation is caught on the outskirts of warlords trying to wrestle control.
Banners rise and fall like waves, as the fortress cities on the land rise and fall. Ambitious men would find it easy to find it easy to make a name for themselves here, more than one foreigner has come and risen to power, although their rules of their own clan lasted but a short time, it was not an uncommon occurrence.
However, three main factions have always been the most powerful, the Tashen to the south, great and loyal warriors, they follow a strict code of honor, and have found a place for the sword along with their rifles. The Damore to the west are skilled infantry, although they lack a large amount of elite soldiers or stormtroopers, their standard soldiers are well equipped, well trained, and are by no means in short supply, but their rivals to the east or an equal playing field, the Sarea, a matriarchal society, they take great pride in their high calibre soldiers, namely the Astrena, a knightly order armed to the teeth and who spend much of their lives training for battle.
However in a nation of people seen a barbarians, their is one they even see as barbaric. They are large even to the standards of Norsticans, they are known only as the Darsata ven Kedrex, a name translating from their language as the Warriors of Ice. They are a growing power, located in the frigid north, armed with axes, massive calibre pistols, and a savage array of firearms, they wear armor even civilized people would call advanced, although basic, it being layered plates, similar to lamellar, but proven to be able to stop bullets, costing more than one poor soul their life. They know themselves as the Dravon, a name they adopted from the deity worshiped by most of the country; Kyras Dravon, commonly only known as Kyras. They are a devout people, and highly martial for it. Several of these clansman travel throughout the country, more peacefully than the rest, challenging warriors from any clan, including their own, to single combat, however their clan is loosely bound at the best of times.
The country is on the brink of turning to rubble, the people to start fighting over what remains, will they be noticed by outsiders? Will people from outside the country put their backing behind one faction or another?
Outside Draste Talis(Fort Talis), Near Midday
The two combatants spiraled away from each other, sending snow spiraling into the air, one wore little but the pelt of a Dravon Wolf as a shoulder cape, the other wore loose fitting garments with the emblem of a lesser clan emblazoned on the chest. Mountains could be seen in the distance, uniformed men stood on one side, heavily armored men with pelts covering them on the other, spectating the battle.
The mid day sun was barely adding heat and it was only slightly above freezing but both men were sweating. They each wielded blades that looked like straight edged tachi or katanas. The duel had lasted twenty minutes already, and each was looking for a weakness to appear in the other, the pelt wearing man in much better condition than his opposition.
Neither spoke, the challenge was the only time either had spoken to each other at all, the caped man calling himself Crove the Wanderer, his opposition calling himself Zarel, Crove standing two heads taller than the captain, with a thick and long beard, with long hair, with a small amount off which was put into a not that fell further than the rest of his hair, in deep contrast to the clean shaven Zarel, who was small and agile.
Crove had come soon after learning of a commander who was skilled with the blade, seeking his own glory, or death, by his hand. Crove was a battle hardened veteran of the Dravon campaigns, but he and his warband had left the main clan, seeking the life that Kyras was said to have lived during his legend as a duelist and a devote to the still praised Warrior-God Ulvan.
In comparison Zarel was an upstart, his family had no claims to a clan lineage, he had started from the bottom and worked his way to the commander of a garrison in the a short time, a man of great renown, the Tashen had attempted to recruit him, but he had denied, his loyalty to the small clan of Eran greater than his lust for power, which only added to his already great renown.
They were motionless, staring at each other with neither hate nor good will, they stared into each other’s eyes, Crove’s blood red eyes seeming to burn as if his black hair was simply smoke and his skin was birch bark, Zarel’s blue eyes painting a picture of two sheets of ice on a snowy surface, one could have sworn they were porcelain figures, then everything went into a blur of motion. They sprang at each other, swords clashing and singing as they parried, feinted, and scraped blades trying to find a weakness in the other’s form, Crove quickly changing from one form to another of the ones taught by the dueling schools, which were widely left alone by the clans, while Zarel was consigned to a single one, the Atrese form.
They backed off once more Crove’s face had not changed since the duel started, a smile on his face, he loved battle, even as he took deep breaths, he was enjoying this much more than his opponent, who was wearing down. A cool gust of wind cooled each of them, the crowd of warriors and soldiers clapping and shouting.
Crove waited, his sword raised, he let Zarel catch his breath before they went at it again, if not only to make the duel last longer. Crove dashed but stopped just out the reach of Zarel’s blade, but Zarel’s first mistake would be his last, if Crove had kept his charge up his head would be laying on the ground with blood pooling around it. The gambit had paid off, and Zarel was given his reward for his honor with a quick slash to his belly. The commander grunted in pain, his hands dropping his blade and holding his bleeding belly before Crove’s blood soaked blade ripped through his chest. Crove whispered something only Zarel was meant to hear in his final moments, a faint smile going onto his face, before he fell to the ground, sword removed. In a swift motion the blade was cleaned off and sheathed onto his back.
The soldiers of the Eran ran to the body of their lifeless champion as Crove replaced his armor, covering his muscular frame. One of the Eran warriors called for a duel with Croven. “ I challenge Croven, champion of your warband, to single combat.” The man had a muscular frame and like his fallen commander was clean shaven.
Croven’s eyes were closed, a look of pity. “I would not suggest that.” Croven had a voice that was kind yet intimidating, a symbol of his character. Croven never had malice towards anyone, but he was not a man anyone wanted to be on the wrong side of for it. He never underestimated his opponents, both political and martial, and he would not hesitate to challenge those who would do him wrong, which had cost the lives of several Dravon warlords and retainers.
“Are you a coward then, you filth, you are no better then the dogs who sit in the streets begging for food!” The soldier spit back, full of hate.
The wandering champion looked pained by what he said. “If you would challenge my honor, then I will face you, what is your name, lord.”
The soldier was surprised by the man’s respect, especially coming from someone seen as a barbarian. “My name is Dezet.”
“Very well Dezet, I accept your challenge.”
Dezet picked up the blade of Zarel from the blood soaked snow, he expected this to be an easy way to remove a dangerous man from the ever growing list of wandering bands of Dravon, breaking off from the main clan in search of their own glory and power, he expected a fatigued man.
Croven drew his blade in a swift action, his armor was not removed, but his left his helmet off, its mask remained face down in the snow. They took their places, and the duel began. It was over in one pass.
Dezet’s head landed in the snow. Before anyone knew what had happened Croven had sheathed his blade and left. He was headed towards the nearest town which was an hour’s walk away.
Taladsein, Early Evening
The sun was beginning to set, making the already oppressive walls even more intimidating from shadowing. Taladsein was a fortress-town, hotly contested by by the three major clans as an early warning system for Dravon warbands and invasions, but currently it was only controlled by a local lord who ran the place from his own private army.
Clouds began moving in from the south after Crove and his small warband had to wait an hour and a half before they were let in by a highly cautious guard captain. As they entered, they found out why. Most of the buildings were being repaired, a few houses were abandoned, and now homeless people walked the streets going from work place to where ever they found shelter. It was disheartening sight, Croven simply looked at his men briefly with a sombre expression as they moved.
Lights went on, and chimneys began to send sparks dancing into the cool air as nightfall sat on the brink. The limited electricity was primarily from underground turbines running in what more or less subterranean rivers, and it was by no means cheap, but most families could fairly easily afford lighting, but heating was primarily provided by wooden stoves, or coal furnaces, although coal was hard to obtain due to the mineral only being available in the far north of the island.
Crove entered a tavern with a small retinue of his men, the other thirty warriors went to look for lodging for the night. Several people looked back as he opened the door, several turned in for the night, others gave up their reservations for the night and left. The Warriors of Ice were not a well-liked people. Tensions ran deep when they were seen, because they were both feared and hated by many.
“Just ignore me and my brethren, I meant no disrespect by my presence.” Slowly things went back to normal, chatting, laughing, and a bard began playing some jubilant music. Crove marched to the Tavern-Keeper and asked for a for a room for the night and a tankard of beer. behind him his men asked for similar, and they helped themselves to a fine smelling stew that sat over a stacked wood fire.
Crove drank deeply from his tankard after eating his stew like a starved wolf. He leaned back looking at his five close companions, Drivle, an average sized Norstican with a braided beard and bald head with a deep scar running across the top of his head from a close call during a raid against a lesser clan that armed themselves with glaives, next to him was a man called Krix, a man with a thin beard and a well trimmed hair line, his pale green eyes always assessing and making calculations, followed by Dieter von Haussen, the only foreigner in the group, no one could ever remember where he was from and the man seemed to want to keep it that way, the prefered a submachine gun as his weapon, his light skin in deep contrast to his almost black eyes and jet black hair that bore a natural white streak on the right side, his hair was long and well kept. After that there were the brothers Sedrin and Leric, twins, both with light brown hair and beardless, Sedrin being able to be told apart by his tribal markings on the left side of his face.
There had once been a sixth, a man called Kydax, but he had broken off and created his own band, but had been killed in an alley by Damore henchmen, at least what reports said. “Krix, what news did you hear from the southlands?”
“More foreign traders are coming, guess people like being at threat for being murdered every second by someone, the Tashen are moving armies to their border with the Damore, looks like open war is about to rip through that area, Darnak, that small nation to our south, as usual is trying to stay out of this mess.” Krix replied in a soft voice, although their were undertones of annoyance.
“Always more war.” Crove sighed. “What ever happened to you hit a man, he hits you back. Kyras damn it all, you now go after the well being of anyone who sympathized with them, and anyone who has a chance to go against you..” The champion stared towards the fire.
“Look at the bright side, the Cartse Clan is rising up, they appear to be the only Clan trying to make peace here.” Leric replied.
“Heh, as if peace can ever come to a people like us. Hell, we have been trying to kill each other since we landed here a thousand years ago.” Drivle gave a humorless laugh.
“Let’s move on.” Crove ended the subject then and there. The night went on until they finally turned in for the night.
