Babur's ship forcefully glided through the water and the choppy waves just like a saw through wood. Back and forth it rocked, slowly making its way to the capital. The young Sultan sat near the bow of the ship, at work with his paints, capturing the familiar image of the soaring towers and palatial temples rising from the sea as the city came within sight.

In times of antiquity the island that was now the capital had been home to none save corsairs and their slaves, a wretched port ruled by a dozen great Pirate Kings in its time. It was from the great port on this island that reavers set sail to terrorize coasts hundreds of leagues away. With their growing power and infamy also grew an unholy mixture of arrogance and pride, and there came a day when these pirates turned their backs on the land of their ancestors and spat on the Sultan's laws. Indiscriminately, they began to raid every vessel and village that they came across, Tinite or otherwise. They spat upon the Lord of the Eternal Sky, proclaiming plunder and gold their only gods.

Of course the great Pirate King did not fare so well when the Caliph looked towards that isle, his eyes brazen with the burning gaze of the Dragon, his wrath indescribable. The Tinites left the mainland and landed upon that island in the dead of night, and for three days after there was no night on that island. The Sultan's army had set about razing the entire port and fires raged, banishing the darkness and holding the cold nights at bay. At last, after those three days, the sky began to weep over the isle of the dead and snuff out the last flames. Nothing remained of the great pirate stronghold save ash and bones. As in for the Pirate King, the tales said that he was scourged as an infidel and criminal; brine rubbed into his bleeding wounds after every ten lashes so that the salt might seep deep into his body and burn away the impurity. After ten thousand lashes, it is said that his lifeless, broken husk of a body was at last cast into the surf. Atop the cinders of the ruined port and the bones of slain pirates the Sultan built his palace.

It goes without saying that there were many scholars that questioned such stories and declared the city's legendary past to be just that: legend. In any case, the Pirate Kings would have existed centuries ago, far too long of a time for archaeologists to ever be able to know for sure. But regardless of whether there had once been a great port that was the seat of Pirate Kings, the city was known to have had its origins as the palace of the ancient Sultans. That part was known to be true. Saroy was the Tinite word for 'palace', and the capital was called Saroy City, after all.

For many decades the great palace on this island was simply a vacation home for the Sultans and an isolated redoubt made defensible by the fact that it was cut off from the mainland. But the palace complex was expanded and expanded until it became like a small city. Eventually that small settlement of sorts, consisting of a small garrison and the palace servants, turned into an actual city.

The Sultans began to spend an increasing amount of their time there. Other nobles began to build villas and palaces of their own, bringing servants and retainers. A larger port was constructed in order to facilitate so much travel to and from the island, creating a healthy fishing industry and a hub of trade. So as to avoid having to import goods like clothes and weapons from the mainland, tailors and blacksmiths moved to the island and set up shop. In this manner, the Saroy Palace became Saroy City, and eventually the city grew to carpet the entire island.

Eventually Saroy City grew so large that it was officially proclaimed the new capital of the Sultanate. People flocked to it in droves. They built towers, great and slender spires of stone and brick that reached up like bony claws of the dragon, rending the fabric of the clouds and sky. Ostentatious temples were built; massive complexes that were the size of castles and decorated with countless murals and statues. The markets and bazaars were seemingly endless; one could walk past the merchant stalls and shops until their legs collapsed and their ears grew deaf from the sound of incessant haggling. Nearly the entire island was transformed into one sprawling, densely populated city, though at least a hundred square miles were still reserved for the Sultan and left largely undeveloped: those spaces consisted of firing ranges, hunting grounds, riding grounds, gardens, and such. Worth noting was that there were also no slums; living expenses were much higher than on the mainland, and so all the homes were beautiful and comfortable, and nearly all the inhabitants wealthy by Tin's standards.

Just as he finished his painting and his musings came to their end, the day began to draw to a close as well. When evening's shade became noticeable, the Sultan's gaze drifted upwards. Once again he beheld that image with wonder; he had seen it a hundred times before, but it never lost its brilliance. The image was that of the two cities in the distance: one was Saroy City, the pride of Tin and jewel of the world, rising from the waters. The second city was the twin of the first; every magnificent tower and temple, every street light by the seawall, they were all reflected in the serene water that lapped upon the island's shores, the seas calm and dark at dusk.


[center]~==--==--==~[/center]


When the Sultan and his entourage disembarked, a car was waiting. Bulletproof, a luxurious interior, discreet. A fine way to travel, to be sure, but Babur dismissed the driver. He and his men would observe Tin's traditions by riding on horse to the capital, and so it was that perhaps five hundred horsemen cantered lazily down the streets. It was a strange sight, for it had been many years since a Sultan had last been seen atop a horse rather than in some posh wagon or car, but it appealed to the masses. In his own way Babur always managed to make clear his strength and reverence for the past, and this was a fine example. Respectfully and silently the people on the streets parted to the sides to make room for their Sultan and his men, kneeling to the ground and bowing their heads once they were safely out the way. Even the most despised and worthless of Sultans were given this respect, for it was the Tinite way.

When Babur arrived in the palace, he had a surprising amount of work before him. He had never been taught how to rule; as the very youngest son of his father, the quiet one that never got any attention, none had ever thought it necessary to teach him of law or governing. So left to his own devices, his childhood had been spent training with soldiers, painting, reading tomes, and learning exotic languages. Sure, reading had taught him much about theology, science, history, military tactics, and the infidel realms. Learning the language of the Kallabis, the Ventians, and so on would no doubt prove useful in the future. But none of that had done anything to prepare him for what he should do now.

It was odd that the most powerful people were those that had the least obligations and responsibilities. Over the next few days, Babur quickly found out that as Sultan he could do whatever he liked; if he chose not to govern, there were few that would dare to tell him he must. Still, he did not believe in staying idle. In his youth many had japed that he worked like a Kallab, but that was not far from the truth. Sloth was heinous in his eyes, and so he was diligent. With only the prodding of his conscience, he declared that his father's advisers and council would retain their positions, unless he found their help unsatisfactory. He also ensured that the preexisting bureaucrats would retain their positions throughout his reign, as replacing the current administrators would lead to instability and Babur knew better than to think himself capable of ruling alone. He would need their help, at least in the beginning.

Spymasters, diplomats, and various nobles all sent letters and telegraphs to the royal palace to keep their central government aware of their internal dealings, to bring foreign issues to attention, and more often than not to request troops, money, or some other form of the nation's resources. With his father's council and some of his own trusted men (Tsoloman in particular), each day Babur set aside several hours to sift through all these messages, delegating some of the less important ones to the bureaucrats to handle, and personally responding to the others.In particular there two issues that stood out to the council and triggered much debate. 

The first was a festival taking place in the wretched infidel nation of Avalia (cursed was their blood and their very name, for they were enemies of both the Sultanate and the Dragon himself) with the Premier of the near-equally appalling so-called People's Republic of Kataylabinsk rumored to have declared her attendance as well. The rats were breeding, or so it would seem. Several High Shamans of the Temple (many of them powerful sheiks and military officers in addition to clergy) argued in favor of arranging a bombing or other form of attack in response to show the world that the Sultanate would not suffer such deplorable gatherings. Of course, Babur was not so eager to potentially spark a war within days of being declared Sultan. For the sake of honor and caution, Babur did what his father would have done and sided with those who advised merely ordering Tin's spies to keep a close eye on what happened at that festival.

The second issue was that of growing unrest in Tin's neighbor, trade partner, and close ally: KalMea. Many people (mostly human and adherents to the Ajdar) were in open protest with some committing violence, in response to an even more extreme lash out from Kal extremists. The misguided heathens were generally peaceful and their religion was close enough to the True Faith to warrant cooperation and tolerance, but it would seem that there were some that were true infidels; these wayward souls were no better than the vile nations to the north. 

No doubt that the entire train wreck of a situation in KalMea had been created by a combination of poor leadership and their strange and backwards system of 'democracy', but Babur was not about to point fingers at the KalSol. The problem had deep roots and to Tin's knowledge the extremists had existed for many years and only grown in power. The fault lied in the previous KalSols, for not obliterating the Temple of Kal's Passion while it was in its infancy and did not hold the influence that it now did. In any case, Babur's council was for once in agreement as to what would be the best way to proceed: KalMea was too important to risk alienating, and so the best response would most likely be no response.

Babur's father certainly would have been meek enough to do just that and turn the other cheek, but this Sultan was not. Many in his own nation were calling out for him to publicly demand the extremists be executed and the rights of KalMea's minority Tinite and Ajdar populations be guarded much more fiercely. While he was not about to issue a threat, he would write a letter to the KalSol, who seemed to not be taking the situation with the grave seriousness and steely resolve that it deserved. 

[hider=The Letter's Contents]

[center]To the Most Esteemed Mulspan Kilb, Venerated KalSol, Genghis Khaghan of the United People of KalMea, Friend to the Sultanate:[/center]

We in the Sultanate are aware of the ongoing conflict in KalMea amongst extremists and our own ethnic Tinites, adherents to the Ajdar. Many of these people, having been silenced by your police, cry out to Tin. The Temple hears them, and already some of my more quarrelsome vassals clamor for a retaliation of some sort. Others ask that I make threats or demands of you. Rest assured that I will not have any of that; KalMea has proven too good of a friend to Tin for us to sever our ties so easily.

It has been brought to my attention that your government does have noble intentions, the desire to protect the humans and the Ajdars being of importance. These are noble thoughts that would no doubt please Kal and the Dragon alike, but thoughts alone do little. The growing conflict in your lands destabilizes the entire region and threatens the peace, and so it must end. 

I would begin with the one called Trek Dael: execute him for heresy and high treason, and then declare an amnesty for his followers that will come forth to the police. Question those that come regarding the other members of their terrorist group, and then utilize this knowledge to destroy the Temple of Kal's Passion at its very roots.

Of course, that was only a suggestion. I would not be so presumptuous as to tell another sovereign how to rule. But as a final courtesy and a token of my support, I leave you with an offer: you need only request it, and I will command my hordes to ride into KalMea and help restore the peace, in the name of both our gods. I pray that such measures will not be necessary, but if the situation continues to escalate and you find your nation in open rebellion, remember my offer.
[/hider]

The letter was written by the Sultan's quick hand (in the alphabet and tongue of KalMea, too) before it was signed in the traditional manner: the Sultan used a small blade to prick his finger, then smeared a thin line of the blood across the bottom of the page in one long stroke. At the end of the line, he pressed his thumb down to stamp the page with his fingerprint, using the blood as a form of macabre ink. Such traditional signatures were not normally used when writing letters to other nations, yet the KalSol could be sure that the letter was truly from the Sultan, as the letter was sealed with an ornate black dragon. That wax seal was only for use by the Sultan, with the punishment for its forgery being death.