[centre][h2]A King’s Duty 1 - To Know One's Land[/h2][/centre]
[hr]
It had been weeks since they had last heard from Cinna. Termurick knew it was only the start and that he would never see his brother again. Part of him was grateful, spitefully so. Cinna had been a demon of a child and a monster of a brother, always pulling him into all kinds of trouble, hurting him, insulting him…

And yet… Bonds of blood do not break so easily. He looked up. His lap balanced an untouched ceramic plate with his breakfast on it: [i]kheft[/i], [i]xoag[/i] and [i]chuam[/i], respectively a mash of basil, salt and durum flour; a lukewarm salad containing chopped raisins, spinach, mushrooms and okra, all heavily seasoned with rose pepper, salt and rosemary; and a pemmican-like pudding of bison meat, fat and whatever else one could find in a bison, seasoned with salt, pepper and cinnamon. It smelled heavenly, but Turmerick couldn’t find the appetite to taste it. The atmosphere in the small dining room of the King’s half-hut, half-cave felt oppressive: every hair on the shadowtiger fur upon which he sat felt like a barb; the hunting and war trophies lining the cave walls were screaming at him as though they still lived; the friendly moonlight peeking at him through the openings in the roof awnings felt cold.

Worst of all, perhaps, were the two hard eyes glaring down at him across the room. “Son. You aren’t eating,” came the harsh whisper and clicks of King Safron. Turmerick flinched.

“I’m, I’m not hungry, father.”

“A growing prince must eat his every meal, lest he’ll become a weak king,” the king responded and pinched a piece of [i]chuam[/i] between two trunks that could barely be described as fingers. “Clove, you, too. A princess must also eat the food she’s given, lest her--”

“‘Lest her husband’s mother will despise her.’ Forgive me, father. I will eat faster.” There were four of them now - their father sat in the innermost part of the circular room, the majority of his surroundings being cave walls carved handsomely with the story of his reign; on his right sat their mother, Queen Clove I, a beautiful woman of 154 years with skin as dark as blackberries and hair as black as the abyss. Only her white eyes, ashen body paint and quartz-jeweled, alabaster dress were visible in the shadow of the night - there was no woman more beautiful in all of Fragrance; opposite of her, on the king’s left, sat Princess Clove II, who to the king’s chagrin had only inherited her mother’s hair, but her father’s light plum skin. Efforts were made to bring out her assets, such as charcoal paint around her eyes and milky paints paler than her mother’s for her markings, but the whole town knew that she would never live up to her mother’s beauty. Finally, opposite of the king, sat Prince Turmerick II, pale plum skin made paler by quivering nerves in the oppressive shadow of his father. Reluctantly, he took a pinch of [i]kheft[/i] and licked it off his fingers. It was delicious - some commoners would likely have killed for this sort of food - and Turmerick couldn’t bare to swallow it. The family returned to silence, the subtle slicks and licks of tongues and chewing teeth making up the only sounds in the room.

Then the queen let out a sigh evidently conditioned to be as soft as dow. “Once again, my most sincere compliments to the cook. Old Erbal has certain outdone himself this time. Where did he even get this basil?”

King Safron raised a blue brow. “I could ask him for you, my moon.”

The queen tittered softly. “Oh, no, that won’t be necessary, my stars. I would like to acquire some apples from him, as well, so I can ask him while I visit the kitchens.”

“Very well, then.” Silence ruled again - while normally a good thing, the atmosphere weighed it down to a suffocating level, and Turmerick could see his sister feel it, too. After the energy of the food filled him with enough bravery, he channeled it all into opening his mouth while facing his father.

“Father - I have a request.”

King Safron stopped mid-bite, milky eyes shifting from the juicy pinch of [i]xoag[/i] to his son across the small room. He put the food back down on his plate and wiped his finger on a linen napkin. “What would that be?”

Turmerick swallowed. “I… I wish that you would show me our lands.”

The three of them all blinked at the prince. “Where’s this coming from?” asked the king, his voice carrying a parasitic infestation of surprise. 

“Ci-... Cinna is gone. That means I am next in line to become king.” The prince sucked in a breath. “I… I want to see the lands I am to rule.” Silence briefly reconquered the room. The king offered an amused scoff and clicked his tongue approvingly. He slapped his palms on his thighs one time in applause and stood up, crossing the room to stand before the miniscule prince. He knelt down and squeezed his shoulder.

“I never thought you would ask, my dear boy. Eat up and meet me outside as fast as you can. I will have Nut ready our baqualos.” With that, the king hurried out with almost giddy steps. The prince followed his step with an almost uncomfortable stare and turned back to his mother and sister, who both clicked their tongues approvingly.

“Thank you, my sweet, little boy. I’ve not seen him this happy in at least seventy years,” praised the queen and collected her husband’s plate. The princess shuffled over and touched her brother’s shoulder, Turmerick almost cracked a smile upon seeing his sister’s white-toothed grin, speckles of food dotting the slits between the dents. 

“Already doing better than Cinna,” she whispered with a wink before she crawled back to help her mother clean. The compliment was genuine, but it didn’t feel like a compliment. A clump of guilt buried itself in his chest, one that seemed to develop needles the longer he dwelled on it. He finished his food in a hurry and sped on after his father.

Outside waited the king, dressed in in his skin tunic padded with buffalo fur, leather pants and a long shadowtiger cloak. Upon his head, he wore a circlet fashioned from the many branches of the Tree of Fragrance, their most holy site on the outskirts of town. He clicked for Turmerick to hurry up, and the prince quickly tossed on the lesser cape their servant Nut gave to him as he mounted his baqualo. The buffalo-like beast shook its mighty mane, sending tremors through the considerable smaller prince. The king mounted his own beast, sitting himself comfortably upon the linen blanket laid over its back. He looked at Turmerick and snapped his fingers for attention. “Are you ready?”

Steadying himself, the prince clicked a yes. He felt like he could never get used to having such an enormous, powerful creature between his legs, but he would have to try if he were to become king. The king breathed out in acknowledgement and gently dug his heels into the baqualo’s sides, pulling a rope that was bound around its muzzle to the left. The beast shook its head and clopped leftwards with a slow, quiet pace. The prince followed suit and his beast did, as well. The rustling and hustle of the town around them made it difficult to ask the king about the surroundings. The king’s hut stood atop a slop, halfway built into the mountainside where the ancient caves of the first Night Elves who settled the lands of Fragrance had been. The hut was fashioned from mud over a wooden skeleton, roofed with linen awnings where the walls extended out of the mountain. It was wrong to call it a hut - only the exterior resembled anything like that. In truth, the vast network of caves and halls inside made it the largest refuge from the sun in all of Fragrance. Immediately after leaving the king’s home, however, the townscape became visible: the Fragrancians preferred caves, like any sane nelf, but for those who wouldn’t afford a good plot of land by the cliffside had to settle for single or two-floored, cylindrical houses built of mud plastered over a wooden skeleton. As became evident when they reached the lower town by the water, those that couldn’t work with mud settled for wood. 

The first crescent of buildings forming a perimetre outwards from the king’s hut and the cliffside, were the homes of the aristocracy and highborne. These were plantation owners, royal family and merchants, constantly travelling between their homes here and their lands across the river or closer to the sea. Their houses were large - larger than the king’s hut - and fashioned from wood and mud. Some were even two-floored, and each one was surrounded by a thin, shoulder high wall of wicker. The richest had built huts into the cliffside like the king - these looked almost like gates into mysterious mountain halls. Turmerick had visited several of them before, and while they were not as large as the king’s, a few of them certainly looked wealthier on the inside. 

There came a trickle of water, followed by quiet chuckles. From the back of his baqualo, Turmerick could see into someone’s yard as they passed by. A large bath had been filled with water, evidently scented with mint and vanilla. It smelled beyond heavenly. Three nelves sat chatting in the bath - two girls and one boy. Turmerick caught one of the girls’ eye and she smacked her lips invitingly. The prince felt himself blush. 

“Do you know who’s house that was?” came a sudden question from his father. The prince quickly recovered his focus as they turned the dirt road corner where the houses began to swing rightwards down the slope. 

“Y-yes! That was the manor of [abbr=A lesser male noble equivalent to lord.]rach[/abbr] and [abbr=A lesser female noble equivalent to lady.]rachfi[/abbr] Nilla!”

The king clicked agreeingly. “Correct. Do you know what they do?”

“Rach and rachfi Nilla own the town’s largest vanilla plantation. F-four acres, with another six reserved for other spices.”

“Correct again. Do you know why they are rich?”

This stumped Turmerick’s train of thought. “... Because… Because people like vanilla?”

The king nodded. “Vanilla is a labour-intensive plant to grow - rachfi Nilla’s father was the one to acquire the land first. He maintained an acre all on his own, allowing for vanilla to be produced and enter the perfume and spice market in sizeable quantities for the first time. He died very young due to exhaustion from all the work, but his wife used their accumulated wealth to hire a workforce and acquire more land.”

“How could they pay for all that?” The king chuckled and reached into a pouch on his belt. He pulled it a long, black stick - except that it wasn’t a stick, but a bean pod. Turmerick furrowed his brow. “Vanilla…”

The king pocketed the bean. “That’s right. With the items they had bartered for through the years, as well as the promise to pay their workers a wage of one vanilla pod per harvest, they acquired all the land and wealth they own today. As a king, you must understand the powers at work in your kingdom - they are your mightiest tools in your possession, and the worst of enemies if they oppose you.”

They reached the second ring of the town - the centre of the olfactoriums, cookhouses, perfumaries, incensaries and herbal tents, all scattered between market stalls, wooden and mud houses meant for commoners, and public bath houses. These were really just wicker fences surrounding communal tubs overflowing with hot water scented with herbs and flowers to hide the fact that they didn’t switch the bath water too often. The sizzles of hot cooking oil, bubbles of stews, a million perfumes and a thick blanket of incense in the air - all waged a grand and beautiful war for the attention of the prince’s senses. Joining the battle came the gentle tones of street performers barely touching the strings and surfaces of their instruments, all while whispering and humming their sweet songs. The commoners greeted their king and prince with clicking tongues and smacking lips, and the king greeted them back by laying his palm on the heads he could reach. The prince did not follow along - he knew he had no mandate to do so yet.

“Great son of the moon,” whispered a florist poetically as she offered the king a bouquet of sweetpeas. “Please, accept this little gesture from your admirer Cacaoa.”

The king exhaled in amusement and spoke, 
“Forgive my curt and soulless words -
My heart’s in glee like summer birds,
For this, for sure, I did not see -
Alas, at home, she waits for me.”

Turmerick barely had time to even attempt to understand what had just happened before the florist retracted her flowers and bowed. “Understood, great son of the moon. I pray your wife is still well and beautiful.”

The king clicked his thanks and the pair moved on. Turmerick tried to ride a little closer. “Father, what was that?”

“Hmm… No, I agree. Not my best verse.”

“What? No, I mean, why verse at all? What just happened?”

The king turned sideways and glanced curiously at him. “You mean your brother never told you?”

The prince hung his head. “Cinna didn’t tell me much of anything, really.”

The king sighed. “... I should have expected as much. It irks me that I didn’t think of training you sooner. I was just afraid that it would widen the already great rift between the two of you - between him and his family.” He closed his eyes. “Either way, allow me to explain what just happened…” He brought his baqualo to a halt and turned to point an intentionally shaky hand back towards the florist. “You see, when a commoner of the opposite sex offers you something of value to them, you can either accept or decline the gift. However, if you wish to decline, you must do so in verse.”

Turmerick frowned. “But why?”

“Always been,” mumbled the king with a shrug. “The seer Laurel suggested once that it’s an ancient tradition put in place by Mag’tsaal himself.”

“The singing god?”

“The very same. Now, keep in mind, if you were to accept the gift, that means you owe the commoner in question a favour. In accordance with a king’s need to be generous, this favour must always give back more than the king received.”

The prince’s frown deeped. “But why did you decline by saying ‘she waits for me back home’?”

The king gave his chin a gingerly scratch. “I… I will tell you that when you’re older.” 

They continued past an olfactorium, bright, flickering light blinking at them from inside the workshop. The king pointed his intentionally quivering hand at the light and asked, “Do you know what that is?” The prince clicked negative. “That’s fire, fire used to heat a large clay kiln.” He held his right arm in front of him horizontally and ran his left hand over it. “The top is flat, and lined with lots and lots of small copper pots filled with almond oil. They then add sweatpeas, vanilla, sweet alyssum, wisteria or other plants while the oil is warm, but not boiling, and allow them to steep. This infuses the oil with the flowers’ scents, but doesn’t cook it. Only the best olfactorics manage to preserve that perfect balance between where the oil is too hot and not hot enough to extract the most scent.”

Turmerick brought his mount closer in hopes that he could spy inside, but there was no such luck. The smell was amazing, though - like a blooming garden. However, a ruckus of clanking metal and snapping fires roared from the inside, and the prince retreated. 

“By--...! Petuni, I will have you whipped through the streets if you spill my oil like that again, do you hear me?!” came a furious whisper from the inside, immediately followed by tearful apologies in the whispers likely belong to Petuni. The king sucked in a breath through his teeth.

“Let’s move on. We generally keep these markeds and workshops away from the higher town on account of sudden noises like that.” The pair continued to the third ring, which was hardly a ring and more of a collection of huts, gardens, fields and sheds. The smell here was wholly different from the upper city, hardly floral and much more animalistic. The prince could’ve sworn shadows turned to hide in the alleys between houses as they approached, and in those same alleys, he could barely make out squatting figures composed of hardly more than skin and bone. He decided not to inquire, but instead probe the soundscape of the area. Many of the huts were workshops that produced terrorisingly loud, gnawing sounds. 

The prince grit his teeth together at the hazardous noise and asked, “What is that ruckus?”

“Those are querns, my son. This is the part of the city where much of the loudwork happens.” The king opened a pouch and stopped his baqualo. From the pouch, he pinched two nips of raw cotton, leaned over and offered them to Turmerick. He put them in his ears and watch his father do the same. “Yes, loudwork’s gruesome, but necessary. This is where we allow the workshops that almost break the Great Peace, but remain within the legal range. Still, it’s far from acceptable, so we banish them here, near the water where the area is more open and sound isn’t as loud.” He pointed at various huts and sheds. “Querns, woodworkers, oil pressers, potters, those sorts of businesses.”

Turmerick frowned. “Wait, oil pressers and potters aren’t that loud. Why are they here?”

The king pointed back the way they came. “It’s not just an issue of sound - oil presses in particular require space for storage and space becomes an issue in the second ring. Also, considering the oil is made from almonds, a good deal of nuts have to be cracked.”

[i]Crack![/i] came a sound from inside one of the shops, followed by many more, as drupes were crushed and ground into a flour.

Turmerick flinched. “What happens to the nuts after they’re crushed?”

The king hummed. “I believe they are heated over very low heat to extract the oil, which is then potted and sold up the street. Speaking of pots, they are down here for the simple reason that they occasionally tend to break and make a ruckus.” With that, the pair of them continued on towards the town gates, a wooden palisade wall with twin doors that hadn’t been closed for decades. A long train of farmers ventured in and out carrying full or empty baskets, clicking their greetings to the king. Flanking the gateway were two guards on each side, clack in fur and padded hide tunics and armed with obsidian [i]pi-xxois[/i], a long javelin. They bowed as the king passed by.

“Past the gates here, my son, we exit [abbr=”The Land of Great Shade][i]X’ao-Hwah[/i][/abbr] and reach the [abbr=The Land of Long Days][i]Keh-Hwah[/i][/abbr] . Here, the sun shines too brightly during the day for any nightkin to walk about.” The canyon opened up into a river delta running into the [abbr=”Mydian Sea” - Mydia = Sao; kweh = ocean, sea, lake.][i]Sao-kweh[/i][/abbr], The river delta was flanked on each side by acres of grains, fruit trees, spice plants, flower fields, herbs, vegetables and much more. The whole of the shore and the hills up towards the drylands above the canyons had been turned entirely to farmland, checkered with irrigation canals in the lowlands. The highlands were mostly fruit and spice trees. Shattered between the fields were small collections of huts and houses belonging to the workers. Everywhere, farmers zoomed back and forth in their work, the slap and hack of tools striking soil and cutting stems louder than much of what had been happening in town. By the very shore, the prince could make out what he knew to be fishing boats. The king continued forward and it took Turmerick a second to react and follow along. 

“Do any of these lands belong to rach and rachfi Nilla?”

“No. These fields belong entirely to the peasantry. Their plantations are further south. Would you like to see them?”

“I would, actually,” the prince agreed. King Safron nodded and summoned one of the guards by smacking his lips at him. 

“Bring us a raft to ferry me and my son across the delta, and fetch us an escort of six strong.” The guard clicked in acknowledgement and jogged off. Turmerick frowned.

“Why an escort, father?”

The king’s brow darkened. “Truth be told, the lands south of us, including the lands belong to rach and rachfi Nilla, are contested territories. Do you know what tribe lives to the south of us?”

The prince scrunched his nose. “The [abbr=”White Tigers”][i]Hui-Prra[/i][/abbr]?”

“Correct. Fragrance and the [i]Hui-Prra[/i] haven’t had the most peaceful history - they envy our access to the Tree of Fragrance and the Moonwell, as well as our defensible lands; on the other hand, we long for their fertile flatlands and bountiful timber. Our wealth is greater than theirs ten times over, but our people cannot survive on spices and herbs. We need wheat, yams, okra, beans and roots; we need hay for our animals during draughts and wood for our buildings after fires and rockslides; we need acres to grow our cotton and flax… You get the point.”

“W-well, couldn’t we just…”

“Take their land?” The prince quieted down and the king nodded. “Oh, yes, that -is- a possibility. While their lands are richer, our warbands are greater, better equipped, better trained; however, it wouldn’t be enough. Our losses would be too heavy to sustain, and Fragrance would be left almost as weak as the remnants of the [i]Hui-Prra[/i]. No… While we may skirmish every now and then, all-out war is something neither I nor chief [abbr=”Coconut”][i]Tsarri[/i][/abbr] want. When you one day become king, you will need to understand which fights to pick and which to avoid.”

Turmerick clicked half-heartedly. It seemed he would have to study his neighbours closely. After a time, their raft arrived, and they dismounted to ford the river. On the other side, new baqualos were provided for them and the pair continued southwards along the coast, quietly followed by a group of six warriors. Their journey brought them past smaller workshops that screamed loud blasts of air, flickered hot-white lights and unleashed mindgnawing [i]ting-ting-tings[/i] at anyone unfortunate enough to be in their presence.

“Whitesmiths…” mumbled the prince. The king nodded.

“For those whose work is so loud that they disturb the Great Peace, we have no choice but to banish them here. We cannot outlaw them, of course - copper is almost as precious and important to us as saffron and roses; however, they are simply too loud to keep inside the city.” The workshop was in truth a kiln next to a roof suspended on wooden poles. The prince’s eyes met one of the workers’ and the commoner clicked and bowed his greeting. The king took note and clicked back. “While our people generally don’t associate them on account of their poor hearing and loud speech, their wares fetch enough of a price on the market that they actually live quite well out here. For the most part.” The prince considered what his father’s final sentence meant.

After a while, the number of larger huts diminished and gave way to shacks, tents and lay-tos almost built haphazardly around the fields. The fields themselves were neatly maintained and well-irrigated, and almost stood out among the otherwise poor surroundings. Working some of the fields were what Turmerick observed to be skinny, beaten nelves, wearing rags for clothing and giving off an unwashed stink that the prince could smell nearly fifty feet away. He shook his head disapprovingly and asked, “Father, what are those?”

“Slaves, my son. Criminals or prisoners of war and raids sent to work in the fields or, in this case, the pepper acres of rachfi Jasmine.” Turmerick blinked and looked closer. Indeed, a few paces away from the ragged nelves, he saw a mountain of a man wearing considerably nicer clothes of hide and leather, armed with a whip. He turned to his father again.

“Why do we force criminals and prisoners to do this sort of work under these conditions, father?” The king’s face seemed to revert back to its stern standard, and his eyes stared miles ahead into the southern jungles.

“Your brother got three men killed and nearly killed you, too. For his crimes, he was exiled. In truth, I treated him unfairly in the eyes of the law. He was my son - I couldn’t give him the punishment his crimes truly deserved.” He reached up and plucked a jasmine flower from a shrub they passed by. “... In truth, manslaughter is punishable by death.” The prince gasped quietly. “Yes… I was too weak to execute your brother, my own son, so I ignored the laws. For this, Haroses will surely punish me someday. The law is nothing to scoff at, my son; as a king, it is your greatest ally and your greatest enemy.”

“But if you’re king, can’t you decide what the law should be?” But to this, the king clicked his disagreement.

“No, my son. No matter how mighty the king, they will forever only be as powerful as the people who support them. A king who cannot follow his own laws, or makes too many changes to suit themselves, will be a short-lived king.” 

Turmerick nodded slowly. “And who supports the king?”

The king smiled. “You’re catching on, my son. As a king, the more support you can get, the better.” They turned left towards the hills leading up to the arid wastes above the canyon. In the distance, Turmerick could hear yelling and collision of objects. He looked behind him and saw the guards put cotton into their ears. “However,” the king continued as he patted the dots already in his ears a little deeper, “some supporters are more powerful than others - rach and rachfi Nilla, for example, are important allies to our family; as is rachfi Jasmine and her family; rach and rachfi Rose, as well as their family in Scenta… Perhaps most important to a king, however, are his warriors.” 

They arrived to see a vast dry waste, stretching longer than the eye could see. Turmerick realised now what the yelling earlier had been, for here it was much louder. In several small stone rings lining a central pathway stomped by sandaled feet, warriors dressed in only linen loincloths sparred with wooden sticks, the stink of sweat and blood oozing from the whole area. As they ventured further into the mustering grounds, a small group came to meet them. They were all clad in padded hide tunics with light kilts about their legs, while the two men in the lead were also cloaked with a large buffalo skin cloak each. They all bowed their greetings and clapped themselves on the chest. “Long live the son of the moon!” said the oldest among the two out loud.

“Long live!” sounded the group, as well as anyone around them who heard the call.  The king clicked approvingly and dismounted, walking over and placing his hand on the shoulder of the one who had spoken. 

“Warchief Gardenia and rach Rose, good night. May Kipo’s dark ever shield you from the [abbr=”Skyfire”][i]Chien-Xorr[/i][/abbr]. How goes the evening’s training?” 

“Hail, great son of the moon, king Safron,” greeted the older nelf, who the king had identified as warchief Gardenia. “The desert is cold and the wind bites hard, but the elements only strengthen our men.”

The king nodded. “Good. Rach Rose, how many have we now?”

The nobleman, a middle-aged nelf in approaching his second century, offered a polite bow. “Great son of the moon, your latest reforms have much bolstered our potential for war. With the promise to pay their wages in incense, we have managed to recruit an additional twenty sons our forces. We have never been mightier!”

The king clicked. “Acceptable numbers. I want them bled as soon as you think them ready. You have no doubt heard the rumours from the [abbr=”Upper Canyon” - the parts of the Land of Great Shade not under Fragrancian or their allies’ control.][i]Chi’oa-Hwah[/i][/abbr], I expected?”

The warchief and rach both smacked their lips in acknowledgement. “Indeed, we have, great son of the moon. News of his death have spread far and wide by now. We will squeeze this opportunity for all it’s worth,” the rach said proudly. The king nodded. 

“Good. However, I want the skirmish to be of the lowest possible risk. His death is mysterious enough as is - if it’s [abbr=”Blood sickness”, i.e. vampirism][i]xweh-bach[/i][/abbr], our losses may be immense. Have the seer paint the warriors with sun ink before you leave.”

“Of course, great son of the moon. Your wisdom is unquestionable,” offered the rach with another bow. 

“They won’t enjoy that one bit,” mumbled the warchief. The king scoffed. 

“They will endure it is they want to live. You said it yourself - the elements strengthen our men.” The warchief was quiet. The king then reached out and patted his son on the shoulder. “You better take some time to get to know these two over the next decades, my boy - you will be joining them in a decade or so.”

The prince grimaced and met the eyes of the two officers, who both offered polite bows back. “My, is that the young prince? Why, I haven’t seen him since he was the smallest, little nelfling, barely past his first decade. Prince Turmerick, we would be honoured to have you apprentice under us when the time comes.”

“Most honoured,” echoed the rach. “Forgive me for asking, but how old are you now?”

“I’m twenty-five,” mumbled the young prince to the nods of the officers.

“My, then there’s not even a decade left.” The prince swallowed to the sound of chuckles. “But worry not, young prince - ‘tis the duty of a king to soldier.” 

His father clapped him supportively on the back. “Well said! Well, we must be going. The future king has much to see, still, and dawn will rise eventually.”

The warriors all stepped aside and stomped their salute. “Of course, great son of the moon. Have a safe journey.” The pair continued on, followed by their escort. They rode deeper into the wastelands, shrubberies and dry grasses disappearing before an evergrowing onslaught of sand, dust and rock. While it would likely have been deathly scorching out here in the day, Turmerick felt his fingers stiffening from the cold of night. All he had learned today was wrestling over his attention, but one thing stood out in particular.

“Father? What happened deeper into the valley?”

The king growled. “... Rumour has it that the king of Monsax has been slain. However, no rumours of an actual attack on the town have reached us so far. The options are therefore either assassination or, as I fear may be the case, cold-blooded murder.” The wind picked up for a moment, tossing a small wirl of sand around them. “... It has never been a secret that the prince of Monsax, Amon, has been envious of his father’s position. If he indeed has usurped the throne, he may have caught [i]xweh-bach[/i]...”

The prince hung his head uncertainly. “In either case, why would we want to risk our own people to take a town such as that? One potentially infested with a demon?”

The king looked to the stars. “Do you know the plight of nelvenkind?” 

The prince followed his gaze. “You mean our disadvantage in the sun?”

The king’s face grew grim. “No, this goes deeper than so. Nelves age slowly, very slowly.”

“Well, everyone knows that, don’t they? The source of our long lives!”

“Indeed. However, as you may have noticed if you have ever met a [abbr=”Green dwarf”, i.e. goblin.][i]pronn-ai-ai[/i][/abbr], they can birth nearly eight generations in the time it takes one of our own nelflings to reach maturity. A single nelven life is the culmination of decades upon decades of training, learning, love and hardships. To suffer even a single loss robs the tribe of emotions, experiences and opportunities that will take half a century to recover, if they even can be recovered.” He paused and raised his hand towards the sky. “If we can get the people of Monsax to swear allegiance to Fragrance - have them join us instead - this will give us a population boost to be reckoned with. It may finally tip the scales and allow us to take the south - perhaps they will even surrender upon seeing how many we are?”

“But what if they don’t?”

“Chief Tsarri and his people suffer from exactly the same plight as we do, my son. If he knows defeat is certain, he will not risk it. Of that, I’m certain.” Up ahead, the familiar sound of hard materials colliding brought back memories of the whitesmith. However, as they approached, the source of the sound was revealed to be coming from a large pit up ahead, within which dark shades contrasted with the yellow sand of the desert. A pair clad in thick clothes ascended from the pit with a baqualo in tow, clicked their greeting at the king and prince and moved on, baskets on the beast’s back full of white crystals. The prince reached out at took one of the smaller crystals out from the bypassing basket. The texture felt very familiar. He wondered if it was…

He gave it gingerly lick. “Salt?”

“Correct. Fragrancian salt from [abbr=”The Firewastes”, also known as the Sun Wastes.][i]Xorsha[/i][/abbr] is worth its weight in pepper. We found this vein just last year - the people are loving it. We hope to use it to form relations with the inner canyon tribes. Although, we are still uncertain of how common it is as a commodity. Scentia reportedly has found nothing like it, but they do not have the easier access to the plateaus like we go.” He offered the prince a nod. “When you are king, you will need to keep in mind what resources are at your disposal and how badly your people demand them.” The prince nodded. The king looked around and drew a deep breath. “I think that’s enough for today. Let’s head back.”

“Father?”

“Yes, my son?” 

The prince reached out and squeezed his father’s hand. “Thank you. I look forward to my following lessons.”

The king clicked approvingly and squeezed back. “So do I.”

[hider=Sumsum!]
Boy, this was a long one! So, seeing as he’s the new heir to Fragrance, Turmerick asks daddy Safron to show him around. Safron’s like, “Shiet, nightboi, that’s all you had to say,” and they go for a stroll around the lands of Fragrance. Summarised, it went like this: 

[b]Town proper:[/b]
[list]
[*] The town is structured like a halved onion, where the king’s hut is the centre, built right up against the cliff wall of the canyon they live in. The king’s hut is small, but the hut itself is more an entrance into a great network of caves and halls dug out over generations that form the “palace”. The king’s room in which they start actually serves as his and his spouse’s personal bedroom, the family’s dining room and the king’s eventual tomb.
[*] The innermost ring after the king’s hut is inhabited by the aristocracy and highborne merchants and plantation owners. The wealthiest of these also live in caves dug into the cliffside, and the rest live in manors and villas with personal baths, harp players and incense burners.
[*] The second circle contains most of the city dwellers, and is home to incense makers, perfume makers, scented oil makers, cookhouses - okay, what isn’t here? There are also public baths because nelves care about that body smell. Here the king is offered a bouquet of flowers and declines it in verse. He explains to his son that all gifts given to the king must be declined in verse, because if they’re accepted, the king owes the gifter a bigger favour. They pass by a olfactorium, which is a place where they make scented oils.
[*] The third circle is home to the kinds of workshops that almost break the law of the Great Peace, like oil presses, pottery shops, woodshops and other sorta noisy things. Here also live the poor in the city. It’s shown here that Fragrance produces almond oil. There runs a river past this circle, which runs out in the Mydian Sea to the southwest.
[/list]

[b]Outside the town walls:[/b]
[list]
[*] The town wall itself is wooden palisade. The guards are clad in mainly buffalo fur and wield javelins tipped with stone or obsidian. Past the gates are open fields where most of the Fragrancians live. Here’s produced virtually every spice, herb, flavouring and flower between the earth and sky. Carbs, fruits and vegetables are almost in shortage, meanwhile, because of the huge focus on nice smelling things.
[*] Further south are slave-manned plantations owned by the aristocracy. Around here, we also find the whitesmithes, stoneworkers and other super loud jobs that are necessary, but too loud to be around other nelves.
[*] We also learn that even further south, there lives a tribe named the White Tigers, who are enemies of Fragrance. Additionally (shoulda mentioned this above) there are also other Nelven settlements deeper in the canyon.
[/list]

[b]Wasteland territories:[/b]
[list]
[*] Contains the training grounds for the Fragrancian forces - they aren’t many, and the king explains here that elves take so long to mature that even losing a single warrior costs them nearly 50 years of resources and training invested. It’s also revealed that a town named Monsax deeper into the canyon has just experienced a royal assassination, but it might be a vampire case. The Fragrancians will go to save the people of that town to recruit them to their own. Nelves know much about vampires as living during the night lets one study them better.
[*] Finally, they have a salt mine, too, though this one is on the very fringes of their wasteland territories and only recently discovered.
[/list]


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