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[Ghazkull]

OOC-Thread

In yonder days, the realms of man were thriving - in a way. Long forgotten the cataclysms of old, their only witnesses the silent Ash Wastes, the ruined Fallen Kingdoms and the Lands of Ice.

As it is humanity had simply forgotten and persevered. In the North the survivors of the Fallen Kingdoms had been driven ever further north and now dwelt in the cold and inhospitable lands of Var Caedwys. In the West people fled to Varxsea and Drezzilia. But there were those who had never known the touch of war. Who had not known whatever had befallen those in the West and North.

Granif, Navel of the World, a place where trade ran together and cultures and new ideas where exchanged.

North of it, Guerrand. A nation known for its military and moreso for its mercenaries, the Muster Barons ever plying their trade across the Fiery Sea.

If one went south but not as far as Drezzilia one would chance upon Aqura Mall, a nation of poets and hedonists. A Place of great sights and things but most impressive is the vast chain of Volcanoes ever spewing their anger into the Ash Wastes.

But once one went east the true Behemoths of Humanity were what one encountered. The High Kingdom of Jautonlund and the Enorian Republic. Massive in Size with populations which were greater than those of all other nations combined and stretches of land so vast that one could easily get lost and might walk for months to reach another habitation.

Finally there were those commonly overlooked. Sillia in it's isolated position in the sea was another center of trade one almost as large if not larger than Granif, despite that it was oft forgotten by those on the mainland.

And when one wandered deep into the Sea of Grass, following the Vine Road until one chanced upon a lone grouping of hills in the vast plains, one might look upon the City of Assassins; an oddity amongst the Nations of the Fiery Sea.

These proud nations were unbeknownst to themselves the heirs of humanity. Something that would soon oh so painfully become aware to them.

Spoiler:  Map of the Fiery Sea - warning 18mb! (click to show/hide)

https://www.dropbox.com/s/k7kogn7rc8i5qfz/gods2.jpg?dl=0

[micelus]

A Certain Time In Spring


The country was afire not with the flames of war, but with the lanterns of celebration. For a week every year, the settlements along the river Corsa entered a peculiar sort of organised chaos, where pauper and prince alike partied as if there was no tomorrow. Maids flirted with their masters, beggars ate along nobles and even ascetics would be found in brothels or feast halls. The Carnival del Rio was one of the only times in the year where Graņif could equal the hedonists of Aqura Mall and in the epicentre of the Carnival, the city of Dorado, one could find themselves stuck lurching from one party to the next with no rest at all.

As such, Graņif City itself was much less crowded, with much of the population out on holiday. Rosa was no exception, lodging herself in a country manor just outside of Dorado. As part of the festivities, she had organised a masquerade party for the locals. Secretly, she had also invited nearly every ruler of note, as well as those without such grandeur. A monarch's job is never done, even when the Carnival is in town.

...

The night of the party was what one would expect by Dorado standards; a few halls of food and narcotics, some exotic dancing troupes (that also did other things), a menagerie of entertainers and a layer of gold and silver on nearly every wall and floor. Of course, the expansive gardens that surrounded and intertwined with the manor retained their characteristic elegance, only having a few decorations that reminded everyone that they were still in Graņif and that they were not quite that intoxicated.

Of course, the party was not today's main attraction, at least not for Rosa. She waited in small unadorned room in the manor's shrine. Hopefully, all of her guests would be attending and not lost in minor debauchery.

[Taricus]

For the Varxsean procession, the timing of their arrival was early; having not heeded the celebration, or indeed any of the debauchery present on the way to the countryside manor at all, mostly ignorant to the local custom. The festivities felt alien in general to the Varxseans; such extravagant use of food and other entertainment was downright shunned by them, with the limited food available in Varxsea meaning such excesses were avoided to prevent mass starvation from taking grip

Again taken by the excessive luxury as they approached the manor and it's grand garden, the Varxseans were awestruck at how excessive and extravagant the Graņifi were with their resources, to the point that had their autarch not been leading this procession, they'd have likely burnt the entire manor down as being blasphemous to the autarch.

For all intents, the Varxsean procession was effectively a giant escort for the autarch; the masks the guards wore being simple, pragmatic and wholly intended to see combat (Which the telltale scratches and gouges on a few indicated they had seen battle). The plate and scale armour was far more impressive, yet no less practical: With the scale armour overlayed with plate armour on the torso and shoulders. Comparatively, the Autarch was in plain, thick black robes, their mask simple yet commanding though it's weathered age, akin to a relic lovingly taken care of over it's long lifespan.

Squaring shoulders and steeling their resolves, part of the Autarch's entourage made their way into the building, the rest setting up camp not to far away.

[DolosusDoleus]

((BTW its Sills Atoll, not just Sills))

An old man, draped in a ragged and weatherbeaten grey cloak, silently enters the festivities on horseback, accompanied by a group of similarly attired men. He makes a quick motion to the rider beside him, the dark olive skin of an islander shining in the light before disappearing back into the cloak. This rider, much younger, leans in to hear the elder whisper "Nikoli, make a note of the foods and festivities here. Prices, quantities, demand, the whole deal."

The old man grins as he pulls away. While most others in his position would have brought a contingent of guards, he brought merchants, traders, bankers, all with instructions to find whatever profit could be found in this festival. He fears no recognition, for few non-Sillians would recognize his face. To be honest, the cloaks were a tad unnecessary due to this fact, but he did always have a flair for the dramatic.

The assorted islanders themselves found the festivities to be odd. Peasants consorting with merchants and the nobility? Positively unheard of! For in Sills Atoll, man has his place, and is actively discouraged from interacting with those above his station unless they are to discuss profit. The old man grinned as the discomfort of his entourage, chuckled slightly to himself in amusement.

Slowly though, the horsemen began to peel off into the city until only the old man remained. He dismounted, puling back his hood to reveal the weathered face of Grand Duke Anbis Blackspear, fifth of his name. A playful twinkle in his eye, he began to make his way towards the door of the manor.

[crazyabe]

A Man of truly ancient looks soon Arrived outside the city upon his Riding Lizard, a Prime creature with Black scales with dark red highlights, and if one looked closely enough; green eyes.
the man himself is dressed in Serpent leather robes and bears upon his back a battleaxe which has seen many years of use. Upon his face is a mask made in one of the Varxsean styles, which if one looked closely enough, was splattered with old blood and broken high upon it from what looks to have been an axe strike. upon his belt is a dagger, of a design few would know, though those who did would know it belonged once to an assassin which this man was obviously not...
Following this man is a Small tribe of Drezzilian men and women, still dressed for the sands of their home, bearing with them their Pack lizards, and a few mules, bearing all that they own.
Finally he Stops, and has his people set up camp before heading in alone...
most of his tribe had not left their homeland in a long time, though he himself had once visited this city when he was young and reckless... but he does not expect to be remembered as a bandit, nor as a thief, for how long it has been, and he hopes not to be remembered at all by the women he once knew...
finally he arrived before the manor, and entered by himself...
(Since I didn't get any PMs I'm Doing this directly from my imagination and hoping this doesn't screw too much with whatever the GM plans to send my way.)

[Digital Hellhound]

The Guerrand delegation could chiefly be identified by the furious scowls directed towards the arriving Varxseans. If time had stitched over the wounds of losing their land to the Autarch, the sight of their loathsome leader opened them right up again. Prince Filios II was wholly aware of the impracticality of retaking those lands - for one, it'd move the border beyond the western bastions' protection - but his heart ached regardless.

The Prince wore an outfit no different from his companions. They could have been a gang of Guerrand mercenaries, though few Guerrandese would get caught dead in such gaudy clothing - baggy striped trousers and loose sleeves to go with the breastplates, dyed in the dark green-and-gold of Guerrand. Each man had a mask suggesting a different famous Company. The Prince's plain black half-mask resembled the black fire-spitting devil's head of the Torchbearers, while Iolio, his bodyguard, wore a heavy golden lion's head with an obvious link to the legendary Golden Company of a century past.

The Prince had abstained from most delicacies and decadences on display, sating himself with a goblet of wine and some fine Jauton bread. None of the more exotic substances interested him. For one, a man was not a man if he overindulged so, but more importantly he was keen to have control of all his senses today. The ruler of Graņif presented intriguing opportunities, as did many of other rulers sure to be present.

[Ardas]

The Enorians arrived with as much pomp and grandeur as befitted their nation - shining breastplates and tall fur caps of the Exarchal Guard, the richly decorated banners and heraldry of the noble Lord Exarch, horses dressed in rich leather and silver tack, and the rather large entourage of lesser nobility, freemen and servants, all dressed in the latest Graņifi fashion, ever so popular with the cosmopolitan folk of Enorian capital. They no doubt looked forward to the celebrations and would take the opportunity to mingle and establish "diplomatic relations" with the local population. Many of them already conducted business alongside Graņifi trade lords, so to be here in a diplomatic envoy was simply both good business and a great pleasure to most.

The Lord Exarch himself however presented a sombre image of a stern ruler - dark, graying hair and a full beard, with a piercing gaze of blue eyes. He eschewed his usually heavy furs and leather coat for a more comfortable linen and silk jerkin with an overgown for the Graņifi climate, adorned with silver and embroided with flowing oaken leaves and branches. He bestrode his large warhorse with the easy grace of a born horseman, although the evident size of both the man and the rider were still there, dominating the entourage that accompanied him.

On his arrival, Lord Barson indulged in some fruit and water, but keeping a keen gaze on all of the gathered princes and rulers. He sometimes wished to have their authority over his own people, but it was that stubborn individuality of Enorians that also sustained their might. All Lords Exarchs struggled with domestic politics, so foreign arena was where they drew and exercised most strength. This would be no different, and perhaps it could change the internal as well...   

[Draignean]

The Fyrdottr found the festival rather deeply fulfilling. The southlands still seemed like another world to her, one filled with heat and multitudinous insects, but she'd grown to accept that those sufferings might never change. It was the... indulgence they had here that amazed the Fyrdottr, and it filled her with hope. This was a place that had been spared the Hate of God, this was a place that the Caedwyn had saved through their sacrifices. Every song birthed from an excess of wine, every peal of jubilant laughter, every kiss shared in darkened corners, all were bought with the blood and pain of her people- and it was good.  The Fyrdottr's belief in the Curse was unwavering, but it was deeply satisfying to see the good that had been allowed because of her blood, and the blood of her people. The ecstasy of satisfaction of satisfaction made Sykka wish for her flail, so that she might pray within that moment of holy dread, but these people did not understand her ways. They did not understand the Curse, and prayer would only serve to draw attention to herself and disturb their soft beliefs.

Not that the Fyrdottr didn't draw attention as it was- though very few who saw her knew what she was. She wore very little, the heat here precluded her normal attire, and so her main 'garment' consisted of two pieces of woven horsehair, rough against the skin, and serving only to preserve the simplest sense of what the southlanders thought of as propriety. The horsehair had been bleached as white as bone, then died blood red in a diamond pattern. Both were held in place by strips of cloth woven through a very small subset of the metal rings that permanently pierced Sykka's flesh.  Of course, the simple horsehair was not all she wore, there were standards to be maintained. Hundreds of ribbons, dyed red, white, and black from the plants of her homeland, were threaded tightly through her remaining piercings and accentuated the diamond pattern of her horsehair garb. The patches of skin not covered by ribbon, piercing, or the two small pieces of horsehair were left intentionally bare to show her ridged scars and patterned burns- the marks of who she was. She wore a mask, in honor of the masquerade, but only a half mask so that all the world could see the firemark that covered her face, the sign of the Curse- the mark of what she was.

Most who saw her likely though she was some kind of exotic entertainer, perhaps one of the stranger dancers brought in from afar, yet none approached her. Perhaps they sensed the Curse, perhaps they simply found her scarred and pierced demeanor too alien to confront, or perhaps they shied away from the pair of Immortals that shadowed her.  The Immortals were Sykka's personal guard, drawn from the strongest of her fanatical legion, and plated over with iron from the mines. Grotesquely deformed by their burdens, the Immortals looked like nightmarish perversions of armored men. The heat must be torturous for them, and Sykka could only imagine and envy the agony inflicted by insects crawling and biting inside their metal shells.


"Come now," Sykka said, tracing a hand over the armored exterior of her nearest companion.
"I think we've lingered long enough upon the fruit of our labors. We should find our kind host, and thank her for opportunity to witness such an event first hand. Perhaps she will pray with us, no?"

[Roboson]

The Jautons arrive fairly late into the proceedings, yet this was somewhat traditional for them. The procession of Jautons was large. Literally. Most Jauton's stood a head taller and a fair bit wider than most men of other nations, and those who attended the festival were no different. The towering men and women of Jautonlund were a different kind, and different sensibilities than much of their northern cousins. The giants were muscular, and wore the typical and traditional garb of their homeland, one piece clothing that covered the torso and down to the thigh. It had no sleeves, but shoot cloth straps to loop over the shoulders. This garb was skin tight, and was more functional than fashionable, being quite durable and providing free range of motion, allowing them to be worn during any task, yet remaining cool in their tropical homeland. The prevalence of this garment is limited mostly to Jautonlund, and is rather uncommon through the rest of the kingdoms. However, here it has an unintended consequence. Their garbs* show a lot of skin. Jautons have more skin to show than most, and almost the entirety of their limbs and most of their shoulders and such are showing. While the garbs are in no way revealing of any important parts, unknowing individuals may have mistaken them as some sort of giant muscular dancers, or guards of some sort.

In a lot of ways this would be correct. Many Jautons attend this festival in the middle kingdom, coming on their drab sturdy ships, and most are here for a small subset of the festivities. The people of Jautonlund do not partake in the more extreme versions of pleasure, and stay firmly within the realm of food and drink. Which is their domain. Nothing pleases a Jauton more than good food and ale, and they find the exotic dishes of the middle kingdoms intriguing. The vast majority of jautons will travel in large packs from restaurant to restaurant, from food stand to food stand, and sample a great deal of food and drink. If they were not so joyous and friendly, it may actually be terrifying to encounter the blonde tan behemoths searching for their fifth meal of the evening, or worse, having them walk into your restaurant. While they are lucrative guests, they are loud and large, and are known to speak loudly of the food to everyone they meet. Everyone knows that Jauton's are food experts, and a good review could mean an incredibly profitable night, a bad one could mean you're empty during the festival.

Yet not all Jautons came for the food. High King Rincklefich VII has come to meet with other leaders. Tall by Jauton standards, the king was a very large man. Not as large of his father however, who came in third as the tallest man in Jauton history**, but still above the king was above average in both height and width, looking to be more like a body builder than a ruler. His garb was slightly different than the rest of his people. While the design was the same, his was composed of metal from the mountains. As far as armor is concerned, it was high grade, but skimpy, only covering the vital areas and the neck. As a result, revealing the scared muscled flesh of the High King. Though the Jauton's knew little of the dangers to the north, the southern wilds presented its own dangers. There is a reason only the large and strong Jautons have survived the ages.

High King Rincklefich and his guards, equipped with similar armor, and their traditional falcatas, set out to find their gracious host.



*(in Old Jauton the word for clothes in general and the word for this particular article are the same, and thus it doesn't have a name as result. Most people just call them garbs)
**(The largest being his ancestor and first of his name, Lewi Ricklefich I. Although many believe this is embellishment to the legend of the first Ricklefich)

(Doing this without a PM. Ready to retcon in case the PM changes things).

[FallacyofUrist]

The Assassins came in a much smaller number than the others. That is, they only sent 10. Two from each Clan. More would be unnecessary. The Assassins didn't need an honor guard. They were the guard, and a deadly one at that.

One of them was Alexander Blackblade, but nobody other than the Assassins, and possibly not even them, knew which. The Assassins, like the Varxseans, wore masks, though they did so in a different manner--they used masks only to offer facial protection and hide their identity, with no cosmetic purpose. Perhaps Alexander Blackblade would unmask later to demonstrate his identity as leader, but the others probably wouldn't. Masks were practical, especially if exchanged. They served to keep the enemy from knowing what to expect, and knowing who to put a bounty on if it came to that.

Despite their masks, the Assassins still enjoyed the party... to some degree. No alcohol was consumed, for the mind must stay sharp. Food was smelled and tested for poison. It didn't seem likely that any served food would be poisoned, but training to become an Assassin made one somewhat paranoid.

The primary purpose which the Assassins came, however, was politics and contracts. Odds are somebody relatively unimportant would be assassinated by the day's end. It was the perfect opportunity. On the other hand, that was, surprisingly, the secondary objective compared to politics. The Assassins needed new contracts... and possibly other sources of income. Hopefully opportunities to find both would occur here.

[IronyOwl]

The Aqura Mall entourage was large and, for once, relatively appropriate, being composed of wanton artists and revelers clad in scanty, red-leaning silks designed with comfort and attractiveness in mind. Unlike the other nations, whose grim, dour warriors and merchants sampled a fistful of food and wine before whispering amongst themselves in hushed circles, the Aqurans moved through the festivities like sharks returned to sea. Delicacies were gorged on, wine sampled and resampled, narcotics imbibed, affections exchanged, and then they were sufficiently warmed up to start debauching for real.

The Aqurans were early getting to the party, but Emira Hassa was decidedly late getting to the meeting. She'd stuffed herself with delicacies, drunk more spirits than most men could remain conscious through, consumed a truly staggering amount of drugs (their Flow was good but not great), and was pretty sure she had engaged in carnal exploits with about as many bodies as there were people present (a good rule of thumb for Emiras on official business). Her vision was split and the room spun gently, but like a veteran seaman in a storm, this was familiar territory.

There was nothing particularly royal about the drunken harlot that stumbled into the shrine, save perhaps her unusual beauty and the purpose with which she staggered. Her movements possessed a certain elegance, gracefully swaying with her imbalances rather than trying to fight against them, like a leaf riding the wind or a ship sailing with the storm. Assuming one found beauty in drunks trying to find a chair, which was admittedly more of an Aquran thing.

In any event, if she found anything wrong with showing up to a meeting of lords drunk and stoned, or if she expected to be hampered by those conditions, she didn't show it, smiling expectantly at her host and fellow guests.

[micelus]

Rosa looked over her assembled guests, lords and leaders of the world, all gathered here by her invitation. Some were dressed in drab rags and others in good finery. As for herself, Rosa had partaken in the latest style, something she saw as simply part of her duties. She wore a long elegant crimson tunic with stylised pauldrons and a pair of leggings ending in the finest crocodile leather boots. Her face, already adorned with her chosenmask. Of course, it would be simply unseemly to allow her head to be uncovered, mask or not. A very loosely tied scarlet headscarf covered the back of the Protector's wavy hair, although not by much. All this said, fashion was not at all one of Rosa's pastimes and she simply wore as was required. Indeed, she left most of this fashion business to her maids. That way at least, she could focus on much more important topics, such as this meeting.

For the most part, the gathered rulers were a serious lot. Some had partaken a few of the fruits of prosperity, but most were still clear of mind. Besides the recently arrived emira, of course. At least someone had gotten into the seasonal spirit.

" I do hope that my people have extended a warm welcome to you all and I do hope you and your peoples enjoy the celebrations we have to offer. This said, I see that with the addition of our dear Emira, our conclave may finally begin!"

Seeing that the meeting was ready to begin, Rosa's guards left the room, and ensured that none where near enough to spy upon the proceedings; such an occurrence would be most rude, after all.

"In this room are gathered the most powerful rulers in the civilised world, bearing the command of thousands as well as the beautiful ability to influence the course of history. Which is why I have requested this meeting to ensure that a...peace remains between our realms. I would like us to speak of our difficulties together and other issues before any conflict comes to pass...I also have another proposal which I will announce just before the end of this conference. Now, is there any amongst us who would like to press an issue, or should I begin this dance of ours?"

[crazyabe]

"I have no isssue myself, Though I would worry about my tribe's effects on your ssity. . . Not many of mine people have recently left its borderss, though I remember this ssity from when I was but a Young lad..."
Ostivan says with little of the accent one might associate with his people, and remembers a time most others in the room are too young to remember.

[Draignean]

"I have a matter to bring up before the assembled, but I feel this is not the time," the Fyrdottr said, inclining her head to the Royal Protector. "Some moves are ill suited to the beginnings of a dance."

[Roboson]

Rincklefinch spoke next. His voice was deep and resonant, A messenger was scheduled to meet me once I arrived in the city, however they have yet to arrive. At this time I have no issues to share, but may shortly.