[b]5th Year of the Gwangyeong Era, (23rd February, 4901 YDC)[/b] [i]The Jungles of the Aarehani Principality[/i] [hr] A steady stream of grey, wispy smoke rose through the air as the Amrean Steam-Junk pushed through the waters of the Eaamhan River. Sweat continued to drip down Kong-Lan’s brow whilst he stood on the deck, peering out into the jungle that bordered the banks of the river. And not just his brow, his entire damned body was sweating. He could see why the Aarehan shaved themselves now. The heat was a secondary concern for him though. It wasn’t the worst thing about this Sun-damned jungle! No.. the worst thing about this place is not the suffocating heat, nor the mosquitos, not even the local customs… No, none of that. The worst thing is the monkeys -- The Monkeys are everywhere! Hanging from every liana, and hounding the ship from the ceiling of branches that follow the river as though waiting to strike. One of them had the audacity to hang low enough to snatch away Kong-Lan’s hat, only to put it on his own head. This was an hour ago, and ever since the hat-wearing monkey had been trailing their ship, as if to taunt them… The rest of the crew seemed to be faring much better than him as well. Most of them were merely annoyed at the heat, rather than suffering as he was. That perhaps was to be expected, given that he was not used to the tropical heat of Southern Amrea and the Aarehan Principalities. Being born and raised in the temperate capitol region tended to do that to you. In the distance, banked to the shore of the Eaamhan, lay the foremost municipality of the Aarehani principality. There is the estate of Prince Zaanjikyong, appearing strikingly Amrean, though lacking in regal furnishing. The Aarehan are a very austere people and it shows in their buildings. It is the first sign of civilization since having left the domain of the revered Gwangyeong Empress, and into the great perilous unknown that awaits them in the wild southlands. The steamship began to push through the river currents with newfound strength and the paddle-wheels mounted on each side cut through the water faster than before, as the crew were eager to make landfall after nearly a week in the Sun-forsaken undergrowth. The ship finally docked at a pier on the edge of the estate, the primitive steam engine sputtering out its last few gasps of smoke before turning off. As the crew disembarked, they can hear the deep resounding of a gong, used to signal the denizens of the municipality of the arrival of visitors. Hastily, the serfs working on the spice plantations withdraw into the estate, and a delegate appears on the pier. It is a bald man, completely shaved, including the fox-like ears and tail, a custom for which the Aarehan are known. In addition to the robe-like garments he adorns, his absence of hair makes him very reminiscent of a monk. Perhaps he [b]is[/b] a monk. He makes a deep bow before the delegation, speaking monotone: [i]‘’My master, the Prince of the Set Sun bids the subjects of the Gwangyeong welcome. I am Zezhao of Laanba monastery, here to receive you.’’[/i] He remains bowed down, not looking up before the delegation have articulated their motive in visiting. In response, Kong-Lan bows lightly, in recognition, before explaining his presence here. [i]“I am Count Kong-Lan, of the 2nd Rank.”[/i] He says, making sure to emphasize the rank in particular. The northerners did pay special attention to the noble titles granted by the Imperial Court, after all. [i]“I have been charged with delivering a message to the Warlord Miran, and have come to inquire with your master on his whereabouts.”[/i] Kong-Lan says this rather impatiently, as if he cannot stand the sight of the shaved man before him. The delegate stands up straight. [i]‘’I will be showing you into the Prince’s estate, revered Count Kong-Lan. Be mindful, that as your coming is on short notice, I cannot say if my Prince will be able to receive you immediately.’’[/i] [i]“Even if he cannot, I can wait.”[/i] He says tersely before following Zezhao inside. [hr] Sitting on an ornate chair in an austere stone hall, Prince Zaanjikyong looks sternly to the guests that have entered his domain. In contrast to his subjects, the Prince is bushy haired, with a bearded jawline and long, flowing red hair reminiscent of manes combed backwards. The base of his tail is shaven save for a great plume at its end. It is no mistake that this man is going for a lion aesthetic, a tradition among Aarehani leaders. Zaanjikyong certainly looks imposing enough to be called a lion, with his broad shoulders, athletic build and dark-gold-like skin complexion. He addresses the Amrean delegation with a low, graveling voice. [i]‘’Late is the hour where the Empress has begun to show care for its southern neighbors. Much too late… State your intent, northerner.’’[/i] Kong-Lan bowed deeply, in reverence to the Prince whose nobility outranked his. As shaved as his tail may be, Prince Zaanjikyong was still an Amrean, and nominally an Imperial subject. Thus, it was only proper to bow in respect. [i]“O Prince, our revered Empress has commanded me to deliver a missive to the Warlord, Miran Shaykh Gurkani. It is of great importance, thus I come south to ask you of his whereabouts.”[/i] He replies, head bowed until he finished. The prince scowls. The Count’s mannerism and words did not satiate him in the slightest. [i]‘’She would ask of me this boon... Tell me, Count, where was your Empress’ aid when my people, her people, were subjected to the sword, pillage and fire?’’[/i] He lets out a gruff sigh and reveals his left hand. The top phalanges off his fingers are missing. They had apparently been cut off, and then seared painfully by fire to seal the wounds. ...This gesture alone conveys more than any words could. Whilst Kong-Lan’s head hangs low in shame, Zaanjikyong lowers his disfigured hand and continues; [i]‘’We Aarehan are a strong people, not simply cowed by force. Many thousands, tens of thousands, had perished defending these lands against the Miranids. The actual statistics on the death toll is accumulating even now... We fought, to stall them from entering your lands also, but Amrea stood passive, silent.... ...And now, you ask for my boon.’’[/i] Receiving no response from the ashamed dignitary, the Prince sighs again. [i]‘’Nevertheless, I shall humor the Empress -- and this should please you. Amir Miran has departed for the realm of Wulfram. Having taken along the better portion of my Aarehani army with him. I suppose, now, their skills are put to test in the slaying of the ungodly Strigoi and their vampiric ilk. Well deserved I say.’’[/i] Kong-Lan bows multiple times upon receiving the answer. [i]“Thank you for your beneficence, O Prince. For now, rest assured that the time will soon come for the barbarian to be put in his place. The Phoenix has risen yet again, and its fury shall be known. How many day’s ride to Miran’s warhost?” [/i] [i]‘’You mean to trail the footsteps of the Miranid horde?’’[/i] Zaanjikyong strokes his reddish beard as he analyzes the men accompanying the Count, as if to determine their capability of undertaking such a rigorous journey. After a brief discomforting quiet, he raises his voice. [i]‘’I understand fully your devotion to carry out an imperial decree, but know that you might well be riding to your death. I say this in good faith. Not just for the prolonged arid climate and sandstorms, but more the marauding locals who will be drawn to assail one as prestigious as an Amrean Count… If crossing the width of Transtulania, and then the Pyrünüs mountains into Wulfram isn’t perilous enough, there is no saying what Miran’s men will do to you even if you reach them… It is as you say; they are barbarians. I urge you consider carefully.’’[/i] Kong-Lan begins to wonder, searching the recesses of his memory for a map of the Southlands he once saw. He couldn’t remember much, but he did remember that further south were larger, more ancient cities, home to races who rivalled the Kou’ji in prestige and blood. Perhaps he would find ears there? [i]“Tell me, where is the nearest city that swears fealty to the Warlord? It has been made clear that attempting to track him is foolhardy. What alternative do you suggest, O Prince?”[/i] [i]‘’The Eaamhan streams into the Jeravan river, which leads to proximity of Aranagh, the city of Fararuals, a more civilized race. I advise you go there. Sun God willing, you will find a listening ear.’’[/i] The Count nods in acknowledgement. The Fararuals… At the very least, he’d be able to get home faster than if he’d crossed the length and breadth of the Southlands on a fruitless chase. [i]“I will take your advice.”[/i] He says, bowing deeply one final time. The Prince places a fist to his chest in a dismissive salute. [i]''Sun God’s speed.’’[/i] He then motions to his robed and bald servants, to show the Amrean delegation out towards the pier.