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Wilted Rose
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8 yrs ago
Current
I RP for the ladies
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8 yrs ago
#Diapergate #Hugs2018
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9 yrs ago
I fucking love catfishing
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9 yrs ago
Every time I insult a certain coworker, i'll take money from their jar. Saving for beer would never be easier!
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9 yrs ago
The Jungle Book is good.
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Bio
Most Recent Posts
You can make a wall out of broken youtube links!
I ran out of posts about how the ground is red and salt sucks. Gotta get a Hugs post before I can go further.
And now "Brain" is solidly on the list of shit you don't want to be if you are in the precipice world.
Dinh AaronMk said
fuk u all-consuming goat army.420 yolo. Rap battles on the beach.
This will be what I am remembered by. "Motherfuckers come on" will be written on my gravestone.
Aaron said The embrace of night was a cool and welcome relief. It lay across the Vilage, bringing to a conclusion the events of earlier that day.
Well then...
Updated the world stuff. Mostly added cultural details mentioned in Googers posts and expanded the environmental descriptions to include the Rhumid desert and the Pale lands. If people want the area around their satrapies described, they should probably make their own using the same picture+terse description method I am using and I will put them in with the rest.
Bad-Town, Illinois
(Pertinent Action Tiem)
In poetry water is often described as crystal. Homer had his wine-dark sea and the Harlequin romantic Rain Summers had compared the waters near her bayou loveshack to her sculpted gardener's eyes. Sadly, for Louis LaGrunge, the only words that could describe the Mississipi river that churned beneath him was "Shit-clogged toiler water."
It was an embarrassment to beauty, as much of the world was in these times. He longed for painted palaces he had never seen, and dreamed of fountains he hardly understood. Art was a distant memory for civilization, and he wanted it. He could imagine ancient French philosophers wriggling their feet in soft shag carpet, writing sonnets and discussing astronomy with their neighbors. That was what the world used to be, before they burned it all and replaced it with the dung-heap tribes of the new world. He watched a fire-singed sofa bob in the oil stained river and sighed before going back into his room.
Even the decor of this steamboat reminded him how depressed the world had become. Sure, it was a steamboat, running on coal and civilization. From afar, the image of its magnificent paddle filled a person full of wonder and awe. Once inside, however, you could see how sad it truly was. Guards patrolled the halls, looking out thin windows designed like the arrow slits of a mighty French fortress in the days of old, except using plywood and junk-metal instead of proud European stone. They were armed with muskets and crossbows, but they did not have the noble look of the ancient musketeers. These were shifty men who were as happy to be paid in methamphetamine as they were honor or cash. There were no knights or heroes anymore. Louis could feel their stares as they inspected what a real gentleman presented himself as.
Louis wore a curly black wig that jutted one foot above his head like a fountain of luscious imperialism. It warmed his head and reminded him how sophisticated his people, the Frankish blood of old France, truly were. He had managed to find and old bathrobe which wore over the leather clothes of his profession. His robe was resplendent, decorated with small bits of jewelry he had found and sewn into the wool, alongside a dozen manners of stars. Some stars were metal and some were plastic, while others glowed a strange ghastly green in the dark. Over his back, he had a crossbow with a mechanism that held a dozen bolts and popped them into place as he loaded and fired. It was an elegant weapon, and it kept him safe through horrific times.
He could feel the boat rock and hear the hum of the motor and splosh of water against the hull as he found his way to his quarters. It was at the end of the hall, in a room that had once been numbered "201" as was told by the shadow left against the paint where the brass numbers had once stood. Now in its place was a picture of a chicken and a second picture of a corncob. Room Chicken Corn. It was the depressing result of a world that had lost so much of its literacy. There were on the chicken level. Below, there was a cow level, and directly beneath them was the room Cow Corn.
He entered the less-than-prestigious trappings and was greeted with the smell of rotting wood and the site of his newest lady love spread out across the bed like a human prune. She was seventy, somehow, and she still had some vague memories in the back of her mind of a world where civilization still existed. Memories of the failing of old world architecture and art. She was like a museum, though that thought was now embittered by how many times imbecilic new-worlders had said his lady loves belonged in a museum. He hung his robe from a peg as delicately as it deserved and unstrapped the leather traveling armor he had worn across so many long roads. In his state of overtly human nudity, he climbed into bed.
Her skin was like rubber loosened by sunlight, though he could easily feel her bones beneath. "Where is this?" she asked weakly, sounding as confused as she usually did. Such a long life in such a horrible atmosphere was starting to affect her.
"We're arriving in Bad-Town soon." Louis replied. He pushed his body against hers and reveled in her clammy skin.
(Pertinent Action Tiem)
In poetry water is often described as crystal. Homer had his wine-dark sea and the Harlequin romantic Rain Summers had compared the waters near her bayou loveshack to her sculpted gardener's eyes. Sadly, for Louis LaGrunge, the only words that could describe the Mississipi river that churned beneath him was "Shit-clogged toiler water."
It was an embarrassment to beauty, as much of the world was in these times. He longed for painted palaces he had never seen, and dreamed of fountains he hardly understood. Art was a distant memory for civilization, and he wanted it. He could imagine ancient French philosophers wriggling their feet in soft shag carpet, writing sonnets and discussing astronomy with their neighbors. That was what the world used to be, before they burned it all and replaced it with the dung-heap tribes of the new world. He watched a fire-singed sofa bob in the oil stained river and sighed before going back into his room.
Even the decor of this steamboat reminded him how depressed the world had become. Sure, it was a steamboat, running on coal and civilization. From afar, the image of its magnificent paddle filled a person full of wonder and awe. Once inside, however, you could see how sad it truly was. Guards patrolled the halls, looking out thin windows designed like the arrow slits of a mighty French fortress in the days of old, except using plywood and junk-metal instead of proud European stone. They were armed with muskets and crossbows, but they did not have the noble look of the ancient musketeers. These were shifty men who were as happy to be paid in methamphetamine as they were honor or cash. There were no knights or heroes anymore. Louis could feel their stares as they inspected what a real gentleman presented himself as.
Louis wore a curly black wig that jutted one foot above his head like a fountain of luscious imperialism. It warmed his head and reminded him how sophisticated his people, the Frankish blood of old France, truly were. He had managed to find and old bathrobe which wore over the leather clothes of his profession. His robe was resplendent, decorated with small bits of jewelry he had found and sewn into the wool, alongside a dozen manners of stars. Some stars were metal and some were plastic, while others glowed a strange ghastly green in the dark. Over his back, he had a crossbow with a mechanism that held a dozen bolts and popped them into place as he loaded and fired. It was an elegant weapon, and it kept him safe through horrific times.
He could feel the boat rock and hear the hum of the motor and splosh of water against the hull as he found his way to his quarters. It was at the end of the hall, in a room that had once been numbered "201" as was told by the shadow left against the paint where the brass numbers had once stood. Now in its place was a picture of a chicken and a second picture of a corncob. Room Chicken Corn. It was the depressing result of a world that had lost so much of its literacy. There were on the chicken level. Below, there was a cow level, and directly beneath them was the room Cow Corn.
He entered the less-than-prestigious trappings and was greeted with the smell of rotting wood and the site of his newest lady love spread out across the bed like a human prune. She was seventy, somehow, and she still had some vague memories in the back of her mind of a world where civilization still existed. Memories of the failing of old world architecture and art. She was like a museum, though that thought was now embittered by how many times imbecilic new-worlders had said his lady loves belonged in a museum. He hung his robe from a peg as delicately as it deserved and unstrapped the leather traveling armor he had worn across so many long roads. In his state of overtly human nudity, he climbed into bed.
Her skin was like rubber loosened by sunlight, though he could easily feel her bones beneath. "Where is this?" she asked weakly, sounding as confused as she usually did. Such a long life in such a horrible atmosphere was starting to affect her.
"We're arriving in Bad-Town soon." Louis replied. He pushed his body against hers and reveled in her clammy skin.
They had waited for days, and little had happened. The salt flats were littered with encampments, each slowly using up their supplies as they tried to outmaneuver the others. Envoys ran back and forth carrying deals, but nobody could gain a clear political advantage. The men were growing restless, forced to stew under the pale Rhumid sun only to cling to their animals, or to each other, during the biting cold Rhumid night. And each one of those nights brought Hesiod a legacy dream.
Last night he had seen back into the roots of time, at the era of the wooden shield and cold stone spear. Hesiod had been taught the stories of the titans, and how each of them had nearly destroyed everything Deos had made on the earth. They were dark things - belches of creation that proved how powerful Deos truly was by showing how monstrous even his mistakes could be. They were small mistakes after all - things overlooked in the process of creating something as immense and glorious as the universe. When he had heard them described, he had imagined them as brutally as a young boy raised in a palace who had saw more statues of wildlife than the living things themselves could imagine. But it was in his dreams, in the legacy dreams, that he learned what they were.
Balochus was one of the last titans, and one of the few that Deos himself did not challenge. He had been the lizard king of the depths - a dragon-like beast made of armored scale and muscle that walked on its hind legs and spouted fire that could melt bronze in mere moments. In his dreams, Hesiod has seen the beast. It was taller than words could describe. Taller than mountains, with shins the size of castles. That had been Balochus. Iron skinned Balochus. And Milatides had sworn to destroy him.
With a purposeful grimace and a terrible sound, Balochus tore the tangled treeline down. His legs brought forth quakes, his roar scorched the earth and left blackened soil. Milatides stood on the edge of the earthen wall that protected his new home. He could see the monster miles away, its forest-green scales gleaming with fresh sea-water. Milatides, the hero, held tightly to the ten feet of solid ash tipped with a sharpened leaf of darkened bronze that promised him his victory. The monster roared, it's voice breaking through the scattered trees like a coming storm. The roar had woke Hesiod, and brought him back to this world. In his dreams, victory had felt certain. Balochus, as impossible as he was, could never stand against something as purely heroic as Milatides. Hesiod faced nothing nearly as daunting - only armies, with an army of his own at his back - but he was all nerves and uncertainty.
The blue glow of dawn filtered through his tent, weakly outlining everything inside. It was early. Outside, Hesiod could hear the sounds of an encampment in the morning. Men muttering, the whining of horses, the rattle of bronze, it all mixed together in a low whisper. Tossing the furs from his bunk, he stood up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He could see his breath. He had spent most of his life in Serapium, where the pale desert met the sea. In the winter, thin sheets of ice would form a crust over the river Enverne, mostly carried down from the icy north. Serapium rarely saw a snow, however. Men still wore sandals and pants, though oftentimes with linen socks. The Rhumid colds were something else. It was not yet winter, and the Rhumid's were already talking about snow-blocked passes in the north.
Gooseprickles formed on his naked skin, and he could feel a numbness setting in on his limbs. He rubbed his hands together and blew into them, enjoying the few seconds of warmth it gave his face. A breeze caught the flap of his tent and made him shudder. Quickly, he dressed himself. Pants and a tunic would be enough, with an gold-embroidered green bonesnake tabard over the top so that he looked his rank. After forcing on a pair of leather boots, he walked outside into the morning air.
The salt flats were named aptly. There was no other words to describe them but 'salt' and 'flat'. They stretched to the south infinitely, only the slightest hint of a hazy red line marking the mountains in the south. To the north, however, the red stone of the Rhumid mountains commanded the scenery. Their weird shapes made them hard to accept as mountains. In the rest of the world, mountain ranges were sharp-rising hills and commanding peaks. In the Rhumid wastes, they were as uniquely shaped as the clouds in the sky. Some of them looked like loafs of bread lightly frosted with sugary snow on the top, while others looked like knifes pointed hatefully toward the sky. There were tables and chimneys standing alongside phallus's and arches. Their red rock and dust rolled down into the foothills where the Milatids had made their encampment, mixing with the salt to create a stinging pink dust. It got into everything, and when the wind picked it up it stung at their eyes. The men walked through the camp weeping much of the time. It reddened the eyes of the Rhumids too, but they never seemed to mind that much.
Now that he was outside, Hesiod could hear the Rhumid's. They woke their own up with the rolling sound of drums. The Rhumid beat sounded like a distant thunderstorm, full of energy and feeling as if they would never stop playing. Some had complained, calling the native sound a racket, but Hesiod had grown fond of them. The Rhumid's, with their felt tents and simple lives, had made Hesiod second guess the entire concept of an empire. They reminded him of those stories of their ancestors, about how they had been farmers and goatherds peeling a life from the land they called their home. They were not glorious, nor did they live in luxury, but they were happy.
"Cousin" a voice called out from nearby. Hesiod turned abruptly, as if an arrow had buzzed his head. A group of riders had dismounted nearby - three Calydonian men with plumed helms and a fourth man as pale as the salt desert. One of the Calydonians approached and pulled his helmet from his head.
"Acacius." Hesiod grinned. The two men embraced, patting each other on the back before breaking off.
Acacius was a young man - hardly seventeen, in truth. He had proven himself in battle, and the men saw him for the warrior that he was, but Hesiod still had a hard time separating him from the boy he had been. He was tall now, a slim youth that had taken his mother's more handsome looks rather than the thick-boned appearance of the Milatids. His jaw was square, but it was clear he had yet to grow anything more than a few stray hairs on his chin. His white linen armor was covered in a dusty pink, and a rider's sword dangled loosely his side. He had went scouting, Hesiod immediately understood.
"What news is there?" Hesiod asked.
"It is quiet." Acacius said sternly. "The Mithrid's have been executing Rhumid's they claim to have helped murder Syros."
Hesiod spat. It had been rumored that the Mithrid's ordered Onesimos - Hesiod's father - killed. Blood ran hot between the two families now, and Hesiod felt the pressure to stand strong against them in the name of his fallen sire.
"The Efernii say they spotted Hadrian moving in the mountains. They might be searching for more Rhumid's? We haven't learned."
"If they are declaring war on the Rhumid's, they are going to make things harder on themselves." Hesiod replied. This was their land. They knew it, and they knew how to use it. Onesimos had taught his men to respect the natives, and Hesiod was beginning to understand how that may pay off more now than it ever had before.
"What of the others?" Hesiod asked.
"Thespos Comatid broods. He is in mourning, I am told. If we come to blows, we don't know how the Comatid's will react." Acacius said uncertainly. "There is no word on the Magesanitii. They are quiet. I am told others move, but to what effect we are having difficulty learning."
Hesiod felt a twinge of relief. Thespos Comatid was a name that stood out amongst the Syros' generals. He was a leftover from the early conquests - a man who had walked with Hesiod's grandfather in the burning ruins of Melida. There were few of that generation left, and they were growing fewer every year. When Hesiod and his captains had sat to consider who would contend for the throne, Thespos ranked high on the list.
"Their supplies are running low." the pale man added. Qamut was one of the Efernii - the people from the far north who lived in glaciers. They had once ruled the pale desert, before the ancestors of the Rhumids or the Copsid family of Calydon. They were a small people, standing a head below other men, and their slight builds made them more agile then strong. Qamut had the ghost-like looks of his people. His skin was snow white and his hair a platinum silver. He had a hairless, moon-like face dominated by radiant blue eyes that seemed to glow. And at night, they did glow.
"Our raids are turning up less and less. Food trickles down the Red Road, but the families fight over it. Now the world outside of these mountains know that your war king is dead, they are hoarding what they can. They know what is coming."
Hesiod nodded grimly. "Our supplies are none better." He had kept tabs as much as he could, though he hardly had the heart to visit his brother and so he knew less then he thought he should. Phaedrus disturbed Hesiod. His brother was a colder man than any he had ever known. Onesimos had made his older son the Quartermaster, as he had no energy for war. Even his numbers didn't truly interest him, he simply handled them because he had been asked and had no interest in arguing. If he had not been given another task, Phaedrus would have likely spent his time staring at the walls.
"It's either retreat or battle." Qamut said. "Your great-uncle rules the pale lands. The other families must go south along the road, they have few other choices, but you can go east..."
"Retreat?" Acacius snorted. "Our family would never live that down. They killed your father, Hesiod! They murdered him in cold blood! If you cannot avenge him than ours is not a name to be feared! We must give battle! More than anyone else, we must!"
There was a sick humor to that. They could escape easier than anybody else. Their friends were to the east, after all, and the Rhumids knew this land well. They could escape, but they couldn't. There was no running, Acacius was right in that. Onesimos had been brutally murdered by the Mithrids. His death had to be avenged. Hesiod could see no way to do so without destroying everything they had here. His family, his friends, his life... they all balanced on this. It burned, like a headache lit aflame. All of it had fell on him, and his shoulders were buckling.
"I'm going to speak to Phaedrus." Hesiod said cooly. "If our supplies outlast theirs, they will be forced to attack first. We can lead them into the mountains and crush them against us."
Acacius looked the warrior, his helmet under his arm as he nodded in a way that looked as much like a salute as it did like an agreement. Qamut was still, and said nothing.
The mood in the Milatid camp was that of boredom and restlessness. Men sparred with each other, beating their frustrations into the shields of their comrades. The sound of dinging bronze and shuddering wood spears rose from several corners of the vast maze of tents. Calydonian archers practiced in jest against the Efernii longbowman, who's prowess with the bow was hardly paralleled. Separate from the rest, the Rhumid warriors practiced amongst their own.
The Rhumid's fought like angry demons. They painted their faces with red clay paste, and when they fought they pelted their enemy with shrill warcries and faces bent in murderous rage. Even their advance was different. The Calydonians approached tactically, considering all their angles as the walked toward their enemies at a steady pace. They would drum their weapons against their shields, but those shields were always ready. The Rhumid advance was a dance, however. They hopped and roared, drumming their spear against the ground and flapping their hide-and-wicker shields through the air as madly as a child waves a flag. It was not organized, and it worried Hesiod. They opened themselves to arrows and javelins. Calydonians were not frightened by warsongs, and no amount of pink paste would deflect a bronze spear head.
Not all men practiced. Some bitterly nibbled on hard cheese and stale bread. Others weaved small icons from their own hair, symbolizing patron ancestors or favored Goddesses. Others yet groomed themselves, combing their dark Calydonian hair and braiding the curls of their beards so that they were ready to be presented to Dys. These were all men readying for death. They had came to accept that they would fight their Calydonian brothers across the burning salt waste. Did that make it inevitable? The thought that there was no other path for them to travel but one of battle made Hesiod nervous. He reached Phaedrus's leather tent, sighed, and entered.
The tent was a closed pocket of human odor. Half-eaten food littered the floor. A simple cot stood at one end of the room, and a desk covered in papers and coins stood in the other. It was undecorated and austere, more like a prisoners tent then that of a young prince.
Phaedrus was bent over his desk wearing a stained tunic. His hair was a nest of ratted hair and his patchy beard was just as bad. He was focused on a ledger scroll, carelessly dragging his fingers across the flaky paper. He looked completely unaffected - like a man doing nothing but somehow focused on it all the same.
"Brother" Hesiod announced soberly. "Have you washed."
"The servant girl hasn't been by today." Phaedrus murmured. It was the same voice he always spoke in - a voice that said he did not care, and that he had never cared. "She wasn't by yesterday either. Probably found a man to fuck." Even his cursing was neutered.
Hesiod wrinkled his nose. "You need to be washed." he said. He got no answer. When he had told Phaedrus that their own father had died, he had replied with the same sort of energy he gave dirty laundry or tardy servants. 'We will need cords of wood for a pier' was what he had said, as if news of the death of the man who brought him onto this earth was little more than another requisition order.
"How long will our supplies last?" Hesiod finally asked, getting to business. Phaedrus did not move. He did not look up from his books. He only answered.
"A week and a half." he said. "Rhumid supplies will bring us to two. Raiders won't change that much."
"Two." Hesiod said grimly. "What do you suggest we do?" the futility of his words smacked him in the head as soon as they left his mouth.
"Find more supplies." Phaedrus said.
Hesiod felt the confused rage that had been building up inside him since the death of their father rising into his head. He made a fist and gritted his teeth. "You should care more!" he shouted. "You will die too!" he stepped forward and there was a pause. Phaedrus looked up at him with uninterested eyes. "He was your father too!" Hesiod demanded.
Phaedrus looked down at his ledgers. "It is too bad." he said, meaning none of it. Hesiod knew that his brother did not know what bad was. He knew the definition, sure, in the same was a child might be told what death was before they could understand. Phaedrus had no feeling of bad, or of good. He just was. Hesiod could have pulled his knife out right then and plunged toward his brother in murderous rage and he would have got little more than a reflexive flinch. Angry, Hesiod left the tent.
A salt wind blew across the desert. Hesiod couldn't tell if his eyes stung from tears of anger or tears of burning dust. He looked east, toward the sun rising over a distant stretch of the Rhumid mountains. The sky was purple with a burst of red flowering on the horizon. Soon, the sun would take to the sky and it would be day. Another day in the Rhumid waste, mulling over whether to act, or how to act. His men would stew in the desert, ready for war or hoping they could avoid it. This was the first war in a generation that threatened their families at home, Hesiod realized. Civil war. They had fought on the frontiers, warriors side by side knowing that their women and elders were safe at home reveling in the wealth of the new Empire. That safety was gone now. Their old men and young boys would soon be marching in Calydon itself, and across the many provinces of Syros' Empire.
A solitary horn blew at the edge of the camp. A long blast. When the watchmen blew a short blast, it meant their own were returning, but when they blew a long blast it meant someone else. One of the other families had sent someone. Could it be peace? Hesiod held his breath and jogged toward the sound.
Others had gathered to watch as procession of riders arrived in the camp. Their banners were the red and gold justice of the Mithrid's. Each rider was dressed well - wearing ornately trimmed linen riding armor and long-plumed bronze helmets. Crimson capes caught the wind behind them and flew in the wind. A bloodied linen pack draped the back of the leaders horse. Hesiod sucked in air as he realized what he was seeing - a body. Efernii raiders had been sneaking into enemy camps at night and sneaking off with what they could. Raiding was a well kept secret amongst all the clans - Hesiod knew that they had lost supplies as well. Still, if the Mithrids had decided to publicly slaughter one of the Efernii raiders, they were as good an excuse for war as any.
"Hesiod of House Milatid?" the first rider hopped off his horse and took off his helm. He was a young man with short-kept curly hair.
"I am him." Hesiod answered. "What business do the riders of Mithreum bring us." he studied the young Mithrid soldier. He was cocky and self-sure, even now that he was surrounded by those who blamed his people for the death of their leader. Hesiod could see the tension building in his own men.
"I bring a gift from Cassian Mithrid." the soldier motioned toward his horse. Two other men dragged the bloodied body bag from the back of the animal and tossed it on the ground. Hesiod looked toward Acacius and nodded. Drawing his sword, Acacius knelt over the bag and cut the strings that held it closed. A bloated face was revealed. It was one Hesiod had never seen before. As Acacius pealed the bloody linen from the body it wrapped, Hesiod looked up at the Mithrid rider and barked. "What is this?" he demanded.
"Justice." the rider replied. "The murderer of Onesimos, your most beloved father. Cassian himself administered the punishment."
A murmur rose up among the men, and Hesiod did not have to hear words to guess what was being said. Had Cassian punished a random man for the crimes he committed? Were they being lied to? Was this a trick of were the Mithrid's being true? Hesiod could see in his eyes that the Mithrid captain sensed the same thing. He looked all of a sudden uncertain, but his cocksure outer shell did not waver.
"This man was a zealot. He was convinced by the evil rumors that Onesimos plotted against our beloved Syros. He and his fellow conspirators murdered your patriarch in cold blood and shamefully boasted that it was in the name of our noble clan. He died for that lie. We do not wish for bad blood to flow between us."
Hesiod paused. What did this mean? He could declare Cassian's man a liar right here and start the war they were all waiting for. They had told him it was inevitable. Still, was this the chance for peace that he wanted? He wished for that to be true. His conscious begged him. He hesitated, but he could feel the hesitation lasting longer than it should. He could not be weak. Not now. He knew this.
He spat on the body. "Does Cassian Mithrid think us women?" he shouted. The riders suddenly looked frightened. "You are free to leave this place in safety as envoys, but know this! The Mithrid's are murderers and Cassian is a coward! He fears us! He fears that we will take his neck for the crimes he has committed, and he is right! Go tell him what we have said and know that will kill him! We will scatter his body across the sea so that he never may enter the afterlife a whole man! I curse him! The children of Milatides curses him!"
As Hesiod watched the riders leave, he felt a knot in his stomach and wondered what he had just done.
Last night he had seen back into the roots of time, at the era of the wooden shield and cold stone spear. Hesiod had been taught the stories of the titans, and how each of them had nearly destroyed everything Deos had made on the earth. They were dark things - belches of creation that proved how powerful Deos truly was by showing how monstrous even his mistakes could be. They were small mistakes after all - things overlooked in the process of creating something as immense and glorious as the universe. When he had heard them described, he had imagined them as brutally as a young boy raised in a palace who had saw more statues of wildlife than the living things themselves could imagine. But it was in his dreams, in the legacy dreams, that he learned what they were.
Balochus was one of the last titans, and one of the few that Deos himself did not challenge. He had been the lizard king of the depths - a dragon-like beast made of armored scale and muscle that walked on its hind legs and spouted fire that could melt bronze in mere moments. In his dreams, Hesiod has seen the beast. It was taller than words could describe. Taller than mountains, with shins the size of castles. That had been Balochus. Iron skinned Balochus. And Milatides had sworn to destroy him.
With a purposeful grimace and a terrible sound, Balochus tore the tangled treeline down. His legs brought forth quakes, his roar scorched the earth and left blackened soil. Milatides stood on the edge of the earthen wall that protected his new home. He could see the monster miles away, its forest-green scales gleaming with fresh sea-water. Milatides, the hero, held tightly to the ten feet of solid ash tipped with a sharpened leaf of darkened bronze that promised him his victory. The monster roared, it's voice breaking through the scattered trees like a coming storm. The roar had woke Hesiod, and brought him back to this world. In his dreams, victory had felt certain. Balochus, as impossible as he was, could never stand against something as purely heroic as Milatides. Hesiod faced nothing nearly as daunting - only armies, with an army of his own at his back - but he was all nerves and uncertainty.
The blue glow of dawn filtered through his tent, weakly outlining everything inside. It was early. Outside, Hesiod could hear the sounds of an encampment in the morning. Men muttering, the whining of horses, the rattle of bronze, it all mixed together in a low whisper. Tossing the furs from his bunk, he stood up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He could see his breath. He had spent most of his life in Serapium, where the pale desert met the sea. In the winter, thin sheets of ice would form a crust over the river Enverne, mostly carried down from the icy north. Serapium rarely saw a snow, however. Men still wore sandals and pants, though oftentimes with linen socks. The Rhumid colds were something else. It was not yet winter, and the Rhumid's were already talking about snow-blocked passes in the north.
Gooseprickles formed on his naked skin, and he could feel a numbness setting in on his limbs. He rubbed his hands together and blew into them, enjoying the few seconds of warmth it gave his face. A breeze caught the flap of his tent and made him shudder. Quickly, he dressed himself. Pants and a tunic would be enough, with an gold-embroidered green bonesnake tabard over the top so that he looked his rank. After forcing on a pair of leather boots, he walked outside into the morning air.
The salt flats were named aptly. There was no other words to describe them but 'salt' and 'flat'. They stretched to the south infinitely, only the slightest hint of a hazy red line marking the mountains in the south. To the north, however, the red stone of the Rhumid mountains commanded the scenery. Their weird shapes made them hard to accept as mountains. In the rest of the world, mountain ranges were sharp-rising hills and commanding peaks. In the Rhumid wastes, they were as uniquely shaped as the clouds in the sky. Some of them looked like loafs of bread lightly frosted with sugary snow on the top, while others looked like knifes pointed hatefully toward the sky. There were tables and chimneys standing alongside phallus's and arches. Their red rock and dust rolled down into the foothills where the Milatids had made their encampment, mixing with the salt to create a stinging pink dust. It got into everything, and when the wind picked it up it stung at their eyes. The men walked through the camp weeping much of the time. It reddened the eyes of the Rhumids too, but they never seemed to mind that much.
Now that he was outside, Hesiod could hear the Rhumid's. They woke their own up with the rolling sound of drums. The Rhumid beat sounded like a distant thunderstorm, full of energy and feeling as if they would never stop playing. Some had complained, calling the native sound a racket, but Hesiod had grown fond of them. The Rhumid's, with their felt tents and simple lives, had made Hesiod second guess the entire concept of an empire. They reminded him of those stories of their ancestors, about how they had been farmers and goatherds peeling a life from the land they called their home. They were not glorious, nor did they live in luxury, but they were happy.
"Cousin" a voice called out from nearby. Hesiod turned abruptly, as if an arrow had buzzed his head. A group of riders had dismounted nearby - three Calydonian men with plumed helms and a fourth man as pale as the salt desert. One of the Calydonians approached and pulled his helmet from his head.
"Acacius." Hesiod grinned. The two men embraced, patting each other on the back before breaking off.
Acacius was a young man - hardly seventeen, in truth. He had proven himself in battle, and the men saw him for the warrior that he was, but Hesiod still had a hard time separating him from the boy he had been. He was tall now, a slim youth that had taken his mother's more handsome looks rather than the thick-boned appearance of the Milatids. His jaw was square, but it was clear he had yet to grow anything more than a few stray hairs on his chin. His white linen armor was covered in a dusty pink, and a rider's sword dangled loosely his side. He had went scouting, Hesiod immediately understood.
"What news is there?" Hesiod asked.
"It is quiet." Acacius said sternly. "The Mithrid's have been executing Rhumid's they claim to have helped murder Syros."
Hesiod spat. It had been rumored that the Mithrid's ordered Onesimos - Hesiod's father - killed. Blood ran hot between the two families now, and Hesiod felt the pressure to stand strong against them in the name of his fallen sire.
"The Efernii say they spotted Hadrian moving in the mountains. They might be searching for more Rhumid's? We haven't learned."
"If they are declaring war on the Rhumid's, they are going to make things harder on themselves." Hesiod replied. This was their land. They knew it, and they knew how to use it. Onesimos had taught his men to respect the natives, and Hesiod was beginning to understand how that may pay off more now than it ever had before.
"What of the others?" Hesiod asked.
"Thespos Comatid broods. He is in mourning, I am told. If we come to blows, we don't know how the Comatid's will react." Acacius said uncertainly. "There is no word on the Magesanitii. They are quiet. I am told others move, but to what effect we are having difficulty learning."
Hesiod felt a twinge of relief. Thespos Comatid was a name that stood out amongst the Syros' generals. He was a leftover from the early conquests - a man who had walked with Hesiod's grandfather in the burning ruins of Melida. There were few of that generation left, and they were growing fewer every year. When Hesiod and his captains had sat to consider who would contend for the throne, Thespos ranked high on the list.
"Their supplies are running low." the pale man added. Qamut was one of the Efernii - the people from the far north who lived in glaciers. They had once ruled the pale desert, before the ancestors of the Rhumids or the Copsid family of Calydon. They were a small people, standing a head below other men, and their slight builds made them more agile then strong. Qamut had the ghost-like looks of his people. His skin was snow white and his hair a platinum silver. He had a hairless, moon-like face dominated by radiant blue eyes that seemed to glow. And at night, they did glow.
"Our raids are turning up less and less. Food trickles down the Red Road, but the families fight over it. Now the world outside of these mountains know that your war king is dead, they are hoarding what they can. They know what is coming."
Hesiod nodded grimly. "Our supplies are none better." He had kept tabs as much as he could, though he hardly had the heart to visit his brother and so he knew less then he thought he should. Phaedrus disturbed Hesiod. His brother was a colder man than any he had ever known. Onesimos had made his older son the Quartermaster, as he had no energy for war. Even his numbers didn't truly interest him, he simply handled them because he had been asked and had no interest in arguing. If he had not been given another task, Phaedrus would have likely spent his time staring at the walls.
"It's either retreat or battle." Qamut said. "Your great-uncle rules the pale lands. The other families must go south along the road, they have few other choices, but you can go east..."
"Retreat?" Acacius snorted. "Our family would never live that down. They killed your father, Hesiod! They murdered him in cold blood! If you cannot avenge him than ours is not a name to be feared! We must give battle! More than anyone else, we must!"
There was a sick humor to that. They could escape easier than anybody else. Their friends were to the east, after all, and the Rhumids knew this land well. They could escape, but they couldn't. There was no running, Acacius was right in that. Onesimos had been brutally murdered by the Mithrids. His death had to be avenged. Hesiod could see no way to do so without destroying everything they had here. His family, his friends, his life... they all balanced on this. It burned, like a headache lit aflame. All of it had fell on him, and his shoulders were buckling.
"I'm going to speak to Phaedrus." Hesiod said cooly. "If our supplies outlast theirs, they will be forced to attack first. We can lead them into the mountains and crush them against us."
Acacius looked the warrior, his helmet under his arm as he nodded in a way that looked as much like a salute as it did like an agreement. Qamut was still, and said nothing.
The mood in the Milatid camp was that of boredom and restlessness. Men sparred with each other, beating their frustrations into the shields of their comrades. The sound of dinging bronze and shuddering wood spears rose from several corners of the vast maze of tents. Calydonian archers practiced in jest against the Efernii longbowman, who's prowess with the bow was hardly paralleled. Separate from the rest, the Rhumid warriors practiced amongst their own.
The Rhumid's fought like angry demons. They painted their faces with red clay paste, and when they fought they pelted their enemy with shrill warcries and faces bent in murderous rage. Even their advance was different. The Calydonians approached tactically, considering all their angles as the walked toward their enemies at a steady pace. They would drum their weapons against their shields, but those shields were always ready. The Rhumid advance was a dance, however. They hopped and roared, drumming their spear against the ground and flapping their hide-and-wicker shields through the air as madly as a child waves a flag. It was not organized, and it worried Hesiod. They opened themselves to arrows and javelins. Calydonians were not frightened by warsongs, and no amount of pink paste would deflect a bronze spear head.
Not all men practiced. Some bitterly nibbled on hard cheese and stale bread. Others weaved small icons from their own hair, symbolizing patron ancestors or favored Goddesses. Others yet groomed themselves, combing their dark Calydonian hair and braiding the curls of their beards so that they were ready to be presented to Dys. These were all men readying for death. They had came to accept that they would fight their Calydonian brothers across the burning salt waste. Did that make it inevitable? The thought that there was no other path for them to travel but one of battle made Hesiod nervous. He reached Phaedrus's leather tent, sighed, and entered.
The tent was a closed pocket of human odor. Half-eaten food littered the floor. A simple cot stood at one end of the room, and a desk covered in papers and coins stood in the other. It was undecorated and austere, more like a prisoners tent then that of a young prince.
Phaedrus was bent over his desk wearing a stained tunic. His hair was a nest of ratted hair and his patchy beard was just as bad. He was focused on a ledger scroll, carelessly dragging his fingers across the flaky paper. He looked completely unaffected - like a man doing nothing but somehow focused on it all the same.
"Brother" Hesiod announced soberly. "Have you washed."
"The servant girl hasn't been by today." Phaedrus murmured. It was the same voice he always spoke in - a voice that said he did not care, and that he had never cared. "She wasn't by yesterday either. Probably found a man to fuck." Even his cursing was neutered.
Hesiod wrinkled his nose. "You need to be washed." he said. He got no answer. When he had told Phaedrus that their own father had died, he had replied with the same sort of energy he gave dirty laundry or tardy servants. 'We will need cords of wood for a pier' was what he had said, as if news of the death of the man who brought him onto this earth was little more than another requisition order.
"How long will our supplies last?" Hesiod finally asked, getting to business. Phaedrus did not move. He did not look up from his books. He only answered.
"A week and a half." he said. "Rhumid supplies will bring us to two. Raiders won't change that much."
"Two." Hesiod said grimly. "What do you suggest we do?" the futility of his words smacked him in the head as soon as they left his mouth.
"Find more supplies." Phaedrus said.
Hesiod felt the confused rage that had been building up inside him since the death of their father rising into his head. He made a fist and gritted his teeth. "You should care more!" he shouted. "You will die too!" he stepped forward and there was a pause. Phaedrus looked up at him with uninterested eyes. "He was your father too!" Hesiod demanded.
Phaedrus looked down at his ledgers. "It is too bad." he said, meaning none of it. Hesiod knew that his brother did not know what bad was. He knew the definition, sure, in the same was a child might be told what death was before they could understand. Phaedrus had no feeling of bad, or of good. He just was. Hesiod could have pulled his knife out right then and plunged toward his brother in murderous rage and he would have got little more than a reflexive flinch. Angry, Hesiod left the tent.
A salt wind blew across the desert. Hesiod couldn't tell if his eyes stung from tears of anger or tears of burning dust. He looked east, toward the sun rising over a distant stretch of the Rhumid mountains. The sky was purple with a burst of red flowering on the horizon. Soon, the sun would take to the sky and it would be day. Another day in the Rhumid waste, mulling over whether to act, or how to act. His men would stew in the desert, ready for war or hoping they could avoid it. This was the first war in a generation that threatened their families at home, Hesiod realized. Civil war. They had fought on the frontiers, warriors side by side knowing that their women and elders were safe at home reveling in the wealth of the new Empire. That safety was gone now. Their old men and young boys would soon be marching in Calydon itself, and across the many provinces of Syros' Empire.
A solitary horn blew at the edge of the camp. A long blast. When the watchmen blew a short blast, it meant their own were returning, but when they blew a long blast it meant someone else. One of the other families had sent someone. Could it be peace? Hesiod held his breath and jogged toward the sound.
Others had gathered to watch as procession of riders arrived in the camp. Their banners were the red and gold justice of the Mithrid's. Each rider was dressed well - wearing ornately trimmed linen riding armor and long-plumed bronze helmets. Crimson capes caught the wind behind them and flew in the wind. A bloodied linen pack draped the back of the leaders horse. Hesiod sucked in air as he realized what he was seeing - a body. Efernii raiders had been sneaking into enemy camps at night and sneaking off with what they could. Raiding was a well kept secret amongst all the clans - Hesiod knew that they had lost supplies as well. Still, if the Mithrids had decided to publicly slaughter one of the Efernii raiders, they were as good an excuse for war as any.
"Hesiod of House Milatid?" the first rider hopped off his horse and took off his helm. He was a young man with short-kept curly hair.
"I am him." Hesiod answered. "What business do the riders of Mithreum bring us." he studied the young Mithrid soldier. He was cocky and self-sure, even now that he was surrounded by those who blamed his people for the death of their leader. Hesiod could see the tension building in his own men.
"I bring a gift from Cassian Mithrid." the soldier motioned toward his horse. Two other men dragged the bloodied body bag from the back of the animal and tossed it on the ground. Hesiod looked toward Acacius and nodded. Drawing his sword, Acacius knelt over the bag and cut the strings that held it closed. A bloated face was revealed. It was one Hesiod had never seen before. As Acacius pealed the bloody linen from the body it wrapped, Hesiod looked up at the Mithrid rider and barked. "What is this?" he demanded.
"Justice." the rider replied. "The murderer of Onesimos, your most beloved father. Cassian himself administered the punishment."
A murmur rose up among the men, and Hesiod did not have to hear words to guess what was being said. Had Cassian punished a random man for the crimes he committed? Were they being lied to? Was this a trick of were the Mithrid's being true? Hesiod could see in his eyes that the Mithrid captain sensed the same thing. He looked all of a sudden uncertain, but his cocksure outer shell did not waver.
"This man was a zealot. He was convinced by the evil rumors that Onesimos plotted against our beloved Syros. He and his fellow conspirators murdered your patriarch in cold blood and shamefully boasted that it was in the name of our noble clan. He died for that lie. We do not wish for bad blood to flow between us."
Hesiod paused. What did this mean? He could declare Cassian's man a liar right here and start the war they were all waiting for. They had told him it was inevitable. Still, was this the chance for peace that he wanted? He wished for that to be true. His conscious begged him. He hesitated, but he could feel the hesitation lasting longer than it should. He could not be weak. Not now. He knew this.
He spat on the body. "Does Cassian Mithrid think us women?" he shouted. The riders suddenly looked frightened. "You are free to leave this place in safety as envoys, but know this! The Mithrid's are murderers and Cassian is a coward! He fears us! He fears that we will take his neck for the crimes he has committed, and he is right! Go tell him what we have said and know that will kill him! We will scatter his body across the sea so that he never may enter the afterlife a whole man! I curse him! The children of Milatides curses him!"
As Hesiod watched the riders leave, he felt a knot in his stomach and wondered what he had just done.
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