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Astella & An-Clastophon
Starring in…
Professional Relationship I
Astella leaned back, resting her elbows against the soft sand she’d just created as she enjoyed the scenery. The gentle, constant noise made by the Wellspring’s waters as they overflowed; the waves across the lake’s surface as the only hint of the massive current down below; the mostly clean air (with small hints of the scent of rotting flesh); and the skittering of I’Iro’s workers as they gathered material and made preparations for their debut project, the Central Plaza.
She liked it there. Unlike everywhere else, that place felt stable. There wasn’t much death there either, and animals had begun to return to the area to drink their fill of water and rest. She closed her eyes for a while, content with the darkness. It wasn’t that she preferred solitude to being around others, but she could certainly enjoy the peace that came with not having to feel like she had to entertain others.
As all good things however, this had to come to an end, as with no warning whatsoever, a familiar presence made itself known close to her. She turned and opened her eyes to see the dark form of the nameless divine that had helped during the attempts to unclog the Wellspring.
The An-Clastophon creeped up to the pedestal Astella had made; her eyes flitted over the cover of the book on top of it. She did not open the book however, and instead moved on to glance around the mountain.
’Lack of trust in my work from this early on, huh...’ Astella thought with a small twitch of her eyebrow. Finally, she decided to speak up. ”Not interested in what it’s gonna look like after it’s done?”
The demigod turned to look at Astella, responding, ”I would rather wait until it is done.” She then pointed at the god, and followed up, ”Astella, right?” A short hop down from the pedestal, and she was back on the rim of the wellspring, on approach to Astella almost idly.
”Yes, that’s the name, nameless one. I was sure you’d be somewhere far away by now, considering how quickly you disappeared after we got this spring working.”
The An-Clastophon shrugged, saying in return, ”I merely did not make my presence known. I have to try to be as obvious as the rest of you.” She plucked a spider that tried to skitter around her, holding it in her claws as she inspected the workings. Then, once she was done, she placed it back down and gave it a swift push to get it on its way.
”Careful with those spiders, my friend made them.” Astella sighed, then groaned, and then turned once more as the An-Clastophon came to a stop next to her. ”So if you’re not here to admire my work or my friend’s work… Then what? Are you here to sell me something?”
The demigod shook her head, ”I was sent here with the intent of establishing good will,” she waved her arm vaguely across the Wellspring, “to send the message that my master does not intend to oppose the rest of the gods.” The An-Clastophon then continued, ”I have my own reasons for not looking at the blueprints, independent of any malignance towards your work or that of your friend’s.”
Astella pursed her lips. A God that would not reveal themselves feeling the need to declare their innocence was probably anything but innocent. After a while, Astella began to make popping sounds as she turned back to stare at the water. It was only moments later that she spoke again, ”Okay. Sounds reasonable. I’m not looking for trouble either and being on good terms with someone capable of secrecy would be nice.”
The An-Clastophon nodded, offering, ”Depends on what you need kept secret.” She walked up to the water, and then crouched down. A single claw shot out, and she swirled it in the shallows of the Wellspring.
”Well, that’s...” Astella began, looking around and then leaning slightly closer to the An-Clastophon, whispering, ”... A secret.” She smirked and shook her head. Did this demigod actually expect her to reveal her secrets that easily? Her projects were far too important to risk being exposed that early.
The demigod looked up at Astella and responded, flatly, ”I did not expect you to. But I can’t help if I don’t know what I can do to help, hm?”
”For now, the best way you can help is by saving people’s lives and making sure the world is a safe place to live in. Eventually, once things settle down some, I might have more specific requests to make of your master.”
”That is about what was requested of me by my master to begin with,” the An-Clastophon stood up, turning to walk away. They then stopped, suddenly, and with a glance behind them, said, ”By the way; you will make requests of me, not my master. They prefer a more passive role.”
Well, nobody could say that the nameless one’s patron wasn’t on-brand. Still, to let an opportunity such as this slip just because she didn’t want to seem shady would be… Inefficient. So with a final sigh, she asked. ”You can procure things for me in the name of your master, right? Know that whatever I end up needing will probably be very difficult to obtain, and perhaps even frowned upon by our colleagues. If you’re still interested in helping me, then keep that in mind until the time I call for you.”
The An-Clastophon simply nodded, saying lowly, ”That is perfectly fine. My sin is not idleness, and I do not intend to air my dirty laundry.” Then, their head swivelled back to look ahead of them as they continued walking away.
Astella looked at the An-Clastophon as they walked away, then looked up at the weirdly coloured clouds above. An wasn’t a charmer, that’s for sure, but at least they didn’t waste any time. Plus, keeping a professional relationship would probably benefit everyone in the long run… As boring as that is, at least. At a given moment, the An-Clastophon’s presence vanished, and Astella knew better than to look around to confirm if it was truly gone. Instead, she just focused on relaxing once more.
Storm-Trod A-Lu-Ma
“The immature think that knowledge and action are different, but the wise see them as the same.”
Their birth was a matter both murky and entirely unimportant. A little lie, a secret to shod the secretive divinity. An instant ago or since the beginning of time itself; the same thing for all it was worth. No, what was of import pertained to the fact they were here, and they were here now. Grown in the skin of a man who perhaps was once not divine, or perhaps always was.
Chaos below, storm above. Water was welcome to men, though little enjoyment could be garnered from having skin flayed by hurricane. The crevices may have destroyed their world, but now the pits to hell served an entirely unintended feature. The rain sideways from true north, towards the mountain. A dozen mortal humans clung, bloodied and terrified, to the cracks and hand-ledges along the southerly edge of their doom.
He alone was not terrified; for he was resplendent, draped in his divinity. Though indistinguishable from man, what would kill man did not kill him. He rose from his place in the crevice, the rain whipping into him mercilessly. Horror gurgled in the throats of the humans as skin was stripped from his flesh. His blood poured ceaselessly down into the crevice, painting the humans red. Bare muscle came off in strips, launched headway with the rain; skidding atop the crevice and carried further beyond.
Yet, even bare of muscle and with battered organs and bone, he still walked, outwards, from the crevice and out of sight. The humans, hardly able to peek over the crevice, shouted hoarsely -- hearing each other as if only a whisper through the force of the storm. They yelled inconsequential things, all diverging to a single agreement; “Storm-Trod A-Lu-Ma,” they called, to give identification to the terror presented.
They did not know whether to worship or fear the Storm-Trod A-Lu-Ma, covered in his viscera as they were. The image was seared into their minds, unforgettable; they had spent their entire lives with him, by all accounts a regular man born at the end of the world and the end of gods. He had never once indicated he was anything but, and yet, wordlessly, without so much as a glance back, he walked to what should have been his painful demise.
The Storm-Trod A-Lu-Ma did not consider his former compatriots more than once. He would do his work quietly, in secret; and to do so he would need to hide from them. Beyond that, he did not think them worthy to worry himself over. Once he was out of sight, nothing more than a divinely-animated skeleton, bones pockmarked with particularly forceful droplets of rain, he truly began his work.
To interact directly with the other gods would not do; he knew of their existence, their divine pollutant stinking every sense he could muster. They blundered loudly, blind to the subtleties that swam under the surface. His power was finely-tuned, clean in a manner of sense. He could create agents to utilize his abilities in the obvious forms of his brethren, and remain a silent watcher in the background.
Thus was his decision to begin work on a demigod, linked intrinsically to him and sharing in his power. His primary agent, to see to all of his work in the world and beyond. Moulded from shadow, her form began to take shape. A monster by every sense of the word; tall beyond humans, with claws that could tear god’s metal. A mouthful of razor teeth, though food was unnecessary in the face of divine ichor. Ageless and timeless, with a sharp wit.
An-Clastaphon
“Having hands and feet everywhere; having eyes, head, and face everywhere; having ears everywhere; the creator exists in the creation by pervading everything.”
No words needed to be exchanged between the rain-struck skeleton and the demigod; her brain was built with all she needed to know. The god had no further need of the body, and so it dropped to the floor; as dead as a skeleton ought to be. The rain battered it out of sight, and she did not mourn. Her god was not truly dead, and would surely be back another time.
The An-Clastaphon leaped from the alcove, taking in the sight of the hurricane around her. She had work to do, and she intended to begin working immediately.
ay
Realm of Kolodiva
1 Interregnum
”All courses of action are risky, so prudence is not in avoiding danger, but calculating risk and acting decisively.”
The sun sat languidly on the horizon, a dull orange glow casting long shadows across the inn. In the dusty dawn, banners and flags fluttered in the breeze. Two opposing camps, with two opposing pickets, watching each other over the bridge. Upon the northern end of the river, three banners stood proudly; the banner of Anatol tep Constant, a dull bronze gear heavy set against a blood red background. Secondly, the banner of Bogdan met Bogdan, a brutish bear of top-heavy proportions dancing upon a field of yellow grain, triangles of red burning upon a blue sky. Finally, the banner of Marin met Valesti, the golden crown, flanked by the traditional sceptre and sword of duty, upon the royal purple of majesty.
Bogdan met Bogdan was a brute of a man; born disfigured at birth, he spurned intellectual pursuits to take up the mace. It was said that he could bash in plate as easily as one could snap a twig. Twice the size of a rightful man, he lumbered as would a beast, in hunt for its next kill. With him rode five-hundred hounds in human form; the exiles from good and just society. They were torturers and sinners all, Bogdan’s band of a nature too disgusting for any man with the slightest inkling of morality to bear.
Anatol tep Constant was a man of an entirely different calibre. An exile from the City-Republic of Domred, he openly embraced the shunned customs of the Constant Cults. The realm spurned him, and were the art of killing not so highly desired, it was no doubt he would have long since been run from the plains and the Anchor entirely. His welcome stood entirely on the basis of his ability; he was the sole living master of the Sword-Art of Natural Law. It was said that he could cut open a hundred men without a thought or a mercy. The sword-arts were a rare thing now, the dangers of its reputation having seen its practitioners all but wiped out in the unification wars Valesti had fought twenty years prior.
With Anatol walked three-hundred and fifty dead men, their eyes cold and hollow. In the unification wars, it was said that Anatol’s band swelled with every burned village, the children ripped from their hearth and homes, painted in the blood of their family, and led to war. Anatol broke them, and trained them. Each was a machine of death and destruction, its eyes indifferent to the suffering meted out by its hands.
Across the river stood two banners and two mobs. One banner was laden with spears of red, emerging from the start of the field, the edges advancing to the top as the middle spears terminated early, forming a canton upon the middle of the blue field. The second banner depicted a prancing horse of gold, a sword of jet-black puncturing its chest, set upon an azure field. Two mobs, bannerless, milled about; peasants and levymen, not formally organized into bands, carrying whatever they could find; pitchforks, hoes, hand-axes, and all manner of tools. A few lucky ones carried daggers.
The speared banner belonged to the new Royal Castellan of Orleka, a stern man, famed for his loyalty to the rightful King Witalis. Miroslaw tep Witalis was a blue-blooded man, whip-smart and royalty to the core. He had been a natural stand-in for Witalis met Valesti, groomed nearly from birth for the task. Though a tender age of sixteen, he had been instrumental in driving the southern raiders from the realm, and securing the Guard-Upon-River. With him marched two-hundred pikemen, clad in royal-marked bronze armor; the cream of the crop of the capital. With him was Michal met Wilhelm, a veteran soldier of noble stature that had served with Valesti in the unification wars.
Michal was a staunch traditionalist, and had won favour with Witalis. It was this favour that saw him entrusted with the task of Gorody Bridge, to cut off the call of mercenary bands to Marin and to protect the vulnerable northern hinterlands of Orleka, while Witalis focused his efforts on Gornibon and its traitorous Imperious Bishop tep Caeden. With him marched another two-hundred stand of pikemen, clad in uniform bronze armor and drilled to exhaustion.
Two unbannered mobs of a thousand men each were forced into position by the two bands of pikemen, led by obscure captains of little note and little pedigree. They stood guard on the bridge, staring across at the mercenary bands of Marin. Thus was the field of battle, two armies staring each other down, tension building.
The inn had been sequestered by Marin, his household guard of two-hundred pikemen keeping watch outside. Only three men had been allowed inside with Marin; Anatol, Bogdan, and the innkeeper. The innkeeper kept to the background, keeping the men’s mugs full as they discussed their strategy. The discussion was hours-old at this point, as they touched upon how to best destroy the enemy arrayed before them.
“Gentlemen,” Marin spoke as he stabbed at the map with a finger, “we have explored every alternative and found them wanting. We must clear this bridge and open a path to the south, or my bid for royalty will be ended before it has even begun. The southern raiders, should they choose to ride for me at all, will arrive here and be defeated in detail by Witalis’ men long before we can expect reinforcements from the Anchor mercenary bands.”
Bogdan snorted, “These odds no good! Two of them for every one of us!” He slammed his mug down, anger in his voice as he considered the possibility. Marin replied, cooly, “Two thousand of them are but peasants. They are not prepared for the frenzy of battle. Of the entire army, only four-hundred will stand and fight.”
Anatol spoke, matter-of-factly, his voice even, “They will stand and fight if it is between our swords and the pikewalls of Witalis’ professionals. If we are to break them, it will have to be before the bannered bands can form.” Marin looked up, nodding, “Indeed, and therein lies the plan. If we can sweep aside the mob before the pikes can form, then it will be a battle in our favor.”
Bogdan responded, with sudden glee, “Terrify some peasants? When we go?” The other two waved in dismissal, receiving a derisive snort from the beast-man. Marin looked at the flag representing Anatol’s band on the map, saying next, “My household guard can force one of their bands to a stand-still near indefinitely. You, sword-master, can your men defeat a professional band?”
Anatol responded, as even-voiced as ever, “I have done so many times in the past, and I shall do so again. Then I will wheel into the final band, that you will have locked into battle?” Marin answered, “You and Bogdan, together. Bogdan should have chased off the peasantry by then.”
Bogdan’s smile grew wider as he imagined the slaughter of a professional band, and the loot to follow. Marin continued, “Bogdan will go in quickly, while my guard and your swordsmen get equipped. We will follow in behind as Bogdan clears us a path to engage the enemy’s pikemen in battle. We will break them here, or I will never see the throne.”
The other two made their assent clear. Over the course of an hour, they finalized the details of the plan, and moved to put it into action.
Bogdan’s men were ready quickly, with their leather cuirasses and their maces. Bloodlust drove them, the fury of battle driving them to a frenzy. The other two bands were of a higher sort, and took a longer period to prepare -- though they could do so autonomously, and thus Anatol and Marin were granted time to watch the opening blows of the battle unfold.
“So,” Marin spoke as he walked up to the hill Anatol had taken up to watch over the bridge, “what drove you to such madness?” Anatol didn’t look away from the bridge as he responded, cooly as ever, “Madness? You insult me and my work.”
Marin said back, “You deny Caeden and Gebei; in any other realm, you would have been quartered for it. We’ve been remarkably merciful. You’re a bright man, skillful with the sword. Why would you throw that kind of respect away to chase some cult?”
Anatol’s eyes twinkled as he spoke with an edge, “Separate thou the earth from the fire; the subtle from the gross; sweetly, with great industry. It ascends from the earth to the heaven, and again it descends to the earth; and receives the force of things superior. By this means you shall have the glory of the whole world, and obscurity shall fly from you,” he paused, turning his head to look in Marin’s eyes, “Do you know what it means?”
Marin narrowed his eyes, responding coldly, “It means you seek power by throwing away your reverence for the godly.”
Amusement writ across Anatol’s face as he continued, “Its force is above all force, for it vanquishes every subtle thing and penetrates every solid thing; so was the world created. Hence I am called Regent, having witness of the creation of the world.”
Marin’s face crumpled in disgust, “If you seek the throne, then why did you answer the call of my contract?”
Anatol responded, slowly, “Not a throne of man, Marin,” then, his tone lightened, “Bogdan’s men have engaged the enemy, now. Our men are doubtlessly ready. We should begin our march.”
Marin murmured his assent as they went their separate ways, taking their positions at the head of their respective bands. As Bogdan’s macemen terrified the mob of peasants and whipped them into a frenzy of activity, Anatol and Marin’s men marched uniformly across the bridge. Behind the peasants, the enemy’s pikemen had only just begun to form, unprepared for the assault.
The peasants, as expected, did not last long; once they realized there were no pikes to herd them into line, they fled as quickly as they could. Masses of men dropped their arms and pushed against one another to flee into the plains, as the professional bands meant to keep them in line shouted in disgust. Marin’s guard took up their position, locking pikes with an enemy band; doing little damage, but threatening to decimate them should they not respond in kind.
Anatol’s men, meanwhile, flooded between the gaps of the enemy’s pikes with terrifyingly little regard for their own life, their dead eyes striking fear into Michal’s band of pikemen. Pikes clattered against bronze plate, a kill here or there from opportunity their only comfort. Then the swords reached the front row. They dropped their pikes, taking up the dagger, only to be cut down with efficiency.
Courage faltered as the front row fell. Men broke rank, running for the plains. Seeing their brothers abandon them only further cratered morale; the desertions became more severe. By the time the second row had fallen, the entire band, Michal included, fled the field. Then, the dead swordsmen turned their haunted gazes upon Miroslaw’s band, locked in place by Miran’s guard.
Morale crumbled as sword met neck, the swordsmen charging into the vulnerable side and back of the ranks. Miroslaw’s men fought valiantly regardless, but as the bannerman fell, all hope of victory fled their minds. One man grabbed the banner, and with him fled a hundred men. Seeing their imminent defeat, the rest followed not long after.
Thus Witalis’ army had been set to rout. Bogdan, too, had disappeared; his men going on a long chase to brutalize fleeing peasants, entirely forgetting their part of the plan. It was no matter; the battle had been won, and mercenary bands could now flow freely to Cajnicea.
Realm of Kolodiva
1 Interregnum
”Man is above all else mind, consciousness -- that is, he is a product of history, not of nature.”
A clatter of gold, a thump of the body, a shout of alarm. A cry went up throughout the halls, “His Majesty has collapsed! Fetch the apothecary!” It was not long for the news to reach Witalis, on one of his inspections of the city ramparts. He rushed to the palace, his personal guard in tow, to the quarters of his father. With a wave of his hands, he ordered the palace guard, “I will handle this! Tend to the palace gate.”
His own guards took positions as the palace guard slunk away, one of them asking as Witalis entered the quarters, “Sir, whom are we to permit in?” To which Witalis responded, sharply, “Nobody. Not even the apothecary.” The guard hesitated for a moment in shock, before realization washed over him, and with a curt nod, he barred the door.
Witalis’ bronze armor clanked as he kneeled next to the bed of his father. Valesti looked on in mad desperation, writhing weakly as he sputtered, choked, and seized. The Royal Castellan shook his head, saying softly, “It’s finally come to this. You aren’t the man of my childhood anymore. The law has slipped in your madness.” He shook his head, almost sadly, continuing, “I’ll take good care of your kingdom. I’ll string up all those who disrespected us. I’ll string them all up.”
Valesti continued to seize as his son got up and walked to the king’s desk. He pulled out the chair, turning it to face the bed. Then, he sat down and watched. There was some indignant shouting outside the door. The apothecary had arrived, it seemed. Witalis made a mental note to have the apothecary impaled for such blatant disrespect of the orders of a Royal Castellan and King-to-be.
Valesti suffered for hours. The apothecary shouted outside the door the entire time. Witalis refused to take his eyes off of his father, his gaze hardening as his father slowly expired. Finally, with foam pouring from his mouth, Valesti seized one last time and fell silent. His breathing stilled, and his soul fled. The Royal Castellan stood, and with a disgusted glance at the corpse of his father, threw open the door.
A moment of inspiration struck. He pointed at the apothecary, and shouted, “Have him seized for failing to save the life of his majesty! Impale him at the palace gates for all to see!” Witalis’ personal guard, hand-selected for their loyalty, complied immediately. The Royal Castellan left them to the task as he went to assemble the city guard. There were pretenders to topple.
The sun lay low in the sky. No crickets sounded, as though even the animals of the realm had recognized the grave news that rode like a black wave from Gorleka. Only the sound of hooves on mud, the panting of the exhausted horse, and the yips of the rider who spurred on broke the silence. Noone else remained on the road, for the day was slipping and honesty did not dwell under the moon.
Ahead, the squat buildings of Cajnicea stood. Pinpricks of candle-light glittered in windows, and the torches of the city guard lit up the streets. The rider yelled his horse to a stop as a guard stepped out into the road, commanding, “Halt! What business rushes you into town so?”
The rider shouted back, his voice hoarse, “I bear grave news for Marin met Valesti, from the capital of the Unified Fiefdoms! I carry the seal of the merchant houses! Halt me at your own risk!” He fished an envelope from his pack, waving it in the torchlight. Indeed, it was a wax seal of the Cajnicean merchant houses, a right of passage.
The guard stepped out of the way, saying, “Gods give you luck, boy!” as the rider spurred his horse once more. He charged directly through town, and began to shout when he came into sight of the gate of Marin’s manor estate. He screamed, “I bear grave news for Marin met Valesti! I carry the seals of the merchant houses! Open the gate, and bear me to Marin met Valesti!”
The gate swung open, and the rider waved his envelope at the estate guards as he passed. They did not pursue him further, as the stable boy rushed out to assist with his horse. He leaped from the horse, taking off in a sprint to the manor. The front doors flung open. In the robes of a man intent on sleep, Marin blearily looked out at the rider.
The rider fell panting at the feet of Marin, and took a moment to catch his breath before speaking, “Sir, your father the King, he is dead! He was laid low by malady, his apothecary staked for his failure! Your brother, the Royal Castellan, has penned writs of levy. He intends to secure the realm as his!”
If Marin met Valesti had been tired, he was no longer. He turned to a guard and said, “Give this boy a letter of credit worth a hundred pebble, as thanks for his timely delivery of the news. Grant him the guest room with the wash-basin, and see to it that his horse is cared for especially well.” Then, without a moment to waste, he turned back into his estate, yelling, “Steward! Fetch the ink, and rouse two dozen messengers, immediately!”
He ran to his study, grabbing scrolls on his way. His steward rushed in with the ink, placing it down on Marin’s desk, before rushing back out to rouse the town’s messengers. He wrote his own writs, ones of contract and payment. Some addressed to bands of southern plainsmen, others to mercenary companies across the realm. He may not have maintained a standing army, but a horde of mercenaries would do the trick just as well.
He worked well into the night, his steward fetching each scroll and sending them out. There was a kingdom of riches to seize.
The news came to Gornibin with the morning missives, and soon, it was all the town could talk about. The death of the king! Rumor held it that he was poisoned! Stabbed by an assassin! Betrayed by his own guards! The entire city had collapsed, and taken his Majesty with it! The news grew more and more outlandish as it spread, taking on the form of an army of undead southern plainsmen razing Gorleka to the ground and salting the earth by the time it reached the ears of Kuba met Valesti, high in his cathedral.
He was not such a fool to take them at face value, of course; but nevertheless tidbits of truth could be taken from the rumors. His father’s death was a certainty. He scrapped his plans for the morning sermon, and took up quill and ink to draft a new one. He intended to see the throne, and he knew Witalis would see him as the threat he was. To secure the realm in the hands of the gods, the Bishop tep Caedan would have to form an army of the faithful.
Lucky, then, that he resided in a town of the faithful. He would have to drive them to action in the morning sermon, equivalate his will to Caedan’s, and whip the town into a frenzy. Then, he could withdraw the Guard-upon-River, and from their experienced ranks draw the core of his new army. With luck, he would ride, a victorious king, into Gorleka, to take his late father’s throne.
Then, the Cults of the Constant would be no more. The heresies of the Oreli would be snuffed out. Caedan and Gebei would stand triumphant, across a land of the holy and the devout. He would forge the realm into a bastion of the true faiths. All of Caedan’s enemies would repent, or they would burn in the pyres of retribution. All of them.
The bells rang for mass. Kuba took his leave of his study, taking the long flight of stairs down to take his place at the pulpit. That morning, words of fiery retribution, of holy war to come filled his preachings. Of the portents of doom should they fail, and the insidious plots of the Constant and the Oreli. The betrayal of the Royal Castellan, and the lack of faith that lead to the king’s death.
A faithful rage overtook the procession. The news would spread quickly, and the Guard-upon-River would surely abandon their posts as it reached them, for they were faithful and put their love in Kuba met Valesti, the true successor to the king. The divine right was his, and the gods walked with him.
The news from Gorleka filtered into the frontier lands to the far-east in the mid-day, carried with the Guard-upon-River. It passed from man to man until it had reached the experimental irrigation-fields Metody met Valesti had taken the liberty to inspect. He had nearly fainted when he heard it. He instructed his retinue, “Sirs, bring news of this to the villages! Instruct them that I am putting out a call to arms!”
He paused, before saying, “My brothers seek to claim the throne, but we all know they would lead it to ruin! Only I am fit to rule this realm, and together, we will see the best come to pass!” With a wave, he sent off his retinue, and he returned to his field tent. The excitement of the coming war pounded in his heart.
The rest of them were fools, ignorant of history, of governance, of everything. They were barely even literate. He was the only one, of all his brothers, fit to rule. They would see the realm driven to ruin, in ignorance and ineptitude. His fists clenched as rage filled him. The thought of their misrule drove him to deep anger.
Then, he steeled himself. His resolve hardened, as he repeated, out loud, to himself, “The only way to see it done right is to do it myself. I will see this realm made mine.” He smiled as he imagined an enlightened Kolodiva under his rule. He would be the philosopher-king, he would forge an empire to stand the test of time.
The rest of them would fall in line, and they would no longer threaten or cajole him. They would bow down to him and beg him for forgiveness; and he would have them all killed. All for the betterment of the realm; their ignorance would be deadly.
He would walk into Gorleka the enlightened king, and his rule would go down in history as the golden age of Kolodiva.
The Anchor learned of the news three days from Valesti’s death, along the trade-lanes. Filtered along by messengers to the ears of the Prince of Chruda. From there, the Prince of Chruda sent missive to Eliasz met Valesti, the estranged son of the king. Eliasz would see the support of the Anchor; in return, should he be throned, his policy would be most favorable to the northern cities.
Eliasz had no intent to honor such a promise, but nevertheless he freely and willingly agreed to it. He would keep the Anchor lulled with promises of riches and favor, until he could stand on his own two feet a king of the realm. With each northern city committing a small portion of their forces, together they would form an army capable of matching his brothers.
Thus was his right, a son of Valesti called to the endless pleasures of kingly rule. He would no longer live in a manor. He would call the palace his home, and he would walk along its marble pillars. Gold would be heaped at his feet, and feasts held every day in his honor. All of this was what he deserved.
He began to draft plans in his mind. The scorn of his father mattered no longer. He only had to reach out and seize what was his.
Alesky was tending to the flock when the men on horseback came, in shining bronze armor and carrying implements of war. They had called the village to the commons, everyone required to attend. Alesky was an honest and hard-working child, so he obeyed, leaving the flock in safe pasture within view of the commons. His father met him there, worry scrawled upon his face.
The sergeant-at-arms took a scroll from his pack, opening it. He read, “The year is now 1 Rule of Witalis. The king, Valesti, lays dead. The rightful successor, Witalis met Valesti, assumes his throne. The fiefdoms oppose the law. All able-bodied young men, of the ages fourteen to twenty-six are to march in the armies of the King. The punishment for failing to answer the call will be summary beheading, to be meted out at my will. Thus is the will of your king!”
The ten men behind him advanced, and began to round up the villagers. Aleksy was too young to join the levy, so he was sent from the commons. He fled to his house, looking out as his father, Chwalibog, was declared too old. He too fled the commons. It took thirty minutes for the troop to round up the suitable men. They marched them out at lance-point.
Aleksy’s father slammed open the door to the hut, a look of simmering disappointment and anger in his eyes. Juliusz came in shortly after. Aleksy asked, “What happened? Why did they take everyone away?”
Chwalibog’s gaze softened as he looked at his son, and he said, softly, “Sometimes the king demands things of us. It’s not a thing a young lad should worry about. Just.. Let it go from your mind. It’s none of your concern.”
Aleksy looked on, more confused than before as his mother, tears in her eyes, knelt down and hugged him tightly.
The Realm of Kolodiva
23 Rule of Valesti
“I put my heart and soul into my work, and have lost my mind in the process.”
The city of Gorleka had grown fat and rich. The city of light-upon-river, it was the capital of the Southern Fiefdoms. The throne of Valesti sat there, his stoic perch above the lands he had spent his life conquering. Its ivory towers were the envy of the known world, their glory rivalled only by the machinations of the thunderlords in their fortress upon the sky. All trade in Kolodiva, at some point or another, made its way through Gorleka. Armies beyond counting marched in the name of the King of Gorleka and the emperor of the Southern Fiefdoms. From its parapets, the steely-gazed Royal Castellan Witalis met Valesti plotted his machinations of law.
To the southwest lay Gornibin, a humble city in the shadow of the glory of Gorleka. Though its splendor lay in question, Gornibin was a place of hardy and capable men; woodsmen and farmers in equal measure. Where Gorleka failed to hold back the marauders of the Southern Realm, the men of Gornibin held firm; it was their efforts alone that maintained the guard-upon-river that held back the worst of the pillaging. Its churches hailed the name of Kuba met Valesti, the Imperious Bishop tep Caedan of the whole realm.
To the far west lay the town of Derazhi; its independence nominally maintained by its pioneering spirit. Where other men saw barren fields worth nothing, Derazhi men took pride in their ability to bend and tame. Under their careful guidance, the frontier plains were settled, and their stake carved out on the map. A stake they saw to none would take from them. Its hardy settlers praised the Lord-Architectural Metody met Valesti’s theories on cultivation.
The final city, Cajnicea, lay as the gateway to the northern states of the Anchor; Cajnicean farms occupied the last truly arable land in the north, and through Cajnicea flowed the mineral riches of the mountain and the grains of the plain. Though not numerous, Cajniceans commanded immense power over the flow of trade that far outweighed their mere numbers. At its beating heart, Marin met Valesti pulled the strings of the realm; though without royal position, he nonetheless held power over the kingdom.
The cities of the Anchor had long refused the clarion call of unification; their independence maintained through fire and war. The greatest among them, Chruda, dominated the western ranges, a monumental city built into the mountainside. From it, mineral riches poured forth, made by the finest blacksmiths and artisans across the whole Realm. By its banner the Anchor rallied, the scheming Eliasz met Valesti taking his place among their walls in stark rejection of the scorn of Valesti.
To the east of Chruda lay the manors of Jasztad, a small but fierce town of the Anchor who made their living in the monopolization of trade between Chruda and Cajnicea. It was here that the lords of Kolodiva took their journeys, well-managed and idyllic pastoral farmland to greet them. Thus it was that Chruda thrived.
In the north, laid bare in the shadow of the thunderlords, the city Domred worked their political theory; the only true republic in the Realm, Domred held a particular curiosity and scorn among men. Its people were capable statesmen, their institutions the most efficient in the Realm. The city held its head high, regardless of its plague of cults.
Privie lay in a child spur of the Anchor range -- originally but a monastery of soldier-monks dedicated to the glorification of Gebei, around them a city grew. Under the watchful eye of the monastery, the fortifications grew as well. Privie stands proud, a fortress unassailable, manned by the most devout and most disciplined troops in the realm.
Finally, the last city of the Anchor, in the eastern reaches, Ungmir sat a bastion of ore. Its mines were the richest in all of Kolodiva, and from it the copper, tin, bronze, and iron that all the cities relied upon flowed. Its men were hardy, used to the dark and the heat.
“You hold no position, Marin, you are ineligible for the throne! It is the law of the realm!” The voice of Witali rang out, ripples of murmured shock flooding the hall. On the throne, Valesti stared at the assemblage before him, pale-faced and hollow-eyed, his pupils focused on something only a man in the throes of madness could see. He seemed an edifice of stone as Marin responded. “I’ve purchased my right to presence! You can’t kick me out, and I will say what I wish while within this hall!”
A huzzah rose from the merchants, the aristocratic hangers-on jeering in response. Metody shouted above it all, scoldingly, “Witalis, you cretin, how would you know the laws? It is doubtless you are illiterate! And Marin, you are no better, you take the credit of your betters! You lazy, self-absorbed mongerer!” The hall descended into a furious uproar.
Witali shouted back, “I would have your hide tanned if you were not Lord-Architectural, Metody, you--,” just then, Kuba launched into his own blistering tirade, “Metody, you are a godless whelp! Were Caedan to see you, he would avert his eyes in shame! You are a failure of a man!”
Kuba drew his sword, fire in his eyes as he encroached on Metody, and with a cry of rage Witali responded, drawing his own sword as the guards brought their spears to bear. Marin ducked out of the way, sliding a dagger from his sleeve. The shouting reached a crescendo -- and then Valesti’s voice rang out, silencing all.
“Stop!” he cried, holding up a hand as he stared blankly at the ceiling, “None of you will ever see my crown! I would sooner dash it into a hundred pieces than pass it to any of you! No, I wait for the successor!” His raised hand closed into a fist, his index finger outstretched as he pointed up at the ceiling, his gaze transfixed as he muttered weakly, “The successor. He will have my throne, the successor.”
Unwilling to raise complaints with their father the king, the brothers muttered as they sheathed their weapons, the brief confrontation forgotten as they watched the pitiful display before them. With a shake of his head, Kuba made his exit. Marin, unwilling to watch his father in a delusional fit, ingratiated himself into a crowd of merchants. Metody simply looked at the floor, waiting for his father’s fit to be over. Witali got to work ordering the guards back into their positions, keeping his back turned to Valesti.
Aleksy met Chwalibog was an honest, hard-working child. His father had ordered him to tend to the flock, and Aleksy obeyed. On the outskirts of his village, so small it was not even granted a name, he kept a close eye for predators that would harm the livestock. The livestock was the lifeblood of the village, and to place such a responsibility in the hands of a mere ten-year-old was the ultimate signal of trust.
Aleksy wished to ensure that trust was not misplaced, for he was an honest, hard-working child. All day he had walked the fields with the flock, proudly keeping his guard up and his wits about him. Only once the sun was set, the flock put safely to rest, and he had returned home did he let himself relax. His mother, Juliusz met Toporek welcomed him at the door, her face a beam of pride for her loyal and steadfast son.
Chwalibog met Mieszko was once a strong man, but in his age and peace had grown heavyset; a small price to pay for the prosperity they now enjoyed. Peace had brought for them plentiful bounty, and with a tear in his eye, Chwalibog thought of his son’s innocence. Aleksy had not met the kiss of war, and thought little of the killing of men. Chwalibog could not be more proud, for Aleksy was an honest, hard-working child who knew only the way of peace.
After dinner, Aleksy went to bed early. He wished to be rested for the day after, for his father would once more ask him to tend to the village’s flock. It was an important task, and the son did not wish for exhaustion to slow him down. It was in these ways he made his parents and his village proud.
Enmity
The departure of the retinue was a flurry of activity; throngs of masked men scurried to and fro, provisioning for their journey and saying goodbye to those who would remain. When the last of the food had been packed, the last whetstone put to storage, Tiamat’s men swelled to a particularly dry patch of the coastal bog, for final inspection. The prince did a count, surveying the heads arrayed before him.
When he finally spoke, he said, “With us marches a hundred-fifty Yari, another sixty free blades of the clans, two-hundred-fifty for support, and a mix of other men numbering about thirty.”
Tiamat, with a satisfied nod, responded back, “We have a long journey ahead,” before she turned to the assembled crowd, raising her voice as she spoke to all in sight, “Before us is a march that will span half the continent. We will face threats none of you have ever before laid eyes upon, and the lands and weathers you traverse will be at once unfamiliar and dangerous. Yet, this land is not without its wonders, and we shall also see awe-inspiring sights, vistas unimaginable, and civilizations foreign.”
She paused, letting her words sink in before continuing, “The journey will be hard, yes, but it will not be without its rewards. You will be traveling further than any Reshut has travelled before. When you return to these shores, and sail across to your homeland, you will do so as great heroes! Your names shall become common knowledge, and you will not want for the tales you have to tell.”
Then, she wrapped up her speech, “The clans eagerly watch our travels, and wish for our success. You are the finest men the Reshut have to offer. Before you stands the opportunity your ancestors and your future children alike will only dream of. Let us depart in good spirit, to the lands that lay beyond.”
A mingled cheer of anticipation went up among the crowd. When Tiamat beckoned them to follow, they went in good order, into the swamplands. The coast faded away, swallowing the ship that bore them as they ventured westward.
Several Days Later
[/hr]The group was deep into the swampland, morning light filtering through the drooping branches of wetland trees. In the camp, there was motion, as men broke tents and scuffed out fireplaces. They would be continuing on soon, but whispers from the quartermasters had reached the Prince’s ears. He moved to confide in Tiamat, saying, “We have gone through our rations more quickly than expected; at this rate, we won’t be out of the swamp before we are out of food.”
Tiamat considered the issue, answering, “I had not considered this. Though it may slow our pace, we need to begin foraging. I want groups sent out to find foragables, and return them to bolster our supplies.”
The Prince asked back, “A temporary measure, or shall we do this until further notice?”
Tiamat gestured aimlessly, saying, “For as long as we are travelling. Forageables should make up the bulk of our diet, with our preserved supplies only there to fill in gaps. This is how you travel sustainably.”
He nodded, calling to the quartermasters and passing on the instructions. Ten men a group went out, searching the surroundings for edibles. They brought back many common edibles, but one group’s find was of particular interest. A single berry had sated the hunger of an entire man, and it showed no indication of stopping.
Word of the berries spread throughout the camp, and soon groups were hunting specifically for the berries, bringing them back by the sackful. The retinue regained its good spirits and travel resumed apace. Then, one night came when the first fright of the journey occurred.
With a groggy massage around the edges of his mask, Ginyu Hachimana tried to rub away the sleep leftover in his system upon waking up. Hard pulls straightened out the folds in his robes and a tight grip about the shaft of his spear kept his balance from appearing to struggle - still, it was no secret that he had been sleeping poorly. Stepping over bog and puddle - occasionally stepping in some, too - he headed towards the rock in the middle of the wetlands upon which they had placed a sentry post. He rolled his neck around with a gentle snap and spoke, “Hey, Furada! Shift change.”
The rock, however, didn’t seem to respond. Hachimana groaned deeply and approached further. “Wow, alright, falling asleep during watch is as low as it can get, you damned fool. The daimyo will have your--”
As he turned the corner on the rock, he choked a gasp and dropped his spear. There, visible even in the darkness, laid the scattered remains of Furada spread within an area of several square metres. Hachimana stepped back slowly, his body so busy steadying his panicked breathing that he forgot to pick up his spear. His eyes darted in every direction and his gait hastened even further. Before he knew it, he was running back to camp. “WE’RE UNDER ATTACK! FURADA’S BEEN-- GAH!”
A rusty dagger pierces straight through his neck and out through the mouth and mask. He was breathing his last before he hit the ground. Behind him, horned shadows with six limbs made their accelerating approach, slow at first as though to test whether their cover had been blown, then faster and faster to the sound of mustering warriors in the camp. They screamed their vile screeches and growled with guttural fury as they descended upon the Reshut.
The prince’s voice echoed through the camp, hoarse and tense, “Enemies in the treeline! Form square! Four-man deep!” He pointed his blade at the middle of the camp, further shouting, “Crossbows in the inner ring of the square! Blades in the center!”
Tiamat, for her part, had taken up the sword and made her way to the center, having fitted a plate of bronze over her chest. She let the Prince take command as she focused on ensuring she was in position. The retinue, well-drilled for the possibility, formed rapidly, though not necessarily fully equipped, as many were forced to abandon armoring to ensure they could reach the formation in time for the attack to hit. The Yari were brought downwards, a three-thick wall of pike heads to force the encroaching enemy back, with the fourth row in opportunity range once the initial walls had been passed.
The enemy fought like nothing the Reshut had seen before, however: Where normal limbs should have limits do the number of directions they could twist, these monsters seemed to throw rigidness to the wind, their flexible joints allowing them to nearly snake their way between, over and under the weak spots in the spear wall. While four limbs kept them in balance, another two sliced at the capes and skin of the Reshut with dull weapons. Their tails whipped away what spears they could, throwing the men off balance.
Then snapped the crossbow strings. The closest monsters were peppered full of bolts and killed on the spot, while those that were graced with the cover of their comrades cast themselves back out of reflex. Those that had chosen to remain near the enemy out of sheer lack of sense quickly found themselves at odds with Reshut bronze as the Yari dropped their weapons, unsheathing short blades that they hacked viciously with.
The monsters who didn’t make it away in time fell swiftly. Those that did manage to escape fled back into the bog. After a minute of quiet, there came a chorus of violent growls, as the skinny, boney beasts that had attacked them were joined by three larger, bulkier specimen sporting goat horns from their wolven heads. They seemed somewhat wiser than their smaller kin, for they didn’t dare approach the yari line. Instead, they ripped large chunks of peat out of the bog and hurled them towards the frontline, their smaller kin cheering them on.
The Yari pressed against each other as they saw the peat fly towards them, opening holes in the formation between tightly-packed Reshut as the peat flew groundwards -- the formation was tight to begin with, however, and not much space was freely available. Screams went up as some unfortunate Reshut were clipped by the corners of the peat, smashed groundwards with the weight of the soggy earth.
With the formation spreading, the smaller kin charged forth again. One of the larger ones remained in the back as two of them also descended onto all six and charged forward. The Yari were unable to return to position, still dazed from the bombardment. The crossbowmen had hooked their strings and drawn to full, but scattered from the openings in the formation as the Iskrill shot forwards, leaving the swordsmen in the center.
The smaller Iskrill danced around the swordsmen, seeking instead to jump at the crossbowmen. However, that was easier said than done, as a quick-witted shift in placement put much too many swordsmen between them and their targets for a flanking maneuver to be possible. Instead, one of the larger ones functioned as their vanguard as they tried to take on the swordsmen.
“Hoshinori!” shouted one of the frontliners, and from what had been the second line came fifteen halberdiers equipped with razor sharp naginatas. They formed a phalanx and dedicated themselves to controlling that single hunter, allowing the crossbowmen time to position themselves even better. The giant Iskrill seethed its fury and tried to find an opening, but these were much more aggressive than the spearmen from earlier. It roared for its peat-throwing third companion, who dropped its handful and knuckled its way into the fray.
The prince hoarsely shouted commands to the rest of the formation, bidding them to hold their ground as the swordsmen herded the Iskrill. Tiamat for her part brought herself face-to-face with the third Iskrill, parrying and striking with terrifying speed and efficiency. The crossbowmen presented, waiting for opportunities to get beads on Iskrill. It was in that moment that one of the hunters got a little too infuriated by the stalemate with the naginata and tried to circle around them. The crossbowmen didn’t hesitate and took the shot. The giant’s front was pierced by tens upon tens of bolts and staggered backwards before rolling onto its back to breathe its final breaths. The other Iskrill saw it - it was clear that the resource sunk into this attack began to outweigh the potential rewards. The naginata troop advanced, joined on the flanks by yari-men who still held onto their blades or had chosen to pick up their yaris again. The other two giants began backing off, protecting their smaller comrades as they scuttled into the darkness again.
Once the attack had been beaten off, the Prince yelled out, “Tend to the wounded! Sixty men, get fully equipped and keep a picket for further attacks!” Tiamat harried the escape of the Iskrill who she had squared off with, but once it went into full retreat, she turned to survey the formation. She pointed her blade at the swordsmen who had held back the hunter from the crossbowmen, saying, “You! From what clan do you hail and what are your names?”
The naginata and swordsman retainers spun around to meet her gaze and all bowed deeply. Their masks all sported patterns of blue flowers on green waves, all drawn with varying degrees of detail to designate rank and wealth. The one with the most beautiful mask raised her torso slightly higher than her companions. “Nuzami Hoshinori of the Hoshinori clan, my lady - retainers of the Hashimoto clan.”
Tiamat praised them, “That was quick thinking. I’m proud to have you accompany my journey.”
Hoshinori’s bow deepend. “W-we are here to do our duty, my lady.”
She responded, “Indeed you are, and you did so excellently.”
The naginata warriors remained bowing until Tiamat had left. While they had been victorious now, the aftermath revealed that the assault had taken a greater toll on them than they had expected - twenty-one men had met the Death God at the gates tonight. Given their situation, they couldn’t return the corpses to their families to be buried at their ancestral shrines. In lieu of this limitation, the warriors gathered up the dead and placed them on a pyre made of peat and moss. A monk read the warriors their last rites as the peat was lit aflame, and the sight of their burning comrades didn’t exactly do much to lighten the spirits around the camp. Nevertheless, they had died on the line of duty for their daimyo - the most honourable death there was - and they would press on with their souls to power their march.
When day broke, their duty continued; the Prince called for the retinue to break camp, and with the din of activity their belongings were packed, leaving behind the tents of those who had not lived throughout the night. As they marched in loose columns through the endless swampland, Tiamat, at the head of the columns alongside the Prince, began to sing.
She sang out,
“From Kylsar, the dense Kylsar
From east, swampy east
As silent, fearsome thunder
Into battle march Reshut
As silent, fearsome thunder
Into battle march Reshut.”
The assembled Reshut found the lyrics at the tips of their tongues, though they had not previously sung such a song before, and a murmur broke out as some joined in,
“Made them tough
Dense Kylsar,
Ruthless storms of the seas
And muddy bog.
Ruthless storms of the seas
And muddy bog.”
More of the retinue began to join in, emboldened by those who first started, and the song picked up in volume,
“No tiredness nor fear,
They fight for night and day,
Only the white mask
Fell on one side.
Only the white mask
Fell on one side.”
The song suddenly ramped into a fevered intensity as all the Reshut joined in, singing at the top of their lungs,
“Huh, Kylsar, my home Kylsar,
We'll stand up for you.
To the waves of western shores
We'll send your greetings.
To the waves of western shores
We'll send your greetings!”
The song, as quickly as it climaxed, settled down, quieting though all continued to sing,
“Just remember, Kylsar, in the dark times
As an ode to old glory
The honor of gorgeous folk
Your sons will defend.
The honor of gorgeous folk
Your sons will defend.”
Once the song had completed, the columns broke out into sporadic cheers, more energy in everyone’s steps.
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