[b]Minotaur Encampment outside Erasmia,
Kingdom of Arturia[/b]

His opponent came rushing at him, a steaming hot snort trailing from the nostril, the horn’s glistening in the morning sun as the star-busts of light reflected off the dew-soaked bone protrusions. Ironfist; the great minotaur leader ducked under an enormously powerful but clumsy swing and landed an almighty blow to the minotaur’s midriff that impacted with a sickening crunch. The smaller minotaur stepped back, clearly affected by the blow which left a large fist-shaped red welt and the obvious signs of a quickly blossoming bruise on the beasts fur-covered skin. The first blow had been landed and yet the fight was already looking ridiculously one sided; then again his opponent had never really stood a chance. The smaller minotaur, Proudhoof, was trialling for a vacant spot in the exclusive Minotaur Legion, the finest Infantry in the Kingdom of Arturia. They were known for taking vicious casualties yet dealing death on a far, far greater scale than their troop numbered. As such their new members whenever one was required had to be the strongest, fittest and best fighters from the various minotaur tribes. The pride of their race rested on the Legion.

They circled each other now, hooves dragging up small clouds of dust from the crudely assembled fighting ring as the crowd of roughly dressed minotaurs watched on from the outside of the ring; placing wagers and cheering for the young fighter. Secretly they all wanted Ironfist to be hurt or even beaten; any possible weakness would be exploited with a ruthless leadership challenge. It was the way of their tribe that only the strongest should be worthy of leadership and Ironfist had been the strongest for a long period of time. Proudhoof came in again, this time more wary; more alert and made a tentative swing towards Ironfist; it was easily swatted away yet he failed to land a return blow on the smaller minotaur. The tentative combat continued for a few minutes; Proudhoof landed a few cautious blows; too minor to cause any real damage but the noise from the outside of the ring grew. 

The younger beast grew more and more confident, throwing bigger and bigger blows; occasionally landing them and all the while Ironfist seemed to struggle. Eventually Proudhoof overextended and was punished clinically for it; a thunderous kick disabled his legs whilst Ironfist went for a true humiliation move; the horn toss. He jammed his larger horns into the smaller ones of his younger opponent and physically lifted the beast off the ground and discarded of him with a seemingly careless flick which sent Proudhoof sailing through the sky like a ragdoll. The fight was over yet one thing remained; the horn-breaking. Any time an Arturian minotaur was horn tossed he had to submit himself to be punished for this inadequacy; he placed his head and held his nerve as Ironfist stomped down on right horn, shattering it clean off with a thunderous crack and a painful bellow. Despite this act of seemingly unspeakable cruelty, Ironfist leaned down and pulled the younger beast up, all the while saying “You fought well youngling and took your punishment with courage. Consider yourself a part of the legion.” The pride was obvious in the younger minotaur’s eyes and clutching his broken horn, set himself off, thanking Ironfist and strode off towards his new tent and place in the Minotaur Legion.

The ramshackle tent city which the Minotaur’s had erected near the main walls of the city of Erasmia, the capital of the Kingdom of Arturia, seemed like an illogical place to live with a wondrous city built of dwarven stonemasonry right next door but the minotaurs chose to live outside. They found the city too oppressive and with the number of streets, quarters and pathways, a little hard to navigate. As such they’d lived outside the city walls for centuries; building their hide huts and tents and keeping to themselves. A number of these tent ‘cities’ could be found throughout the Kingdom of Arturia however this way by the largest and most populated; it was the home to the Legion and their Legate. 

[b]Library of the Ancients, Erasmia[/b]

Quite possibly the only building in Erasmia which hadn’t been redesigned and rebuilt in the time of the Great Construction; the Library of the Ancients had once belonged solely to the Draconian kind who’d haughtily refused the chance to rebuild the building anew. At the time the Draconians had been the advisors to the king; possessing hidden knowledge contained in the dustiest tomes that no other race had been privy to but now Turok the Clearsighted had turned the monolithic structure into the office of the Steward of the King; effectively his personal offices. This building had been his prize of conquest when he’d managed to oust the age-old monotony of Men-Draconian leadership and ushered in the winds of change. 

He stood at the centre of a complex network of scribes, agents and officials who controlled the various arms of the Arturian government; ensuring their strength and continued presence throughout the land. At times it bordered on miraculous how they managed to retain their influence and keep the peace in a land that differed greatly in race, culture and desire. Despite the accomplishments of the administrative powerhouse created by Turok; the nation was still held together by the age-old notion of strength and right to rule. King Eyrar had a solidity of rule that could only be delivered by continuous military conquest and victorious; even sometimes at great numerical odds with the tendency of the Arturians to favour a small cadre of highly-trained, very experienced soldiers to triumph over the unorganised masses.

However such an army created a large and ceaseless demand for materials, men and attention to detail which King Eyrar was loath to provide unless it involved some new drill or tactical manoeuvre. As such these responsibilities logically fell onto the shoulders of the Steward and as such Turok found himself in control of large amounts of coins, capable of shifting them with little authorisation from the king who had faith in his steward. Yet he wasn’t called the clearsighted for no reason; Turok knew that to do so would be to court death and with a fastidious Knight-Marshal around there would be little chance of his improper business going unnoticed. Yet this wasn’t to say he couldn’t have some fun after all; he was more than known for using merchants bidding for various contracts to fund lavish parties for the king and buy expensive gifts that would often be shared by the king.

As such Turok had managed to not only collect a sizeable wealth within the kingdom’s coffers but also himself; being heftily rewarded by King Eyrar for tasks that seemed bewildering to a soldier’s mind but simple work to an industrious one. He possibly only had one real commercial threat in the land; Duke Rorin, the Master-Smith of the Arturian Dwarves, a dwarf of legendary skill with the forge and an unfailing eye for the right business. The job of steward was under no threat though; Rorin all but refused to leave Refuge Rock, only upon direct command of King Eyrar who often preferred to travel to see his dwarven subjects. As such it would be safe to say that Turok is here to stay in his role as Steward and possibly even ready to lift his Cyclops people into civility.

[b]Locomotive Platform A, Refuge Rock[/b]

It was clear that Refuge Rock was built by a people escaping some great calamity; after all they’d built the perfect sanctuary from the outside wall. Aside from the subterranean locomotive entrance that extended out to a locomotive line which ran to a number of waystations in the land which linked the major locations of the Kingdom together, the only way to get to get into the citadel was the front path. This involved crossing from a smaller mountain onto a bigger one, by the way of a retractable bridge then climb a mountainous path that was rigged with activatable traps (left inactive unless under credible threat) to the citadel. 

Then you’d have to bypass one of the biggest doors ever built; maybe a few centuries of ramming would do the trick. The intense preparations seemed somewhat overdone; however when it defends a group of dwarves somewhat adverse to both fighting and having a large amount of non-dwarven people there, it makes sense. Needless to say, strong garrison or weak garrison; Refuge Rock would be a hard nut to crack. 

Rorin Ironhall stood on the sooty black platform, watching as the bronze monstrosity roll into the subterranean station; carrying with it a new delivery of minerals for the forges of Refuge Rock and supplies for the Dwarves within. Here the wheels of the Arturian war machine were forged, oiled and repaired; in this mighty Dwarven citadel was the factories of the Kingdom and the technological marvel of the mechanist Dwarves. Whereas other cities had been reconfigured to adapt Dwarven technology into it; the citadel had been built for it. The very mountain itself had been carved out in order to create a nigh upon impregnable fortress; every entrance had a metal door weighing hundreds of tons and requiring the most powerful pneumatic systems these dwarves had ever built in order to operate.

A busy throng of industrious Dwarves bustled around the platform, carrying various objects and setting up the machinery to unload their precious cargo and distribute them throughout the citadel. Rudimental conveyor belts transported large quantities of goods throughout the citadel, stopping and being redirected at various intersections throughout the mountain. Everything here ran smoothly; people were trained to do their job from a young age and carried themselves with an inhuman industry, at least until knock-off time. Rorin presided over all of this action; whilst he was often an aloof leader, his skills lying in the forge rather than in politics, he was responsible for turning the ragtag band of dishevelled refugee dwarves from paupers to the most powerful commercial enterprise in the land. More gold, goods and contracts passed through their hands than any else in the land; their position on the commercial food chain was paramount. Whilst much of the citadel seemed to be industry there was a large number of empty rooms and bare space; the citadel having been overbuilt as was the Dwarven way however ceaseless industry isn’t the Dwarven way either.

When the fires of the forges died out and the conveyors stopped; the dwarves rushed to the various mead halls and taverns within the Citadel. This formed the perfect circle of life for these reclusive Dwarves, the industrious day and the raucous night; a combination fit for any unadventurous Dwarf. Rorin Ironhall wouldn’t leave his hall of his own accord; the only time he’d ever left was upon Eyrar’s summons which were a rare thing to receive. Eyrar had a well-documented marvel for the Dwarven citadel; reacting like a kid to every new dwarven invention and seemingly never losing the ability to marvel at the old ones; no matter how many times he’d seen them. The technology was always being adapted and built into various holdings into the land and this had proved to be quite the boon to various facets of their society. Suggestions had even been made that such a taste wasn’t befitting of an Arturian monarch but with the great advancements brought by the dwarves into the kingdom; who would be stupid enough to suggest that to the king’s face?

[b]Drill Yard, Reverent Hall[/b]

Reverent Hall was the one of the two major fortresses that dot the Arturian landscape; it was the main training centre for the kingdom. There were more drill yards, cavalry concourses and ranges here than in the rest of the land combined. The sound of clashing weapons, heavy breathing and the shouts of various grizzled sergeants who barked orders to the recruits and veterans alike who were clustered in front of them. However one ring had a rather noticeable crowd gathered around it; obviously they expected some sort of great spectacle from whatever was here and they were almost certain to get it.

He stood motionlessly in the centre of the circle, controlling his breath into a number of long, deep breaths that poured steam out into the crisp morning air. The lead-filled pipe seemed to be a comical sight in his hand when compared to the swords of the men standing around him with their swords bared to the morning light. They had a motionless few seconds as no man on the outside seemed willing to move; something had to give and eventually a rather fresh faced soldier made his move and cemented himself as the ceremonial first. The man in the centre left his movements till late, bringing the weapon in his hand with the speed of a rattlesnake, even despite it’s weight, to parry away the offending sword before he lashed out with a kick towards his opponents knee which caused the youth to crumple.

[i]One[/i] he silently counted.

The next two came together; swords striking widly yet the pipe managed to keep up with the strokes; deflecting the blows with consummate ease; the two opponents were dispatched with two stiff blows to the midriff knocking the wind right out of them; leave them gasping for air and collapsed on the dew-soaked ground. 

[i]Three[/i]

The next series of blows came in a tremendous flurry, the man started to struggle with his handicapped weapon yet where his pipe failed to block the strikes, he always managed to get his body out of the way with a liquid grace. He had barely any time to piece any series of swordplay together but when he did manage to strike it was a ruthless precision; generally every blow he dealt incapacitated an opponent. The blows soon started to dry up in number as a group of mewling, incapacitated men were left around; they were soon dragged out by a crowd of assistants. There was one man left standing, two sheaths hanging from his hips; one belonging to each side. The man wordlessly motioned for the ragged looking combatant to toss away his lead-weighted pipe with a flick of his hand. The instruction was followed and soon a wooden practice sword was thrust into his hand.

He barely had time to grasp it before two wooden swords came flying towards his head so he ducked and rolled away, desperately bringing his blade up to block the next swing. By this time his muscles were in excruciating pain; the lead pipe had done its work and now his whole felt as if it was on fire. Every parry was an effort now and now he was facing a master of the blade; this took the whole challenge to another level. Eventually the man facing him was drenched in just as much sweat as him; whilst he was skilled he was significantly older than the man being trialed and his years had taken its toll on his stamina. They fought to a standstill and then the fight started to slip into the man’s favour; his opponent was growing slower and slower yet despite all his previous exertions he was managing to hold a steady rhythm. It was all over when the older man lost one of his blades, flying off after a flicked parry and it ended with a wooden blade next to the old man’s throat who merely nodded in respect before collapsing to the ground. He’d just beaten the best swordsman in the land, even after a significant handicap. He greedily gulped in the cold air and slumped into a chair.

“Knight-Marshal Cerannius, Mi’Lord. The King requests your presence at the Eternal Palace, there will be a train waiting for you and Greenmeadow Station” came a call from a fresh-faced page, running across the courtyard to him. Cerannius let out a weary sigh before rising from his chair, dreading the ride to the nearby locomotive station; it would be a marathon effort in his current state.

[b]The Eternal Palace, Erasmia[/b]

“NO!”

The draconian’s clawed hand came down with a crashing thump on the edge of the solid mahogany desk; a few deep scratches penetrated the luminous burgundy surface of the well crafted desk causing a few frowns to appear on the face of the man standing next to him. King Eyrar the Restless, the hereditary-elect King of Arturia, Duke of Erasmia and Lord of the Four Peoples looked up from the map with an amused look as he replied saying “The enemy is certainly not on that desk, there; no matter how may exotic it may appear and now you’ve damaged a piece of furniture that was built by a band of travelling merchants that I’ll likely never see again. So now that you’ve made your frustration clear and my desk somewhat less than what I liked will you listen to Knight-Commander Aquinn here who will clearly explain the situation.” The King’s words seemed somewhat derogatory; especially given the fact that the rather abusive man before him was a powerful landholder in the kingdom. Yet their were laced with a deadly honey; the Draconian was Scion Tyrannius; the son of Duke Signius, the closest thing that Eyrar had to an rival but in his current position King Eyrar wouldn’t be losing his throne anytime soon.

The young draconian was about to pipe up again, predictably rising to the thinly-veiled threat of the King, when a raspy, reptilian “Silence” echoed through the chamber causing the Scion to noticeably shrink. “But Father, he -.” came the beginning before it was brutally cut off by the same raspy voice.

“I heard all that transpired in here and the king was well within his right to say what he said. You’ve damaged the King’s property so you should be lucky that you’ll only be paying for a group of men to ride out to find the caravan to procure a replacement which you’ll also be funding for the king. If you have any problems with this, feel free to speak up now.” The Duke Signius was an intimidating creature at the best of times; the jagged tear running from the tip of his brow to the bottom of his chin portrayed an aura of death and horror, the cut still had jagged pieces of dead flesh hanging off in parts. Tyrannius meekly nodded in returned and turned on his heel, shooting the impassive Knight-Commander a fierce look which drew no response out of the statuesque man. “I’m sorry for my son” the duke started with “he seems to think because I gave him a few pieces of land from his inheritance that he suddenly rules the land. It all went to his head and I just can’t work out why; his other two brothers are nothing like him, the pretentious twit.”

King Eyrar smiled at the Draconian leader standing opposite him; whilst their two people had always jousted for control of the kingdom, the two leaders had always been on amicable terms. The Duke was cunning, brave and an impeccable general who’d led the Arturian armies to victories before Eyrar’s father had even been born. “It’s okay Signius, the father is not responsible for the sins of their sons” he said quite sagely before adding “at least as long as they’re only minor offences” with a quiet smirk; a knowing look passed between the two of them as a personal joke flashed between the two minds. “Now as I was saying to your son before he somewhat impressively decided to have a fit of rage; it appears that we’ve annihilated the last of the bandit tribes here” he explained pointing out a ridge on the very border of a rather new looking map sprawled across the table.

“Ah and there’s no sign in any of the camps of people of locations they’d found further West of them?” asked Signius, gazing over the forests that’d recently been purged.The kingdom was at a stage where’d they outgrown their own cartography. The borders of their controlled territory were basically the borders of their known maps, it seemed like there was little else for the Kingdom to conquer.

“No, all the mentioned was empty plains; fertile enough and plenty of water to sustain peaceful expansion but where’s the fun in that? It appears, Duke Signius, that we are out of fight and if that continues this kingdom may struggle. We are born and bred for bloodlust to do without is often disastrous as you’d well know. All we have to go on is the tall tales of the caravans that pass through here.”

“I know My Lord, enemies will always appear it is the way of the world. In the meantime we can re-equip our forces, expand our railways and cement our place in the world.” The Draconian replied, deep in thought about how he’d work to keep the Kingdom together or maybe even split it apart. A kingdom run by the nobility is a powerful one but it only stays united if they can be kept happy. The extension of having a four different races holding different levels and types of power only accentuated the difficulties of running the kingdom. The easiest way of maintaining this kingdom would be through victory in war; nothing was a greater unifier than a battlefield and nothing provides joy like a comprehensive victory for a people who worshipped bloodlust. This was all something for Eyrar to ponder as he stared over the map; with no one to fight how could he provide a victory?