Coming Soon... (Stories from Ancient Times)

[Halaster]

::Editor's Note::
At one point in the history of the game, there was a planned decision to end the world and to move the story into the future, along with a new codebase and a new world to discover and shape.

The new game engine and the new world was worked on in parallel with the existing game, but it eventually was shelved.  However, the Staff wrote some short stories about the histories of Zalanthas and its major characters, such as Tektolnes, Muk Utep, and Luir's Dragonthrall.  This thread contains these stories.



2016:
As the plotline starts and progresses to bring us hurtling happily towards The End, I'm going to be posting various stories about the game that reveal long-held secrets of the game.  The stories will be written by various staff and will, in some way, relate to some part of the ongoing plotline.  You may not see or understand the connection for a while, but by the time it's over, you'll have a much better picture of the story of Armageddon.  And I expect you'll be pretty amazed at the depth of things that were always a mystery.

So keep an eye on the Staff Announcements...

[Halaster]

c.400
A hitherto unkown warrior named Muk Utep sacks the twelve tribes at Gol Krathu
with an army of terrible barbarians out of the northwest. The tribes called the Elves
of Mallok and the Twin Warlocks are among the conquered. The city-state of Tuluk
begins to rise under Utep the Sun King

The Story of Muk Utep, Part One
written by Belenos

"There is something depressing about the ending of these battles," Muk Utep
thought as he stared out over the canyon below.  Thin trails of smoke curled
up from the ashen remains of numerous fires as a couple of physicians worked
their way through fallen warriors.   Muk crossed his arms and let out a slow
sigh as he surveyed the ruins of the battle scene before him.  "How many times
has this played out before," Muk thought as a hot desert breeze stirred up the
sand beneath his feet.

Muk was a large man.  Near eight feet from head to toe, he stood well above
most men.  A musculature borne of a lifetime of battling, Muk is easily the
most impressive warrior on any battlefield.  His thickly braided hair shines
with the color of a Zalathan sunset, a deep crimson not dissimilar to the
blood he has spilled so many times during battle.  Crimson is a color he knows
all to well.   Muk's prowess in the art of war is unparalleled.   It was known
far and wide that no one could defeat the massive warrior, no matter how small
an army he wielded.

Muk turned his attention from the battlefield and watched as a man by
the name of Ameit, a wiry man with greying hair the color of withering numut
vines approached from below.  This man, a lieutenant falling directly under
Muk Utep himself, paused then offered a shallow bow to Muk.  Muk barely tipped
his head in a return acknowledgment.

"Sir,"  stated Ameit, calmly with the quiet self assurance of a victor,
"The last of the tribe has scattered.  They are no longer a threat to our men."
Muk shrugged with a casual movement, as if the news held no more importance than
announcing that the evening meal was ready.

"They have contacted your mind have they not Lieutenant?  Agreed to the
meeting of the twelve?"

"Yes warlord," Ameit stammered, unsure of where to continue.  It was
unsettling when Muk Utep seemed to know things before they happened.

"We will meet in a month's time, here in the Gol Krathu," Muk continued on,
"We will meet at the site of the final battle.  There is much we need to do,
tell the men to start preparations."

Ameit drew himself to attention, nodding quickly at Muk, "Yes warlord."
Ameit paused and looked to Muk, a tired tone in his voice, "Will this work
Warlord?  I mean, can the twelve tribes really be brought together in this
vision of yours?  It is so hard to tell what will happen in the future, our
luck could simply just run out."

Drawing himself up to his full eight feet, Muk Utep shifted his gaze to Ameit,
allowing the tone of his baritone voice to ring out over the canyon. "We will
succeed, as long as everyone does exactly as I direct."

"Yes Warlord," Amiet recoiled at Muk's words, "I'll not doubt your
directions again."  Amiet quickly scrambled down the path toward the canyon
below, leaving the large man behind.

Muk Utep closed his eyes and took a deep breath, allowing the visions to
spill before him.  Before him lay crystalline threads, each stretching off
into the distance.  There were only a few threads close to him, yet as they
stretched out in the distance they branched off numerous times, becoming
tangled and indistinct.  Muk took one of those threads, and rode it, traveling
along as he watched future events unfold.  You see Muk Utep's prowess in
battle lay in the simple fact that Muk could see the future that lay before
him.  Muk could travel paths that would show defeat and victory.  As long as
he chose the correct path, he was unstoppable, for who could ever stop a foe,
who always knew what you were going to do before even you did.

Muk knew this particular thread well, he traveled it often, yet no matter
how often he traveled it, he could not grasp it's meaning.  This twisted path
lead to an unimaginable strangeness, to a world with familiar elements to it,
yet other elements so utterly bizarre he could not fathom their purpose.   He
backtracked into more familiar territory, away from the strange future.  The
threads that lay closest to the present were much more comforting, the closer
they were to the now there were fewer threads and each vision was clearer.
To dwell too long in the far future would risk madness.

Muk once again opened his eyes and felt the hot desert wind upon his skin.
He turned his attention to the canyons below, and the fallen warriors he had
so readily defeated.  He shrugged his shoulders and walked the path to the
battlefield.  He would do what he could to tend to his defeated enemy and
prepare for the upcoming meeting.  The troubling dark visions would as always
need to wait for another day.

[Halaster]

The Rise of a Dragonthrall
written by Djarjak

The pain is exquisite. His vision flashes white as his nose explodes, spraying crimson over the cobblestone beneath his face. The clumsy bag of sodden clay falls from his fingers amidst cruel laughter, and one by one, they kick him. Late, as usual, his broken nose still bleeding, he receives a scouring verbal assault from his Master. "You are stupid, and slow, and worthless. Why did I ever take you off the streets?" Another beating follows. He used to believe the words, but now he lets the pain take him somewhere different. Before the Council decrees, his family had enough to get by, but as Kabeth Nel grew, it claimed the resources in the lands surrounding. In the end, they had sent him to this apprenticeship so that he can continue to eat.

He is resigned to this fate, but resentful. It is years before he conceals a dagger, waits until his Master is asleep, and slides the blade between the hard old man's ribs and into his heart. The pungent scent of blood fills the air, the warm liquid spills onto his hands, and a lifetime of killing begins. First, he finds and kills the irritating children at the bazaar, then those who would cheat him, and eventually he kills for others.  Inside the city, he uses rooftops as others use cobbles, windows as others use doors. He hides in the places where people are not meant to go for the added element of surprise. For the first time in his life, there is enough food, and he is respected.

He waits in the darkness for his mark, one of the Inquisitors. But, a voice nearby surprises him, "You would be unwise to continue, assassin." Damn, damn, damn! "I offer you another price." Out of the shadow, his target slips, pointing a finger at him and rendering his body rigid. Then his mind explodes with the knowledge of true power.

"This is but a taste of what we can offer you," his new master's voice echoes in his mind. Before he is even asked, he knows he will accept. "Corruption is rampant and unjust. You will help me to correct this, and we will cull these forces." Dozens of images, faces, flash before his inner mind. "You will find them. And, you will kill them for me in exchange for this enlightenment."

Dutifully, he obeys, beginning his new life by cleansing the corrupt governance with each kill. And with each contract fulfilled, his master teaches him of power and vitality beyond all compare. Strength above anything he has ever known pulses in his veins. Sight even in darkness fills his eyes. An understanding of the arcane and the ways of magick blossoms in his mind. The great crystalline towers of the city no longer hold mystery, his mental fortitude grows to embrace the knowledge, and he practices hard, in extreme cold, extreme heat, through famine and physical duress, using the magick to augment his physical abilities.

Others he has studied with fade from their powers, or are destroyed when they are unable to control them. But he and his cabal come to be feared and respected as the enforcers of a new kind of purity. As a death dealer for the Inquisitor, he awakens to new possibilities with each execution. This one a minister of finances, that one is a tribal leader. Another is a teacher. But, the power, oh, the power! The knowledge of the ways of magick devours him, encouraging him further and without thought of what it is he does. As a darkened figure in the back of the chambers during meetings, he revels in his knowledge, his acceptance, and his power.

The avangions object to the terms of the Inquisition. The Council eventually requests that it cease entirely. No more should the weak be culled. No longer should they be responsible for determining where corruption lies. And within years, the cabal splits, and he follows his master into exile. The differences between the slow-moving bureaucratic Council and the cabal continue and the divide widens. The pursuit of further knowledge causes his body, like the others, to wither and become weak. His own atrophy is not as advanced as most. But the hunger for knowledge, and the need to change the world only grow stronger. He watches some of the cabal fade into nothing, and others leave. And his master is one of the former. One more execution is sent his way, his master tells him it is the last.

The last of his list, a woman whose flesh nearly glows, he finds amidst a grove of strange trees. The foliage grows thick and the air flows cool and moist over the undergrowth. He feels the life force keenly, it intoxicates him. Then, he sees her. She murmurs by a pool, coaxing a tiny tendril of green to grow amidst the sharp, shattered shale of the ground. Her guards, he knows, lie dead at the fringe with their throats cut.

He approaches, his ichorous blade in his hand. At the last moment, she turns to him, smiles, and he feels her beauty like a knife. The pain is exquisite. He lets it take him somewhere different: a grove of giant trees filled with life overlooked by brilliant, sparkling towers of crystalline grace, thousands working together towards a goal defined by an ideology he has long since rejected as righteous hypocrisy. He sends the blade home. Sorrow washes over him, the ground seems to keen. He feels intoxicated by it. "Master, I serve you." Another rush of knowing reaches his mind, and he grows, ultimately replacing his master in the cabal, the silent killer in their wake.

Years later, when the Dragon ascends, he pledges himself along with the others. The end of the kenku race stands as a startling testament to the Dragon's power, but each member of the cabal continues to pursue individual agendas once the Dragon leaves the world. He is no exception.

[Halaster]

911
The Dragon appears in Tuluk and an obscure exchange occurs between Muk Utep and the dread beast. At least one-fourth of Tuluk is destroyed by the Dragon. Afterward, the Dragon once again departs the Known World.

The Confrontation
written by Aernis

With care, the Lirathan known as Odiana combed bronze fingers though her equally tawny hair, tucking stringy curls behind an ear as her green eyes swept apprehensively through her chambers within the Heart. It seemed fitting to place her attention everywhere but on the scroll pinned open on her marble-topped desk. How the words still rang in her ears, filled out her vision with each artsy spiral of the manicured script and kept her skin prickled as if some cold breeze crept over her.

"The Fire of the Sun King is eternal," she spoke in a small whisper to the dim light around her, closing her eyes briefly as she leaned back into her high-backed chair.

A sigh escaped her parting lips, elongating the tiny, pale triangles branding her lower lip. Shifting, her eyes drew open and fixed on the scroll before her. The words spilling fire-hot in the depths of her mind, echoing with each syllable.

'The desperate call of the dying is heard as an agonizing song all through Tuluk, heralding the brief breaths between the deafening blasts. A fourth of the city is destroyed, broken, blackened and painted red in the deaths of thousands. Where once the rich commons stood, bright and beautiful, only a deep, smoking grave remains. Death. Death that walks, stalking the streets without mercy. And it is to me, one of the unfortunate ones to have survived with the memories, who has been given the task of recording what I have seen.'

She drew away her fingers reluctantly, pausing as the pictures of a thousand writhing bodies danced in flames, their screams muted but their faces expressing the undefineable anguish of their end. She could almost feel under her skin the vibrations of Death's steps, pounding, heavy and crushing down the roads as its breath sweeps life to ash, leaving only the bitter, stinging scent of sulfur and something else, something foul, something evil.

'How to start?' 'Where to start?' 'The Path grants me presence, grants me peace. Seek within, seek the calm and it will come to pass.'

Her eyes closed, no longer needing to look at the words that form behind her eyelids, stark and glowing against black before fading, forming into imagery, flipping like a picture book.

'The year is nine-hundred and eleven, halfway through the Twelfth Age, and this dark day is Yochem, the hundredth and sixth of the Descending Sun. The war with Allanak is to an impasse and our legions stand within our Ivory Walls. Our Sun King, Muk Utep, stands deep within His Pyramid. It is for Him, our Fire, that the Dragon has come.'

Wings, black and leathery, showing glossy in the blaze of sun and flame unfurl wickedly slow, passing endless shadow over Tuluk. Odiana shivered deep enough within her to cast a clatter of noise through the sun-emblazoned beads braided through her hair. A serpentine head, sleek and long in snout, jerks up and back baring its endless maw of black fangs that show dangerously like a sea of obsidian swords. Its battlecry, though mute, rippled through her mind menacingly.

'My hands tremble. The lingering terror not a day old fights my strength and ability to complete my task. A pile of blood-and-tear-stained vellum lay around me, telling of each disastrous attempt. Light. The people weep! They mourn and cry out in fury for those that are lost and in celebration for those that live.'

'Be still. Be Calm.' Odiana mouthed the words written. Her body visibly tenses as her fingers, trembling reach to cover the script of the scroll. 'Calm within the Circle,' she thought, instantly stilling the images flickering through her mind.

'Muk Utep is gone.' 'No. He sleeps.' 'No. It is deep, deeper then sleep. He cannot be woken. Not until it is time.' 'Time now loses meaning and meaning loses value. We are lost. We are lost. We are lost.'

Odiana looked down upon the destruction, the wake of the Dragon from high above the Pyramid within her mind. The words of loss echoed within her thoughts, growing stronger, wider as open as the sky around her. The city turned dark before her eyes, the smoldering images returning and left nothing beneath her but a graveyard shadowed by a pair of black wings high above her.

'It began with a summons. The Sun King, our Fire, called me forth. Me. How did He know? How does He always know? He is, no was, always like that; guiding us through even the darkest hour without flaw. He knew who was the best for every task, for any task, that is why we survived thus far. It was to our Fire that we would win out in the end. Now what do we do?'

A blur or colors shift sharply through her mind and Odiana found herself jerked into the Chamber of the Sun, beneath its domed ceiling and bound in its walls pregnant with endless shelves of books. Movement caught her attention as a gaunt man with dun-colored hair crossed the floor, his steps skirting the depicted battles of the twelve tribes masterfully painted across the tiles. He stopped before a gold-inlaid sun and bowed his head to the Sun King who stood above him, towering with his blood-red hair glittering as if caught in the light of fire.

'He called me to the Chamber of the Sun. In His presence was Isar the little Order of Jihae. What was Isar doing here with Him? Of all the Orders it was Jihae that was the smallest, the weakest. But He knew. He always knew. Isar was here.'

Looking like a child beside the Sun King, Isar stood. His black hair pulled back in vicious braids and his build like a miniature of the powerful Muk Utep. Odiana looked from Hrantin to Isar, the two men's eyes meeting for a beat of her heart that seemed to be endless until His mouth opened.

'The Sun King spoke. He commanded me to remain with Him that day. To stand ready. To watch. He said I would understand at the end of this day. What Muk Utep, our Fire, desires is done, without question. I stood ready. I watched. I watched as the center of Tuluk was enveloped in fire and screams. I watched as thousands died to the Dragon's breath. I watched. I understand now.'

She stood ready. She watched. Looking between the two men and the Sun King as the city moved with the rhythm of life, easy and peaceful. The drumming sounds of thousands of minds alive with thoughts of work, family, and hope.

'The morning was normal before it all began. Isar was spoken to. The Order of Jihae was sent outside the city to attend to some small task. Muk Utep said He saw great things for the Order of Jihae and Isar would remain by His side with me. Then it happened. All at once. Blackness filled the sky. My eyes begged to shut.'  'Be still.'  'Be calm. Hold the Circle.'

She stepped beside Hrantin, watching over his shoulder as the Commons was consumed. She watched as the citizens fled, attempting to survive only to be trapped by crumbling builders to be destroyed. Cloth and flesh blown from their bodies in the roar of the Dragon, their mouths opening in soundless and hopeless cries as others simply dropped, melting as if made of nothing more then wax in the heat that exploded around them.

'The Dragon has come! How can I write this? How can I describe this? The immense Beast flew over the city, bringing shadow. All who saw cowered, all who saw died. The Orders rushed to defend the Sun King but before any could be told to stop a fight, no, not a fight, a slaughter began. The Orders charged, the legions attacked and were consumed. The Dragon came onwards, strutting through a grave of thousands of those who dared to mar its path.'

Odiana put a hand to Hrantin's shoulder and felt his frame weak with fasting as she dug a hold into his flesh as the Dragon neared. She could not deny the fear that crept in her as she looked up into those horrible eyes, bright with malice and inhuman evil and showing with hundreds of tiny amber-colored mirrors. Its pupils, long and slender like enormous blades fixed on the Sun King.

'I stood. I watched. The Dragon towered over the Sun King as the two stared at one another. It unfolded its wings wide and darkened the ground, casting shadows long and far. Our Fire flared, glowing with a light that threatened to blind and the darkness was beaten, growing faint before fleeing. Words were spoken. The guttural of void of the Beast spread backwards, beyond the Sun King's light and it threw back its massive head. Its battlecry still echoes in my mind.'

'You may hold power but you will die this day.'

Reluctantly she looked up at the Sun King. There was such strength to Muk Utep, such fearless certainty. As she watched, the battle began.

'A battle began. A terrible battle. The Orders rushed forth to join our Fire and were slaughtered. Muk Utep fought the Dragon alone and could not be beaten, it was not in Him to lose. Time and time again the Beast struck but the Sun King turned each aside with ease. He could not be beaten, not even by the Dragon.'

Odiana's breath stilled within her mind as she watched the Sun King pivot and parry, His blade striking impossibly fast between each flashing attack of His powers. Her fingers dug into the oblivious Hrantin's shoulder as she watched, enthralled in dangerous dance between King and Dragon.

'The Commons were split, ripped from the soil. The City was blasted, burned and houses, so many lives, left destroyed. Isar stood with me, watching. And suddenly, it was to Isar that the Dragon reached, its talons digging into him as he was tossed aside.'

Blood splattered, spraying in a wide arc across Hrantin and Odiana, staining each in a pattern of death that only she seemed to notice. The Dragon let out an awful sound, more shrill, more frustrated then its haughty cry when it was so certain of triumph. It seemed now desperate to defeat the Sun King and with tightening, powerful haunches, it leapt for Muk Utep.

'With that, the Beast turned on Muk Utep and struck. The last I remember was the Sun King smiling, as if in victory, and spreading his arms wide, welcomed the Dragon into an embrace. Then nothing. Only an emptiness where the Beast had been. Nothing more. Nothing but a confusion that burrowed deep within my mind. An echo of a riddle that joined the two in its maze.'

Stepping back from Hrantin's side, she watched as Muk Utep's lips parted, watched the way his smile curved and flicked through the pictures in her mind of that smile and then the emptiness. Was there something missing, she thought. What was this riddle, she asked silently as she studied the sudden emptiness between the Sun King's arms.

'Hours later I awoke alone, cradled in the smoking ruins of the battle field that was once the Commons. The Dragon was gone; joined to maze within our King's mind. Our Fire lay on the broken ground, unconscious and no matter how I tried, I could not awaken Him. Even now He remains so. I know now that He will awaken when He solves the riddle and the battle will be rejoined. I did my duty. I have recorded what was asked of me.'

'As recorded by Hrantin aR'an, Master of the Circle.'

Odiana looked over the Sun King, entombed within His Pyramid, watching as Hrantin stared with hopelessness and helplessness upon Him. She turned, stepping out of his memories and opened her eyes to her chamber. What was the riddle? When will it be solved? She did not believe that she wished to see the day when He woke, fearing the knowledge that the Dragon would return when He does.

[Halaster]

c.312
Quintus' son, aged 22, treacherously slays his father and assumes control of the kingdom, now called Allanak.

Tektolnes
written by Adhira

Low-hanging Suk-Krath shone from behind the Tower, distorting shadows so that its form looked like a stunted, hunched dwarf squatting on the baked clay beneath. He stood within its shade, face expressionless as he regarded the smooth black stone. It was complete, and he was pleased.

Without a word to those gathered he lifted a hand sending the doors to the Black Tower flying open, he was aware of them, watching each move, bodies tense, waiting for reaction. He strode through the doors, hearing them clang shut behind him, leaving him alone within his tower. It was only then he smiled.

It was a long climb to the top yet he reached the end of the stairs without trouble. Moving to stand upon the encircling balcony he placed his hands upon the railing, looking down at those gathered below; hundreds of people, faces upturned, and not a whisper amongst them as they waited, watched.

It was perfectly planned this moment, like every other moment before it had been. He took no risks, each action, each risk examined many times before he made it, his mother had taught him that, just as she'd taught him how to hate his father.

Lifting his head he looked out at the land laid out before him, Vrun Driath, knitted together by his father before him - a perfect prize, and now, at twenty two, it belonged to him. As Suk-Krath rose higher in the dull red sky he lifted his arms, beams of light spilling over the Tower from behind, illuminating him just as he planned. At that moment, his arms outstretched, the silence was broken, the roar of the crowd rising up around him almost deafening as they cried out his name.

Suk-Krath shifted and it was over, the light changing as he turned and walked back inside his tower, satisfied with what he had achieved. He paused, cocking his head to one side, squinting one hazel eye in concentration "Are you there witch? Do you watch even now?" he asked, turning a slow circle on one foot in the middle of the barren stone room. "Do you see? Do you see what I have achieved?" he laughed, throwing back his head, muscular body convulsing as the sound bubbled forth from his chest. "Of course you see, of course you're here, you've nowhere else to be, have you - nowhere else I'll let you be."

He gave a satisfied smirk, his palm slapping against the rune carved into the cold stone of the wall. As he touched it he sensed her, remembered her as clearly as the day in which he had defeated her. Standing proud and defiant before her gypsy settlement, he'd enjoyed crushing that defiance from her, watching as her people fled across the sands, scattering them to all corners of the known world before his army. More than that, he'd enjoyed breaking her, taking that wild spirit and binding it to the very stone of his black fortress. He let his fingertips trickle over the rune, lingering for just a moment before making his way down, to the very depths of the tower.

Seated on his chair he carefully removed the silk cover that lay across the table beside him. There it sat, his prize possession, gleaming white, the meat stripped back to reveal its macabre smile, he hoisted the skull in one hand and held it before him twisting it this way and that in the light. "Just one more thing, and it's complete" he thought, standing slowly from the chair to cross the room till he stood before the lintel. Of average height he had to stretch to reach it, holding the skull in both hands he placed it in the center, stepping back to regard it with smug satisfaction.

The light of the irrig lamps flickered over the lintel, casting a greenish glow over the smooth bone of the skull, but it was the glow that emanated from the eye sockets that pleased him most. He had achieved much this year, the defeat of the Tan Muark witch Verra, the building of his tower, but no moment was greater than the moment in which he had shown his father exactly what he thought of him. A careful plan, well executed, just as he had executed his father, but it was no simple death, no that would have been too easy, his Father deserved more than that, he deserved to see what he would achieve. It was not an easy ceremony, binding his father to his own skull, the preparations had been difficult, but now he knew that every move he made his father would be there, watching on.

He place his hands on his hips, eyeing the skull as it sat displayed above the doorway, his gaze met those recessed sockets, noting the awareness that gleamed within. "My city is formed Father" he whispered softly "Behold your son, Tektolnes, ruler of Allanak."

[Halaster]

744
Tektolnes confronts Luir Dragonsthrall deep in the obsidian mines of Allanak. By use of incredible magicks, Tektolnes buries Luir under ninety-nine feet of rock.

Defeat of a Dragonthrall
written by Onimantu

Memories floated lazily on the surface of his consciousness. His
interest in this floatsam was clinical. They were represented as dim
points of light projected by his mind against a backdrop complete
darkness. This void he floated in was a prison, he recognized that
much.

  Formless, his thoughts echoed throughout the void. It was not always
this way, he understood bits and pieces as they passed through his
presence. Snippets of conversation, tattered feelings of long dead
beings. His power had once been great and then something horrible
befell him. Tektolnes, the son, had come upon him in this place, some
sort of mine. The battle was pathetic in its brevity.

  Without the Dragon's power, Luir was no match. He tried to run but was
held against his will. Tektolnes was more powerful than Luir had
predicted. He tried to resist but Tektolnes rended away the pieces of
his mind even as the weakened flesh of his body was obliterated. He
recalled a sense of disgust as it passed through his triumphant foe.
The rest was the darkness of a timeless dream.

  Now, things were starting to pull back towards their center. The magick
that bound him to this place was strong, but his presence would form
fully again he gorged himself on the remnants of his former knowledge.
Time was not his enemy, it was his ally. One day the magicks would
falter and he would flee his prison, perhaps flee to a new part of the
world in an effort to wait for the return of his Master's power.

[Halaster]

And now, season two...


Isar Dragonthrall
written by Halaster

It was only a year after his master had barely beaten Muk Utep and put the Sun King into an eternal slumber that Isar Dragonthrall found himself quickly rising to power within the ranks of the young Jihaen order.  He had a terrible power within him that accelerated his ascension, a direct link to the Dragon in addition to all the knowledge he already possessed. His profoundly matured powers easily kept the probing Lirathan templars out of his affairs, and no one suspected he was anything but fanatically loyal to the Sun King.  He quickly became known as the High Precentor Isar, Voice of Muk Utep and was feared and obeyed by every loyal follower of the king and patriot of the city-state of Tuluk. Very few living beings knew what had become of Muk Utep, and Isar  quickly re-shaped the historical account of the battle between the Dragon and the Sun King, changing what written records he could find to all proclaim that the Dragon was driven off, defeated.  With these acts, the lie was complete and Isar reigned supreme, only answering to a master who could not even return to the Known World until Muk Utep solved the impossible riddle.

After only a decade in his position, Isar began to grant the faithful templars of the Sun King magickal abilities that solidified the illusion that Tuluk was governed by a true sorcerer-king.  It didn't take long before the dragonthrall could feel the energy leaving him nearly constantly as the Jihaens across the city invoked powerful curses on their enemies, and blasted criminals with the white-hot fires of Suk-Krath.

For more than six King's Ages Isar had ruled as the High Precentor, smug in his supremacy and virtually unchallenged.  No one alive but Tektolnes himself could compete with Isar.  All the other dragonthralls were either dead or gone.  He was unchallenged in his glorious rule.

But now he found himself more than a little concerned about this new Precentor named Kul.  This man had risen within the ranks of the Jihaen order nearly as fast as Isar had done, and brought with him new ideas combined with ancient philosophies.  Kul called it Jiyan-Sel, but Isar called it blasphemy against the Sun King.  But despite his authority, Isar couldn't simply kill Kul because he had already gathered a huge following around him and his new teachings.

With this in mind, Isar began to feel genuine anxiety when he learned that Kul had discovered the whereabouts of the Crown of Fel Karran.  This crown was rumored to be one of the most powerful artifacts ever seen and could easily change the course of history.  Fel Karran had been the man who founded the Jihaen Order of templars, and was the very one that Isar brutually murdered in order to ascend to the rank of High Precentor.  If Kul actually managed to recover the crown, Isar would have a serious problem to deal with.

[Nyr]

c. 1445

Precentor Kul
written by Nyr

"You want to retrieve this...crown, Precentor Kul?"  Isar's nasally thin voice sounded.  He stared down at Precentor Kul with a stony gaze, the distaste in his eyes barely veiled.

"Yes, High Precentor," said Precentor Kul, lowering his head subserviently before continuing to speak.  "It is truly a work of majestic metalworking, and I believe firmly that it would please the Sun King..."  He trailed off, lowering his gaze.

"It would please the Sun King for me to bear this crown," Isar prompted, his red-runed skin stretching taut on his face as he smiled.  Kul simply inclined his head deeply, his expression visibly relaxing.  Isar continued.  "I have heard little of this item, but if it is as truly awe-inspiring as you say, then you are free to take your..."  Isar paused, taking a moment to emphasize his next words in a sublty sardonic tone.  "...to take your little group of Jiyan-Sel followers...and procure this item for me."

"Of course, High Precentor," said Kul.  He cleared his throat.  "We will take mounts--and a few mounted units of soldiers."

"Is that a request, Precentor Kul?"  Isar smiled, but his eyes revealed no humorous intent.

"...if the High Precentor wishes me to make it one, I can, High Precentor Isar," said Kul, doubtfully.

"And why would I need to approve a simple journey for some of your well-trained followers, Precentor Kul?"  Isar's raspy, nasal voice grated out a harsh chuckle.  "Do you feel the need to be guided every step of the way?  A servant of the Sun King such as yourself should be sure of His Path."  A flash of anger lit up Kul's eyes momentarily before he stifled it, willing himself to serene thoughts.

"I am sure of His Path, High Precentor.  In fact, I am confident that His City will benefit from you bearing this crown as a--" Kul began, but his flattering voice was halted by a raised hand of Isar.

"That will be enough, Precentor Kul.  Proceed."  Kul turned after bowing his head deeply again to Isar, keeping his gaze lowered all the way out the grand chamber.  

Secretly, Kul was pleased:  convincing Isar was the hard part.

-----------
-----------

They marched onwards, night after night, until the walls of the Keep were visible.  The journey had taken a long while to traverse on foot.  He had brought other soldiers, and mounts for all, but several raids on their camp over the course of the journey had depleted their supplies as well as their numbers...some of these raids were, he thought, magickal in nature, but he could not be certain.  In the dark of night, it was too difficult to see clearly what it was that afflicted them.  

Humanoid, certainly...  

He was present with a half-dozen other Jihaen Templars--each one a follower of Kul, and of Jiyan-Sel.  No Tuluki soldiers remained.

"Up ahead, Precentor Kul," said one of his followers--Bownel.  He focused his attention on the worn gates of the Keep.  A pair of tall, cloaked figures stood at either side of them.  A wave of uneasiness roiled through him momentarily.  The two were standing stock still, and appeared to be staring directly at the approaching group.  

He signaled his followers to a stop.

They stopped.

The two figures did not move.

"Kill them," he barked out.  Immediately, Bownel and one of the other Jihaen Templars set forward and closed the remaining distance to the two figures.  In one fluid motion, the Templars had their bladed staves unslung, and...

*SHLICK!*  *SHLICK!*

The two figures collapsed, having moved scarcely a cord each before being impaled, chest-level.  The entire attack was finished in less time than it took to sneeze.  Bownel turned back to Kul, lifting his staff in a victorious gesture--

*SHLICK!*

--and then he began to scream as a clawed hand shoved through the armor protecting his leg, sending blood spurting out the other side.  The other Templars rushed forward, lifting up a battle cry and unslinging their staves.  In a few quick stabs, Bownel impaled the figure at his feet again and again, but it made no difference, it would not die, the damned thing just would not--

*SCHLICK!*  *THUNK!*
*SCHLICK!*  *THUNK!*

Kul wiped off his steel-bladed, red-tassled staff, and stared down at the now-headless creatures on the ground.  They still twitched, but no longer posed as much of an immediate threat.  Bownel grimaced, his face cortorted in pain as he quickly severed the clawed hand jabbed through his calf and extracted it, collapsing on the ground a few  cords back from the two "corpses."

Kul let out a sigh as he looked past the gated entrance, which stood slightly open.  "Cut them all down...and cut them, again...and again.  The crown is within, somewhere," he intoned, whipping his staff back into a readied position.

"We will strike for the lower levels immediately.  One of you stay here with Faithful Lord Bownel."  

Four Templars followed Kul in through the gates...

This would be a long night.


-----------
-----------


He held the crown in dirt-smeared hands.  It truly was majestic, though simple...only a silver band, with few adornments.  It was not difficult to find--the creatures seemed to avoid that room entirely.  It was difficult to get into the room, however...the task left one of Kul's followers dead.  The Keep took another Templar on the way in to the lower halls.

"Precentor Kul," called one of the Jihaens.  Startled, Kul looked up from his reverie.  The band of creatures that had doggedly pursued them throughout the Keep now blocked their way out.  Cutting through smaller groups was no problem--their reflexes in small numbers were too slow to stop a trained Templar--but a larger group would pose a significant risk, as the loss of one of his followers had shown him.

Left with no choice, Kul strapped his steel-bladed staff to his back, and placed the silver band on his head.

-----------
-----------
======

[/list]

[Nyr]

1445
After a miserably failed coup, Precentor Kul is banished from Tuluk by Precentor Isar.

Mounted atop a red-shelled inix, Kul stared off to the northeast through the baobab groves at the expanse of His City.  
Suk-Krath beat down harshly on the Known World on its way to dusk, but the beauty of Tuluk was even more apparent
at this moment than it had ever seemed before.  He wondered briefly if he would ever lay eyes on His City again.  His
mind wandered back over the events of the past few days...
------------------------

The return trip was almost more dangerous than the trip into the Keep.  While using the Crown of Fel Kerran was necessary,
Kul regretted that he had to use it at all.  His power was nothing near the formidable strength of the High Precentor, Isar, and
could not be depended on to save himself and his followers in such an immediately dangerous situation.  He removed the thin
silver crown from his head, and he felt connected to the world again.  "Precentor Kul!"  called out one of his followers.  The
gaunt-faced fellow was one that Kul was not immediately familiar with.
Kul shook his head.  "No time to explain--nor is it important that I do, Faithful Lord.  Fall in behind me," he said, strapping the
crown securely to a leather thong around his throat.  There was a period of silence, then an almost grudging acceptance of Kul's
command.  The remaining Jihaean Templars readied their bladed staves, forming up in a loose and guard-like formation behind
Precentor Kul.  He stepped out into the outside hallway in a hurried stride, his booted feet crushing the piles of ash near the entrance.  

The last templar out the doorway looked back over a collection of coffins, each with a shattered stone lid on the floor beside it.  He
stepped into the hallway and left the tomb in darkness.  

Throughought the lower halls, they met no resistance.  Closer to the main gates, they ran into a few of the same creatures, but
their numbers were not significant enough to cause the same danger.

The Faithful Lord at Bownel's side immediately bowed upon Precentor Kul's arrival back outside the gates.  Kul looked over the
wound in Bownel's leg.  While it was still bound by a scrap of cloth, blood slowly seeped out around the edges.  Infection was
not just a possibility in this case:  it was a certainty.  He whispered something softly beneath his breath, and the gouged-out
flesh began to knit itself together slowly.  Eventually, all that was left was bare skin where the wound once was.  The expression
of gratitude on Bownel's face was unnoticed by the Precentor, who turned back to the gates and gestured to his followers.  
"We have much to do."

----------------------

His followers met at an unremarkable tavern while Kul left to make preparations for the presentation of the crown to the High
Precentor, Isar.  He arrived once more to the chambers of the High Precentor, crown in hand.  Isar rose to his feet, his eyes
latching onto Kul as he spoke.
"Precentor Kul," he stated, then paused.  He pressed his lips firmly together for a few moments, and amidst the brief silence,
Kul caught traces of surprise from Isar's mind.  "I must say that I am pleased to see you and your companions made it back."
"We did, High Precentor Isar," replied Kul.  He bowed at the waist belatedly, unnerved by the forwardness of Isar's questioning.  
"It was an arduous trial.  We found the crown, however."  Isar bent his gaze upon the silver band held so delicately in the hands
of the Precentor and smiled.
"Excellent, Precentor...I will need to reward you for your efforts."  Kul shook his head slowly, and held the crown up as if for inspection.
"High Precentor Isar, if I may be so bold--my efforts are not the ones that counted.  This was truly for the glory of His City...and...we
should reflect that by a ceremony, open to those that assisted..."  He paused momentarily, then added, "It would also be a proper
reward for those that participated on the journey, High Precentor Isar."
"Then in the afternoon--we shall not delay it at all, Precentor Kul," Isar intoned, projecting command in his voice.  Kul dipped his
head into a shallow nod, then bowed deeply, making his way out of the towers of the Templarate.

-----------------------

Gathered in the audience room were some scattered folks of minor importance from different areas of Tuluk.  They sat as silent
and still as statues, and for good reason:  High Precentor Isar was present only cords away, standing on a platform at the center
of the chamber.  None dared look on his face.  Few dared to look anywhere but at the floor before them.  A high honor it was to
sit in at this audience.
The double doors at the eastern side of the room slowly opened and a stream of Lirathan and Jihaean Templars issued into the
chamber.  The arriving Templars bore mostly stoic expressions walking in, but the air seemed to grow thick with tension as they
took the places closest to High Precentor Isar.  They sat down after each approached the central platform, bowing before the High
Precentor.  After each had been seated, the double doors opened once more.  Precentor Kul and a cadre of Jihaean Templars stepped
through, making their way to the platform before the High Precentor.  Each bowed respectfully, and Precentor Kul stood before the
platform, facing Isar.

"His Faithful have done much to accomplish this great task:  finding the Crown of Fel Kerran."  Silence met the announcement.
The tension in the air grew from thick to easily palpable.  He unlatched the band of silver from the leather thong about his neck and
held the silver crown a short distance above his head, allowing those around the chamber to glimpse its glory.  "Some of my Faithful
Brothers have been slain in the process.  We lost many others along the way.  We destroyed countless beasts within the Keep itself,
and faced all of these odds without fail."  He paused, clearing his throat.  "We have come together to remember His Faithful who
have died, and to offer this crown to the Voice of the Sun King, High Precentor Isar."  

He held the crown higher and approached the platform, the silver band held carefully in his hands.  
Kul slowly and carefully shielded his thoughts, not wanting to betray his intentions...
Isar took the crown from Kul, holding it lightly in runed hands.  
He bent his head and placed the crown on himself.
Several things happened at once.

Kul felt the rest of the world disappear from his mind as the crown's power came alive.  He felt disoriented--not quite the same as
he had felt before.  He hesitated as several of the Lirathans gasped aloud, looking entirely dumbfounded.  A few collapsed completely.  
Isar's eyes lit up with malice as Kul edged forward, his hands reaching for the bladed staff at his back...

Isar moved first, his motions unnaturally quick.  He snatched the crown from his head and held it in one hand, lifting his other and holding
it out palm-first at Kul.  A flame kindled, boiling up around the runed flesh of his hand.  Kul ceased, his fingers wrapped around the staff.

"On your knees!" boomed Isar.  Everyone complied.  Kul did so as well, his staff clattering to the floor.  Isar's inflection and tone became
positively hateful as he spoke in tatlum to Kul.  "You have done me a disservice!  You are stripped of your rank, your title, and your freedom!  
This sort of treason will NOT be tolerated in this City!  You will become an example to all of those that would ever attempt such acts in the future.  
You will..."  
Isar paused, taking only a short breath.  Within that fleeting moment, his angry features had warped into a shocked expression.  
No one within the room saw the turmoil that had suddenly manifested on Isar's face, nor did anyone feel the heavy psionic presence
that so briefly touched the mind of the High Precentor.  In an instant, he regained his composure, the blaze of hate in his eyes temporarily doused.

"...remain in exile."

The flames about Isar's hand disappeared with a light hissing sound.

----------------------------

Kul let out a sigh, wheeling his inix about by the reins, turning south to venture onwards through the baobab groves.  Fifteen men clad in
red and white rode along with him.  They ventured on into the scrub plains, making their way south in the direction of high cliffs.[/list]

[Halaster]

1475 (Year 12 of Age 20)
A minor skirmish takes place just south of Luir's Outpost between the city-state of Allanak and the Northern Alliance that results in the first-ever Allanaki victory over its northern enemy. This takes place during complex negotiations between Kurac and Allanak, after which Kurac is allowed back in Allanak, although the ban on spice still holds. One month later, Allanak seizes Luirs.

The Deal
written by Halaster

"Good, you made it, Kuraci," the follower of the Highlord Tektolnes murmured.  A sandstorm stirred dust through the city streets, forcing him to  pull his blue robe tightly around his body, shielding it from the elements, just as the Kuraci agent at his side tucked his chin a little deeper into the collar of his duster..  

The Kuraci agent wondered to himself why this templar, Sathis Valika, didn't ever address him by his name.  He always insisted on just referring to him as 'Kuraci'.  He'd only met the templar in recent days, but this blue-robe had become famous for his military victory against their enemies in Tuluk.

The two men, flanked by a pair of Allanaki soldiers and a single Kuraci guard, walked hurriedly down the dusty street, trying to arrive at a nearby tavern before the great, red sun sank below the horizon and the storm intensified.  The Kuraci agent wondered what this templar wanted with him, or his House.  The Kuracis were barely even tolerated in the city-state, and then only in secret --  technically they were outlawed and this templar was bound by the will of the Highlord to execute him on sight.

The group arrived in the high-classed tavern, the Trader's Inn, to find it almost empty.  The usual patrons - rich merchants, powerful nobles, even a few commoners who had managed to make something of themselves and wanted to flaunt their wealth by buying honey-coated cochras and glasses of expensive wine - were all elsewhere this evening.  Or, the Kuraci mused, had this templar made arrangements for it to be this way?  That thought sent a shiver of fear coursing through him as they found a plain, wooden table in the back and sat down across from each other.

After a quick sip of sweet-smelling wine, the blue-robed templar cleared his throat, looked the agent in the eye with an appraising stare, and said, "I have been given authority to broker a deal between the city-state of Allanak, and House Kurac".  The agent leaned forward, saying, "Oh, my Lord?  You definitely have my ear".

With a simple, quick nod the templar continued, enthusiasm evident on his face, "The Northlands are weak.  Very weak.  Their city is all but destroyed and those that remain scrape through the sands at a sad attempt to rebuild".  The Kuraci was from Tuluk, and so the templar's words bordered on insult, but the agent didn't dare let the blue-robe see it.  The templar paused briefly to let those words sink in, then spoke again, "It's no secret that House Kurac has an arrangement with Tuluk.   Their soldiers help you defend the outpost against.. us".  The templar spread his arms on the table, smiling confidently at the agent.

The agent began to understand where this meeting was going.

The templar, a grin on his face, spoke a little more softly, "Here is my proposal.  House Kurac will be allowed to return to Allanak and operate legally as a merchant house of good standing, and deal in legal wares.  You will be allowed to purchase, or build, a manor and open a reasonable number of stands or shops – up to three, let's say -- in the bazaar."

The agent's mind raced with the possibilities of business in Allanak.  There was no hiding the fact that House Kurac's business had been suffering since the Fall of Tuluk.  But he came back to reality knowing that there was more to this deal to be heard.  Almost as if reading his mind, the templar laid out the rest of the bargain, "To help the city-state of Allanak ensure that its generosity and risk are returned, it would only make sense that we provided the additional..." the templar paused briefly before uttering the next words, "...support that Luir's Outpost needs against brigands."

The agent visibly grimaced, not expecting such a bold proposition.  He quickly spoke up, "Lord Sathis, surely you know that the Tulukis wouldn't just willingly walk away from the outpost".

Nodding, the templar responded, "Oh, no, of course they wouldn't.  That is why Kurac would turn their back and open the southern gate when our garrison arrived.  We would deal with ousting the Tulukis."

The agent had already opened his mind and made mental contact through the Way with those who he reported to.  He had been relaying all that transpired to them, for guidance and advice.  Their reply was painstakingly slow in coming, but it was clear:

Make the deal.

-----------------------

Blinking rapidly, she felt disoriented and dizzy for a moment, but that quickly passed, leaving a feeling of great fatigue as her body ached.  The Lirathan templar of Tuluk had over-extended herself as she attuned her mind to eavesdrop on the thoughts of a particular Kuraci agent.  Despite herself, she composed herself and rushed through the dimly-lit hallways of the Pyramid.  She quickly relayed all she had learned to the head of both her order and then to a High Templar of the Jihaen Orders.

For days a debate raged quietly within all the orders of templars of Tuluk.  Should they make a stand at Luir's?  Could they hold off an Allanaki invasion?  Eventually, a decision was reached that most had expected:  Tuluk would stand and fight.

High Precentor Kul prepared the army and laid the groundwork of plans for the soldiers in Luir's to withstand a prolonged siege.  It was during these plans when, alone in his chamber, His Gloriousness' Presence touched his mind.  Even in his dreadful slumber, the Sun King had some measure of influence and power.  Words appeared in Kul's mind, It is more important for the future that we withdraw.

He obeyed his King without a second thought, and days later as the Allanaki army approached Luir's Outpost, the Tuluki garrison fled through the northern gates.  The outpost fell to Allanak without a drop of blood being spilled.

It would remain to be seen why.

[Nyr]

And now, for something completely different...

The Plan

A hot wind blew over the sandcloth-cloaked form crouching on the steppes.  Here and there, a wisp of braided brown
hair revealed itself, spilling out of the sand-caked surmud or poking out from the side of the facewrap meant to keep
the harsh elements at bay.  She shifted her weight, dust trickling down to collect in a small pile around her feet.  Her
eyes could barely be seen, but the blue orbs stared down at a mounted figure approaching on the road below.

She tensed and in a fluid motion unslung a bone-headed spear from her back, gripping it in one hand.

Gorgio.  I swear, prikaza stalks me.

Her grip tightened, and she continued to stare down at the figure that apparently seem blissfully unaware that his
death was being calculated.  He trundled on atop his kank, heading north along the road.  She kept her eyes trained
on him, but relaxed a trifle:  he was no threat.

I need some brandy.  Too fucking tense.

------------------


The spacious chamber was normally large enough for any meetings, but the entire chamber--and even some of the
adjouring hallway--was packed with all sorts of folk, none of whom seemed to care to bring any order.  The vaulted
ceiling extended nearly twenty cords overhead.  Long linen banners hung down from the midpoints of the sloped roof
paneling, richly embroidered symbols catching the eye.  The banners framed the central portion of the room at which
a great, rectangular polished table stood about a cord off of the floor.  Blue and white tasseled cushions were scattered
about the table, yet a few were still unoccupied.  Fragrant smoke filled the air from incense burners in the corners of the
chamber.

The curtain at the eastern end of the chamber, usually closed, was held partially open by the press of folk present. 
Without warning, those folk moved even moreso out of the way as several brightly cloaked figures walked in.  A scrawny
lad, hair all tangled, was shoved out of the way, and promptly unnoticed.

That's me, of course.  Palti al Asenn.  Troublemaker.  I've been kicked out of more vardo than I can count on both
hands, and I did learn how to count up to my toes.

I don't get noticed, I can't see a damn thing going on here, and I don't even know what everyone's holding the
kumpania meets for, but if there's people, I'm gonna be there...oh, damn it.  I missed what they were saying!

"...and that's why we can't go rushing into this without thinking.  The Conclave don't feel it's important to go
for Tektolnes just to free her," said some man in robes.  I never liked him, he was a big dilo, and baba says
I can't call him that even if he doesn't know what it means.

"Tha's th'only way we can do it.  Distract 'im or take 'im down a notch," retorted a middle-aged woman. 
I like her enough, I think.  "I don' know 'bout you, but I'm nah willin' t' go toe t' toe with 'is ilk, or 'is pet Robes."
"Toe to toe?  Who could be so foolish?  No, we plan to unleash what rightfully would attack him...call upon elementals--" 

Wow, this is probably the most boring kumpania meet...ever.  I've slept through my share of them.  Sometimes
they talk about important things like the herds, or what some phrala has done to some gorgio and then everyone
laughs.  I like those.  This is boring--wait, who's that?

A voice interjected loudly, commandingly, "There's no POINT in arguing about what we have to do!"  Mihadra Kaldoryk. 
He's okay, but he's being mean right now.  "She has been imprisoned, and we must free her.  If anything, we should
ONLY be discussing HOW."  Several folk offered their vociferous shouts of approval.  I perked my ears up and scooted
forward to get a better vantage point.

"We can't take him on magick-to-magick.  The best we can hope for is that he sees this as an attack and responds
to it with arrogance.  He's holding Verra with his magick--if he responds in full force, he's going to have to drop--"

THUNK.
Ow!  Someone elbowed me in the head! 

"Fucking dilo!" I blurted out, and was immediately shushed and smacked again, this time on purpose.  My eyes teared
up, but I wasn't going to make a scene here in front of all of the phrala.  That was a Bad Thing To Do.  I scurried away,
pushing quietly past people to the eastern curtain to get out of the meeting.  I didn't want to be here anymore, it was
boring anyway.  As I neared the entrance, I lost track where I was going and stepped right on someone's boots...boots? 

I stopped, looking up at the impossibly tall figure swathed in red and white.  He offered a slim smile at me, but I could
tell I'd probably pissed him off.

"Precentor Kul," called out someone from the table.  The man looked off to the table.  I bolted.  I didn't want to hear
what he was going to do to me for stepping on his boots. 

Why they let gorgio in our lands is above me, I guess.

I rubbed a rising bump on my noggin.

"Fucking dilo."  No one to smack me this time.

[Nyr]

c. 1450

Kere

The fierce gaze of Suk-Krath shone down on the seated figure garbed in white and red linen, and a forceful
breeze blew dust through the air, wrapping about the figure's form.  A facewrap of rough sandcloth dyed in
vivid red strips kept all features but the eyes shrouded--and right now, they were closed.

His eyes were strong and grey like slate, or like the steel blade affixed to the staff that the man so frequently
unslung from his back.  They were not piercing, like so many of his kin, but they bore the weight of great
tragedy.  At times, they bore a distinct tinge of madness.  Beneath the madness, anger.  Beneath the anger,
the void of betrayal.

Kul's eyes opened and quickly shot to me.  As I expected, his first reaction was alarm, but his eyes melted
into softness as he stared back into my eyes.  This was one of the times that his gaze was what I wanted it
to be:  soft, compassionate, loving.  I smiled.  His eyes drifted a bit lower to my chest, and I could feel a
faint frown spread across my face.

Gorgio or not...tesitai or not...he is still a typical man.

"Watch your gaze, Precentor," I said, a teasing tone barely present in my voice.  His people were all about
subtle language.  Beneath the sukkerja were infinite layers of complexity.  The little games of words gave
me a challenge with Kul, for he was hardly difficult to seduce.

"My gaze?  I only look upon the steppes," he replied.  "And you can stop calling me "Precentor."  I no longer
bear the title in His City, and I am an outcast.  I am nothing."  Oh, so it was one of those moods again. 
I knew how to get his mind off of that.
"If you expect to do more than gaze upon them, mija, then you need to get off your ass."  I turned and began
to walk away from him, my skirt fluttering in the wind--but, like he always did when presented with such an
opportunity, he was suddenly beside me, his arms wrapped around my waist.

We didn't return until quite some time later.

*************************

A few weeks later
Outside of Allanak

To the west, far in the distance, was the Black City of Allanak, its red stone walls rising more than fifty cords into
the air.  The waxing light of Suk-Krath was rapidly approaching the heat of high sun, bathing the city in stark contrast. 
The same burning light also laid bare some sandcloth-robed figures atop a sand dune, just off of the Ivory-Salt Road. 
Winds kicked up around them and sand flew into their faces, even knocking back a hood or two.

With sudden anticipation, the air stilled atop the dune.  Like the reverse of a lightning strike, it was as though thunder
had rendered everything silent.  A wailing, keening sound coursed through the air, and the figures atop the dune
disappeared from view in a whirl of light.  The dune rumbled and came to life, breaking away from the monotony of
the sands about it before nearby hilly mounds of sand followed suit.  The air crackled with energy as bolts of lightning
coalesced into pulsating forms of energy.  Winds scoured the landscape for leagues around.  The earth cracked open
and out of the fissures created, flame-shrouded, massive creatures poured forth.

A short distance from the chaos, the figures emerged from a vortex of light, and stared at what had been wrought--stared,
dumbfounded, at the power they had unleashed--stared, aghast, as the horde of elementals made its way towards Allanak.

[Nyr]

Circa 1394

"Whaddaya say, Private?" jeered the robust, scarred man as he stood over the black-cloaked figure. 
A black leather patch of chalton hide with a dyed cross of jade green was sewn onto the shoulder of
the cloak.  I watched silently--and somewhat amused--as the Sergeant kicked again at the young,
tousled blond soldier, catching him in the upper arm, just a few inches below the jade cross emblem. 
Allanak's jade cross--a well-known symbol to rally behind, but not very effective at protecting one from
harm.

The young private coughed and let out a moan, but none of his fellows made any move to help him. 
"I said--whaddaya SAY, Private?"  Another well-aimed kick spun the soldier around and onto his back
as he struggled to rise to his feet from catwalk. 

Sergeant Balson was known behind his back as Sarge Balls, or just Balls.  This was a nickname that
served two purposes--the man had a pair, to be sure (for a human at least).  It was said that he had
once dressed down a Byn Sergeant for his lack of obvious respect for a Sath Templar, and even went
so far as to challenge the Bynner to a barfight in the Gaj.  As the story goes, he used a full bottle of
Red Sun to knock out a pair of Byn Runners--then drank it down while he held the Byn Sergeant in a
near-stranglehold grip under one arm before smashing the bottle over his face.  Shortly thereafter, he
was set upon by half-giant Bynners, who dragged him down the street and left him for dead out in the
wastes west of the Black.  Depending on how drunk Balson was when he told his story, he may or may
not have encountered some great fearsome beasts and slew them while dragging himself back slowly
back to the city.

It's true that his chin also resembled his affectionate nickname.  I know that whenever I said it, I was
thinking of the way his face looked, not how much of a stubborn idiot the Sergeant could be--

"Sarge!  I swear I didn' steal it, I swear!  It hadda be someone else," blurted out the soldier.  He
managed to shakily get to his feet, listing dangerously to one side. 

I looked past him, crossing my thick, burly arms and watching off to the west into the sandy wastes. 
A glint of light briefly glinted off of something.  I shot a look down the catwalk.  As far as I could tell--though
I couldn't really see past some of the taller human folk--none of them were paying any mind to the desert. 
All eyes were on the event at hand.  I knew it was a good idea to nick Sarge's knife and plant it on the private. 
Couldn't even remember his name--some new fellow I didn't ever get a chance to meet.  I squinted back across
the dunes and located the source of the flash of light.  It was not natural, to be sure.  I saw it glint a few
more times.  After a pause, it began again.

Signal given, I looked over the rest of the soldiers along the catwalk above the massive gates. 

None were alert. 

None were expecting anything. 

They had their crossbows slung over their shoulders, and few of them were even halfway skilled in close
combat.  I knew this for a fact, for I had trained in the militia for the past two years, preparing for this
moment.  It was difficult, hiding my previous training and skill from the soldiers I trained with.  I made
sure to slip up frequently, purposefully intent on making mistakes that I would have exploited, were I
my sparring opponent.  They were inept and even the Sergeant was more at home drinking at the
Gaj than holding a weapon.

The burning thoughts in the back of my mind came to the fore, and I let the flames of anger flood
through my mind.  I tossed off my black militia cloak--I would not need it anymore--and with a deft
motion, unloaded a small bone knife from a strap sheath around one arm.  The soldier nearest me kept
her eyes on the commotion.  Her short black hair was tied back and tucked under her helmet, a few
strands peeking out.  With a grunt and a leap, I grabbed the woman by the shoulder and drew the
knife quickly across her throat in the gap between gorget and chin.  Blood spurted out as she gurgled
out a surprised, pained moan. 

Before she even lifted a hand to grasp at her throat, I had already selected my next target:  the Sarge,
who was just now turning to see what the unexpected sound was.  I threw the knife and watched it
tumble end over end until it gouged a slice lengthwise through the fleshy portion of his ear.

Damn it.

Another knife unloaded, another throw--and as this one left my stumpy fingers, I snatched up the obsidian
shortsword in my belt and leapt forward.  The black-haired soldier I left bleeding behind me collapsed to
the catwalk; the throwing knife buried itself in the Sergeant's shoulder.  One smashing, ripping blow
of my shortsword, and the Sergeant was down--practically decapitated, but down.

At this point, the other soldiers began to sluggishly take notice.  They were ripe for the harvest that I
would reap from Allanak.  My mind filled with the same burning desire that many other members of my
tribe felt, and I let loose a howl, filling the air with my war cry.  With that, I launched myself as an instrument
of destruction headlong into the unprepared soldiers.

****************************************

Cresting the dunes, a black-hooded, thick and short figure marched forward towards the gates of Allanak. 
Behind him, dozens, hundreds of cowled dwarves followed.  Among them were particularly vicious-looking
dwarves, bearing the scarred marks of a slave collar's presence about their necks.  With a loud wail, a
piercing cry issued forth from the horde as they stormed forth towards the open gates.

The siege of Allanak had begun.

[Nyr]

circa 1395
"Do you hear, Highlord?"  The blue-robed templar--I forget his name, why would I know it anyway?--prayed softly to himself.  
He cleared his throat, looked out over the walls to view the enemy camp below.  Upon his throat was a distinct-looking jade cross
tattoo, the edges outlined in black.  "Do you hear the defiance in their hearts, the confidence in their voices, the sure nature
of their power?  Yes, they have even encircled your own city--your Jewel of the Known World--and laid siege to your walls.  
YOUR walls, Highlord..."

As if I didn't know.  Like I would forget.  Perhaps I didn't hear it the last seven or eight times an insect of a blue-robed servant
decided to call out in prayer, wishing fervently for me to deal with their problem of this siege?  I smirked, holding up a tiny stone
izdari piece in my hand, maneuvering my fingers over the carved rock.  I had better things to do this last year than deal with
your petty things.  I stared down at the piece, wondering where exactly I'd gotten it from.  A gift?  Spoils of war?  
Was it my father's?  Probably his, I decided.

"...they call out daily for your destruction.  The people begin to doubt your power, your magnificence, your wise rule."

Did they, now?  Well, how amusing. I leaned against the balcony railing, staring down from my perch, from my tower.  
From here, I could easily look over the entire City that I ruled with a powerful fist.  The Sun King himself could not boast
such power as I had, could he?  He likely trembles in fear, waiting for me to make a move.  "Father, do you hear that?"  
I glanced over my shoulder to a human skull, resting on its cradle of a pedestal near a shelf of books.  "They want your
assistance.  Go down off of your pedestal--go take care of the problem."  He didn't respond.  My doing, of course.  If there
was one thing I hated, it was the sound of his voice, and I made doubly sure to cut off any influence he had in the world.  
All he could do was watch and listen, and view the magnificence that I had wrought since his binding.  I imagined his skull
in a ghastly grimace of anger and pain.  Sure, that would do.  I smiled beautifully at his skull.

"...and I begin to wonder if you know.  I begin to doubt your power...your very existence."

Oh. THAT rankled my nerves.  I felt a surge of anger bubbling up, washing over me, wiping the smile off of my face.  
As the rage enveloped me, I felt a release of pressure, and heard a faint noise much like the sound of a club against teeth.  
A look at my feet showed a pile of dust, and I realized I had smashed the izdari piece in my hand.  
I shot a glance at my father.  
"Stop laughing!" I snarled.  
His eyeless skull now appeared to grin rather than grimace, and I knew he saw me--I KNEW he was laughing.  He did not
know my thoughts--perhaps he also thought I was powerless?  Perhaps he thought I had no power against these rebellious
dwarves and their allies.

I'll show him, and these insignificant folk outside of my city.  It's a good a time as any, and enough death will be
wrought that it will be a boon to me, and besides--one can't be worshipped if he prevents all destruction and all
terrible things from occurring, now, can he?

I stormed back to the balcony and leapt into the air, eager to grind something else into dust.

--------

In the chamber of Tektolnes, one could certainly--with a bit of imagination--coax a lifeless grin out of the
skull on the pedestal.

--------

A shadow swept over the city-state of Allanak.  No small number of its inhabitants felt a tremble of fear, and
breathed a prayer of protection to their Highlord.  Some few from high vantage points could see an immense
black form wheeling over the structures, and those atop the catwalks of the city walls closest to the enemy
could see the clear definition of rippling scales and a deep-jade pair of glowing eyes.

The enemy forces had no chance, no warning.  Death-dealing flames rained down from the dragon's mouth.  
The pungent, all-too-sickening scent of burning flesh filled the air, mixed with smoke.  The heat from the flames
was so incredible that sections of the desert there turned to a blood-red glass.  A feeble resistance was mounted
as several dwarven figures leapt up on kankback, urging a counter-attack with spears lifted.  

One of the dwarves reared back and threw her long agafari spear when the appropriate moment came.  Thrown
with strength and with proper aim, the projectile would have easily skewered a scrab.  The spear sailed through
the air, not wobbling at all on its path to the dragon's underbelly.  In a sudden burst of unnatural wind borne
both from magick and the beating wings of the abominable creature, the spear veered off from its target, sailing
harmlessly away.  Dumbfounded, the last thing the dwarf saw was a massive talon filling her vision.  With a sickening
crunch, the dragon snatched up the dwarf, doing a wingover and flinging the body to the ground nearby.  

The other dwarven defenders lifted their arms to shield their eyes from the sand blown from the overhead dragon.  
With another burst of boiling flames, the entire camp was engulfed in the fires of the dragon for a lengthy period of time
before it tapered off.

The defenders atop the western wall gazed down at the dark, smoky desert, some trembling in fear, some watching in
amazement, some wetting themselves in horror, wondering if they would be next.  Lirathu
provided just enough light to see after the smoke began to be blown away by the winds--just enough light to
view the draconic figure wing away over the city, heading to its next target.

A nearby templar called out with a shaky voice that became firmer with each word:
"He has saved us!  Highlord be praised!  The Mighty Dragon Tektolnes has saved His People!"  Belatedly, the
Allanaki defenders rejoiced, repeating the call:  this day, they had triumphed!

The dragon only left once every encampment of the enemy was reduced to ash, glass, and smoldering remains.  

--------

A small pyre was burned for a certain blue-robed templar by the name of Repin Borsail.  It appeared as though
he had fallen from the catwalks during the ensuing carnage that He Who Saved Us, the Mighty Dragon Tektolnes
had wrought upon the enemy.  Well-liked by the soldiers under his command and not especially disliked by his
blue-robed kin, the burning of his body was attended well, with many flowery words spoken over the burning corpse.  

Though he would never repeat it to any of his mates, one soldier had a different memory that he bore in silence
to his own death.  Etched in chilling relief against the dark sky was Lord Templar Repin Borsail, looking down at the
enemy lines, lips moving in silent prayer...the light of the nearest torches flickering as something massive
descended...the carefully tattooed jade cross on the Templar's throat covered by a whiplike, scaled tail...then the
torches all went out, leaving the after-image of Allanak's savior in his mind.

[Nyr]

--
When you live for hundreds of years, one of two things will inevitably occur.
--
***
"I hate this shift," yelled the black-cloaked, lanky woman at the gate.  Upon the left sleeve
of the sandcloth was a small, difficult-to-see insignia.  On the front and back of the cloak,
a jade cross made itself starkly visible.  Behind the woman was a thuja-wood fence--more
like a wall--that stood about ten cords in height.  Through the occasional gap in the fence,
small thuja-wood huts could be seen.
"Deal with it, Private," grumbled a scarred and stout woman in a similar cloak.  The private
nodded her agreement, but it was grudging agreement at best. 
I didn't blame her for being bored.  We got rotated out here for a month at a time, and
it was the most inane kankshit anyone could possibly do.  Krath, even my father could
do this, and he was a blind Kadian bazaar merchant without hands!  (Waving his stumps
around really tended to get the average customer a little unnerved--likely why he had
the job.)
Yes, our job was important:  guard these slaves, and back up the soldiers at the mines
if we needed to.
We never needed to.  Raiders were welcomed:  they broke the daily monotony of our work. 
Just last week, the Sarge was jumping for joy to see a scrab.  Now, normally, scrabs will
go for people, but this scrab had a bit of wisdom in its shiny black head:  it ran the
other way when it saw us lunging towards it, weapons out and feral expressions on our
faces.
I smirked in recollection, and turned slightly to slip a carved wooden flask out of my
pouched belt.  After a furtive glance at my mates, I took a quick swig, and made to stow it away.
--
You will decide to grow more patient, and let the sands of time wear away your contrary nature...
--
"Hey!  No nippin' on the job, scrabfucker!" yelled the aforementioned Private Ina.  I jumped,
startled, and dropped the flask.  Fumbling without regard for my dignity, I snatched at it with
my other hand, managing to barely snag it between thumb and forefinger--but I misjudged
my balance and planted my face in the rocky ground.  Oh, I likely looked a comical mess--my
face smashed into the rocks, my booted feet splayed oddly, and my right hand just barely
holding onto a wooden flask.
At least I saved the brandy.
A shadow loomed over me, and I hesitated.  I slowly rose to my knees, looking up into
the eyes of Sergeant Meire.  She had the most intense eyes, really--they matched a shade
of red akin to the desert.  Right now, they burned with an emotion I could not quite fathom...
"You know the rules, Private," she said, coldness in her tone.  "Hand over the flask.  You
get stable-mucking for a week when we get back to 'Nak."  She extended her hand to me,
but not to help me up.
I slowly handed the flask to her, and my face burned with equal parts shame, pain, and
annoyance.  I thought the no-drinking-on-duty rule shouldn't apply to shit shifts. 
Not like the Highlord was going to come down hard on all rule-breakers in the Militia, was He, now?
***
***
Another shadow, this one larger--much larger--no, not a shadow, the sky itself was darkening! 
The group of soldiers clustered together first in consternation, then in absolute horror that
overtook all other function.  Within the shadow, a deeper blackness darted into the southern
mine entrance.
***
***
Amid the darkness of the obsidian mines, I issued forth a brief spoken incantation, and my eyes began
to see beyond the black:  and there I beheld my opponent.  An insignificant, weaker, and far younger
creature of the world.  I had heard of him, and I was ready to destroy him.  I had lured him here, and
once I was finished with him, I had another problem to focus on.  I lifted a wrinkled hand, sand slowly
seeping out of my clenched fist.
He smiled, the gesture rather taunting and deliberate.
I struck.
Stone flew through the air as a storm of lightning billowed throughout the cavern.  Some of the stone
took animated form, and these golems lurched forth at my opponent, breaking rock against his flesh--but
no, he still stood, knocking aside my attacks with some little power of his own.  The storm dissipated,
but I was not yet finished.  Flames licked at the walls of the mine, leaving scorched marks as gouts of
fire raced towards him.  He faltered, the flames encircling him.  I took advantage of his plight and
sent one last burst of magick arcing through the air, filling the cavern with a rumbling explosion.  My
enhanced vision was temporarily blinded by my own work, but I waited, keeping my strength primed
for another attack.  As the smoke cleared and my vision returned to normal, I smiled, the same assured
smile that he had worn earlier.  The area was full of fallen rock and obsidian chunks.  I turned
back to the mineshaft and began to float up into the air, passing several passages on either side.

Just inside the reinforced mine entrance stood a figure swathed in elegant robes.  While cloaked,
it wasn't facing me--it was staring off outside the entrance to the rocky road to the north.  The figure
turned--perhaps it had heard me?--pushed back its hood--revealed His face--no!  How--

He spoke.
"My turn."
***
--
...or you will bury the next person that angers you beneath ninety-nine feet of rock.
--

[Nyr]

Year 1, Age 21
--
Love?  Yes, I had that at one point.
She was a beauty, so pure, so close to me.
--

I pointed a slender, bony finger at the dark-cloaked figure in front of me.  "You accept, then?" 
I took a moment to once again scan my surroundings:  dust coated nearly everything, a fine
layer of it that showed little activity.  The walls of the corridor were made of solid stone; while
not like anything I had seen in my earlier years, it was certainly sturdy and served its purpose. 
Rectangular holes had been cut into the walls, some covered with grey wooden planks.  Symbols
in a flowing script were etched over the central board of each cover.  The chambers ran the
length of both walls, stacked four high.

I did not care much for this corridor as it was presently.  With a conscious effort of will and a
slow blink of my obsidian eyes, I threw us both into a floating, formless state that masked the
stone walls around us...a vague approximation of the Void's features.  A floating orb of light--my doing--arced
into existence.

--
We did not make plans.  There was no need to do so, for we were powerful.
We did not accumulate wealth.  Why do so when wealth itself was insignificant?
We did have love, though.
--

I turned my attention back to the figure before me--now the only thing before me.  With my superior sight,
I could easily see the emotion etched into the face outlined by stark white hair:  fear.

This was not an uncommon reaction.

"You must understand...such decisions are not easily made," he intoned.
"Do I seem like someone who cares, Kuraci?"  I let the sibilant slip out of my mouth like a serpent--and
the thought of the hissing, the hissing of the sound--then the thought of what a serpent would look like,
creeping out of my mouth--within seconds, the thought became reality, and what the man before me
saw was a snake-like tongue metamorphose into a vicious, snapping asp attached to my mouth.

This would be why fear was not an uncommon reaction.

--
It all changed in a heartbeat.  I was always one of the leaders, so was my Sister.
It was not questioned.
Unfortunately...my love was on the wrong side of the coming conflict.
--

He shuddered, and my keen eyesight detected a faint damp spot appear upon the leggings
of the man.  His cloak was open wide enough for me to see this much, at least, and my lips
curled into a cruel smirk.  "You're a wise man.  Tell me what I want to hear."

He cleared his throat.  "You want us to serve," he replied.  I shook my head, and the asp
spread its jaw, showing its disapproval as well.
"That is one option," I allowed, the words coming easily.  Were the asp a real extension of
my features, I'd likely have trouble with speech.  Luckily, I am adept with illusions.  I pushed
some greying clumps of hair out of my face.
"You want us to die," he continued after a lengthy pause.  This time I let the asp nod its pointed head.
"That is another option," I responded.  I canted my head and the asp faded from view, as
did the darkened Void-like surrounds.  Now there was just him and I in a corridor of death.

--
There was animosity on my part and my Sister's part at first.  She was in a similar predicament.
We rejected the plans.
Then we relented.  The Empire's destruction was more important. 
Without the two forces in unity, it was only a matter of time.
--

"Give me time.  I need...give me a year," he begged.  I could tell that he didn't want it to sound like
begging, but it was.  He had something more to offer, I could feel it.
"I do not let things rest idly."  I let the second-to-last word hiss out with sinister undertones, undertones
conveyed by the slow and subtle duplication of my shadow beneath the glowing orb of light.  The pair
of shadows were both me, yet not moving in accordance with my own ponderous motions--they reached
for the Kuraci, hands outstretched...
"I offer service in return for that year," he said, backing up a step.  He wiped his mouth, hand drenched
with sweat.
I had foreseen something like this.  I could work with this.  My Brother was ready now, but a year? 
A year could be put to use.  This one could be put to use.
"One year.  Precisely one year," I responded sharply.  He nodded.
"One year from now.  That's...year two, beginning of Low Sun.  Yes?"  This time, I nodded, and dissolved
the illusion with a blink, the shadows coalescing into one.

***

The Kuraci breathed a sigh, and closed his eyes, rubbing at his temples.  He opened them, and started suddenly. 
The gaunt man with the runic tattoos on his face was gone.  Even the dust where he had been standing was
undisturbed!  He grunted, rubbing a hand across his sweaty lips.

"We have to evacuate within a year...the Lord of Storms cannot be fought."

--
Love is fleeting.
Power is forever.
--

[Nyr]

Calming the Storms
Confused, I looked around, wonderin what to do. Everyone I cared for was worried, and I didn't know why.
I knew... I knew they shouldn't be. Sargeant Maiza ma'am... nothin worried her. Nothin worried Captain Samar.
Nothin worried Luka, or Cross, or Greshel. We'd tumbled an busted wit the worst an meanest of the sands,
packs'a raptor bigger'n a Nenyu Key could count. More stinkies than there be grains'a sand onna ground.
I remember dis one time, Captain Samar, he caughted a spear outta th' air, an throwed it back right through
the neck of a stinky gith, stabbin the one what stood behind him 'nuff so that they both falled. 

Lookit my big, strong hands. Ah gots this thick stuff, this horror stuff, all ovah. They'd done me right, my
fambly, an they was worried... an I didn' know why. They wouldn' tells me. An that confused me more,
cause I knowed they knowed that if they telled me, I'd go an crush whatevah it was. I'm Priest, an dat
means Ah'm da biggest, an da strongest. Ah picked an inix up once when it was ragin on an agent, an throwed
it over my head inta th' second story of a buildin ta save th' agent. Ain no one, no where, kin do that like I kin.
So why wouldn' they tell me? Why'd... why'd they keep not tellin me? 

We'd done moved the whole warehouse... we'd done moved a buncha nother stuffs from somewheres
I didn' know... I knowed tha no room dat small could hold dat much stuff, but it did, an we'd moved it.
Da big wagon be sunk down on dem wheels, it was so heavy, an it creaked wit every motion. They was all
leavin...leavin da only home I ever done knowed an felt safe in. Since I left da Bad Place wit Gresh, we'd
wandered for long long time, fightin an eatin whats we could, until Da Fist took us in, called us fambly,
and taught us what it was like'a be not hunted no more. In my Home, I could stare down one'a dem stupid
dragony tattoo folks witout bein afeared dat they slap another collar on me. 

I didn' wanna leave. I wanted'a fight, an live, an protect thems that I'd loved. But Captain Samar, an Sargeant
Maiza ma'am... they'd made me promise ta do what I was told, even if I didn' do no understandin, and sos that's
what I done did. I did what they telled me. An they telled me ta helps 'em move. So I did. But I didn' like it. 

We was headed out. I'd seen da place we was goin. I'd been dere, wit Mister Danu Sir. We'd looked it over,
an he'd said it was great, it was just what we needed. I saw a buncha stupid high stone cliffs, an'a buncha
stupid sand, an'a buncha stupid snakes, an stupid raptors... but he saw, well, he saw sometin else wit his smart
little eyes. I didn't know what it was he sawed, but I knowed he was smarter den I was, an a lots cleverer, so
I listened. I knowed Ten Sarak was gonna be a good place. I jus didn' know why. 

After everyone else done got on the wagon, I got on, an I cried as I watched my home grow all smaller like.
Through my tears, I vowed I'd be seein my fambly back inta them gates. If it were th' last thing I'd done. 

************************************************************ 

I missed home. I didn' remember wha it looked like. It had walls that was nice an black an comforting, an it had
all my friends. I had all my friends here, and I loved 'em, but I didn' have my home. Dis place didn' feel as safe
as my home. But I knowed somethin was goin on. It musta been a couple weeks, an we was goin back. 

We was pretty thick with folk, an I was plated in, um, my plates. The ground shook when we walked, an
we walked back inta the home, an I didn' never wanna leave again. Captain Samar, he told us we was gonna
hold the gates... an then he told me I wasn't. 

I got mad. I didn' like dat. I was da biggest, an I should be right up dere at the gates, poundin! An I told him!
An he, he didn' move, he stood his ground, like no otha small folk ever done but him an Sarge Maiza ma'am.
An I felt my daughter Aliera reach up an touch my big fist, an I knowed tha she knowed tha he was right.
An he telled me it was my important duty ta make sure any wounded done survived what we was gonna be goin throughs.
An so... so I did. 

The ground shook. There was this keening that the bugs make. Could barely hear it over the rumblies. Somethin hit
the gate... hard. It cracked. I was a ways off, an I could see it. There was two huge horns over the top of that gate.
An it hit again. And th' Byn... they backed up. An it hit again, and the gate, well... it wasn' such a gate no more.
It broked.
The mek comed through, horns clutchin at the sun, and it musta killed eight or nine fellers jus by comin through an throwin
gate bits all over an then eatin some. Arrors filled the air, hummin from bows, thumpin into its hide, its neck, its eyes... it fell kinda quick.
I heard someone scream, and I runned up. I saw dis big ol dwarf layin dere without an arm, so I grabbed him, an th' arm, an
then I picked up this elven feller an some human wearin black. I turned and hauled back ta th' mounts, throwed 'em over,
an Luka, he lit outta there like sun comin down at dawn ta take 'em to the back lines. 

I turned back around, an dats when I sawed that there was somethin real wrong wit th' walls all around. They was growin,
but it wasn' normal, cause stone, it don' grow. Even I knowed that. But these stone walls, they was growin, many arms
they was growin, an they were... no... they wasn' growin. 

Dat was a buncha bugs. A whole buncha bugs. Death bugs, the worst kind. 

There musta been thousands. An I knowed we didn' have no chance. I punched my head through ta Captain Samar, an I
told him, an I heard a horn blow. I saw folk start ta fall back... my folk. An I covered 'em as they turned and hauled away...
we was surrounded by bugs slashin an cuttin on all sides. I swooped up a couple more badly cut folk, an turned, puntin a large
bug outta my way as I began to slam feet south. Luka come around the corner, and I hollered for him to run, an he didn'
need no extra words. He just moved. And I follered. 

We heard death behind us. Chitterin, hungry death. And the screams of them who become food. 

Covered in the blood of my fambly, listenin to the hollerin of the soon to be eaten, I left my Home. 

As time went on, I saw more an more'a my friends fall an die. Croakin ta stinky giths, ta raptors, ta th' sun. I'd go back an
look at the walls'a my home, an the chitterin bastards who lived dere now. Sometimes... I'd get close 'nuff ta kill one'r two.

Ah never saw da inside again. 

************************************************************* 

The ground shook from the pounding of thousands of feet. Humans had come again to Luir's Outpost, and this time they
were going to stay. Companies of the Known World's best trained soldiers, war packs of elves, contingents of slave warriors,
and a regiment of shitcloaks thundered as they blew through the guards at the southern gates. Flooding up the streets, we
came. Boots crushed fallen chitin arms as we pushed in; some of us died, most did not. 

The war-packs howled at the lead, dying like they were supposed to, and cutting with extreme efficiency before they did.
The shit cloaks had plowed through, cutting a hole straight towards the dark heart of Luir's Outpost, the Storm's End.
A red-haired courier with a deadly package, flanked by an old Captain carrying more scars than whole flesh, raced through that
tunnel with a hissing backpack. Bursting through the entry, through the fray, they deposited the package square on the bar with an artful throw. 

The bugs never knew what hit them. Neither did the shit cloaks. 

The explosion hurled bits of mantis so far that they cleared the walls of Luir's, and as soon as the dust and smoke settled, we noticed
a change... they were all stunned, even the ones who were far enough from the blast to only be hit by bits of flying blood.
Dazed, confused, and soon to be cut down, they all just stood there with blank looks and slack mandibles. 

We obliged. We cut them down. Many of us took trophies to make into armors or weaponry. The cleanup took weeks as we hauled
out our dead and buried them, and did what we willed with the dead bugs. 

We had our home back, but the cost was not cheap. The Lord of Storms lay dead, somewhere. No one knows precisely where he died,
but we are relatively sure it was during the blast that it had happened. That's when they all fell apart. That's when we won. 

The celebrations lasted for a month, with ale and spice flowing like so much silt and smoke through the wreckage of a burning skimmer.
No matter how many cups were tipped, we couldn't wash the taste of blood from our lips. No matter how much smoke filled the air,
we always remembered the scent of the carnage... of how many died to bring us back to this glorious, free place that we call home.

[Nyr]

c. 628
The worst wars are fought between rivals that cannot be defeated.

----


A slender man with grey flowing locks stared at the camp arrayed before him.
Black and jade colored tents dotted the expanse of the desert for as far as he could see,
which arguably wasn't very far due to Whira's current tempestuous relationship with Ruk,
which filled the air with sand and grit. His black cape billowed in the wind as he made his
way to a tent, the entrance flanked by Praetorian Guards. Each of them wore a jade
torc around their necks over sturdy, black-dyed chitin armor.
The guard closest to the tent flap was a tall and muscular woman, black hair spilling out
of her helmet. She stepped forward and saluted. "Captain, good to see you--I'm Corporal
Kia of the Praetorian Guard. They await you inside for your scouting report," she said.
The man nodded, but said nothing. After a brief period of silence, the Corporal reached
forth with her arm and tugged aside the tent flap.


----

I stepped inside and began the courtesy bows and prostrations that were necessary
before my report could be recited. Around a significant stone table--obviously moved
here by half-giants or magickal assistance--sat several Great Lords and Great Ladies, a
Black-Robed Templar of the War Ministry, and a few other people whose station and
rank I could not determine beyond highblood. While my nose was still touching the
canvas flooring of the tent, Great Lady Ovinia Valika pressed forward with her questioning.
"You may rise, Captain," she said. Her voice was deceptively luxurious and calming,
but she was not a luxurious or calming woman in the least. I had seen the blood lust
that entered her eyes when she was on the field of battle. She was destined for
greatness, and if that was ever in question by anyone, she was perfectly willing to
erase them from existence and pretend as though they had never existed.
Luckily, only this army under the command of this man calling himself the "Sun King"
was trying to dispute her superiority right now. I pushed up from the ground
and stood at attention, waiting.
"You have scouted the edges of their lines; you have infiltrated their camps and even their city. Report."
I took a deep breath, let out half of it, and began. "Great Lords, Great Ladies--Immaculate L--"
"We know who we are, Captain. Skip to the report," said the one I was hoping
dearly would NOT speak: the Black-Robe. I cleared my throat and continued, albeit
more shakily than I had initially planned.
"The forces established against us seem to have moved in concert against our forces.
As you know well, they call their city 'Tuluk.' They possess significant strength in
numbers among their purely military forces, and have a different power structure to
ours in the form of different orders of the Templarate." I paused to take a breath,
and briefly considered that. They had several different groups within their Templarate,
each order with specific origins. Did this hint at a sense of self-identity among each
order that bordered on fracture? I thought not.
I continued. "They have equal or greater the number of mages to our own, but they
are not as disciplined as ours are, in my opinion." Ours were relatively good at working
in groups, though they weren't very easy to control. Occasionally, there were problems. 
I stepped forward to the table and the impromptu map drawn up with strange symbols
on it. Grabbing a quill, I dipped it in the inkwell on the edge of the map.
"They have lines of defense drawn here, here, and here," I said, as I began to
sketch out positions and recount specific numbers...

----

The Captain stepped out of the command tent, tugging up a hood with an ink stained hand.
He trudged wearily down the dune towards a mess tent. A nearby chitin-clad soldier elbowed
Corporal Kia and flicked a finger after the departing black cape. "Who's that?"
The woman shrugged. "He's a scout for the militia, but he's got some seniority. I've only seen
him around since we came to Wyntek Harzen. I think his name is Valistanis...Valasurus...something like that."
The soldier nodded, and then offered a shrug in return.
"You think we're going to smash this army like we've always done?" he asked, brushing some sand off of his black headwrap.
"Probably," the Guardswoman replied. "Allanak always prevails."

[Nyr]

c 628
Wyntek Harzen

I dreamed of blood, fire, and screams. The screaming wasn't from me, but I couldn't be sure.
I lacked a corporeal form in this dream, and the images and sounds came in no logical flow. Flashes
of red and white separated scenes of carnage and anger. Bloodied and burned bodies were scattered
across sand dunes, magickal energy crackling dangerously through the air. The faces of each corpse
lingered in my mind's eye. Some were familiar. That one there --that was a soldier I'd sent out to collect
gear from the quartermaster. I suppose he must have gotten there, for he wore a full set of light leather
armor, likely tandu leather, and a small helmet protected his head. Perhaps its purpose was not achieved,
since the poor fellow WAS obviously dead, judging by the broken spear jutting from his throat. I couldn't
imagine any person surviving such a wound--but then again, what if he did survive? He'd have difficulty
swallowing food around that spear poking through his throat, and talking would be practically impossible.

Anger.

The anger was becoming more tangible than anything else, including my formless state of being. The
carnage was being replaced by red, by white, by the sounds of distant battle. After some length of
time--for there was no grasp of time within this dreamlike state--I began to feel pin-pricks all up and
down the right side of my body. I looked for some cause, but could not conceive an explanation.

I opened my eyes with a gasp, and sucked in a lungful of air and dust--then coughed, hacking up spittle,
grit, and something that reminded my tongue of blood and flatbread. Everything was blurry. I was on my
side, splayed on the ground uncomfortably. I wiped my eyes, clearing the grimy dust and sweat from them.
Several blinks later, I had a better fix of my surroundings. I carefully began moving each of my limbs one at
a time to ascertain injury, then flexed my fingers and toes. Nothing out of the ordinary--apart from soreness
and bone-weary fatigue from the last few days. So why was I on my side, and why had I been unconscious?
That meant a head injury, or worse--a magickal assault.

I slowly righted myself, and felt around for my weapon. As my fingers grazed the leather-wrapped hilt, I heard
a tumultuous battle cry. I made it to my feet, still trying to keep a steady grip on consciousness--and then I was hit--

This time, I didn't black out, but my vision blurred. I swung my shortsword blindly, trying to fend off this attack.
My tenuous hold on reality only allowed me glimpses of what was fighting me. Not human--not dwarf, no,
a mul, an enraged mul--one of OURS--

With that, I flung myself backwards, and landed on my rump. The movement saved my life, for the mul 's mace
whistled through the air where my head had been. The jolt sent a surge of energy through me, and I knew
what to do with sudden clarity. Shaking off the last vestiges of my blackout, I dodged the next blow,
scrambling backwards over all-too-warm bodies and scattered debris. I stifled a wave of nausea as my boot
went through one of the bodies that had somehow had all of its bones removed, left just flesh and mush.
The mul kept advancing, though, heedless of his surroundings; he paid attention to nothing except his own
palpable anger.

An image of Private Grishen flashed into my mind, his throat pierced by a Tuluki spear. I seized on the idea
and spun my shortsword around in a reversed grip in both hands, planting my feet and leaping forward at
the mul. Brief surprise overcame the mul's rage before my blade overcame the unprotected skin of his throat.
The blade slid cleanly in and met resistance at the spine before a muffled CRACK stopped the mul's rush
and sent the shortsword right through him.
I was holding the dead weight of a mul in both hands. The blade snapped with the stress it was never meant
to hold, and the mul crumpled to the ground, a lifeless husk.

My hands dropped to my waist, the broken sword still clenched in one fist. I had just killed a mul, one of the
most prized slave tools of Allanak, worth more than ten times my life--yet how many more had died? How many
more would still die? Shock began to set in, and my hands started to shake. I could barely hold onto the sword,
but clutched it anyway, knowing that if I let it drop, so would whatever shreds of sanity I had left. I trudged
across the sandy ground, moving towards the spot where I figured the Allanaki position to be.

The world was lifeless in every direction--piles of corpses stacked six and seven high in some places. The stench of
death began to pervade my nostrils, and I had to fight again to keep my stomach from depositing its contents all
over the desert floor. I looked down over my clothing and armor and was unnerved by the amount of blood. My
cape was rent in some places, my armor damaged in others.

Within a short time, as dusk was setting in, I crested a dune and beheld a tattered group of perhaps four hundred
(including mages) under a Red-Robed Templar. He wasn't someone I recognized by sight, at least not from a
distance. As I approached, the soldiers at the perimeter of the column branched out and surrounded me,
weapons at the ready. I bowed at the waist. Protocol be damned. What will he do, execute me for being tired?

"Captain Valasurus...it is good to see you survived," breathed the Templar. "How many did we lose in that engagement?"
I rose from my bow, and mentally ran the figures through my head again. As I did, my stomach lurched, and once again I had to fight to maintain control.

"Seven...seven hundred or more, Great Lord," I replied. His brown eyes glazed over momentarily. Reporting to the Immaculate Lord, no doubt...

He blinked once, then leveled a stare at a soldier beside him. "Sergeant, issue word to the rest of the company--we
are setting up command right here, fortifying the area." The Sergeant nodded and left the circle. The Red Robe
turned back to me. "You've done well, Captain. Those seven hundreds did not die in vain." I merely nodded and
bowed as he turned and dismissed me.

----

The sky darkened, and I stood just inside my tent, staring off over the dunes under the dull red glow of Jihae.
I knew that my cot awaited my rest, but I could not sleep. Whira blew from whence I had come before, and I
could smell death on the air, rotting corpses. Bile rose again within me--
"Captain?" A voice, not one I recognized.
"What?" I gurgled out, trying to keep my composure. A lengthy pause, then he continued.
"Do you know anything about...who they sent into the breach?" I shook my head. His face was pale and drawn.
"No. No one, I thought," I responded. "We just lost so many today, I can't imagine--"
"Well, I just got back from scouting. Something's...moving...out there. Not any of our people--"
"Report if you see anything else," I choked out, and waved him away. He nodded, saluted, and left me alone.

My hands started shaking again, and the broken sword slipped from my hand, falling end over end to impale the
dusty ground. I stood there, shaking uncontrollably, and stared out from the tent flap as the events of the past
few days weighed on my mind. I bent over double as my stomach heaved, and released the urge that I had
suppressed for so long. After several long, agonizing retches, I relaxed into a crouch, propping one elbow up
on my knee and wiping off my mouth.

A faint sound reached my ear...

Drip.
Drip.
Drip.

I looked down. A puddle had formed beneath me.

Sweat was beading up and pouring freely from my face...yet the night was not warm.

[Nyr]

c. 1055
Steinal


Suk-Krath blazed overhead, scorching the surrounding Salt Flats with its immense heat. The unwise
cursed the flames of Suk-Krath, yet what did Suk-Krath do but rise and set each day, willingly and
generously offering as much as it had--and more besides? Whira's fickle winds whipped across the
ground, gouging miniature valleys and cracked byways into the crystalline earth surrounding this city.
The same fools would lift defiant fists into the air, as if they would sway the Mistress of the Air.

The poorest Steinali knows better. I know better than that as well, for I am not among the ranks
of the Lower Establishment, but a servant for the N'Kasta holdings. Thus, here I am with a couple
thousand citizens at the public weekly addresses that our Generous Lord holds for his people. Everyone
here knows the story of how he came to our village hundreds of years ago, bearing the gifts of Vivadu
and more hidden knowledge from the oppressive regime in Allanak. Over time the people came to
honor him as he rightly deserved, making him their king--and a great king he was, using his power
and the power of others to grow the village of Steinal into a city with no rival.

I spared a glance to the carved agafari dais, then to the Suk-Krath's glowing orb. Nearly High Sun,
but it was well-known that the Generous Lord did not keep his loyal citizens waiting long. I angled my
way through the press of commoners, my booted feet making a light clopping sound against the marble
foundations of the Marked Square. Crenellated granite and baobab balconies protruded from both the
northern and southern sides of the square, heavy canvas draped over them to keep the nobility and
the highest-ranked merchants of Steinal in the shade. My attention was drawn briefly to a flash of bright
yellow silk along the northern balcony: the colors and swooping hawk emblem of N'Kasta. A smile crept
across my lips; I had known my masters would be at the weekly event, but not that they would be in
such a prominent position. After jostling through the square, I came to the northwestern corner.
Before me, a red-tressed woman dressed smartly in a rich blue silk cloak stood behind an agafari-wood
table with several jars, pots, cups, and mugs stacked neatly atop it. Her worn face turned towards me
and a pair of kindly grey eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled.

"A bit of refreshment before the address?" she asked in a high, lilting voice, just over the sound of the
splashing water nearby. I nodded to her. She snatched up one of the mugs from the table and flipped
it about by the handle, turning to the etched stone trough that flowed the length of the square
along the western side. Only a few cords from her, water fell into the trough from a higher one that
ran along the northern balcony's westernmost edge. Dipping the mug into the flowing waters of the
trough, she turned back around and handed it to me carefully. I reached for the pouch hanging from
my belt that contained this week's earnings, but she shook her head. "This week's water is brought
by the Generous Lord's own gracious hands." I stared curiously at her, unsure of myself. Could this
have something to do with the successful skirmish from last week?

"Oh," I responded. "May his waters never cease," I said as I turned away from her--then a hand on my shoulder.
Hers.

"You work with N'Kastas?" she asked, her kind eyes taking on some other quality that I couldn't easily
discern. I followed her gaze, which had latched onto the hawk emblem on my yellow silk sash.
"Yes, I do." Now I thought I could identify the lurking presence in her eyes: could it be interest? "Though we
have leave today...should you be free afterwards, I think..." She interrupted me with a firm squeeze on my shoulder.
"Yes, I will be free afterwards. We should talk, you and I," she intoned, and then smiled again. 
A flush of heat spread across my face and ears, and I grinned like a drunken fool before taking note of where I was.
"I will be back after the address," I said, and then turned away from her to make way to my usual vantage point closer to the dais.

Halfway to the dais, a cheer deafened me, and I was quick to join in with a fist pumped into the air,
sloshing almost half of the water out of my mug. Walking up in his robes of elaborately designed white and
blue silk was our Generous Lord, Valasurus. He held his hands up into the air, almost as if he were going
to attempt to bring the cheering to a stop--yet the adulation only continued. While the commoners
cheered with reckless abandon, even the nobility made their efforts to stand and clap. This was no
small feat; most of the nobility wore enough silver and gold jewelry to fell a mekillot by weight alone.
After a time, the sound began to subside, and our Generous Lord spoke, his face glistening with the
blessing of Vivadu.

"My people, last week, our armies collided with the forces of Allanak near their black walls. I urged you
to support our army's endeavor, and it has succeeded in a strategic victory that I must report to you:
we have routed Allanak's fighting forces!"

I had thought that the cheer from before was loud, but the sound that erupted this time was much
more piercing. The common folk threw articles of clothing and hats into the air in a wild display of
emotion. I didn't take the time to see the noble reaction, as my own voice broke forth in victory to
echo the sentiments of the other inhabitants of Steinal.

"You have heard the reports of tribes taking back land stolen by the conquering rulers, Tektolnes
and Muk Utep. These are not rumors; they are facts proven by our own exceptional display of
tactics in this, the first battle of the War between Allanak and Steinal."

I listened with half an ear now, thinking back over the rumors our Generous Lord spoke of. I had
heard of such things, but I thought them to be gross exaggerations. I let my attention wander, taking
in the uplifted faces of those in the square...a particularly joyous nobleman in the balcony, tears streaming
down his cheeks...the feeling of the breeze picking up in the square, blowing cool winds across my face...

"We will press our advantage soon, and destroy the will of Allanak!" He paused briefly enough, but
it only took a breath for the people to start up a cheer again. As they did so, I noticed the breeze more
than anything else. Carried on the wind were small granules of sand and salt, something that happened
on occasion even within the confines of the most central area of Steinal. "I promise to you that I will
lead you to victory against the Black Menace of Allanak!"

Cheers again, yet not as many as before. A breeze no longer, wind began to whip the dust against the
exposed skin of those gathered for the address. Something was out of place here--something was very
wrong. Did it seem darker? It was High Sun--how could the day be darkening? My eyes were drawn to
a brightening pinpoint of light floating in the air near our Generous Lord atop the dais. The light grew,
expanding into a man-sized outline of white around a black interior. Moments later, a black-robed, faceless
figure stepped out of the hole in the air, clomping onto the dais beside Lord Valasurus. Squeals of fright
and calls of dismay filled the air, clamor that grew with the upheld open hand of this new figure. Scarcely
human-looking, the hand was covered with what appeared to be black scales. The hand closed into a fist
and the wailing ceased completely, as did all other sound save the beating of my heart.

A voice spoke and filled the air and my mind with its directness.

"Now, Valasurus, I don't suppose you should make promises you can't keep." The figure lifted his head,
and the hood fell back from his face. I did not recognize the face so much as the malevolent will behind it,
and knew somehow that I gazed on something that was older and more powerful than anything I had
ever seen--and I saw the Generous Lord on a weekly basis. Eyes riveted on the dais, I saw mist curl around
the arms of Valasurus. Our Lord struck with his now-upraised sword, and strangely, the blade shimmered
in the air, flashing as it struck something unseen. The black-scaled arm snaked out and backhanded
Valasurus across the face, yet no mark appeared on the visage of our Lord, nor did he do so much as
flinch. Heartened, I made to cry out encouragement, but my throat and tongue issued nothing forth.
I looked about and the same malady appeared to affect everyone around me, for they gazed at each
other and the dais with confusion, moving their mouths with nothing to speak.

Valasurus and Tektolnes stared each other down, their forms radiating power that made the air shimmer
like heat over the paved streets of Steinal.
Valasurus opened his mouth and spoke: "Pride will be your destruction."
Tektolnes merely shifted his lower jaw into an approximation of a cruel smirk, and responded with five words as well.

The world disappeared in a surge of wind and sand.
As I gasped for air in an attempt to force my lungs to work, the last thing I thought was whether or not I should curse Whira--

[Nyr]

The tall man's black-clawed hands clenched the rough stone of the balcony as he stared out at me.  The hazy sky shimmered,
Suk-Krath's heat beating down on the structures far below.  While his features were indistinct,
I felt as though this was an enemy:  someone to fear.  He stared northward, and my perspective shifted, showing
a face with a bemused expression on it.  I tried to focus on his other features, but could not summon the face that
frightened me so.  He looked, saw me--he saw me, and my heart leapt in my throat before beating out a pattern that
would have made any drummer of the tribes envious.  Panic energized my body, yet my limbs were immobile.  He
had me enthralled and at his mercy--I could not escape him, he had me--he had me pinned--

Light. 
Sweat. 
Panting. 

     I sat up, furs sliding off of my midsection and leaving a chest drenched in perspiration.  I rubbed at my eyes,
taking a moment to slow down my breathing and relax.  I closed my eyes again, leaning my elbows against my knees.

     Sleeping was something I dreaded during the waking hours.  Many of my kindred spent their days hunting and
sparring with one another, preparing food, and dealing with the daily work that was the tribal way of life.  By the
time Suk-Krath set below the horizon, it was time for rest, and sleep was a welcome friend to those that had spent
their days wisely tending to the needs of their kin.
     I disagreed with my kin on this point:  sleep was an enemy as formidable as any of the razor-toothed halflings.  I always
awoke in urgency, and felt as though I had spent the entire night battling some unseen foe.  This morning was not different. 
My body ached, and a headache blossomed behind my closed eyelids, pounding with the beat of my heart.
     I opened my eyes, letting them slowly focus on my environment.  Furs were piled up beneath me, and some were strewn
across the rough hides that made up the floor of the tent. The tent-flap was open.  Perhaps mother is already awake? 
I arose and stepped outside, shielding my face from the brightness of Suk-Krath before it could send another flash of pain
through my head.
     "I see you've been awake for some time, Tesuk," said a voice.  I squinted down at a round-faced woman with a tender
smile, her dark hair blowing all over in Whira's journey over the scrub.
     "Yes, mother," I replied.  I didn't like the nickname.  Although Suk-Krath had gone through its arcs more than fifteen
times since my birth, I was almost six cords tall, and still had not finished my growing.  It was meant as
endearment--"little sweet"--but it felt like mockery when I was in a mood to take offense.
     "What was this one about?" she intoned quietly, reaching up a hand to brush at the side of my face, pushing some of
my braided red locks out of the way.
     "A new one.  A man with clawed fingers, but I could never see his face.  He was in a place with many...stones? 
They were much like tents, but--"
     "Buildings," my mother interrupted.  "In the far South, it is said that there is a land like this.  Vru N'Dryth. 
They call them 'buildings,' and people dwell inside them much like tents."  I stared at my mother skeptically.  "It is true. 
I heard from a Preshano trader who has ventured down past the steppes."
     "Then my dream is of a place that exists that I have never seen or heard tell of.  How can this be, mother?"  She frowned,
an expression that reflected my own.
     "I cannot say, Tes--"

     A sickening THUNK reached my ear, and my mother's frown became a grimace of pain and shock.  I looked down at
the bloody arrowhead that sprouted from her throat like a morbid flower.  Realization flooded my mind, and
I looked to the east from whence the arrow came. In the distance, a trio of archers nocked their arrows and sighted on
me.  I had nowhere to turn. There was nothing left in me but grief and a quickly-building rage.  Leaving my mother to fall to the
ground, I snatched at a spear embedded point-first in the ground by the tent-flap, charging across the scrub.
     An arrow flitted by my right ear and missed my eye by two inches.  Emboldened, I hauled back my right arm, spear in hand. 
Closer--now I could see them more clearly. Cormani! Murderous bastards!
THUNK.
     I was stopped in stride by an arrow that buried itself halfway into my chest, sending the wind out of me and a burst of agony through
me.  I fell, letting the spear drop to the ground beside me.  Strength fled me.  Another arrow flew silently through the air, then
began to slow...slow...
     I saw my mother's face float up behind the arrow.  I knew then that I would die, for she had already met her end at the barbed tip of
a Cormani arrow moments earlier.  The tales said that one sees their loved ones before death.  I waited for other images to flood my vision,
but only my mother's face was present.  The arrow moved closer, and her face flooded with concern--or was it curiosity?

     "Tesuk?  Are you dreaming in the day now?"  I blinked.  I was in the tent.  I scanned the area quickly, but saw no arrow on
a path to bring me my end.  I looked down at my chest--it was slick with sweat, but nothing reminded me of a deadly wound.
I shifted my attention to my mother:  she stood there, hair outlining her face as before.
     "I...you...I dreamed?"  The confusion on my face must have been amusing, for she reached a hand down with a grin on her
face, pulling me to my feet.  I walked out of the tent with her, standing outside of the flap.  I held up my forearm to block
the light of Suk-Krath from increasing the intensity of my headache.
     "What was this one about?" she intoned quietly.  Odd...
     "Mother, have you heard of a place with--what--buildings?  Far to the South?"  She looked at me with an expression of surprise.
     "Why, yes--I have just talked to a Preshano trader about it only yesterday.  But how did you--"  As she spoke, I thought
for a moment about time--how long had it been?
How long?
Now?
No...
Now!
     "GET DOWN!" I shouted, shoving her forward with both hands.  She fell to the ground, letting out a surprised grunt.  An arrow
flew by in the space she had previously occupied, sinking into the tent wall.  I snatched up the spear and charged at the Cormani
archers.  I took the same path as before, bounding across the scrub and eating the ground in huge strides.  I hauled my spear-arm back.
     Wait.  Arrow?  Yes--that would work--
     I switched hands with the spear in time to dart my right hand up, snatching the arrow out of the air beside my ear. 
The arrowhead sliced into my palm--I had misjudged its trajectory--but I now bore two weapons.  I slowed down long enough
to slip the arrow beneath a strip of leather around my waist.  I tossed the spear back to my right hand and launched it at the lead
Cormani.  It impaled the man in the stomach, knocking him off of his feet.  I unstrapped the arrow and closed in on the remaining
pair of Cormani, several cords away now.  One had an arrow nocked--could I dodge it?  I thought I knew its path--
     I was wrong.
     My mother's face drifted into the air behind the arrow, and for a moment, I was confused.  The arrow slowed to a
crawl, floating in the air on a slow path to my throat.

     "Tesuk?  Are you dreaming in the day now?" I blinked, and the rest of the world melted into the familiar surroundings of the tent. 
My mother's inquisitive eyes trained on me.  Confusion reigned in my mind, but beneath it was an understanding of the path that I would have
to take, gleaned from that first conversation with my mother.  I would have to divine the best path, but ultimately the one that left me alive.
Which one would that be?  How many times must I repeat this?
     My mother reached a hand down and slapped my cheek firmly.  "Wake up!"  I lifted a hand to rub at my reddening cheek.
     "I did not see that coming," I murmured.

[Shalooonsh]

Foundation by yours truly.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

His sling fluttering in the wind at his belt, Cold Eyes looked down at the bleeding elf with overt hatred in every nuance of his facial features. The elf, richly tattooed with a variety of beasts across her open flesh, appeared not to notice. The harrying had been long, and the price steep, but no one out-smarted Cold Eyes for long. It had taken ten men just under fifteen minutes to kill all but one of the twenty member elven raiding party. All but this one. This ugly horror's daughter of an elf.

Bone rasped dryly on oiled leather as Cold Eyes drew a raggedly sharpened silt flyer claw from his belt, the crude knife showing much age as it came in to view. "What did you gain, elf? That's what I don't understand. That's all I don't understand. What is it you stood to gain from raiding us? We've nothing. The Madrek have far more than we, and yet you come to us. Why?" His every word pronounced with distaste and venom, Cold Eyes continued to walk a patient circle around his beaten enemy.

The elf spoke, ragged lips parting to expose red-painted canines for which its blood was named, the words halting in sirihish but the hatred very clear. "Practice, prey. To show children how hunt, little risk." The elf laughed then, a wet sound from deep within, filled with pain and menace. Cold Eyes' hand became a blur, rising and cutting an arc into the air, hand stilling above his opposite shoulder, arm across his body.

Cold Eyes thought of the fourty one members of his extended family who had been put down in the last three weeks by the raiding of these elves. He thought of the tortured, horrified looks on their faces, he thought of the contorted limbs, the shattered skulls, and he thought about the few he had found who were partially eaten, covered with elven bitemarks. He thought of the smell of the sun-baked flesh, the spilled entrails, the urine, and he thought of the incessant buzz of kank flies as they circled the spilled brains of Anni who had sung so beautifully to him just the night before. He thought of all of this, and his heart grew stronger, the fury threatening to cause it to rupture his chest.

His weary, stubbled face turned again towards the elf, knife still raised across his body. "I've heard you elves value family among all else. So do I. You've left me with little, and I've left you with nothing." He gestured with his free hand around at the littered elven bodies, one of which picked that moment to moan in pain. A swift squelch of an impacting spear from one of his tribemates stopped it. "I don't think that's quite fair, as what you took from me had actual value and yours did not. Regardless, I will let you live." The elf's eyes blazed with open rage at the victorious human, lips caught in a razor-thin frown. "But not without marking you forever. Welcome to the rest of your life, tribeless cur. May treachery know every last moment of every heartbeat that your blood runs through." The knife came down, describing a wicked arc in the failing dusk light. The blade, heavy and sharp, caught the elf on the right temple, cutting neatly down through the eye, across the nose, and catching again on the left cheekbone. The vicious gash, and ruined eye, spilled freely down her face like some gruesome veil, but still she did not cry out.

Turning to his tribemates, he gestured for a saddle pack on one of the kanks, which was brought to his feet. "Urit, start a fire. We may be here for a while as we have a long talk with our new friend. She appears to be made of sterner stuff than I thought."

The night passed quickly for some, and much slower for one, but still no sound came. In the morning, Cold Eyes had Urit run to camp for an erdlu. By noon, the humans were again mounted and ready to go, turbans high against the glaring, cruel sun. Cold Eyes pulled another strap tight across the erdlu's back, and gave the elf's face a condescending pat. From her uniquely non-elven position, the elf glared up at him, still silent, the wound long crusted over and beginning to attract flies in the heat of half-day. "Those straps should hold you, but I wouldn't suggest testing them. Wouldn't that be horrible, hmmm? Being trapped alone out there, in the great wastes, without any way to move?" The human laughed, a heartless and hateful sound, and slapped the erdlu on the ass, just below the elf's broken ankles and toes, sending it chasing off after the bouncing tuber that was tied just within view. Dust raised high into the still air as the erdlu sprinted across the open plains, every leaping stride sending jags of pain down through every last bit of the shamed, supposedly tribeless elf.

Cold Eyes had again earned his name, being one of the few in his tribe who chose his own name instead of what he was born with. His heart had hardened during childhood, all the mockery from the other camp children about his name sounding like something a scrab would say had earned him Scrabface. He never used his real name anymore. He was Cold Eyes now, and his reputation made sure that everyone called him that. Just the way he liked it. Fear kept away trouble like the shade kept away heat, and he so preferred the shade.

**

Four days passed as the erdlu meandered around the wastes, picking at cacti and plants, the elf doing the same when opportunity presented itself. Dune Shriek had freed her left hand on the second day, and was able to sometimes gain some food or drink when brought within striking distance. On that fourth day, close to night, her kin had found her. Not a one mentioned the erdlu, which was killed for a feast that night, and not a one mentioned her shame. The story, as she told it, was quickly told and the mourning began for those who had fallen. The mood of the camp fell sour, and many of the other blood began to mark themselves with a scar akin to Dune Shriek's own, as a way to forever remember the hatred they have for humans, and vengeance began to be whispered within every tent.

**

Cold Eyes looked around the drinking tent at the scattered people. Seven tribes were represented, and each one unable to get along with the other. Each one unable to look past its own petty problems towards the obvious solution. His eyes darted from face to face, judging, analyzing, deciphering the proper path to take. Most of those that he would challenge were larger than he, but that would prove to be their undoing, and that would prove to be his victory in more than one sense. Cactus wine was flowing freely, and faces were flushed. His own cup remained mostly full, though he appeared to have been drinking all night, matching the gathered chiefs. The powdered red root graced his cheeks, and flecks of cleverly applied salt brought the red to his eyes. He stumbled forward, wine spilling from his bone cup, splashing onto the thirsty ground. Conversations stilled.

With an off balance sway and a ungainly gesture towards the assembled chiefs, Cold Eyes raised his cup, more purplish liquid hitting the ground. "Ey! All Ah hear is barrakhan chatter from th' hungry maws of children gathered in this tent. Children... unable ta do nothin but fight an fray bout toys one or anotha stole hundred years ago. Chillren." He eyed the suddenly humorless faces of the gathered tribals, and could not help but think /'good, they're taking the bait.'/

His posture slacking a bit as he listed to the left, planting his shoulder against a tentpole, he slurred, "An ya best mens 'ere, th' best ya tribes got? Chillren too. Little... baby lizards, scurryin about. Ah bet Ah could whip 'em in a fair fight."

Turkus Doombringer glared at him from behind his macabrely tattooed visage, his words a rasp as he spoke, "Watch your tongue, young Chief. You're not nearly as blooded as half of one of us." Muttered grunts of assent spilled through the smoky air.

Cold Eyes allowed himself a small inner smile, knowing he had the much older chief right then. Doombringer's lust for women was only overshadowed by his love of gambling, and it was no secret. "Ah'll betcha Ah kin. Ah kin. Ah kin take th' best man from each'a 'ese here tribes, one't time, back't'back, or all't once if ya wanna give 'em a bit of a chance. If'n Ah caint, Ah'll have m'people follow yers, Doombringer." The offer was too good to pass up, as Cold Eyes tribe numbered near two hundred.

"You are a fool, and after tonight, a bloody fool," Doombringer rumbled, his gaze going towards the gathered chiefs. "And tell if we lose this bet?"

Adopting a grin he had practiced so many times in preparation, loose and uncaring, drunken, completely masking his inner composure, Cold Eyes said simply, "Then y'all follow me. F'one year."

The chiefs exchanged glances, and slowly Doombringer nodded, followed by Muark. Shortly after came Shadow, Ruby Scorpion and the Stone Men. Silt Hunters and Sekhal simply waved their best men forward. Cold Eyes stumbled from the tent, his right shoulder smacking into a tentpole as he did, cup still containing wine.

Seven men, none of them small, faced off against the young chief, all hands bare except for one wine cup. Cold Eyes sipped, and stumbled backwards. Rathus Doombringer stepped forward, alongside Jens Shadow, and both were met with a faceful of a mixture most foul: cactus wine, stinging salts and viper venom. Cold Eyes had had a reason for drinking so lightly. With the men blinded, he strode forward, using his cup as a crude cudgel to drop them both with swift blows behind the ear. Now it was five to one, and Cold Eyes looked across the fallen bodyguards. Turnk of the Stone Men came forward, his skin toughened by the rigorous ritual fighting of his tribe, but Cold Eyes had known his lover, and learned of his bad left knee. A quick kick folded that knee to the side, and removed another threat. The Scorpion and Muark tried to flank, while Sekhal came over the top of the three. Seeing the uneven footing of the third, Cold Eyes lunged forward, plowing into the tribal at the knees and flipping him backwards into the Muark. Coming up with both hands locked, Cold Eyes swung and missed, his blow much too high before the Scorpion slammed into his chest, knocking him a few steps backwards. Several rapid blows came from the scorpion inked woman. Cold Eyes swung, and she caught his fist. His other was quickly trapped as well as he tried again. Locked up close, the headbutt was easy to deliver, and she went down hard and fast. Swift kicks to the faces of the Muark and entangled Sekhal removed them. He knew the Silt Hunter would go down quick, and he turned to regard him. Dagger in hand, the Silt Hunter looked back, then put the blade away and showed palms in a sign of surrender.

Without another word, Cold Eyes retired to his tent, knowing the chiefs would look to him on the morning sun.

**

Life was good for over a month, with the tribes learning to live together and work on common projects. Many were the problems, but swift justice and a heavy hand does much to keep trouble in line, and Cold Eyes was good at spotting trouble before it truly took root. Combined, the tribes numbered a few thousand, and it was quickly becoming obvious that they were stronger together than apart. The tents were full, cactus wine flowed freely, and food was plentiful.

Reports had reached him through scouts that a large contingent of elves was moving southward, and that these elves were almost universally scarred. A shrewd man, Cold Eyes knew his mistake as soon as he heard of it, and departed with his scouts for a look. Five hundred, he spied from atop the ridge, and all as vicious as the day was long. His mind raced over the possible battles, the terrain involved, the path of travel, the numbers, and he ordered the scouts to return without him, covering their tracks. There was protest, but not for long. His orders were quick, stern, and brooked no argument.

Alone, the afternoon sun hammering down on him, Cold Eyes drew his knife and cut himself across the back of both legs, deep enough for a good wound, but not into the muscle. His life began to run free down his boots. With a leg going over his kank, he set off down the ridge at a good clip, the flecks of blood falling as he did, leaving a plain trail of a lone, wounded rider for the elves to find. A trail leading straight back to his home, a large tent nestled within the valley of two large mekillot dunes. Moving swiftly, he left his blood-smeared kank outside, and gathered his pack.

His mother, old, hunched and wrinkled, looked across the fire at him while behind her, his young son slept soundly. His eyes softened as he looked back, and his emotion began to show. Her voice, as ancient as her face, creaked forth. "It's that time, is it, son?" His heart seemed to grow still. "I have dreamt this, it is no surprise. I am old, and I am proud of you. Do not fail on your path, brave child. We are stronger together, but keeping us together is a fight you will not soon win, Quintus. Do not give up." She was the only one who still called him that. With those words, his mother stood up, her knees popping, to claim an aged crossbow from the wall, determined to make her stand though she knew her place as the bait. Bait for a trap which would bite deeply, the poisoned meat to draw the howling, hungry tembo.  Reclaiming the seat by the fire, her old leathery hands worked the pull, and eventually the bolt was loaded.

With a gentle hand, he shook his son.  Bleary eyes looked up into his, immediately coming to the realization that something was wrong.  Young eyes took in his armed grandmother, and briefly showed fear.  His mouth opened in protest, which Quintus stilled with a harsh glance and a finger to his lips.  The boy gathered his nomad's pack, ever ready for the move.

Knowing no words to say, he merely kneeled, his kiss long and loving to the top of her head before they left through the back of the tent, moving at a limping sprint until he could duck up and around the left hand dune and join half of his forces, his son by his side. They waited, the tears stinging his eyes, wishing he did not have to sacrifice her, wishing she could walk swiftly enough to live, wishing he could save her and knowing he could not. They waited, listening to the steady thump of approaching, swift footsteps.  Her death would serve as the rallying point for his people, unifying them against the Red Fangs, and any other tribe that cared to treat them as prey.  In whispers, he tried to explain to the boy why it had to be this way, and  his words only added water to the hateflower blooming in the child's heart.

**

The tentflap burst inward, a howling, scar-faced elf charging in, only to be blown back out moments later by the force of the bolt sticking through his jaw and into the back of his skull. Old, leathery hands tried to work the pull, failing to load a second shot before an elven blade cleaned her shoulders of her head. As it hit the ground, severed, she spat a gob of viscous spit onto the leg of the elf, who laughed. His blood began to ransack the tent, paying little head to the dead old woman's head which continued to glare at them. After a few long moments, he stepped outside to look over the rest of the warpack. His arms lifted and he shouted for attention, the general looting and cackling stopped, and all eyes were upon him.

A thousand elven eyes watched as an arrow entered either side of his head, crossing in the middle, and causing him to do a little jerky dance before he fell backwards. Moments later, the sky grew dim as a rain most deadly began to fall. Sharp flint bound to thin bone and guided by vulture feathers cut a clear path through the life of the elves below. Several turned and ran, which proved to be their life, while others charged worthlessly up the dunes, to be cut down on the path. One human was lost that day, and over three hundred elves lay dead, with another hundred wounded to the point where they could potentially make good slaves after being broken.  A child watched the carnage, and knew at that moment that this was the correct path.

That night, around the fire, a hard-hearted Quintus Tektolnes looked over the assembled chiefs. With his toe, he drew a large square in the sand, and began to speak of walls. Walls bigger than any that had ever been built by the hands of man. Walls that would keep out the horrors of the wastes, the elven threat, and even the very wind and sand itself. Walls that would keep his children, and the children of all the chiefs, as safe as anything could be. Walls so firm and so thick that they could take a generation to build fully.  First, however, would be the foundation of the place.  Housing for the slaves, housing for his peoples, a codex of law harsh enough to fight reprisals, and who should be named as the those trusted enough to carry out His word.  He knew that so many would create waste, and knew of caverns into which this could be dropped.  A place harsh enough to keep his people strong, yet surrounded by the resources to keep them alive.  His words were harsh and clipped as he spoke his orders, planning with the other chiefs until again Suk-Krath lit the horizon. Turkus, his old, tattooed face appearing weary, looked up into the eyes of Quintus, his leader, and asked what this great city should be called.

His voice was quick, brusque, and forceful as he spoke the word, yet he showed none of the emotion that burned within him. None of the pride, the love, or the fierce yearning to just hold her once more in his arms. His mother's name. "Allanak." With heavy boots, he stepped towards his tent, knowing his journey had just begun.

[Nyr]

circa 1450
Bone and isilt lay broken, once forming a complexly woven path through the heart of the city.  An ever-deepening rut
led to a blackened, smoldering boulder embedded three cords into the road.  Scattered to either side of the crater were
the remains of the northern gated entrance.  A swath of torn red cloth was buried beneath the debris.  A man in a white
tabard leaned against the right side of the gateway, a heavy mace wielded in both hands covering the red sunburst
pattern emblazoned on his uniform.  His eyes were half-closed; his breathing was heavy.  Despite his bulk, it seemed as
though a light breeze could knock the man over due to his fatigued appearance.  A sulfurous stench rent the air,
accompanying the distant screams like Firestorm's Flame to a night of destructive debauchery.  He grimaced, but made
no move to leave his position of brief rest.  He knew that he would survive another day if he could last until dawn, when
the light of Suk-Krath would reveal the interlopers. 

The dead numbered into the thousands.  The Legions were stretched thin to protect vital areas of the city, but even
they were being overwhelmed.  Magick was the one thing that could stem the tide, but the beings that were
dismantling the city were too many to count.  Unless Lord Isar could find a solution soon, the fate of the city seemed
to be already determined.

The crunch of boot on stone startled the soldier out of his reverie, sending him into a defensive stance with his mace
held menacingly.  Before him was a man clad in red garments of a peculiarly tribal cut and style.  The man's semi-muscular
frame seemed to easily support his weight.  Hair bleached by the rays of Suk-Krath spilled down his back, tied by leather. 
The light from the nearby torches showed a glimpse of his steel-grey eyes, which were focused on something at his feet. 
He bent down to tug the torn cloth from the ground, holding it in two leather-gloved hands.  A depiction of a reddish moon
spilled down the cotton banner to a certain point, where frayed edges raggedly clipped the image.  The man smiled grimly,
turning back to several other approaching figures clad in clothing that was similar in coloration if not style.  Each of the
men that arrived walked with deadly purpose, bladed staves held at the ready.  They flanked the entrance.  "At ease,
Private," spoke the first arrival, setting his dim gaze on the soldier.

An expression of mild confusion crossed the face of the Legionnaire.  "Sir--who are you?" asked the soldier.  He steadied
his grip on his mace, but began to lower it at the thought of evisceration by multiple combatants.  "What is--what do you want?" 

The lean, hard man held up the torn banner in one hand.  "I am Kul, and these are men loyal to me and to the Sun King. 
Stand aside or you will be cut down."  After another moment of confusion, the soldier looped his mace back into his belt,
holding his hands out and away from the weapon.  Kul nodded, and turned back to his faithful followers.  "Now to get the
crown and to go for Him."