Goldeagle1221 Member
I am Spartacus!
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9 yrs ago
I am Spartacus!
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11 yrs ago
"Stay awhile and listen!"
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11 yrs ago
God bless.
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11 yrs ago
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11 yrs ago
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Bio
I'm not really a bird.
-0-
Where did I play,
A land of twisted branches,
A kingdom of clay,
A swamp of memories,
A never-ending day,
Where did I run,
Across the dawn,
Through the sun,
Across the sky,
Through laughs and fun,
Where did I walk,
Pristine grass green,
White cliffs of chalk,
Pools of sky so blue,
Orchard stones that talk,
Where did I sit,
By the gates of silver,
Near endless pit,
By forever horizon,
You may remember it.
Where did I play,
A land of twisted branches,
A kingdom of clay,
A swamp of memories,
A never-ending day,
Where did I run,
Across the dawn,
Through the sun,
Across the sky,
Through laughs and fun,
Where did I walk,
Pristine grass green,
White cliffs of chalk,
Pools of sky so blue,
Orchard stones that talk,
Where did I sit,
By the gates of silver,
Near endless pit,
By forever horizon,
You may remember it.
Most Recent Posts
In
Children of the Greatfather: A viking-themed medieval nation roleplay.
→
9 yrs ago
Forum: Nation Interest Checks
I support you!
Two years in the future, Charlin
What a long journey that has brought us here, Benoroux carelessly thought. The aging man leaned against one of the cold wooden pillars of his home. Winter was starting to break autumn’s glow with sprinkles of white, and inside his own humble manor, the chill had managed to leak through the weakening walls and crawl up his bare arms.
The room he stood in was lit with a central fire that fought bravely against the coming night shivers, and its orange glow splashed across the rest of the room. Bits and bobbles from Otnemarcas adorned the shelves just as Xerella liked it, and newly added paintings native to the Dominion covered cracks in the walls. Stephan himself requested the paintings some months into his stay, a pit of home-sickness twisting his stomach, but thankfully the help of the paintings and seeing Ricken blossom into a tough little boy calmed the storms in his gut.
The smell of Xerella’s Charlin styled sausages slithered into the room from the kitchen, and a slight drool was visible on Stephan’s face as he sat comfy in a plushy chair fit for a king. Benoroux smirked when he noticed his friends eager hunger.
“It’s been a long two years, my friend,” Benoroux stated, his voice haven gathered a more gravelly tone between stress, age, and clear charlinite liquors.
“Somedays it feels like just yesterday I was sitting white faced in the chairs of the dock prisons with some strange old man to judge me and my life,” Stephan looked over to the Boyar.
“Seems like yesterday-” Benoroux agreed, “as you creep towards my age, you’ll find that term to be your opener for most conversations. Perhaps too much.” He looked towards the door to the kitchen, and shivered.
“Cold?” Stephan pointed to one of the many hanging fur cloaks that adorned the back of the entrance.
“Oh no.. just thinking,” Benoroux nodded politely.
“About your wife again, eh?” Stephan chuckled.
Benoroux smiled, stifling a laugh as Xerella’s cooking lullabies began to pierce the air with their own voice.
Suddenly a swirl of wind entered the room, battling the flames as a young Ricken came stomping in, snow coloring his dark fur cloak a spotted white. In very clear Charlinite, the young boy screamed with excitement, “Uncle Stephan, Uncle Ben! I saw a bear-rabbit!”
Not sharing their nephew’s excitement, the two men quickly leapt to their feet, “WHAT!?”
“OH! Is Auntie cooking sausages!?” Ricken ignored their reactions and clumsily ran off towards the kitchen, a snowy wind following him.
“By the sword of King Roland,” Benoroux swore, “that better be one of his mighty tales.”
TO BE CONTINUED… (eventually)
Bretturean
City of Everyren, Bretturean Kingdom
The city of Everyren possessed an air filled with the clamor and the chaos of a large port city in the busiest time of day. The whole town seemed alive with activity as it bobbed and weaved as many common folks went about their business. The Grand keep in the center of the city was the heart of the capital. The fortress possessed a gray stone exterior surrounded by a colorful green courtyard filled with vines and planted flowers imported from the forest realm to the east. It was within this high structure that the council of Lord Knights was now holding court. The chamber was large and ornate; banners hung from the walls as well as ceremonial swords and shields. It was a circular room of generous size. It held a domed ceiling above with chimneys strategically placed above burning braziers so that the chamber was always warm regardless of the season or weather.
In the center of the room stood a half circle of men, five in number, with each wearing ornate armor with regel capes and belted swords. Before them was a round table of oakwood and on its face was the blooming flower artistry that was the heraldry of Bretturean. The man who sat in the middle of these knightley lords looked to be a ruggedly handsome man, he appeared young though his dark eyes seemed to possess a sharpness that hinted at a brilliant intellect. A courtier entered the chamber through two large double wooden doors and stopped short a few feet from the table with a low bow.
"M'lords, the delegation from Illyrica has arrived."
The center Lord nodded as he scratched his beard, "send them in, we shall hear their words." His Bretturean accent thick and strong.
The courtier quickly disappeared through the large doors and within moments they were swung wide open. Three figures marched in, two cream colored Suns of Mars fitted in an impressive array of armor that caught every spark of light offered, their faces concealed by their helms, and one very different looking woman.
She wore the badge of Iao on her right shoulder and the emblem of Mother Night on her left, both clipped a long flowing cape the color of a purple spring night. Her body was wrapped in furs and belts, hiding the glints of steel that formed her armor, and upon her face she wore a large black patch over her left eye, a jagged scar running from under it and down her otherwise flawless cheek to cleave the corner of her lips. Despite her look of experience, she held herself well, and with a spring of youth in each step.
The trio approached the round table of knights, the escorting Suns stopping halfway there while the delegate continued her approach. As she found herself by the hem of the table she pressed her fist to her chest and bowed her head, “Lords of Bretturean,” she looked up and paused where one would expect her to flood the room with the various titles endowed on both her and the company before her, but instead she smiled at the group before her, “I have no doubt you are all well aware of why I am here.”
One of the seated Lords possessed of sharp features with a goatee and mustache, tapped a finger on his hard wood of the table and spoke, "a guess may be a hazard, you act as voice for your Mother Night yes? Well, then speak and have your words meet acknowledgment."
“Charce has provoked Illyrian attention into the south with unnecessary violence, and is quickly bringing despair and destruction to this previously unbothered land,” The delegate shook her head, “My Archon seeks out the voices of reason and understanding among the Lords of Bretturean to help us all see this rising conflict ended quickly.”
One of the knight lords sitting to the far left, broader of the waist and build than the rest, drummed his fingers as he responded, "unprovoked violence is it, well a that sounds a right dodgy that given the news we've heard. If what you say is true, what would you have Bretturean do?"
“Wait,” the delegate seemed dumbfounded, “dodgy, news? Charce has attacked our borders, disrupted the peace in the south, and has set up to invade Illyrica. We cannot have this be a precedent for the south, the fighting will simply spill over and the council of Iao has made it very clear that they want to stay out of the south indefinitely.”
The delegate sighed, “I have been asked by Lord Regent Ai to come to Bretturean to propose a simple alliance and eventually a peaceful pact to ensure that wars in the future can be avoided by stopping such bold strikes we now see Charce making.”
"As we hear it," said the same pot-bellied Lord, "it was Illyrica that has threatened the peace, the border towns of Samis, Diosissa, and… ah yes Apussae are known to have been gutted this month alone."
"Lord Ivan has a point," spoke the mustached noble from before, "nevermind it is well known Illyrica employs privateers to waylay trade on the Sunset seas; your own Mother Night has claimed sovereignty of the East. The invasion of the Northern Kingdoms has made that all too clear Illyrica to rule everything east of the Shambled lands. Are we to believe Illyrica has suddenly lost its thirst for conquest?"
The delegate cocked a brow above her good eye, “my Lords, Illyrica has no thirst for conquest. Mother Night asked of Iao to take the lawless lands so that they may be secured under her -- Bretturean is no lawless land, and Charce was not without law. I hadn’t even heard the names on the lips of my superiors until Charce began murdering our southern patrols and building large forts on our border. There were no orders from Illyrica be it Iao, or the Southern Archon’s and Exarch’s to even touch a hair of the south until the recent aggressions. Lesmania was secure and out of the sight of the Archon of War himself, already deemed sufficiently attended to by her own politics and leaders. Charce has fallen from this point of view, and now we ask Bretturean to help us balance things once more before entire cities of blood are spilled.”
"You must think us so daft as to-" the man was cut short when the lord sitting in the center raised his hand for silence.
"Enough Lord Beerus," said the dark-eyed man as he turned his gaze toward the delegate, "assuming Mother Night's desire for peace is genuine, what assurances can Illyrica give that they do not seek the to add the southern kingdoms to her rule. And what aid would Illyrica ask of Bretturean concerning Charce?"
“Charce has shown itself unfit for peace and it’s leaders have proved unable to maintain a balanced border with us, and so it would be under the best interests of the South if the lands of Charce were put under a split custody of both Illyrican and Bretturean, split down an agreed border, to maintain a peaceful and possibly open border in the future,” the Delegate answered, her hand finding its way to the top of a chair’s back, “Illyrica alone can’t say what is best for Charce, but Bretturean can fill where we lack to ensure this balanced alliance. The Beyond knows there are greater threats to the lands of mortals, and such infighting -- especially without prior parlay’s and meetings -- serves no one.”
There were grumbles from around the table at this declaration, and a few shifted in their seat while the man in the center of Lords, Varncknis, remained silent for a time. The others looked on as if waiting for his lead. Finally, he broke the silence, "you speak in a very round about manner delegate. But it is evident you would have us dishonor ourselves by turning on our allies based on their supposed breaking of this peace?"
There was a pause before he continued, "the roundtable will convene and discuss this...proposition of yours. We must also meet with Sea Lord Karadal to validate these allegations of skive and warmongering you so quickly level. In the candle length till then, you and your retinue are free to enjoy the hospitality of Bretturean."
“Might I leave on a final word?” The Delegate quickly asked.
Lord Varncknis crossed his fingers under his chin and nodded giving her permission to speak.
“Might Charce revoke her aggressions and lay down her arms, so would Illyrica. We do not want the war, and we come to you only if Charce will not see reason, so I wish you luck on your talks with Lord Karadal. If even all three nations could simply talk and avoid armed conflict, then there would be a great victory for all of us. Thank you for your ears,” The delegate bowed her head and lifted her fist to her chest as before. As silence overtook her audience, the delegate gave one more parting bow before turning, her hand slipping from the untaken seat she had held. Only the sounds of her boots clapping the floor made sound as she exited the room, her Suns following shortly after.
It's not deeeaaaad. It's on break.
Present Day - Doma
Two swords clashed.Pulsing flashes of golden light burst forth from the impact , blinding the ring of onlookers. Two heavily armored men circled each other within the ring, chips and flakes running up the length of their blades from the sheer duration of their match. They were adorned in the all encasing golden colored armor of the Suns of Mars, and brilliant flashes of blinding light regularly exploded from their being, as was their stromist training to confuse the enemy.
Behind the thick metal helmets that encased their heads, two pairs of golden eyes remained unaffected by the displays of light, much in contrast to the dizzied fans watching the bout. Long discarded kite shields were strewn at either side of the makeshift arena, massive dents and tears running along them as if they were thin sheets of metal rather than thick shields of battle.
One knight stood taller than the other, and a look of aggression emitted from his eyes, the rest of his face hidden to the world. The second man had a look of determination and even desperation, the flutes of his armor cut and dented in from powerful blows, and his stance staggering under the constant attack from the first.
“General Caldronax!” A yellow tabard wearing messenger squeezed through the crowd. The skinny man managed to push his way to the front of the crowd in time for the first, taller man to turn his head at hearing his name.
The desperate knight took this as his chance to strike and swung his blade deftly at the back of Caldronax’s leg, but with inhuman speed that could only be described as stromist power, the General quickly lifted his leg and brought his heavy sabaton on top of the other’s blade, trapping it to the ground.
“Urgent news!” The messenger relayed.
Caldronax grunted within the casing of his helmet and turned back to the wide eyed knight, “fun’s over commander.”
The crowd preemptively cheered, knowing what was to come next. First it started as a whisper, but soon everyone save the messenger and the worried commander was chanting the General’s name. Then with an eruption of bright white light, the entire town square where the fighters found themselves was enveloped in the brain splitting display. A loud bang rang out as everyone stood blind, then the sound of a heavy suit of metal crumpling to the ground soon followed.
As the light dissipated and the negative still burned in the eyes of the onlooking common folk of Doma, The general was seen walking away with the messenger, having left the unconscious commander lying in the street, a concerning dent pounded into his helmet.
The messenger and Caldronax strolled passed the many stalls of the merchant district of Doma, the northern sun high in the chilled sky. Fur bearing imperials and northerners alike barked their wares and haggled harshly, while silk covered visitors spun on their heels, lost for direction. Much like the general, other soldiers of Iao’s vanguard were seen in heated duels in every corner and square of the district, much like every district save the residential. Some citizens joined in, some watched, but the majority of Doma denizens ignored them, having seen them every day they had lived in the city of the Archon of War.
The buildings were unassuming and practical, contrasting the major cities of the heartlands of southern Empire, and the only protection offered by fortification was a stout wall ringing the major districts, but in the eyes of Caldronax, that was easily made up for the sheer force Doma could muster in a moment’s notice.
“General,” The messenger pulled Caldronax’s graeling mind from the campaign that took Doma from his ancestors in the first place, a fact that he did not hold personal.
“Speak, Argun,” Caldronax lifted his helmet, revealing the pale face of the north, with two golden eyes set deep over a stern look.
“The numbers have come back from the fire attacks and as requested, I have written them down for you,” Argun produced a rolled parchment from a flap in his deer skin coat. Caldronax raised a palm, not bothering to look at the paper, “I’ll read it later, just give me the details.”
“Thirty-two warships damaged, twelve irreparable, and-”
“Countless fishermen pissed?” Caldronax looked over at Argun with a raised brow.
“Enough to reconquer the entire north,” The messenger placed the scroll back into his coat.
“And the perpetrators?”
“We couldn’t get a word out of them, but we have news that the fire attacks also took place at all other major ports of the Empire,” The messenger turned with Caldronax onto a neatly fitted stone road. The pathway lead to the great spire ahead of them, the tower sitting on top of the hill that dominated Doma, and served as the central nerve for the city, and ultimately the north.
The spire was one of the few flashy buildings this far north, but was greatly feared by all enemies of Doma as the residence of none other than the great Iao himself.
“I sent for the other Generals as you requested,” Argun continued.
“Good,” Caldronax answered before falling into a silence. The walk grew tense, as Caldronax looked forward towards the spire with a serious glare that could cut down the thickest forest of jest. The general’s hand fell to the polished pommel of his blade, following it as the blade rattled against the overused scabbard.
“May I ask your thoughts?” Argun broke the silence.
Caldronax slowly looked over at Argun, his glare turning into one of a teacher, one of a well versed general, “I would wager Charce had their fingers in this. I can see how they would benefit from the destruction of our fleets,” he rubbed his shaved chin, “gives us quite the opportunity to try out our latest innovations however.”
“Sir?”
“We are down twelve ships, we are going to have to get creative and strike from angles no one is to expect.”
“That’s very Iaonian of you, sir,” Argun looked straight ahead.
“They have made this a war of the North, Argun,” Caldronax looked back towards Iao’s tower, “the least I can do is explain to them what that means, and explain it in the way the North does best. Send word to Ai.”
Gold & Aristo
BOOM!
Thunder shook the air as the massive hooves of Iao’s pegasus rampaged through darkening skies. The massive beast was known as “Pain” and it’s coat was as dark as night, it’s eyes as red as blood. Lightning cracked open the sky as each hoof pounded, and thunder boomed with each flap of its mighty wings.
On top of the towering beast sat an eager Ai, all feelings of fear from the intense ride were cast aside and replaced with ambition and behind him sat Errocas. The younger boy was shielded from most of the hurricane winds pounding his older brother, giving him a clear watery eyed view of the citadel below. Should he have been here a week ago he would’ve seen massive towers rising from seemingly impenetrable walls, and an intricate city within, but now it’s walls were crumbled, sprinkled with the gory remnants of war, and surrounded by the camps of his father soldiers, tasked with cleaning up hollowed out city and rebuilding the great structure for their own use.
The brother’s trip had been silent, and upon seeing the city, any comment from either would have been drowned out by the winds of flight. As the soldiers commonly known as the Anvil’s of Eden saw the approaching pegasus, they pounded their fists to their hearts, chanting together the name of Ai’s father, but as the son of Iao got closer, the chants slowly changed to his name. From behind his brother, Errocas silently wondered if his own name would echo from the lips of men. The pounding hooves of Pain matched their chants with strikes of lightning as it landed into a slow trot, until the chants and the mighty beast finally came to a stop.
A soldier wearing segmented strips of metal over a fur lining approached the brothers, dirt and sweat covering his aged brow and a pick with the blade of a war axe on the opposite end in his hands.
“Hail Ai, son of Iao,” he dropped his tool to salute the brothers with a fist to his chest, his voice was thick with the accent of the Aeslings. Errocas pouted, fidgeted on the saddle and made a tiny cough.
The commander's eyes met Ai’s, offering a look of confusion to the brothers as he looked over to Errocas. Ai motioned towards his brother, “hail Errocas, youth of Iao.”
The Commander dipped his head in apology, “hail Errocas, youth of Iao. I beg forgiveness for my ignorance.”
“It’s quite alright,” the younger son replied, leaning out from behind Ai’s back. “But more importantly, where is Jericho? Have you seen him?”
“Master Jericho was last seen in the atrium of the enemy keep, that’s all I know, we’ve been busy on your father’s orders,” the commander quickly replied, his words sharp and to the point.
“Thank you,” Ai looked over at Errocas, a look of worry on his face before turning back to the commander, “return to your posts, we are going to take entry.”
“Should be safe sir,” the commander quickly answered.
“Even if it wasn’t, it looks a lot safer than the last time I was here,” Ai gave the man a smirk, attempting to conceal the strain of worry.
“Of course, sir,” The commander saluted, offering a smile before spinning on his heel and returning to his idle soldiers with a cacophony of loud shouts, and barking orders.
Ai quickly slid off the saddle of Pain, it taking a few seconds for his booted feet to reach the flattened grass. Errocas followed suit, reluctantly taking his brother’s aid on the way down.
“You don’t suppose Jericho’s in trouble, do you?” Errocas asked. “Father was adamant we find him right away.” The image of Iao’s bloated, bedridden body pointing towards the door filled his head, causing him to shudder.
“No,” Ai muttered as he turned towards the beaten path that lead into the crumbled maw that once was the arching portal to the citadel.
“He is our father’s son, and our brother, there is no battle he can’t win,” Ai looked over to Errocas as they began their evening walk. Errocas hoped he was right.
The walk was quiet, or would have been if not for the sounds of construction around them, and the heaves of men lifting both block and corpses onto wagons. The smell of death had been scrubbed clean and replaced with the stink of plaster, and only the loudest evening birds challenged the casual banter of the soldiers that swarmed the outer walls, all too deep in their own work to notice the two brothers make their way into the citadel.
Once inside it was clear that the theme of rubble was not forsaken, as crumbled buildings surrounded the brothers. While Errocas was entering the grey stone wreckage for the first time, Ai’s eyes were darting all around, soaking in familiar sights. The city wasn’t large by any standards, and was more of a ring of marts and homes surrounding the central keep, which now was the only building standing in its completeness, save for the massive hole where the thick oaken doors once were.
There were less soldiers the closer the brothers got to the keep, and the lingering smell of battle started to creep and overtake the smell of construction that reigned back at the walls. The taste of iron was still in the air, despite the battle being a day away, reminding Ai just how much blood was spilled. The further from the familiarity of the outside and the security of the soldiers they went, the closer Errocas stuck to his brother's side. He’d heard plenty of stories of battle, seen illustrations and watched men give their all in sparring. What he wasn’t prepared for was the aftermath firsthand - the sting in his nostrils, the blood staining his shoes, the moans of the dying.
The brother’s stopped their walk at the mouth of the keep, their feet standing between the light of the rising moon and the shade of the abandoned castle. The atrium before them was wide and spacious, with two foyers split by an ascending staircase that lead to the upper levels. The furniture had been upturned, the candle stands knocked over, the carpets wrinkled, and the tapestries torn. It was clear a bloodbath took place here as the crimson stained every surface. The stone walls captured the distinct smell of murder that made even Ai cringe, knowing his troops flooded this keep at the height of the battle, far before he even took one step in it, and by then, the droves of slaughtered bodies were moved from the confined battleground. Ai looked blankly at the scene before him, his mind trying to comprehend the final moments as sorrow turned his stomach.
“Disturbing isn’t it?” an Aesling voice broke Ai from his thoughts. The brothers turned to meet the old gaze of a tribesman, bile covering a dark apron, and the insignia of Iao clipped to his shoulder, marking him a Auxiliary.
“What happened here?” Errocas asked. He approached the haggard man cautiously. The Aesling looked like a boogeyman out of a children’s tale in his current state, but Errocas could only feel sorry for him.
“War, battle, death,” The man listed, “but I just clean it up.”
“I was there,” Ai muttered, his eyes wide still, he could feel the remains of what emotion was ripped from the gurgling throats of the slain.
The man grew silent for a while, then a sympathetic look took over his visage, “I take it, young master, that this is the first time you revisited the killing grounds.”
Ai simply nodded as the man continued, “you know, in youth I wish someone had told me of the price of the battle. It’s not only the possible death of yourself or the death of whoever is at the odd end of the blade, but the unseen bonds severed, and the hearts broken.”
The man looked down grimly, “I had learned this the hard way, and yesterday I saw many a men who just learned it as well.”
Ai looked over to the man, silent but attentive, his wide eyes soaked in the macabre look of the man as Ai’s heart began to leap with anxiety, the beginnings of guilt swirling in his stomach.
“There was one man who learned it the hardest,” The Aesling continued, looking off to the stairs, “Uh-top yonder stairs. The man could only be described as a Stromist, true and fit, and yet he clutched the bloodied body of one of the resisters. I’ve seen men cry, and piss themselves in battle, but to hear the sobs of a heart breaking is chilling. The poor sod held a hand to her stomach in a way that made me fear more than one life was lost.”
Ai’s eyes grew dark, and the guilt spilled into his stomach, raging and certain, “who was this man?”
“I do not know,” The old Aesling remarked, “none of the Auxiliary sent in to clean the place really knew, but we were pulled recently from the surrounding villages. One of our boys tried to break it up, but now he is in the infirmary with burn wounds and a broken arm.”
“Burns?” Ai felt his blood freeze.
“Aye, from a lash of flame no less,” the man answered, not finding the detail as important as the moral of his story.
Ai’s face flashed blank, his heart grew still and his veins grew cold with amassing guilt and anxiety. He stammered out his final remark, “w-where did he go?”
“East,” the old man answered, “to the swamps.”
“Ai. Do you think…?” Errocas clasped a hand to his brother’s shoulder as he began to suggest the unthinkable. From his stare, he knew the eldest had come to the same conclusion. “Quick! We have to go out there!”
Twelve Years Ago
-The Citadel of the Final Queen-
-The Citadel of the Final Queen-
BOOM!
Thunder shook the air as the massive hooves of Iao’s pegasus rampaged through darkening skies. The massive beast was known as “Pain” and it’s coat was as dark as night, it’s eyes as red as blood. Lightning cracked open the sky as each hoof pounded, and thunder boomed with each flap of its mighty wings.
On top of the towering beast sat an eager Ai, all feelings of fear from the intense ride were cast aside and replaced with ambition and behind him sat Errocas. The younger boy was shielded from most of the hurricane winds pounding his older brother, giving him a clear watery eyed view of the citadel below. Should he have been here a week ago he would’ve seen massive towers rising from seemingly impenetrable walls, and an intricate city within, but now it’s walls were crumbled, sprinkled with the gory remnants of war, and surrounded by the camps of his father soldiers, tasked with cleaning up hollowed out city and rebuilding the great structure for their own use.
The brother’s trip had been silent, and upon seeing the city, any comment from either would have been drowned out by the winds of flight. As the soldiers commonly known as the Anvil’s of Eden saw the approaching pegasus, they pounded their fists to their hearts, chanting together the name of Ai’s father, but as the son of Iao got closer, the chants slowly changed to his name. From behind his brother, Errocas silently wondered if his own name would echo from the lips of men. The pounding hooves of Pain matched their chants with strikes of lightning as it landed into a slow trot, until the chants and the mighty beast finally came to a stop.
A soldier wearing segmented strips of metal over a fur lining approached the brothers, dirt and sweat covering his aged brow and a pick with the blade of a war axe on the opposite end in his hands.
“Hail Ai, son of Iao,” he dropped his tool to salute the brothers with a fist to his chest, his voice was thick with the accent of the Aeslings. Errocas pouted, fidgeted on the saddle and made a tiny cough.
The commander's eyes met Ai’s, offering a look of confusion to the brothers as he looked over to Errocas. Ai motioned towards his brother, “hail Errocas, youth of Iao.”
The Commander dipped his head in apology, “hail Errocas, youth of Iao. I beg forgiveness for my ignorance.”
“It’s quite alright,” the younger son replied, leaning out from behind Ai’s back. “But more importantly, where is Jericho? Have you seen him?”
“Master Jericho was last seen in the atrium of the enemy keep, that’s all I know, we’ve been busy on your father’s orders,” the commander quickly replied, his words sharp and to the point.
“Thank you,” Ai looked over at Errocas, a look of worry on his face before turning back to the commander, “return to your posts, we are going to take entry.”
“Should be safe sir,” the commander quickly answered.
“Even if it wasn’t, it looks a lot safer than the last time I was here,” Ai gave the man a smirk, attempting to conceal the strain of worry.
“Of course, sir,” The commander saluted, offering a smile before spinning on his heel and returning to his idle soldiers with a cacophony of loud shouts, and barking orders.
Ai quickly slid off the saddle of Pain, it taking a few seconds for his booted feet to reach the flattened grass. Errocas followed suit, reluctantly taking his brother’s aid on the way down.
“You don’t suppose Jericho’s in trouble, do you?” Errocas asked. “Father was adamant we find him right away.” The image of Iao’s bloated, bedridden body pointing towards the door filled his head, causing him to shudder.
“No,” Ai muttered as he turned towards the beaten path that lead into the crumbled maw that once was the arching portal to the citadel.
“He is our father’s son, and our brother, there is no battle he can’t win,” Ai looked over to Errocas as they began their evening walk. Errocas hoped he was right.
The walk was quiet, or would have been if not for the sounds of construction around them, and the heaves of men lifting both block and corpses onto wagons. The smell of death had been scrubbed clean and replaced with the stink of plaster, and only the loudest evening birds challenged the casual banter of the soldiers that swarmed the outer walls, all too deep in their own work to notice the two brothers make their way into the citadel.
Once inside it was clear that the theme of rubble was not forsaken, as crumbled buildings surrounded the brothers. While Errocas was entering the grey stone wreckage for the first time, Ai’s eyes were darting all around, soaking in familiar sights. The city wasn’t large by any standards, and was more of a ring of marts and homes surrounding the central keep, which now was the only building standing in its completeness, save for the massive hole where the thick oaken doors once were.
There were less soldiers the closer the brothers got to the keep, and the lingering smell of battle started to creep and overtake the smell of construction that reigned back at the walls. The taste of iron was still in the air, despite the battle being a day away, reminding Ai just how much blood was spilled. The further from the familiarity of the outside and the security of the soldiers they went, the closer Errocas stuck to his brother's side. He’d heard plenty of stories of battle, seen illustrations and watched men give their all in sparring. What he wasn’t prepared for was the aftermath firsthand - the sting in his nostrils, the blood staining his shoes, the moans of the dying.
The brother’s stopped their walk at the mouth of the keep, their feet standing between the light of the rising moon and the shade of the abandoned castle. The atrium before them was wide and spacious, with two foyers split by an ascending staircase that lead to the upper levels. The furniture had been upturned, the candle stands knocked over, the carpets wrinkled, and the tapestries torn. It was clear a bloodbath took place here as the crimson stained every surface. The stone walls captured the distinct smell of murder that made even Ai cringe, knowing his troops flooded this keep at the height of the battle, far before he even took one step in it, and by then, the droves of slaughtered bodies were moved from the confined battleground. Ai looked blankly at the scene before him, his mind trying to comprehend the final moments as sorrow turned his stomach.
“Disturbing isn’t it?” an Aesling voice broke Ai from his thoughts. The brothers turned to meet the old gaze of a tribesman, bile covering a dark apron, and the insignia of Iao clipped to his shoulder, marking him a Auxiliary.
“What happened here?” Errocas asked. He approached the haggard man cautiously. The Aesling looked like a boogeyman out of a children’s tale in his current state, but Errocas could only feel sorry for him.
“War, battle, death,” The man listed, “but I just clean it up.”
“I was there,” Ai muttered, his eyes wide still, he could feel the remains of what emotion was ripped from the gurgling throats of the slain.
The man grew silent for a while, then a sympathetic look took over his visage, “I take it, young master, that this is the first time you revisited the killing grounds.”
Ai simply nodded as the man continued, “you know, in youth I wish someone had told me of the price of the battle. It’s not only the possible death of yourself or the death of whoever is at the odd end of the blade, but the unseen bonds severed, and the hearts broken.”
The man looked down grimly, “I had learned this the hard way, and yesterday I saw many a men who just learned it as well.”
Ai looked over to the man, silent but attentive, his wide eyes soaked in the macabre look of the man as Ai’s heart began to leap with anxiety, the beginnings of guilt swirling in his stomach.
“There was one man who learned it the hardest,” The Aesling continued, looking off to the stairs, “Uh-top yonder stairs. The man could only be described as a Stromist, true and fit, and yet he clutched the bloodied body of one of the resisters. I’ve seen men cry, and piss themselves in battle, but to hear the sobs of a heart breaking is chilling. The poor sod held a hand to her stomach in a way that made me fear more than one life was lost.”
Ai’s eyes grew dark, and the guilt spilled into his stomach, raging and certain, “who was this man?”
“I do not know,” The old Aesling remarked, “none of the Auxiliary sent in to clean the place really knew, but we were pulled recently from the surrounding villages. One of our boys tried to break it up, but now he is in the infirmary with burn wounds and a broken arm.”
“Burns?” Ai felt his blood freeze.
“Aye, from a lash of flame no less,” the man answered, not finding the detail as important as the moral of his story.
Ai’s face flashed blank, his heart grew still and his veins grew cold with amassing guilt and anxiety. He stammered out his final remark, “w-where did he go?”
“East,” the old man answered, “to the swamps.”
“Ai. Do you think…?” Errocas clasped a hand to his brother’s shoulder as he began to suggest the unthinkable. From his stare, he knew the eldest had come to the same conclusion. “Quick! We have to go out there!”
Don't blame me, blame waiting for KHAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!
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So I guess we should all be aware that Khan moonlights as the notorious silverware thief of Manhattan, and has plundered over thirteen thousand kitchen drawers in his disturbing utensil kleptomania.
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