[center][h1]Realm of Kolodiva[/h1] [h2]1 Interregnum[/h2] [color=gray]”Man is above all else mind, consciousness -- that is, he is a product of history, not of nature.”[/color][/center][hr] A clatter of gold, a thump of the body, a shout of alarm. A cry went up throughout the halls, “His Majesty has collapsed! Fetch the apothecary!” It was not long for the news to reach Witalis, on one of his inspections of the city ramparts. He rushed to the palace, his personal guard in tow, to the quarters of his father. With a wave of his hands, he ordered the palace guard, “I will handle this! Tend to the palace gate.” His own guards took positions as the palace guard slunk away, one of them asking as Witalis entered the quarters, “Sir, whom are we to permit in?” To which Witalis responded, sharply, “Nobody. Not even the apothecary.” The guard hesitated for a moment in shock, before realization washed over him, and with a curt nod, he barred the door. Witalis’ bronze armor clanked as he kneeled next to the bed of his father. Valesti looked on in mad desperation, writhing weakly as he sputtered, choked, and seized. The Royal Castellan shook his head, saying softly, “It’s finally come to this. You aren’t the man of my childhood anymore. The law has slipped in your madness.” He shook his head, almost sadly, continuing, “I’ll take good care of your kingdom. I’ll string up all those who disrespected us. I’ll string them all up.” Valesti continued to seize as his son got up and walked to the king’s desk. He pulled out the chair, turning it to face the bed. Then, he sat down and watched. There was some indignant shouting outside the door. The apothecary had arrived, it seemed. Witalis made a mental note to have the apothecary impaled for such blatant disrespect of the orders of a Royal Castellan and King-to-be. Valesti suffered for hours. The apothecary shouted outside the door the entire time. Witalis refused to take his eyes off of his father, his gaze hardening as his father slowly expired. Finally, with foam pouring from his mouth, Valesti seized one last time and fell silent. His breathing stilled, and his soul fled. The Royal Castellan stood, and with a disgusted glance at the corpse of his father, threw open the door. A moment of inspiration struck. He pointed at the apothecary, and shouted, “Have him seized for failing to save the life of his majesty! Impale him at the palace gates for all to see!” Witalis’ personal guard, hand-selected for their loyalty, complied immediately. The Royal Castellan left them to the task as he went to assemble the city guard. There were pretenders to topple. [hr] The sun lay low in the sky. No crickets sounded, as though even the animals of the realm had recognized the grave news that rode like a black wave from Gorleka. Only the sound of hooves on mud, the panting of the exhausted horse, and the yips of the rider who spurred on broke the silence. Noone else remained on the road, for the day was slipping and honesty did not dwell under the moon. Ahead, the squat buildings of Cajnicea stood. Pinpricks of candle-light glittered in windows, and the torches of the city guard lit up the streets. The rider yelled his horse to a stop as a guard stepped out into the road, commanding, “Halt! What business rushes you into town so?” The rider shouted back, his voice hoarse, “I bear grave news for Marin met Valesti, from the capital of the Unified Fiefdoms! I carry the seal of the merchant houses! Halt me at your own risk!” He fished an envelope from his pack, waving it in the torchlight. Indeed, it was a wax seal of the Cajnicean merchant houses, a right of passage. The guard stepped out of the way, saying, “Gods give you luck, boy!” as the rider spurred his horse once more. He charged directly through town, and began to shout when he came into sight of the gate of Marin’s manor estate. He screamed, “I bear grave news for Marin met Valesti! I carry the seals of the merchant houses! Open the gate, and bear me to Marin met Valesti!” The gate swung open, and the rider waved his envelope at the estate guards as he passed. They did not pursue him further, as the stable boy rushed out to assist with his horse. He leaped from the horse, taking off in a sprint to the manor. The front doors flung open. In the robes of a man intent on sleep, Marin blearily looked out at the rider. The rider fell panting at the feet of Marin, and took a moment to catch his breath before speaking, “Sir, your father the King, he is dead! He was laid low by malady, his apothecary staked for his failure! Your brother, the Royal Castellan, has penned writs of levy. He intends to secure the realm as his!” If Marin met Valesti had been tired, he was no longer. He turned to a guard and said, “Give this boy a letter of credit worth a hundred pebble, as thanks for his timely delivery of the news. Grant him the guest room with the wash-basin, and see to it that his horse is cared for especially well.” Then, without a moment to waste, he turned back into his estate, yelling, “Steward! Fetch the ink, and rouse two dozen messengers, immediately!” He ran to his study, grabbing scrolls on his way. His steward rushed in with the ink, placing it down on Marin’s desk, before rushing back out to rouse the town’s messengers. He wrote his own writs, ones of contract and payment. Some addressed to bands of southern plainsmen, others to mercenary companies across the realm. He may not have maintained a standing army, but a horde of mercenaries would do the trick just as well. He worked well into the night, his steward fetching each scroll and sending them out. There was a kingdom of riches to seize. [hr] The news came to Gornibin with the morning missives, and soon, it was all the town could talk about. The death of the king! Rumor held it that he was poisoned! Stabbed by an assassin! Betrayed by his own guards! The entire city had collapsed, and taken his Majesty with it! The news grew more and more outlandish as it spread, taking on the form of an army of undead southern plainsmen razing Gorleka to the ground and salting the earth by the time it reached the ears of Kuba met Valesti, high in his cathedral. He was not such a fool to take them at face value, of course; but nevertheless tidbits of truth could be taken from the rumors. His father’s death was a certainty. He scrapped his plans for the morning sermon, and took up quill and ink to draft a new one. He intended to see the throne, and he knew Witalis would see him as the threat he was. To secure the realm in the hands of the gods, the Bishop tep Caedan would have to form an army of the faithful. Lucky, then, that he resided in a town of the faithful. He would have to drive them to action in the morning sermon, equivalate his will to Caedan’s, and whip the town into a frenzy. Then, he could withdraw the Guard-upon-River, and from their experienced ranks draw the core of his new army. With luck, he would ride, a victorious king, into Gorleka, to take his late father’s throne. Then, the Cults of the Constant would be no more. The heresies of the Oreli would be snuffed out. Caedan and Gebei would stand triumphant, across a land of the holy and the devout. He would forge the realm into a bastion of the true faiths. All of Caedan’s enemies would repent, or they would burn in the pyres of retribution. All of them. The bells rang for mass. Kuba took his leave of his study, taking the long flight of stairs down to take his place at the pulpit. That morning, words of fiery retribution, of holy war to come filled his preachings. Of the portents of doom should they fail, and the insidious plots of the Constant and the Oreli. The betrayal of the Royal Castellan, and the lack of faith that lead to the king’s death. A faithful rage overtook the procession. The news would spread quickly, and the Guard-upon-River would surely abandon their posts as it reached them, for they were faithful and put their love in Kuba met Valesti, the true successor to the king. The divine right was his, and the gods walked with him. [hr] The news from Gorleka filtered into the frontier lands to the far-east in the mid-day, carried with the Guard-upon-River. It passed from man to man until it had reached the experimental irrigation-fields Metody met Valesti had taken the liberty to inspect. He had nearly fainted when he heard it. He instructed his retinue, “Sirs, bring news of this to the villages! Instruct them that I am putting out a call to arms!” He paused, before saying, “My brothers seek to claim the throne, but we all know they would lead it to ruin! Only I am fit to rule this realm, and together, we will see the best come to pass!” With a wave, he sent off his retinue, and he returned to his field tent. The excitement of the coming war pounded in his heart. The rest of them were fools, ignorant of history, of governance, of everything. They were barely even literate. He was the only one, of all his brothers, fit to rule. They would see the realm driven to ruin, in ignorance and ineptitude. His fists clenched as rage filled him. The thought of their misrule drove him to deep anger. Then, he steeled himself. His resolve hardened, as he repeated, out loud, to himself, “The only way to see it done right is to do it myself. I will see this realm made mine.” He smiled as he imagined an enlightened Kolodiva under his rule. He would be the philosopher-king, he would forge an empire to stand the test of time. The rest of them would fall in line, and they would no longer threaten or cajole him. They would bow down to him and beg him for forgiveness; and he would have them all killed. All for the betterment of the realm; their ignorance would be deadly. He would walk into Gorleka the enlightened king, and his rule would go down in history as the golden age of Kolodiva. [hr] The Anchor learned of the news three days from Valesti’s death, along the trade-lanes. Filtered along by messengers to the ears of the Prince of Chruda. From there, the Prince of Chruda sent missive to Eliasz met Valesti, the estranged son of the king. Eliasz would see the support of the Anchor; in return, should he be throned, his policy would be most favorable to the northern cities. Eliasz had no intent to honor such a promise, but nevertheless he freely and willingly agreed to it. He would keep the Anchor lulled with promises of riches and favor, until he could stand on his own two feet a king of the realm. With each northern city committing a small portion of their forces, together they would form an army capable of matching his brothers. Thus was his right, a son of Valesti called to the endless pleasures of kingly rule. He would no longer live in a manor. He would call the palace his home, and he would walk along its marble pillars. Gold would be heaped at his feet, and feasts held every day in his honor. All of this was what he deserved. He began to draft plans in his mind. The scorn of his father mattered no longer. He only had to reach out and seize what was his. [hr] Alesky was tending to the flock when the men on horseback came, in shining bronze armor and carrying implements of war. They had called the village to the commons, everyone required to attend. Alesky was an honest and hard-working child, so he obeyed, leaving the flock in safe pasture within view of the commons. His father met him there, worry scrawled upon his face. The sergeant-at-arms took a scroll from his pack, opening it. He read, “The year is now 1 Rule of Witalis. The king, Valesti, lays dead. The rightful successor, Witalis met Valesti, assumes his throne. The fiefdoms oppose the law. All able-bodied young men, of the ages fourteen to twenty-six are to march in the armies of the King. The punishment for failing to answer the call will be summary beheading, to be meted out at my will. Thus is the will of your king!” The ten men behind him advanced, and began to round up the villagers. Aleksy was too young to join the levy, so he was sent from the commons. He fled to his house, looking out as his father, Chwalibog, was declared too old. He too fled the commons. It took thirty minutes for the troop to round up the suitable men. They marched them out at lance-point. Aleksy’s father slammed open the door to the hut, a look of simmering disappointment and anger in his eyes. Juliusz came in shortly after. Aleksy asked, “What happened? Why did they take everyone away?” Chwalibog’s gaze softened as he looked at his son, and he said, softly, “Sometimes the king demands things of us. It’s not a thing a young lad should worry about. Just.. Let it go from your mind. It’s none of your concern.” Aleksy looked on, more confused than before as his mother, tears in her eyes, knelt down and hugged him tightly. [hider=summary] Valesti goes into a pretty bad seizure. Witalis gets word, and runs over. He dismisses the palace guard, replacing the guard with men loyal to him, and then forbids entry to the apothecary. He tells his dad that he’s not gonna let him live and he’ll rule well in his stead. Then, he watches as his dad dies in front of him. Then, he writes writs of levy to put down his brothers. Marin gets the news the same day, and writes contracts for mercenary support, drawing most of the realm’s mercenaries to him. He intends to take the throne. The next day, Kuba gets word in the form of rumor. He picks out what is true, and drives the masses into religious fervor and recalls the Guard-upon-River, intent on using their combat experience to murder his brothers and turn the realm into a puritan kingdom. Metody gets the news along the river, and sends out a call to arms for the pioneers. He intends to also kill his brothers, and strokes his ego by convincing himself he would be the most enlightened king. The day after that, Eliasz gets the news, and decides that he deserves all the luxury of a king. With a coalition of the Anchor cities, he forms an army capable of rivalling his borthers, whom he intends to kill. The same day, ten soldiers and a sergeant-at-arms read a writ of levy to the nameless village in which Aleksy resides. They take every boy between 14 and 26, and force them by lance-point to march towards the capital. Aleksy is confused and hurt. [/hider]