Rhaea

Arrival and Revenge

The officers were making a large deal of the next march. Soon, the unit would be moving into what was certainly not land governed by Furzland and certainly governed by land of another power. Most of the troops had expected much hated Portia but instead it was a southern power known for its horses. The officers had spoken ill of them and said they would crash against the legions walls of steel and iron. They were supremely confident. It made Sparkfire confident too. Mercenaries had joined the troop over the last week. Mostly these were horsemen. Furzland had never been terribly good at horsemanship and often hired outsiders for fast formations, like Astra Vulpinus. They had been in the camp for a bit longer than the bulk of mercenaries. Astra Vulpinus’ white and red griffons large enough to ride impressed Sparkfire and everyone else she spoke to about it too. Such wild beasts, brought to heel and commanded by mere words and nudges of the heel by their riders. The demeanor of the mercenaries themselves left some to be desired and it was odd to have a solely male unit in the camp, but their skills were unmatched. Whatever battle was to be fought would surely be won.

The officers had gathered the troop into groups small enough to talk to over last two days. It was mostly for speeches and spreading that supreme confidence. Kommandant Burnshield had spoken to Sparkfire’s legion personally and would be leading them to battle. She had asked them for “two hard battles and one siege” for this conflict, “should it come to blows.” The first battle was expected to crush the foreign army, a second to clean up, and a siege to take their city. She stressed regularly “if they did not agree” to terms not told to her unit. It felt like a bold claim to Sparkfire but she was not a kommandant. She had not yet spent years upon years studying strategy. Maybe their enemy was that predictable or their own forces that strong? It was exciting. Her skills would not be theoretical and for the yard; they would be made concrete by her unit crushing another force.

The next march was standard. There was no clear indication of change as they kept going down the road aside from deeper concern on the faces of passing merchants and locals. A few had exchanged words with officers along the road in a language Sparkfire did not recognize. Soon after, they were directed towards a village to be taken. The officers had ordered a “merciful” taking of the settlement. No looting, just taking water and declaring it under their control. Mercenaries caught “breaking discipline” were to be dealt with by legion officers but not engaged by the soldiery in any way. For Sparkfire, it was very boring. Her unit remained on the outskirts of the subsistence settlement. Units with brighter banners and shinier armor received the honor of marching into the town and making the proclamation of its submission. She heard no problems after the taking and was left with her unit building a new encampment along the road. Any requests to go into the town for drink or even just having a look around were denied on the basis the town was already supporting as many troops as it could and if they were allowed to the mercenaries would ask. Sparkfire considered they should probably just train their own legions to ride horses if these mercenaries were such problems. Astra Vulpinus seemed to be the only ones the officers really tolerated. Sparkfire had yet to meet any of the other mercenaries anyway. She did not want to anyway. The only time she had seen them was on the march on their horses. They wore far more furs than typical Furzlanders, were a mix of people sharing only a love for coin, and their equipment never looked up to standard to her. On the ground, she was certain should defeat any one of them with her own sword and armor. With them on a horse, likely not, but that’s why the Order was willing to pay them to fight.

Come morning, she was shaken awake in her tent by one of her legion mates. Sparkfire grabbed her sword in instinct and had to be told the camp was not under attack. A few soldiers milling outside past her legion mate in just their canvas tunics indicated that. Her legion mate said the officers were calling everyone to come and listen to something from the Kommandant and that the Kommadant and the officers looked livid. Sparkfire hoped her unit wasn’t about to be disciplined for an error she didn’t know about. Her legion mate said they had at least been told they would be marking as soon as whatever talk was to be had was over. Had a scout seen them?

“We go to war with the Pelekkers!” Burnshield shouted from a stage created by crates stacked on a wagon as Sparkfire arrived. Burnshield’s feathers were bristling and her face red with anger. Her voice projected far enough for Sparkfire to hear from the back of the gathering troops.

“They have done us a dishonor greater than merely rejecting our offer to protect them eternal for their horses! They simply could have declined and accepted us on the battlefield but no! They have done far worse!”

Burnshield squawked an order at some people behind the wagon and two legionaries flew up to Burnshield’s height. Between them was a simple wooden box large enough to hold a pumpkin or heavy bundle of rope. Burnshield took it with two hands and let the legionaries flutter back to the ground.

“This!” Burnshield held the box over her head. “Is their dishonor and our cause for revenge! Our cause to drive our fury into their hearts and burn them hollow!” She waved the wooden box again.

“What is it, Kommandant?!” A soldier raised a fist and shouted from the mass of troops. “Yes, what is it!” A few more echoed in varying words.

Burnshield let the calls ring out, keeping the box held high as she surveyed her army. “I shall show you!” She shouted and placed the box on the crate she was standing on. With one firm swing, she dug her claws under the lid and wretched it up. With the lid thrown to the side, she reached down, and gently grabbed whatever was inside.

From the box, she withdrew the cleanly severed, dead head of a hethgir. Her plumage was stained around the cut where her head had once connected to her neck. The soldiers gasped and cawed at the sight before Burnshield shouted for silence. She kept the head in front of her, cradled in her hands with the face pointing forward for all to see.

“This is all that remains of Steeltongue, our chief envoy to the damnable Pelekkers! An envoy, delivering unto them an offer and bearing only a letter and her sword at her hip! This is your countryman, legionaries, cut down!”

The gathered troop began to jeer and curse and Sparkfire found herself doing the same.
She knew nothing of the Pelekkers but their horses and now their dishonor. That was all that mattered now. Burnshield shouted over the crowd. She pointed to another set of soldiers and they moved to work at the ropes on a previously unremarkable covered wagon. By the makeshift stage. They threw the canvas off and presented a half dozen other heads. “And these! These are the rest of the envoys sent to them, soldiers!” The crowd was renewed in its anger. Burnshield let them stew again, watching their anger build itself as they fed into each other. It took a few minutes to silence them again.

The envoy’s head still in her hands, she spoke to the crowd again. “They are a people of dishonor who must be brought to heel as you bring a dog that bites to heel. We have now not a right but an obligation to crush them, each and everyone one, until they bow to honor and respect! If they do not after we cut them to pieces, then our fires will burn them to nothing but ashes, to be forgotten by the gods above and the mortals below!” The legionaries cheered in agreement. “We will march without delay on their city and extract justice!” Burnshield told them. “Our fastest rider will be sent back to Stella to inform our Grandus and report this dishonor, and with it our assured victory. The next messenger sent to her will be you many thousands with the riches, grain, and heads of those who have killed our own!”

The remainder of the morning was spent breaking camp, sharpening swords, and making weights for shields. When the time came, the Pelekkers would charge their heavy horses into their line. With enough sharpened steel and armor, they would break and be cut down. That was something to aspire to however. Before they could meet the damnable Pelekkers on the field they had to get to the field or if they declined, to surround their city and burn it. The day, and likely a few more, were to be spent marching southward in the growing heat of this country.

The King
By the end of what I’ve recounted thus far, it was nothing more than a typical summer evening. The hours before had faded like the dying sunlight, as the sun brandished its last triumphant glow before darkness could claim its inevitable victory. I slowed to ponder the events of that day for a brief moment, but still I began to tread my way through the dry ground of the now-empty courtyard.

To say that I remained unshaken by what had occurred—both in the courtyard and by the nightmares that walked the labyrinthine catacombs—would be as unbelievable as the events themselves. Yet I have recounted the truth, and nothing but. In a way, it is also true that my mind was undisturbed, that I was untroubled by my intimacy with death. It had gripped me, no doubt, but so had something greater. I pressed forward, I thought, because of Dareia. Now I no longer knew what pressed me.

Nevertheless, my single desire remained. At last, I had arrived at the Blue Palace, and it was nothing like the dreams of past or future, though it was also different from how I had expected it. The fog had dissipated, and the graves had turned to flowerbeds. The tree, once decayed, now stood pure; its leaves, painted azure, were traversed by birds like fish swimming through the ocean. From the wind came a gentle ripple among the leaves, loosening some which drifted down and gathered across the ground like puddles. Walking along a limestone path, blue pillars lined its sides, reflecting the faint light and intensifying it, so that, on the ground, a map of the stars was projected. Among the constellations I floated, remembering the starry-eyed creatures that I had faced not moments before.

But my next encounters would be far simpler, more real than the esoteric, and would hold much greater consequence for myself, the prince of Kerem, than pitiable ghosts. An unmistakable revelry came from just ahead. Drawn to it like a starved beast, I paused no longer.

✱

The throne hall was less a hall and more of a rectangular courtyard. A narrow pond split it down the middle, and nobles gathered to its sides, mingling while sentries stood backed against the water. Across from the door rose a raised platform, and beyond that, a sandstone throne. The throne itself sat vacant, yet men in garish colors clung to it as rats to a corpse. A gradient had formed from one end of the courtyard to the other; at the far side, there seemed to be none truly highborn at all, though some were accompanied by servants, often marked by the whip. I stood among them, attracting little more than fleeting glances.

I did not know of the requirements for entry, but they appeared to set a low standard. I began to wonder whether the king would appear at all, or if he had already, and that now a subordinate would receive his subjects in his stead. Most of all, I questioned why such cretins were allowed in earshot of the throne, much less on palace grounds. They would’ve been better off in the slums they crawled out from.

The atmosphere of the hall was not helped by the presence of soldiers. Not the kind who do as they’re told, and not the kind who stand quietly awaiting their next command as did the sentries against the pond, but the dog-like aristocrats who pretend to rule themselves despite existing for no greater purpose than to fight. They were the frontier-men from the city (or, more accurately, their commanders, though there was little difference between them) and they seemed just as likely to maul their urbanized counterparts as they were to maul the paupers of the lower city.

The good company of Rem could not save me. Though I did not know their names or their stations, priests and mystics were both waiting among the crowd and standing upon the throne’s platform. Rem must have known them, and some must have known him, for he first attempted to cover his face, before realizing it would only make him stand out further. He excused himself to the farthest reaches of the room, and I, wishing to keep as short a distance between myself and the throne as possible, did not follow.

Just ahead, a stunted man with the grin of a petty landowner was rousing another—much more unfortunate looking—man, and I, wishing to solve the question of the throne’s vacancy, interrupted him to ask how I might obtain an audience. My question roused them both, perhaps as I should have expected, though it served me all the same. He took my words to mean that I wished to offer tribute, and quipped that I was the reason for his majesty’s absence.

“He has not shown, then?”

“He’s always late to these things,” he said, lowering his voice. “Now don’t go spreading this around, but he thinks he’s cursed, see,” he spoke in a half-whisper, but in his excitement he was much louder than I think he realized. “And curses don’t just come and go on their own—someone’s out to get him. Look up there,” He pointed vaguely in the direction of the throne. “There’s enough doctors and priests up there to raise an army from the dead, not that he could raise one from the living!” He attempted to compose himself again, the man who I assumed to be his servant cackled beside him.

“That’s all very good,” I said. “But I must speak with him once he arrives.”

“Speak with him?” He became loud again. “It would be the last time, to him or anybody. What do you even want, anyway? Money?” He rummaged around before handing me a bronze coin bearing a face not dissimilar to my own. “I know this is more than you’ve ever seen,” he said. “But don’t get starstruck just yet, boy!”

He continued his ill-bred rambling as I contemplated what had already been said. I am embarrassed to admit that I had not planned further than my audience, nor of what I would even say; it was true, I realized, that my faith in rules had little influence over their execution. I had come to argue laws with the lawmaker, and there was not a soul who would take the side of a scorned prince while in the company of their king.

“So what do you say? You can have five—no, seven percent of whatever you collect. You look like a man that’s fond of the thrill—my, I might even say that your robe looks dyed with blood! Though,” He became truly quiet for the first time. “I’d prefer if you didn’t kill anyone.”

“I’ve never killed a person.”

“Great!” I wasn't sure what he thought I had agreed to, and I don't think he was either. “Now be a smart boy. Look.” He grabbed me by the shoulder as firmly as a man of his stature could and ushered my attention to the end of the courtyard. For a time there was nothing. Those nearest us continued to mingle, but the nobles ahead had stiffened—the eccentrics who surrounded the throne squawked at each other for a while longer, until the whole garden was deafened by a jolting thunder.

It continued for such a time that I had to cover my ears. The blows were swift but accelerated still; the floor trembled, and they rose through me as if to replace the beating of my heart. The pond had become a roaring ocean; the water splashed so abundantly at the sentries’ feet that they began to distance themselves from it. In doing so, they pushed at those around them, and many fell from their feet. It was not until the sky had parted to reveal the evening sun—bathing us in crimson—that the king appeared before us. The drums continued at a pace far faster than he, and did not cease until he was seated. Then all went silent—although if there had been a sound, I would not have heard it; the ringing of my ears was perhaps louder than the drums.

The dwarf jerked my shoulder, and I knew that he wished me to kneel—further in the room, all had done so, but most around us had not. At once, a man bellowed: “His Majesty, King Neferkamin!” Followed by a long list of titles, which made it impossible to remember any single one. Once he finished we rose again, and I saw that the king’s throne had narrowly escaped the sunlight.

Chapter 3; part 1

The others had held mixed reactions to Sobutai’s suggestion; to seek out the aid of the Siban and Mirgen bands to form an alliance. This alliance would then strike the Dhugar band and rescue the Dhorva raqan and other prisoners taken in their treacherous raid. Alliances among the various dhorva bands were not unheard of, but they were often temporary and fleeting affairs. Even the Dhugar had once been an ally once, though this was a great many years before Sobutai’s time. Once they had all been something more.

Sobutai had hopes of changing that. Something more was what the splintered, roaming bands needed. His true goal was to build a more lasting alliance. He had not shared that part with the others, not yet. Those details could wait should they succeed. For now, the immediate goal was aid against the Dhugar. Then he could build upon that group effort.

Sobutai led a group of his friends; Khoram, Taibatur, and Gera. Okin was also with them, representing the other elders of the Dhorva. A small retinue rounded out their group. He had not wanted to bring too large a group, less his intentions be misunderstood. It was also more polite, as he would be a guest of the Siban. It was, therefore, proper to rely on their defense once among them.

“You are confident they will listen?” asked Khoram. Sobutai’s arhim rode beside him in their little retinue. He turned his yellow-scaled neck and tilted his head to steady his left eye on Sobutai, a common gesture to focus ones attention on a singular item or person. It was a piercing gaze meant to show one was studying or listening carefully, or to display curiosity in more benign moments.

This time the gesture unnerved Sobutai a little. He considered that it was because he was so uncertain himself in the course of action he had provided and now led them on. As the idea had been his, it was decided that Sobutai would take the lead role in the attempt to rally the Siban and Mergen to their side. Sobutai tried his best to not allow his own doubts to manifest on his features. He instead turned his attention to Dogal. The little byatluu sat on a perch that extended up and forward from the saddle. It was more interested in their surroundings than in their conversation.

“I have met Torgun before”, said Sobutai. “In my experiences with him, he was always open to ideas.”

“That was some time ago.” noted Khoram. “Much could have changed.”

“Perhaps” Sobutai said.

“Nor does it answer my question.” Khoram added.

“Yes, I am confident he will help us.” Sobutai said.

“And the Mergen?”

Sobutai hesitated. He knew Khoram would notice. It would not help to be dishonest, least of all to his arhim. “That I am, admittedly, less certain of. If it were Jaliqai and her decision, then I would be more certain.”

“But she does not lead the Mergen. Irek does.” noted Khoram. He let his gaze slip from Sobutai, looking to their surroundings. Very little changed quickly in this part of the endless grasslands. The odds of an ambush out here were slim. Though the grass grew tall, there were risks of lying in wait within their stalks. The pathways kept away from the various and sporadic groupings of trees to avoid the possibility of hiding enemies. “Irek is wary, much more cautious.”

“He also values our ways and will be angered by the blatant violation of our norms by the Dhugar. We shall appeal to his traditional views, where beneficial.” said Sobutai.

“I hope it will be enough to move the old rock.” said Khoram

“He has agreed to meet us alongside the Siban. That is cause for being hopeful.” said Sobutai.

Khoram grunted, acknowledging the point.

Their small caravan continued along the path into Siban territory which bordered their own Dhorva lands. While there were often some disagreements on boundaries which were not always so firmly set, there were general ideas and occasional markers used. The Siban often built simple totems along points at the edges of their lands. These usually were carved to depict various spirits and deities. As the Siban shared a similar set of beliefs, the totem they had just passed was carved with a great depiction of Sahnra, the lord of the eternal sky, here in the guise of a great vulture, one of the many animals associated with the dhorva god. The Mergen lands lay further to the east and so they had agreed to meet them within Siban territory.

They were met by the patrol of a Siban war party soon after passing the totem and entering the Siban domain. Scouts placed in one of the cropping of great baobab a ways off the path had likely seen them and signaled to the party. Their travel continued through the grasslands only slowing when a herd of bolgdumlari crossed the path. They took care to avoid alarming the herd. While normally docile, bolgdumlari could be fierce if panicked or if they felt threatened, flailing their cudgel-like tails with great strength. Their hides were covered in long arrays of sharp spikes. Domesticated ones were sometimes raised to guard settlements.

The Siban main encampment soon became visible on the horizon. It was visible from a long way, even though the Siban had built it among several cropping of baobab and towering acacia trees. Much like the Dhorva camp, it spread out in a circle, with its grand yurt in the center before an open circular plaza. Once they had reached the grand yurt, their party dismounted.

A number of horses and some ulan were already tethered near the yurt and under guard. The ulan stood out among the horses, being bipedal beasts with long, powerful legs ideal for running with speed over short distances, though they lacked the long distance stamina of horses. Two large wings with clawed hands curled by their sides. Its angular head held a mouth of sharp razor teeth. Their scaly hides were greatly adorned in colorful feathers from the head to the end of their long, narrow tail.

“It seems Irek and his Mergen are here before us.” said Sobutai, nodding his head in gesture toward the ulan. The creatures were more common along the edges of the grasslands, nearer to the jungles where other varieties resided. Only the Mergen had any among the three bands present today, acquired in trade with more distant bands.

Khoram turned his gaze to the ulan. “They made quick time.”

“Or perhaps he had other reasons to meet with the Siban?” said Gera as she walked up alongside them. The others of their party dismounted and followed.

“Perhaps. Let us find out.” Sobutai said as one of their escorts led them to the grand yurt.

Razshanish Ancient Slate: Korgal the Withered

Look to the falling ash. It is the only thing left of the open sky.

Korgal remembers when the world was wide, before the great withering. My kin were the lords of the golden grass.
But the steppe master gave us a heavy lie. He spoke of riches and fame, but his true gift was our suffering
in the dark. The hunters were broken in the fight. Their proud mounts were slaughtered, their
blood soaked into the earth that the tribes loved. Korgal and his people were chased away,
pushed like frightened beasts into the dead lands of the east.

The blessed world was taken from us. There was only dust and the bitter taste of blood. A great hunger
settled into Korgal’s bones. It was a heavy, cruel thing. We ate our beloved companions, we cracked
the dry bones of the dead to find nothing inside. Our stomachs were empty, and the children forgot
how to weep. The hunger made ghosts of Korgal’s people.

In that land of death, the great elders failed us. They sat in the grey dirt, old men shivering in their own fear.
They had no wisdom to give, only spent whispers. They argued with the wind. They bickered like starving
predators over a dry carcass, wishing our kin had stayed to die on the rivermen’s swords. The courage was
gone. The eyes of Dhulgari did not look to the Sky-Father. The gods have forsaken us. Korgal walked among dying people,
dragging heavy feet into the shadow of the great rocks.

The mountains were waiting patiently. They were not made for men. They were towering teeth of stone,
cold and hateful. A terrible ghost chased the remnants of the wild hunt. The wind pushed my brothers and sisters
off the narrow paths, and the mist swallowed them without a sound. Korgal did not mourn them. Korgal
was too tired. The cold chewed on my fingers and turned my blood to ice. Korgal was a miserable thing,
freezing against the bare rock, dreaming of a fiery sun that could never surmount such heights.

It was in that cruel place that they found the dark core. Mount of the Black Raven, Kroghna-Val.
It did not breathe the biting mountain air - it breathed a thick, warm sickness. Korgal does not remember
the cries, only that a young one climbed the dark gap. He only wanted to find dry moss. But the
shadows reached out. There was no monster to see, no beasts to fight. Just a deep, terrible thrumming.
The boy was swallowed by the dark. One moment he was there, and then the abyss drank him.

The Elders did not cry out in anger. They did not raise their enchantments. Instead, a sickly wonder
crept into their eyes and their minds. They felt the warmth of the Krogha-Val, and it made servants
of them. Great fear of death made them forget the pride of the steppe. They crawled on their
knees oblivious, into the black void.

They found a slumbering shadow down in the deep. They found it. They found Ogh-Zhuron. The
weaver of pitch. The Elders gave away the souls of the tribes. They traded the sky for the shadowflame.
They whispered the names of their kin to the deep thing, enslaving us all to the will of the alien dominator.

And then the world shattered.

The mountain screamed, a thing that tore the mind. The rocky titans blown apart. A pillar of black fire and
roaring smoke punched through the rock and broke the heavens. The ground shook until Korgal could not
stand. A terrible heat washed over the broken clans, and the sky died, buried under a falling rain of burning obsidian.

Korgal fell to the ashened sands, coughing on the poison. The smoke crept inside. A heavy, unbearable
feeling took hold of my body. Korgal’s spirit dried up like a dead leaf. My flesh grew harsh and grey, the
skin lost its bronzen glint. The wind, the free hunt and the sun - all died in my heart.

Out of the roaring fire returned the Elders. No longer frail, shivering men. They were tall, shrouded
and terrible, their bodies changed tremendously.They carried the symbols of doom, forged
in the shadows. The burned ones, razshanish - we were all burned. The dark lords ascended and brought
about the great doom. Korgal bowed the heavy head before arcane masters. My kin were now destined to take the
skies and the lands below. Now, Korgal knew only the power of the New God and the scorching
wills of its champions. The memory of galloping hooves fades into nothingness. The old world is dead.
A dusty tomb across the endless plains.

And in the night, Korgal feasts on the weak.

Ancient Dzhulgari Songs: King Tokala

In the openess of the great plain,
There was a king upon the grass.
He lived a bright and famous life.
His name was Tokala the Usurper.
His chair was a wooden throne on the mound.
His house was made of painted leather.
His roof was the wide blue sky.
His walls were the blowing wind.

The grass was very tall. It could hide a werebeast.
It moved softly in the night.
Here sat the king of the fast runners.
He wore thick armor on his body.
A long hunting spear lay by his side.
The weapon of the hunt. The stone tip was red with blood.
He smelled of sweat, dirt, and rain.
He was a king of riders. He had no fear.
He was a man made of earth and bone.

Around him stood the men of the tribe.
They were not quiet, soft men.
They did not walk with small steps.
They were loud, like a storm in the sky.
They did not bow their heads to the dirt.
They stood as tall as mountains before their king.
They wore the heavy skins of dead predators.
They wore belts made of stolen gold.
They took the gold from dead city men.

At Tokala’s right side sat Kasa.
She was his first and best wife.
She was calm like a cold river stone.
She did not wear soft city cloth.
She wore strong armor.
It was scratched by the claws of monsters.
Her hands were used to struggles.
She kept a long bone-knife on her lap.
She poured sour wine into a horn.
She watched the dark night with sharp eyes.

At Tokala’s left side sat the wise men.
They were the ones who read the bones.
They wore the skulls of dead birds on their heads.
They shook rattles made of dry skulls.
They threw bones into the hot fire.
They watched them crack in the heat.
They listened to what the smoke said.
They spoke the names of dead fathers.
They sang old, slow songs to the stars.

Past the fire sat the best fighters.
The men covered in white scars.
They passed dead men's tales from head to head.
They were full of sour thpughts.
They drank to the beasts that ran the fastest.
They talked about the spears they had broken.
They laughed with big yellow teeth.
They hit their big chests with heavy hands.
They were happy to be alive and strong.

The feast was loud and full of meat.
A hundred aminals cooked on the open fire.
Hot tallow dropped into the flames and hissed.
The men tore the meat off the bone.
They wiped the hot grease on their faces.
There were no soft beds or silver plates.
They only had bone knives and hungry mouths.
They ate like wild dogs under the moon.

But King Tokala did not eat the meat.
He looked to the place where the sun goes down.
He heard the wind blowing from the west.
He dreamnt the distant dreams of the great king.
The great king had sent his men.
They brought gold in a heavy boxes.
They asked the free tribe to kneel down.
They asked them to fight behind high stone walls.

King Tokala kicked the wooden box.
The yellow coins fell out into the dirt.
His heart was captured by heavy bribes.
He wanted riches and the wine.
He spoke with a loud, deep voice:
"We have been noticed by the king.
Go tell the craven in their high houses.
The men of the wild hunt are coming to spill blood.
In the name of great king. We ride to fight."

His men yelled with a great noise.
A thousand swords came out in the dark.
They hit their shields with their fists.
They screamed a loud war cry.
The distant men shook with great fear.
The tribe swore to ride to the west.
They swore to cast down the stone houses to the ground.
They swore to the dirt and the sun.
They swore to slay rivermen.

Now King Tokala is only dry dust.
His leather tent is gone in the dirt.
His strong fighters are lost in the high ground.
They search for food between sharp rocks all day.
The open sky is gone forever.
No one rides beasts in the wind anymore.
But sometimes, in the thick black smoke.
The old men close their tired eyes.
They remember King Tokala.

Monsters, Corruption, Truth - I

The morning started much as the many before it, cool and damp mist rolling against the stone bricks she sheltered within. Wearily she rose, stretching a bit before donning her attire for the day, simple but thick cloth woven together from the beasts that they shepherded on the foothills. While pleasantly soft, it effectively protected her like ichcahuipilli did for the warriors from the Empire, one of the many edges that kept her alive. That kept her people alive. Life around the ruins of Tulluk was far from easy, but it was theirs. From the crimson rain that corrupted to the monsters that hungered, the people of this land found themselves challenged at every step they survived long enough to take. Yet, in the end, they were still there.

Brushing her hair wasn’t too challenging, the rich crimson locks naturally silky. Her parents had praised it as a blessing from the Mother of Swarms, though they had struggled braiding it as much as she did now. It was necessary, despite the time it took, both to keep it out of her way for day to day chores as well as to hold onto the silver charms that helped protect her. The trend continued with her selection of jewelry, thin chains of moonlight holding an opal against her collarbone, silvery rings with crudely imprinted runes, some prayers, other curses. At one point such a display would’ve been purely a luxury for the wealthy. Now it was as much a part of survival as everything else, idle facets of society turned to fit the needs of its people. She often wondered what life must have been like before to promote such bountiful excess, though given what it ultimately cost the people, it must have been exceptional.

At least she hoped it had. It seemed unbelievably cruel to imagine a people who would trade everything for mundane pleasures.

She looked to the iron hearth in the center of the room, full of ash and what glassy charcoal remained from the night before. She’d need to get more soon, though she could make use of what was left for breakfast. Holding out her hand, she felt warmth collect in her palm before the glass cracked and ignited. The hearth snapped for several minutes as the flames were renewed, pale green embers slowly gathering into a proper fire. Stepping away from the heat, she looked to one of the shelves grabbing a dented and worn pot. Breakfast was water and ground maize, the mixture slightly sweetened by honey. It wasn’t particularly flavorful, but it was simple and filling. Filling enough to serve her for the day, at least until she found something more substantial.

There were a few choices to be made when it came to scavenging, both in town and around it. One always needed food, though whether she wanted to hunt it or wanted to try and barter for it being the main choice. The clans to the south were too hostile now to really justify trying to reason with them, and the north was mostly blocked off by vast serpents drunk off the blood of others. She could always chance that someone might make it through, but even if they did and were friendly, it was unlikely they’d be looking to haul out much on their venture back out. At least not in the volume that would make them eager to trade their food with her. Which left scavenging or hunting for food more directly, the latter of which was more likely to actually net her anything to eat.

At substantial risk, of course.

She pulled up the hood of her cloak and set out, careful footfalls avoiding the puddles between mossy cobblestones. It was easy to disappear into the banks of mist rolling through the streets, or to dip into the shadows of the alleyways, the ruined urbanscape a vast maze that excelled at hiding all that within. The streets glimmered in the muted sunlight with all manner of worthless trinkets, golden coins and cracked gemstones. Shimmering pearls and cracked ceramics. Outsiders would often get overwhelmed by the display and try to collect them for some reason, though that only served to draw in the monsters that resided here. She didn’t quite understand it, but they were drawn to gold like vultures to carrion. Maybe it was the noise, or maybe it was the nature of the luxuries themselves. All she knew for certain was that one did not carry that which could not be imbued with the marks of the ancients and the arcana that stemmed with it. Not unless they wished to draw attention to themselves.

Or wished to set a trap.

She was deliberate in her interactions with the coins, gingerly picking up one at a time and setting them on a table in what she presumed to be a shop of some kind. There were broken round tables surrounded by mildew ridden cushions, and a large bar separating it from what was probably a kitchen. While it was as damaged and disheveled as anywhere else, this place lacked the scent of decay or the signs of dried blood that haunted other sites, meaning it was safer for her to work here. Blood was a vastly more potent lure than gold, but it often was the path from which the sickness spread. Corrupted blood when touched could pass on its sickness to the soul of another, and some said it could spread upon the air in large enough quantities. When she was younger she wore a mask, but after she was joined to the Moon she had earned safety from bad air. It didn’t mean she liked to risk dried blood more than she needed to, however, and this shop was one of many places she liked to hunt from. Most of the time she would set the lure out in the street to draw in many creatures at once and set them upon one another. But those were often more akin to people, and while it was debatably safe to consume their flesh, she preferred not to.

But setting the trap in here would attract rodents, and those would be perfect for eating.

Once a dozen or so coins of various sizes were piled together, she drew back to the bar and sat upon it, taking a breath and slowing her breathing. Her mind focused itself, at first thinking about the room around her, about the street beyond. About the slow drips of water, the gentle push of the air, about the creaks of ancient lumber and masonry steadily shifting over time. But as her mind calmed, it began to think of nothing, clearing itself out of any potential distractions. She became just the same, nothing, an absence that no beast would think to recognize. She had no idea how long she watched and waited, only that eventually something would shuffle over the rotten pile that had once been a front door. The creature was only about half her size, coated in short brown fur. It was almost barrel-like in many respects, five sets of mismatched limbs slowly bringing the waddling creature forward towards the table. It nudged the table a couple times as it attempted to nose the pile, before a long amphibian tongue slipped out of what should’ve been an eye and scooped up the coins. There was a soft clicking noise from the creature’s throat, a sickly language she knew to be broadly shared across the monsters, beast and man alike. It was too quiet for it to be calling out to someone else nearby, leading her to believe it was alone. She closed her eyes, focusing on her heart beat as the seconds dragged into moments.

When her eyes opened again, the creature was sprawled out on the floor, rich crimson blood spreading out across the floor. Swift and silent, she drew near and withdrew a small knife to begin stripping the creature. There were vastly easier ways to find death if she had been foolish enough to drag the creature back to her shelter. Carving the meat away into neat strips, she placed them on woven cloth which was folded over each layer. When she was done the dark cloth was then wrapped in an additional layer, this one treated to keep the blood from leaving a trail. Haste was important at this stage, the sounds of additional clicking already echoing down the streets outside. Climbing out one of the broken windows, she scurried away, leaving the remains as the perfect distraction for whatever had been drawn in.

She ignored the distant roars and gnashing as she moved towards one of the formerly affluent districts, the tall stone manors standing almost defiantly amidst the ruin. There were always more intelligent monsters within, but their basements often stored the glass she needed to burn. Generally there were fewer creatures, or at least they wouldn’t notice her right away. But she felt something off almost immediately, and instead ducked into an overgrown hedge as she heard the sounds of clicking and dragging. The paranoia was immediately rewarded as the warped forms of two hethgir were dragging the still struggling form of another survivor, a fellow human if she wasn’t mistaken. She had seen plenty of monsters slaughter others, but never had she seen them take one alive. Neither had she seen the creature they were bringing their catch to, something so inhuman she struggled to form actual details upon its shape. Its body was gaunt and bloated, too many limbs reaching out with skin pressed tightly against sinew. There were no visible eyes, nor was there a clear face, the head more like a bundle of thorns wrapped around a single menacing opening. Two sets of bat-like wings flapped across its back idly as it crawled towards the monsters, reaching out for their prisoner. She tried to ignore the screams, she tried to flee, but something held her in place. Fear, shock, or perhaps morbid curiosity.

The creature pulled the human towards the maw, spiny vines spooling forward before violently lashing out.

The crunch that the body made as it fell was wet and unsettling, but the snaps that followed were outright sickening. She watched as the victim’s limbs stretched and expanded, its form becoming more and more like the other beasts.

She had heard that there had been a great catastrophe, not that there was a growing threat. That these monsters were aimless, guided only by hunger.

In that instant she did the only thing she could think of.

“These monsters, you are certain they can be slain?” Atltochtli had been listening with a growing furrow in his brow, the hethgir thoroughly displeased with all that he was hearing. Talluk, a distant trade colony that had become deeply isolated through time and circumstance. A center of learning and discovery. Now a den for monsters, monsters who seemed to be spreading.

Monsters who were potentially a threat to his people now. He had sworn to bring peace to the cities and now he was considering calling them back to conflict once more. What was right was obviously a factor to consider, but this could also be a way to remove the potential threat to his people before it could spread to them. And before the Eklakam could get there first and find a way to weapon these things against his people.

“They are difficult, but they can bleed. They can die.” Her voice was quiet, clearly unused to speaking in general, and definitely strained by the story thus far.

“Then they will.”

Reprisal

On a day like any other, two weeks after ambush that delivered a stinging blow to the pride of the Qirinii raiders, the sun began to set over Saekhuri, painting the river in shades of copper and gold. But the sun did not set silently this day. Horns sounded from the towers of the Citadel. Their low, resonant calls echoed across the city, drawing the attention of all who heard them. The markets fell silent. The workers in the canals straightened and looked up. The children stopped their playing and turned toward the great walls where the sound had come from. A proclamation was to be read, and the people gathered in the courtyards and the squares, pressing close to hear the words that would shape the weeks to come.

The words rolled forth from the citadel, amplified by the natural shape of the land - with the help of a cadre of mages who practiced for just this type of event. The words echoed from the walls of the buildings of the city and carried beyond the canals.

I, Asal, Daughter of Iskandar, Keeper of the Onyx Throne, Ruler of the Domain of Seven Rivers, Protector of the Faithful, Guardian of the Delta, do hereby make known:

I have heard of the suffering in the northern plains. I have heard of the violence that has taken root there, the chaos that has gripped the villages, the fear that stalks the children by night. I have heard of the warlords who have risen among the people, false leaders who prey upon weakness and sacrifice safety for ambition.

This is not the fault of the villagers. They are not to blame for the darkness that has fallen upon them. They have been led astray by those who claim to speak for them, men who have filled their ears with lies and their hands with weapons meant for war, not for protection. They have been turned against their neighbors. They have been turned against the empire that has long sheltered them. Their hearts have been filled with fear and their fields with blood.

I have seen this, and my heart is heavy. I have long considered the people of the northern plains to be part of my family, for the empire is a family, and no member of that family should be left to suffer alone. I have therefore ordered our forces to march north to secure and protect the villages there. They will stand between the people and those who would do them harm, to restore order and to bring peace to their lands.

They will arrive in the northern villages within the month. Any village that welcomes our forces shall be spared the burden of tribute for two full seasons. Any village that resists shall be assumed to have been taken by the warlords and shall be treated as such.

It is my fervent wish, as it is the wish of all those in the Empire, that the north be brought back into the fold of the empire where they belong, where they have always belonged.

Given under my hand and seal this day,
Asal, Daughter of Iskandar, Keeper of the Onyx Throne.

From an Old Dzhulgari Legend III

"Takmadyiaka of Krida II"

Loud was clamour when bloody storm met the weeping sky,
A thundering clash of wills where the river's edge ran red,
Forward pushed the bannermen of Krida, unafraid of the hard walls.
Amid the warm fires stood Takmadyiaka, a Warrior Queen of righteous fury,
Her golden banner pierced the fog, commanding the swords of Dzul Patoakota.

Then raised she the shining Anketoaou, sword's flame filling men with grand spirit,
A terrible light pierced the joyless shadows of Alephonos and his servants,
It scorched the faceless foes, returning them to the cold mud,
A harvest of ash and sorrow collected by the Warrior Queen.
For Tamir the All-Father favoured the joy of their wondrous hunt,
And heartfelt thrumming of war consumed the expanses of the emerald domain.

By her side was Radendokhadeidou, true to his spirited oath,
Chief's blade singing the whistling songs of the steppe born kin.
He wore the wild armor of Khaalwam, a gorgeous gift of the Mound King,
No thought of death possessed him, only the sun-graced avatar's favor,
To claim and hoard treasures plentiful, for it was deserved in the blood of his foes,
Well he defended the flanks of the amber circle, a stalwart guardian.

Yet grim was the toll, for the god of war was cruel,
Alephonos sent his iron slaves upon the brave warriors of Dzuhlga,
A dark wind that seized the breath of many a proud mother’s son.
Rings shattered like brittle twigs, and brave huntsmen sent to the All-Father’s sky,
As tarnished executioners of the velveted king mounted the walls, the brave assailants fell lifeless,
Heavy was the burden of Krida, witnessing the struggle of the golden hosts.

But unmatched under the all stretching clouds was the legendary Warrior Queen,
Takmadyiaka let loose the cry of Yirkhoun, much feared in its fury,
And the unassailable mountain of stone shuddered at the fearsome sound.
Together with her graceful suitor, she broke the spiked gates of Therpol,
Driving the grey sentinels back to the inner chambers and the craven beyond mighty Adoron,
Shattered were the sad rivermen, the joyless lords's hatred laid them low in their faith.

Now stood at the ruins of the sapphire lord's citadel,
Where the ghosts of Atorine wept over wasted souls and broken bones.
Radendokhadeidou, weary but joyful in his bronzen armor,
Gazed upon the fallen ruler, his spirit lifted far beyond the mortal coil.
Resting his blade upon the naked stones of the taken seat,
With heavy anticipation, words of profound measure he offered to the great Queen:

“Behold! The son of Atoros beat to submission by thy burning wrath,
And now, bathed in the warm blood of our fallen enemies, I earnestly proclaim this.
No lesser chieftain shalth I serve, nor seek comfort in quiet places of peace,
For my heart is forever devoted to the sun favoured champion of the spirited goddess.
Speak unto me, O Queen of Krida, does the promise hold in the light of victory?
Shall we ride as one unto the grand expanses exalted under honey and gold?”

Warrior Queen leaned upon the Anketoaou, its flame now a quiet ember,
Her face smeared with the ash of conquest and the cold tears of the fallen.
And to her gracious stature, a smile of quiet sovereignty and secluded longing she freely gave:

“Well spoken are thy words, hero hardy and fierce in this merciless trial,
For thou hast proven thy worth where broken spears shattered in pain.
We shalth ride together to Khadruul, the generous King of the wooden city,
And in his hall surrounded in light and splendor,
Our victory shall be celebrated by all.
Take my hand, noble son of the steppe, and bear well henceforward
Love and happiness I give thee, for our triumphs are carried forth by the endless winds.”

Silence fell upon the still fields of Erphosos, save for the ravens’ feast,
And the price was heavy, a legend carved in the flesh of the miserable.
Yet first at the fallen gate stood Takmadyiaka and Radendokhadeidou,
Earning the title of Than’a Akaulul to be sung in the Mounted City.
There, amidst the gold flashing fires of victory, she looked upon him,
Fulfilling the words measured, earthjoys bestowed upon her chosen equal.

And at the hunting lodge grander than Nakapataoka's valleys, the steppe sons hailed again,
Grand Khadruul, master of the richest realm, rejoiced for the riders of Krida.
For the bond new was forged upon their triumphs in the fray,
Witness to the sky father and earth mother, glorious ancestors smiled,
And long in the land of the conquerors ruled the Warrior Queen,
A beacon of glory in the boundless plains, eternal in the minds of enterprising men.

The Wandering Hound of the Blood Queen, Chapter 3

By nightfall they had lost the beast, or the beast had lost interest. There was little difference in the pride of those who were survivors.

They made camp in a hollow beneath old roots of the mangroves, electing to stay near waters to avoid an instant death in a baptism of fire, near to where the soil was damp enough to resist stray embers. Ssa'Ket lay shuddering, legs ruined from burns and heat, breath coming in clicking little pulls through clenched teeth, jaw shivering like he was dropped in a snow capped mountain. The burns were ugly things, not clean fire burns, but black and clinging splotches where tar had bitten into scale and refused to fully leave, making flesh beneath boil in a natural clay pot of his own body. Ya'Xochi scraped what she could away with a heated knife, though Ssa'Ket fainted before she finished the first leg.

"He will lose them," Chi'Kalla said, though her voice made clear she wished to be wrong. Ya'Xochi did not answer. Ki'Chtal sat with his back against the root wall, watching Ssa'Ket tremble. The feeling from the Mournshell encounter returned, that strange tightness beneath the breastbone, only now it came with teeth. He did not like seeing a useful life unmade by a mistake, did not like that the Firewyrm had not been angry. Anger could be understood, cruelty answered. This had been neither, the beast had burned them the way rain drowned ants in a footprint. A balance of size and indifference.

Near dawn, they discovered the small white things. At first Ki'Chtal thought them to be grubs, clustered beneath the underside of a rotting log near Ssa'Ket's bedding. Ya'Xochi nearly crushed them, thinking them carrion worms drawn by the smell of burned flesh, but the worms did not crawl toward rot instead they crawled toward heat. Each one was no longer than a claw joint, pale, soft, with faint gold pulsing through its translucent body. They gathered near the edge of Ssa'Ket's ruined leg and began to tremble.

"Move them away," Chi'Kalla said and Ya'Xochi lifted one with the tip of her knife.

The creature burst.

Not in gore, but in a bead of warm yellow fluid that steamed faintly on the blade. Ya'Xochi sniffed it, frowned, and touched the smallest amount to a strip of burned bark and the bark softened. Not healed, for bark was dead once cut, but softened, wetting as if sap had returned to it for one confused breath.

The old priestess looked at Ssa'Ket.

"No," Chi'Kalla said immediately. "You cannot know."

"No," Ya'Xochi agreed. "I cannot." Then she pressed the flat of the blade to the edge of Ssa'Ket's burn, he woke with a hiss, then stopped.

The wound did not close, no miracle wrapped itself around his leg, nor godly light poured down to make mockery of pain. The blackened edges loosened, angry swelling eased and fresh blood, dark and sluggish, began to bead where before the flesh had been cooked too dry to weep.

Ya'Xochi stared for a long time, then she began gathering the worms with both hands.

By midday, they had found more. Not only worms, but small flora and smaller fauna, hidden around the edges of Firewyrm country as if the land itself had seeded them in the shadow of its own personal biological furnace. Pale moss growing on stones still warm from old burns, its inner surface slick with a cooling jellied slime that eased swelling and drew poisoned rot from shallow wounds. Little red backed lizards that licked at damaged bark, leaving behind saliva that sealed splits that would otherwise succumb to infections that oft plagued plant life. Moths with needle thin wings that laid eggs in ash beds, their thick discarded cocoon silk binding flesh better than stitches if softened in water. Root clusters beneath burned trees that stored rain in thick, mineral rich bulbs, bitter to taste but strong enough to keep fever from taking hold.

It would seem that everywhere the Firewyrm passed, these small things followed. Though not immediately and certainly not in some obedient procession, but in time. The beast burned paths through the forest, opened the canopy like a hot knife through butter, killed the old and slow things that ponderously walked the floor, cracked seed shells that would not have broken in ordinary heat, drove lesser predators away, left ash, warmth and ruined things behind it. Then came the small healers. The world mending around the wound, not erasing the Firewyrm's destruction, but refusing to let destruction have the final word.

Ki'Chtal watched a red-backed lizard crawl over Ssa'Ket's bandage and lick the edge of the wound with delicate hunger. The warrior slept and his breathing had steadied.

"Nature feeds the monster," Chi'Kalla said quietly, looking toward the tar darkened western horizon.

Ya'Xochi shook her head. "No. Nature survives the monster."

Ki'Chtal thought of the king then, not Tlit'Ki'Tchan as he must have looked on the steps, opened and begging, but as a weight placed upon the body of a nation. A great devouring thing, burning dens and swallowing daughters. Leaving ruined lives behind and calling the ruin sacred. Then he thought of Cit'Lali rising in the blood after him, thought of the mothers taking up arms and of the newly opened gates.

Perhaps Hexoatl, too, would need small healers in the shadow of its Firewyrm. Perhaps the queen's work would not be finished by the killing of one enormous beast.

On the bark slate, he carved for a long while.

Firewyrm: twenty four hands at shoulder. Near hundred hands full length. Twelve legs. Vestigial wings used for hiding, not sky. Swallows liquid tar. Keeps tar fluid inside furnace within. Ignites from throat spark. Cannot be challenged by common warband. Spears useless unless aimed at eyes, joints, inner mouth, or wing roots. Does not rage. Does not waste. Apex beast.

Then beneath that, with slower care:

Where Firewyrm walks, small healers gather. Worms with gold blood. Moss for burns. Lizards that seal flesh. Moth silk for wounds. Rain roots for fever. Land balances its terror. Do not burn all Firewyrm country. Do not kill all small things. Teach mothers. Teach healers. Teach queen.

He paused, claw tip resting in the bark.

Then he added:

The great destroyer reveals the hidden menders.

For three more days, they did not pursue the Firewyrm as fools pursue glory. They circled its territory. They marked tar pools and sleeping stones. They learned where the canopy thinned from old burn paths and where new growth came brightest in the ash. Twice they saw the great beast at distance, once as a black ridge moving through morning fog, once as a wall of leaves that walked against the wind. They did not throw spears. They did not roar challenge. The old songs could starve for all Ki'Chtal cared.

On the fourth day, they found what he had refused to return without.

The thing lay in a basin of black stones, ringed by burned trees and new green growth, half hidden beneath the Firewyrm's own shed skin. Not an egg, not quite.

A body part of some sort, Ya'Xochi believed at first, vomited or shed when the beast molted some inner lining of its furnace organ. A heavy, veined sac the size of a shield, still warm, still pulsing faintly though detached from its maker. Around it clustered golden worms in such a number that the ground seemed to breathe. Moss grew in a ring where the heat touched stone. The air was bitter, medicinal,sharp with the promise of both fire and renewal.

Chi'Kalla stared at it with open revulsion.

"What is it?"

Ki'Chtal crouched before the thing, watching gold and black pulse beneath its membrane.

"Something, perhaps, worthy," he grumbled.

They did not take all of it. That was Ya'Xochi's command, and Ki'Chtal obeyed without insult. To steal the whole organ might kill whatever balance had gathered around it. Instead they cut portions with heated knives, sealed them in clay and resin, gathered the worms that had already burst and the moss that had grown thickest, took silk from empty cocoons and rain roots from beneath the ash. They left offerings not to gods, but to the forest itself: meat, clean water, and three carved stones marked with the sign of the Blood Queen. An offering to how the Great Plan had blessed them.

As they turned back at last toward Hexoatl, Ssa'Ket walked with a staff and both legs still beneath him. His stride was ugly, but it was also his own.

Behind them, somewhere in the tar-dark forest, the Firewyrm bellowed. The sound rolled through the trees, deep enough to stir water and vast enough to make every smaller living thing tremble in the wake of its resonance. But there was no pursuit in it, nor fury. No promise, only presence.

Ki'Chtal stopped and listened until the echo faded. To'Kran looked at him.

"Will the queen want it dead?"

Ki'Chtal thought of Cit'Lali's eyes in the perfumed chambers when last he saw her, of the command beneath the command given, a nation that had mistaken hunger for the only shape of destiny and the soul. He thought of fire and worms, tar and moss, ruin and mending. His mind, overburdened as those of his kind could handle, rested on thoughts of the Firewyrm walking its ancient paths, terrible and necessary, a moving disaster around which the forest had learned to grow medicines.

"No," he said at last. "Not yet."

Chi'Kalla's feathers tightened. "It could burn villages."

"Then we learn its roads."

"It could kill warriors."

"Then warriors learn humility."

"It is a monster."

Ki'Chtal turned his heavy head toward her. "So was the king."

No one spoke after that for some time.

They walked home beneath a canopy that seemed less hostile now. Not kinder, never kinder, but more willing to be read. Ki'Chtal carried the sealed organ flesh across his back, warm even through leather and bark and resin. Ya'Xochi carried the worm slurry in clay jars packed with moss. Chi'Kalla carried news that had grown stranger than victory. The others carried scars, samples, and the first true map of Firewyrm country ever made by hands loyal to the Blood Queen.

The forest closed behind them as if swallowing their footprints. Ahead, Hexoatl waited in the rawness of its newborn age, dens opened, throne bloodied, mothers armed, warriors uncertain what shape their purpose would take now that they could no longer hide behind the fat shadow of a dead king.

Ki'Chtal did not know what the queen would make of the Firewyrm. He did not know whether she would see a weapon, warning, sacred beast or a thing to be left alone until Hexoatl had grown wise enough to stand near it without being devoured.

He only knew what he had carved. The great destroyer reveals the hidden menders.

The Great Plan was not a mouth, or not only a mouth. It was root and ash, tar and rain, fire and the small golden blood that came after burning. It was the beast that broke the forest and the tiny lives that taught the forest how to close. If Hexoatl was to live beneath Cit'Lali Xo'Chi'Tl, if it was to become more than a throne washed clean only to be dirtied by another hunger, then it would need to learn the same lesson.

How to survive its monsters, to use what they revealed and to heal faster than it burned.