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

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Mon Jan 11, 2021 11:36 am

The Noble Cities

The sun rises on a new world- a world not like that you may know. Shattered by a catastrophic impact not long after the extinction of the dinosaurs, Earth is not as it should be. This impact, a star falling to earth, changed not only the shape of the world, but also her content; this star bore strange light and eldritch crystals, warping and altering the planet where humanity slowly arose. Continents were broken, minds shattered, even animals and plants twisted and changed. It is a different world, one in many ways hostile to humanity- but in the end, it is your world.

You stand forward as one of the leaders of a great city of men. It has been many centuries now since the first tribes emerged in the impact of the Cataclysm, family groups formed from scattered wanderers and survivors, and now civilization in earnest is rising from those embers. Men ply trade upon the waves of the sea, either propelled by oars and scarred backs, or the might of sails. Caravans roam savage lands, making fortunes for their owners if they are not devoured by ferocious beasts. The first priests, and god-kings, and republics lay claim to the passages of the world beyond the sight of their doorways, and bronze-armed warriors march across the hinterland. Men declaim poetry, and gaze at the stars, wielding magicks both powerful and dangerous.

To be a leader in such times is to be given glorious potential, but also enormous responsibility. Civilization is fragile, and dark things lurk both in the hearts of men and in the wilds of the world. Will you rise to greatness alongside your kinsmen, or will you falter and be forgotten? Come, and tell the tale of the Noble Cities.

Near the outskirts of the Pillar of Varra, a man hews a tree with a gleaming copper axe. A fire burns not far away, where another laborer in the woodlands bludgeons a similar tool with a heavy stone, crudely hammering a cutting edge back onto his blunted tool. It was hard work, for every stroke of the blades nocked and rent the sturdy haft the swarthy man relentlessly wielded - but there's certainly something to be said for not having to cut up the tree by hand with a sharp rock.

He paused for a moment, dabbing at his forehead with a grimy piece of cloth. A creak from the woodlands covered the sound of an arrow silently falling through the air, and he didn't notice that his kinsman had been shot in the throat until he turned around several seconds later to ask for help with the arboreal giant. Shock crossed his face at the other man, struggling in the dirt with his hands slick with blood, and after only a moment's pause he was off, running back toward the cultivated fields around Varra.

The man didn't get very far. Two more arrows, tipped in bone and fletched with crow feathers, took him in the back. Axe falling from nerveless fingers, he pitched forward onto the sparse dirt path. The men that emerged from the forest a few minutes later looked little better than savages, the pelts and fetishes wrapped about their bodies remnants of a wilder and darker time. Their eyes glittered with black malice as they looked towards the fair dwellings and wide paths of Varra, before turning their heads down to their work.

Into the forest the bodies disappeared, along with the ambushers. The dark times were not yet altogether gone.

by **Pragia** » Mon Jan 11, 2021 12:12 pm

Today was great day for the Eleskar, the people cheering upon the raising of the statue of El'es in the middle of their shrine by the artisans who had completed it. Unlike the wooden walls that encased it, this was a stone statue of considerable quality. The chief Goddess of the Eleskar, El'es is also referred to as the Violet Queen, named so for the purple glow that accompanies the conjuration of food that is attributed to her. This shrine would operate not only as a place where people can commingle and give thanks, but also as a location for the conducting of the rituals to be granted her power.

The master of rituals and leader of the city was Syndra Eleskar, the only one allowed the family name of the people and their goddess. She would have the title of Magister, but would hold total power, maintained by her cadre of magi who had risen to prominence. Despite recent triumphs, she would call upon her commoners to work on building the new homes for these critical personnel. Many lived beneath the stars still, and those that didn't were given paltry housing. Needless to say this needed to be rectified, but the scholarly elite had other priorities. Their language as it was spoken was an eloquent and airy tongue, carrying words together freely, but codifying it was difficult. Syndra herself would be leading this effort, as she believes the secret to rituals are words, and if words can be placed to script, it would advance their ability to see what else their powers could achieve.

The history of their people was one of satisfaction and complacency in their mediocrity, but greatness has driven the new generation of magicians, more experimental than the last and ready to understand just what they can learn be it from their arcane powers, themselves, or other cities.

by **Novas Arcanum** » Mon Jan 11, 2021 12:19 pm

中国

The Middle Kingdom

Ancient prophecy bone inscribed with Huang characters

It was a the dawn of a new era and the beginning of something great, something new for the people of the Yu River civilization. This era would be known as the era of the Shao Dynasty to future Huang historians. It was in the beginning, that Huang culture was primitive and tribal. Though ruled by a tribal king who wielded power from Zhai Cheng, the king did not have absolute power has his rule was based on tradition, and tribal customs. Still it was his duty to lead and protect the people and to honor the ancestors. In this era, Huang shamans would write characters on the scapula of water buffalo and use such bones to see into the future.

The ancient Shao kings relied on these 'prophecy bones', sometimes called dragon bones for a myriad of reasons. The Shao kings believed in the power of their ancestors and believed that in order to prosper they must look into the past for answers. The questions asked were has numerous as the stars themselves usually asking how many water buffalo needed to be sacrificed to ensure a good harvest. The process itself was steeped in tradition and superstition. The shaman usually a woman would take the bones and carve the question into it. It would then be heated with a thin pin made of iron. The cracks formed on the bone from the heat would give the answer and the shaman would interpret the cracks to see what was in store for the future.

The Archives are closed to all foreigners

by **Holy Tedalonia** » Mon Jan 11, 2021 1:35 pm

Pillar of Varra
Varra, Flatlands

What lay before the sons of Varrus was a gruesome seen, kin slain and murdered with such cold malice. It was enough to draw the council out and observe for themselves the work of foreigners, who threatened the Pillar of the plains. Two men, serving the great Pillar, died by cold blooded murderers on the outskirts of Varra- in view of the First Pillar. Shot by merciless arrows. The sight of this kept the guards of the Pillar nervous, fearing their small numbers wouldn't be able to defend their leaders, let alone themselves. The Council, however had other concerns...

"To think we're to happen to a child of Saladon. May the spirits put their souls to rest," stated one elder before stating coldly, "I suggest we compensate the family with the blood of the killers."

"Time will come, but we are but a small population, and we may not be able to face this threat," stated young woman, "We ought to buy our time, before we right this wrong."

"Agreed, the best way to wage rightful vengeance is when one is prepared to enact said vengeance, " stated a more youthful elder, "I agree with the Chieftain on this one, better for us less kin of Varra fall to these fell arrows."

The first elder grunts in disapproval, but relents, "very well, but the longer this remains unresolved the more vengeful the Children of Saladon grow. Keep that in mind Elspeth."

The council continued to discuss concern of the matter, however their actions moving forward were clear. Once confident in their coming policies, Elspeth gave her orders to the guards, "Gather the bodies and burn the bodies. I will not have our kin's bodies abandoned, they will join the spirits now. As for the arrows- pull them out, I will not have our lost kin be seen in such disrespect."

As if inspired by a cruel sense of vengeance, Elspeth added, "Give the arrows to the their kin, if they are to join the band that will slay these murderers, let them slay these monsters with the very arrows they sent into the backs of our kin."

The soldiers immediately begin collecting the bodies. Gathering them, pulling the arrows out of throat and back, and taking them back to Varra. The younger elder walked up to Elspeth, "was that really necessary, Chieftain?"

"You know the tradition, the foreigners will either pay for their murder of the kin, or the family who lost kin today will rightfully enact vengeance. Something tells me they are not going to pay, so I'm making the vengeance sweeter," stated Elspeth coldly, "If it we're my father who had fallen today, I would have expected nothing more, Diarmad."

"Very well, I only hope that the kin don't seek vengeance to early..." stated Diarmad, "I would not wish more kin of Varra to die this year."

"Indeed, enough died as is," stated Elspeth, "but a proud son of Varra- atleast a one with wit knows patience."

They begin heading back, content with their resolution. That night a burning pyre glows alight in the night, putting the lost souls to rest, as Varra herself gather's her strength to enact righteous vengeance.

by **Nuxipal** » Mon Jan 11, 2021 2:15 pm

The City of Daru
Year of the Ancestor 104

The Fifteenth year of the rule of Kirtar. The warrior King had kept the Nirari military as strong as they could. While few could compare with his loyalty to the Ancestor, there were those who saw that his ambitions for the city lay far beyond where it currently lies. While many supported his goals, others sought to keep the lands more open to trade and commerce. For now, Kirtar was the First of the Nirari though when he fell from the position, the next ruler would be able to alter the direction the Nirari and thus the direction that Daru took.

Just beyond the city walls, the slaves toiled in the hills, working to hew stone from the earth to stockpile and prepare for the future that the First envisioned. Watching over them, the well armed Nirari Warriors, enough arrows to put down any slave rebellions should they come to pass, though for the time being, everyone lived in equally squalid homes. While plans were being put into place to replace those structures, there was more pressing concerns for the future of the city. That future being the well-being of each and every child born in the city of Dara. Slave, Peasant, or otherwise; they would all be treated with equal treatment.

by **The National Dominion of Hungary** » Mon Jan 11, 2021 2:29 pm

The Land of Penithel

A new day dawned over a small town nestled along the winding path of a great river, the warm rays of the sun danced on the lazy waters, flowing out into the sea without a care in the world. It was peaceful, serene one could say. But this was a place where a few hundred men and women dwelled, where an ambitious priest-king of the River-Father ruled. The Pennenthelli had called these riverlands home for many generations, their little village had grown and so had they, for long had they calmly watched the seasons pass, building simple homes while tending their gardens, hunting across the plains with their bows and singing the praises of mighty River-Father Hyrean, the god in whose honor the Pennenthelli painted their bodies with blue streaks, his holy carnation. None was painted more than Vinlaan of the Ahvanids, who ruled the Pennethelli, guiding them both in prayer and in their worldly labors. A walked through the dirt roads of the village clad in a linen kilt and carrying copper jewelry, his pale skin elaborately painted sacred blue with a well-trimmed beard shifting in red-and-golden tones.

He walked toward the edge of the settlement where men worked under the gentle sun, yet they sweated all the same, streaks of much more humble paint running off from their bodies. Logs had been gathered and heaped outside the town and the men had dug a trench, it's depth about half the height of a man. The dirt had been heaped in a mound surrounding the village and now the workmen raised the mighty timber logs their countrymen had gathered from across the sparse groves that dotted the largely flat expanse that was their homeland. The ruler of Penithel looked on as his people labored away flanked by a few other blue-painted priests and warriors decked out in leather-armor reinforced with copper scales glinting in the pleasant sun. The Pennenthelli have not been a people that looked out into the world for their fortunes through most of their history, their stories of the Five Founders were ones of peace and tranquility, but in the reign of Vinlaan predecessor, this changed and new stories came to the fore. Stories of enterprising traders and mighty warriors seeking glories and wealth in distant lands.

It was the start of something new for the Pennethelli, and a stout wall would no doubt be of use in the years and decades to come...

by **Elerian** » Mon Jan 11, 2021 3:10 pm

Aled Aedryn

Once in the olden days, Balar was king in heaven. As long as Balar was seated on the throne, the mighty Gedymdeith, first among the gods, was standing before him. He would sink at his feet and set the drinking cup in his hand. Many in number were the years that Balar was king in heaven. In antiquated times even for the Aederfolk, Gedymdeith gave battle to Balar and he vanquished Balar. He fled before him and went down to the dark earth. Down he went to the dark earth, but Gedymdeith took his seat upon the throne. As long as Gedymdeith was seated upon the throne, the mighty Ard Feainn would give him his food. He would sink at his feet and set the drinking cup in his hand.

Many in number were the years that Gedymdeith was king in heaven. In the times of our forefathers, like Gedymdeith before him, Ard Feainn gave battle to his lord. When he could no longer withstand Ard Feainn, Gedymdeith struggled forth from the hands of Ard Feainn and fled. Gedymdeith moved like a bird through the sky. After him rushed Ard Feainn, who seized Gedymdeith by his feet and dragged him down from the sky. Ard Feainn tore from Gedymdeith his eyes, and ate them. Ard Feainn rejoiced and laughed at his victory. Gedymdeith turned back to him, to Ard Feainn he began to speak:

"Thou rejoicest over thine victory, because thou hast swallowed my sight. Rejoice not over thine victory! In thine inside I have planted a heavy burden. Firstly I have impregnated thee with the noble spirit Cahir. Secondly I have impregnated thee with the tempest Senuna, not to be endured. Thirdly I have impregnated thee with the Emyr who will unseat thee. Three dreadful gods have I planted in thy belly as seed. Thou shalt go and end thy suffering only by striking the rocks of thine own mountain with thy head!" When Gedymdeith had finished speaking, he went down into the Earth and hid himself.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Mon Jan 11, 2021 3:47 pm

The Deepkin

Wharfwane Lane, The City of Bells
Twentythird of Neaptide, Year Two Hundred of the Reckoning

The magistrate emerged from the crowd of citizens near the quay, late, as was usual for men of his station. Not because the Deepkin did not value punctuality - hardly - but because his entourage shoving her way through the crowded streets of the capitol took longer than anticipated in any given year, primarily on account of how from year to year those streets seemed to grow only more crowded.

The captain wasn't overly perturbed. Jakkus Saltwind merely smiled as the portly man smiled and waved his hands broadly, booming voice struggling to be heard over the hubbub of the impromptu pilings and the endless traders hawking their wares on the banks of the Great River.

"Honored friends!"

No change in the volume level of the teeming banks of the river.

"Honored friends!"

This time a few people turned, and noticed the bald fat man with his jolly red face. Some hushed their companions, some merely smiled. There was nothing so much the Deepkin liked as much as a good display of jocularity, and very little reverence which they afforded the men who were chosen from the hundreds to add some vague semblance of order to the dominion of the Father's Chosen.

A half dozen guardsmen had accompanied the magistrate, and, at a glance from the official, they began beating their assegais on the hard pommels of their shields. The racket wasn't much louder than the hubbub that pervaded Kharbarinth, but it was somewhat different in tempo and intentionality than the cacophony, and so slowly but surely the crowd began to actually deign to give the red-faced man the attention he desired.

A third time then, this time with less scream in his voice.

"Honored friends." He cleared his throat, before continuing, waving his arms like some great billowing wave towards the three small vessels which were drawn up alongside the quay - and, almost by accident, at Jakkus and the other two captains.

"Today we are gathered, we of the Mother's bosom, to bear witness to the departure of our own. Brave men leave now, as did our forefathers, to see the wide world - to make maps, and subdue savages, and gain riches. May the Father look on them with favor, and his breath carry them safely home to us again in due time."

It wasn't much of a speech. The Deepkin were less inclined to pomp and circumstance than most. Really, normally Saltwind wouldn't have even bothered with letting the magistrate show up, being more interested in sailing with the tide. But if the men of Government Hill were kind enough to fund his expedition, he supposed he couldn't be begrudged them wanting to take at least some credit for the affair.

The necessaries completed, the three small ships pushed off, out into the deeper waters that flowed west to the Morning Sea. Soon Jakkus would taste his namesake coming out of the west, and then, adventure.

by **Olthenia** » Mon Jan 11, 2021 5:07 pm

The Vale of Ustar, Sorrowfree
Twelfth Day of Arch of Sun-Shadow, the 200th Year of the Star-Count

The horn’s wail rang across the valley. It shivered the surface of the tiny streams that ran down the rocky slopes. It made camels bray and raise their long necks warily to smell the air for hatred. And down in the valley below, at the very bottom, where hundreds of bronzed backs and long shoulders gleamed – brown and sweaty – in the noonday heat? It brought a cheer. The noon-horn’s song ruled life in the valley. It called the Khortuun to rise and to toil. To feast and to gather. And now, as the day ran its course, it called their labours to end.

From a dozen gardens dotted by stands of prickle-pears and beans, men and women strolled, wary and sweaty, back to their humble abodes. Such, then, was life in Sorrowfree. The settlement that clung to the sides of the Vale of Ustar was not named so in jest, but in full sincerity. After all, within the shade of its rocky hovels and proud palisade, life and leisure prospered. Camels brayed and women sang, boys laughed and men toiled while all around them – on the rocky plains that ran into the great, shimmering desert that covered the horizon – nothing else lived. Or stood. Or laboured. Sorrowfree, and the rhythm sung by its noon-horn, was all there was.

Or so it seemed.

Wise mothers knew the truth of it, of course – that the Khortuun, proud and ancient though they were – did not alone hold claim to the world.

“The Wetlanders,” Old Nabra drawled – and fixed her grandchildren with her one good eye – “-are alike us in all things. Except-?” Before the old crone, a sickle of fidgeting youngsters sat in rapt attention. Or at least pretended to. Nabra had been known as ‘Old Nabra’ for as long as any of them could remember; even Solla – a shaven-haired tyrant almost nine winters old. Her tales and stories had taken them beyond to people and places beyond the Ustar many, many times over. And her temper, though difficult to rouse – was a thing to behold.

“Except in custom, Granny?”

Solla, who had just opened his mouth to say exactly that, threw an envious glance at little Tawè. But alas, his younger sister had found her words before him – and judging by the smile on Old Nabra’s wrinkled face, Tawé was spot on.

“Just so,” Old Nabra nodded, and favored her grandchild with a wintery smile. “Just so. And their names are?” No sooner had she croaked this latest question before her audience raised their voice almost as one; a pale, chattering choir of childish memories. “The Corvid!” Who grows the wheat and wields the dun-rock. “The Huang!” Who live in stone cities and shoot the bow. And finally “The Nirari!” Who ride the horn-horse and make men weep. Childish lessons for childish minds – but still. Necessary.

The Khortuun knew well that their gods loved them. Their mothers had all told them so, and what their mothers agreed – it was known – all men believed. After all, chief amongst the gods who heard prayers in the Vale of Ustar was the Mother-Moon; pale and beautiful. Her light blessed all with equal fervor.

It was known.

by **The Empire of Tau** » Mon Jan 11, 2021 5:49 pm

[Insert Post Here that will come. I hope]

by **Ralnis** » Mon Jan 11, 2021 8:01 pm

Warcyfle

Gu of Two Islands was less of a man. For five generations he believed himself prosperous, dedicated to the Path of Tes'la but his supporters know he has failed. The mighty ship was the blessing of the Deeps, of the Storm God but it had cost them their trade and their friend. He knew that he was in the right when it came to it but the wealth that came from the Aun'kal had made them prosperous and allowed them to become strong. Now his pride had caused him to destroy what ties they had built so long ago. That their ancestors who are sitting with He who Flashes' side.

The merchants, those who plied the copper to sell and made their way to get the timber were more than furious. They were calling for acts of forgiveness from the leadership so that the seas maybe peaceful again. They were calling for the leadership to ask for peace so that trade can flourish again. If not Gu knew that there would be a reckoning. He had summoned the court, to try and get the most charismatic people of their people. He needed them to try and find a way to make amends with the Aun'kal. They needed to heal if they were to become prosperous again because if not then they wouldn't be able to do much afterwards.

Most importantly he feared of the settlement of Mantu Hui. Their newest settlement that was only twenty years old. They were surviving and growing slow. They, like many of the islanders, survived off of fish and the forages of the land. The thing is that they were near the Aun'kal and they could muster up enough forces to kill and burn the settlement down if they were angry enough. He couldn't risk it, his people would kill him for sure. It was the best that he placate to them and make friends with them again. It would be better for them as trade needs to flourish again.

He got on the bireme and to try and make himself ready. This year and many others needed to talk the Aun'kal. Merchants and nobles got on their ships as well filled with food as a means to placate to their neighbors. It's the only ways for them to try and patch things up.

If not then the Warcyfle maybe doomed.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Tue Jan 12, 2021 6:43 am

The Deepkin

The Under-Road, Stalheim
Seventh of Redleaf, Year Two Hundred of the Reckoning

The snow swirled over the small pathway, and Imshav pulled his cloak tighter about him. Alongside many men shivered in less than his thick fur jerkin, their more economical garments not proof against the early winter storm that was swirling about over the eastern city of the Deepkin. Underfoot small drifts were beginning to pile up, which Imshav cleared with every step in his ramshackle boots.

"This way men! Miners to the left, laborers to the right!"

A soldier stood on a tall stone on one side of the pathway descending into the pit, periodically repeating what no doubt his commanding officer told him to repeat. The worker swore at him under his breath, but without any particular malice. The few men the representatives at Government Hill far to the west deigned to give their sister settlement for defense had their hands full enough on any given night breaking up fights and dealing with domestic disputes, let alone patrolling the perimeter of the growing city. Even the fact that one of them was overseeing the delving operations here said good things about the priority those above them had placed on this effort.

In some ways, Imshav wished he were back in the city itself, planing boards to hammer into the small lanes of housing which the city fathers had proclaimed a priority. At least then you could duck into a finished hut for a kip of liquor and a few minutes out of the cold, or at least the wind. But this work was easier, and less looked upon, since nobody he had run into expected it to be done any time soon. There was an urgency about running up dwellings to shield women and children against the icy onrushing embrace of winter - the mine here was strictly a forward-facing problem, something that dreamers said would enrich Stalheim.

He picked up one of the adzes from the tool bin on one side. The bin was always a bit short after a day of work, but they were mass-produced tools, just sturdy enough to keep up with the labor that needed doing. Imshav wasn't going to bother catching a punishment for stealing such a mundane piece of kit, not when time in the stockades could leave you without a hand at winter's height. He hefted the tool, eyed the lines of riven soil descending into the earth, and picked out a familiar face.

"Good morrow, Timmons."

The other man, his face lined with age, looked up in surprise. Then a nearly-toothless grin broke the visage of leather.

"Ah, good master Imshav. Cmere and join us for the morning's entertainment."

Down into the ditch the laborer stepped, and began the monotonous toil of peeling back layer after layer of clay, mud, snow, and soil down toward the buried nodules of iron which the scholars said stood at some depth. Just more work.

by **The GAmeTopians** » Tue Jan 12, 2021 1:04 pm

The Republic of the Great River

The Court of Affairs, Rivermouth
Fourth of Midsommar, Year Two Hundred of the River's Birth

The cozy cottage of First Speaker and Archon Anders Shoreblessed was normally a quiet one - no wife, no children, just a warm fire and the affairs of a burgeoning polis to keep him company. Not so today. For today was the first Court of Affairs, a meeting of the city's five newly elected Archons, who would determine the course of their kin in the years to come. Anders combed back his mane of auburn hair as his compatriots filed through the doorway, making themselves comfortable at the conference table before them. Each took a moment to admire the fine craftsmanship of the table and chairs, noting quietly to themselves that Anders had doubtless built them himself. The eyes of the public were constantly on this house, after all, and not a soul had entered the home of the First Speaker apart from himself, and now his colleagues.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen."

The few murmurs of greeting and business that had begun to pass their lips ceased as quickly as they had begun. Though he was a man who kept to himself, none in this room lacked respect for Anders Shoreblessed, nor did they wish to spark his ire - this was a man who had captured the hearts of their entire people in one fell swoop, and had led them to a new age of enlightenment! All eyes focused on him.

"You all know me, and I know all of you, but for the sake of propriety I'd like to take a moment to introduce everyone. Please stand when announced, then return to being seated."

"Varya Sunshade, Archon of the Mind."

A refined-looking woman tucked a lock of jet black hair behind one ear as she stood, her hawk-like eyes scanning the faces of her new coworkers.

"Davos Stoneshaper, Archon of the Hand."

The true artisan of the group rose to the gazes of his colleagues, his rough-hewn features giving credence to his Blood Name.

"Anton Moonwhisper, First Archon of the Heart, soon to be Archon of the Blade."

A smirk ran across the lithe man's face. Though he lacked a blade, this man was a deadly weapon all himself - the growing power of the military faction ran through his veins, and everyone at the table was well aware of it.

"Jaina Oakenblade, Second Archon of the Heart, soon to be First Archon of the Heart."

This young woman looked out of place at the meeting, seemingly barely old enough to have received her Turning of Growth. But looks could be deceiving.

"And finally, myself. Anders Shoreblessed, Archon of the Foot, and First Speaker of our great Republic. I now call this meeting to order."

by **Lazarian** » Tue Jan 12, 2021 9:02 pm

Corvus

Wildwheat Fields, approximately four miles from the Hillhome
Seventh of Brightsun

Feet pounded violently against the Earth, hounds howled and bayed in pursuit, and the whishing sound of an arrow pierced the air.

Seconds later, it followed by a sharp crack of bone and a dull thud as it met its target. As their prey fell to earth, the hunters erupted into cheers of triumph as they caught their breath, some panting with exertion and resting their palms on their knees.

It was just another day on the hunt for Crennon Hunter Sharpeye and his men. The leader of the hunters was a man of average height. In his sinewy arms, he carried a bow made of gazelle horn - a deadly armament, capable of downing any beast. He grinned at the sight of his success, the breeze tousling his thick red hair. Like the other hunters, he was dressed in a simple loincloth, with a wolf-pelt that adorned his head and draped over his shoulders and back. Two lines of red clay-paint were drawn down his face, trailing down from his eyes.

Twenty-five of them in whole were out in the field today. The group was a mixture of skilled and unskilled laborers that made up the village's defensive forces, and also the best hunters as well. As the men cheered, the hounds circled the gazelle carcass, already salivating in anticipation. Crennon placed his fingers in his mouth, whistling sharply, and the hounds reluctantly strayed away from the fallen animal. Bending down, the archer sliced the throat of the catch, beginning to gut it.

He and his brothers lived a simple life. Though the Corvidians claimed they were civilized men, this was somewhat a stretch of truth. They were not altogether too different from the hunter-gatherers that preceded them. Their days subsisted of simple hunting, herding, farming, and occasionally building. Good lives, though simple.

This, however, was soon to change.

His brother, Corran Tribelord Sharpeye, had begun to shift his tone in recent gatherings. It seemed as if he was no longer content with their simple existence. He claimed that they were resting upon their ancestors' gifts, dishonoring them through laziness and inaction. They had lived the same lives for too long! Relied upon allies and friends to cast off burdens which they had been too weak to deal with themselves! It was time for this to change!

It was all because of that damned Spirit-Guide, Liana Soulspeaker Dreamweaver, Crennon thought with a scowl. The eldest mother of the Dreamweaver household was the leader of the wise men and women of the tribe, descended from the first of the Spirit-Guides. She was an elderly and sage-like woman, her ancient face lined with innumerable wrinkles. An honored and valued member of their community, for certain.

To Crennon, though, she was a miserable old crone. He could see her stirring up dissent among the people. Spreading claims of a destiny that was theirs to grasp and to manifest. This would have been fine, if not for what it was beginning to turn his brother into. Corran had begun to become abrasive and rude. Most Tribelords did little more than organize feasts or resolve petty conflicts. But Corran had buckled under the stress of "prophecy" and "destiny". The most recent act which had raised Crennon's ire was the driving the unskilled laborers of the village to work at a frantic pace to construct a...place of care for children.

While a place for their sons and daughters was a noble goal, it did come with side effects which could have been easily avoided if not for the hurried construction. Men were sore and irritable, bickering with one another over things that they typically would have ignored or forgiven. Tempers seemed to be raised, and...for what? For the whispers of prophecy?

Hmph.

"Everything alright there? You seem a bit off." one of the other hunters interjected, as Crennon stared into the pool of blood spreading across the dirt.

"I'm fine. Just winded." Crennon grunted in response, before slinging the gazelle over his shoulders. "Let's get moving again. We've meat to catch yet today! The spirits are with us today!" he said, raising his fist and his voice, and the men echoed in reply.

"Spirits with us!" they cheered, and began to jog again, chasing after their prey into the fields once more.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Wed Jan 13, 2021 8:38 am

Year 200 of the Reckoning
Turn 1

Eleskar: The scholars of the Eleskar have refined their system of glyphs and pictograms into a methodology of formal writing, which will no doubt be an aid in their mystical arts and the codification thereof.

Varra: The emissaries to the Manisaharu return, empty-handed. Though the highlanders received them politely enough, they seem content enough with their lot in life, and the wealth offered to those who might move south to live with the Varrans seems insufficient to sway their minds. The men sent to negotiate with the Machaka have not returned.

Aled: After long years of work, and the creation finally of a method of heating the magnetite to a sufficient degree for the reduction of the carbon, ironworking is now within the grasp of the people of the south.

Kharbarinth: The Explorers sent south along the coast, and map out a new land, southwest of southwest of southwest. The coastline continues west of this land, and north, verdant waters. To the south unfold wide plains, while this land is heavily forested and has some rolling hills. Silveroaks can be found here, and there are large pods of whales off the coast. Pale silver litters the cliffs. The scholars have successfully set up a system whereby the people are divided into sections of workers, for efficient administration by the skilled workers who oversee the labor within the bounds of the city.

Sorrowfree: The warriors dispatched hunting are successful, dragging back more of the braying charges who are known in small numbers amidst the Khortuun. These wild specimens are added to the indigenous herds, which will no doubt introduce good breeding stock. Also, the fields of brown beans are flourishing in unseasonably warm weather. We have wisely used this time to transplant the flourishing shoots, creating a new Garden at essentially nonexistent effort to our people.

Warclyfe: The Aun'kal receive the delegates with suspicion, but seem appreciative of the gesture. Their ruler, the Dawn-Singer, states that further reparations for the harm caused by the blockade will be necessary - and some of the warriors of the city treat the emissaries with obvious disdain, as one might deal with one which was not considered a threat.

Corvus: There has been a disruption of the local economy due to very heavy storms - much of the few goods are artisans do produce have been ruined in a storeroom, a dark day for our people. The Palace Economy will not produce Wealth for the next four years.

by **Novas Arcanum** » Wed Jan 13, 2021 8:46 am

中国

The Middle Kingdom

It was the dawn of a new day, the rainy season had ended and the clouds that so jealously guarded heaven's light had departed and the sun's golden rays of honey graced the land. Yuan Jianzhu looked off into the horizon outside the palisade of Zhai Cheng. He saw peasants picking plump and green jadegrass from the waters of the Yu River, and fields of potato farms. It was not long ago that barbarians had come and pillaged the land. The cowards had ran away just as the soldiers armed with iron and wielding keen composite bows came out of the settlement to greet them. Jianzhu sighed, he was tasked by the king to build some new watch towers, and oversee the construction of the new huts. He was not certain of when the barbarians would returned but he knew they had to be prepared.

by **Holy Tedalonia** » Wed Jan 13, 2021 11:59 am

Pillar of Varra
Varra, Flatlands

Inside one of the many hastily created houses of Varra, the councillors discussed current events. Their dwelling was hardly the peak of opulence and wealth, one might expect from the leaders of a people, but rather a place of simple living and fulfilling needs hastily. Regardless they begin going right to work. Discussing the results of last years plans, and what was failed to be gained.

"Nobody joined yet, not from the highlanders in the north, and the emissary sent to Machaka," the councilor sighs briefly, "yet to come back."

"Let us pray for his safety," stated Elspeth, "regardless we need to consider other matters at the moment."

"Assuming we go to war earlier than desired, we will need to gather strength to face these threats on our own," stated Diarmad before adding carefully, "and with fewer numbers."

"The Highlanders seemed to be fairly kind," stated the older elder, "perhaps we can fund them to aid in our feud?"

"Seems hardly appropriate," stated Diarmad, "they have no query with the raiders."

"They are as a much as a threat to them as they are to us Diarmad," glared the elder place a fist gently on the table, aggravated by his colleagues opinion, "sooner or later they'll get attacked. Best nip this one in the bud before it goes into full bloom."

"I agree with Fearchar, this time. We should get as much help as we can get," stated Elspeth as she bends forward and places her fists under her chin, "as well as asking for our neighborly highlanders in the mountains, perhaps we can discuss with Machaka ahead of time discussing food imports for the war effort."

"Agreed, getting that concern out of the way may be a good idea. It would be a disaster if we cannot get this agreement in time to aid our cause," stated Diarmad smiling, "let us pray for prosperity on these verdant plains".

"Aye, meeting adjourned," Elspeth finished."

by **Pragia** » Wed Jan 13, 2021 1:46 pm

Syndra would smile as she looked at the piece of bark before her. A true alphabet, more refined than the previous syllabic cuneiform of the past, consisting of Thirty-Six letters. It was carved with elegance befitting the nuance of the spoken words of the Eleskar (ელესკარი in their new written language) though bark was a poor medium for such finesse. It was decided that, for such a script to be put to proper use for records and notes, there must be a more malleable medium. It was only after the first renditions of the alphabet were inscribed that thick, soft clay from the riverbed was brought to her attention. Such a material worked well, and she carved her name (სინდრა) into the first given slab of the material using a fine-tipped branch.

Satisfied with it, she requested that the riverbed nearby the fields be dredged for this material, pits dug for claiming the grey material from the earth. Despite its preferable status to wood, she did note that written words could be stretched and destroyed by simply mishandling the material, and set her scholars on to look for ways to sturdy and harden it. Of course, her single mindedness was not immediately open to the other uses of such material, and the artisanal class saw their own uses and potential for craftsmanship.

Despite this progress being made toward the keys of transferring knowledge, there were rumblings among the urban citizenry rising. For the last two years they spent their time toiling away at homes they would not see themselves living in. Now they found themselves out in the summer sun and winter frost digging holes in the ground for the interests of magi. Now their magister has begun allocating their paltry wages toward the creation of some building made not to house them, but to house this soft dirt. Compounded with magicians had not been providing as they had before, it seemed as though faith in their leadership was limited.

by **The Empire of Tau** » Wed Jan 13, 2021 7:29 pm

by **Lazarian** » Wed Jan 13, 2021 10:18 pm

Corvus

Tribelord's Clearing, Hillhome
Twelfth of Coldwind

“You have angered the gods with your foolish actions, Corran!” shouted Gennon Herdsman Annwyn, pounding his meaty fists upon the rudimentary table in the small square at the highest peak of the hill, where tribal meetings were held and announcements proclaimed. “There is no other explanation!”

Behind him, a congregation of people murmured in assent. It had been raining for several days now. The sun was obscured behind thick grey clouds, blocking out any trace of light. In and of itself, this was a bad omen, enough to rile the people up. But to further exacerbate the situation, a storeroom containing many fine goods had collapsed under the weight of the hill, crushing many fine creations of soulstone. Tempers were already high from the forced labor, and this foul portent did nothing to appease them.

The collapse had also crushed a fine statuette dedicated to the Mother-Moon, instilling much discussion about the spirits and their indications.

“Nonsense!” griped a second man, Craenan Hunter Gwynnson, with a few other followers behind him. “This is clearly our gods protesting against the worship of an outsider’s god, a spirit not among the ranks of our ancestors! Worship of the moon must be halted at once!”

This proclamation was met with boos and jeers from those with Desertfolk descent, and Craenan stuck his pointer fingers in his nose in response. A particularly rude gesture among the Sons of Corvus.

The Corvidian Faith was a simple one. All men were born from the World Beyond into the Waking World. They would then return to the World Beyond upon their death, joining the ranks of their ancestors. They were born from a single spirit - the first human, the Great Spirit itself. From him, the other gods, the first of the primeval man, were born. The Five Aspects.

First, the mighty and brave warrior-god, Vennon, whose blows split the heavens themselves, causing lightning and thunder upon the mortal plane. Second, the two-faced god of invention and dreams, Cavonn the Youth (who gifts innovation and cleverness upon man) and Lenna the Mother (the elder, who gifts wisdom and resolve). Third, the Laborer, Jacnon, whose four sturdy arms built the mountains and hewed the valleys into the Earth. Fourth, the Crow, a winged man with the head of a bird, god of instinct, survival, curiosity, and desire.

And last, the Beast. A formless, faceless evil. A Black King of cruelty and death. The seed of evil, jealousy, and malice. The creator of disease, rot, and hunger. The father of the predators which stalk the mountains and the crevasses of the world. This fifth god does not have a Pillar dedicated to him at the Shrine of the Ancestors - he is not honored like the rest.

Some of the Corvidians claim that the Mother-Moon that the Desertfolk worship is an aspect of Lenna the Mother, who watches over all her children with care. Others claim that she is the Crow’s mate, as she is a goddess of song, dance, and desire. Other men still claim that she is a form of the Great Spirit, who is neither man nor woman, and is the first of the Desertfolk spirits and Corvidian alike.

But some state that she is a trickster - a mysterious creature of the night. A false goddess, not fit to be worshipped. This denomination of believers is few in number, but they have been enboldened by the sudden destruction of the statuette.

Corran raised his hands, silencing both men. Despite his status, he did not differ much in garb from the others, dressed in a simple brown robe sewn from the hides of gazelle. He stood slightly taller than most, with four bracelets of bronze Soulstone adorning each arm. Atop his head laid a crown, a Soulstone cap with four gazelle horns affixed upon it.

The two factions held their breath, eagerly anticipating him to cast his opinion one way or another. Despite their differences or disagreements with the man, neither would dare defy the Tribelord himself. The village leader was picked by the gods themselves upon the sixtieth birthday of the previous Tribelord. Once the former leader reached this age, he would resign, the Spirit-Guides would congregate upon the Shrine Hill, fasting and dreaming for four days and four nights. Upon their return, they would proclaim the wishes of the gods - whatever man was most fit to be the next leader.

“Enough. These are dire tidings indeed, but neither of you are correct. I disagree that the Aspects are angry with us, Gennon. Why would they launch such fury at us for preparing for the future? The children of the village are safer and healthier than ever before due to our hard work. This structure is a firm and steady building, one which the Laborer would be greatly pleased with. We are protecting our youth from illness and straying away during the workday - an honorable act in the eyes of Vennon. We are raising our youth in ways of wisdom, in which the Twin Dreamers would be pleased. And at last, this child-home is a place of boundless curiosity and mirth. Surely we have not offended the Crow, the oldest of the Aspects.” Corran proclaimed, raising his voice so that all in attendance may hear.

“Then it is the Mother-Moon after all!” cried Gennon eagerly, seizing the moment.

“I cannot speak upon the true nature of the Mother-Moon. Such is for the Spirit-Guides to divine and decide.” replied Corran, shaking his head. “But I personally do not think that the Goddess of our trusted allies has turned her face away from us. And for what reason would a goddess of the desert afflict us with rain? Ha! No, Gennon. This is an act of the Beast, meant to stir up discontent and strife in our hearts. It is as simple as that.”

The crowd shifted anxiously, not entirely pleased by this response. Simple colds and bad harvests were the Beast’s usual work. A torrential rainstorm, collapsing atop a statuette of a foreign goddess - that was certainly not. Regardless, their hearts would be calmed and set still for now.

by **G-Tech Corporation** » Thu Jan 14, 2021 7:59 am

The Deepkin

Nesthall Avenue, The City of Bells
Thirteenth of First Seed, Year Twohundred and two of the Reckoning

The rain beat heavily on the roof overhead, and Saliman eyed it dubiously. But the freshly laid thatch had seen them through the winter with only a few leaks, and the storm raging outside up from the coast did not seem liable to provoke too many more. At least, not at this rate. The fire in the hearth at the center of the room was low, and guttered occasionally in the wind from the chimney which gusted down with chill, but it threw off enough warmth for his daughter and wife to sleep soundly on the benches around the room. Malia turned in her sleep, probably some sixth sense that he was looking at her, but she did not wake. It was well - for she had been long at the stables yesterday, and no doubt needed all the rest she could get before the morning bells.

Those would not now be far off. Saliman's back ached from the day before, and his eyes were heavy, but his heart was too full for slumber after awaking in the middle of the night. There was a certain part of him that still wondered at the gleaming depths of lustrous copper where he had been just a day before. The men of the upriver boasted of lustrous iron, their servant, and the singing swords their smiths forged. But the earth-blood glisten of the copper at the bottom of the mines, down where the sunlight barely came, was like fire enmeshed in stone.

Not many men had seen it in such quantities as Saliman. But then again, in the old days, men had simply burnt rock and hoped to find the valuable metal. Now he and his colleagues were working to delve it from the earth via refined methods, with hammer and pick and fire, yes, but fire set against veins deep below the scrapings of the surface, where the Father had hid riches beyond imagination's ken. He would be a wealthy man, once the mine was complete, and then they might even be able to afford something better than this home.

Not, he thought glancing quickly overhead, that there was anything wrong with this sturdy hut. He had no wish to insult the sturdy dwelling. Just as he looked up though, a large droplet snuck through the thatch, splattering him full in the eye.

by **The National Dominion of Hungary** » Thu Jan 14, 2021 9:19 am

The Land of Penithel

Two priestly scholars of the Pennenthelli gazed upon the newly-raised palisade that surrounded their settlement, a bright sun cast it's rays across the wide green grasslands and in the distance a few stout pines swayed in a gentle breeze. A few leather-and-copper clad men walked lazily on the earthen rampart, looking out across the plains, scanning the green horizons. In the fields the people toiled and small herds of One-Horns grazed near the walls under the careful eye of their tenders. These blessed beasts taken through raiding, and just as the Pennenthelli raided they could be raided in turn, the Palisade was prudent in that regard. But there were many things that needed to be done for the Pennentheli and their godly land of Penithel to prosper.

"Do you believe the King will do something about this?" One of the scholars said, a man with intricate iconography painted on his face and body and a receding hairline. "There a things to do within these walls..."

"Indeed." The other man replied, running a hand through his frizzy light brown beard which showed strands of grey. "These tents and hovels are unbecoming, I believe our fellows would be grumbling of not for the word of the River-Father to uplift them in their daily lives."

"I sure would not say no to finer accommodations." The man with the receding hairline said. "Instead we get a wall and now they are making traps, slings and building hunting cabins out in the plains."

The other man laughed. "So you would rather starve but in a fancy new home?"

by **Nuxipal** » Thu Jan 14, 2021 9:39 am

The City of Daru
Year of the Ancestor 106

The previous year saw the first improvements to the city's infrastructure under Kirtar's new direction he wished to move the city in. Improved care for the children of the city. The city itself was starting to show signs that it was not going to be able to sustain this kind of expenses each year and thus, the need for industry arose. Already having a source of hides in the rural parts of the city, the decision to create a tannery was made to begin creating products that had a higher value to bring wealth into the city. As the work began here, there was also the need to create a shrine for worship of the ancestor. The people sought guidance and an official shrine within the city would aid in guiding the Nirari into the future.

There was also the issue of the military. They were a fairly large force and thus could be used to help within the city if needed. However, Kirtar chose to first inspect the military and its readiness. The soldiers were arrayed before the city's palisade and inspected by the First of the Nirari. He decided they were an impressive force. He decided however, their best use would be to maintain the stability of the city by enforcing order amidst the slaves, ensuring their continual productivity.

by **Olthenia** » Thu Jan 14, 2021 9:45 am

Khortuun

The Speaker’s Plateau, Sorrowfree
Fourteenth Day of the Arc of Murak’s Bane, Year 202 of the Star-Count

“Is it just me, or is it getting crazier out there?” Yanto drawled the words slowly, almost as an afterthought. Or a jest.

Over by the rock-face across from him, with her face half in shadow, Bindag peered at him through lidded eyes. And frowned. Yan knew that look well - but had learned to fear it less and less. It was his wife’s tongue he was wary of; not her eyes.

“How so?”

The little hide lean-to nestled in the rocky hillside was a drafty affair. Smelled, too. Of grease and unwashed bodies. Of mould and dirty and the rot of the hides themselves. Try as they might, the Mother-Moon’s most devout had yet to master the intricacies of properly tanning hides. Or ruling men.

“Well…” Yanto began. “The other husbands talk.”

Bindag nodded. Hers was a narrow face, with the dark hair and brown, brown eyes the desert-folk were known for. Not a beauty, perhaps – but still. Moon-Speakers amongst the Khortuun did not need such. Her words and wisdom stood her well enough.

“About what, exactly?”

“About the stink of the camels. And the heat of the sun. And the dirt of their hovels. And-“

Bindag cut him off, and for a moment her face twisted. Became something mean and anguished.

“And what am I to do about that? Are all the men amongst our people so ensorcelled that-“ But then she caught herself – and her gaze fell. Yanto – husband, friend and messenger – let the silence linger. Not because he did not have words for her, but because it twisted something in a man to see his wife so angered by a foe his hands could not grasp.

“The toil of the fields is all they have. Most of them, anyway. The toil and work and sweat all day, and then they retire. To smelly, dirty hovels.” He did not add ‘Like ours’. He didn’t have to. “And then there’s the Bonadar.” An ill-named lot – the so-called ‘Sandriders’ who bore arms of copper and camel-skin sashes were mostly just that – armed, loutish thugs. Wild men and savage women. Some of them, at least. Not a fair few of them were brave and stalwart too – but they had a fire in their blood, for a Khortuun could scarcely have less if she thought to make war her living. And alas, men and women who squatted by their campfires and spoke of glory and conquest were scarcely satisfied by chasing braying hump-beasts.

Such men and women were bored by peace, irritated by contentment, and – when made to live in smoke and misery? Downright dangerous. Never had a Bonadar not bowed for a matriarch – but by the look in their eyes? And the tone of their taunts? …Well.

Some day that might change.

“We need homes,” Bindag murmured. And Yanto nodded. “Proper homes,” he agreed – and threw a pointed glance at the roof-flap that server as smokehole. Somehow, for some Moon-be-damned-reason, it never quite seemed to let the smoke out – or keep the wind out.

“With proper roofs?” he added – and Bindag’s narrow face split in a coy little grin.

“…Yes, husband,” she sighed. “With proper roofs.”

by **The GAmeTopians** » Thu Jan 14, 2021 7:57 pm

The Republic of the Great River

Riverrow, Rivermouth
Last of Winterbirth, Year Two Hundred and Two of the River's Birth

A passing storm had left puddles along the beat dirt pathway, so too damping the pallets of timber and thatch that were stacked along the lane. The workers, until then having paused to seek shelter from the weather, had already begun to return - the houses that were to be done were their own, after all. Each one was a simple structure, not the luxurious cottages that circled the center of the city - but they were more than enough for the people of the river, at least for the time being. They did not expect to see finer accommodations in their lifetime - but their work on this day and the next would pave the way to a better life for their children, and their childrens' children.

A pair of cloaked figures strode down the busy road, deftly avoiding laden builders and other workmen. A careful observer would no doubt recognize the faces beneath the rough brown cowls, but none would pay them any heed - the allure of their new dwellings was far too great. The pair were counting on that fact.

"Milord, are the people not unsatisfied with these simple huts? Will they not envy the finer cottages in the River's Crown?"

"I told you already Jaina, I am to be referred to only as Mr. Speaker, or equivalent titles. I am not a lord, nor a noble - those are titles for lazy men." A soft smile could barely be made out under the shadow of the First Speaker's hood. "And to your question - no, I should think not. Under the previous rule, many of them grew up homeless, sheltering with neighbors and friends when the weather turned bleak, if they could find shelter at all. Our work to provide them with homes is seen as a great gift, not a slight. And we all know that there are bigger worries at hand than building luxurious residences."

Archon Oakenblade nodded to herself, considering the Speaker's words. They continued on in silence for some time, taking in the creations and hard work of their peers and kinsmen. But as the sun moved on in the sky, and the work day drew to a close, the two figures had long since vanished. There was much work to be done for the burgeoning city's rulers - plots and plans yet revealed, to bring a prosperous future for all under the River's gaze.

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

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

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