[center][h3]Merchant-City of Göl Kasabi[/h3]
[b]Capital of the Uudhinite Humans[/b]
Sciroccon - 300 AWH[/center]

Kasabi Island, just off the coast of mainland Uudhin. Though similarly bleak as the Uudhinite mainland, the Island is considerably habitable and compared to wartorn Ouroborasia a safe haven for life. The place’s sharp rise to power in the past few centuries has been a cause for concern in the southern ocean, with piracy and vicious oceanic monstrosities having beset the ocean as an unholy plague. But the city itself looks unassuming – there are few impossibly high buildings, and certainly none of the splendour and décor that graces the Exaltarchy or Lamash. The most significant of the large buildings with some grandeur to them would be the Daveithai Manor, which is the family home of the Metropolitan. But the majority of the city consists of slums and new-built suburbs to house the steady growth of refugees from dispossessed Red Pantheonists of the mainland, particularly at the hands of the Justinians. And the skies above are perpetually grey and windy, locked in an overcast tempest -- the city couldn’t look any more sombre. Yet for all its soberness, this day the city is aflame with festivity and celebration, the domes of the towers are lit with brilliant fires and flowers imported from Gushawar dress the window, the lanterns and the roofs.
The cause for the celebration is this; the leader of Kasabi Island, the Despot from the Daveithai family, has successfully arranged a marriage to link his bloodkin to the Ouroborasian imperial caste.

‘’[b]Principe Synogchouta Daveithai! Congratulations on your wedding. Ouroborasian women are quite beautiful. But one from the Imperial lineage? Many patricians will envy you for sure![/b]’’
Synogchouta replies surly to his visitor with a short: ‘’[b]Thank you.[/b]’’ Already looking to the next guest to have gathered, in rows, to meet him. Each come from wealthy Patrician families in Uudhin’s largest (and some would say ‘sole’) great City, and Synogchouta is the host of his family Manor to receive each on behalf of his uncle... His uncle that did not have the decency to make an appearance himself. And each of the visitors come with gifts for Synogchouta to present to his bride-to-be. Chouta sits behind a long refectory table on a high upholstered and elaborate seat, with only his retainers as company. 
The young heir of Kasabi is slender built, dark haired and olive hued as descendants of Edukesh generally are. Their menfolk come generally with beards, long goatees and moustaches, though Chouta and his uncle are an exception to the norm as they seems to have established a lasting grudge against facial hair and thus always shave. As such Chouta normally has a youthful boyish look to his face, despite being well in his twenties. He wears a richly embellished wine-red cloak and a black tunic, and a silver bejewelled ring on each of his fingers as though he himself were royal, for Synogchouta certainly has the prim imposing attitude, and grace, of one.

Another young man about Chouta’s age came before him, a Patrician and sailor from the Miamai family, and he presented the Principe with expensive Gushawari spices.
‘’[b]It’s sad your noble uncle couldn’t attend. The Despot Metropolitan is the one that set up this diplomatic escapade! And it bore fruit in the end, full and ripe. Just how I like my women. I’ve travelled to Ouroborasia a lot on behalf of my father, and by the Salten God, the women there have some buxom teats. The Kasabioi floozies we have? Or anywhere in Uudhin that isn’t a Ghoul-infested hellscape? Eh. They lack substance.  Anyway, you lucky devil. -- this is a cause of celebration![/b]’’
Synogchouta feigns a polite smile.
‘’[b]Thank you for attending.[/b]
…
[i][b]You goatfondling primate.[/b][/i]’’ He angrily mutters as follow-up, inwardly enough that none would overhear. The Miamai man had just left, and is already replaced by a series of three women from the Ormaoth family. It is a name associated with depravity and hedonism, and their distinguished ties to Gushawar are not entirely unrelated as to why. The Principe is already bracing for yet another debauched conversation.
‘’[b]Oh my Salt! I am so, so, so [i]happy[/i] for you, Chouta-boy! I just love Ouroborasian lady's fashion. It’s the best in the world I say! No disrespect to Kasabi, but honestly us being linked to Azagôde only causes people to regard us as freaks and cultists or [i]whatever[/i].[/b]’’
The second woman speaks up.
‘’[b]So what is the lucky lady’s name, Chouty-booty?[/b]’’
‘’[b]Princess Cassiopeia, and please don’t call me [i]Chouty-booty.[/i][/b]’’ The Principe retorts with a solemn grunt.

This would go on for the better part of the day, and the Principe grows weary and frustrated by it all. Not only because he despises these people, but because for no reason is he being married off [b]voluntarily[/b]. Synogchouta was already engaged to another woman, someone he loved dearly, but with the death of his cousin – the Metropolitan’s son – Chouta was a year ago anointed by his uncle as [i]Principe of Göl Kasabi[/i]. The heir.
Synogchouta was never an ambitious person, and his elevation in status has only been a source for ire. Now to be married off with some Ouroborasian slut, the very people who were so recently the enemies of Göl Kasabi. Who had killed his father, and his father’s father. And now his uncle gets to call the shots and decrees he is to marry one. As if that wasn’t enough, the Ouroborasians also expect the Principe to come to Ouroborasia and pick her up too, as they themselves don’t have ships to spare for transportation across the strait of Uudhin. 

Soon another guest enters the receiving hall of the Daveithai manor. A man in windswept and frayed garments laced with white fur. The Principe did not recognise him at first, but it’s Yaldbaw Daveithai, another of Synogchouta’s adventuring cousins, and from the looks of it he just arrived in Göl Kasabi from overseas to meet with his cousin. Unlike the other generally clean-shaved Daveithai, Yaldbaw dons a full and elaborate beard and stache, though understandably so to keep his face warm in the cold climates he is exposed to, down in the icy deep-south of Materia.
‘’[b]Chouta! My own cousin the Principe! You look stronger since last time we met. Why so dour, my friend?[/b]’’ He exclaims with a voice loud and stentorian with arms outstretched.
	‘’[b]Ah, Yaldbaw. A welcome sight to see a family member. A sign of civilization, despite you being dressed up like a swashbuckling barbarian.[/b]’’
‘’[b]Ha-ha! Well, I have become sort of a swashbuckling barbarian in recent years, to be frank. In my station it is an inevitable change. Erimachaf holds no place for the [i]weak[/i]... The things I’ve lived through, well, princely greenhorns as yourself couldn’t imagine.
But my own heroics aside, I am not here to patronize you this time. I have a gift for you, and I think you’ll appreciate it![/b]’’
	‘’[b]Hrmpf. Judging by what I’ve been presented so far, I am skeptical of that.[/b]’’
‘’[b]Trust me -- It’s from Hypernotei.[/b]’’ And Yaldbaw presents the Principe with what appears to be a curved sword of a shotel format, nothing out of the ordinary. Chouta accepts the thing reluctantly and observes it for a moment, unamused.
‘’[b]Remove the scabbard.[/b]’’ Yaldbaw adds. 
And Chouta does as instructed, and the sword reveals its metal. He now understood why his cousin spoke of the sword so reverently. Its blade is pure white and gleaming with mystifying sparkles. In matter of fact; it’s not even made of metal. Chouta places his finger on it, and immediately retracts. It’s bitingly cold to the touch. It’s ICE.
	‘’[b]Unbelievable… [i]how[/i] is this…  Is this – is this from the Kasabioi outpost our family helped finance 2 years ago? Erimachaf? I had heard rumours of progress, but were always skeptical. For what is there to find in Hypernotei beyond cursed ice, frostbite and certain death... But it seems I was proven wrong once more.[/b]’’
‘’[b]You are correct though. Hypernotei indeed offers those things, but there are untapped riches there that only the bold – such as myself – dare lay claim to. We call it [i]Eternal Ice[/i], harvested from the abominals  at the edge of the world. Immeasurably rare, only few in Materia have had a blade forged of the material. You are now a proud owner of one of the few Ice Swords.[/b]’’
	‘’[b]So what am I to do with it? Present it to the Ouroborasian dynasty? It’ll be bound to impress them I suppose. No way they’ve ever seen anything like it, even with all their newfound witchcraft.[/b]’’
‘’[b]You misunderstand. This isn’t a gift for the Ouroborasian royals. May the Salt Prince damn them to His deepest abyss. This is a gift I am giving to [i]you[/i], YOU and none other.[/b]’’
For a moment Chouta’s spirit is lifted. He looks his cousin in the eye with gratitude. 
	‘’[b]Thank you, Brother Yaldbaw.[/b]’’
‘’[b]The pleasure is all mine. I was certain you’d like it.
Now, if I may take that seat  to your left.. I see it is unoccupied, and my legs have gotten stiff from the journey.[/b]’’
	‘’[b]Don’t let me stop you.[/b]’’

[hr]
For the remainder of the day, the still-melancholy heir sits quietly at the head of the table of the merry feast, passing most of his time inspecting the mystifying Ice Sword while he obliges to receive further guests. Some came all the way from Eudaz and even Yuwanist nations. Synogchouta, his retainers, family and guests are served plates of exquisite dishes imported from as far away as Lamash, and spices from Gushawar, yet none of it can lift him of his own deep shadow -- more than Yaldbaw's gift did, anyway.
And when the doors to the manor finally have shut, and the Principe was certain there’d be no more guests – he was proven wrong once more.

The door flung open and an eerie chill enters the large hall. A gaunt old man in rags and a very long grey beard going down all the way to his waist, steps in.
A sentry cries at him: ‘’[b]Hold it. No [i]beggars[/i] are welcome into these premises. Who let you through the courtyard?[/b]’’
But the guardsman soon recognizes the idol and elaborate insignia of the Salt Prince that emblazons his robe, and did not speak or act further. A group of Axohar clergy with horned masks and pitch-black robes followed him into the Manor, not uttering a single word and more-or-less doing nothing beyond look intimidating. Which is something Axohar are very good at, actually.

‘’[b][color=9e005d]…With unholy impatience. To vanquish the anti-cosmos and drive them anew into the crypt of creation. The shadowmoths move us about as pieces of chatrang for their own leisure -- and stratagem. To mar them one can only set course for the God of the Northern Wind.[/color][/b]’’

Synogchouta rises up from his high seat, intrigued as he looks at the ancient man. He was about to speak up, but his crude cousin Yaldbaw spoke first.
 ‘’[b][i]God of the Northern Wind[/i]? This is not how an Antimagi would typically refer to Axohaan. This is unbecoming of a Hierophant, even one as inane as Soghba.
Finally left your ramshackle cottage, old fool?[/b]’’
Synogchouta speaks up. ‘’[b]Quiet Yaldbaw. A Daveithai is obliged to receive his guests with hospitality, whether he likes it or not.[/b]’’
The air of festivity was smothered in a layer of darkness invoked by the mere presence of this ancient Prophet and his followers. And now everyone in the building, the hundreds of them, looked at Principe Synogchouta and Hierophant Soghba both as they converse. A deathly silence fell. The prophet spoke, his voice ringing through the stone foundations of the manor.
‘’[b][color=9e005d]Blood of Baltaogliac. I bestow to you my boon.[/color][/b]’’ The man approached the table where Chouta sits, and stretches out his arm to him.
In reaction the Principe reaches out to receive that which the old man clutches in his hand. 
‘’[b]What gift do you wish me to present to the Ouroborasians, Hierophant?[/b]’’
‘’[b][color=9e005d]..Trail the rivers under the frozen sky. Swallow the ghost of the lucid dream… and Silent will be the mournful beast.[/color][/b]’’ And he opens his hand. An amulet, a charm in the shape of a bell with a white gleaming crystal at the top.
‘’[b][color=9e005d]Harness it to resist the weary eye.[/color][/b]’’
‘’[b]Wait, do I give it to the Ouroborasian princess? Pray tell me. Soghba![/b]’’
But the old man turned around as abruptly he had entered, and so did those men who slavishly tread in his footsteps. Leaving Synogchouta and his fellows in bewilderment.
Yaldbaw mutters under his breath.‘’[b]Is it such a part of their dogma to be as cryptic as possible? ...Religious nutjobs tend to be like that -- worthless. Just accept his little trinket as another gift for your bride.[/b]’’ The celebration continued, though the spirit of merriness had left the manor for the rest of the day. Many of the guests that had come to the Daveithai manor were Axohar themselves, and Soghba’s appearance and ‘gift’ could only be an omen...