| With His Majesties Royal Guard; My own humble effort | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jul 3 2008, 07:53 PM (422 Views) | |
| Shadarin | Jul 3 2008, 07:53 PM Post #1 |
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“You are authorized to complete the mission, Captain.” Liccio Chiando’s voice rumbled in its usual commanding cadence. “Of course, sir” the Captain replied. “And captain,” the General continued, “I certainly expect you to win. You know defeat here will not be tolerated.” “Yes sir, I know.” Captain Chiangi said. “Not only must they be defeated, you must make them suffer.” The general’s whole countenance became much more focused. “You must make him suffer. They must be shattered so that not only will they not be able to cross the borders of the Hidden Source, they must fear the very thought of it.” “They will know the wrath of His Majesty’s Royal Guard,” the Captain answered. “Very good,” continued general Chiando, “and if you should find him alive, please bring him back to me. You are dismissed, Captain. May Jena bless you and your men, and bring you home safely and with victory.” Those were the customary words when sending a Matisian force into battle. Captain Chiangi gave the Matisian salute, and left the General’s chambers. The benediction rang a bit hollow this time. This was not about stopping the Kami heretics from spreading their lies across Matia, nor was it a mission given through Jena’s priests. This was an act of revenge, both for the Matisian people, and for the General personally. General Liccio Chiando, the Supreme Commander of Matisian Forces, Royal Counselor, and Hero of Matia. The man was a legend in his own time. He was largely responsible for the successes the Matis have had against the kitin, and his strategies have protected Matia for decades. He was named after another hero, one of the last standing during the kitin invasion. The grandparent and great grandparents of those now living in Yrkanis would tell stories of the great Liccio Serenci, and the wall of kitin corpses he built around him. It was large enough to delay the kitin advance, allowing many Matisian families to escape through the portals to the safety of the Prime Roots. Many of those that survived the exodus named their children after Liccio Serenci; many more now living in Yrkanis honor Liccio Chiando in the same way. General Liccio Chiando reached his balcony in time to oversee the Third Contingent of His Majesty’s Royal Guard leave the gate of Yrkanis. He had no doubt they would return, and that they would be victorious. They were the best trained homin on the face of Atys. He was frustrated that he could not lead them personally. He was frustrated at the complacency and bureaucracy the Royal Council had developed in the years since the last attack. But most of all, he was seething in anger that one of his most trusted would dare betray him. There was nothing more that the General wanted than to make the traitor bleed with his own sword. But leaving Yrkanis now would be tantamount to suicide. |
| Sometimes, when we want something, and even though we really want it, we just don't get it, and there is nothing we can do about it. | |
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| Shadarin | Jul 3 2008, 07:53 PM Post #2 |
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There is darkness in every homin heart. This is one of the basic tenets of life on Atys. Even the most pious Matisian priest harbors some dark hatred or secret lust. It is this darkness, if allowed to grow, that turns a homin from Jena’s path and into the trails of chaos and ruin. This is true for everyone from the noble Matis King to the basest of Fyros mercenaries. There is darkness in every homin heart. It was Sergio Chiangi’s job, as captain of the Third Contingent of His Majesty’s Royal Guard, to find those that have succumbed to their personal darkness and bring them to justice. In a world full of people who are scant steps away from straying from the path, Sergio Chiangi was employed full time. By order of His Royal Majesty, through the command of General Liccio Chiando, it was the sworn duty of Captain Chiangi to lead the Third Contingent from the Matisian capital of Yrkanis to the desert wastes of the Hidden Source. Although nothing really ever made Sergio Chiangi happy, this particular mission would bring with it a certain amount of satisfaction. The latest report brought news that the Hell Raisers, a bandit tribe of cast offs and outlaws, were in violent dispute with a group of Fyros settlers that called themselves the Woven Bridles. The details of the conflict were not important to the captain’s task; these were lawless bands that did not recognize a need before engaging in violent conflict. Their own inner darkness had consumed them so completely that they simply killed when it seemed like less effort than trying to talk. There was a popular assumption in Yrkanis that a tribe of Fyros settlers would be more civilized than the normal criminal scum one found in the desert. However, it was unlikely that the Woven Bridles left the Fyros lands by choice, and it was very doubtful they came to Matia to more freely worship Jena. The best solution would be for each group to annihilate the other, so that when the Third Contingent arrived, all that would be need to happen was to fend off the carrion eaters and collect anything valuable these criminals might have acquired. The best outcomes are the rarest, and Captain Chiangi did not spend much time entertaining the thought. After all, his men needed the combat experience, and he needed to bring back a particular captive. It would be even better if it were a pair of captives. The Third Contingent marched past Tower Bridge Rock, the typical landmark that signified where the area called The Knoll of Dissent began. The Kitin hoards still held a significant presence here. This was the front line during the last invasion attempt. Half-buried insectoid carapaces protruded from the ground like tombstones. Around these small monuments of victory stood the first line of defense against another attack, the elite Matisian Boarder Guard. The Matisian Boarder Guard took in only strong Matis, and service with The Guard made a Matis much stronger. A term of service typically ran for ten years at a time. The isolation, the constant battle, and their well deserved sense of superiority meant most of The Guard held most city Matis in slight contempt. There was nothing close to violence towards a visiting Matis, and of course shelter and defense would be provided to a Matis who came in to the fort. But even if the weary traveler found the place safe, he probably would not find it friendly. Sergio, however, had served with The Matisian Boarder Guard before joining and leading the Third Contingent, and he still had a few friends here. |
| Sometimes, when we want something, and even though we really want it, we just don't get it, and there is nothing we can do about it. | |
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| Shadarin | Jul 3 2008, 07:54 PM Post #3 |
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War is a terrible thing. But, it is not the worst thing. To see your wife or husband or daughters or sons enslaved and killed is worse. To see everything you have spent blood, sweat, time, and tears building be destroyed, is worse. To live in constant fear of a devastating attack from an enemy that will not be placated by anything less than your total annihilation, is worse. To suffer and die when the resources you need to live and prosper are being denied to you by an armed group of crazed thugs is worse. But the fact remains war is a terrible thing. So, how did I end up here, leading a platoon of Fyros outcasts against a band of Matis outlaws? I am not really one of either, and in fact, I really had more in common with the Hell Raisers than I did the Fyros settlers. If war was such a terrible thing, why did my life seem to consist of one battle after another? I am, or was, Captain Antocho Chiando, Commander of the Second Contingent of His Majesty’s Royal Guard. I had more military honors than anyone did my age, and, with the notable exception of General Liccio Chiando, I was the youngest Matis to command part of the Royal Guard. There were many in Matia that ascribed my quick rise to my performance in the battle at the Slough of Demons, and there were many others that said it was due to having the great General for an uncle. The truth is somewhere in the middle. I have since been released from His Majesty’s service. Perhaps released is too amiable a word. I believe my official status in Yrkanis is ‘in exile on pain of death’. As it turns out, leaving your command on the eve of a raid on a bandit outpost does not look good in after action reports, especially if your contingent is routed because of the sudden lack of leadership. Our lives are the culmination of choices and consequences. We don’t always make every choice for we which receive the consequence, but for the most part, the actions and results are ours and ours alone. By consistently valuing certain actions or outcomes over others, we build lives that reflect what we believe most strongly. Sometimes, though, the entire course of a life can be changed by one decision in one instant. When I had the choice between greatness and happiness, I chose Mia. Miaccia Visti, daughter of the honorable Bergio Visti of Davea. Like most young Matisian ladies, Mia grew up learning the treasures and dangers of the forest. She was more than capable of taking care of herself in and around the Majestic Gardens. In fact, she was so capable of taking care of herself; she had, more than once, taken care of me. The details of how Mia and I made it from south of the Fleeting Gardens and into the good graces of the Woven Bridles have little bearing on the present conflict. Right now, the Hell Raisers were being led into the kill box of Fyrision auto-launchers and flame weapons. The Hell Raisers set their camp just north of the scenic Virginia Falls. The cliffs of the falls provide an excellent vantage point where an observer can easily get advanced notice of an approaching threat, or a vulnerable target. Unfortunately for the Hell Raisers, they had incurred the wrath of a Fyros tribe, and moving around the desert is as natural to a Fyros as swimming is to a Tryker. It took two days of sneaking behind dunes and moving though shallow, dried out riverbeds before we reached the falls. We were now too close to the base of the cliffs to been seen by their look-out, and too well concealed to be found by their patrols. Virginia Falls is one of the few watering holes in the desert of the Hidden Source. Many tribes and clans have laid claim to it over the years, and none have held it for long. In Fyros, it is typically the women that collect the water. Since it is trivial in the other lands of Atys to find water, this seems to outsiders to be something of an unimportant task. In Fyros, it is a matter of life and death. Not only for those depending on the water to live, but also for the cunning and lethal Fyros water hunters that risk their lives collecting it. Several days ago three water hunters left the Woven Bridal settlement, four days ago one of them returned. She was naked, and blistered almost completely from the sun. The fingers on her left hand flopped uselessly back on forth as she took each stumbling step. As soon as the guards saw her, she was rushed into the healer’s tent. In the space of a few hours, her skin was healed and her fingers set. She gave the account of how she and her sisters were hiding from a pack of huge torbak that roam near the falls when they were surprised by the Hell Raisers. The water hunters fought the bandits, and killed many, but they were eventually subdued. They were taken to the bandit camp where they were beaten and assaulted, where two of them gave in to the torture and eventually died. The Hell Raisers celebrated the arrival of their unwilling guests with drunken revelry, and when they had passed into alcoholic slumber, she dragged herself to the edge of the pond, slipped in, and swam away. She said she couldn’t remember much of the trek to the settlement, she just kept walking long after the pain flooded out every other feeling. Neither the sun nor the kitin nor the cuttler stopped her from returning home. After she was healed, she begged to join us in the bloody revenge that she knew would be visited upon the bandits. But the settlement already had too few water hunters, and to risk one on a military assault was foolish. My plan was so simple that it was almost cliché. A pair of Heavy gunners would wait until the enemy patrol returned to the camp leave their concealment and fire a few rounds into the camp, hopefully killing a couple of bandits. That part went off perfectly. We heard the distinctive report of Fyrisian heavy rifles and a pained scream that told us the rounds found at least one target. The gunners made sure they were seen and then ducked around an outcropping of rock in the cliff wall. This, of course, drew the entire the gang. Bloodthirsty, brutal and strong all describe the Hell Raisers. Intelligent does not. A hit and run attack in the middle of the day does not cause them to wonder, because it is exactly the sort of thing they would do given the opportunity. The group of thugs ran right into a hell storm of fire and rockets. The hollow rush of one auto-launcher after another delivering its payload reverberated from the cliff face and out over the open desert. As stupid as they were, they knew when to take cover. Sometimes, flat on the ground is as good a protection as you can get, and that is exactly where they went, exactly as we knew they would. That was when our squad of Cleavers ran into their flank. Double-bladed Fyros long swords have a peculiar whistle as they arc through the air to slash flesh from bone with devastating effect. Primarily, however, they are used as piercing weapons; the split blade design makes an effective blood groove and creates wounds that are difficult even for skilled healers to mend. The auto-launcher bombardment, of course, ceased out of fear of harming our own. Wounded and confused, the Hell Raisers turned to fight the swordsmen, there were only ten, or so of the bandits left alive. Our artillery men abandoned their launchers in favor of short lances and rushed into the melee. It is a strange thing about combat. You know there is noise raging all around you, but you don’t really hear it. Either the sound of your own heart beating in your ears drowns it out, or it doesn’t seem important enough at the time to listen. The melee ended quickly, and the sound came back to my world, and I heard the last moans of the dying, wounded bandits. I heard the sound of our healer chanting the words that would coax the sundered flesh of our men back together. I heard the sharp crack of an explosion from a long rifle, and I heard the gurgling yell of Dean Ibiraan, my lieutenant in this campaign. The left side of Dean’s face was ripped to shreds, and his jaw dangled from the tendons still attached to the other side of his skull. Blood was streaming down is arm and chest as he dropped, face first, to the ground. “Take cover!” I ordered, though I didn’t need to, the soldiers knew what was happening and were already running for shelter, some of them dragging their wounded brothers with them. A few more shots made holes in the desert sand, like tracks from an invisible xerx following the last few men to make it under an overhang in the cliff. Dean was still twitching in the sand, but it was too late to do anything for him. The sniper on top of the cliff was very good at hitting a stationary target. A bit of heroics here might get us out without anyone else ending up like Dean. “Listen, Cexius,” I said to the artillery man next to me. “I am going to run for the bandit camp on the other side of the cliff. Have all the gunners aim their launchers for the landing at the top of the cliff. Fire away as quickly as you can.” Cexius gave me a grunt that I had learned meant agreement, and he and the artillerymen shouldered their auto-launchers. A few of the men mumbled “Good luck.” I took a few quick breaths, and sprinted out from under the over hang. The desert sand slipped from underneath my boots, and the desert sun flooded my vision as I left the shadow of the cliff. Then there was the soft thump of a bullet burying itself in the sand nearby, and the high pitched zing of a round bouncing off the rock wall, and the uncomfortably close whistle of shot passing near my head. And then there was the unimaginable pain of my calf muscles being ripped open, my shin bones blown to fragments, and me being pitch headlong, carried by my own momentum, into the sand. I would like to have said that my life passed before my eyes, and I was thankful for the time I had on Atys, and the time I shared with Mia, but all I could really see was white hot pain. Somewhere beyond the veil of agony I heard explosions that could only come from auto-launchers. As I was still alive enough to recognize the noise, and knowing I was a perfect target, I had to suppose the artillery had been successful. And that was the last thought I had before I released my increasingly tenuous hold on consciousness. |
| Sometimes, when we want something, and even though we really want it, we just don't get it, and there is nothing we can do about it. | |
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| Shadarin | Jul 6 2008, 03:38 AM Post #4 |
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The breath of flame To take away Sear the wound Sear the soul Sear the heart Ash and sand Rest thy hand In the shade In the stream In the wind Thy battle is done -Fyros Funeral Hymn General Chiando had a place on the High Matisian Council, but on that morning, he was not there. General Chiando had troops to inspect, but on that morning, no platoon would find him. General Chiando had his customary breakfast waiting for him, but on that morning, it would go cold. General Chiando was cold as well. General Chiando was dead. Death in Atys is a strange thing. Everyone goes through it. There is pain and terror and confusion for all involved. But, for some, its permanency is not assured. Flesh can be mended and the soul restored through the healing arts of the priests of Jena. The Karavan priests insist their power over death is not magical, that it all consists of manipulating natural principles and that anyone who wants to put in the time and study can learn how to do it. Of course, the Kami demons have a similar ability, and they claim that it is the focusing of natural energy that forces life back into decaying flesh. They say any homin that will exercise the patients and concentration required can learn the art. So far, the homin have learned a great deal from both the Kami and Karavan about natural laws and natural energies, many homin have learned to miraculously heal grave wounds, and coax even the smallest spark of life back to full health, but no homin can restore the breath of life to a companion who has past beyond the veil. That skill was wholly in the domain of the Karavan and Kami masters, and they charged heavily for it. Typically the price was a debt of service, paid after the homin was restored but before he could do anything else. For those who live dangerously, a promise of aid could be obtain in exchange for the drops of energy-imbued sap crystals that were commonly used as currency on Atys. But whatever the cost, and whatever the motives, the ability for the deities of Atys to raise the dead depended on someone dragging the body of the fallen to an altar. And, although someone else knew General Chiando was dead, that person was not very likely to help him. Matisian political disagreements often ended with one of the participants missing. It was rare, however, that the General was the incapacitated party. This was not the first time the General had died. He fervently hoped, however it would not be the last. Having the soul ripped from the flesh is a painful experience, even after one has been disencorporated. The deceased soul had to spend considerable focus maintaining itself near its recently vacated body. The constant battle against whatever force that was trying to drag the soul away caused a great deal of agony. But, the soul who surrendered to the pain was lost, and could not be restored. So, the General struggled on, only dimly aware of what surrounded his body. He knew he lay somewhere west of Yrkanis, and he was aware that someone had moved his body shortly after he died. Of his death and the events leading up to it, he remembered nothing; simply that he was leaving the Lakelands embassy when everything went dark. Death on Atys is a strange thing, and being dead is even stranger. The deceased have very little knowledge of what happens near their corpse. Occasionally, they come back and report that they could see the face of a loved one, or that they heard a cherished voice, and that gave them the strength to fight off whatever oblivion waited for them. The difficulty wasn’t that free floating spirits could not see or hear, but that there was far too much for them to see and hear. Atys itself was alive, and had much to say to the newest occupant of the spirit realm. While inhabiting flesh, light entered the body through the eyes, but spirits were sensitive to light from every direction. That much information to a being in pain would typically prompt them to forget everything about the experience. The General had no idea where he was. He remembered needing to meet the Tryker ambassador after speaking with the insufferable Yrkanis intendant. But now, there was only the pain, and his body on the ground, and the sound of the forest, and the gingo in the woods. He remembered something about a Tryker. Was he supposed to meet someone? There were people coming. Was that now, or something that happened earlier? The people that surrounded his body were indeed in the present. The decaying mass of flesh and bone that used to house his soul was being moved, and the General had little choice but to follow it. Edited by Shadarin, Jul 6 2008, 03:39 AM.
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| Sometimes, when we want something, and even though we really want it, we just don't get it, and there is nothing we can do about it. | |
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| Shadarin | Jul 7 2008, 02:31 PM Post #5 |
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Atys is an actual, living thing. It is not comprised of a collection of rocks and dirt and water, it is a cohesive living organism. Or at least that is what we are told. You can’t always trust the words of the supernatural powers that preside over Atys. The Kami and Karavan rarely deceive us outright, but they almost never tell the whole story the first time around. But, if Atys lives and grows, it might think and feel too. I know for certain that it bleeds. The thick, dark, amber blood of the living planet; it isn’t a substance you can get easily. There are some harvesters that can coax many useful things to appear on the surface of Atys. It is through their labors that we have managed to rebuild what little of our civilization we currently have. There are a fewer, perhaps the less sane among them that brave the eerie depths of the Prime Roots in order to find materials that grow closer to the heart of Atys, materials that are more pure for that proximity. These resources are in high demand and even a handful of them can make the intrepid harvester wealthy. Out of these, bravest and most foolish miners, there are only two who dare descend close enough to the beating heart of Atys to gather drops of its precious blood. Yesterday, one of them died. I will not delve much into the story, or identity, of my recently deceased supplier. Taking the blood of Atys is a capital offense in all the homin lands. Even the Fyros, who do not flinch at covering the desert sands with liquid fire, find making Atys bleed to be distasteful. Destroying the reputation of a homin of his skill, not to mention the reputation of his surviving family is something even I would hesitate to do. I will say, however, that of all the homin races, only the Matis are close enough to the rhythm of life that guides this planet to be able to draw its blood. And, of all the homin races, only a Matis would be greedy enough to sell it. The surviving blood-taker now has a corner on a very exclusive, but very lucrative market. And I have four vials of the most deadly poison ever discovered. Touching the stuff is almost instantly fatal. Rumor has it that if a blade coated in the blood pierces the armor of a Karavan trooper, it is just as lethal to the alien as it is to any homin. I wouldn’t put it past anyone that has the stomach to use the substance to actually try and kill a priest of Jena. I know that for the right price, I would take the job. Can you imagine how much I could increase my fee if it were known that I actually killed one of those preening outsiders and lived to advertise about it? That future will have to wait. The present has provided me quite enough to boast about for the next few months. The great Matisian General, Liccio Chiando, is dead. I killed him. Of course, you don’t just bring something like that up at a party; but word has a way of getting around, especially when the target is someone as visible as the General. The how of it was relatively straightforward. All of the powerful people on Atys know each other. All of those people have had to remove certain problems in order to get to where they are. This puts an enterprising assassin in an interesting position; some would call it blackmail, I call it networking. I know the Tryker ambassador to Matia. I helped his younger brother (the only witness, coincidentally, to a surprisingly large embezzlement scheme the ambassador had running before his appointment) into the lake around Fairhaven after a long night of drinking. Sadly, I was not available to help his brother out of the lake, and his body washed up on the shore a few days later; providing a decent meal for those horrible goari that are far too plentiful on the Lakelands’ beaches. Everyone is surprised when I tell them that Tryker are capable of fratricide for political gain. Somehow, homin have this notion that we are all too busy drinking or dancing or swimming to be bothered with plotting and murder. That idea is laughable. Tryker are devoted, first and always, to individual freedom. If a law is written, many of us would break it just out of principle. The ranks of the various pirate gangs in the Lakelands grow daily. Murder is only wrong if it happens to someone you like. So, I made a visit to the Tryker ambassador in Yrkanis. No one who knows me is ever happy to see me. It usually means I am there either to complete a contract or to collect payment. Since the ambassador did not currently have a need for my services, he naturally assumed the worst. There was the customary explaining that if he were indeed my target, he would already be dead. With that out of the way, I requested that the ambassador invite the General to the embassy to talk about troop placement on the Loria border, or some other official sounding request. After the heated negotiation over the exact size of a suitable bribe, a deal was struck, and I was told that I could expect the General in two days time, late in the evening. That particular moment in time passed about twenty minutes ago. The General, of course, left his cloak with the embassy doorman; I retrieved the cloak, and applied a small bit of the blood of Atys to the collar. The General concluded his business, picked up his cloak, replaced it on his shoulders, and made his way out of the building. The General had been an exceptionally strong man, as he made it out of the embassy before teetering and falling to the leaf-covered ground. The embassies in Yrkanis are in the mostly deserted southern quarter of the town. Few people visit there, and those that do are usually heading for the bar on the west side. This worked out very nicely for me, as not only did my patron want the General killed, he also wanted the body. I quickly bound the feet of the body together and began to drag the corpse east. There was a small gap in the fence through which a Tryker could fit easily. A Matis might make it, if he didn’t mind squeezing a bit, and I didn’t think the General would be all that put out. The idea in my head was to take the body through the trees south of the city, west over the hills, then cross the road into the thick forest outside of Natae, and south to my destination. It was a good idea, right up to the hills. I don’t know if there is a larger pack of gingo anywhere in Atys than in the hills west of Yrkanis. Of course, the sound of something moving in the darkness drew their attention, and I dispatched three of creatures before deciding that being alive and a bit less wealthy was better than being dead, but with a good reputation. Besides, this might be salvaged yet. I knew the gingo wouldn’t touch the poisoned corpse. The scent of the blood of Atys repels any warm-bodied animal. The kitin don’t seem to mind the smell of it so much, but then, the story is that the first kitin were found in the Prime Roots, and they might be more tolerant of it. If I can make it to the outlaw tribe that calls themselves The Turn of the Tide (Jena only knows why they think that is a fear inspiring name) I might be able to convince them it is in their interest to help me recover the corpse of a great Matisian hero. |
| Sometimes, when we want something, and even though we really want it, we just don't get it, and there is nothing we can do about it. | |
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| Shadarin | Jul 9 2008, 01:32 PM Post #6 |
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Rawr lay propped up in a corner of his den. Rawr knew he was small for a kipee, but his den was still quite a bit larger than he would ever need. That was fortunate, however. If his den were any smaller, his Boy would not be able to fit in it. Rawr’s primary duty, he knew, was to protect his Boy. Rawr stood guard against all sort of evil things. He scared off the ragus that prowled outside the den. He made sure the vorax under his Boy’s bed stayed under the bed while his Boy was asleep. Rawr, of course, never needed sleep, he never needed food, and he never needed exercise. He had all the energy and strength it ever required to make sure his Boy was safe. His years of service had not left him without scars. He had lost an eye years back when his Boy bit it off, for reasons Rawr still did not understand. Rawr was also lost part of one of his legs during the incident with a hastily closed door. Fortunately, prompt intervention by the Lady kept the wound from becoming fatal. But, on the whole, his service had been fulfilling and pleasant. Each morning, his Boy would take Rawr exploring, and Rawr would guard the Boy each night. Rawr found comfort in this routine, and had no thought of leaving his post. Rawr knew, however, that his greatest challenge yet would be to protect his Boy from the noises outside of his den tonight. His Boy woke up after what Rawr knew to be an explosion. It shook the walls and floor of his den, and Rawr slumped over onto his bad leg. His Boy crawled out of bed and picked Rawr up, just as the Lady entered his den. The Lady spoke to his Boy briefly, and Rawr knew there was worry in her tone. The Lady took his Boy by the hand, and she, his Boy, and Rawr left from his den into the room next to it. Rawr knew that this was where his Boy usually ate, but it did not seem to Rawr like his Boy was going to get a meal. The Lord joined the trio in the room. Rawr knew it was still dark outside, and it was strange that his Boy was being allowed to leave the den in the dark. But, Rawr had learned over the years that the Lord and Lady usually knew best, and it did very little good to argue with them. Rawr knew that the Lord had a large pack that he was wearing on his back. This usually meant the four of them were going on an adventure somewhere, but his Boy did not seem very excited at the thought tonight. The Lord knelt down, and looked his Boy in the eyes. “We have to go away for a while, son. It might be a long time before we can come back,” he said, “follow your mother very closely. You will have to be very quiet, and very brave.” Rawr knew that anytime the Lord asked his Boy to be brave, there was something worse than the vorax under the bed to fear. The Lady knelt down, and wrapped her arms around his Boy. She whispered in his ear, “Stay close, dearest. Hold on tight to Rawr, and follow me as quickly as you can.” The Lady picked up a pack similar to the Lord’s, and the four of them ran quickly out of the room, into the forest night. There was light and heat, but no noise. Rawr knew he had fallen to the ground. He knew one of his legs was on fire. Rawr knew that his Boy was on the ground with him, and he thought it was odd that his Boy was not trying to get up. Over the years, his Boy had fallen down often, but he always got back up. Rawr knew the Lord and Lady were close by, but they were not coming to help his Boy, nor were they trying to put out the fire that had finished burning off his leg, and was now consuming his shell. Rawr knew something was very, very wrong. Rawr knew that he had failed to protect his Boy. And then, Rawr knew nothing. |
| Sometimes, when we want something, and even though we really want it, we just don't get it, and there is nothing we can do about it. | |
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| Shadarin | Jul 12 2008, 02:41 AM Post #7 |
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Jena does not always protect the innocent. Nor does She always guide the virtuous to victory. It is far more common that the well trained and well equipped carry the day. I have yet to see a prayer turn a spear tip. The Matis have long held that the King should act in Jena’s stead. We certainly accept that he is not always all-knowing and wise. But a good king should always try to do whatever he can to protect his people, and to do so with patients and grace. Of course, the King can not be every where at once, so his officers and councilors are there to inform him and carry out his will. There are, of course, breakdowns in this order from time to time. There is never a guarantee that the king has the best interests of his people in mind. There is even less of a guarantee that his councilors are doing any more than furthering their own ambition. But, this is what passes as politics in Matia. The order of the kingdom is often maintained by the blood of the innocent. It was never enough for the General just to drive an opponent out of their stronghold. He had to have his adversary completely annihilated. When I was Lieutenant Chiando, platoon leader of the third platoon of the First Contingent of His Majesty’s Royal guard, I was tasked with providing perimeter containment during an attack on a bandit encampment in the Slough of Demons. It was my job to make sure bandits attempting escape were captured, or preferably, killed. There are torbak in the Slough of Demons that are larger than any mektoub; and the violent gibbai tribes attack anything that makes a noise they do not like. So the battle would become a two front engagement between the forces of bandit raiders, and the forces of Atysian nature. Fortunately for the third platoon, the forest creatures do not take sides. I, like all of the platoon leaders in the First Contingent, had three weeks of warning before the attack in the Slough. Considering the area my platoon was expected to patrol, I thought it would be wise to acquaint myself with the area before hand. It would have been entirely inappropriate to take my entire platoon into the area that long before the assault for a couple of reasons; first, because it would obviously alert the bandits to our intent, and second, many of my men would be killed or injured in the attempt. Matis children learn early how to move through the forest quietly, and which creatures really are more scared of a homin than a homin is scared of them. I was able to move through the forest as well as most Matis, but to learn what I needed to about the Slough of Demons; I knew that I would need a guide. Among the many forces in His Majesty’s employ are the Forrest Runners. This group not only knows how to move quietly through the forest, but quickly, as well. They know the names and habits of every forest dweller, from the Zoria missionaries that inhabit the Fleeting Gardens, to the terrifying beast Zatchel, the prowls though the Grove of Confusion. They specialize in getting from one place to another while employing the least amount of violence. They are the best scouts, spies and guides anywhere in Matia, and Miaccia Visti was one of them. It used to be that Matis females, especially the daughters of prominent nobles, would spend their time plotting their rise through the social ranks of Matis life. Money, beauty, fame, power, and politics would all play a part in that game. The dispassionate observer might ask how the ambitions of the Matis females differed from those of the Matis males. The answer was that the females used power as a means to get adoration and influence with their peers, while males used adoration and influence with their peers to get more power. Of course, much of that changed with the swarming. When civilizations crumble, all that keeps a homin from death is what that homin can do by himself. Rare is the tailor that can not skin a bodoc, and rarer is the aged politician that can not win in a duel. This forced self-reliance, and the Matis emphasis on excellence in whatever task we pursue, has lead many of the Matis females into the ranks of the Royal Forces. The plotting and backstabbing still goes on, obviously, but a great deal more weight is now given to what useful skills a homin possesses over the cleverness of the cut on their latest outfit. Miaccia Visti always dressed for the occasion. As our goal was to sneak about an area that was swarming with torbak without becoming a meal, she had the foresight of wearing garments that were constructed completely of plant material. I, of course, trying to impress the scout that was assigned to lead me, wore combat armor crafted from the skins and teeth of fiercest animals of the forest. Sure, it was smelly, but nothing quite said “admire me” like a breastplate made from an ocyx shell. We met up at the gates of Yrkanis. The Forrest Runner liaison officer introduced us quickly, and then left us to our mission. One of the perks of being related to the General is that requests to other departments were often completed with a lot less paperwork. Scout Visti suggested, politely, that the Lieutenant should find something less cumbersome for this mission. I said I had been wearing this armor for years, and it felt like a second skin. Miaccia shrugged, and she was off; heading south at a loping jog that reminded me of how mektoub move. By the time we reached Davea, I wanted nothing more than to lie down and die. I settled for putting my combat gear in my pack and I purchased a set of light traveling clothes similar to my guide wore. “Second skin, huh?” Scout Visti remarked when she saw my new attire. I was spared the need to come up with a retort by the timely intervention of a male voice calling out “Mia!” The Matis the voice belonged to was well dressed, older, and slightly rotund for a Matis. He was also the Intendant of the city. “Father!” Scout Visti answered and practically pounced on the man with a happy embrace. “I heard you might be stopping by Davea, dear. Why didn’t you come and see me?” the Intendant said, with exaggerated hurt in his voice. “Had I known we were going to make a shopping trip out of this visit, I would have come straight over, father,” Scout Visti said, while giving me an accusing glance. The Intendant looked at me, as if it were the first time he noticed me standing there. “And Mia,” he said, returning his gaze to his daughter, “who is this one.” “Oh, father,” Scout Visti started, assuming a slightly more formal air, “this is Lieutenant Antocho Chiando, Of the Royal Guard. Lieutenant, this is Intendant Bergio Visti of Davea; my father.” I gave the Intendant the salute required to his office. He returned with a nod of his head and said, “Ahh, the General’s nephew. We have heard about you, Lieutenant. I assume you are with my daughter for official business, then?” “Yes sir,” I answered, “a reconnaissance mission. I am afraid I am forbidden to share more information than that.” “Of course Lieutenant,” the Intendant said, “I completely understand. I do not want to keep you to from your task. Mia, take care of the young Lieutenant. We would hate for something unfortunate to happen to him.” |
| Sometimes, when we want something, and even though we really want it, we just don't get it, and there is nothing we can do about it. | |
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| Shadarin | Jul 28 2008, 10:54 PM Post #8 |
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Raspal
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The Great Bog…Any romance that starts overlooking a festering, stinking pit is going to be one that lasts. Scout Visti, either having decided that it would soon be too dark to carry on, or having correctly appraised me as not fit to continue our journey, began setting up camp. I had spent weeks at a time in the field with my platoon, but even so, I found Scout Visti’s camp a bit rough. We scavenged some long branches, leaned them against a large tree, and threw a well-oiled bodoc skin that Scout Visti carried in her pack over the edifice. “This is home for the night, then?” I said, eying the structure suspiciously. “The skin will keep the rain off of us and our scent to ourselves, Lieutenant,” She answered as she ducked under a flap into the structure. I followed her in. We feasted on a couple of handfuls of dried fruit and strips of capryni jerky. Having been too busy trying to catch my breath during the trip, I took advantage of the relative calm of the situation to have a conversation with my guide. “So, tell me, Scout Visti, what is the great bog like? What sort of things should we expect to find here?” I asked as I removed the cap of my water bag. “Well, there are the sentient plants that grow all over Matia. Those aren’t a problem if you leave them alone. The arma and the yelk are the primary grazing animals here. Be careful with the water, there isn’t a clear source close by.” I put down the water bag after my fourth gulp. “Sorry,” I said. “You were worried about something smelling us. What else is around here?” “There are gibbai near here, though how they got here is something of a mystery. Somewhere in the center of the bog, there is supposed to be a large pack of gingo, but I have only heard about them, never seen them myself. The real worry is the torbak. They don’t usually come this far north, but I don’t want to risk it.” Torbak share qualities with many of the forest inhabitants that make post-swarming life in Matia so interesting; four legs, huge teeth, thick skin, and a seemingly insatiable hunger. They have been known to stop feeding on a recent kill in order to chase prey that was still moving. Torbak are Atys’ way of controlling the yelk population, and both the primary argument for and against the idea that Jena had a plan for us when She created us. Using a horrible monstrosity to destroy a wretched stinking nuisance seems rather clever. Not creating either one in the first place, however, seems altogether wiser. But, they were out there in the darkness. Scout Visti and I trusted our lives to a piece of dead animal skin. If it had not been for the exhaustion incurred by the day’s trek, I think worry would have kept me awake. As it was, I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the ground. I woke up to Scout Visti poking me with one of our lodging poles. The morning light pushed its way through the canopy to dance with the shadows on the forest floor. Scout Visti was standing above me with a branch in her hand, her pack was ready and leaning against the tree that hosted us through the night. “It is past time that we were on our way, Lieutenant.” Scout Visti said. “Why didn’t you wake me up earlier?” I asked between yawns. “You looked like you could use the sleep,” She answered. “Thanks,” I said, as I used my spear to push myself up. “You should probably wear your armor today, Lieutenant. There is a pretty good chance that we will find something that will try to make a meal out of us.” “You might have mentioned that before you took down the bodoc skin,” I said. “You should have been up earlier. I promise I won’t look,” she said, smiling. Matisian heavy combat armor is made to fit against the skin of its wearer with a tolerable amount of discomfort. But, if one tries to wear clothes beneath the armor, the clothes bunch and begin to chaff against the skin, quickly turning tolerable discomfort into real pain. There was nothing to be done about it. I tried to put the tree between Scout Visti and me as I pulled my clothes off and stuffed myself into my combat armor. I checked myself over to make sure everything was in place; I had everything but my helmet. My official reason for not wearing it was that it limited my peripheral vision and made it difficult to breath. My real reason was they look awkward. And then we were off, heading south into the great bog at a considerably slower pace than the day before. Scout Visti was tense, and intent on seeing anything before it could see us first. We skirted around a camp of exiled trykers that called themselves the Ecowarriors. Not that they were a particularly violent group, but they were likely to have ties to the bandits in the Slough of Demons, and the less they new about us, the better. We followed the ridge of a ravine. That way we were safe from at least one direction, and it was much more difficult to surround us. Scout Visti was really very good at being able to see without letting herself be seen. We watched from a distance as a few torbak circled and killed a large arma. Their high-pitched whistle alerting the rest of their pack to the kill. That was when I hit in the head with a brick. When my head cleared enough for me to see, I found the brick was really a large furry hand attached to a long furry arm that connected to a dark furry body. That body was poised to take another swing at me when is suddenly stopped, stood straight up and stared at Scout Visti. Scout Visti was standing up, staring right at the creature. Neither one was moving, though Scout Visti did look like she was mumbling something. I was not sure how long the staring contest was going to last, but I was sure of an opportunity when I saw one. I picked up my spear, leveled it at the creature, and ran until I felt the blade of my weapon pierce the creature’s throat. The bones in the creature’s neck turned the blade slightly, and I let the spear follow its new course until the point emerged from the back of the creature’s neck. The new angle set the blade sliding across arteries in the throat, and I pushed the weapon until the cross piece stopped my momentum. Dark blood gushed out of the wound, plastering the creature’s fur to its skin. It fell to its knees, clawing at the blade in its neck. The creature turned its gaze to me, opened its mouth in a futile attempt to breath, and dropped to its hands. The art of using a long-spear is when to follow the lead of the weapon, and when force it through. I kept pressure on the shaft of the spear, forcing the creature’s head to the ground, a rapidly-growing pool of blood beneath it. The creature started to convulse, fell onto its face, and finally, it lay still. Before I could clear the blade from the thing’s neck, I heard Scout Visti behind me. “It’s a gibbai. They are originally from the Zorai jungles. They are thought to be intelligent, and I am told they can be taught to speak. I know for certain they are cunning and violent,” she said. I put my foot on the gibbai’s skull and jerked the weapon free. Scout Visti walked closer to me and continued, “Their dark coloring and irregular shape make it easy for them to hide, but that isn’t an excuse. I should have seen it earlier, I am sorry, Lieutenant.” “That was amazing stun magic,” I said between breaths, “Is that something that is taught to all of the Forrest Runners?” “We all have the opportunity to learn it, yes.” she answered. She touched her fingertips to my forehead where the gibbai hit me, closed her eyes, and whispered a few light verses. Pure life pulsed through her hand and into me, and the pain was gone. She opened here eyes and asked, “Is that better, Lieutenant?” “…uh…yeah,” I said in wide-eyed awe, “and call me Toch, please.” I cleared my throat and looked away; at the body on the ground. “Does our furry friend have anything on him worth taking?” Scout Visti searched the body, and found a well-made necklace. The amber and seed was dug from the forest, and we figured the piece was probably taken from the corpse of one of the bandits. Scout Visti said the skin and bones of gibbai were too frail and thin for anything practical. The rest of the trip was comparatively quiet. We could hear the torbak, and ran across the remains of their meals, but we didn’t come face to face with any of them. Soon, we were close enough to see the bandit camp. It looked well-established. Its eastern border was the shear cliff of the ravine, and on the west were tall hills that had been dug out to from precipitous drops. The bandits appeared to have been there some time. They had been able to construct actual houses and fences. The ground had been cultivated, and we saw a corral holding a pack of arma. We skirted west of the camp and continued south until we had circled around it. We didn’t see any guards, but we still took care not to be noticed. The south end of the camp emptied into a draw that ran west between to large hills. As we were making our way around the camp, we also noticed a break in the natural walls that was bridges by a low fence. Likely too high to scale easily, but a ladder could be put against the inside to make a quick escape route. I sat down on the protected side of the hill to think. “Scout Visti,” I began, “If you had to lead an entire contingent here, which route would you take?” “The same way we took,” she said as she took a seat beside me. “Despite our little entanglement, it really is the safest path. When we are alone, please call me Mia.” I smiled and then asked, “So, in your opinion, the main force would likely have to attack from the north, right?” “Yes, I think so,” Mia said, “It would be very difficult to lead a large group around the west side without being detected by either the bandits or the torbak.” “And what about the gibbai?” I asked. “I think they are smarter than to attack a large group of armed Matis. We shouldn’t have to worry about them.” The attack would almost have to come from the north. The bandits would be expecting that, of course, and be ready. But the attack wasn’t my concern. I had to keep the bandits from escaping once the battle turned against them. There were two exits, and I had to keep both of them covered, and have part of my force making sure that nothing else attacked us while we were there. I needed a way to limit the bandit’s options. “Did you grow up in Davea, Mia?” I asked conversationally. She was staring out over the low valley, watching a small herd of arma graze. “Yeah. My father was the Intendant of Davea before he married my mother.” “I am surprised that we never met earlier.” I started. “My family owns a large parcel of land just north of Davea. From what I understand, my uncle decided that he would rather fight than till, so he gave up his part of the inheritance to my father.” “I kept out of sight as I was growing up.” Mia leaned back on her hands and rested against the hill side. “But I am familiar with your family’s property. The Peli family owns a plot to the east of there, right?” “Right,” I said. I noticed that even though she was reclined, she was still watching the arma. “I bring it up because we used to trap ragus there quite a bit. We would hang a carcass from a tree, and as it rotted the ragus would trot over and eat the bits that had fallen off. I would spear the thing and hold it, while my brother would run up with a long knife try to stick it through the heart. “We tried once to bury the bait, thinking it would last longer that way, but ragus are powerful diggers. We came out only to find an empty pit.” “You are going somewhere with this story, aren’t you?” she asked as she turned her head toward me. “Can torbak dig?” I asked. She looked at me as if she were beginning to doubt my sanity. “Not very well, their claws aren’t really made for it,” she answered. “I think we need to enlist your arma friends into serving His Majesty’s will.” Arma are pathetically stupid creatures. My theory on how they survive on Atys is that they are simply too big to kill easily, and one of them can feed a pack of predators for a week. I suppose the arma are proof that it is possible to obtain peace by giving your enemy what they want. Mia and I killed a lot of them that day. It was dreadfully easy. Mia would paralyze the creatures with magic, and I would run the blade of my spear between the ribs, through a lung and pierce the heart. After that, it was a matter of waiting until they collapsed as the lung filled up with blood and their heart stopped. We killed five of the beasts as the rest of the heard went on eating. Arma are made to be very sturdy. They have long bones and strong tendons to support their huge frames. There bones were often used to make poles for dwellings and hafts for axes. Mia and I crafted a litter from their skins, and fashioned a couple of shovels and picks from their bones and teeth; the rest of the carcasses where roughly butchered and placed on the litter. There were stagnant pools of water that weren’t fit to drink from unless you were about to die if you didn’t. But, they did suffice for washing the gore from our arms and hands. “The rest of this plan will probably have to wait until after dark,” I said as I dried my hands on the shirt I took out of my pack. “We should probably get some sleep now, while we can.” “Alright,” Mia said after she finished washing her hands. I tossed her the wadded-up shirt. “I will keep an eye out while you take a nap. I will get you up in a couple of hours.” “Are you sure that you don’t want to go first?” I asked. “If I did that, you would try to do something noble and stupid and let me sleep for the rest of the day. Then I will be digging most of what is sure to be a very big hole by myself.” Matisian heavy combat is also hard to sleep in, but I wasn’t going to try to change without any cover, and even if I wanted to, my shirt was wet and bloody. But, I tried to get some sleep in a small cleft in the hillside that was partially covered by half-eaten bushes. True to her word, Mia shook me awake, and I stood watch as she napped. She had the ivory skin of all Matis, but hers was slightly freckled from the sun. Her dark hair fell in wild strands across her face and neck. Her lips were no longer set in the grim concentration of keeping us alive, and now looked warm and soft. The approaching night changed the light from bright yellow, to fiery orange, from soft pink to lavender-gray. I watched as the shades played across her skin. And though I stood a very attentive watch, I was not a very good guard. Fortunately, darkness came before anything could find us. And with the darkness came time to get back to work. Mia was right; we had to dig a large, deep pit. We dragged the litter full of arma parts just west of the fence that shored the defenses of the bandit camp, and there we started to dig. It was stressful work. We did not dare have any light, and we had to work slowly to minimize the amount of noise. The marshy ground moved easily, however, and with a few hours of labor, we had a pit almost as deep as Mia was tall, and about as wide as my spear was long. Once we had it dug, we filled it again. At the bottom we threw in some arma meat, and then we covered that with a good layer of dirt, then some more arma meat, then some more dirt. We filled the entire pit that way, scattering the remaining dirt around in hopes of avoiding any obvious signs that we were meddling. My thought was that the meat would rot, attracting torbak to the site. The torbak would dig for the meat and get at some of it, while their traffic would dig up a bit more, keeping them coming back to the area. With any luck, the torbak would be around to help us guard a potential exit point when the assault came. We finished our work just before dawn. We sunk our tools in one of the deeper pools and followed the same path out of the bog as we did going in. No gibbai this time around. When we reached the foothills above the bog, it was nearly mid-day. Exhaustion overcame modesty and cleanliness and I changed into my light clothes again. We didn’t rest for there long before moving again. It was well past nightfall before we made it to Davea. “You are welcome to stay the rest of the night in my father’s house, Lieutenant,” Scout Visti said. “Thank you, Scout Visti, I think I will,” I accepted. “Unfortunately, I will probably not be joining you for breakfast,” she said. “My commander needs to meet with me just after dawn, and I know how you like to sleep,” She smiled. “Will you do me the favor of guiding me and my men during the assault, Scout Visit?” I asked, with only the barest trace of formality. “I would be happy to, Lieutenant,” Scout Visti said brightly. “I will bring it up with my commander in the morning.” I had a warm and comfortable bed that night, but I hardly slept at all. The morning came, and I had breakfast with the Davea Intendant. We politely discussed the affairs of the day, talked about politics in Matia, and my little excursion with his daughter. He asked if I was going to be seeing her again anytime soon, and he seemed pleased when I expressed my hope that I would. I left the house of the Intendant dressed in my armor and made my way back to Yrkanis to brief my platoon. |
| Sometimes, when we want something, and even though we really want it, we just don't get it, and there is nothing we can do about it. | |
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2:31 PM Jul 11