[b]Manyaa-Samya[/b]

The sound of hooves ground down the road. A twisting and bending river of gravel and sand that wound among the hills and the rocks. Distant fields spanned into the distance, rushing to meet up against groves of trees. Golden shoots of wheat and sunset-colored fields of rye spanned out into the country, in the distance in the middle of the fields minuscule houses sat perched atop raised hills. Villages that stood sentinel to crops. The beige, reddened, and yellowing plaster walls of farm houses and the aged dark brown of thatched roofs visible if only barely beyond their rounded shapes and high-roof forms. Colorful banners streaked down from the tallest peaks, only just barely visible as swatches of paint against the clear blue canvas of the afternoon sky, suspended on invisible chords.

Country women gathered along the edge of a creek as the road wound to meet its side, washing clothes and bathing young children in the sparkling glassy waters as it rushed lazily along, washing over stones and rocks that dotted the river bed. Among the reeds elders sat in meditation, acknowledging the passerbys with only cursory glances.

Rising above the old men and the women by the river trotted a chocolate colored horse. Atop its back a man of heavy built, a long mail robe dropped from his shoulders and down to his ankles. The shifting of his mount as they clipped along over men, women, and old old satyr drew eyes to the soft song of the chains as they washed against each other, like a rhythmic pulse of rain in a metal basin. He looked down at them with curious an in-compassionate stare. Not hateful, but not warm. Merely looking the way an old soldier would see other around them, in a state of awareness and a cold duty to measure up others.

His helmet shone brightly, and shielded his blue eyes from the warm summer sun. A jet, almost a fountain of red-dyed horse hair plumed out and down from a brass spike in the center of his helmet, creating a royal plume of splitting and worn hairs.

“They look because they think you're royal.” the man's partner said alongside him. A short and lean built satyr, who drove alongside in a chariot trimmed with age blackened brass and wood deeply impregnated with laminate. The black horse that motored it nickered in contempt as the man's chocolate horse banked too close.

He was dressed by modest means. A leather hauberk strapped a muddied white robe to him that flowed down to his hoofed feet. A starch-white turban crowned his head, hiding his deep wiry black hair. The man did not seem to respond, but to the satyr's humor the suggestion spurred him with pride undue to him as he sat up straight in his saddle. Almost assuming – if perhaps subconsciously – the rule of royalty himself.

The satyr laughed dryly as they kept on, clearing passed where the villagers cleaned and washed their clothes. Entering on again into empty roads he spoke up: “If they were any better known people they may have taken offense to or arrested you for assuming a false rank.” he smiled coyly.

“And you would?” the man on the horse asked, turning his head to him, “You are a prince after all, so take my head here now if I insulted you.” he chided.

The satyr prince shook his head, chuckling to himself, “I don't think so.” he smiled, scratching the thin mustache that grew atop his lip. He was not an old man, but he wasn't young neither.

No response was returned as the slipped down the road, passing a bridge over the creek before moving deeper into the countryside. Great fields opened up, thick with wild grass and trees spread over long rising hills. Neither of them spoke as they traveled along until over the distance rose a towering statue, tilted and covered in vines, beards flocked around the face of the ancient Visha lord as its great mountainous base sunk into the earth at its feet.

Its long stone beard was pocked with stains of time, slowly eroding and smoothing from rain water and the wind. In places, even small plants had taken roots in the cracks where mortar and concrete had given way, from here long vines dropped down. The eyes of the statue were dropped closed, and the signature third eye hidden by a pointed helmet. In one hand it held a long scimitar, minuscule bird nests clumped together forming globs of dark stringy matter where the fingers grasped the sword's hilt. The other was raised, palm open, showing the still vibrant cross of the four points of reincarnation in his hand; affirming that where ever one would go after death, he'd be there to hunt them.

And dressing his body and building it like a column were his robes, clad over in plates of armor and winding mail chain.

The human traveler looked up at it, his face full of a deep curiosity in the centuries old monument to a bygone era. His companion saw it. “Over where that statue stands there was uncovered nearly a thousand bodies, hacked and torn to pieces before being thrown into a pit at its base.”

He looked down at him. Stricken with surprise. “There was a village of men here once,” the princely satyr began calmly, “they tried to rebel against their masters. Assuming they may liberate their homes from their watchful gaze. We don't know who they were or where they came from, for when the Underground Masters came forth to put it down they not only struck them from existence, they also struck out their homes and smothered out their flames.

“They rounded up everyone in the province, man and woman, young and old. Human and non-human and sent them to this location. They gave them hammers and chisels with great piles of bricks the size of houses. And under whip and sword they were ordered to carve the image of the Vishput officer that repressed the revolt. They worked through rain and sun, night and day carving into the rocks and Visha artisans directed them with the enforcement of the soldiers.

“Those that died from exhaustion or by the guard's hands were gathered at its base in a pit. All those who perished who erected this statue were thrown into the grave.

“When they were done, they had erected a statue to remind anyone else who were eager to revolt just who would return to kill them all again. Those that survived the project and their brutality were removed to the underground and entered their stories into our people.” he finished.

“So it stands still.” the man nodded, “Though not for long.”

“Oh obviously.” the prince laughed dismissively, “The statue may have been built forever, but hardly the ground at its feet.”

“I've seen things similar around home, though I had never had them explained.”

“I've heard of them standing all over.” the prince nodded, “Some in better states than others. Some places having less than some, others more. I don't know if any have had the interest to exhume their bases as we have and to issue the remains we find their last rights as we believe they deserve. But they're certainly a phenomenon where ever we find them.”

“So how do you know so much?” inquired the rider.

“The Bhikkus at home in the palace taught us.” he nodded, “The priests had taken an interests in their mass grave markers. They've written down as many stories as they can about them. Extracted them from the oral stories. Some prolific ones even adventured between the furthest reaches of the kingdom or beyond to track down what they can in some spiritual journey in this world.”

“Why so?”

“To give the dead proper burials.” the prince sighed.

“So how do you know about this particular one?” his human companion pried.

“Simply because it's the smallest one.” laughed the prince, “Nakha Agkarah. One thousand twenty seven skulls extracted at its base. Whoever it is we don't know.

“Now, the largest is Nakha Samanaa, which hovers just outside of my home. Day or night you can see it throw its shadow down across the city. As tall as some mountains.

“Fifteen thousand skulls exhumed from its own base.” he boasted grimly.

“Why take an interest though?” asked the companion as he watched the grim grave marker march behind them, “They are dead, why dwell on their past so much?”

“Simple good karma.” he said with a sigh, “I don't stray into that as often as some said I should care. But it's an important thing to note for when life continues. And the Visha put them there for us to remember. If at the time to be afraid. But now there is no need to be afraid or feel fear. They are gone, but their legacy remains. They carved it in the mountains, stood it in the fields. They scorched and made barren entire lands. We can not help but remember, and we can't help but to try and do our service.

“To crush and burn the remains to release what's left of them and return them to the ground properly. It is what I hired you in for, but on a more dangerous level than digging at the feet of statues. A mortuary quest fitting of warriors and noblemen.”

“To dive into the underground.” the man nodded.

“First, we go home and meet the family, gather our own blood. Then seek out or guide before we dive into Samana.”