Rach Rose sat upon a baqualo-skinned pillow in his garden, admiring the moonlight shine upon his roses. They took on his violet hue that was simply impossible to replicate with any other flavour, especially when taking the fragrance into account. In his hand, he held a cup of hot flower tea, wagging it thoughtfully around as he took in the surroundings. To think, the young king had so easily and foolishly abandoned his house’s claim to the throne. He had expected far too much from him - Turmerick was even more naive than anyone could have imagined. Oh, sure, the queen and princess had both come to plead for him to forget all about the young king’s words, but they both knew it had been for naught. A groundbreaking reform in the Fragrancian leadership was about time, too - monarchy was a much-too-archaic form of government; they would learn from the Akuans, instead - have a government ruled by the people.
Rach Rose pursed his lips. The right people, of course.
Still, for such reform to take place, they would need guidance - it would be no simple task to unite the rachsas to form a government. With a king, at least, one had someone to mediate when negotiations went sour between them - now, he would have to rule alongside the other rachsas to govern Fragrance. He could at least take solace in the fact that none of the rachsas were strong enough to single-handedly overpower all the others; his, which was the strongest, would need the support of at least two other major houses.
His thoughts brought sweat to his forehead - he had had such plans, but he had not expected the prince to mess everything up -this- fast. Many of his ideas could not be hastened anymore than they already had been. He would have to focus first on suppressing the inevitable public outrage whenever the news of the king’s decision would leak. He thought of his future colleagues in government - he would have to send couriers to all of them soon. He had sent couriers already to his closest allies, asking them to come to his mansion. He needed as many friends as he could get in these times of change.
Approaching footsteps pulled him out of his thoughts. The soles were soft sandals, worn with a gentle, yet firm gait - a sudden clash of lavender to challenge his roses heralded the approach of his heart. Rach Rose found himself grinning giddily and rose from his pillow to greet the guest.
“Lavender, my heart - I knew you would come,” rach Rose breathed affectionately. Approaching him came a lean, well-groomed man with skin like the night sky, hair like coal and eyes like stars - pahrk Lavender, one of the rach’s most prized soldiers.
“Of course, I would come - what would I not do for you, my Rose?” Lavender responded and the two met in a long, passionate kiss. Their hands massaged at each other’s necks and fingers dragged softly through their hair. Rose brought one of his hands to Lavender’s chest and gently broke away from the kiss, leaning his forehead against his.
“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you of late…” whispered the rach. Lavender tittered.
“Yeah, judging from your kwaxl, you’ve been through quite a lot.” He planted a kiss on his forehead. “Did you think about me during the battle of Monsax?”
Rach Rose pulled away slightly. “You know I could’ve died there, right?”
“But you did think about me in those times of danger, yes?”
The rach turned away and his dark blue cheeks darkened further in a blush. “... Yes…” Lavender tittered smugly and flicked his right wrist towards the left. A woosh of wind caught a pillow sitting by a nearby saloon table and brought it over next to the rach’s. The warrior then proceeded to sit down. Rach Rose clicked his tongue in approval.
“Wow, your x’ao-kaom really -has- improved, huh,” he mumbled softly as Lavender crossed his arms over his chest.
“What, did you doubt me?”
“Well, when you write ‘I feel like I can move heaven and earth’, I’d still say you might’ve exaggerated a liiiittle bit - but it’s clear you’ve made progress.” Lavender rolled his eyes and chuckled; the rach joined in. “By the way, are you thirsty? Hungry? Can I get you anything?”
“A meal and some tea would be wonderful, my heart.” Rach Rose nodded and clapped his hands. The bead-curtain door to the main house was gently pushed aside and out peeked the head of the rachfi. Rach Rose turned his torso to face her. Lavender offered her a greeting click, which the rachfi echoed in response.
“Oio’j is thirsty and hungry. Bring us some more tea and… Would you like something sweet or salty, Lav?”
“Ooh, the sage says I eat too much sun and noise - something sweet and quiet would be lovely.”
Rach Rose clicked approvingly. “My, you read my thoughts. Rachfi, bring us two servings of maokl, and go easy on the cinnamon. Oh, and another pot of tea, my love - let’s keep it to jasmine.”
The rachfi clicked in acknowledgement and ducked back inside. Lavender smirked and leaned back on his large pillow. “I should find myself a woman soon. Must be nice to have someone to take care of the house.”
“Oh, certainly,” rach Rose agreed and slurped quietly at the rim of his still-half-full teacup. “She’s given me quite the flock, too. Five sons and three daughters - can you imagine?”
Lavender looked up at the night sky. “No, I really can’t… A fertile and obedient lady such as her is a rare gift, my heart - your legacy is secure. Speaking of…” He offered Rose a knowing click. “Congratulations on inheriting the kingdom of Fragrance!”
Rose chuckled politely. “Now, now, it’s not like I’m the sole regent. Not that I would want to be, either.” He sighed and balanced his chin on his fist. Lavender offered him a look and placed his head on his shoulder softly.
“You work hard, my heart - no one sees just how much you do for Fragrance.” Rach scoffed playfully, but Lavender touched his cheek gently. “No, I mean it! King Safron was, well, not a very good king - we both know that. He was quick to temper, had no idea how to control his heir Cinna, and when he banished that brat, he got himself killed before he could even teach his youngest the basics of rulership. Trust me - you have saved Fragrance -a lot- of trouble.” His whisper became even fainter. “Besides, you know what would’ve happened if the boy had become king - the Nilla rachsa would’ve gobbled him up in an instant; we would never have seen him again. Now, the Nillas have just as much control of the situation as we do - probably even less.” He planted a kiss on his cheek. “I’m so proud of you.”
Rach Rose blinked. “I’m… Surprised you’ve been paying this much attention to politics. Have you been around different crowds since you went to Scenta?” Lavender chuckled, then offered a half-hearted groan.
“Ugh, I wish. It’s my master, Hyasynth, constantly pushing news down my throat from all around the country. I just want to learn how to cast spells - I don’t, i don’t need all this.” He made a ‘prrt’ with the lips. “Although, it does help me stay up to date with what you’ve been up to when you don’t write to me.”
“Would you like me to write more often?”
“Pfft, please don’t - I can only handle so much of the city drama before I go mad. Although, I do think you should get back into poetry - you have a gift, I tell you!”
Rose blushed. “N-no, that was just, just a phase.”
“Come ooon, Rosey - do it for me, man!”
“Oh, you’re such a cliché romantic…” Rose muttered to the sound of Lavender flexing his arms.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not just romantic - I -am- romance itself. Have I not the physique of the heroes of old? Come on, praise me, heart, praise me.”
Rose scoffed and took his hand, bringing it to his lips. “You’re such an idiot…”
“You used to write poetry, my love?” came a feminine voice behind them. Rachfi Belladonna Rose knelt down beside the rach with a tray in her hands, upon which was a fresh clay pot steaming tea, two clay plates, each topped with a portion of round, mushy cake, and a cup for Lavender. Rach Rose offered Belladonna a polite click.
“I did, yes… For a time.” The rachfi gave him a hopeful look and gasped softly in anticipation, but the rach looked away from her and sucked thoughtfully on a tooth. “It’s a very private matter, though. I’ve made no promises to start again.”
Lavender raised his brows at Rose and forced a soft chuckle. “Don’t mind him, Bella - he’s tired from work today.”
The rachfi’s hope dissipated and she offered a solemn click of acknowledgement. “I… I understand.” She rose to her feet. “Please, enjoy your meal, you two,” she said with a bow and walked back towards the house.
“Belladonna, my love?” The rachfi spun around with clapped her hands softly to indicate anticipation and attention. The rach frowned slightly. “Please keep your xuakla close in case we require entertainment. We will likely be sitting for a while.”
The rachfi scrunched her nose and clicked in acknowledgement before bowing again and stepping into the main house. The rach and pahrk both grabbed their plates and gave the cake a taste. Lavender offered a soft sigh. “I think you should treat her a little better, actually.”
Rose smacked his lips in surprise. “Are you saying I treat her poorly?”
Lavender swallowed his bite. “No, no - you’re good and polite to her, but, well… She’s given you, as you said, quite the flock, and she is obviously quite faithful to you. Don’t you think that warrants some additional reward of sorts?”
Rose sipped his teacup with a frown. “Well, I provide for her and our family and allow her to stay at my property - in return, she serves me as any good fiya’j would. I even go out of my way to celebrate her birthday and to honour her fidelity and worth every X’ao-x’ei. What, are you saying she should have a wage, as well?”
“Hey, hey, no need to get upset, my heart,” Lavender whispered calmly. Rose looked away, and his husband cupped his chin in his hand and turned his face to his own. “Look, if you feel like you are doing your duty to her as her oia’ssi, then I won’t question it. It’s just… I think you could be happier with her if you opened up a little more - saw her as more than just fiya’choi, then maybe…?”
Rose sucked disapprovingly on his teeth. “It’s just… I don’t want you to think I’m not faithful to you.” Lavender scoffed.
“What, you think I’d be jealous of your wife? Wow, if you want -that- sort of relationship with a woman, hooo-kay!”
“Ugh! I’m being serious here, Lav!”
“So am I, my heart!” The pahrk placed his hand on Rose’s chest and cocked his head playfully to the side. “I know what kind of love we have for one another. You treating fiya’choi as a nelven being instead of a slave won’t change any of that.”
Rose shrunk a little. “You realise what kind of looks I’ll get from the other rachs, right? Their rachsas?” Lavender scoffed again.
“Looks-scmooks - look at the Nillas. They’re strong because they work together as friends, maybe even lovers - not as master and servant. You said it yourself in your message: You need friends more than ever. Maybe you should start at home, hmm?”
The rach sighed. “Is that why I’ve felt the Nillas are so… Queer?”
“Yup. There’s power in relationships, my heart - even between a man and his wife.”
The rach sucked in a slow breath. “Ugh, I hate it when you make sense.”
“Hey, just because I am a mountain of muscle does not mean I am without brains. The moon has blessed me with wisdom to rival a sage.”
“Alright, easy there, shadowtiger…” Rose looked over his shoulder. “Belladonna, my love?” In a heartbeat, the rachfi peeked out of the curtain door once more. Rose looked visibly uncomfortable, but an encouraging kiss from Lavender empowered him once more. “Would… Would you like to join us for some tea?”
The rachfi gasped as quietly as she could, which wasn’t very quietly at all, and popped back inside. Rose sucked in a breath through the teeth. “Maybe it was too much all at once?”
Lavender shook his head as there came a ruckus from inside the hut, followed by Belladonna hurrying over to sit beside her husband, xuakla faithfully in hand and a white-toothed smile on her dark purple face. “No, I think it was just right,” the warrior offered and took another sip of tea. The three of them spent the rest of the night giggling over stories, and Belladonna even told some herself in between her gentle music. Rose had to confess eventually - she did make him happy.
Rach Rose is planning what to do next after his king abdicated his throne by fucking up his legacy. He’s pretty happy about it, but it sorta sucks, too, because many of his plans would’ve needed more time. He wants to reach out to the Akuans to learn about democracy, among other things, but for now, he’s just stressed.
Lo and behold, he gets a visit from his boyfriend Lavender, who’s visiting from Scenta. The two share a number of happy moments, catching up and stuff. Lavender’s a mage, and the two discuss how he’s gotten better at magic, and then how rach Rose is gonna rule Fragrance with the other noble families. They then order the rachfi Belladonna, Rose’s wife, to get them some food and tea, and then they enjoy that stuff. It’s revealed that rach Rose used to write poetry, something Lavender wishes he’d do again. Belladonna hears this and gets excited, but the rach shuts her down because she’s just the wife. When she goes back into the house, Lavender says he ought to treat her better, to which Rose responds, “I provide for her - what else do I need to do?” Lavender suggests treating her like a nelven being, and after some back and forth, she is allowed to join the men.
Aboard the ARS Suleiman, flagship of the Second Fleet...
The ARS Suleiman, despite being the flagship of Her Majesty the Archduchess’ Second Fleet, often found itself delegated mainly to patrol duty in Jovian space. It wasn’t as though Europa was engaged in a multitude of conflicts, but to see such a magnificent ship delegated to coast guard duty didn’t always sit well with the admiralty. One such grumpy admiral was none other than the ship captain himself: Admiral Hercules Muhammed Wellsley.
Admiral Hercules Muhammed Wellsley, as one would note quite quickly upon seeing him, was a chimpanzee, specifically an uplifted one - a simmie, as his kind was called. He was in his graying years, with large ashen bushes growing on his brow, and his once dark brown scalp, neck and back growing ever lighter. He wore a scowl, one aimed sharply at the ray-shield monitor before him. The bridge of the Suleiman was propped full of cadets, technicians, knights and engineers, competing with the beeping and rumbling of the machinery around them for who could be the loudest. The admiral offered a growl and tapped around on the display, the screen switching to show the near-space radar scans from the last few minutes. A blinking dot on the screen caused his eyes to narrow.
“Ms. Senai? Remind me - has Overwatch received any transmissions of inflights in this sector?”
A dark skinned woman in her late thirties overlooking a monitor beside him pursed her lips and switched around the displays, pulling up a log. “One minute, admiral. Search: Augustus Sector, Jupiter’s orbit above gas drill station Ivan.” A brief beep signalled the computer’s confirmation of the order and the list turned to a blur as it scrolled through the logged reports of flights through Europan space. After thirty seconds or so, the blur became intelligible again. Natsinet Senai swiped the list to the left, sending it to the admiral’s display. “At 23:31, a small freighter by the name of ‘Theogony’ sent in a notice of passage, which was cleared by Overwatch.”
The admiral looked at the time and sighed: 04:59. “Acknowledged. Performing standard verification procedures and all that... What was the registration code on the Theogony?”
“IPF20BAA-9.”
“Very good. Mr. Lavigne, run close image scans - verify that the ship code matches the one in the register. Mr. Brun, bring me a cuppa.”
“Yes, admiral!” shouted Mr. Brun over the noise of the bridge and jogged to the water boiler. The admiral flecked his lower set of fingers and rolled his head around his neck. For fifty years, he had been an admiral of the Royal Navy - this sort of work was beneath him. He gave his temple a slow rub.
“Uh, admiral?” The ape raised a brow.
“Yes, Mr. Lavigne?”
The radar operative enlargened his own display so the whole bridge could see. “Take a look at this.” He enhanced the image. “The code doesn’t match. This one’s VL2991.”
“That’s not a freighter at all, actually,” Ms. Senai added. “That’s a corvette. A shabby one, too.”
The admiral felt a small rush. Finally - some action. He sat himself properly in his chair and copied a live feed of the the imaging display onto his own monitor. “A gas runner, huh? Probably thought Ivan would be a quick in-and-out. I would not be buying lottery tickets if I was them.” Those around him snickered. The admiral smirked. “Alright, ladies and gentlemen, let’s not allow them to sully Her Majesty’s industrial parks any longer. Lt. Yung, sound the alarm; Ms. Keaton, open up a communication’s channel; Cpt. Schmidt, have the cannons manned and missiles locked. Aim for thrusters with intention to clip their wings - the gas runners will hang from the gallows in Aaland, as all who defy Her Majesty’s laws will.”
“Affirmative, admiral,” the three of them shouted in response and the alarms blared swiftly thereafter. A Europan ship-of-the-line like the ARS Suleiman had what some considered to be unnecessarily large crews, as though the modernisation of their fleet had thrown advanced AI to the winds. While that was certainly the case, it also stemmed from a wish among the admiralty for a return to the glorious past - a manned navy, free of the terrors of the cold AI that so tortured their system.
There sounded mechanical thunder as the broadside cannons exited their hatches. Above, the woosh of air blasting out of open missile pods sent shivers through the ship. Companies of spacers on the floors beneath the bridge ran back and forth between the armoury and the cannon controls.
“They’re responding to our communications request, admiral. Bringing them up on the screen now.”
Ms. Keaton flicked the display over to a large, central hub screen on the wall. The channel opened, revealing four filthy faces, two humans, one diwa and what looked like a skimpy jarian. They appeared frozen with fear. The admiral put on a face like stone and collected his hands behind his back. “Good evening, scoundrels. This is admiral Hercules Muhammed Wellsley of Her Majesty Archduchess Aurora Saint-Mary Rosenkrantz-Monsoiller’s royal navy. Per the rules of Port Europa and the laws of the Panhuman Empire to whom we swear loyalty, your ship is trespassing on royal property. Remove yourselves from the premises or expect to be treated like the pirates you are.”
“S-shit, Donnie, it’s the… Oh, God, shit, shit, SHIT!” came a whimper from the jarian. One of the humans and the serengeti exchanged looks of terror.
“W-we d-didn’t--! W-we’ll get out of here!” The human scrambled to reach the other side of the cockpit which they were in and started mashing buttons desperately.
“Admiral,” said Mr. Lavigne. “We can confirm that the target has maxed its thruster output in a direction away from gas station Ivan.”
Admiral Wellsley spat dryly. The communication channel closed. “What do you think are the chances that they took something?”
“Uh, small, sir. They were still on their way to the station by the time we intercepted,” Mr. Lavigne added. Heads were turning to face the admiral. Wellsley pursed his lips.
“Small is still a chance. This could’ve been their tenth run tonight, for that matter. I do not play with chances.” He hopped back onto into his chair and pressed a button. “Cpt. Schmidt, disable their thruster capabilities.”
There came a few gasps. Mr. Lavigne rose out of his seat. “Admiral, they retreated. Is this really necessary?”
“They’re pirates, Mr. Lavigne, destined to hang from the neck until dead. A running pirate is nothing more than a running criminal. Lt. Yung, have boarding fire up the tractor beam.”
Mr. Lavigne furrowed his brow and sat back down. There came a thunder from below deck and the radar display showed three gray dots travelling towards the targeted ship with a mighty speed. Infrared imaging of the target showed three brief flashes of white before the hot white which had been the thrusters began to cool. “Confirmed hits on all three thrusters, admiral,” shouted Lt. Yung.
“Good. How’s that tractor beam coming along?”
“Already active, sir. The corvette is getting closer as we speak.”
“Very good. Have the romsoldats bring them in once they’re close enough. Tell them to employ stun weapons; if they resist, switch to lethal.”
“Understood, admiral.” As orders were repeated into speakers, Wellsley leaned back into his chair to observe. He cast occasional glances over at Mr. Lavigne, who sometimes looked judgingly back at him. Radar operators… They never had the gall to do what was necessary, he felt.
No matter. He would learn as all his men and women had. Besides, nothing broke the monotony of this job like a good hanging at dawn.
”Quand tous les républiques et fédérations sont passées, la monarchie dure.” “When all the republics and federations are in the past, the monarchy persists.”
Port Europa is an absolute monarchy - the moon of Europa’s placed firmly under the rule of the House of Rosenkranz-Monsoiller, a royal family with ties to the old empire back on Earth. Since the collapse of the Terran Empire, Europa has served as a refuge and tax haven for Terran nobles and aristocrats. The royal family has overall control of the moon, but most everyday management is delegated to the princes(ses) one level down. Europa is divided into sixteen principalities, each ruled by a prince or princess either of house Rosenkranz-Monsoiller or an allied house.
Port Europa has a diverse population consisting of both humans, demihumans and uplifted animals. The population numbers 11 million. Notable groups are as follows:
Humans: While they once were, purebred humans are now far from common on Europa. The ones that remain are almost automatically brought up to higher living standards than others, and are typically born into the royal families or adopted into them. A shortage of purebred humans in certain principalities has led to inbreeding among the upper class, as a last resort over interbreeding with demihumans.
Serengetis: The Serengetis came to be as a result of a need for foot soldiers during the fall of the Panhuman Empire. When Europa turned out to become less and less relevant in the wars that followed, the Serengetis were left to their own devices, and soon became a began to take up a larger and larger percentage of the demographic. Originally bred to be aggressive and simple in order to more easily control, the Serengetis have only recently managed to claw themselves out of poverty on a noticeable scale, helped by aid programs and increased recognition of their civil talents outside the military. Still, they are heavily discriminated against in royal circles.
Orcs: So named for their similar appearance to Old Earth fantasy creatures, the orcs are humans modified to handle the immense gravitational pull of Jupiter while working on mining stations around it. They had hard, reptilian with colours ranging from radioactive green to bark brown and coal black, and often sport broad, powerful builds. They are rarely very tall, however, growing only to be two metres at the very tallest. Males and females look largely similar, distinguishable moreso by fashion standards than actual bodily traits. Specimens on Europa are typically much lankier and frailer than their Jupiter counterparts.
Diwas: Some of the humans who first arrived on Europa found refuge from the terribly cold surface by journeying under the ice to settle. There, they tried to alter themselves biologically to adapt to the undersea world outside their glass domes. The result would be the Diwas, a piscine demihuman adapted to be able to survive in the waters of Europa for up to four hours.
Yetis: After the failure of the Diwas to become wholly adapted to the subsurface seas of Europa, and in light of the failure of the Lebensraum Project, the settlers of Europa made another attempt to breed suitable life, this time on the surface. The result would be known as the yeti, and is considered an abomination by the rest of society. It looks to many like a mixture between a human and an ape, standing two metres tall on average with a gruesomely unkempt suit of white fur. Their appearance got them banished from most principalities, and most now either live short, cold lives on the Europan surface or in hidden enclaves in the underbellies of the more criminal domes.
Simmies: The Simmies are the least human inhabitants of Europa, though many still hold higher offices than some demihumans. They are great apes (including chimpanzees, bonobos, gorillas and orangutans) brought along by humanity to Europa for experimentation. Eventually exposed to a brain-altering serum, the apes developed an almost human-like self-conscious and understanding. While they are only 100 years old as a new subgroup of great apes, they possess an almost eerie level of civility, having adopted a great deal of cultural norms from humanity. They still separate themselves in a number of ways, particularly by means of language, which they convey through hand signs and grunts, or using translating programs. Simmies commonly work as mechanics, electricians, drone operators and construction workers on account of their agility and dexterity, or administrators and managers if wealthy. Their numbers are few, only making up 6% of the population.
The planet is ruled by Archduchess Aurora Saint-Mary Rosenkrantz-Monsoiller, first of her name, and matriarch of house of the Rosenkrantz-Monsoiller. Supposedly, her lineage harks all the way back to Old Earthen royal lines that have lasted millennia. Other notable houses include the Machiaveli-Tepises, the Lovenskiolds, the Kong, the Nehgus Dengel, the Guptas, and the Mansas.
The Europan economy is entirely reliant on the unity of the principalities in producing goods and resources for local consumption and export. The history of Port Europa has seen many different approaches to settlement and industry, and as such, there is a great level of diversity in the manners in which the principalities live and produce.
Principalities:
Surface principalities (built atop the ice sheets):
Europa Centralis - principal capital: Port Europa. Lunar capital as well as economic centre. It is the main spaceport through which the majority of imports and exports are shipped, and serves as the resident principality of the royal family and the majority of centralised institutions, making it also the political capital.
Granbourg - principal capital: Weissgreude. Dome region situated under vast arrays of orbital mirrors that concentrate solar rays down on the vast hydroponic farms spanning much of the principality’s area. Granbourg is one of the largest farming regions on Europa, as well as an energy producer, generating solar power around its dome.
Versailles-Blanchesse - principal capital: Fidelité. Industrial dome region focused on metal, silicate and ice processing, the latter funnelling large volumes of its production primarily to agri-domes like Granbourg and Ostrava. Versailles-Blanchesse produce most of their own food, as well as consumer technology for the rest of the moon’s population, particularly cars and household appliances.
New Gotenland - principal capital: Aaland. Industrial dome region focused on shipbuilding, weaponry and armour - the headquarters of the royal navy. This dome also contains bunker networks that reach into the sea underneath, as well as large radio stations that monitor nearby space. The region is largely devoted to supporting the military sector, but also engages in their own separate industries, such as forestry, agriculture, food processing and furniture production.
Preuzen - principal capital: Bismarck City. An industrial competitor of Versailles-Blanchesse, this dome region has a deeper history with heavy machinery than their northern neighbours, and likewise produces cars. Additionally, however, they also produce drones and heavy load machinery such as excavators, submarines, surface vehicles and spaceships. This is also an important port tied to the gas mining towers on Jupiter.
Ostrava - principal capital: Principa. Ostrava is another vast agricultural region, larger than Granbourg and more angled towards livestock than their counterpart. The endless plains of Ostrava offer an idyllic experience similar to that of Old Earth, though placed underneath a massive dome. Ostrava is poor compared to its counterpart, and local customs have left many unemployed due to outdated inheritance laws.
Translinea - principal capital: Grigoresti. Educational region centered between Preuzen, New Gotenland and Europa Centralis. This region serves as one of the the university hubs on Europa, and is well-known for its programs relating to information technology, drone technology, gas industry and engineering.
Underwater principalities (build under the ice sheets of Europa):
Toscania - principal capital: Forze. Toscania is an subsurface settlement focused on hydroponic agriculture with electronic lighting. They are known for the almost time capsule-like preservation of various wine recipes and Old Earth culinary knowledge, harking back to the pre-emperial Terran sector known as the Mediterranean. Additionally, it is also a well-lit tourist destination for being underwater, so it receives a great deal of visitors all year round. The prince of Toscania, Benito Mezzanine Machiaveli-Tepis, has close ties to the Salvatore family, a local mafia organisation.
Terra Blanca - principal capital: Arsollona. Underwater aquaculture centre, as well as water and oxygen refinery. Well-known for their large-scale fish farming, regional specialities out of Terra Blanca explore the vast arrays of sea life planted in the underice oceans of Europa, born out of strains brought from Old Earth. Originally also a science station devoted to studying native Europan life, it is home to various political movements condemning the exploitation of the local resources and microflora. These movements are centered around the think tank institution Europa Libre.
Nova Nubia - principal capital: Addis Dengel. Nova Nubia is a competitor of Translinea in terms of education, as it, too, seeks to draw students interested in the sciences - particularly biology and oceanology. Nova Nubia serves as a centre of experimentation and scientific projects related to survival on Europa, particularly the development of new demihumans accustomed to either deep sea life or living on the frozen surface. They also dedicate time to studying what signs of original life remain on the moon.
Xingzhou-Shintokyo - principal capital: Xindongjing/Shintokyo. Xingzhou-Shintokyo is often dubbed the Macau of Port Europa. Being a small subsurface principality, it has made a fortune as a casino region, its entire facility dedicated to helping nobles and tourists waste all their life-savings in a single evening. Of all the principalities, this one is the most chaotic, hardly controlled by the local prince at all. Instead, triads and yakuza fight over regional control.
Bengal - principal capital: Pon. Bengal is an energy producer using nuclear energy. Local trade secrets relating to pipework and temperature management are coveted by many of the universities, but Bengal is notorious for closing itself off to compatriots and living rather separate from the rest of the principalities. With the exception of electricity and occasional missives to the archduchess, Bengal keeps itself hidden most of the time.
Neuve Mali - principal capital: Musa. Situated next to a large silicate mine, Neuve Mali serves as one of the key producers of silicates. While far from the only one on Europa, Neuve Mali has historically had close ties to Preuzen and Jupitsara, granting them earlier access to heavy machinery and fuel. This has given them an edge that later proved to be essential to their industry. Additionally, the Musa Institute of Philosophy and Humanities is a highly regarded academy attended by both royalty and commoners.
Jupitsara - principal capital: Pyotrigrad. Gas refinery and storage principality built under the ice close to Preuzen. Their abundance of energy, granted by both gas and nuclear reactors, fuels an industrial complex for the development of undersea machinery. Jupitsara submarines constantly battle with Preuzen submarines over prizes and awards. The local Legasov Faire also draws millions of tourists annually to marvel at local technological prototypes.
Mitreich - principal capital: Antwerde. A dome situated between Les Abysses and the upper settlements, Mitreich seems less like a principality and more like a massive storage facility. Elevators running up and down from the bottom to the surface dot the whole dome, and container and tanks fill the dome’s interior. The population is quite low, and the people see little to no benefit to the arrangement despite the amount of traffic running through their home. This has caused Mitreich to often be a place of unrest, strikes and riots against the local authorities, many of whom pocket the gains from the traffic.
Les Abysses - principal capital: Profond. Les Abysses is the only settlement to be built on the bottom of the subsurface seas of Europa, connected to various settlements in Mitreich through pressurised elevators. Primarily concerned with the production of thermal energy to transport back upwards, Les Abysses is entirely dependent on its near-surface neighbours for its supplies. While there are hydroponic farms and the like, Les Abysses is more of a scientific and industrial principality than an agricultural one.
The Knight
Perhaps a little old fashioned, Europa sports a wide array of specialised elite infantry and cavalry units called knights. Knights are soldiers selected from dedicated warrior lineages bred for various purposes all over Europa. They are trained from a young age in melee and ranged combat, strategy, courtesy, chivalry, fighting with and without power armour, and piloting various vehicles. The knights form the core of Europan forces, and each type has its own strategic purpose.
Rosenkranz Knight: An elite soldier trained from a young age in service of the Rosenkranz-Monsoiller family. They may not look like much compared to their peers, but the Rosenkranz knights come only from the finest lines of warriors stretching back all the way to the days of Old Earth and beyond. Mechanically and biologically augmented to be both ideal bodyguards and untraceable assassins in almost any environment, the Rosenkranz knight is a foe to be reckoned with. They are typically equipped with two Chang medium range blaster pistols, as well as energy shield generators with two hour battery lifespans that can be expanded to include one additional person, typically a VIP.
Romsoldat: The romsoldat is a battlefield-adjusted knight from New Gotenland. Also called the Lovenskiold Knight, the romsoldat starts their training from a young age at the Aaland School of War to become shock marines. They specialise in drop pod missions, boarding and manning gun turrets aboard battleships. These form the bulk of forces sent abroad to aid in allies’ missions or protect trade and transport convoys. While not as augmented and powerful per unit as the Rosenkranz knight, the romsoldats turn the tide of battle with ferocity and skill nevertheless. Armed with both titanium sabres for melee and Chang 5.56 caliber assault rifles, Lion Mouth blasters or dragonfire shotguns.
Preuzen Centaurs: Elite cavalry units specialising in hit and run tactics, these “mounted” knights are the pride of the Bismarck Academy of War. Practically as soon as they learn to walk, they are outfitted with the Centaur Suit, a robot suit that empowers the soldier’s legs, as well as adding an additional pair which can be moved as one’s own. This gives them incredible speed, stability and maneuverability in a multitude of environments, all while being lighter and easier to command than a separate steed. Their suits can be outfitted with oxygen and battery packs and temperature regulating equipment if they are sent to hostile planets to battle.
The Sons of Solomon: Perhaps the closest of the conventional knights of old, the Sons of Solomon defy expectations of modern warfare by opting for heavy plasteel armour and melee weaponry like plasma axes, rocketmauls and light claymores. They are often outfitted with enhanced leg robotics and rockets on their backs to speed up their charge, and short-lived magnetic shield generators allow them to shrug off up to ten minutes of direct gunfire. This has limited effect on energy weapons, however. Contradictory to their appearance and barbaric style of fighting, however, the Sons of Solomon are also taught extensively to function as emergency aid and rescuers in times of crisis. Their armour comes with built in pistols that can push collapsed walls and roofs out of the way, and can be modified to add another set of arms to carry more wounded. The Sons of Solomon are therefore also dubbed the Paladins of Nubia.
Jupitsariates: These knights from Jupitsara specialise in suited combat, which functions both on the surface and underwater. Schooled in warfare, ballistics, engineering and robotics, these soldiers specialise in quickly switching between roles as artillery, frontliner, ambusher and repairmen. Their suits are incredibly versatile and can be modified in a multitude of ways to best suit the role they’re given. Their education at the Mendeleev Institute prepares them to function as everything from weapons developers to field medics.
Mechanised Forces
While often clunky and underdeveloped compared to other powers in the system, Europan mechanised forced fill the niche of hardy protectors or cannon fodder so that the moon’s manpower is not expended. Most models are afforded little more than basic motor functions, weaponry and enough plating to ward off the first few volleys of gunfire, with a very minor subset of exceptions existing in the experimental stage.
Coiffeur Drones: Also dubbed ‘butlers’, the Coiffeur drone was named after the robotics engineer Pierre Saiid Coiffeur and built to function as high-end, yet expendable bodyguard drones for royalty. Standing two metres tall and weighing a little under a six hundred kilogrammes, the drone sports thick plasteel plating with the option to unfold its torso and leg armour outwards to become a rooted riot shield. Powerful hydraulics in their joints make them a powerful adversary up close, but limited AI functionality and joint maneuverability make them predictable. While they are outfitted with two hidden 9mm pistol barrels in each wrist with ammo storage in the forearms, their targeting interface leaves much to be desired. At least it looks very stylish.
Prole: Proles are workbots repurposed to fight as battle drones. Clunky and often outdated, these serve more as hinderances to the enemy than outright threats. Their combat AI is extremely limited, almost to the point that they will fire upon both friend and foe if pushed in the wrong direction. Previous software also often interferes with combat programming, causing everything from minor bugs to loss of control and terminal breakdowns. Still, they do wonders as cheap, expendable distractions that can keep the enemy busy enough for squadrons of knights to flank around.
Roller: A simple tank drone standing three metres tall and clocking in at sixty tonnes in weight. This tank can be modified to function as an APC or artillery, as can be made manual if so desired. Its top speed is 78km/h, and its armour plating leaves very little to be desired. As a drone, however, its AI is anything but intelligent, and it relies heavily on human input to know what to do. Therefore, its AI is usually only engaged when Rollers travel as a convoy behind one manned vehicle, or when going in a single direction where the enemy also exists in that one direction. Their belts and weight make them vulnerable in mountainous regions.
Navy
The Europan navy is the pride of the military, even more so than the knights. Its culture extends far back in time to the early days of colonisation, when the imperial cruiser known as the PIN Augustus first brought the Duke of Rosenkranz and his followers to Europa to found an imperial outpost. Spacefaring is considered one of the finer professions on Europa, and many of the senior government staff have a long history in the navy.
Harald-class Fighter:
Winsor-class Destroyer:
Napoleon-class Escort:
Arslan-class Cruiser:
Wilhelm-class Ship-of-the-Line:
Failed terraforming project forced everyone into the dome principalities.
Termurick sat blushing on his mattress, hands rubbing sweatily against each other in his lap. Across the room from him sat the druid Laurel with a bowl of liquid. The young king swallowed as the druid dipped her finger into the liquid and put it in her mouth, dragging her tongue around her mouth to taste it thoroughly. The druid hummed and put the bowl back down, fixing an earnest, professional gaze on the king.
“As suspected, your body has an imbalance of elements - too much sun and stone, from what I can gather. I will discuss changes in your diet with the rachfi to see if we can restore the equilibrium. From what I sampled, though, it seems that your scent and flesh are in balance, though, so we will take that into account, too. Expect a lot of chlach.”
Termurick grimaced. “... Is there no other way?”
Laurel scraped some characters into a length of thick bark. “If you are to regain your health, you need to replenish your moon and water elements. If you absolutely don’t want to eat chlach, I suppose we could--”
“No, it’s… It’s fine,” the prince muttered. Laurel clicked in acknowledgement and rose up, walking over to the doorway to empty the rest of the bowl into the dry grass outside before stepping back inside to sit back down.
“There is also… Another matter that we should discuss, my king.”
Termurick laid back down on his mattress and the druid placed a wet cloth on his forehead. “Do all druids drink pee to check the king’s health?”
Laurel sighed. “It is a completely necessary part of diagnosis, great son of the moon. Now, I was about to say…”
“Do you have to do other gross stuff?”
Another sigh. “Sampling bodily excretions to gauge the health of the aristocracy is an essential duty of the sages, my king. Now if you’d--”
“Do you eat poo, too?”
Laurel scoffed uncomfortably. “No, we-... If needed, we will sample the smell. It is not a joyous experience, but again, it’s necessary.” She reached out and squeezed his hand sternly. “Now… Anymore questions?”
Turmerick made a sad “prrt” and waved. “No… Sorry, it was just… I was curious. Now, what did you wish to talk about?”
“It’s fine, great son of the moon. It’s… Natural to be curious as to what your subjects do, exactly. Now, as for what I was going to say…” She shuffled a little closer and placed her hand on his forehead. “I was going to talk to you about this ten years from now, but with your father’s passing, I need to discuss this with you, as your court sage.”
Turmerick blinked and recoiled up against the cool wall. “Laurel, you are being awfully serious.”
“I am,” she confirmed and clicked. “Now, have you caught yourself wetting the bed lately?”
Turmerick shrunk. “... N-no…”
Laurel hummed and smacked together pursed lips. “Are you certain?”
While he was not comfortable thinking about it, Turmerick permitted himself a minute or so to look back through his stressed memories of the last few weeks. “... No, I-... I haven’t been wetting the bed.”
Laurel raised a black brow and scraped down some more characters on the bark in her hands. “Duly noted.”
Unable to contain his curiosity, the young king turned to face her again. “... Why do you ask?”
Laurel gave him a stone-faced look. “Only the king can further the royal line, great son of the moon - it is important that he be fertile early so we will have time to ensure another son is born.” As she packed her things together, Turmerick took a moment to process this.
“W-wait, but… I’m twenty five.”
Laurel shrugged. “Some nelflings show potency at an age as young as twenty. The sooner we can make certain the line is safe, the better.”
The king clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Even if I… I was, who would--”
“The rach and rachfi have graciously offered the hand of the khamfi to be your future wife. I assume you were informed earlier?”
Turmerick gasped. “Kh-khamfi, you mean--... I wasn’t--...” His breathing quickened and Laurel slowly waved a hand over his head, a purple dust flaking off her skin and drizzling down on the king’s face. He drew two more gasps before he magically calmed down and laid his head on the linen pillow. “... Buz she’z so old…” he slurred.
“Nonsense. She’s thirty-five. A decade is nothing to worry about,” soothed the druid and wiped the remainder of the dust off her hand with a cloth. “I think the two of you would look cute together.”
“Doez mozzer know?”
“The queen? Yes, I believe she is aware. As is the princess - they reacted cordially to the arrangement.”
Turmerick felt tears well up in his eyes. “Why wasn’ I told?”
Laurel kept her manner-of-factly speech. “Forgive me. I thought you had been.”
“What else has the rach and rachfi been arranshing?” The druid offered him a somewhat sympathetic click as she turned to the door.
“I could summon them if you’d like.”
“What other arranshements, Laurel?” Despite being delirious with moon dust and sickness, the prince pressed himself to his elbows and offered the druid a threatened growl. Laurel’s expression hardened.
“Get some rest, my king,” she said and left. Turmerick snarled and rolled back onto his back, his fevered body sloppily kicking at the air to get more comfortable on the mattress. It was happening - the rach and rachfi had engaged their plan to divide them up and seize them for themselves. If he already had promised his own daughter to him, then he had no doubt given his sister and mother’s hands to his cousins in Scenta. He recalled his father’s warning and cringed in shame - how could he have gotten sick at a time like this? When his family needed him?
He coughed weakly and eyed the ceiling. There had to be a way out of this… He couldn’t afford to lose his family, his only remaining allies. He gnawed desperately on the nail of his thumb, deep in thought. How, how, how could be escape this?!
Then a plan struck him - a foolish, outrageous and terrible one fermented in a soup of panic, but still the only plan he could devise. He eyed the sword on its mount. For a moment, he considered asking his father for advice. He stopped himself - his father would be abhorred by the idea and ask him to think of something else. Issue was, he couldn’t - his mind was utterly blank, and any day now, his mother and sister would be sitting atop each their baqualo, heading out of his life forever. He would enact his plan tomorrow - he hadn’t a second to lose.
The next morning, the nelfling king had his family and the rachsa come to his chambers, joined by the druid Laurel and the mage Crocus, an aristocrat with claws deep in the tea plantations of Fragrance. The king was nursed intimately by his mother and sister, both doting on him for a good twenty minutes while the others patiently waited around.
“Oh, my baby, you look so pale,” whispered his mother and kissed his forehead. “... You need to eat more meat!”
“... The sage has forbidden me from eating any - it contains too much sun and stone,” the king responded with a smile and clicked at Laurel, who clicked back.
“The king speaks true, my queen. Hot, hard foods would only worsen the imbalance in his body. Once he’s healed, we’ll be sure to return him to a balanced diet.”
“You better,” princess Clove whispered half-bitterly and caressed her little brother’s cheek. “If something were to happen to little Turmey, I would--” A stern click from her mother silenced her. “... That would be bad,” she corrected herself. The king laughed softly. He felt loved again, and it only tormented him more to think about what he was about to suggest. The rach chuckled politely and bowed to take the king’s hand in a well-mannered greeting.
“Great son of the moon - the night truly is darker and safer with you to protect us. It is nothing short of a joy for you to have gathered us here. Pray tell, what is the occasion? Should I have my rachfi bring tea?”
Turmerick sat himself up with some help from his family and cleared his throat quietly. “That, that won’t be necessary, rach Rose. I just have a quick announcement… It’s regarding the engagement with the khamfi.” He smelled the air - she was here, a nelven girl ten years his senior with coal-black cheeks and hair, with eyes like the starry sky. He saw her step forward from the rachsa gathering, wearing a small smile and the rosey perfume so common among her kinsmen. Turmerick swallowed - she was beautiful, but…
Rach Rose grinned from ear to ear and clicked his tongue applaudingly. The princess and queen offered the king forced grins. “Ah, yes - forgive me for not telling you myself. It was meant to be a surprise for later, but alas, such events do have a tendency to leak out into public perception, do they not? Truly, it is an honour that you would--”
“I don’t accept it!”
“-- consider marrying my…” The room went quiet in a second. The rachsa’s gazes all darted to one another; rach Rose stood dumbfounded and stuttering; his daughter the khamfi covered her gasp with her hand; the queen and princess both looked about to enter a panic. The rach eventually collected himself and asked, “I, uh… I’m sorry, my king, but… Is there something barring the union of our two houses?”
Turmerick swallowed. “There is! I… I am marrying someone else.”
The rach looked at Laurel, who shrugged in confusion. Struggling to keep his demeanour, the rach offered another bow. “Of course, of course. If such is the case, we cannot stand in the way of our king’s promised. This is understandable. Forgive me for asking, though - to whom does the king plan to be wed?”
Turmerick drew a deep breath. This would either end in victory or disaster. He looked at his mother and his sister, both of whom were at a loss as to what he was doing. The king tasted the words he was about to say and found them distasteful, but necessary. In an unbroken sentence, he spoke, “Queen Clove and princess Clove.”
The room was silent again, this time without as much as a twitch of movement. Turmerick closed his eyes and drew a quivering breath. He could feel his mother and sister slowly letting go of his hands, both letting out quiet scoffs. The rach offered a single quiet snicker before placing a hand on the king’s shoulder. Turmerick opened his eyes and gazed into the rach twisted face, looking as though he was suppressing a grin into a polite smile.
“Un… Unorthodox,” he offered as generously as he could, and Turmerick instantly knew he had lost. The rach straightened himself up and turned to his family. “But! Who are we to stand in the way of true love? The tradition of multiple wives harks back to your great-grandfather, in fact, my king - it is good that you wish to revere your forebears by following their examples.” He paused. “... While the records don’t offer much in terms of marriage to one’s closest kin, well… Someone would… Have to be the first, I suppose.” There came quiet snickers from the nelves around him. The queen turned to him and lowered her forehead to the floor.
“Great rach Rose - he’s, he’s delirious from the fever. Please, offer him a chance to rephrase himself.”
The rach clicked a ‘no’. “I’m certain the king is more than healthy enough to make his own decisions. The great son of the moon is, after all, the blessed champion of the gods - they would never abandon him when making a decision such as that.” The queen drew quivering breaths. The princess glared in disbelief at her brother. “No, I wish to congratulate you three,” the rach continued, “as a show of good faith, we will arrange for the wedding to take place at this venue. Sure, it may take some time to explain the situation to the guests, but I’m certain they will eagerly support the will of the king.” He turned to the door and the rest of his family followed. “Please, do recover as quickly as possible, my king - we have a wedding to plan!” Then they left. Laurel and Crocus both stood staring and one another uncomfortably.
“I… Had not expected -that-, my king… I pray you will permit me to take a few additional samples from both you and your… Brides… I wish you all the happiness of a good night.”
“Good night,” Crocus echoed. Then they, too, left.
The king, queen and princess sat in silence. Then, with furious strength, queen Clove slapped Turmerick across the face. The king slumped against the wall behind him and sank down, almost passing out. “W-wha--”
“Why, Turmerick…” she whispered as bright tears ran across the charcoal skin. “... Why, by the moon, did you do something so, so foolish?” The princess was already sobbing sharply into her hands. The king’s breathing accelerated.
“I-... I don’t understand, I… I thought this would help--”
“HOW does this help us?!” the queen snarled. “You just gave-...” She shot a glare like daggers at the doorway and lowered her voice. “... You just gave the rach everything he could want.”
Turmerick gasped. “... But… But how? He doesn’t, he doesn’t get to take you two from me and--”
“Is -that- what you were afraid of?!” his sister snarled at him and Turmerick cowered. “He wasn’t sending us away! He had said nothing of the sort! Who’s been telling you this?!”
Turmerick felt the world around him evaporate into fleeting gas. “... W-what do you--”
“We were keeping him in check on that front - we were reaching out to our friends in Xiang and Lukt, trying to see if we could have some of them move here to make arrangements. As long as you are king, you could deny the rach’s wishes to marry us off.”
“B-but the sword said--” How had he not caught this? Had his father forgotten to mention that to him? Had… Had he intentionally left it out? Had it even been his father talking to him through the sword? Had he gone mad?
“... But this… No one will help us now. The people won’t recognise a child born of incest as an heir, and any child born outside of marriage is considered a bastard.” The queen’s face dropped into her hands. The princess dragged herself over to the wall and embraced herself shiveringly. “Our line… Has ended.”
Turmerick shot back up. “B-but, I can go back on it! I can go back on my word!” He eyed the two of them. “Can’t I?”
“You called in every witness the rach needed. He will buy up anyone else.” The queen looked up at the ceiling. “... We have no choice now but to escape.”
“Escape?!”
“... Otherwise, we’ll be kept here as the rach’s pets.” The queen swallowed. “... The rulership of the town is lost now. There is nothing for us here.”
Turmerick’s head slowly fell forwards. “B-but… Fragrance is our home.”
“Not anymore,” the princess whispered as though her words were meant to stab. Turmerick collapsed completely onto his bed.
“I… I just wanted to keep us together…”
“Well… Congratulations, bro - now we won’t be separated even if we want to be.” She stood up and left. Turmerick couldn’t even force himself to cry. His whole body was in pain - it felt as though his heart was about to break asunder under this pressure. He reached out to his mother’s shoulder, but she shrugged his hand off.
“Who, Turmerick… Who planted these thoughts in your head?”
“The…” he could barely formulate worlds. “... Father told me he would take you away…”
The queen looked at him and shook her head. “The gods have cursed me with sons sick in the mind…” With that, she rose and left, too. Turmerick had no idea how long he laid in his blank trance after that. He stared emptily at the doorway, his mind incapable of formulating anything beyond a single sentence, repeating for hours on hours on end.
“I have killed my dynasty.”
Turmerick is sick! Laurel checks him out and tells him that his humours are out of balance! She prescribes him some boring food to rebalance and we learn a bit about Fragrancian medicine. Laurel then says Turmerick is engaged to rach Rose’s daughter. After she leaves, Turmerick panics, because he’s now convinced that rach Rose has married off his mom and sister, too. He then decides on a horrible plan.
He invites all of the people into his room and declares that he will marry his mother and sister. This turns out to be exactly as terrible of a plan as one would expect, and the rach is immediately super happy and blesses them with happiness. The queen and princess are furious and later explain that incest babies have no claim to the throne and neither do children from outside the marriage - therefore, no matter what they do, they cannot restore themselves to the throne now. It’s also revealed that the rach had no (explicit) plots to marry off the queen and princess, and that even if he did, the king could shut them down - a detail the sword hadn’t mentioned. Turmerick fucked up big time and Fragrance is effectively left in the hands of the aristocracy.
Autumn was at its peak, with hot-red leaves dancing in the wind on every branch. The fields were all only plains of sliced grain stalks similar to unshaven stubble, and the vegetable acres were all messes of potholes and ditches as eager hands scooped carrots, beets, onions and kohlrabi out of the ground. Skin sleds of goods stacked taller than the people pulling them flooded in and out of Ha-Dûna like the tides on the beaches below. Even the occasional cart, imported from far off lands and dragged by highland cattle, brought in the autumn mutton for the great feast of Reiya. From the beach below, nets upon nets of fjord salmon and herring were dragged aboard Dûnan rafts in preparation for the feast of Claroon. From the woods came the children giddily with baskets of pears, apples and currants red and black to honour Jennesis. Odes to the gods rang out from every building corner, and people sat on stools in the streets between shifts of lifting and loading, smoking pipeweed and sharing in the excitement of the upcoming festivities. The Celite Iontráil was polished and cleaned thoroughly in preparation for the sermon of Fìrinn; adequately sized boulders were prepared for the Boris Games; the Constellars had, despite religious schisms, been cordially invited to prepare the rites in honour of Seeros, as with every year during these times; an enclave of druids knelt before Gibbou’s altar and fervently prayed for permission for the whole of Ha-Dûna to stay up past curfew; Caden’s test of strength was set up next to the Boris Games’ course; a monument to all those who had fallen during the Conquests was erected in honour of the dead and the sorrow they felt for them through Naya’s grace - confusingly, bards all around also sang of Naya’s beauty in ways that did not match her solemn portrayal; marriage proposals and ceremonies were conducted by the dozens as Taeg Eit would have wanted it. It was beautiful, harmonic chaos.
After all, it was the first day of Helgensblot.
Helgensblot was a week-long celebration in honour of the gods - nor just the druidic gods, but all the gods precious to the Dûnans. It was a holiday of harvesting, games, feasting, music and offerings to the gods, all as thanks for the gifts given to them. The first day marked the day when all would prepare for the following days - the grain fields would be shaven clean of their produce, which would be rolled into the mills and processed into flour for bread and porridge. The old rams and ewes and dams were slaughtered for their mutton, which would be grilled over fires with wild herbs and sea salt. Ceramic pots of butter, yogurt and kefir which had sat under the ground to keep cold through the warm late summer were unearthed and unlidded. After the way the Helgensblot had gone the year before, the archdruids had picked and seized as many joybells as they could find, preserving them as fruit kompots in a cellar under the House of the Weary. There, they were kept under guard, though some of the festival attendees showed clear signs that the archdruids had missed a few. Apart from that, though, all the festivities were as old as tradition itself.
This year, however, a new game would be introduced alongside others - one in honour of their newest addition to the pantheon: Sigeran’s tournament. It would fall on the second-to-final day, and all were curious as to what the archdruids had thought up this time.
The first day passed quickly as everyone was too busy with work to realise that time flew by. Before long, all the preparations for the week had been completed, and the feasting had begun. Various bards took to the improvised stages and performed songs about the gods: the Ballad of Macsal and Lucia was particularly popular - as was the Epic of Gaard Goldhair. The first feast always served mutton stew. The goat and the sheep were the animals of survival, and to celebrate having survived another year thanks to the gods, the Dûnans knew of no better meat to eat. It was eaten with yogurt and sour cream, and for desert they had wild fruit kompot. The feasting continued deep into the night, for the druids were confident that they had gotten Gibbou’s permission. Those who lasted until past midnight got to see the Constellars put on a ceremony in honour of Seeros, their familiars dancing about with their masters.
The second day was dedicated entirely to the Boris Games. Here, men and women competed for the favour of the stone god by running a mountain race for thirty kilometres, all while carrying a sizeable rock in their hands. Many participated - most made it back. The route could be treacherous, and to lose the rock meant instant disqualification. Those most unfortunate never made it back at all, and served ever as reminders to respect the mountains and the king of stone, Boris. All knew the risks, however, and many who participated had sharp arguments with their families about the dangers of the race. Deaths were always a tragedy, but they were simultaneously honoured as martyrs who gave their lives so the others would not have to - a sacrifice to the mountain god, almost. The race went on for most of the day, and many ran out to the fringes of the route to cheer on the participants. Druids were posted all around with pots of water and fermented milk to help the racers recuperate after long strides. After the games, the winner, who this year was a herjegalling named Frode the Enduring, was raised atop a pedestal and given a calf, a ram and a ewe for his efforts - an incredible gift to a family without ties to the resthouse system. The night once again followed with more feasting, music and games.
The third day was reserved for prayer, and the festival came almost to a halt. All participants went on a minor pilgrimage down to the lowlands to see the sun rise in the east over Tordentind, the mountain at which foot laid Grimholt, all in honour of Reiya. They then followed the sun’s rise to the sea and the surface reefs, where they tossed leftovers to the gulls, barnacle fliers and the fish to thank Claroon; by midday, they reached the forest, where they buried acorns, seeds and pinecones to thank Jennesis; by the afternoon, they had reached the foot of the mountains under Ha-Dûna, and they gave thanks to Boris by rubbing the stones with their hands and building small cairns; at sunset, they were back in Ha-Dûna in time to see twilight reflect against the Celite Iontráil, and all offered their thanks to Fìrinn by bowing to it. As the stars came out, they thanked Seeros by swearing to remain hopeful and to inspire their peers to do the same; as the moon rose, they thanked Gibbou by going to sleep; and as they did, all the mothers sang the songs of Macsal to lull their children into the world of dreams.
The fourth day was once again a day of games, this time Caden’s test of strength, with activities to remember the fallen planned for the afternoon in honour of Naya. The test of strength challenged its participants first to squat with the added weight of tree trunks, stones and, mostly for the laughs, other people - particularly their spouses. Those without proper technique and arrogance in choosing their load could be damaged for life, and this year, like every year, there were two or three who pulled a muscle, snapped sinews or broke their backs due from sheer pride. Thereafter came a test of pull-ups. Finally, there was a test of pushups. At the end of the day, the winner was the magnificent gaardskarl Boudicca, a mountain of muscle and one of the survivors of the Battle of Grimholt. The competition had been fierce between her and Frode the Enduring, but having spent all his vigour in the race two days prior, Frode simply couldn’t compete with his rival Boudicca. Her price was two goats and a wooden permit that allowed her family access to the resthouses for the whole winter. However, as she already was married to a druid, she declined and offered the permit instead to her sister, who took it happily. She was subsequently further hailed as a true daughter of Ha-Dûna. After the games, the participants all gathered to mourn their lost ones at the altar to Naya. The sorrow once more stopped the celebrations dead, but towards the end, the archdruids put a spin of martyrdom on the narrative, reigniting the party fervour once again. An afterparty continued at the Bard’s College into the depth of night.
The fifth day was dedicated entirely to Taeg Eit’s marriages, and the druids would go to bed exhausted and sick and tired of saying and hearing the vows over and over for a whole day. This day, the feasts all became quite a bit more family-oriented, and wedding gifts were exchanged between the families of the couples. Those offering druids for marriage always had to pay much more than the peasants, but those funds were, after all, drawn from the resthouses, so in reality, marriages didn’t cost them as much as it cost the commoners. The Statue of Prolificacy was also eagerly visited in the evening.
Then came the sixth day, the day of Sigeran’s Tournament. The archdruids had gotten up early and approached the altar-in-progress to the Victory God. They knelt down and offered the tribute of fruits and meat. Kaer Teagan spoke, “O mighty Sigeran, victorious lord over all and champion of war - we ask you humbly for your blessing to play games of battle in your honour today to conclude our festival!”
At first there was silence for a long moment after the request was made. Then came once again the voice that was a million, each a whisper but together much more.
“You may have my sanction but not my blessing, such is reserved for those who more faithfully follow the righteous path.”
The five archdruids recoiled and looked at one another. Kaer Togen, the oldest among them by now and most senior archdruid, raised a quivering hand. “What could he mean by that?”
“I told you, Kaer Teagan - he’s sees the animalistic ways of our warriors and declared that our victories are without honour!” Kaer Pier accused. Kaer Teagan snarled back at him and tossed herself to the ground once more.
“Forgive us, great god - we are bit ignorant specks compared to your infinite wisdom in the righteous paths of war. What is the path we ought to take instead to please you the best?”
“You have misunderstood the purpose one must take in war. Your warriors seem to have a curious idea that their duty is to fight your enemies, you archdruids have a worse idea that in war you take only that which your people need. The greatest curse you have brought upon yourself is that of the idea of honor. Does it shield your warriors from arrows? If driven off your land can you eat honor? Would honor save your children from the lash of your foes when you did not do enough to destroy them because it would not be honorable?
“Your objective in war is to ensure the survival of your people over your enemy, your warriors need to destroy the enemy, not fight them. Only give them a chance to defend themselves if there is no other option to defeat them. You take not only what you need, but what you must to ensure that none will challenge and threaten your own people in times yet seen. You squander your victories with a too quick peace, you give your enemies time to work against you. You squander your warriors’ lives in fighting anything that resembles an honorable fight, honor has nothing to do with a righteous war. To be on the righteous path you must ensure your people triumph over your foes.
“Prepare to walk this path and you shall have my blessing.”
The druids were speechless. Kaer Pier’s libs quivered while the mouth was agape with disbelief. The two elders Kaer Togen and Kaer Saner eyed the ground in great discomfort, looking almost ready to vomit. Kaer Oleg and Kaer Teagan, however, both shuffled even closer to the altar and lifted their arms to the sky in praise. “Oh, your wisdom is too great for our humble minds to comprehend, magnificent Sigeran - forgive us that we could not see!” Kaer Oleg bowed his head and whispered praise to the victory god.
“What are you doing?!” Kaer Pier snapped quietly behind them.
“Are you deaf? It is clear that we have been too kind to those who oppose the supremacy of the Dûnans. None other than the mighty Sigeran - the cornerstone in our prosperity as it is now - has decreed so!”
“One of the cornerstones, Teagan! I--...” He looked nervously at the altar. It stood in stark contrast with the other altars in that it was not ordained with figurines, crystalline stones, bowls of fruit, nuts and vegetables, or flowers; the altar of Sigeran was decorated with skulls and bone. A flash of realisation washed over Kaer Pier’s face. “... I… I do not know if Sigeran is who we think he is.”
The other archdruids recoiled. Kaer Teagen first showed surprise, then a knowing frown that made Kaer Pier realise he had made a terrible mistake. “... Blasphemy… On the day of Sigeran himself.” She turned to the altar again. “Great god - what say you in response to this abhorrent behaviour?”
“The duty of protection falls upon you present to prove yourselves still faithful.” As the voices spoken in unison they grew ever harsher in tone. “One of your most holy number blaspheme, blaspheme at the altar and on this most holy day! It begets reckless apostasy or malevolent conspiracy, to have an Archdruid so harshly seek to imperil your entire community, their thoughts and guiding hand turning the faithful down dark and unholy paths as shown through their quick and easy slip to blaspheme. Show your faith- root out the corruption and evils wrought in Ha-Dûna, save the faithful from the corrupting ideas and ideals of such a dark teacher. There is still time yet to prove yourselves before all gods, before we are forced to action.”
Chalk looked black in comparison to the colour of Kaer Pier’s skin as they heard this. Both Kaer Togen and Kaer Saner began slowly walking backwards. Kaer Teagen and Kaer Oleg both cast themselves to the ground. “We are still worthy, your greatness! Your will be done!” With that, Kaer Oleg cast his arm out, roots shooting out of the ground to envelop his colleague. Pier reacted in time, swiping outwards with his arm to blast the roots away with a momentary wall of sunfire. Teagan turned around and hammered her fist at the ground, a pillar of stone shooting up from the ground and casting Pier backwards. The man crashed to the ground with the sound of a snap and a pained squeal. His right arm, which he had landed on, pointed in an unnatural angle. Oleg charged up another spell, but in a last minute effort, Pier shot his palm out towards him, a purple cloud forming around Oleg’s face and immediately knocking him into a deep sleep, falling onto Teagan on the way down.
“Bah!” she snarled, rolled him off of her and uncorked her waterskin, pulling out a lance of water which flew to pierce Pier. It would have, too, but he had once again, in the span of a reaction, altered the truth of his position slightly to her perceptions, making her miss by mere inches. As she tried to manipulate the water lance again, Pier pleaded the invisible stars above for aid.
In an instant, all light and color drained from the morning sky, except for bright lights forming a constellation resembling a shepherd looking down at them. In the confusion, a kirin appeared beside Pier and then the sky returned to normal. Both Teagan and Pier screamed in fright, and Kaer Togen and Saner who both were watching from behind the cover of a nearby altar, cowered before the creature. None of them reacted before Pier, though, and before the others could understand what had befallen them, the kirin set off into a sprint out of the city. Around the city, too, there were screams, confusion and terror over what had happened to the sky.
“S-stop them!” shouted Teagan, but from what she could see, the kirin instead parted every crowd and had every gate opened for it. The archdruid got to smacking Kaer Oleg awake again, though it took some well-placed slaps. Stalking back up to them like a pair of walking corpses, the old Kaer Togen and Kaer Saner eyed Teagan with reluctance and shame. As Oleg came back to his senses, Teagan eyed the senior archdruids with contempt.
“Why didn’t you stop him?!”
“W-we--” Togen began, but Teagan waved him quiet.
“Ugh, you’re useless! Of course, this is what we get for allowing you old clowns to remain in our circle for this long…”
“Old clowns?!” Kaer Sanner opened, but was cut off again.
“It is clear that we have been foolish to trust in peace… Sigeran is right! Blasphemers surround us everywhere - even in our innermost circle! I’ve tried again and again to tell that buffoon Pier, but he couldn’t see - he couldn’t see that Ha-Dûna allowing our neighbours to coexist - to thrive even - will kill us. We are the chosen people - the Dûnans are the people of the gods! Sigeran has realised this - Sigeran supports us in this!”
Kaer Togen raised a concerned finger. “But Kaer Teagan, see reason - Sigeran is not one of the Eight! He is but a lesser god that--”
“LESSER god?!” Kaer Teagan stormed at the elderly man, who fell back with such haste that he lost his footing and fell to the ground with a weak whimper. It was just barely that he could raise an arm to defend himself. Teagan glared down at him. “I’m beginning to think we have been lied to all this time - Hir granted us power in exchange for a lifestyle as sheep; we were grazers who bit at the lowest form of life - grass - and never dared journey beyond the edges of the meadow. Then we tasted blood and became the wolves, Togen - we are survivors and have always been; like the hounds in the night, we bare our fangs to carve out our place in this world. Such was the way of our ancestors who battled the Ketrefans, and such is our way still.”
Kaer Saner had knelt down by Kaer Togen and begun to heal him, holding his hand gently to pump the life of Reiya into him. Teagan knelt down and took the other hand, bringing it to her cheek. Togen and Saner both eyed her warily. Teagan cracked a smile. “Don’t you agree, you two?”
They remained voiceless, their eyes pleading the other for help they both knew neither could give. Finally, Kaer Togen, hints of tears in his eyes, nodded slowly. “Wholeheartedly, Kaer Teagan…”
Teagan’s smile broadened. “How wonderful that we see eye to eye. And you, Kaer Saner?”
The other archdruid looked back at her, then down at Togen with a glare of betrayal starkly visible across his poorly-aged face. However, the more he looked back at Teagan, the weaker the glare grew, until finally, he too nodded weakly. “We are, indeed, the chosen people… Sigeran… Said so him… Self…”
Teagan grinned and squeezed Togen’s hand before standing up. “Loyalty to the gods and your leaders comes so rare these days. Thus was demonstrated by Pier, after all. Still…” She frowned at them. “... None of you made attempts at capturing what was clearly an enemy of the gods. You are stripped of your ranks as archdruid.”
Saner and Togen gasped. “You cannot do that outside a moot!” Saner snapped and straightened himself in challenge. A flare in her eyes kept him from continuing. She reached down to her belt and brandished a great copper scythe, unholstering it and bringing it down to Saner’s throat.
“I can, and I did.”
Saner swallowed, but his face remained stern. “The others won’t accept this - I won’t accept this.”
Teagan’s scowl deepened. Slowly, she withdrew her blade from his throat and Saner breathed out in relief. Teagan than stepped around him, hooked the blade around his neck and sawed, parting the skin and opening the veins in the throat to spill litres of blood all over Kaer Togen’s face. The old man spat, squirmed and squeaked. Kaer Oleg took the barely breathing man and dragged him to the altar of Sigeran while Teagan held Togen’s head by the hair.
“I do not care whether you accept or not. It is not our decision, but the gods’, and the gods have made theirs.”
Togen breathed quiveringly. “God, you mean.”
Teagan looked over to the altar, where Kaer Oleg was busily mounting the corpse on a saltire. “Yes…” she whispered. “Our god has made his decision.”
Crowds still panicked from before blackout earlier came running to the archdruids for help. They saw the massacre and gasped and squealed, the warriors immediately moving to the front line brandishing whatever they had on them that could be used for a weapon. At the front came Boudicca and Frode the Enduring, both horrified at the archdruid whose robe was drenched crimson, standing over a blood-covered man and in front of a mutilated display of the butchered Kaer Saner. Many keeled over to vomit or burst into tears at the display.
“What… Is this?” Boudicca barely breathed. Frode, too, had to vomit and supported himself on two others as he did.
“This is the will of Sigeran! We have been led astray by the Eight, my children - peace was never an option! Our people belong on the battlefield, and none among us should rest until the entire world rests underneath Dûnan heel! Great Sigeran - shout your holy decree!”
The whispering cries of a million voices called out to the crowded masses so assembled. “Holy Kaer Teagan speaks truth of divine will! You, the people of Ha-Dûna are the chosen people! Fated to rule and to conquer as divinely guided under the righteous path of Kaer Teagan!”
“Arise children of Ha-Dûna, the unrighteous are culled from your number, dead or fleeing from their true punishment, and your path becomes clear! Your enemies abound around you, the unrighteous guide and seek to destroy good Dûnans from outside what your virtues did not allow them to do from within! Go forth and conquer! Go forth as the chosen, the rightly guided people!”
Boudicca and Frode both watched in disbelief as great swathes of people fell to their knees in awe of the voices, shouting praises to Sigeran and lifting their arms to the sky in worship. Others slowly, but surely, started backing away towards the wall gates, but then, someone shouted, “HEY! Kneel before the great Sigeran!”
“No, this is wrong!” came a weak-voiced, but strong-willed response, and they all knew who it was. Kaer Pier’s sister, Kaer Logan, who had stood up to Teagan at the beginning of the conquests, was shepherding those who followed her sentiment towards the gate. Boudicca and Frode had begun making their ways over, but Boudicca suddenly stopped and struggled to continue. A number of hands had wrapped themselves around her leg, all of them belonging to the kowtowing remainers.
“If you leave, Sigeran will think us unfaithful and punish us all!” shouted one of them. Boudicca wrested herself free.
“This isn’t right! Reiya wouldn’t want this - Gibbou wouldn’t want this - and Seeros absolutely wouldn’t want this! What is wrong with you all?!”
“Silence! You’ll get us all killed,” came another sharp whisper. Boudicca kept walking over the kneeling masses.
“What’re you doing, you fools?!” came insults from the front, followed by Teagan’s own, “Why are you letting them leave?!”
“Ha-Dûna is more than your power fantasies, Teagan!” boomed Boudicca and drummed her powerful chest in challenge. “The people know this - they are loyal to the true gods: the gods of Hir!”
“Oh, are they, now?” Teagan snapped back. She pointed at one of those who had whispered earlier. It was a man, a skinny man, barely old enough to be called a man. He rose slowly and approached her. “What is your name?”
“G-Graham,” he whimpered back. Teagan put her hand reassuringly on his shoulder and gestured to the Eight altars, all twinkling in the morning sun still.
“Tell me, Graham, do you believe that the Eight are greater than Sigeran? Would you trust your life with them over the god that gave us all eternal life?”
Graham squeaked and wheezed, shifting between the altars to the Eight and the altar to Sigeran, particularly the dripping corpse of Saner. After a moment, he whispered something. Teagen smirked. “You’ll have to speak louder than that. Come on, so they all hear you.”
“THE EIGHT ARE NOTHING COMPARED TO SIGERAN!” he shouted from the top of his lungs and collapsed forward with a long cry. The yell blasted outwards like a shockwave, shaking every Dûnan to the core. One by one, they rose up, reached for what weapons they had and began to chant: “Sigeran, Sigeran, Sigeran…”
Boudicca and Frode stood at the gate, the population of those disgusted by this already hurrying away in a panic. Quickly, they began to close the gate and bar it up from the outside, reinforced further with Mother silk and roots summoned forth by rebelling druids. The barricade and midday-made silk would not be strong enough, however, and hardly four minutes after they had gotten started, the gate quaked with the fury of fanatics on the other side. Both Frode and Boudicca resolved to help the others escape rather than stay and hold the gate. A minute later, the improvised blockade broke, and the streets flooded with Dûnans hunting for blasphemers.
“Kill them - kill them all - the unfaithful must not be allowed another breath!” Teagan shouted after them and turned to the altar. “We pray we may yet be worthy of your blessing, great god.”
“You have it, drive them from Holy Ha-Dûna.” The voices seemed much calmer at this point.
“It will be done, great Sigeran.”
Men, women and children all screamed as the tide of bloodthirsty fanatics rolled towards them with great fury. The Mothers set up barriers of silk again, but like last time, they knew that the sunlit did no favours for the silk’s strength. Druids whispered their final prayers as they readied themselves for one last defense against the darkness. Warriors of the refugees went to the front with what weapons they had. The clash was imminent, now, and they knew only a fraction of them would escape Ha-Dûna alive.
Except that would not be the case. Like earlier when the sky had turned back, the sky flickered once more, and momentarily, the moon outshone the sun. The first row of fanatics fell over, then the second one did. In mere seconds, the avalanche of flesh and weapons that had been hurtling towards them with war cries and roars, piled over itself into mounds of snoring bodies. The escapees were dumbfounded, but those quick to action among them hastened to shepherd them out of the city before the enemy woke up.
Running after them, Teagan stomped on the ground in a wild rage. “Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT! Give chase after them! Come on, wake up!” she yelled and kicked at one of the sleepers. He only rolled over grumpily. Teagan kicked him until he bruised and then, a sudden sensation dazed her and she fell over with a snore of her own. Meanwhile, the escapees made it out of Ha-Dûna without suffering casualties beyond their lost belongings. They were heartbroken, however - their compatriots had come at them with the sole intention to slay them all. Not a tribe among them, either - these had been people of every tribe, of every clan. Boudicca stood atop a hill overlooking the great, empty city below. Behind her came Kaer Pier, his broken arm bandaged with Mother silk. Boudicca bowed her respect, but Kaer Pier bowed deeper.
“Please, don’t greet me as such. I deserve none of your respect,” Pier sighed.
“A servant of the true gods such as yourself deserves nothing but respect, Kaer Pier,” Boudicca replied and drummed her chest in salute. The archdruid groaned.
“I caused this… If only I had spoken up against Teagan before… Put an end to the ever-growing sympathies for Sigeran earlier, then maybe I--”
“Stop.” Boudicca squeezed his shoulder supportively. The archdruid met her eyes with a shattered frown. “You have done no wrong, archdruid. You stood up against a woman of great power - as well as her closest lackey - and escaped with your life. In your own words, it would seem that the gods still have plans for you.” She punched him amiably in the chest and smiled before facing the city again with a grim scowl. “We cannot delay for long. Gibbou and Seeros may have been our saviours today, but we know not when the enemy will rise again. We must travel south, gather reinforcements with the hamlets. We need to outpace the servants of Sigeran and make certain they cannot garner more support for their malicious cause.”
Kaer Pier wiped his tears and nodded. “I will seek out the constellars. They might be able to help us send a message to the other druids in the lowlands and in the east at Grimholt. I doubt any of us would have chosen to remain with Teagan, and if they did, surely the gods must see by now that they have gone astray.”
“My thoughts exactly. Go there and beseech them for aid. I will bring our people to safety.” The two pressed their foreheads together in fraternity and parted ways. Ha-Dûna had suffered a terrible defeat at the hands of its greatest enemy - itself - and now it would have to be taken back.
It’s festival time! HD preps for Helgensblot, the once in a year week long feast in the honour of the gods - not just the druidic gods, but all of em: Reiya, Claroon, Gibbou, Caden, Boris, Firinn, Naya, Jennesis, Macsal, Taeg Eit, Sigeran, Seeros - they all here. First day’s a huge feast and prep; second day’s the Boris Games, a dope ass race; third day’s pilgrimage day, where all of HD strolls around the countryside to pay homage to the gods; fourth day’s Caden games and Naya crying; fifth day is marriage day in honour of Taeg Eit; sixth day’s Sigeran’s tournament, a new event starting in the year 28. We never get to know what the seventh day would be.
Turns out that Sigeran’s tournament might not become tradition, as when the druids go to ask Sigeran for his blessing, he drops a chapter straight out of a socio-darwinistic manifesto on top of them, really appealing to Kaer Teagan and Kaer Oleg, but not to Kaer Pier. The archdruids have a dope magic fight from which Kaer Pier escapes with the help of Seeros’ kirin. Seeros blacks out the sky while doing so, causing a panic in the town as it’s midday. Teagan then kills one of the other archdruids and mounts him on the altar to Sigeran for the whole populace to see, because they came into the city centre to find out what’s going on. Sigeran drops another hard-ass speech on the Dûnans, causing half of them to run and the other half to want for an ethnic cleansing. Teagan sends the cleansers to clean out the heretics who don’t throw away their faith in the other gods in the name of Sigeran, but Gibbou sees this and puts the attackers to sleep so they can escape, aided by the Mothers. Ha-Dûna falls into the claws of Teagan and becomes a city under Sigeran’s patronage, albeit with half its population.
The Separation arc has begun.
Sirius Starting: 2MP/2DP Ending: 2MP/0DP
-1 DP to give unnamed Kirin title: Stand Against Death I: The mere presence of this Kirin weakens the hold of magic relating to death and undeath. This aura of disruption is rather weak and is barely noticeable, but this effect is majorly improved by contact with it.
-1 DP to perform godly act discounted by omens to make everyone in and near Ha-Duna perceive that the sky turned entirely black for a moment except for a looming constellation of the shepherd glaring down at them.
Gibbou start 1MP/0DP 1MP - Perform godly feat: Put the raging fanatics chasing after their compatriots to sleep so that the innocents can escape unharmed. End 0MP/0DP.
Thaa Start: MP 5 DP 4 -2 DP undying blessing for those who remain in Ha-Dûna, less intense but long lasting End; MP 5 DP 2
Statue of Prolificacy: 5 + 5 = 10 Celite Iontráil: 5 + 5 = 10. Circle of the Long Stride: 26 + 5 = 31 Basin of the Weary: 5 + 5 = 10 Dûnan Bards: 0 + 5 = 5 Bard’s College of Ha-Dûna: 0 + 5 = 5
Afternoon had set over the small village of Evandstead and the shepherds were guiding their goats back home. Children were braving the coming twilight by snatching pipeweed from their parents and smoking it at the shadowy borders of the forest; the wives were weaving carpets and clothes together; the men were doing the last of the day’s farmwork. Highland cows roamed in the meadows beyond, and woodsmen returned to their homes with the evening’s logs. In many ways, it was a most peaceful evening.
Perfect for some good old ruinin’.
Espen, a small and stunted askeladd, even for his kind, with a body like an ale barrel, cracked up his knuckles and smirked. “Hooo boy, bruv - got me belly all up in flames at the f’hought’a doin’ some mischiefs again. Been so, so long since I ‘ad a bloomin’ giggle.”
A snicker floated over from his left. “Oi! No stupid shit! Giggles a’damn art form. Don’t cock up fancy like last time, Espen.” breathed a tall and wiry askeladd. Slick they called him, for both his demeanor and hair shared the same property.
Espen scoffed, sticking his thumbs neatly underneath the suspenders running down over his chest. “Cock up? Me, ol’ Espen? By Thunder, y’bet I won’!” He ducked in between the bushes they hid behind, his potato-like nose poking over the top to contrast his small, beady eyes. The messy bush of hair atop his head was so overgrown with moss and mushrooms that it blended right in with the surrounding forest. “So, whot ye got in mind this time? Hexxin’? Turnin’ the cows proppa’ mad again? Turn the ol’ nan into sour milk?”
Slick joined him. “Them ol’tricks? Thunder strike mah nose, nah gonna catch me wastin talent. We goin big propa ain’t we!” He said cracking a toothy grin. Like a fire his beady eyes showed with excitement. “We’s hexin the wata! So when they get to drinkin, it turn straight to hair!”
Espen clapped his hands in anticipation. “Wooo-ho-ho-ho, you’s a sly’un, Slick! A’roight, le’s find that well…” Espen laid himself flat against the grass and started crawling along the forest line.
Slipping to the side, they circled the village in short order. It did not take them long to find their target. A simple contraction consisting of laid stones and a pulley system holding a crude pot. The apes had led them straight to it.
The twilight dimmed; activity in the town followed suit. The townsfolk turned in for the day and either went home or gathered in small posses to smoke and tell stories.The path between them and the well was clear. Espen nodded. “Aight, bruv - all yours.”
There were plenty of bushes around, so Slick was able to shadow his way through the clearing with ease. His instincts guided him as he slipped from shrub to shrub. His eyes were constantly darting from house Espen in surrounding forest, but he was relaxed and at ease as he moved and closed in on the well. This sort of multi-tasking came naturally to an askeladd. It was what they did. What came next even more so.
Nimble as ever, Slick kept upon the cusp of the lard stonework and peered into the darkness. Even his eyes struggled to pierce the void that was the deep well. Nevertheless his ears picked up the sound of moving water. His plans would prove true yet.
Gathering up power from his core, Slick drew it throughout his body and put his fingers. His mind worked like mad. Reality functions based on set laws. The blessing of the askeladd was their ability to weave these laws together to create new ones, albeit on a much smaller scale.
So as Slick exuded magic from his body, so did his mind weave together laws that would leave the humans with a nasty surprise.
It took along five minutes to weave the spell proper. Slick had broken into a sweat.
With a heave he leapt from the well’s edge and scampered back over to Espen’s hiding place.
“Oi, shit final. Come mornin, they outta be choking on Thunder’s ball hairs.” Espen sat wheezing in the bush, slapping his knees something fierce.
“Bruv, you bloomin’ slapped ‘em, mate! Roight, I found us a proppa’ patch’a moss t’ sleep on ovar ‘ere. T’morrow’s gonna be banger, bruv!” He rolled around on the ground with a giggle still on his lips.
A grin never left Slick’s face as he bunched up a mass of greasy hair and crawled into the moss. His lot was right around the corner. The two of them laid down and waited for the magic to happen.
Already in the middle of the night, they heard it. Someone had thought it appropriate to stroll out in the night and grab themselves a cup of cold, delicious water to soothe a dry throat, and the surprise she (as evidenced by the pitch squeals and whimpers. Could also have been a young boy) was currently enduring was anything but soothing. Gags and vomiting sounded from the middle of the village, and Espen and Slick both peeked over the bush to witness it. There, fairly visible in the moonlight, a woman was keeling over on the ground, coughing and throwing up lumps of curly, stiff hair by the mouthful.
Her cries reached the duo and Slick held back a fit of giggles. His plans for the greatest of pranks were far from completed. More time. “Oi, keep watching from here.” he whispered. . Espen clapped his hands excitedly and kept staring at the display. More of the villagers came out to witness the spectacle.
Confident as ever Slick strolled out from his hiding place, perfect nose held high, hair greasy and full of mushrooms and as handsome as ever. Right outside the congregation the askeladd clapped once to get the attention of the villagers. Before panic could ensue, Slick spoke:
“Oi! Dickheads! Boyz calls me Slick, but inna second here y’all humies outta be calling me Baron. Let’s talk business all calm like can’t we?”.”
“You did this, didn’t you, you prankster midget!” shouted one of the men tending to the woman.
“Sssh! Randall, don’t insult it!”
Espen slumped over wearing a sneer. “Oi, Slick… He called you a midget.” The askeladd shuffled over, hands tucked into his moth-eaten pants and neck craned forward, chin presented. “Oi, humie. That’s the wrong attitude t’ take wiff the Baron, y’know.” The crowd slowly backed away as Espen squatted next to the vomiting woman and the man named Randall. “What we gonna do wiff ‘im, Slick?” The man remained kneeling beside the woman, glaring daggers back at Espen.
“I’ll have ye know I’m quite tall. Proud of it innit I?” Slick drawled as he stuck a long pinky finger up his nose. “Ain’t dis ya bugging drinking wata? Oi Espen, they keep fuckin wit me ey, say we start turning tha grain into tasting like Thunder’s steaming shit?!”
The people cowered and squealed. “No! Not the grain! We eat that!”
Espen clapped and guffawed. “Huh-huh-huh, yeah, do it, bruv!”
“Oi, I’s is a good guy! The business askeladd!” Slick expressed with a pat of his chest. “Prolly tha best ye’ll eva meet. So favor me this, submit to me fucking demands, n ya live not just to drink hairless pisswater n Troll shit, capeesh?”
Randall was about to protest, but his mouth was covered over by a myriad of hands belonging to his peers, all of whom were bowing their heads in submission. “We-we don’t want no trouble, your-your Baron-ess. If-if you promise to leave us be, we’ll do whatever you ask,” said an old man, likely the village elder.
A toothy grin cut across Slick’s face. “We partnas’ now! How bout y’all tell me how things are round here! Baron outta know.”
The askeladds Espen and Slick play a prank on the poor villagers of Evandstead. Slick curses the well so that whoever drinks from it will vomit up Thunder’s pubes In the evening a woman becomes the first victim, falling onto the ground and throwing up hair balls (or ball hair) until all the villagers come out to see what’s going on. Slick and Espen reveal themselves and Slick demands the villagers call him the Baron. After some back and forth and more threats from Slick, the village falls under his rule.
To rule … His responsibility - dropped into his lap like an anvil. It was much too early.
“King Turmerick?”
It had been no sooner than a fortnight ago that the mere twenty-seven men har returned from the skirmish to Monsax, bloodied and beaten into a mere fraction of the fifty strong that had been sent out. Turmerick had been playing xuakla with his sister Clove, enjoying her sweet, soothing song that made him forget all about xweh-bach and all about the stress of his future responsibilities. She sang to him songs of old legends, such as the tale of the warrioress Cilantra and the first great Nelven expansion across Sso-Hwah; she sang to him myths of the gods and the Nelven creation - how the moon so wounded by all the horror in the night, wept tears of silver and shadow, which pitter-pattered down across the land and became the Night Elves.
“King Turmerick?!”
Her song had been interrupted at the climax. Into their fathers hut where they had sat had come rach Rose, followed by six men carrying a stretcher. Their father’s corpse had laid upon it like some butchered animal - he had barely been covered by anything, and the stench of rot had already begun to set in. Turmerick hadn’t heard his sister’s cries, not his mother’s when she had found out. Even as the two of them had closed around him in search of comfort and to give comfort, he hadn’t been present. It was as though his world had collapsed in on itself, and now, two weeks later, he stood outside the entrance to his father’s hut, hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
“King Turmerick?!”
The boy snapped back to reality and turned to face the druid Laurel, who offered him a rose. He had barely registered that the whole town had gathered behind him, all staring at him and the king’s hut behind him. Next to him stood his mother and sister, both dressed in their finest dresses, and the aristocracy lined the first rows of the crowd. The king swallowed nervously and accepted the rose. He hadn’t practiced his lines - he hadn’t had the focus. He didn’t know what to do, so even as whispers grew like weeds in the crowd behind him, he couldn’t do anything. Eventually, he felt a warm hand capture his own and he looked up to see the kind, silvery eyes of his mother.
“Turmey…” she whispered and gently guided the hand holding the rose. “... You are the heir, so yours is the first rose to be laid at the tomb’s door.” Together, they knelt down and laid the rose at the doorstep of the king’s hut. Turmerick suppressed a sob.
“So… He’s truly gone, then?” he whimpered and Queen Clove pulled him gently over to his sister, and the three of them hunkered down and laid their heads against each others’. Meanwhile, the druid continued to distribute roses to anyone who wished to lay them down at the doorstep, and a long line formed to do so. Princess Clove looked up and gave her brother a soft kiss on the scalp.
“He… He is,” she sobbed quietly, “... but don’t worry, little Turm. We’ll take care of you for as long as you need us.”
“For as long as you need us,” his mother echoed. King Turmerick found that he couldn’t process their words properly. His shoulders grew heavy with the thought of duty. As the line of people circulated around the plaza before the king’s hut and placed down their roses, the night passed quicker than one would imagine.
The shadows had grown stark by the end of the ceremony, and the sun was peeking sneakily over the horizon. The royal family, now that their hut had become the king’s tomb, stayed with the Rose family. Rach Rose had humbly offered for them to stay for as long as they’d need, as he had been there in the king’s last moments and heard his last will to his family.
“Your father, he…” rach Rose began as he and Turmerick sat alone in the living room of the Rose mansion. The nobleman suppressed a sob, and Turmerick felt his head grow heavy. He tightened his fists and looked away from the rach’s eyes. “... He came with some final wishes. He sadly didn’t have time to write them down, forgive me - I assure you, my account is true. I swear it, my king - I swear it.”
“O-okay-- I mean…” Turmerick felt his face freeze over with cold sweat. “... Y-you may speak, rach Rose.”
The nobleman bowed his head. “Great son of the moon, your father, he… I understood that you would be under quite a bit of pressure right now. Too much for any lad who only has seen twenty-five droughts. So… He proposed we would aid you until you come of an age where you feel more in control - more certain of yourself.”
Turmerick gingerly sucked on a tooth whilst looking down, flexing his long ears stressfully. “Did, did he say anything about how you would… Aid me?”
The rach clicked in affirmation. “Naturally - your father stated very clearly that you were to apprentice in every office and learn everything there is to learn about leadership and governance.”
The king swallowed. “That… Is something he would say, I suppose… What’ll, what’ll become of my kingdom?”
Rach Rose sucked in a slow breath. “You needn’t worry about all that. Your father stated further that the affairs of the state were to be handled by myself and my rachfi, rach and rachfi Nilla, rachfi Jasmine and the seers Laurel, Cacao and Chive. Your kingdom is in very, very good hands.”
The king drew some concerned breaths and sniffed. “B-but…” Rach Rose’s hand on his shoulder silenced him and he looked up to meet the nobleman’s smiling eyes.
“Understand, son - we’re doing this to help you; to help Fragrance prosper. Forgive my frankness, but if we left the role of leader in the hands of a young boy such as yourself, well… Are you familiar with the baqualo herders out on the Xorsha?”
Turmerick clicked a no and hung his head.
“Do you know when to sow the wheat and when to sow the rice? Do you know when the jasmine flowers bloom? Do you know when the almonds are at the ripest?”
The king suppressed a whimper. “... N-no…”
The rach sighed and placed his forehead against his. Turmerick whimpered. The rach’s breath smelled of death hastily scrubbed away by chewed mint leaves, and his rose perfume did its best to drown it out by drowning everyone around him. “Your kingdom is safe, son - trust us. Once you come of age and feel ready, we will give you back your kingdom. Doesn’t that sound like a deal we can both be proud of?”
A moment passed before Turmerick said, “I guess…” Rach Rose clapped his hands together softly and smacked his lips in satisfaction. He snapped his fingers and the rachfi Rose entered through a carpet door, dressed in beautiful, white clothing that contrasted her dark skin and black hair - exquisitely bejeweled and wealthy even for a nobless.
“Belladonna, my love, would you bring the king to his mother and sister, along with whatever they may wish for of food, drink, games or comforts. They are to be treated as one of our own flesh and blood - no wish is too much for them to ask. After you’ve done that, send word for the seer Cacao. I have some notes I wish to have set in writing.”
The rachfi Belladonna Rose bowed, approached the king and kindly escorted him out of the room. Turmerick cast one last glance over his shoulder to catch rach Rose rubbing his hands victoriously. A burning sensation within him couldn’t help but wonder if he had made a terrible, terrible mistake.
The two of them had exited into the courtyard of the mansion grounds. The homestead of rach and rachfi Rose in Fragrance was humbler than those of their aristocratic peers, but it was nothing compared to their villa back in Scenta. It consisted of four clay huts within a perimetre fenced with wicker walls. The main hut served as the family’s house and main building; north of it was a guest hut currently occupied by the royal family; south of it was the Rose family’s bath house, which was almost as large as the guest hut; finally, a small house reserved used as a food store. Of course, queen Clove, princess Clove and crown prince-crowned-king Turmerick had no reason to complain; sure, their temporary home was smaller than their previous one, but it had been lent to them through the compassion and honour of the Roses. Besides, they all fit - mostly.
The pair entered the small hut and were met with the sudden gazes of the queen and the princess, both of whom smiled as soon as they realised who had come. “Turm, you’re back!” whispered the princess gleefully and took her brother’s hand affectionately. His mother reached out to touch his belly.
“The rach wishes to inform you that whatever you may request while you are guests here, may be granted to the best of his ability. No expense shall be spared if the royal family demands it,” the rachfi whispered respectfully, knelt down and offered forth her hands, palms facing up. The queen looked at her children.
“Would any of you like anything?” Turmerick shook his head. Clove smacked her lips with interest.
“Could you bring us some chamomile tea and some maokl, please?” she asked.
“Some chokham, too, if you could,” added the queen and touched the rachfi’s hands. The rachfi slowly brought her hands back to her sides, rose up and left the hut. Silence fell upon the hut once more before the queen asked, “So, what did you and the rach discuss?”
Turmerick shrunk. “I… I’m not sure I wanna talk about it.”
Both the queen and the princess blinked suspiciously at one another and shuffled a little closer to the king. They both placed a hand on one shoulder each and offered his worry stares with quartz eyes. Turmerick looked down in shame, twiddling his thumbs gingerly. They gave off a dry rubbing noise than only seemed to intensify the awkwardness of the situation. The princess leaned in and rested her cheek atop his head. “You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to, Turm… We support you no matter what you said.”
“You… You will?” whimpered the boy.
The queen sighed. “Of course, we will. We, we have no one but each other now. We cannot afford to anyone. We have already lost one too many.”
Turmerick wiped some tears away. “I, I…”
“Hussshh… Shh, shh… Don’t feel like you have to tell us anything. We’ll be here when you are ready,” reaffirmed princess Clove. The prince nodded, and as he kept crying, his family only hugged tighter. The night quickly passed like this - after they had eaten, Turmerick went to take a bath at the mansion bath house, allowing himself to take in every facet of the beautifully shaped clay tub and the silver-decorated room. His fascination wouldn’t be allowed to last, however, because as he stood admiring the metallic stars filling the domed ceiling, the fire under the tub was lit by the rachfi, who had entered with oils, herbs and ash in various containers. The rachfi bathed him herself, despite his insistence that she didn’t have to. She scrubbed him from top to toe and cleaned his extremities thoroughly, wetting his hands and feet with water before rubbing them in with ash and then quickly rinsing them in water again. As she then let him soak in the herb-infused bathwater, the king asked:
“Rachfi Rose…?”
The lady, who was busily washing herself over, too, offered a click to let the king know she was listening. Turmerick drew a slow breath through the nose and looked up at the ceiling of the bath hut, which was barely visible in all the steam from the hot water.
“Is, is it a rachfi’s duty to wash the guests?”
He received at first a surprised giggle in response. The rachfi ran her fingers through her black hair, infusing it with herbal and flowery oils as she laughed - her voice was like his mother’s, Turmerick thought, though somehow even smoother. She turned to him with a smile that was hard to make out in the shadow and steam, and spoke, “No, but as with any wife, it is a rachfi’s duty to obey her husband’s commands - and he has commanded me to see to the great son of the moon and his family’s every need.” She then turned back to her oils. The king frowned and blew bubbles at the top of the water.
“Do you do everything he says?”
“More or less,” came a soft reply.
“But… Why?”
The rachfi cocked her head to the side. “Did your mother never tell you? Not your sister, either?”
“Tell me what?”
She scoffed as though someone had asked her to explain why water is wet. “Well, the way it’s always been, moonson, is that the woman cares for the home, the children and her man, so that the man can be certain those and that which he values are in good hands when he goes out to hunt.”
The king furrowed his brow and flexed his ears. “But… The rach doesn’t hunt.”
The rachfi sighed. “That’s true, but… Well… He’s very busy with his military career and with his office as the new governor of Monsax.”
Turmerick blinked. “What’s a governor?”
The rachfi smacked her lips looking for words. “A king of sorts, except beneath the king.”
The prince held a small breath before eventually clicking in gradual understanding. “I see… So the rach leads his own village now? Will he leave Fragrance?”
“Oh, no! No, no, no,” the rachfi assured him. “Rach Rose is eternally loyal to Fragrance and the great son of the moon of the Enzan. He’s simply making sure more land is claimed for the city and your future rule, my king.”
Turmerick tasted her words and found them sweet - a little too sweet, perhaps, but he reasoned that they were flavoured by her kind spirit. He nodded with a weak smile and made himself a little more comfortable in the tub. “I’m glad to have so many loyal subjects. I can’t wait to be king now!”
The rachfi gently ran her hand through his hair, though her expression was obscured by the steam except for her face. “Yeah…” she whispered soothingly, “... we await that day eagerly.”
After his bath, the king returned to his chambers. Outside, he heard his mother and sister sit with the rest of the Roses, playing music and enjoying themselves with them. He didn’t feel like joining them - he couldn’t bring himself to ignore the mood still hanging over the village, all for the simple illusion of politeness. He sat down before the mount of his family sword, the Enzanchenn. He stared long and hard at its golden sheath, its sunlike hilt and overall majestic appearance. Despite those qualities, it had been useless in his father’s fight against the vampire. It hadn’t protected him, it hadn’t brought him back home alive, it…
It had just gotten him killed.
He felt his nose itch again and his eyes well up. He tried to swallow the whimpers, but a few broke through still. He collapsed forward onto his hands and drew a sharp breath. “Why… You were supposed to teach me everything I needed to know… So why did you have to go and die? For what?”
There came no response, as expected. Turmerick looked over his shoulder and listened carefully - the music was still playing in the yard, followed by soft applause. He sighed his relief and looked back at the blade. Sharing his sorrows with it seemed to… Calm him somehow. He reached out and grabbed it by the hilt, dismounting it and pulling it to himself. He immediately needed his second hand to support the weight. It was heavy - much to heavy for him to use still. He would need to grow much stronger.
“Turmerick?”
He cast a glance over his shoulder. There was no one there. He stepped over to the curtain door and peeked outside. Nobody there - the other were behind the large hut.
“Turmerick.”
“Hello?” whispered the king quietly, looking around anxiously. He couldn’t locate the source of the voice for the life of him, and it carried an eerie resemblance to… To…
“The sword, Turmerick. Look at the sword.”
The king did as told and, as he held the sword pointing upwards with both hands, he could have sworn that he caught a glimpse of his father’s face in the sheen of the hilt. The shock nearly made him drop it, but the voice spoke soothingly: “Turmerick. It is I, your father.”
The king collapsed onto the floor and once more eyed the doorway. “F-father?!” he tried not to whisper too loudly. “Wh-what’s going on?!”
“The sword given to our family by Kiim’Jaav’Guul has the ability to store souls. In my dying moments, I chose to preserve mine so that I could council you even after death.” He paused. “... I see now that I was right to do so.”
Turmerick began to bawl and the sword gave a sympathetic sigh. “D-daddy, I-... I miss you so much! Why did you have to go and--”
“I did what I thought was right. I see now that I couldn’t have been further from the true path. I knew the day of my death was close, but… I hadn’t expected it to be this soon.” The sword exhaled sharply. “But we can dispell the emotions later - for now, you need to listen to me.”
Turmerick barely had time to recover from the emotional shock before Safron continued, “I do not know what the rach told you, but if you’re staying at his home, then my fears have become reality - the aristocracy holds power over Fragrance and our line are their puppets to parade for the people.”
The prince shook his head in disbelief and confusion. “Father, I don’t--”
“You cannot let him know that I am still here. Rach Rose has only power in mind. If he realises he does not have complete control over you, your mother and your sister, then he will find ways to dispose of you.”
Turmerick felt his breathing accelerate; his heart thundered in his chest and threatened to escape through his ribcage. “Oh gods… Father, I’m scared, so scared!”
“Sssh! Don’t be, my son. Here’s what you will do: You will live as though nothing has happened - you will apprentice and learn under the rach and all the other aristocrats. When the time comes, and you will know when, you will retake power in Fragrance and restore our line.”
“Father, I-... How do I--”
“Don’t lose hope, my son! You will never break unless you allow yourself to be broken. For now, do your best to excel in every class - become a paragon of our people; gain the trust of your peers. You will need their support when you lay forth your claim to the throne. The rach will no doubt try to marry your mother and sister to one of his cousins in Scenta. Do whatever you can to keep them with you here in Fragrance - they are your only family left.”
“I-... I will try,” came a whimper. The sword stared back.
“You’ll do me proud, son. I have no doubt. Now, go out into the courtyard and join the others. You will need to build your network early, lest it’ll be weak and disorganised when you need it.”
Turmerick clicked a weak affirmitive and wiped his eyes again. “I’ve missed you, father.”
There was a pause. “And I, you.”
King Safron’s burial is all sad and stuff. He’s entombed in the royal family’s old hut, so they crash at rach Rose’s. Rach Rose and Turmerick talk about the future of Fragrance and rach Rose says the grown-ups’ll take care of the city until Turmerick comes of age. Later, Turmerick takes a bath and chats with the rachfi (rach Rose’s wife) about gender roles. He learns that Fragrance is patriarchal af. He later unveils that his dad is still alive inside the Sword of Aquibeophatian. Let the Fragrancian oligarchy state begin!
Gibbou drummed her fingers on a table. Her acts as a protection goddess had been, uh, helpful, sure, but she felt like her presence was still lacking. The expansion of iskrill and Neiyari across the human sphere, as well as rumours of vampirism in Mydia and Vrool ransacking villages and the like. No, she needed more of an intimate proximity to the action - or rather, she needed a part of herself to be. Twilight had never been much help, and she doubted she could convince him to ever be, so it was about time to try a second time. She stood up and went about her dome, collecting various metals and materials she had dug up all around her moon. She dumped it all in a pile in the dome’s centre, snapped her fingers and the dome tunneled through the moon to the sunny side. She donned her shades and amplified the sunlight’s rays on the metallic heap until it melted. Then, she got to work.
With hammering tools and diligence, she turned the molten metal into armour plates - a full set of divine steel with hardness, lightness and flexibility the likes of which had never before been witnessed in the universe. The plate began to cool, and Gibbou took the time to carve and shape beautiful details into it. Once cooled, she padded its insides with mail and leather which together became lighter than feathers. She finished up the last little details and finally mounted the armour on a rack to view it properly.
It was perfect. It was as light as a feather and as hard as diamond. It was surprisingly flexible, and its only weak spots were between the legs and behind the knees. It would serve perfectly as an extension of her will to protect and defend. Now all it needed was some divinity. Gibbou placed her hand on her chest and, biting her teeth together at the pain, pulled out a fraction of her holy soul. It felt worse this time, as though the piece she had taken left a larger hole than the last one. She shook her head and the pain away and placed the orb on light in her hand against the chest of the armour. It melted into the metal and cloaked it in a flash of silvery moonlight. Gibbou took a step back, her dome digging itself back to the dark side of the moon. The armour’s light brightened, and noises beyond the ring of metal and light soon escaped it, becoming a voice.
”... Ugh, what… What’s happening?” came a soft, dazed, feminine voice.
Gibbou suppressed an explosive giggle. ”It, it worked! Oh sister, it worked!” She jumped triumphantly into the air until the sensation of the armour’s bewildered stare burned at her skin. ”Oh, sorry. Uhm… Welcome to life, my dearest creation. I am Gibbou, goddess of the moon and the shield of life, and your maker.”
The armour hummed. ”Maker… Yes… Gibbou.” Gibbou felt the armour’s invisible eyes look up to regard her, and a non-existent smile formed on its equally non-existent lips. ”I am… Thankful for the opportunity to exist.”
Gibbou swallowed - all good so far. She didn’t seem roguish like Twilight at the very least. Not yet, anyway. ”What is your purpose?” she probed her. The armour hesitated.
”I have yet to be given orders, maker. I stand at the ready.”
Gibbou gasped. Did, did this one just say she was awaiting orders? From HER?! She could barely contain her excitement, and her dancing hands showed that she couldn’t at all. She would have to play her cards well to ensure she didn’t end up with another useless avatar. ”You will be given the following task: Go down to Galbar and ensure the safety of its innocent mortals. Your mission - your purpose - is to protect those who cannot protect themselves, and I have therefore given you a form that cannot be broken by anything, maybe not even godly might.”
The armour drew a proud breath. ”Affirmative, my maker. I will ensure the safety and quality of life for all innocent mortals.”
Gibbou felt her eyes well up and she had to look away. The pride in her chest threatened to choke her to death. ”You, you will act as my agent on the planet below - the shield of the night; the bulwark of the dawn.”
”My plate is the armour of creation - my mail is the barrier against evil. I am your agent to command as you wish, great master - Gibbou the Magnificent.”
”The Magnifi--” Gibbou blushed and felt she barely had the heart to send her down to Galbar after all. However, she was too good to just sit here for the remainder of creation. ”Y-you will do alright, my dear. I… I baptise you Titania, the Shield Against the Darkness.”
The armour let out a touched sniff. ”I… I am honoured, my master. No one has ever given me a name before, and I am so happy you were the first to do so. Thank you.” Gibbou embraced her and Titania let out another sniff. ”I am so happy. Thank you… My master.”
”Oh, my dear Titania… You already make me so proud. I have no doubt you will keep doing so down on, on, on Galbar. Now go - fulfill your mission.” Gibbou reluctantly conjured forth a portal and Titania was pulled in, her helmet wearing an invisible smile of diligence and dedication.
”I will. I swear it.” She was then pulled through the multiple dimensions of space and time, colours flashing all around her, until she appeared right in the middle of a large, yellow grain field, looking up at the blue, tranquil sky. There, she remained. A considerable moment passed before she said, ”Master.”
A voice came into her head. ”Mmm? Yes, my pride?”
”I cannot seem to move. Is something wrong with me?”
The voice audibly frowned. ”You can’t move? Now hold on a minute, let me see…” While magical noises came from the other side, Titania picked up some other noises approaching.
“Oi, oi, oi, now woss this, ey? Someone left a bloomin’ fine heap a’ silver just lyin’ in the fields, hmm?”
“Well made, too. Bet this’d fetch us a nice price in that burrow we just passed by.”
“Who’d’a just leave all this roight ‘ere, of all places, though?”
That was when Titania realised that her head had been picked up, and her eyes looked down to see the rest of her lying in a neat, silvery pile on the ground. Her head filled with confusion and anxiety as she tried to move, but couldn’t for the life of her. ”Master, I can’t move! Something’s wrong with me!”
“Woah!” said the one holding her and her field of vision fell to the ground again, where it stared up into the faces of three short, stumpy, greasy-haired trolls. “Bloody ‘ell, did you hear that?”
“‘Ave we just stumbled into a heap of talkin’ silver?” The three of them exchanged looks before each unleashing celebratory squals. “We’re rich, mates!” They immediately scuttled to pick up every last piece of her and sprinted off in a merry giggle.
”Help me, masteeeeeeer!” shouted Titania, helpless as she was distributed across three different forms.
Above, Gibbou finished analysing her spell from earlier. ”Oh no! I forgot to put something inside you! No wonder you can’t move - you’re just armour! Let’s fix that up nicely.” She looked back down at the surface of Galbar, but saw nothing resembling Titania. ”Titania? Titania?!” she shouted. After no response came, though, she fell to her knees.
She had screwed up… Again.
Gibbou decides to make a second avatar, so she makes Titania, a full set of sentient armour. She’s very proud of her creation and her creation is proud to be her creation. However, when she sets her down on Galbar, they both learn the horrible truth that armour can’t move on its own, so Titania is unable to escape as three askeladds find her on the ground and decide to sell her at the nearest market.
Gibbou 5MP/5DP -3MP - Create second avatar: Titania. Titania is the avatar of Protection, being a sentient set of armour made of the hardest material in the universe, while also being immensely light and flexible. Any warrior wearing her would be virtually unkillable. Of course, she needs someone to actually wear her to be useful, because on her own, she’s just a heap of armour. -1MP - Create portal from the Dark Side of the Moon to Galbar. End: 1MP/5DP
King Safron sat across the room from a weapon mount, upon which had been placed the blade given to his dynasty by divine mandate. Could this be a sign? A sign that him and his son were destined to conquer their neighbouring states? That Fragrance was destined to become the sole power on Sso-Hwah? The only Nelven people to unite all the clans and states into a single kingdom - ruled by a single king.
The thought made him sweat. No, surely he was playing himself. His house couldn’t very well be the ones. His grandfather had shared many stories of the world before the foundation of Fragrance as it was today - how they hadn’t even had buildings, but all lived in caves and holes; how they spent their days foraging for fruit and mushrooms, offering half to the shrines of their great gods, the Moonwell and the Tree of Fragrance. Their days were far from peaceful, however, as control over the shrines was a manner of power, and the question of who had this power was a constant struggle.
Today, an agreement between the states of X’ao-Hwah prevent anyone from exerting direct control over these sites, but Fragrance potentially had the manpower and technological edge over their neighbours.
… And now, a divine mandate.
Approaching steps brought him out of his bubble of thought and he turned to see his son. The young boy Turmerick gingerly entered into the king’s room, holding one of his wrists with his hand. The king clicked his acknowledgement. “My son - is it time?”
Turmerick clicked a yes. “Rach Rose and the rest are waiting, father.” He paused and looked down, pibbling small mick, mick, mick noises on the very tip of his pursed lips. “Are… Are you sure I can’t go with?”
“Absolutely, my son,” the king replied with a stern vent of air through his nostrils. “Slaying those possessed by xweh-bach is no task for a young prince.” He eyed the doorway behind them. “Go see to your mother and sister - ask if there is anything you can help them with.”
“But father, I--”
“It is a -king’s- duty to lay waste to the enemy. The prince’s is to learn. Now go do that very duty, and I will do mine.”
A deathly quiet moment passed before Turmerick left. The king looked back at the sword on its mount. It is a king’s duty to lay waste to the enemy, his father had told him. Safron hadn’t finished the quote, however: ... and to empower his people. Empower… He looked out between the now-open awnings they used to roof the half of his room that was outside the cave part. The light of the moon winked temptatiously at him. He recalled the single condition for accepting the blade: ”Use it,” one of them had spoken. He narrowed his eyes at the moon, and the awesome colours that danced around it seemed to speak to him: All you have to do is to reach out and take it, it spoke to him.
The king rose up, retrieved the sword from the mount and stormed out of the room. Outside of the palace entrance, rach Rose and a warband of fifty nelves sat atop baqualos, their bodies painted with blindingly radiant, organic curves and shapes of sun ink. None of them seemed at all comfortable with the arrangement, but it was better to suffer temporarily and live than to die an agonising death at the hands of a vampire. The warriors bowed upon seeing the king and rach Rose spoke, “Ah, great son of the moon - we are eager to receive your blessing so that we may--”
“Belay that, rach Rose. I’m coming with you. Laurel, fetch me sun ink and harness.”
The warriors exchanged looks and the rach droned in bewilderment. “G-great son of the moon, surely, your life is much too dear to--”
“I will lead this skirmish, rach,” the king commanded as the druid Laurel approached as hastily as she could, blinded as she was behind layers of linen blindfolds. In her hands, she held a bowl which, even through layers upon layers of cloth and leather, still managed to emit a small, radiant glow. Rach Rose clicked his tongue in disapproval as the druid uncovered the bowl, dipped her hands into what everyone within the area experienced as a small window into a burning day, and started painting the king’s bare torso and legs with long, gibbounian lines.
“With all due respect, great son of the moon, we believe it would be best for you to remain. The seers say, after all: The wise send men in their stead so that they may lead another day. Please, allow us to--”
“The seers have been wrong before.” Laurel, who was currently painting his chest, let out a sharp tsk. The king noted her reaction with a click, but didn’t comment on it. “The weapon granted to my house is unblooded. Its use is paramount.”
“Does the great son of the moon know how to use it?” the rach commented somewhat snarkily. The king scoffed sharply.
“Watch your tongue, rach Rose. I am your king.”
The nobleman scrunched his nose. “Of course. Forgive my outburst, great son of the moon.”
The king sucked on a tooth and closed his eyes before the bright light of his war paints. The druid Laurel eventually drew back and hummed. “It’s done, great son of the moon.” The king stole a look downwards and instantly regretted it. He snapped his fingers and one of the servants came over with a blindfold, which he tied about his eyes. His shoulders and body were dressed in light clothing and just enough furs to keep warm, but not enough to smudge the ink. He was brought a baqualo with large baskets on each side with supplies, mounted it and spoke, “We ride!” With that, the king set off northwards, trailed by his war party.
Monsax was a four day ride from Fragrance, but it felt like a month to the king. Thoughts of the possibilities for his people if only they grew mightier and more powerful ravaged and clawed at his mind. He knew that his companions knew - more than once had he caught them grinning back at him, though no necessarily for the same reason as him. Sure, they all wanted Fragrance to grow greater and stronger, but they also knew well how the laws of land distribution worked in their society: If you claimed a piece of land and the previous owner didn’t refute the claim, for one reason or another, it was rightfully yours. Of course, killing someone over their land was taboo - it would lead to the blood sickness, after all, not to mention the death of a Night Elf! Therefore, Fragrancians, as well as the other Nelves of Sso-Hwah, followed a sort of unspoken rule: If you wanted someone’s land, you would threaten them off it rather than outright kill them to take it. If they refused to budge, you would send someone else to do the job in your stead.
The prince of Monsax, however, had failed to understand the purpose of that rule…
They arrived at the dawn of the fourth day. Monsax was by no means a town the size of Fragrance, but it had palisade walls and a population larger than many - at least in the two hundreds. It laid nestling up against the canyon wall, much like their home, but seemed to have built stairs up along the wall to reach softer rock to dig caves in. They otherwise lived in huts of wood and mud, and the entire village was silent as the grave. The party quickly found themselves a cave and laid their plans:
“Rach Rose, you will take Camo and Mile around the cover of the wall - see if you can climb over it. Hemp, you, Mon and Elberry will circle around the other side. I will take the rest to the main gate and call him out.”
The nobleman blew some hot air, but clicked in acknowledgement. “As you wish, great son of the moon.”
They all assumed their positions and laid in waiting. The king drew a deep breath, clicked for the others to cover their ears as he covered his own and he shouted, “Prisoners of the demon king! I am king Safron of Fragrance! If there are any of you left, open this gate and come out! We are here to liberate you from the tyrant who murdered his father!”
The town was silent. Safron and his escort approached the gate. Upon closer inspection, it wasn’t even bolted close, and an open smidge allowed for passage through. The warriors followed their king inside, where they were met by ghost town. The dirt road streets, formed naturally by traffic rather than actual labour of infrastructure, showed clearly the debris of struggle and panic - broken pottery, spillage of oils and fluids, week-old corpses and sunbaked trails of blood caked the spaces between the empty houses. The king swallowed.
“There could still be survivors. Search every house for any signs of life. I will reconvene with the rach.”
“A-alone, my king?” asked one of the warriors worriedly. The other clicked in equal disapproval. The king scoffed.
“Finding survivors to join us in the main goal of this mission.”
“Still, we should make certain that--”
A shadow too swift for anyone to see jumped out from inside an alley and cut open one of the warrior’s throat, a fountain of crimson turned black by the nightsky flushing out and spraying down his companions. The nelves took just too long to realise what had happened and another one among them was snatched into the darkness by the same shadow, screaming all the way.
“R-run!” shouted the king in an untrained voice and the remaining warriors scattered to the wind. “No, stick together!” the king continued and bit his teeth together at the pain of his own voice. The warriors were lost in panic, however - he could only pray that the rach had heard him.
Another squeal. He turned the corner and melt a small squad of ten, all of whom pointed their javelins at him the second their eyes met. “Hold your spears - it’s me!” Just as he finished talking, however, the shadow charged into the farawaymost flank of the squad, instantly gutting two javelineers. The king snarled as the squad broke apart and began to scatter. He grabbed one of them by the throat and said, “Get back in line and kill this monster!”
“No way! This was a suicide mission! I ain’t dying for this!” the warrior whispered harshly back, slapped away the king’s arm and ran for the gate.
“You coward!” Safron roared after him and turned to inspect his other soldiers. While some attempted to reform their ranks, the vampire bowled them down the instant they readied to throw, breaking them apart again. Quickly - much too quickly - the forces were whittled down until the king, too, was forced to retreat, under the cover of javelins coming from behind improvised barricades by the gate. In his rage, he gripped one of the javelineers and whispered sharply, “Where is the rach?! Have you seen the rach?!”
“No, great moonson!” the warrior replied faithfully and tossed another javelin. The king gripped the hilt of his blade.
“It knows about the sun ink, no doubt. Form a cactus and wait for it to come to us! It might impale itself upon our spears.” The soldiers did as ordered and formed a ring, thrusting their spears out in front of them. There, they waited. They waited for a long time. Nothing came. The king felt sweat condense on his forehead. “Steady, steady…” Still, nothing came. The soldier’s stances began to falter, both from fatigue and the morale shock of the blood and guts of their comrades pooling in the street. There eventually came a gentle hum from the street, and slowly, the shade came strolling nonchalantly towards the soldiers.
“A thousand corpses drowned in mud, Coloured black by earth and blood - Now grab your comrades, hand in hand, And run away from Amon’s land.”
The shadow chuckled. “Like it? I wrote that myself!”
One panicking warrior squealed, leaned back and tossed his spear at the shadow, who danced out of the way with ease. The panic spread, causing many more to hurl their weapons at the vampire, who continued to dodge them as though they were feathers on the wind. “Woah, there, is that a way to treat an artist?”
“Save your spears, men!” the king whispered again as the warriors who had javelins left began to distribute them to their companions. “Prince Amon - why have you done this to your father’s kingdom? Our people were close and--”
“Oh, please - Monsax was seen by Fragrance as a barbaric lump of rock and clay without civilisation. Do not come here and spout that sort of airy nonsense.” He gave one of his bloody hands a lick. “Your people were never interested in us, and the only reason you’re here is to opportunistically steal away my subjects whom you have looked upon as dirt for so many years. Well, think again, king Safron - you will not have a single Monsaxian join your ranks tonight.”
“Because you killed them all, didn’t you?”
“No, not all of them - most of them got away, really. Tell you what - if you manage to kill me, I will tell you which way they went.” He looked down at the corpses in the street. “However, I think I already have proven my ruthlessness - how about I show my mercy this time?” He hissed sweetly. “Everyone except king Safron may leave. Go home to your families, live another century. Don’t waste your lives following a foolish king.”
King Safron snarled. “Don’t listen to him, warriors - you are the pride of Fragrance; the pride of your king - and I-- h-hey, wait!”
The formation buckled immediately. The remaining twenty-seven warriors who had encircled their king all fled south, back towards Fragrance, leaving king Safron stranded in the mouth of Monsax’ gate. Amon snickered as he placed a hand on Safron’s shoulder.
“Wow, I did -not- actually expect that to happen! I knew they were scared, but oh my.” His fingers squeezed until the king’s shoulder began to snap. The king fell to his knees with pained whimpers. “Oh, grow up, Safron - what, you’ve never experienced hopelessness before? No, of course, you haven’t. You’ve always been on top of everyone else - just like the rest of Fragrance.”
The vampire released and the king gripped his broken bones. “W-why? Why do you choose this way of, of sin and death? You know this is unsustainable! You will die!”
“I would’ve died either way, Safron. I would rather know true power for a few years than slave under the heel of my father for one century, then your kingdom’s the next. If I die in a year, I would not regret it for a second - I have made a name for myself, and all of the Land of Great Shade fear king Amon of Monsax.” He picked up the king by the fur around his neck and burrowed his fist into his abdomen. Safron vomited up blood and brought a quivering hand to the wound. Amon snickered. “N’aaaw, shame it had to end this way. Who’s next in line now? What was your son’s name again? Was it Cinna? No, no, no, he got banished, that’s right. Then there’s just Turmerick left, hmm?”
The king’s eyes flared and he unsheathed his sword with the quivering hand. The vampire eyed it with a raised brow. “Woah, that’s a pretty one. Let me guess - it’s made of gold? Okay, okay, okay, I’ve always wanted to try this. I’ll give you one swing - one swing, so make it count - you aim for my head. I won’t dodge, promise.” He put the king down, who staggered weakly. Amon restabilised him. “Woah, woah, don’t lose your balance, my king. Okay, take your swing.”
Safron drew deep, dying breaths. He wouldn’t last much longer - so much remained unsaid. If only he could have seen his family first - offered them his final orders before… He sharpened his gaze and, with his limited strength, lifted the sword and swung horizontally at the vampire’d head.
Clang!
Safron looked up and saw Amon nonchalantly gripping the blade of the sword with his teeth. He snickered, and Safron felt his final shreds of hope dissipating. ”Ee-ee ‘oo, ah? O’ys ‘uan’hed ‘oo ‘ai ‘aching a ‘eh’on ‘ih ‘ai ‘ee’h. ‘Wa ih.” However, as he bit, the metal didn’t budge. Amon frowned and bit down some more. The metal did not even bulk. Frustrated, he gnawed so hard that there came a snap - then more snaps. Before either of them could figure out what was happening, Amon’s bite broke all his teeth and the vampire staggered backwards, clutching his bleeding mouth. A single gaze was exchanged between the two of them before king Safron swung again, this time taking the vampire’s head. Amon fell over dead in the sand, and the king, too, fell to the ground. His breath became heavy - too heavy. He touched the deep wound in his belly. It barely stung, his body too weak to sense pain anymore. All he felt was cold.
“Oh, that’s unfortunate,” came a voice. The king couldn’t move his eyes anymore, but something about the voice seemed familiar. A tickling sensation and scraping noise revealed that he was being relieved of his sword. “We’ll bring this back to the prince. Bring the king’s corpse. King Safron died valiantly in battle against a blood demon.”
“What about the prince?”
“Leave him to us. Monsax is under our control now, and if we’re lucky, the newly crowned king will require someone to oversee it. This might spell promotions for all of us, dear friends.”
There came a series of snickers and the voices faded to collect materials for a stretcher. Ah… So that’s how it was. Well, what should he have expected? He died for nothing and relieved his town of twenty-three good men and women. This was a suitable fate for him. With that, he drew his final breath.
Safron dreams of conquest after receiving the sword. He decides to lead the vampire purge mission to Monsax, but when they get there, it seems the vampire’s much harder to kill than they thought. Half their forces die before the vampire offers the rest of them to run if they leave their king behind. They do and the vampire mortally wounds Safron. However, in a feat of arrogance, the vampire tries to break his weapon with his teeth, which unbeknownst to him is impossible due to its divine strength. The vampire breaks his teeth and Safron kill it in the following confusion. Then as Safron’s dying, he hears others come over and talk about how they gonna milk his death for all it’s worth. Safron then dies.
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Alisdragon911
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