Rhaea

Ancient Razshanish Text: The Lament of the Crystal Thralls

Between the frozen peaks of mighty Valur,
Lies an unsung realm of frost and snow,
And there among the spectres of the old gods and the new,
Resides Horg-Kron and his enduring kin.
There, on the side of Yiridon’s summit,
Beneath the heavy earth - cold, merciless and harsh,
The troll-ilk danced their wicked dances,
Praying to the Nargash and Gargash for their continued aid,
For in the realm of ancient ghosts, Horg-Kron remained,
Strong, joyful, happy and determined,
To keep the fire of his tribe alive and burning still.

And in their joyful dancing and strange worship,
Under the guise of ugly idols made of stone,
The trollish brutes believed in their own splendor,
And in the silent safety of it all,
The heavy walls of old Yiridon offered shelter,
For under heaven, there was no other place for them to be,
To live, to laugh, to love and wonder,
To raise their bluish flock, for them to sleep,
There was no rest in wildish valleys,
Which fell long time to darkest powers,
That stretched across the Eastern Land.

The tribal fools, this trollish ilk,
With hopes and dreams beyond their minds,
They stayed in here, in this old prison,
Forgetting life, mad, starving and alone,
In mindless squalor perpetrating ill existence,
Like musty mold, they clung to stone,
Old, frail, forgotten and destined for oblivion,
Yet purplish chieftain did not waver,
Horg-Kron remained dull, strong and still
On throne of ice he sat unbroken,
With stories sweet and false he kept his ilk subservient.

And yet with time came troubles harsh and punishing,
Starvation, death, doom and greed.
For strongest brutes took all that mattered,
And left but meager scraps to others in the cold.
Horg-Kron the Giant of Norgrog, touched by a vague,
Fair spectre of good will, he ruled,
That those of higher power and position,
Should spread the last remaining meat.
The frost beasts argued and rebelled,
The caves of Valur shook with fighting,
And purple blood of trollish kin ran warm across the ice.

The biting frost grew thicker in the passes,
A howling wind that tore the blistered hides,
And buried deep the paths they used to wander,
Beneath a sea of blinding, endless white.
There was no moss to feed the dying embers,
And shivering creatures held their young in vain,
While jagged ice crept down the cavern ceilings,
To touch the sleeping giants with its chill.
They rubbed their heavy hands to find some comfort,
But found only the freezing, rigid stone,
As frost chewed out the marrow from their bones.

Out in the peaks their desperate hunters ventured,
With heavy clubs and steps both slow and void of hope,
To seek the mountain prey and meager game,
That long had fled this cursed barren hold.
Through thickened snow the starving brutes would stagger,
And many fell within the hidden paths,
Swallowed by the snows of mighty Valur,
Their cries lost in the roaring of the realm.
They brought back naught but frostbite and their sorrow,
To face the hungry eyes inside the dark,
Where every beating heart began to fail.

Horg-Kron looked on his slowly dying kinsmen,
The reddish hue of strength now turned to grey,
And on his throne of ice he felt the burden,
Of keeping hope alive in hopeless times.
He sang the ancient songs of icy valleys,
And promised them a thaw that never came,
While blowing on the final, fading ashes,
That gave no heat to warm the weeping kin.
For cold was now the master of Yiridon,
A living beast that festered on their flesh,
And left them hollowed out and dead within.

They raised their voices to the stony idols,
To Nargash and Gargash they cried for aid,
But silent were the ugly gods of theirs,
Deaf to the suffering of the frost troll-kin.
The sick lay coughing on the frozen pebbles,
Their heavy chests now struggling for a breath,
While creeping chill encased their heavy shoulders,
And turned their bluish blood standstill.
In mindless suffering, their life was slowly ending,
A quiet fading in the freezing dark,
Where every passing day demanded tribute.

Then came the silent heralds of the Tyrant,
The Night Lord of the snow and choking freeze,
Who sought the heavy backs of Valur’s tribal kin,
To drag them from the ice into the deep.
No bloody war was fought upon the summit,
Just chains of shadow wrapping round their necks,
And Horg-Kron bowed before the creeping darkness,
His people marched into the higher realm.
Now bound within the towers of white crystal,
The frost-trolls serve the master of the night,
Lost to the cold, and bound forever to new master.

A Forgotten Song

In darkness lies a path foretold,
It many dangers sheathes and holds,
But men still wander its accursed course,
For many search for rumored gold,
They seek the power and the riches,
Prepared to spill the blood of witches,
Who harbor sorcery and spells,
And live in squalor of their shacks.

Too few had seen the light of day,
In shadowed Imrmir’s darkened haze,
And those who venture out today,
Tomorrow will return in pain,
Those who elect this tempting fate,
Oblivious they are today,
For as they walk along the way,
They carry wares and bread away.

The families they leave behind,
Will suffer greatly, starve and die,
For wastelands’ wrath is swift and mighty,
Those who are weak shall cry and whimper,
And in the ash their bones will wither,
Whilst men who left are lost in shadows,
The memories of troubled kin shall linger,
A heavy weight that hangs and quivers.

But promises are mighty bold,
In ancient lands they are foretold,
Great wondrous treasures lie beyond,
The bronzen sun and darkened shores,
With somber hearts and heavy spirits,
Men walk along the dusty plains,
Their thoughts enchanted, body shivers,
Yet minds still focused on the road.

The tales of fortunes and great power,
Surround the Tomb of Rakmashawa,
Who ruled across the troubled lands,
In age of ancients and time of greats,
The ones who built the mighty towers,
Who set in motion conquests of the past,
Whose rule was stern yet fruitful and abundant,
Those that had granted virtue, joy and hope.

Such stories set in stone of Imrir,
Sit idly through the age of strife,
They wait their turn to tell the legends,
Of those who mingled in the art of the great might,
The men of past controlled the power,
That scared the gods of simple men,
That told the wonders of Tel’Kvalrva,
And tore apart the cursed veil.

Now, as the veil begins to shift,
And weary travelers brave the rift,
The skies of Imrmir turn to gray,
To chase the fading sun away,
A howling wind begins to rise,
And dust obscures their hollowed eyes,
The phantom whispers call their names,
And draw them closer to the flames.

They pass the crooked, blackened trees,
That bend and fracture in the breeze,
Where witches watch from sunken shacks,
And trace the wanderers' bloody tracks,
With eyes like embers in the dark,
They leave their hexes, leave their mark,
For no man crosses through this wood,
Without the payment of his blood.

The gold they seek begins to gleam,
Within the fever of a dream,
A madness settles in their minds,
As truth and logic fall behind,
They strike their brothers on the trail,
As paranoia starts to hail,
The rusted daggers meet the flesh,
And leave the thirsty soil refreshed.

At last the jagged peaks divide,
Where Rakmashawa's secrets hide,
A monstrous gate of beaten brass,
That none but fools attempt to pass,
It stands unyielding, proud and grim,
Where ancient light begins to dim,
The men with greedy, shaking hands,
Approach the lord of buried lands.

Inside they find Tel’Kvalrva’s stone,
Set deep within an empty throne,
It pulses with an eldritch might,
That strips the darkness of its night,
The power of the gods is found,
Beneath the desecrated, silent ground,
But mortal men were never meant,
To bear this cruel and harsh descent.

The energy begins to surge,
A vicious and relentless purge,
It burns the skin right off their bones,
And turns their dying screams to moans,
Their greed is punished by the flame,
Erasing every mortal face and name,
They sought the wealth of kings of old,
But found a misery untold.

Now tethered to the ancient halls,
They walk within the brazen walls,
Not men of flesh, but shades of dread,
The newest army of the dead,
They guard the tomb of Rakmashawa,
Trapped deep inside this cursed tower,
To strike at those who seek the prize,
With hollow, unforgiving, eyes.

And far away across the plains,
Where nothing but the dust remains,
The families they left to die,
Release their final, broken cry,
The ash consumes the barren earth,
Destroying any hope of birth,
The wasteland’s wrath is absolute,
Its bitter fields will yield no fruit.

Imrmir’s haze will rule and stay,
To count the passing days,
A tragic loop of endless woe,
Where all men's hopes, ambitions go,
The shadows claim the soul and cheer,
As magic takes its price and tributes,
The broken veil remains in place,
A monument to mortal pains.

Cimmertia
“Preparation is the death of the comprehensible,” Strabo had declared on his deathbed to the monks and apothiki that he surrounded himself with after his mutilation. A stern and inflexible strategos during his brief but distinguished service, Strabo had only the wisdom to correct his mistake once his fate was already sealed. The monks, no matter their number, could do nothing. His death appeared quite painful, as the monks would later report, but between the screaming and thrashing, he found the strength to speak—and they, the interest in repeating between the details of gore—his final words.

It’s within that final hour, when the future is faded and all that remains is now, that we often see the world with abrupt clarity. Strabo knew how to win a battle, but not how to fight one. His prediction of the enemy bordered on divine omniscience, and his familiarity with his own armies was even greater. But one wrong prediction was all it took. His forces unraveled, and he quickly became paralyzed. “How could that happen? Why did they do that?” he must have thought, demanding counsel from his generals. But they simply repeated his orders back to him, for they had never issued an order of their own.

In truth, his final words—if they even were his own—imply a grievous overcorrection. As I sit within this sh∎t-den, choking down a pittance of a meal, the problem reveals itself. There was not enough of Strabo. In the intervening years, he and his talents have only grown increasingly distant.

The crossing into the Lorcan Foothill was to be the first and simplest step of the invasion. Entering from the west and advancing east, the army would act as the hammer, the Cimmertians as the metal, and the eastern mountains as the anvil. The swing would be instant, and our momentum so great that our horses would outpace word of the invasion. But the sun has come and gone no fewer than ten times since we encamped, toeing the line between the Great Steppe and the Cimmertian interior. I am told the main force is a day away. That has been true for seven.

Skirmishes, more out of necessity than by initiative, have already begun. As the land grows increasingly arid closer to Cimmertia, foraging becomes difficult and large solitary animals are scarce. The obvious solution has been the Gowrei. Few were brought with the expedition, but raids on their nests have already proved productive, providing us a steady supply of game and plunder. Efforts to seize more are ongoing, though the Gowrei of Cimmertia act in a deceptively civilized manner and have shown significant resistance.

≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖≖

I couldn’t help but grimace as the slobber from the so-called “civilized” beast dropped against the makeshift table. It almost ruined my appetite, had the thought of consuming it not been at the forefront of my mind. Concentration was hopeless. Between the craving and the disgust, I swallowed what I could of the poor imitation of “food” that was my meal, and then finished my midday diary.

I would have slain the beast myself had I could. Had I done so, its stench would have improved. It was the size of a horse, infested with enough fleas that they had begun warring, and clumsy enough that I feared it would fall and crush me. Though I knew it posed no risk otherwise; the Gowrei are an obedient animal when rightly subdued. The one that accompanied me—Shorthorn, as it was called—served a purpose beyond provisions. It knew the language of the Cimmertians and had learned some of the Khur dialect, and so it was to be used as a sort of translator. It refused to work unless it were released from its usual confines, and so the problem had been slung at me.

My new pet was not without its boons. As I walked to and from the various officers, their officers, and so on, I found that, for once, I went mostly unquestioned. When I ate, there was not one attempt to steal my food. I was no longer hassled over the small, mundane details that Shorthorn itself could have answered. Were it not for the smell, which I found impossible to get used to, I would have wished it permanent. I had no doubt that it wished for the same, but we both knew its freedom would not last.

I pulled the Gowrei along a muddy trail formed by similarly worn shoes. After the midday meal, I typically returned to the command tent. Now, however, I headed toward the pens.

The torrent of the day previous had engulfed the path, as now it did to me—my strides stiffened, and the now-blazing sun baked the ground as I stepped, trapping my boots in a coarse cage. The Gowrei moved with no more difficulty than before, if not it moved with less. The path to the pens from the camp was not a long one, both were clearly visible from either point, and though I knew it wouldn’t, I could think only of how, if only it had chosen to, the Gowrei could have escaped any man on foot and returned to one of its nests before the sun had chance to fall. Even a horse, I thought, would make little progress on that terrain—only a Bison-eater could writhe its way through the muddy plains in rivalry with the Gowrei.

“S-s-servile,” the long-broken gatekeeper said in equally broken words. “Yes!” he shouted. “Yes!” He looked as through I had brought him a present.

“Will you open the gate?” I asked.

“Yes!” he shouted again, now in response to a question unasked. “They are so h-h-hungry… so hungry! Will it be you, s-s-servile, to feed them? The h-hunter has the right, the ri-right!”

“I’m to question the cattle,” I said. “This one isn’t feed—nor was I the one to catch it.”

“Don’t you h-h-hear? They are h-hungry! Hu-hungry!”

“I’m sure they are. I’m hungry, too.” I expected another guard to come and investigate his progressively louder cries, but none came. The Gowrei, with its petty understanding of the Khur language, listened with an attentiveness that I did not share. Perhaps it believed it was already being disposed of, but if it did, it seemed no closer to running.

“The i-i-insolence! Insolence! You are no better than the be-beast, you t-think only of y-y-yourself! Don’t you k-know, s-s-servile? They l-long for you as they l-long for me, they can f-forgive… f-f-forgive!—”

I stopped listening. It became clear to me why he had been assigned to the gate, though even that had become too much for him. Soon, his great desire would be met.

“R-rats, r-r-rats!” He began screaming as I walked past him. I pulled the Gowrei as I moved, putting it between us—I shouted in kind, though not at him, but through the gate. The howling thud that came from my knocks drowned both of our voices. The Gowrei, too, began wailing.

…

“Straight ahead,” the master pointed at another red gate as we walked past scores of empty pens. “The unfortunates are kept in the Sepulcher, but with how few remain, they are all unfortunate.” He peered at Shorthorn, who appeared occupied with the pens, before turning back. “You, too, are unfortunate. They will have little to say, and you will hear even less. If you seek their nests, then the—”

“The Bison-eaters are to remain here. If you are so eager to feed them, then you can go with the scouts yourself—we would have little to eat as it is, even without them being gulped down by the dozen. Perhaps you could use your gatekeeper. At least that would reduce the amount of mouths to feed.”

While the pens were empty, the paths were not. Columns of stock, chained like prisoners, marched alongside us. They paraded to and from the first gate and the second, allowed exit from the walls only to graze before being returned to their confines. The red gate opened only for those exiting the Sepulcher. For those returning, they were taken to the battlements before vanishing out of sight.

“Open the gate,” the master demanded of the masked sentries. There were six, three listed to either side of the gate. The two middlemost separated from their ranks and began to adjust chains, remove barricades and disengage crude locks. The structure, which shared in the same muddy crimson as its guardian’s masks, was elaborate in its rudimentariness. Just as the main camp had, both the stockade and pens within had been constructed little more than a week previous. The speed and quality of its construction was impressive; had I not seen it appear over the horizon, I would have assumed it a permanent fixture. Not a single wall had flanked the man camp for five days since our arrival, and even then they remained incomplete. It seemed unlikely that they would ever reach completion.

At last, the large door split open, cracking like a skull bludgeoned into two. Perhaps lured by its bestial instincts, Shorthorn pranced forward into the crimson maw.

Cold Hearts

Heavy darkness of the endless midnight void envelops the mighty Valurian mountains. Boundless pillars of grey stone, these primordial peaks once sheltered strange tribes and wild highlanders of iron will and strength. It is here, amid the treacherous crevasses, where they carved rocky caves, raised crude idols, and praised their lowly gods. Many sad songs were sung of their memory, for one day, all the free tribes withered and fell under the crushing weight of a sinister tyranny. One by one, tribal seats of power fell victim to the conquering northern hordes. Years passed since the mountains roared. Now the once prideful frost trolls of Yiridon along with the hard-willed wildlings of Rhonn are all but slaves to the will and whim of their Immortal Overlord. In misery and humiliation they serve: they haul the conqueror's treasures, they fight his wars, they satisfy his lowly cravings. And every one of them lives a prisoner in this shining realm of frost. These lands are cold and unforgiving, dark and mysterious, yet always bound to fulfill the tyrant’s ever most cynical desires. All things in Valur lie under his control. For his name is shrouded in mystery and fear. For his power is absolute. For he is Azshan, the Overlord of Izenor, the champion of Ogh-Zhuron and the Night Tyrant of Vokhtan.

The menacing dominator spends his days in dreams of lust and power. He often wanders through the bright halls of gleaming Izenor, where many dark thoughts escape his icy lips. Behind him, a cohort of obedient servants follows — ever attentive to their master’s most cruel wants and wishes. During such brooding, Azshan openly voices his many unhealthy ambitions and bitter grudges. The white prince talks of other tyrants, of how they mock his crystal realm, and how they leave him lonely, unvisited, for all these long and empty years. And in between this spiteful brooding, the White Prince tortures many slaves. He watches wildling fights and spends many hours with frost troll women, specially bred for great pleasures. He slaughters young warriors in ceremonial combat, purely to feed his own pride and test his impressive skill with the blade. Such is the way of life in old Valur. Yet, today this sadistic routine was broken. This day, a powerful obsession takes hold of the tyrannical Azshan, and it refuses to let go.

↢⯌↣

“Have you heard? The wyverns tell me of great developments in the wastelands. My venerable and fearsome cousin - or as I should call him, our Great Regent, has finally rooted out the traitorous Torkan. Such was the last will of Vokh-Azar. And now Narheman’s return marks the beginning of our conquests. An era of eternal eclipse is upon us. Soon, the gates of Tar’Khun shall open and the shadowsworn hordes will spread across the lands. And so the Sorcerer returns. And with him comes great change! Change and opportunity! Opportunity for all of us! Now I understand, I see it clearly - before this conquest begins, I must add to my position! I shall not waste any more time here!”

Azshan sat in a pool of water so cold and clear that it resembled molten silver. Round shining walls surrounded the pool, which itself was also round. Countless gems decorated the chamber - endless arrays made of sapphires, diamonds and moonstones formed a mosaic of incredible beauty. And their cold lights of blues, purples, and whites danced inside the otherworldly room.

Azshan possessed a body free of flaws. It was clean and strong, his stature only slightly lesser than that of a mighty frost troll warrior. His skin was milk-white. His eyes were narrow and made of purple stone. His hair was long and pale, stretching and weaving around muscular shoulders that bore the bright blue markings of Vokhtan - all etched in scarring across his naked skin.

Yet for all this seeming strength and youth, the tyrant’s voice carried the tone and weariness of an old man.

“For countless lunar cycles I have persisted here… in this quiet… place. Oh, but for how long have we secluded ourselves inside these crystalline walls? My memory escapes me. But… for too long! I have forgotten the simple joys that many of my brothers share. The thrills of war, the pleasures of raiding, the triumphs of victory! I feel hollow. It saddens me deeply. And how much I could gain, if I only willed it! The strength we wield, the talents that I myself harbour plenty! But there are ways to remedy this!”

Across from the tyrant, a young wildling woman sat inside the pool. She sat motionless, still, completely quiet. As Azshan spoke, he moved closer. His strange gaze met her vacant, astounded look.

“You see my meaning? There is a whole world beneath our feet. There! Beyond the veil, under the mountains! I hear grand stories of it! Legends! Songs! There is a queen in the valleys - my most serene Ceraphema, my only friend in life! And she reveals incredible secrets to me! She whispers them in my dreams!”

The tyrant raved and ranted in the pool, but the girl remained still. She was staring blankly at the crystal walls. Her face was distorted by an expression of shocking bone-chilling fear. A bluish shroud consumed her whole and frost encased her skin. The poor young woman was long since dead. The mad prince was talking to a corpse.

“Ceraphema, she is the star that keeps me warm for all these years. She lights my path, and it is for her that I exist! All that I ever wanted, all that I ever desired, was to be with her! To have her as my queen! I have sent many gifts her way. Slaves, treasures, beasts, yet she still escapes my embrace. But I know the reason! My beloved Ceraphema, my lover - she sits the wooden throne in Rakh’Arolh. A prisoner of her own city! ”

Azshan moved ever closer to the frozen body of a dead woman. She sat still in an icy silver pool. A maniacal stare pierced through the thin freezing crust that veiled her lifeless eyes. Yet his glare did not alter the girl’s terrified, abhorrent expression. The girl’s last memory - a phantom of emotion, left her distorted in a state of utter terror. Cold and timeless stupor served a tragic conclusion to this wasted, tortured soul. A sad and cruel fate, but one so commonly dispensed in the merciless domain of Izenor.

“She loves me…”

The White Prince sank deeper in his obsessive speeches. Wild madness took control.

“Once I bring her my final offering, our union shall be made complete. We will not be denied! Not even by the great priests! Oh no! I plan to march against the lesser kingdoms. And when my cousin comes back from the West, we will meet him together. We will have our new realm — with strengths combined, with banners ready for the coming wars! No one will dare oppose us then. Narheman will be the dragon, and I his trusted warchief. With my beloved queen, we shall rule forever!”

“This I swear, by mine own sword!”

The tyrant abandoned the frozen pool. Hastily, he picked up a mighty blade from the mosaic floor and left the bathing chamber. Agitated and nervous, he ran down the crystal stairs and headed towards the tower aerie, where the huge icy wyverns rested in their deep slumber.

Giant marble columns stood against the round aerie walls. Each ornate pillar carried the weight of a heavy ivory nest. Inside the nests slept mysterious winged monsters. With fur of pure white and skin of crimson red, these were beasts of large size and terrifying presence. Each wyvern possessed an ape-like face, uncanny in its features. Their long legs and tails dangled in the air. Yet, despite this repulsive appearance, the flying servants of Yiridon harbored almost human-like expressions. Even in a state of partial trance, Azshan’s sky-stalkers at times displayed emotions so familiar and vivid, but also so alien and vague.

The prince’s movements awoke one wyvern from its slumber. It flew across the spacious hall to an opening where a large balcony overlooked the gloomy Valurian mountains. Angry and displeased, the beast let out a hissing whisper.

“What is the meaning of this interruption?”

Azshan stood on the balcony — fully dressed in martial gear, he was frantically preparing for an imminent departure.

“Wake up your kin, Malgar! Tell them that Izenor is going to war! Tell them that the sons and daughters of Yiridon are riding out for conquest! Let them know that our time here is over! We will rest no longer! My chieftains will know what to do! And while our mighty host gathers, I shall pay a visit to my beloved queen! I must inform her of my plans! Oh, how I long to see her. How I want to bask in her marvelous beauty! Just this once!”

The white monstrosity obeyed its master. It let out a piercing shriek that cut through the frigid air and echoed across the crystal hall. Slowly, the other wyverns rose from their nests. Once again, Izenor’s cloud-bound sentinels were called to service.

And so the White Prince abandoned his gleaming tower, leaving the servants of Izenor to prepare for the coming war. He glided down the sharp Valurian peaks, swiftly escaping the ever-present magical veil that separated the high kingdom from the darklands. Once the misty threshold was pierced, a vast landscape presented itself before Azshan. The midnight darkness of the eastern valleys was quickly broken by the warm red lights of the trading city, and the flying wyvern began its descent. The tyrant held fast to the soaring beast. Together they swirled around the ashen towers of Rakh’Arolh, aiming for the single tallest ziggurat that sat atop an ancient mound.

Once inside, no one dared to stand in the tyrant’s way. The albino overlord walked through the rich corridors and entered the coveted throne room of his beloved queen. He stood surrounded by exquisite statues, exotic vases, cushions of silk and velvet, golden altars, and burning braziers. In the middle of it all sat a chair draped in fine furs and leathers, protected by enormous tusks that rose up from the carpeted floor. There sat Ceraphema, matriarch and patron of traders and artists, weaver of the fates and envy of all city-folk. She sat elegantly, with an aura and looks so fitting to royal power. Ceraphema the Magnificent possessed a rare beauty, for her skin was perfect bronze and her hair was molten obsidian, smooth and shiny. She knew Azshan well enough, but the look she gave was harsh and wary. The queen seemingly hesitated.

“What are you doing here?”

Stern words did not faze the tyrant. Slowly he approached. Step by step, akin to a startled animal, the overlord softened in the queen’s incredible presence. At last he fell before her grace. Azshan clutched the queen’s bronze legs, and the sounds of weeping reached her ears.

“Oh my love! I come to you at last! How I waited for this moment! How I dreamt of this very day! My queen! Aghr!”

Ceraphema was shocked. In her heart she despised the ice tyrant and his madness, yet she was wary of Izenor’s power and the destruction it could enact upon Rakh’Arolh. Cold tingles spread throughout her body, and the queen sneered back at him.

“You… you come to me not bearing gifts?”

The albino let go. He moved closer and met her sharp gaze.

“No! Oh no! My love, I bring you the greatest gift of all! Know this, for I intend to take a kingdom in your name! Do not assume that worldly tales escape my grasp. I am aware of your own struggles and the feuds your city bears with lower realms! This petty squabble between you and that Cimmertia - it shall be solved forever! The riches of the southern kingdom, I give to you! My only wish is that we reign in union after this. You and me, in service of my cousin Narheman. Together as one!”

The queen was shocked. The prince knew nothing of what had truly happened in the wastes. Her only choice was to humor his delusion - to send him away to war and wait for his defeat.

“That is a f-fine proposition, my l-lord. Should you succeed, I will reward you with your wishes. But should you fail, I will remain here, alone!”

Azshan smiled wildly, his pale face flushed with mad devotion.

“For you, Cimmertia will fall!”

Ahoy, It's time ye should getting properly afraid.

Hey kids, and welcome to Freddy Fazbear's Pizza!

, Vivus Tomb

(Yo its the FNAF gang)

His New-Caught Sullen Peoples

Clad reaper-like in palm capes, a dispersed band moved in near silence through the thick forests of the Toblog uplands. The pervasive mist and cooler air, though it was never truly cold anywhere in Talampunay, made this an alien landscape to the coastal Samtoyanos no matter how often they traversed it for trade.

Their clandestine march to the Toblogs, a tribe of pykes, was rather unusual for a trading party. This was not the typical route. Climbing around the treacherous hillside like lost mountain goats instead of sailing upriver seemed counter-productive if the objective was the acquisition of goods. At the head of the troop, Agturáy Napigsa moved forward with an elegant single mindedness as he stepped over branch and fern to the top of a slope, which gave a commanding view of…

Very little. The capes stood wordlessly, listening for any sound that might help in the absence of sight, but the weather was against them. Typically, a hushed murmuring rising from the valley echolocated the scattered villages below, which seemed to pick up and move along the changing river like shambling beasts every time the Samtoyanos trekked up here. Yet, despite the midday sun, the mist was impenetrably thick today and disguised even the sound of the monkeys.

Wordlessly, the Agturáy made a gesture with his unarmed hand, and his followers broke off into groups to descend upon each dwelling.

They glided down with practiced agility, disappearing into the shadow cast by the hillside. In the lengthy quiet that followed, it was hard at first to tell whether they had found their quarry. Then the clatter, the splinter, of metal and stone on wood. Cries of surprise and indignation accompanied the ruckus almost naturally, as the Samtoyanos battered down the walls of their business partners. This dreadful spectacle continued in irregular fits and bursts, as each squadron meandered around looking for hamlets that were there just the other day. But it all seemed so easy – as soon as they made contact, the caped soldiers trampled down every village like they were toddlers’ sandcastles.

A particularly large and brutish lieutenant, Datu Panagkita, caught the Agturáy’s attention as he picked a tattooed Toblog warrior up by his loincloth and whirled him around into a pine tree. It was said either in whispers or at great distance that his father might have been a rukkar, though other than being enormous, simple and violent, he did not physically resemble one.

Seeing his behaviour this afternoon did little to dispel such rumours. The average Samtoyano had a size advantage over the Toblogs, but Datu Panagkita thoroughly dwarfed them. The man had just clonked one on the head with a great fist, crumpled him into a ball, and then bowled down ten more who were very unfortunately arranged.

Agturáy Napigsa followed the hole gouged out by this manoeuvre into a hitherto well-furnished residence. He stepped deliberately towards a child cowering behind a wooden shield. As the boy shrank away, the Agturáy made a show of stopping, stooping down and looking straight into his eyes with jarring warmth.
“My apologies for calling unannounced at this hour. Might you direct me to your father, the Pangat?”

The boy, trembling so much his feathered headdress resembled a hornbill shaking itself dry, replied simply that he went out this morning and was yet to return.

The Agturáy pursed his lips for a split second, then said, “thank you kindly. Datu Panagkita will take care of your needs whilst we search for him.”

“Sure ting boss, leave ‘im ta me,” the brute grunted, squeezing through the hole that his liege had stepped into easily a few moments ago. The young prince tightened his grip on the shield, rising warily into a defensive position as Napigsa disappeared again.

-

Down in the valley earlier that morning, when the mist had been even thicker, the ordinary sounds of highland life ticked away obliviously while the Toblogs began to put up for the day. A proud warrior tenderly re-arranged the khimerine heads of vanquished foes from the downstream Whutlak tribe like flowers on a bouquet, a beatific smile on his face as he whistled to himself. The smell of smoked boar nearby was accompanied by gossiping domestics, Talampunay’s universal picture. Elderly men squatted in a semi-circle outside the Pangat’s chiefly octagonal residence, chewing through enough betel nuts to knock out a Biag’s Eagle. Their grandsons kicked a ball around in the undergrowth, growing increasingly frustrated with themselves and each other every time one punted it into a particularly tall tuft of grass. Oblivious to their attempts at flirting, nearby girls ‘tattooed’ centipedes and serpents on each other with charcoal pinched from the fires.

This part of the country was pristine. The languid, winding rivers of the lowlands spend their youth here as frothing rapids that would smash or refuse any boat trying to navigate them, rendering the uplands impossible to truly tame. Those peoples brave enough to call it home did so loosely, for no settlement was truly permanent and they moved with the seasons. The impenetrable foliage, risk of natural disasters, and all manner of beasts and spirits suggested a cosmos that really preferred to be left alone.

The boys looked up into the noisy undergrowth as they retrieved their ball for the dozenth time. A returning party of traders emerged out of the forest with sacks carried on bamboo poles, laden with Samtoyano clays and clams. The exchange was clearly a good one – the men were tired but wore smiles on their faces, and one was so jolly that he placed a [lowland thing] in one of the boys’ hands without asking for anything in return.

“The lowlanders have discovered some fount of riches! They took all we had to offer and returned to us things that far surpass their value!” He giddily rummaged around in one of the sacks to pull out a fine porcelain. “Look at this jar, my child, they acquired this from distant Yavana! Watch how the monkeys dance across its surface with such fluid motion, yet the tight geometric strokes convey an imposed rigidity and lack of true gaiety! It is clearly produced at the direction of a Yavanan chief but closer inspection uncovers its subtle critique of attempts to regulate culture. And it’s just the right size for storing deer parts in, don’t you think?”

The boy did not quite catch the meaning of his rapid and breathless words, but inspected the porcelain closely for he had never seen the like before. The design and construction were clearly exquisite even to his eye. Some of the girls had now taken notice and a small crowd began to gather around the exuberant traders.

“They took even the beeswax!” whooped another, with several welts on his skin, “every year I collect six jars of it and they tell me – no, Mang-a-qu, we have no need for so much wax, we will take just the one bucket and give you this taro in return. No, you cannot have the pork belly, you are a fool – but this time they take all my beeswax and give me the pork belly! What is more, they have a gift for the Pangat. Hah, the Samtoyanos have finally discovered a business acumen!”

“Yes, yes, boys, tell us where the Pangat is! Agturáy Napigsa bestows on him a new title, no doubt as recognition of his headhunting prowess – with his backing, the uplands are surely ours!”

-

“Good afternoon, your Highness.”
“Bugger off! I’m not home!”
“It is rude to turn visitors away in this way, especially those to whom you owe debts of gratitude.”

The Pangat spat his betel nut into the fog towards the sound of Napigsa’s voice. A faint ‘eurgh!’ responded, and he slashed forward with his dagger but only grazed his opponent’s waist. The back end of a spear whacked into the Pangat’s forearm, and he was forced to jumped back again.

“Indeed, gratitude! We lavished upon you the uplands’ greatest treasures after Agturáy Maingel’s death, and asked nothing in return as token of our submission! We pose no threat and supply the mountains’ riches to you only! What devil compels you to attack us?”

His eyes darted around in the formless green-grey before him, unable to distinguish Napigsa from the trees and ferns that surrounded them despite his familiarity with the land, and he drew his sword and shield up. The twang of a bow string came from the left, and he whipped around as the rush of a poison-tipped arrow embedded itself in his long shield, its two extended prongs on each end resembling a pyke splayed out.

“Come on then, you pansy! Show yourself!” the Pangat roared, digging his heels in the ground. He began whooping in rhythmic bursts – the war cry of the Toblogs that simultaneously communicated his whereabouts to his men. Ordinarily, this would be met with the same cry from all around the valley, crescendoing unseen as if Lumawig himself was crashing down from the skyworld to split the invaders. This afternoon, however, a few scattered responses from much too far away were all that acknowledged the Pangat.

Napigsa stepped forward nonchalantly into view, emerging from the fog and dragging its tendrils with him as if they tried to pull his cape back. There was the smallest of upturns at the corner of his lips, and his eyes were narrowed in turn. The Pangat’s stomach dropped.

“It appears your followers are pre-occupied for the time being,” he said with disguised glee, “I am afraid your reign ends here.”
“But why? Don’t you owe a fellow warrior your grievance before taking his head?”

Agturáy Napigsa’s hand paused on the dagger, and he appeared to consider this stain on his honour for a moment before suddenly pulling it out and lunging forward. It did not achieve the swift kill he desired, for he was in unfamiliar territory and the Toblogs practiced hand-to-hand combat with the kind of routine banality as hanging up their washing, and the Pangat rebuffed the underhanded stab with his shield.

Nevertheless, exhausted by the late pyke hour, isolated from his comrades, and caught unprepared, his was always going to be a losing battle. He utilised his advantage in size and agility to dart around the familiar undergrowth, disappearing from view on more than a few occasions to confuse his foe and run out the clock, but he was simply unable to land a good blow.

Within twenty minutes, it was over. Napigsa had tamed the uplands.

Entwined Fates - V

Cirak woke before dawn, as he always did, and K'saiveth was already awake. The creature sat on a flat rock near the cold fire pit with his scales catching the first grey light and his small head tilted toward the east. He'd grown since Cirak found him in the ravine. His wing had healed clean, and he'd learned to hunt scorpions and small lizards, though he still preferred the strips of dried meat Cirak fed him from his own supply. He was warm to the touch, warmer than any living thing should be, and when he was agitated, a faint glow pulsed beneath his chest scales like a coal breathed into life.

They'd been traveling east for nine days, following the ridge of broken stone that marked the edge of the salt flats. The liquid Cirak had found in the cave had begun to dry, leaving a blue flaky residue on top. Whenever Cirak opened one of the jars to check on it, K'saiveth would go still and quiet and fix his bright eyes on the residue as if listening to something Cirak couldn't hear.

On the tenth morning, Cirak found the road.

A track of packed gravel and broken stone ran arrow-straight toward the eastern horizon, half-buried in drifted sand. The gravel had been laid by hands, long ago, and the edges had been squared and fitted together with a precision that Cirak had seen only in the oldest quarters of Saekhuri. He knelt and brushed the sand away with the back of his hand. The stones were dark and heavy, and when he lifted one, he saw that its underside was smooth as glass, as if it had been poured rather than cut.

K'saiveth hopped down from Cirak's shoulder and landed on the road. He stood there for a moment with his small claws gripping the stone, and then he began to walk east along the track, slow and deliberate, his head low. Cirak followed. He'd learned, in the weeks since the ravine, that the creature sometimes knew things he didn't.

They walked for half a day. The track led them through a gap in the low hills and down into a shallow basin, and there, half-swallowed by the sand, stood the outpost.

A single tower of dark stone rose from the sand, maybe four stories tall, its upper levels broken and open to the sky. A wall of the same dark stone enclosed a courtyard, and the wall had collapsed in two places, spilling blocks across the sand. There were no banners, no carvings, no marks of any nation or people Cirak knew. The stone was the same as the road, smooth and heavy and dark, and when he touched it, it was warm despite the morning chill.

He found the workshop in the base of the tower. The roof had caved in long ago, and sand had drifted through the broken walls, but the room was still mostly intact. Stone tables lined the walls, cracked and tilted, and bronze tools lay scattered across the floor, green from exposure and strange in their shapes. A long spoon with a bowl no bigger than a thumbnail. A set of needles, fine as hairs. A clamp of some kind, its jaws lined with a black residue that flaked away at his touch. And on the largest table, an inscription etched into the surface of the table itself.

Cirak couldn't read the script. He knew the flowing hand used throughout the empire, the symbols that hung from a straight line like beads on a cord, and he'd seen the spirals that decorated the old buildings and the tattoos on the Kaniisacuu. This was different. The shapes on the tablet were hard and sharp, each one cut into the stone with straight edges and tight corners. They seemed unnatural somehow. Dangerous. Maybe they were meant to look that way. There was an inset on the table that was just about the same size of the ancient jars he kept finding. He pulled one from his pack and set it on the table, not in the inset, but quite near. The residue in the jar caught the light and seemed to shift, just slightly. The jar wavered as if it knew where it was meant to be.

K'saiveth climbed onto the table and sat beside the jar with his bright eyes fixed on the residue. Cirak's pack flopped over and he tried to right it, but when he did he knocked the jar on its side and the jar tipped, pouring the liquid into the inset.

The world shifted.

A painful warmth speared up his arm and the script on the table burst with color, the lines wavering as if seen through heat. There was a hum, loud, but almost too low-pitched to hear, more rumble than musical. Then, suddenly, it was gone. The warmth faded, the script was dark again, and a black flaky residue filled the inset.

He stood there for a long moment, his heart beating fast. He didn't know what he'd felt. There had been no tattoos, no beast blood, no command. But if this wasn't magical, he didn't know what it was. He looked at K'saiveth who was staring at him with his bright, unblinking eyes. He didn't chirp, didn't move, just sat there on the table as if he'd been surprised past the point of reacting. Cirak knew he was.

He sat down on the floor of the workshop with his back against the stone table. K'saiveth hopped down and curled in his lap. Cirak kept turning over what had happened. What was this that he'd found? Whose tools were these? What had they been used for? What he did know was that someone had been here before, long before the Qirinii. Whatever they'd known, the empire forgot, or never learned it at all.

Fatigue came over him suddenly and he closed his eyes and slept, and for the first time in twenty years, he dreamed of Sae'ir. The wolf was running across the salt flats, young and strong, and Cirak was running beside him, and neither of them was afraid.