[center][h2] The Great Hall of Chief Aleksiej -- Last holdout of the Čeleviak tribes[/h2][/center]

	Tables were toppled, chairs were split, wooden bowls and bone carved cups were strewn about. The walls were spattered with a mixed mess of a now unidentifiable concoction, and the great door that led into this pine log hall was crushed into the floor, a single metal hinge squeaking against a growing wind outside. By the foot of the Chieftain Aleksiej’s wooden throne was the Chieftain himself, eyes open wide in terror and a gaping cut nearly cleaving his head from his neck. Under him laid his wife, her eyes closed as if she resigned peacefully when her chest was split open. Jjonveyo, the man who sat on the throne, knew that wasn’t true. 

	A bloodied axe lay across his crimson died pants, one calloused finger tapping against its ivory pommel. Specks of blood flaked in Jjonveyo’s deep black beard and moustache and his dark eyes stared thoughtfully at his slaughtered nephews and nieces. Their bodies littered around his brother Aleksiej’s, bloody and broken. A dense circlet weighed more on his head than his thoughts, though - he felt no remorse in the massacre. 

	“Is it done?” A voice called from the fallen door, the long grey beard of a man named Piotr poking in. Jjonveyo simply looked up from his deeds and narrowed his eyes. Piotr gulped and took a step in, but as his first footfall hit the wooden floors, Jjonveyo’s voice rumbled from his gruff throat.

	“They dwell in the caves of Thaa, now, as cowards.” It was a decree as much as a statement, and one that Piotr didn’t dare question. His old eyes looked as if they desired to ask a question, but instead his lips waited. Jjonveyo waved a hand and Piotr tilted his head.

	“You are Tsar.” Piotr announced.

	“I am,” Jjonveyo’s voice was certain and without any doubt in the fact, “Čeleviak united...” There was a dense pause, and Jjonveyo stood up a whole head taller than Piotr. He looked down at his loyal retainer, “What of Wojeck, has he returned from Ha-Dûna?”

	“No,” Piotr said, following the Tsar who was now on his way out of the hall. Silence overtook the pair again as they crossed the threshold to the outside, where Jjonveyo’s warriors were still picking loot from the dead warriors and people who lived under his brother Aleksiej. Jjonveyo’s glare seemed to follow the scene and a low rumble hummed in his throat as he thought. 

	“Leave your trinkets!” He suddenly barked, his words freezing the scene, “We will not take from Čeleviaks, they now know who is their Tsar -- leave their wealth so they can multiply it for the tithe.” The warriors blinked at Jjonveyo, but quickly began to drop whatever they had looted to the floor -- survivors huddled in the shadows of broken yurts and a-frame homes watching on desperately. “We already have so little,” Jjonveyo confided in Piotr, voice a low grumble. 

	“You’re a generous leader,” Piotr remarked, mouth hanging open as if wanting to say more. Jjonveyo frowned.

	“But no word from Wojeck?”

	“No.” Piotr reminded.

	“Then we must wait longer to see if the people of Ha-Dûna will find the caves of Thaa in death, or the mountainside above.” Jjonveyo rolled his jaw in thought, eyes glued to the dark grey banner hanging from the ruined great hall -- the image of a devouring snake upon it. Flicking his eyes back to Piotr he spoke, “Collect my warriors.”

[center]Ha-Dûna[/center]

	The autumn harvest was approaching its end, and sleds, carts and farmers with baskets and haystacks on their backs filled the mud-path streets to the brim, flowing in and out of the city gates like the tide. Druids patrolled every resthouse, silo and storehouse, scraping down the amounts on oak and birch tablets. Overseeing the peace were leather-armoured constables armed with whips, ready to punish any who dared short their taxes or sneak handfuls of grain and vegetables. Children zoomed between the legs of adults and animals, playing with sticks. By the largest resthouse, the South Gate Hall, [i]théin[/i] Aifric rubbed her groggy eyes, hardly paying attention anymore to the masses of ethnicities from the southern farmlands that came with all kinds of taxable and untaxable goods. She had to kick herself awake several times - it may have been the last day, but she had beheld this very sight for weeks now. The responsibilities of a [i]théin[/i] weren’t always as exciting. 

	“[i]Théin[/i] Aifric?” asked the druid tallying the goods. Aifric instinctively took the whip off her belt and slowly rolled it out.

	“Alright… How many?”

	The druid blinked and shook her head. “No, no, no - it’s not a criminal this time.” Aifric frowned in surprise and looked up to see the line of farmers and herders shiver as one at the sight of the whip. At the head of the line, though, stood a man. He was dressed in thick woolen clothes hardened with a leather chap. A great serpent was stitched into the chest of his coat, mouth agape and eyes clearly gouged out. The man himself looked rather young, but held experience in his sharp dark eyes. He was flanked by two similar looking men of varying ages. They all wore the same dark beard and moustache.

	“You are an official?” The middle man’s voice was thick and groggy with an accent that could only be described as Čeleviak. It was as if speaking Dûnan words made his tongue swollen and slow. The [i]théin[/i] blinked.

	“I am,” she replied curtly. “What’s this? Uh… Chelivyak, right - there’s no mistaking that accent. You are very far from home, man. You’ve got goods to tax?”

	“No,” The man, Wojeck, said sternly, “I have come for tithe to the Tsar.” He pulled a wooden circle out of his coat and pushed it into Aifric’s hands. On its sanded surface were surprisingly well written Dûnan characters and numerals. It almost looked like one of the inventory reports for the post-tax season, but the way it was written and the context made it clear that it was a list of demands. The [i]théin[/i] hardened her eyes skeptically.

	“First of all, it’s ‘fithe’. Second of all, we have no such law. What even is a [i]saar[/i], anyway?” She turned the plate around in her hand before giving it back. “If you’ve had your fun, stop wasting my time, son.”

	The plate was shoved back at Aifric, narrow black eyes glaring from Wojeck. “Jjonveyo the Great demands his tithe under threat of annihilation. Your law is now under his, your time is now under his. Jjonveyo the Great is a man of mercy, and wishes a simple transition of the tithe.” The two other men grunted in agreement. The [i]théin[/i] snarled and shoved him back forcefully.

	“Back off! I don’t know what you’ve eaten today, but you are far out of line. Go home to your [i]saar[/i] or whatever he is and tell him to send a better joker next time.” She flexed her hand around her whip. “Do not make me repeat myself again.”

The three men looked between themselves. Wojeck slowly grinned menacingly, “What is your name, that you speak so cocky against Jjonveyo?”

“What is my--” The woman looked to not know whether to laugh or snarl, standing dumbfounded before the men. The tax line had at this point stopped, and the druid and the constables were paying close attention. Aifric uncoiled her whip. “I wouldn’t give a damn about this Joanveyoh even if I had a damn to give. You can go right home and tell whoever that even is that Aifric, [i]théin[/i] of Ha-Dûna and daughter of Clan Sûr-le-Mont, sent his loon of a messenger back home with those words - and if you even open your mouth right now, I will give you as many lashes as it takes to get you to leave. You are wasting my and everybody else here’s time with your games.”

A roar of laughter erupted from Wojeck, and he turned to one of the other bearded men -- explaining something in Čeleviak. The other man started to laugh with Wojeck, the latter following last. All at once they turned to Aifric, Wojeck pointing a finger, "I had no idea I was speaking to an ignorant, indeed I have wasted time. Pray tell, where may I find an official?" He quickly added, "Capable of diplomacy."

That was the last drop, and the [i]théin[/i] lifted her whip, cracking it furiously at the three men. More constables hurried over to help, taking out their own whips. “Go! Get out of here, you slobs! Back to your dirty caves!”

The whip lashed across Wojeck's chest, but his ears perked at the mention of caves - pushing him through the pain. He gritted his teeth and barked something in Čeleviak. The other men narrowed their eyes. Wojeck and one of the others whipped out daggers from their coats, murder in their eyes.

"Stop!" The oldest of the three suddenly shouted, voice dripping with a foreign accent thicker than Wojeck's. Wojeck and the other man hesitated.

“He’s pulled a blade!” shouted one of the constables. The crowd of people who had come to pay taxes screamed and scattered, and the [i]théin[/i] and her warriors pulled their own weapons, most of them axes, but Aifric’s, a long dagger. They then jabbed and lunged the Čeleviak, trying to get a good stab in, the first stab puncturing the hesitating Wojeck. The blade sunk deep into the base of his neck, a rough gurgle spattering out. 

The old man's eyes widened with fear and in a moment, he had his own blade drawn and deep in the leg of Aifric. He pulled it out in time to dodge an axe swing from a constable - the same constable shrieking in pain as the last Čeleviak stabbed his blade into their heart. 

An axe came crashing down into the man's back, and before the older man could retaliate and avenge - an axe slammed into his own. He fell to the ground, bone crunching against the axe blade. The constables stood panting over the corpses until one of them turned to the [i]théin[/i], shouting, “The [i]théin[/i]! She’s wounded! Kaer Samwyn, do something!” The druid, shocked by what had just transpired, hastened to action with healing Aifric’s leg. One of the constables took the head of the one whose heart had been stabbed and lifted his torso onto her lap, tears filling her face.

“Ron… No… Oh gods, not Ron…” She looked pleadingly over at the druid, who looked back and shook her head slowly.

“There’s nothing I can do for him… I’m sorry. He’s in the afterlife now, being welcomed by his mothers and fathers of yore.”

The constable broke down sobbing.

[hr]

[hider=MP Summary][color=Fuchsia]Thaa Start: 4 MP, 3 DP
-2 MP, 3 DP Consecrate Hero
End: 2 MP 0 DP[/color]
[hider=Jjonveyo]MP 2, DP 3, 2 Free Titles

[b][i]MP[/i][/b]

[b]Regeneration II:[/b] Jjonveyo can regenerate from most of any normal wound within minutes.

[b][i]DP and 2 Free titles due to Undying port[/i][/b]

[b]Undying V:[/b] Jjonveyo can survive wounds and even can slowly heal that which should have killed an ordinary man. They won't go into shock or otherwise be debilitated beyond the physical debasement, an arm cut off means that they can't use that arm, not that they have been declawed. Their soul is tied to their body by bonds stronger than that life ordinarily permits, as such even when they should be dead, they remain tied to their body as it tries to heal to whatever extent it can.[/hider][/hider]

[hider=Summary] We open with Jjonveyo sitting on the throne of his brother Aleksiej, who he had just killed along with the entire family. Jjonveyo is one of six Chieftains of the Čeleviak ethnicity that lives in the harshest mountains by Ha-Duna. With the murder of his brother, Jjonveyo had now successfully killed the other five Chieftains of the Čeleviaks over the course of a year. Being the sole ruler of the Čeleviaks, he is named Tsar and begins to amass an amazing army. 

Back at Ha-Duna, Jjonveyo’s nephew -- Wojeck -- arrives to demand “tithe” for the great Tsar. He is continuously mocked by the Thein receiving him, Aifric. Wojeck returns the mockery and then suggests talking to a more diplomatic official, but is met with whips. Insulted, Wojeck and one of his lackeys pulls blades to kill Aifric but are stopped by a third Čeleviak emissary. Unfortunately Aifric and the other constables are already descending on them and Aifric kills Wojeck. The other two Čeleviak are quickly dispatched, with only one constable dying and Aifric suffering a minor wound. It is assumed that without Wojeck’s word ever reaching back to Jjonveyo, that Ha-Duna has chosen war. [/hider]
[hider=Prestige] Jjonveyo 0+5=5[/hider]