[centre][h3]“Built like a mountain, spread like the sea.”[/h3] [img]https://i.imgur.com/8pL7Cys.jpg[/img][/centre] [sub][i]31 AA | Year 16[/i][/sub] War, as any wandering ascetic knew, did not give rise to truly great cities. Those only came about during periods of peace, and when they did were the herald of decadence and decline. The great Ramshid Birsas [i]shib[/i] Hur had taught his three sons this: “Chaos forges strong Ramshids, and strong Ramshids create prosperity. Prosperity forges weak Ramshids, and weak Ramshids reign over chaos.” The fortified city of Kolcara was not much of a city -- not yet, at least. If the gods were good and Ramshid Dagran - or Warprince Dagran, as the foes who denied his great claim preferred to call him - was given just another ten or fifteen cycles of life, he would just have time to cast down the vultures claiming his throne and bring his dreams of Kolcara to fruition. But of course, nothing in life was certain. He was beginning to feel the toll of his age, having walked the land for fifty-some cycles and ruled in his own right for nearly half as long. And though he was a clever man, a schemer by all accounts, he could not know whether his cause would triumph at the end of this bloodletting that tore at the land he loved. He could only trust in the righteousness of his cause and fight to bring about better days, to build the Kolcara of his dreams. Yes, in his dreams it was a grand and beautiful city, with long straight roads, temples crowning every hill along the riverbanks with spires that towered over the city and came just shy of the grand heights of his own castle in the heart of it all. He foresaw great walls also, storehouses, and cisterns enough to withstand drought and siege and hardship for all time. It was Sahruqar come again, only a thousand times as grand, in Dagran’s dreams. But of course, for now in reality it was only a glorified castle surrounded by muddied drilling fields, a dry moat, a few watchtowers, and many clusters of hovels that housed the builders and other folk unworthy of dwelling within the fortress at the heart of Kolcara. Still, the plans were there and when Dagran closed his eyes he could see the roads, wide and paved with white stones that gleamed in the sun like dew upon morning grass. Still, for its humble beginnings, Kolcara was already Dagran’s seat of power. It lay in a strategic and defensible position in the center of his realm, at the convergence of the river Muniw with the Barjuhrim, which flowed south until it met the mighty Juhmar. This placed it a good ways away from the northern border where even now the fires of the bloodletting had found new kindling and caught once more. But it would not be long before his levies were assembled and readied to march north. This season could very well witness the final defeat and humiliation of Arkhus, if the seeds that he had sown would sprout and bear fruit. He had been planning this campaign for a long time, picking the grounds where he would take battle just as meticulously as he had planned out the paths and walls of his future city. Not all approved of his plans and genius, however. He could feel their jealousy and fear. They knew, when they gazed into his obsidian eyes, that they stood before one who was to them as Mount Qaywandar was to other mountains. It was just such an envious gaze that he felt boring into his back at that very moment, and he turned to find the old [abbr=‘tej’ means priest, while ‘ram’ means great; so ‘ramtej’ means great-priest]ramtej[/abbr] approaching. The ancient man’s silver hair and beard were well-oiled and combed, bedecked with rings of silver and gold, and likewise his arms and chest. A saffron sarong, with gilded and intricately patterned trimmings, covered him from hip to ankle and he had a staff of gold and silver in his right hand. Precious jewels adorned the top, as did golden hoops and a golden figurine of the tri-faced Serene Lord, seated with all his eyes closed. He came to a stop beside the ramshid and looked out from the high balcony across the great castle and to the encampments beyond. “What was it, my ramshid, that your father used to say? About chaos and strong ramshids.” The ramshid sniffed and wondered for a moment just what the ramtej’s intent was, but he indulged the question. “He would speak of the chaos and great bloodlettings of old that had forged hard men, and of how those great men and their strong ramshids would bring about good days. And then he would promise that good days always bring about a weaker breed of men that kneel before indulgent ramshids, and then those men finally bring bad times. The bloodletting is renewed, and the cycle restarts then, as it always has and always will.” “Indeed, for your father was a wise man and understood men, knew what moved their hearts and knew that their hearts have a proclivity towards vice. But he understood this also: that bad times are unvirtuous times, and that such proliferation of vice causes those of pure natures to become inclined towards virtue; the ugliness of vice and the ugliness it causes, this great imbalance in the world, drives them towards virtue. These strong virtuous ramshids create good days, for their virtue brings about the cosmic balance vital to any goodness.” The old ramtej paused, his black eyes gazing towards the far horizon before he turned and looked directly at Dagran. “And these good days, brought by the virtuous strength of those who came before, cause the new generations to forget the evils that vice brings, the cosmic imbalance and chaos it causes. And their hearts become inclined towards its momentary pleasures. Weak, undisciplined, unvirtuous; they bring ruin to themselves and ruin to all. This is as it has always been, for you are a learned man my ramshid and you know this, but it is not as it always needs to be. If our ramshids know to be ever virtuous, then the times will be ever good.” The ramshid’s own black eyes seemed to gaze listlessly over the horizon, his head gently bobbing in nods as though he heard nothing more than the eddies of wind. But when the other man had said his fill, Dagran did not wait long to reply. “Truth dwells in your words, wise Viparta,” he admitted, forgoing titles and calling the ramtej by his name, “and I have oft thought in ways much the same. Most men are shortsighted, lacking in vision; I think that is what leads them to fall prey to vice and foolishness, to abandon all teaching of discipline and vex their fathers. They contemplate yesterday, and realise that it was not so different from the day before that, or the one before, or even some day a cycle ago. So then they look to tomorrow, and think that it too shall be much the same. They are like leaves, falling from trees on the riverbank and drifting down into the water to be swept this way and that, never imagining that they might paddle their own way - or perhaps even change the course of the river! Ha! “Gaze upward, Viparta; do you see how high this fort stands? Have you seen any other like it? Or even any temple so grand, reaching so close to the heavens above?” The hints of tiredness, boredom, [i]reticence[/i] in the ramshid had vanished, replaced by something else… something perhaps more dangerous. His eyes were smiling, and the scent of pride was upon his breath as real as if it were a cloying smell of wine. The ramtej looked up, his dark eyes impassive and mouth pursed. “It is a high fort indeed. Perhaps nothing higher was ever made by the hands of man - other than your father’s of course. It is a good and dutiful son who avoids outdoing his father, after all; and you my ramshid are clearly just that. And though the temples of man’s making are all of them cast low about you, the divine temple stands there in the west, the throne of the One Who Frowns down upon all and is not frowned down upon.” The ramtej smiled slightly. “It is as though he says, ‘build!’ and mocks all we raise high. Where is Sahruqar and its high towers? Where are its thousand streets, its hundred gates? Sprawling and mighty, built like a mountain and spreading like the sea - think how a mere peasant brought it low.” The ramtej spoke sadly, bitterly, but when his eyes turned to Dagran there was also a knowing gleam in the darkness of his eyes. “Is it not said, after all: ‘No glories ever fruit by mortals planned / The gods all laugh at all we scheme and brew / Come let us weep the loss of love and land’?” “You must meditate carefully upon such thoughts, ramtej. A fruit half ripe and yet half black is in the end just a rotten fruit, and so a man who preaches half wisdom but half folly likewise cannot be called wise at all. Just ruminate upon what you have said: if no sons were ever to outdo their fathers, out of their senses of goodness and duty, out of [i]fear[/i], then you must understand that there would be no forts at all. We would all live in hovels and be nothing more than the dirt beneath our feet. From the hard times there would arise no strong men and ‘good ramshids’ to bring about better days, you see? So in your mockery you find truth: I [i]am[/i] a good and dutiful son to my father, for seeking to rebuild the realm that was his legacy and leave behind a legacy of my own that is even stronger yet. The land bleeds and suffers; these are trying times, make no mistake, and I am a hard man that must - that shall! - see them into the twilight. “And as for Sahruqar, you know as well as I that it lies a ruin. Its walls were not tall enough, the slopes and might of its mountain too easily climbed. So again that is why the son must surpass his father, and why I must build my own stronghold into a city stronger and grander yet, one that shall not fall for many lifetimes if ever. Have you ever thought of what it must be like, to be a god and look down upon all? I think that to them, we must be as mere ants. Do you notice the stray ants that crawl beneath your shadow? Do you concern yourself overly with any of them, of their struggles? No, you simply cannot, so you walk on mercilessly, not wishing them harm but also not watching for those that fall beneath your feet. But when the ants come together and build a great mound, then you take notice. Then you step around it. Perhaps one could say that in so doing, you give the ants your blessing.” The ramtej turned away from the balcony, his eyes betraying his regret for having come or spoken. There was simply no reasoning with a man whose hubris matched the mountains. “Then build, ramshid. But as you build remember - for you are a learned man, are you not? - what became of those who came before us. Glorious ramshids came and went, the Glorified Mojtha, a god amongst us, descended and ruled; only the essential goodness of his teachings survive, not his ramshidra, not his great temples, not even his progeny. [i]Only[/i] his virtue.” He glanced over his shoulder, his lips compressed. “Had you and your brothers loved your father better, my ramshid…” the words faded away, and the old man’s eyes lost themselves in thought as he turned away and walked off muttering to himself, “you are blowing into ashes, Viparta, into cinders. Won’t you learn?” [list][*][hider=Summary] The Ramshid Dagran, or Warprince as he is styled by the enemies who dispute his claim, is introduced. [/hider][/list]