Ever thought of flirting with a Waffle House waitress from 1am to 3am? Make sure you check her teeth!
"I count twenty two. Not too bad... Right then, got teeth anywhere else that I should know about?"
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"I count twenty two. Not too bad... Right then, got teeth anywhere else that I should know about?"
Tootsie might offend old-timey thirties feminists.
I guess I just don't like people up in my business, co-workers or otherwise. If I want them to know, I'll tell then directly. Thus no facespace.
Yup. I don't do social networking for that same reason. I used to have a myspace back in the day, but it just annoyed me.
I got no interest in having a blog who's followers include coworkers, friends, and my grandma. Fuck dat noise.
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Do The Eagles Circle The Mountains? - A Eastern "Middle Ages" Fantasy RP
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11 yrs ago
Forum: Nation Roleplay
Sarnath itself wouldn't be a place to live, but I would be fine with somewhere in the valleys where most of the people live.
Imperial Palace, Addis Ababa
Yaqob sat rigid at the end of the table. His chair was a throne of sorts, a dark ironwood monstrosity banded with patterned gold leaf who's shimmer made the wood seem darker. Its back was so tall that a man could have sat on Yaqob's shoulders and rested his head easily against the top. A golden lion crowned the chair, reclining on a sphere hung amongst a web of thick vines made of gold so pure that it looked like metallic butter. The table in front of him was large enough to seat eight people. A white cloth covered it, and each place was set with finely etched French Crystal wine glasses, pure-silver cutlery, and ivory-white porcelain plates.
"Ras Hassan reports that half of the population of Djibouti has been evacuated." Tilu said. Tilu Gidada was Yaqob's personnel assistant, a young man who had been born and raised in Addis. It had not been that long ago that Yaqob had many more assistants in his service, but he had dismissed many of them so they could return to their families in the towns and villages of rural Africa.
Tilu Gidada belonged to the growing number of comfortable city-dwellers who pursued their entire education in Addis Ababa, all the way through University. When Yaqob had been school age, most people who could afford to educate their children sent them abroad to schools in Europe. Yaqob himself had received much of his schooling in Austria, before going to China to receive a military education. Tilu had graduated from the University of Addis Ababa only three years ago, entering government service as so many of the educated of his generation did.
"That means half are still in the city." Yaqob said glumly. He could not ignore that. Those people would be caught between the invading Spaniards and the trap Hassan was trying to lay for them along the Red Sea coast. Yaqob knew that the results would be bloody. Hassan had never been one to worry about innocent lives during war, and the invaders were out for blood.
Tilu said nothing. He was a professional young man, and not only because of his short-cropped hair or well-kept blue suits. He knew when to talk, and when not to talk. Yaqob appreciated that.
"Zenon Bie Bwana will be arriving soon." Tilu spoke again after a momentary silence. "Is there anything you will be needing."
Yaqob waved his hand. "Go to the door. Wait for him. I want to be alone for a moment, before our guest arrives."
Tilu did as he was asked. He left, and Yaqob was alone.
The Emperor of the Pan-African Empire leaned back in his chair, wanting nothing more than to go to sleep. He had woke up early that morning, to help console his frightened mother before they put her and most of his family on a plane to China. When that hard task was done, he had spent the day working, preparing for the war that he was certain would consume him and everything he had built. He wanted to flee, to find a corner of a palace where he could hide and just stay there. Hide, sleep, and forget about everything that weighed on him.
On the wall across from him hung a painting of himself sitting powerful in his throne, Azima by his side. It was their reign as it was meant to be. The painting had been commissioned shortly following their wedding, to replace the near-pornographic image of a nude woman curled up in a bed of red velvet that Sahle had kept there when he was Emperor. He and his wife looked regal in their painting. They were both dressed in white, he with a lion's pelt over his shoulder and a sword in his lap while she had been made to glow angelically. Looking at it, it was easy to forget that, when they had posed for it, he had been recovering from the sucking chest wound that had nearly killed him, delivered to him by a would-be assassins bullet.
His scar twinged sore. He took a deep breath and tried to forget. He tried to think about his family in China. He imagined them living in the mansion that Hou had lent to him and Akanni during their years in exile there. Those had been easier days, when he could give all his time to reading and writing. Being Emperor had been easy then, when it required nothing but dreams. Would his son grow up to read the same books that he had? Would he live a comfortable life, far away from the failures of his father?
"Sir" Tilu had entered back into the room. "May I present, Zenon Bie Bwana." Yaqob sat rigid again, and put on a welcoming smile as the writer entered the room.
Zenon was a middle aged man, his shape hidden by a thick, richly colored floral pattern robe. He wore a simple folded cap made from the same fabric as his clothes. His skin was the inky black of central Africa, the pock scars covering his cheeks giving the suggestion of childhood illness. Thin, wiry black hair clung to his head, and a small patch of facial hair sat just below his thin lips. When he saw the Emperor, his eyes seemed to glow, and he dipped into an exaggerated bow.
"Your Imperial Majesty" he said slowly, inhaling when he was done. "I am honored beyond my ability to speak. I have never dreamed of setting foot in your home, or sharing your food." Yaqob watched out of the corner of his eye as Tilu took a seat where he had a folding desk and typewriter ready to record the minutes of their meeting.
"That is kind of you to say." Yaqob replied politely. The writer's behavior reminded him of his Grandfather's court, when old customs were still held and the Emperor was treated as something close to divine. He remembered how his grandfather had referred to himself in third person, using 'We' instead of 'I', and 'Our' instead of 'My'. Yaqob had been a child then, and the strange way his grandfather spoke had made it difficult to keep track of what he was actually saying. Most of those customs had died with his father, however, who thought the Emperor should act more like a leader than a god.
Zenon chose a seat at the side of the table, Yaqob noted. Not at the end, where he would be in a place almost equal with Yaqob's. What he reading too much into this? The writer's exaggerated introduction had caused Yaqob to look at him as a sycophant, and he was quick to see little signs of worship.
"I have read some of your work." Yaqob said politely. "The Kingdom of Africa.. And Black Ba'al. You are a persuasive writer, Mr Bie Bwana."
"I thank you." Zenon said. "I dedicated The Kingdom of Africa to your reign. The dream that you and your father has realized means a lot to the African people."
"That is good to hear." Yaqob replied. Did his man's visit have a purpose? He wanted to sleep now, more than anything else. He wanted to be alone. "I am curious, how have your works been received by the more traditional academics?"
"Traditional academics." Zenon smiled knowingly. For a man so polite, it struck Yaqob as almost insolent. What was this man, a flatterer or a snake? "They are white, of course, and they support white ideas. The concept that a great civilization of old could have been black African is foreign to them. In some ways, they act like it is an insult."
"And you still stand by it? Unwaveringly?"
"Unwaveringly." Zenon sounded firm. Yaqob heard something charismatic in his voice. This was a military man, he remembered, and a leader of the militia.
Their food was brought in then. They were served roast beef so red in the center that it looked bloody, and a milky cream sauce on the side garnished with mint and chive. Yaqob studied Zenon for a reaction, convinced that the Pan-African scholar would be disappointed for the lack of African fare. He thought he saw a slight droop in his guest's eyes, but it was hard to tell. Several bottles of wine were presented to Yaqob for choice. The Emperor picked a Galician Valdeorras, taking a bitter humor from the origin of the drink. Zenon chose to have the same.
"A Spanish vintage." the Pan-African said. "That is a topical choice."
Yaqob smiled. "When I was in China, they taught me to know my enemy." he quipped.
"Quite good." Zenon replied. "This is the only way I would like to know them."
"You will be knowing them in the battlefield, though." Yaqob sliced a forkful of roast from his plate and bit into it. The beef was tender, and it seemed to melt and become juice in his mouth.
"Yes." Zenon replied. "I am no stranger to the battlefield, I am afraid." he had fought in the war against the Arabs, Yaqob knew. He earned no citations of honor or distinction during that fight, however. As far as Yaqob could tell, he had been little more than an average soldier.
"I am funding the Legion volunteers around Kinshasa." he explained.
"You are one of their officers." Yaqob added. "This is what my friend Akanni told me."
"Yes." Zenon acted abashed then, but Yaqob wondered if he was feigning being humble. "I think my money bought me that. Though I have taken an interest in military history."
"Akanni told me this as well." Yaqob said. This had been the reason Yaqob had invited this man here, to be sure, but it would be rude to say this, or event to allude to it. He watched the older man dip a bite of meat in the cream soup and nibble at it like a bird pecking at seed. "I always had a fondness for academics. I wanted to be one myself, when I was younger. Of a sorts at least."
"I have read your essays." Zenon replied. "It was the Platonic school that argued for the reign of Philosopher-Kings, and I think there is merit to that. Politicians rule by dumb popularity, and warlords rule by brutality. It's only the Kings that can rise above and become something... enlightened."
That was slightly annoying. Yaqob had not called a dinner to hear himself praised. "How kind." he said, taking another bite of meat. "I am curious. As a military historian, what is your thoughts of this war?"
"Yes." Zenon paused as he finished a bite. Yaqob saw his eyes light up, and knew this was the question he had been waiting for as well. How easier it would have been if they could have forgotten the niceties and gotten straight to business. That was something he liked about working with Hassan. He was a simple man, and blunt. That was a rare trait in Imperial business.
"I think the key is in oil." Zenon explained. This was not a new idea to Yaqob. The relative vulnerability of Nigerian oil had been discussed near endlessly. They had heard news earlier that day of an attack by Legion militia's crossing over and harassing Spanish officials. It had been a lowly accountant that suffered in that attack, but this was the first day of open warfare. More would happen, he knew. Yaqob stayed quiet, signalling for Zenon to go on.
"The collapse of the Ottoman Empire has put a stop to most oil-production in the old Empire. Persia is hoarding barrels now, in protest to the fighting in the Suez, and partly as a defensive measure. The other major oil-producing nations have came out against Spain's war, and I have no doubt trade relations are getting frosty as a result. This would hurt our enemy if it wasn't for the oil sitting next to our borders. On the Ivory Coast, and in Tunisia."
"Tunisia?" That was far outside of Ethiopian reach.
"Carthago." Zenon smiled. "Across the Sahara desert."
"We had discussed bombing runs in that area." Yaqob admitted. "But it was deemed unfeasible. They patrol it with aircraft. There is no sneaking across the desert."
"I disagree." Zenon said. Yaqob was surprised at how quick the writer had presumed, but this was too interesting a thought to interrupt with hollow offense.
"Soldiers on the ground could be brought across the desert. The Tuaregs... the desert is filled with Spains enemies, and they know how to hide and where."
"How to hide an army?" that seemed ridiculous.
"Hiding does not mean burying in the sand. Hiding means making so that they can cross the desert. It is true that one column could not sneak through the deserts unnoticed, but multiple columns could. This is how I envision it. Split your forces again and again, make allies with the natives, and bring everything across the desert piecemeal. The Spaniards are used too desert caravans in much of the Sahara."
"Not near their lands though." Yaqob noted. "The Tuaregs are not welcome in the heart of Spanish oil country, if my intelligence is to be believed."
"It is." Zenon agreed. "But once across, these same small forces can hit and flee. The Spanish have not fortified their soft underbelly here. I believe they can be driven out."
"This sounds like a plan to lose my men in the desert." Yaqob questioned. "I do not understand its principle measures. How do you handle the logistics? Men on camels?"
"Precisely." Zenon answered.
Yaqob leaned back, forgetting about the food going cold in front of him. He tried to imagine it. Hundreds of caravans spread across the brown immensity of the Sahara. It seemed absurd. Supplies would have to continue being brought across the wastes so long as there were forces fighting in Tunis, and once the Spanish knew they were there it would take them little effort to stop the flow and sit back as the Ethiopian invasion starved far away from home.
"That's not realistic" Yaqob finally replied.
"It has been done before." Zenon had stopped playing the sycophant. Now he was an academic in debate, and Yaqob couldn't help but notice the faith in his voice. He had a strong voice, deep and certain as if it came directly from his soul. This was a man who would be able to convince people that his plan could work, even if the Emperor would not be one of those people.
"Hannibal Barca crossed the Alps with similar problems. The logistical problems faced by a force crossing mountains is not so different from those faced in the desert."
"Sempronius did not have air support." Yaqob mused. "And besides, they could live off of the farms of the Po valley once they were across. We are crossing into more desert."
"We are crossing into land where Spain has enemies. You do know that the Tuaregs of the desert still move in those parts, even when the Spanish try to keep them away?"
That was true enough. He had been right before; officially, they Tuaregs were not allowed in certain parts of Spanish Tunisia. Early on in his reign, Hassan had brought him evidence that the Spanish had committed mass-killings of Tuareg tribes who lived in around the oil fields of Tunisia, and reports of the stories the surviving natives told all but confirmed it.
"We do not know what sorts of resources these desert peoples can bring us." Yaqob answered. He began to cut off another slice of beef and promptly forgot about it. "I do not doubt that the Tuaregs would be willing to help, but willing does not mean able."
For a moment, nothing was said. Tilu's typing died away and a still silence replaced it. Zenon stared blindly into the air, deep in thought. Yaqob felt as if he had won this discussion, but it was a bitter victory. What had he succeeded in doing here, after all? All he had done was affirm what he already feared. He had proven that they were hopeless.
"It is a risk." Zenon admitted. "War is about risks. Is there an alternative?"
"An alternative?" Yaqob asked.
"Yes. Is there a way to keep your men from dying for Africa? It is true they may die if this invasion of Tunisia is attempted, but if we fail to bring the Spanish to the table, those same men will die anyway."
"They may live." Yaqob argued. "If Spain wins this war."
For a brief moment, Yaqob saw disgust in Zenon's eyes. It washed over the man like a wave. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and, as quick as he had left it, he was back to his cold academic pose. "That is a horrifying notion." Zenon said.
"It is." Yaqob agreed. It was the most horrifying notion the Emperor had ever considered, and it seemed like it was going to be a reality.
"And besides that, I wonder how many will accept that life? The return of colonial slavery. That is more horrifying than dying in the desert, your majesty."
"Your imperial majesty" a subservient voice called out from a doorway. "A message had arrived for you."
"A message?" Yaqob looked up. His heart sank, but he did not know why.
"Yes." the servant replied. "It is urgent."
"I will be back." Yaqob smiled at Zenon. "This will only take a moment. The war always finds a way to take my moments."
"I understand, your Imperial Majesty" the academic smiled. "I will like the time to consider what we have talked about."
Yaqob beckoned to Tilu. "Come with me. I might need you."
They were out in the hallway when the Emperor tapped his assistant on the shoulder. Tilu looked confused for a moment. "Your majesty?" he asked quietly.
"I want you to destroy the records of the meeting with Zenon." Yaqob asked quietly, leaning his head in.
"Your majesty?" Tilu repeated uncertainly.
"I want to discuss these plans with Hassan. There might be some merit in what the writer says, but I could not say. Until then, I don't want this information falling into Spanish hands. We should do what we can to keep our enemies from even considering this plan as a possibility, and that means no record should exist. Burn it, and we will speak no more about this."
Tilu nodded and followed the Emperor to where a servant was waiting with a Walinzi agent.
_
Tilu reentered the room where Zenon waited. The academic was poking at his food with a fork when he saw the Emperor's assistant join him.
"Where is the Emperor, may I ask?" Zenon said, uncertain.
"Something has came up." Tilu answered. "We will have to conclude this meeting early. Our Imperial Majesty sends his regrets."
Zenon looked at him knowingly, and Tilu wondered how much his face was revealing. He was no actor, he knew. Still, he attempted to remain as cold and professional as he could.
"Send the Emperor my regards then." Zenon said warmly. "Do I see myself out?"
"There is a guard outside the door. He will help you." Tilu replied. He stood stoically and waited until Zenon was out of the room. When he was finally alone, he took a deep breath and dropped his courtesy. A horrified shutter shot down his spine as he remembered where he had left the Emperor.
When they told Yaqob the news, the Emperor had dropped to his knees and began to sob. Tilu's heart had stopped for a moment then, as had time. It had felt like the lingering defeat the Emperor had been dreading had finally arrived. What came next nobody could say, but Tilu could do nothing but fear it.
He went to his small, portable typewriter and ripped out the page he had been working on when they were interrupted. There were several other pages laying face down on the desk. He took those too, and when he had them all in hand he pulled a lighter from his pocket and fumbled with it.
This was the Emperor's request, he reminded himself. This was the last thing Yaqob had asked for before grief had brought him to his knees. It took several tries before he managed to get fire. One at a time, he set the pages alight and held them as they burned. The smoke smelled rough and tickled as his throat. By the time he had burned all of the pages, a thin sheet of smoke hung in the air.
Tilu sat down for a moment. He dreaded going back to his Emperor now. Yaqob had lost his entire family, everyone except for the Princess Taytu on her way to Tanganyika. Tilu was uncertain if he would ever recover from this. The loss of his wife, and his mother...
...and his son. Part of Tilu said this was the end, that he should run. But that was silly. The Emperor help now more than ever, and besides that, where was he supposed to go? If this was truly the end, only the remote places of the Empire would be safe for a loyal servant of the Imperial government. His place was here, and he would have to accept it as they all drowned in the Emperor's grief.
Yaqob sat rigid at the end of the table. His chair was a throne of sorts, a dark ironwood monstrosity banded with patterned gold leaf who's shimmer made the wood seem darker. Its back was so tall that a man could have sat on Yaqob's shoulders and rested his head easily against the top. A golden lion crowned the chair, reclining on a sphere hung amongst a web of thick vines made of gold so pure that it looked like metallic butter. The table in front of him was large enough to seat eight people. A white cloth covered it, and each place was set with finely etched French Crystal wine glasses, pure-silver cutlery, and ivory-white porcelain plates.
"Ras Hassan reports that half of the population of Djibouti has been evacuated." Tilu said. Tilu Gidada was Yaqob's personnel assistant, a young man who had been born and raised in Addis. It had not been that long ago that Yaqob had many more assistants in his service, but he had dismissed many of them so they could return to their families in the towns and villages of rural Africa.
Tilu Gidada belonged to the growing number of comfortable city-dwellers who pursued their entire education in Addis Ababa, all the way through University. When Yaqob had been school age, most people who could afford to educate their children sent them abroad to schools in Europe. Yaqob himself had received much of his schooling in Austria, before going to China to receive a military education. Tilu had graduated from the University of Addis Ababa only three years ago, entering government service as so many of the educated of his generation did.
"That means half are still in the city." Yaqob said glumly. He could not ignore that. Those people would be caught between the invading Spaniards and the trap Hassan was trying to lay for them along the Red Sea coast. Yaqob knew that the results would be bloody. Hassan had never been one to worry about innocent lives during war, and the invaders were out for blood.
Tilu said nothing. He was a professional young man, and not only because of his short-cropped hair or well-kept blue suits. He knew when to talk, and when not to talk. Yaqob appreciated that.
"Zenon Bie Bwana will be arriving soon." Tilu spoke again after a momentary silence. "Is there anything you will be needing."
Yaqob waved his hand. "Go to the door. Wait for him. I want to be alone for a moment, before our guest arrives."
Tilu did as he was asked. He left, and Yaqob was alone.
The Emperor of the Pan-African Empire leaned back in his chair, wanting nothing more than to go to sleep. He had woke up early that morning, to help console his frightened mother before they put her and most of his family on a plane to China. When that hard task was done, he had spent the day working, preparing for the war that he was certain would consume him and everything he had built. He wanted to flee, to find a corner of a palace where he could hide and just stay there. Hide, sleep, and forget about everything that weighed on him.
On the wall across from him hung a painting of himself sitting powerful in his throne, Azima by his side. It was their reign as it was meant to be. The painting had been commissioned shortly following their wedding, to replace the near-pornographic image of a nude woman curled up in a bed of red velvet that Sahle had kept there when he was Emperor. He and his wife looked regal in their painting. They were both dressed in white, he with a lion's pelt over his shoulder and a sword in his lap while she had been made to glow angelically. Looking at it, it was easy to forget that, when they had posed for it, he had been recovering from the sucking chest wound that had nearly killed him, delivered to him by a would-be assassins bullet.
His scar twinged sore. He took a deep breath and tried to forget. He tried to think about his family in China. He imagined them living in the mansion that Hou had lent to him and Akanni during their years in exile there. Those had been easier days, when he could give all his time to reading and writing. Being Emperor had been easy then, when it required nothing but dreams. Would his son grow up to read the same books that he had? Would he live a comfortable life, far away from the failures of his father?
"Sir" Tilu had entered back into the room. "May I present, Zenon Bie Bwana." Yaqob sat rigid again, and put on a welcoming smile as the writer entered the room.
Zenon was a middle aged man, his shape hidden by a thick, richly colored floral pattern robe. He wore a simple folded cap made from the same fabric as his clothes. His skin was the inky black of central Africa, the pock scars covering his cheeks giving the suggestion of childhood illness. Thin, wiry black hair clung to his head, and a small patch of facial hair sat just below his thin lips. When he saw the Emperor, his eyes seemed to glow, and he dipped into an exaggerated bow.
"Your Imperial Majesty" he said slowly, inhaling when he was done. "I am honored beyond my ability to speak. I have never dreamed of setting foot in your home, or sharing your food." Yaqob watched out of the corner of his eye as Tilu took a seat where he had a folding desk and typewriter ready to record the minutes of their meeting.
"That is kind of you to say." Yaqob replied politely. The writer's behavior reminded him of his Grandfather's court, when old customs were still held and the Emperor was treated as something close to divine. He remembered how his grandfather had referred to himself in third person, using 'We' instead of 'I', and 'Our' instead of 'My'. Yaqob had been a child then, and the strange way his grandfather spoke had made it difficult to keep track of what he was actually saying. Most of those customs had died with his father, however, who thought the Emperor should act more like a leader than a god.
Zenon chose a seat at the side of the table, Yaqob noted. Not at the end, where he would be in a place almost equal with Yaqob's. What he reading too much into this? The writer's exaggerated introduction had caused Yaqob to look at him as a sycophant, and he was quick to see little signs of worship.
"I have read some of your work." Yaqob said politely. "The Kingdom of Africa.. And Black Ba'al. You are a persuasive writer, Mr Bie Bwana."
"I thank you." Zenon said. "I dedicated The Kingdom of Africa to your reign. The dream that you and your father has realized means a lot to the African people."
"That is good to hear." Yaqob replied. Did his man's visit have a purpose? He wanted to sleep now, more than anything else. He wanted to be alone. "I am curious, how have your works been received by the more traditional academics?"
"Traditional academics." Zenon smiled knowingly. For a man so polite, it struck Yaqob as almost insolent. What was this man, a flatterer or a snake? "They are white, of course, and they support white ideas. The concept that a great civilization of old could have been black African is foreign to them. In some ways, they act like it is an insult."
"And you still stand by it? Unwaveringly?"
"Unwaveringly." Zenon sounded firm. Yaqob heard something charismatic in his voice. This was a military man, he remembered, and a leader of the militia.
Their food was brought in then. They were served roast beef so red in the center that it looked bloody, and a milky cream sauce on the side garnished with mint and chive. Yaqob studied Zenon for a reaction, convinced that the Pan-African scholar would be disappointed for the lack of African fare. He thought he saw a slight droop in his guest's eyes, but it was hard to tell. Several bottles of wine were presented to Yaqob for choice. The Emperor picked a Galician Valdeorras, taking a bitter humor from the origin of the drink. Zenon chose to have the same.
"A Spanish vintage." the Pan-African said. "That is a topical choice."
Yaqob smiled. "When I was in China, they taught me to know my enemy." he quipped.
"Quite good." Zenon replied. "This is the only way I would like to know them."
"You will be knowing them in the battlefield, though." Yaqob sliced a forkful of roast from his plate and bit into it. The beef was tender, and it seemed to melt and become juice in his mouth.
"Yes." Zenon replied. "I am no stranger to the battlefield, I am afraid." he had fought in the war against the Arabs, Yaqob knew. He earned no citations of honor or distinction during that fight, however. As far as Yaqob could tell, he had been little more than an average soldier.
"I am funding the Legion volunteers around Kinshasa." he explained.
"You are one of their officers." Yaqob added. "This is what my friend Akanni told me."
"Yes." Zenon acted abashed then, but Yaqob wondered if he was feigning being humble. "I think my money bought me that. Though I have taken an interest in military history."
"Akanni told me this as well." Yaqob said. This had been the reason Yaqob had invited this man here, to be sure, but it would be rude to say this, or event to allude to it. He watched the older man dip a bite of meat in the cream soup and nibble at it like a bird pecking at seed. "I always had a fondness for academics. I wanted to be one myself, when I was younger. Of a sorts at least."
"I have read your essays." Zenon replied. "It was the Platonic school that argued for the reign of Philosopher-Kings, and I think there is merit to that. Politicians rule by dumb popularity, and warlords rule by brutality. It's only the Kings that can rise above and become something... enlightened."
That was slightly annoying. Yaqob had not called a dinner to hear himself praised. "How kind." he said, taking another bite of meat. "I am curious. As a military historian, what is your thoughts of this war?"
"Yes." Zenon paused as he finished a bite. Yaqob saw his eyes light up, and knew this was the question he had been waiting for as well. How easier it would have been if they could have forgotten the niceties and gotten straight to business. That was something he liked about working with Hassan. He was a simple man, and blunt. That was a rare trait in Imperial business.
"I think the key is in oil." Zenon explained. This was not a new idea to Yaqob. The relative vulnerability of Nigerian oil had been discussed near endlessly. They had heard news earlier that day of an attack by Legion militia's crossing over and harassing Spanish officials. It had been a lowly accountant that suffered in that attack, but this was the first day of open warfare. More would happen, he knew. Yaqob stayed quiet, signalling for Zenon to go on.
"The collapse of the Ottoman Empire has put a stop to most oil-production in the old Empire. Persia is hoarding barrels now, in protest to the fighting in the Suez, and partly as a defensive measure. The other major oil-producing nations have came out against Spain's war, and I have no doubt trade relations are getting frosty as a result. This would hurt our enemy if it wasn't for the oil sitting next to our borders. On the Ivory Coast, and in Tunisia."
"Tunisia?" That was far outside of Ethiopian reach.
"Carthago." Zenon smiled. "Across the Sahara desert."
"We had discussed bombing runs in that area." Yaqob admitted. "But it was deemed unfeasible. They patrol it with aircraft. There is no sneaking across the desert."
"I disagree." Zenon said. Yaqob was surprised at how quick the writer had presumed, but this was too interesting a thought to interrupt with hollow offense.
"Soldiers on the ground could be brought across the desert. The Tuaregs... the desert is filled with Spains enemies, and they know how to hide and where."
"How to hide an army?" that seemed ridiculous.
"Hiding does not mean burying in the sand. Hiding means making so that they can cross the desert. It is true that one column could not sneak through the deserts unnoticed, but multiple columns could. This is how I envision it. Split your forces again and again, make allies with the natives, and bring everything across the desert piecemeal. The Spaniards are used too desert caravans in much of the Sahara."
"Not near their lands though." Yaqob noted. "The Tuaregs are not welcome in the heart of Spanish oil country, if my intelligence is to be believed."
"It is." Zenon agreed. "But once across, these same small forces can hit and flee. The Spanish have not fortified their soft underbelly here. I believe they can be driven out."
"This sounds like a plan to lose my men in the desert." Yaqob questioned. "I do not understand its principle measures. How do you handle the logistics? Men on camels?"
"Precisely." Zenon answered.
Yaqob leaned back, forgetting about the food going cold in front of him. He tried to imagine it. Hundreds of caravans spread across the brown immensity of the Sahara. It seemed absurd. Supplies would have to continue being brought across the wastes so long as there were forces fighting in Tunis, and once the Spanish knew they were there it would take them little effort to stop the flow and sit back as the Ethiopian invasion starved far away from home.
"That's not realistic" Yaqob finally replied.
"It has been done before." Zenon had stopped playing the sycophant. Now he was an academic in debate, and Yaqob couldn't help but notice the faith in his voice. He had a strong voice, deep and certain as if it came directly from his soul. This was a man who would be able to convince people that his plan could work, even if the Emperor would not be one of those people.
"Hannibal Barca crossed the Alps with similar problems. The logistical problems faced by a force crossing mountains is not so different from those faced in the desert."
"Sempronius did not have air support." Yaqob mused. "And besides, they could live off of the farms of the Po valley once they were across. We are crossing into more desert."
"We are crossing into land where Spain has enemies. You do know that the Tuaregs of the desert still move in those parts, even when the Spanish try to keep them away?"
That was true enough. He had been right before; officially, they Tuaregs were not allowed in certain parts of Spanish Tunisia. Early on in his reign, Hassan had brought him evidence that the Spanish had committed mass-killings of Tuareg tribes who lived in around the oil fields of Tunisia, and reports of the stories the surviving natives told all but confirmed it.
"We do not know what sorts of resources these desert peoples can bring us." Yaqob answered. He began to cut off another slice of beef and promptly forgot about it. "I do not doubt that the Tuaregs would be willing to help, but willing does not mean able."
For a moment, nothing was said. Tilu's typing died away and a still silence replaced it. Zenon stared blindly into the air, deep in thought. Yaqob felt as if he had won this discussion, but it was a bitter victory. What had he succeeded in doing here, after all? All he had done was affirm what he already feared. He had proven that they were hopeless.
"It is a risk." Zenon admitted. "War is about risks. Is there an alternative?"
"An alternative?" Yaqob asked.
"Yes. Is there a way to keep your men from dying for Africa? It is true they may die if this invasion of Tunisia is attempted, but if we fail to bring the Spanish to the table, those same men will die anyway."
"They may live." Yaqob argued. "If Spain wins this war."
For a brief moment, Yaqob saw disgust in Zenon's eyes. It washed over the man like a wave. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and, as quick as he had left it, he was back to his cold academic pose. "That is a horrifying notion." Zenon said.
"It is." Yaqob agreed. It was the most horrifying notion the Emperor had ever considered, and it seemed like it was going to be a reality.
"And besides that, I wonder how many will accept that life? The return of colonial slavery. That is more horrifying than dying in the desert, your majesty."
"Your imperial majesty" a subservient voice called out from a doorway. "A message had arrived for you."
"A message?" Yaqob looked up. His heart sank, but he did not know why.
"Yes." the servant replied. "It is urgent."
"I will be back." Yaqob smiled at Zenon. "This will only take a moment. The war always finds a way to take my moments."
"I understand, your Imperial Majesty" the academic smiled. "I will like the time to consider what we have talked about."
Yaqob beckoned to Tilu. "Come with me. I might need you."
They were out in the hallway when the Emperor tapped his assistant on the shoulder. Tilu looked confused for a moment. "Your majesty?" he asked quietly.
"I want you to destroy the records of the meeting with Zenon." Yaqob asked quietly, leaning his head in.
"Your majesty?" Tilu repeated uncertainly.
"I want to discuss these plans with Hassan. There might be some merit in what the writer says, but I could not say. Until then, I don't want this information falling into Spanish hands. We should do what we can to keep our enemies from even considering this plan as a possibility, and that means no record should exist. Burn it, and we will speak no more about this."
Tilu nodded and followed the Emperor to where a servant was waiting with a Walinzi agent.
_
Tilu reentered the room where Zenon waited. The academic was poking at his food with a fork when he saw the Emperor's assistant join him.
"Where is the Emperor, may I ask?" Zenon said, uncertain.
"Something has came up." Tilu answered. "We will have to conclude this meeting early. Our Imperial Majesty sends his regrets."
Zenon looked at him knowingly, and Tilu wondered how much his face was revealing. He was no actor, he knew. Still, he attempted to remain as cold and professional as he could.
"Send the Emperor my regards then." Zenon said warmly. "Do I see myself out?"
"There is a guard outside the door. He will help you." Tilu replied. He stood stoically and waited until Zenon was out of the room. When he was finally alone, he took a deep breath and dropped his courtesy. A horrified shutter shot down his spine as he remembered where he had left the Emperor.
When they told Yaqob the news, the Emperor had dropped to his knees and began to sob. Tilu's heart had stopped for a moment then, as had time. It had felt like the lingering defeat the Emperor had been dreading had finally arrived. What came next nobody could say, but Tilu could do nothing but fear it.
He went to his small, portable typewriter and ripped out the page he had been working on when they were interrupted. There were several other pages laying face down on the desk. He took those too, and when he had them all in hand he pulled a lighter from his pocket and fumbled with it.
This was the Emperor's request, he reminded himself. This was the last thing Yaqob had asked for before grief had brought him to his knees. It took several tries before he managed to get fire. One at a time, he set the pages alight and held them as they burned. The smoke smelled rough and tickled as his throat. By the time he had burned all of the pages, a thin sheet of smoke hung in the air.
Tilu sat down for a moment. He dreaded going back to his Emperor now. Yaqob had lost his entire family, everyone except for the Princess Taytu on her way to Tanganyika. Tilu was uncertain if he would ever recover from this. The loss of his wife, and his mother...
...and his son. Part of Tilu said this was the end, that he should run. But that was silly. The Emperor help now more than ever, and besides that, where was he supposed to go? If this was truly the end, only the remote places of the Empire would be safe for a loyal servant of the Imperial government. His place was here, and he would have to accept it as they all drowned in the Emperor's grief.
In
Do The Eagles Circle The Mountains? - A Eastern "Middle Ages" Fantasy RP
→
11 yrs ago
Forum: Nation Roleplay
Sarnath, Kingdom of Poertia
The horror of the entire thing had faded to a dull ache in his heart, drowned by sleeplessness and pain. He could hear the crackling flicker of torches, the sobs of those he was chained with, the throaty undertones of hundreds of evil chanters, and drums. Drums, drums, drums. They sounded like elephants stamping on his ear drums. Long, deep notes coming from drums as large as men, so that every sound they made struck at something deep and fearful in the root of him. It should have terrified him, but he was too far gone to be terrified now.
He regretted what he had done to get here. Two weeks had passed since news of the Poertian raid on a nearby village reached him and his neighbors, and he had been one of the fools coaxed into joining a militia to hunt them down. It was known that the Poertians would sacrifice their captives to the monsters that ruled their land, and the thought had chilled them. It was not for their own sakes they had set out to hunt their enemy, but for the sakes of the helpless women and children that would become feed for the beasts.
Perhaps it was noble that he sacrificed so much for his countrymen, but being shuffled along to his death made it so he hardly cared about what was noble. He wouldn't see his wife again, or live to see his sister be married and his parents grow old. The life he had been meant for was snuffed out. Now he was meat.
Behind him was an old man, who he had heard nothing from since they set out. In some ways, he was jealous of that old man, allowed to live out his life before suffering this sort of fate. In front of him was a girl. His sister's age, maybe fourteen or fifteen. For most of the journey, he could see nothing more of her than a disheveled mess of loose brown hair and the unwashed olive skin of her thin arms. For a time, he had hated her. She had sobbed through most of the journey. She may have been one of those he was captured trying to save, and that made him hate her more. What did she know of life, a thing she hadn't tasted yet? What was her life to his? When these thoughts flared into rage, he sometimes thought about killing her. He could bash her head in with a rock and end her miserable life right there on the cold mountain stones. When his mind went to that place, he felt guilty. He felt like he was becoming one of them.
Who was worse, the Guls in their monster's den, or the entire kingdom that chose to serve their will? He knew who he detested the most. He had never met the Guls before, but their servants...
The leader of the men that had roped them together was a rider dressed head to toe in armor. He wore a rounded steel helmet on his head with diamond-shape holes cut for the eyes. A curtain of chain mail hung from its fringes, covering the lower half of his face and coming to a rest on his shoulders. A coat of steel fishscale covered most of his body. Even his horse was armored, defended to the hooves by its own coat of mail. He was a wealthy Cataphracti, the captive knew. The rider could pay for his own armor and horse, and he rode into battle so fully armed and armored that few could stand against him. There was a lance holstered to his saddle, a sword sheathed on one side of his belt and a dagger on the other, and he had a short bow strapped across his back. Under the bow on his back was a round shield, a spiral of red blood drops painted across the polished steel.
The Gul's lapdog had his own servants, soldiers armed and armored well enough on their own. Some carried axes, and others swords. He knew on man carried a mace with a head designed to look like the head of a cobra. Some of them had cone helms, others simple skull caps, while others wore helmets that came to a bulbous peak, slumping forward like flaccid flesh. They held round shields, or shields in the shape of teardrops, and on them were painted colorful devices. Most were red balls, or drops, or spirals to symbolize blood. Some had more intricate images. One man had painted a kestrel on his shield, while another man's showed a pale woman with a swirling red strip of cloth concealing her nudity.
There had been some things that surprised the captive about his treatment on the road. They had not been beaten, or struck, or even underfed. When they had camped at night, the soldiers had left the women alone. It was only the rigors of the march itself, and the endpoint they knew they would arrive at, that gave them grief. The captive's shoes had fallen apart early on, and his bare feet were torn bloody by the rocky ground of Poertia's terrain. He was hardly alone in this. They had left a trail of blood-stained soil behind them to mark the way. There was no stopping to shit or piss either. They had been forced to do that in their trousers, and whole line smelled exactly like an overripe privy in the summer. The frightened girl in front of him had suffered her bowels turning to water, and thick crusty lines of liquid shit painted her dust-coated legs. That had made him hate her that much more at first, but it had became so much the norm that he soon stopped caring.
It was when they entered Sarnath that they became part of its ritual. That is when the chanting and the drums began, to play the funeral dirge for hundreds of sacrifices. They were shuffled through the camp, surrounded be a horrifying crowd that seemed to leer at them from the gloom. There were warriors dressed like the Cataphracti rider and his men, and there were some suited with poorer arms that reminded him of the people of his homeland. They wore leather, and copper, and had simpler weapons. Though they might have looked like his people, they were not. This ritual did not seem to offend them, and they watched the procession with the same solemn religiosity that seemed to fill the hearts of the Cataphracti and his men. That dark, evil religiosity that came from worshiping the Guls.
There were more than soldiers in the camp. He saw old men, and men who did not look like warriors. And there were even women, and children in their numbers. They filled a sea of tents and bedrolls that stretched across a barren, rocky countryside below the city of Sarnath.
He knew when they entered the city. That was when they passed beneath the crumbling stone remains of an old outer wall, who's broken towers held raging bonfires tended by more soldiers. Once inside, he saw the true city of Sarnath.
This was an ugly place of buildings made from piled stone or mud brick. Though so many worshiped these Gul kings, few wanted to live by them, and the simplicity of the town spoke of that. Still, it was something of a shock to see it so much in ruins. This was supposed to be their seat of power, he knew. Sure, it was common to see places like this in the mountains. Living so high above the fertile valleys that sat at the heart of the mountain realms meant a hard life. The only purpose to living here at all was that it was defensible. An army laying siege to a mountain stronghold would be taxed to maintain long supply lines while the people inside lived off their stores. Furthermore, Sarnath was an ancient stronghold of the Visha-jinn who ruled this land before the Gul's. It took somebody like Shapur to conquer it, and there were few people like that around anymore. But life was still hard. Crops did not grow well in the rough soil, limiting growth to small gardens fed by animal dung. The weather could be rough as well. The ground froze earlier and warmed up later in the high places of the world, and icy precipices could make even the simple act of gathering dung for a fire into a perilous task. And then there was that wind, whistling across the hills with not but a few patches of old junipers to stop it.
He had known since arriving that he was going to die here, but inside the walls he could think of nothing else. He was going to die. He was going to die. That was all that was left. He looked up at the fortress of Sarnath looming in front of him and sickening desperation filled his soul.
The ancient Visha-jinn fortress was carved into a massive jut of rock that served as the peak of the mountain that they had spent most of the last few days climbing. The way up the Old Road had been harsh. It had been a steep path, and every step had reminded them that they would not be coming back down. The worst part was when they passed a couple of old warriors making an onion soup over a campfire. The smell had brought back every memory of life that he had started to forget. He had cried then. Until now, that had been the only time that he had cried.
He felt tears well in his eyes again as he looked up at the fortress. Its tallest tower was nearly three hundred feet tall, carved into the living rock so that it ended where the mountain peaked. These were thick, rounded towers with smooth stone surfaces showing no sign of mason's work. In some places, the castle was little more than an impression sunken into the rock, while other places saw towers surrounded on three sides by open air. Thousands of small bas-relief depictions of the Visha who had lived here before. These carvings covered the towers and flattened walls of the castle, but the howling mountain wind had eaten away their details so that most were nothing more than round, featureless human shapes. The stood guard like old ghosts lost to time. There were places where the rock was still rough and unshaped except for arrow slits or small windows. Faint torch-light leaked out from these places so that they seemed to glow a fiery red, and the sight of the entire thing filled him with an immediate sense of dread. It was under these towers that he would die.
The drums grew louder as they approached the entrance to the great castle. They curved around a square well in the center of tower. The iron statue of a demonic looking baby stood cold and twisted in an indention in the stone. When they came to the dreaded steps of the Gul's castle, the captive gazed at a pair of statues even more grotesque then the monster-infant. These were vultures, wings outspread, with human faces on their breasts. They guarded the flanks of the steps, while a central gutter cut the stairs into two sections. The captive looked on in horror as he realized that the gutter was still flowing with blood so dark it was nearly black.
Mountain horns sounded just then, deep and low. He heard the girl in front of him yelp, and she began to sob.
Amongst the prisoners, the doomed wailed and screamed and begged. Their sounds were nearly drowned out by the drums, the horns, and the constant drone of the throaty song that the people of Sarnath sung. The captive watched as their Cataphracti captor dismounted and climbed to the top of the steps to join the Gul's.
In groups of three, they were unchained and brought up to the top of the stairs. From where the rest of them waited, the sacrifices were a distant blur. He could see the bright white armor of a Gul lord, and the glint of cold steel as he slaughtered each person one at a time. A river of blood flooded down the gutter.
When it was his turn, he was brought up the stairs with the young girl who had been chained in front of him and an older woman who had been in front of her. The climb was slow, and he felt his heart pounding with each step. He tried to think of a way to escape, but there was no way that he could see. The Gul's had their own guards bring them up the steps, men with golden armor and helms with emotionless faces for visors and golden vultures perched on top of them. If he tried to run, his death would be much worse.
Near the top of the steps, the blood did not stay confined to the gutter. Here, rivulets of trickled down the steps themselves, joining into larger streams at the top until eventually everything was covered in red. He saw them dragging a headless body to a stone outbuilding on the side of the great mountain castle. To be butchered like a pig, he knew. They would quarter the meat and prepare it to eat. He wondered if the Gul's themselves performed that grisly task, or if they had human servants for that as well. It was no matter. In a few minutes, he would suffer the same fate. He felt his knees go soft, and he began to fall, but a guardsman grabbed him by his arm and propped him up.
It was at that moment when he first saw a Gul. There was only one, he noticed, where the rest of them were lurking was hard to tell. This one was young, its hair still dark, though it had already went from black to a dark shade of grey. It had a short-cropped beard that lined its face, its cheeks and upper lip shaved clean. He could see the beginning of a dull-red coloring to its eyes, like a red glow beneath the dark cracks of cooling lava. And it was pale. So pale that its cheeks looked almost blue in the darkness, like a fresh corpse standing.
The Gul wore a white breastplate over a light coat of polished steel chain mail. A vulture featured proudly on the plate, wings outstretched so that the tips reached the openings for the Gul's arms. The armor was spattered with blood, as was the creatures pale-white face. A thick indigo cloak hung from his shoulders and dragged to the ground.
He saw the Cataphracti as well, who was now holding his helmet under his arm. He had the tan skin and wiry black hair that revealed him to be of the people who had lived in these lands since the days before Shapur. He had a beard that was neatly cut and oiled, and his eyes were a deep grey.
They took the old lady first. She did not cry, or beg, or moan, but he could see that her breathing had become shaky. He felt a strange sort of pride for her then, and he wanted so much to make sure that his death was a dignified one that his head rung with the thought. When the Gul grabbed her by the hair, she closed her eyes and began to mouth a prayer. He forced her to her knees and held a long, thin sickle in the air above his head. Blood dripped from its surface, and he could see that there were glyphs carved into the blade.
He did not watch as the Gul killed the old woman. He only knew it happened when he heard the sound of a blade cutting through flesh, and he knew it was done when the young girl in front of him broke down into hysterics. He did not want to watch that. Instead, he stared coldly at the Cataphracti.
The Gul was a monster acting out its curse, but the Cataphracti was different. He had captured them, and brought them here to be fed to the demons. He was a man, a man who's people were not very far removed from the captives, but he served the monsters anyway. And he didn't seem to feel even partly guilty about what he was doing.
The young girl had fallen on her knees in a fit. She was trying to plea for her life, but her voice broke down into a shrill, screaming stutter. The captive felt his heart wrench for her, and he hated himself for all the times he had dreamed of killing her. She was at an age when girls dreamt of their futures as fairy tales, where they would get married and have perfect little children in some perfect little hovel in the countryside. She did not deserve any of this. He could say, at least, that he had went to battle and earned his captivity by failing in the field. She was, in all the ways he could tell, innocent. A child.
For a moment, he saw a glimmer of hope for them all when the Gul lifted her gently by the hand instead of yanking her from the ground by her hair. He held his sickle above his head in a clinched fist, fresh blood from the old woman before still covering the blade. And then he dropped it.
"Mercy stays my hand!" The Gul shouted in a deep, booming voice. He spoke loud enough that the captive had no doubt the people below could here them. Everything went silent, save for the confused weeping of the frightened young girl. "I do not pronounce death where death is not supposed to go. I have seen this ones fate and I know that she will live."
That glimmer of hope shattered when he realized what was happening. They always saved one out of every group of sacrifices. He had always known that. He had spent many days after his captivity praying that he would be the one who was saved, but he had lost that one last hope when he heard the soldiers talking about it during the march. "They always take one, aye." one had told another. "And it is always a pretty one."
A guard led the uncertain young girl into the castle. She would get to live. But he watched the Gul pick up his sickle, and he knew his time had come
He felt his heart slow as he was led up to the trough that served as a sacrificial alter. The Gul grabbed him by the head and forced him down. His body went numb. The metallic smell of fresh blood filled his nostrils, and he looked down at the bottom of the trough to see coagulating heaps of blood pooling in the porous volcanic stone of the alter. There was something cold about this alter, a chill that he could feel on his face. This was the last thing he would see. The thought of death had made him nauseous. He considered vomiting, out of spite.
He felt the force of the sickle come down, but there was no pain. He saw his blood pouring into the trough below. That seemed strange. That was his?
A quick wave of malaise shot through his body, as if he had all become sick at once. His limbs went cold, and he became rapidly tired. The vision of his own blood faded, and in its place came nothingness.
The horror of the entire thing had faded to a dull ache in his heart, drowned by sleeplessness and pain. He could hear the crackling flicker of torches, the sobs of those he was chained with, the throaty undertones of hundreds of evil chanters, and drums. Drums, drums, drums. They sounded like elephants stamping on his ear drums. Long, deep notes coming from drums as large as men, so that every sound they made struck at something deep and fearful in the root of him. It should have terrified him, but he was too far gone to be terrified now.
He regretted what he had done to get here. Two weeks had passed since news of the Poertian raid on a nearby village reached him and his neighbors, and he had been one of the fools coaxed into joining a militia to hunt them down. It was known that the Poertians would sacrifice their captives to the monsters that ruled their land, and the thought had chilled them. It was not for their own sakes they had set out to hunt their enemy, but for the sakes of the helpless women and children that would become feed for the beasts.
Perhaps it was noble that he sacrificed so much for his countrymen, but being shuffled along to his death made it so he hardly cared about what was noble. He wouldn't see his wife again, or live to see his sister be married and his parents grow old. The life he had been meant for was snuffed out. Now he was meat.
Behind him was an old man, who he had heard nothing from since they set out. In some ways, he was jealous of that old man, allowed to live out his life before suffering this sort of fate. In front of him was a girl. His sister's age, maybe fourteen or fifteen. For most of the journey, he could see nothing more of her than a disheveled mess of loose brown hair and the unwashed olive skin of her thin arms. For a time, he had hated her. She had sobbed through most of the journey. She may have been one of those he was captured trying to save, and that made him hate her more. What did she know of life, a thing she hadn't tasted yet? What was her life to his? When these thoughts flared into rage, he sometimes thought about killing her. He could bash her head in with a rock and end her miserable life right there on the cold mountain stones. When his mind went to that place, he felt guilty. He felt like he was becoming one of them.
Who was worse, the Guls in their monster's den, or the entire kingdom that chose to serve their will? He knew who he detested the most. He had never met the Guls before, but their servants...
The leader of the men that had roped them together was a rider dressed head to toe in armor. He wore a rounded steel helmet on his head with diamond-shape holes cut for the eyes. A curtain of chain mail hung from its fringes, covering the lower half of his face and coming to a rest on his shoulders. A coat of steel fishscale covered most of his body. Even his horse was armored, defended to the hooves by its own coat of mail. He was a wealthy Cataphracti, the captive knew. The rider could pay for his own armor and horse, and he rode into battle so fully armed and armored that few could stand against him. There was a lance holstered to his saddle, a sword sheathed on one side of his belt and a dagger on the other, and he had a short bow strapped across his back. Under the bow on his back was a round shield, a spiral of red blood drops painted across the polished steel.
The Gul's lapdog had his own servants, soldiers armed and armored well enough on their own. Some carried axes, and others swords. He knew on man carried a mace with a head designed to look like the head of a cobra. Some of them had cone helms, others simple skull caps, while others wore helmets that came to a bulbous peak, slumping forward like flaccid flesh. They held round shields, or shields in the shape of teardrops, and on them were painted colorful devices. Most were red balls, or drops, or spirals to symbolize blood. Some had more intricate images. One man had painted a kestrel on his shield, while another man's showed a pale woman with a swirling red strip of cloth concealing her nudity.
There had been some things that surprised the captive about his treatment on the road. They had not been beaten, or struck, or even underfed. When they had camped at night, the soldiers had left the women alone. It was only the rigors of the march itself, and the endpoint they knew they would arrive at, that gave them grief. The captive's shoes had fallen apart early on, and his bare feet were torn bloody by the rocky ground of Poertia's terrain. He was hardly alone in this. They had left a trail of blood-stained soil behind them to mark the way. There was no stopping to shit or piss either. They had been forced to do that in their trousers, and whole line smelled exactly like an overripe privy in the summer. The frightened girl in front of him had suffered her bowels turning to water, and thick crusty lines of liquid shit painted her dust-coated legs. That had made him hate her that much more at first, but it had became so much the norm that he soon stopped caring.
It was when they entered Sarnath that they became part of its ritual. That is when the chanting and the drums began, to play the funeral dirge for hundreds of sacrifices. They were shuffled through the camp, surrounded be a horrifying crowd that seemed to leer at them from the gloom. There were warriors dressed like the Cataphracti rider and his men, and there were some suited with poorer arms that reminded him of the people of his homeland. They wore leather, and copper, and had simpler weapons. Though they might have looked like his people, they were not. This ritual did not seem to offend them, and they watched the procession with the same solemn religiosity that seemed to fill the hearts of the Cataphracti and his men. That dark, evil religiosity that came from worshiping the Guls.
There were more than soldiers in the camp. He saw old men, and men who did not look like warriors. And there were even women, and children in their numbers. They filled a sea of tents and bedrolls that stretched across a barren, rocky countryside below the city of Sarnath.
He knew when they entered the city. That was when they passed beneath the crumbling stone remains of an old outer wall, who's broken towers held raging bonfires tended by more soldiers. Once inside, he saw the true city of Sarnath.
This was an ugly place of buildings made from piled stone or mud brick. Though so many worshiped these Gul kings, few wanted to live by them, and the simplicity of the town spoke of that. Still, it was something of a shock to see it so much in ruins. This was supposed to be their seat of power, he knew. Sure, it was common to see places like this in the mountains. Living so high above the fertile valleys that sat at the heart of the mountain realms meant a hard life. The only purpose to living here at all was that it was defensible. An army laying siege to a mountain stronghold would be taxed to maintain long supply lines while the people inside lived off their stores. Furthermore, Sarnath was an ancient stronghold of the Visha-jinn who ruled this land before the Gul's. It took somebody like Shapur to conquer it, and there were few people like that around anymore. But life was still hard. Crops did not grow well in the rough soil, limiting growth to small gardens fed by animal dung. The weather could be rough as well. The ground froze earlier and warmed up later in the high places of the world, and icy precipices could make even the simple act of gathering dung for a fire into a perilous task. And then there was that wind, whistling across the hills with not but a few patches of old junipers to stop it.
He had known since arriving that he was going to die here, but inside the walls he could think of nothing else. He was going to die. He was going to die. That was all that was left. He looked up at the fortress of Sarnath looming in front of him and sickening desperation filled his soul.
The ancient Visha-jinn fortress was carved into a massive jut of rock that served as the peak of the mountain that they had spent most of the last few days climbing. The way up the Old Road had been harsh. It had been a steep path, and every step had reminded them that they would not be coming back down. The worst part was when they passed a couple of old warriors making an onion soup over a campfire. The smell had brought back every memory of life that he had started to forget. He had cried then. Until now, that had been the only time that he had cried.
He felt tears well in his eyes again as he looked up at the fortress. Its tallest tower was nearly three hundred feet tall, carved into the living rock so that it ended where the mountain peaked. These were thick, rounded towers with smooth stone surfaces showing no sign of mason's work. In some places, the castle was little more than an impression sunken into the rock, while other places saw towers surrounded on three sides by open air. Thousands of small bas-relief depictions of the Visha who had lived here before. These carvings covered the towers and flattened walls of the castle, but the howling mountain wind had eaten away their details so that most were nothing more than round, featureless human shapes. The stood guard like old ghosts lost to time. There were places where the rock was still rough and unshaped except for arrow slits or small windows. Faint torch-light leaked out from these places so that they seemed to glow a fiery red, and the sight of the entire thing filled him with an immediate sense of dread. It was under these towers that he would die.
The drums grew louder as they approached the entrance to the great castle. They curved around a square well in the center of tower. The iron statue of a demonic looking baby stood cold and twisted in an indention in the stone. When they came to the dreaded steps of the Gul's castle, the captive gazed at a pair of statues even more grotesque then the monster-infant. These were vultures, wings outspread, with human faces on their breasts. They guarded the flanks of the steps, while a central gutter cut the stairs into two sections. The captive looked on in horror as he realized that the gutter was still flowing with blood so dark it was nearly black.
Mountain horns sounded just then, deep and low. He heard the girl in front of him yelp, and she began to sob.
Amongst the prisoners, the doomed wailed and screamed and begged. Their sounds were nearly drowned out by the drums, the horns, and the constant drone of the throaty song that the people of Sarnath sung. The captive watched as their Cataphracti captor dismounted and climbed to the top of the steps to join the Gul's.
In groups of three, they were unchained and brought up to the top of the stairs. From where the rest of them waited, the sacrifices were a distant blur. He could see the bright white armor of a Gul lord, and the glint of cold steel as he slaughtered each person one at a time. A river of blood flooded down the gutter.
When it was his turn, he was brought up the stairs with the young girl who had been chained in front of him and an older woman who had been in front of her. The climb was slow, and he felt his heart pounding with each step. He tried to think of a way to escape, but there was no way that he could see. The Gul's had their own guards bring them up the steps, men with golden armor and helms with emotionless faces for visors and golden vultures perched on top of them. If he tried to run, his death would be much worse.
Near the top of the steps, the blood did not stay confined to the gutter. Here, rivulets of trickled down the steps themselves, joining into larger streams at the top until eventually everything was covered in red. He saw them dragging a headless body to a stone outbuilding on the side of the great mountain castle. To be butchered like a pig, he knew. They would quarter the meat and prepare it to eat. He wondered if the Gul's themselves performed that grisly task, or if they had human servants for that as well. It was no matter. In a few minutes, he would suffer the same fate. He felt his knees go soft, and he began to fall, but a guardsman grabbed him by his arm and propped him up.
It was at that moment when he first saw a Gul. There was only one, he noticed, where the rest of them were lurking was hard to tell. This one was young, its hair still dark, though it had already went from black to a dark shade of grey. It had a short-cropped beard that lined its face, its cheeks and upper lip shaved clean. He could see the beginning of a dull-red coloring to its eyes, like a red glow beneath the dark cracks of cooling lava. And it was pale. So pale that its cheeks looked almost blue in the darkness, like a fresh corpse standing.
The Gul wore a white breastplate over a light coat of polished steel chain mail. A vulture featured proudly on the plate, wings outstretched so that the tips reached the openings for the Gul's arms. The armor was spattered with blood, as was the creatures pale-white face. A thick indigo cloak hung from his shoulders and dragged to the ground.
He saw the Cataphracti as well, who was now holding his helmet under his arm. He had the tan skin and wiry black hair that revealed him to be of the people who had lived in these lands since the days before Shapur. He had a beard that was neatly cut and oiled, and his eyes were a deep grey.
They took the old lady first. She did not cry, or beg, or moan, but he could see that her breathing had become shaky. He felt a strange sort of pride for her then, and he wanted so much to make sure that his death was a dignified one that his head rung with the thought. When the Gul grabbed her by the hair, she closed her eyes and began to mouth a prayer. He forced her to her knees and held a long, thin sickle in the air above his head. Blood dripped from its surface, and he could see that there were glyphs carved into the blade.
He did not watch as the Gul killed the old woman. He only knew it happened when he heard the sound of a blade cutting through flesh, and he knew it was done when the young girl in front of him broke down into hysterics. He did not want to watch that. Instead, he stared coldly at the Cataphracti.
The Gul was a monster acting out its curse, but the Cataphracti was different. He had captured them, and brought them here to be fed to the demons. He was a man, a man who's people were not very far removed from the captives, but he served the monsters anyway. And he didn't seem to feel even partly guilty about what he was doing.
The young girl had fallen on her knees in a fit. She was trying to plea for her life, but her voice broke down into a shrill, screaming stutter. The captive felt his heart wrench for her, and he hated himself for all the times he had dreamed of killing her. She was at an age when girls dreamt of their futures as fairy tales, where they would get married and have perfect little children in some perfect little hovel in the countryside. She did not deserve any of this. He could say, at least, that he had went to battle and earned his captivity by failing in the field. She was, in all the ways he could tell, innocent. A child.
For a moment, he saw a glimmer of hope for them all when the Gul lifted her gently by the hand instead of yanking her from the ground by her hair. He held his sickle above his head in a clinched fist, fresh blood from the old woman before still covering the blade. And then he dropped it.
"Mercy stays my hand!" The Gul shouted in a deep, booming voice. He spoke loud enough that the captive had no doubt the people below could here them. Everything went silent, save for the confused weeping of the frightened young girl. "I do not pronounce death where death is not supposed to go. I have seen this ones fate and I know that she will live."
That glimmer of hope shattered when he realized what was happening. They always saved one out of every group of sacrifices. He had always known that. He had spent many days after his captivity praying that he would be the one who was saved, but he had lost that one last hope when he heard the soldiers talking about it during the march. "They always take one, aye." one had told another. "And it is always a pretty one."
A guard led the uncertain young girl into the castle. She would get to live. But he watched the Gul pick up his sickle, and he knew his time had come
He felt his heart slow as he was led up to the trough that served as a sacrificial alter. The Gul grabbed him by the head and forced him down. His body went numb. The metallic smell of fresh blood filled his nostrils, and he looked down at the bottom of the trough to see coagulating heaps of blood pooling in the porous volcanic stone of the alter. There was something cold about this alter, a chill that he could feel on his face. This was the last thing he would see. The thought of death had made him nauseous. He considered vomiting, out of spite.
He felt the force of the sickle come down, but there was no pain. He saw his blood pouring into the trough below. That seemed strange. That was his?
A quick wave of malaise shot through his body, as if he had all become sick at once. His limbs went cold, and he became rapidly tired. The vision of his own blood faded, and in its place came nothingness.
<Snipped quote by gorgenmast>
[Gives Googer his Googertreat]
Googer is Scooby Doo. The scary thing is, that totally makes sense...
Fun fact: I lost my two front teeth a few years ago. Plus 3 wisdom teeth, that's five missing teeth. Are you people even trying?
We always knew you were a catch.
@VilageidiotxAround here we base weirdness partly on that, and partly on how much camo you're wearing.
If a man with no teeth dressed in camo fatigues walks up to you, you'd better run.
See, here it would be opposite. I'm an outlier because I own only one camo shirt which I only use for hunting and I have all my teeth but two wisdom teeth. That would make me too soft and nerdy. Also, I never start conversations about trucks. That doesn't help.
I think normal would be at least one tooth missing that isn't a wisdom tooth, a no less then one-half of your wardrobe camo, and if you don't have a truck you should at least be seriously browsing craigslist to find one.
I suppose that's why my cousin was the first to get married out of all the kids. He owns a truck and wears a lot of Camo. He also is masculine and cool enough to have lost one front tooth, but he is also sensitive and caring enough that he has a fake tooth he wears on formal occasions.
But if you loose to many teeth, well... then you're just another tweeker.
Put in butt. Nod for affirmation.
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