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 Post subject: Chronicles of the Ethnoi
PostPosted: Thu Jul 17, 2014 8:04 am 
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Prince Darien el'Ruven

A warm wind blew across the starlit camp of Prince Darien, bringing with it the faint scent of lafia from the Gors. It wouldn’t have surprised the casual sniffers in the camp though, drenched as it was with various perfumes worn by the lordlings who had accompanied the prince in his journey south. Ruvenian though they were, it wouldn’t have inspired them to string sonnets about scented dreams under the stars. It was just another night in the prince’s camp.

For nearly two weeks, they had made slow progress down the length of Ruven, following Alacra, a minor distributary of the Ellorien. For the first few days, not many knew where they were headed. The prince had kept his counsel to himself. After they had marched clear of the last village, he had disclosed his intention of traveling to the Fortress of Light.

That was a week ago. Now, they were camped in the shadow of Mount Birdar, well within arrow shot of the fortress, flying the seal of House Ruven. Not the nation’s flag, but the family’s. It was as clear a sign of peaceful intention as any. Still, it was not any house. It was House Ruven, the ruling family. What the Grand Master of the Order thought of that was anyone’s guess.

The camp was laid out in concentric circles, with Darien’s big tent in the center. It was a gaudy gold and blue tent with its private latrine and bath. Two sentries liveried in the House’s colors guarded the entrance while few more crouched behind the crates as added security. Within the tent, a cheery light glimmered.

The prince was seated casually on his carved wooden chair, one leg thrown over an arm of the chair, cradling a goblet of spiced wine in his right hand. He rested his chin on the fist of the other as he listened to Lord Migrain glorify the rich culture of Ruven.

“Take the word ‘****’”, he was saying to the group assembled in Darien’s tent – a very young but wealthy group of men and women from the great houses of Ruven. “It is clearly of Ruvenian origin. Today, even the Lerindorans use it. Sure, the southerners find it a very vile word, but no one can deny neither its ubiquity, nor its power to shock the listener. The northerners rarely swear, it is true. But when they do, they prefer ‘****ing’ to their own ‘flaming’. Let’s face it, friends. The days of the ‘bloody’ Lerindorans are gone. We now live in the age of the ‘****ing’ Ruvenians. And we are ****ing good.”

They all cheered and laughed loudly, and gulped down their goblets. Almost immediately, maids and servants glided to refill their glasses. No one noticed these movements anymore. Every Ruvenian noble expected their glasses to be refilled when empty. It was as natural as breathing.

Darien allowed himself a smile. It was all very amusing. He always found Jain Migrain highly amusing. The man was a headache, to be sure, but he was great company when you were drunk.

“My lord?” He felt warm fingers caress the back of his hand. It was Lady Sulein. She was leaning towards him, displaying ample cleavage as she spoke. “What news of the messenger? Will the Grand Master agree to see us?”

Darien was not fooled. Despite her seductive suggestions, Bela Sulein was a power player. She reveled in information. She knew it held a bigger power than her body.

“Why don’t you relax and enjoy the night, Bela?” he said, enjoying teasing her. “Maybe he will see us, maybe he won’t. Is it so terribly important?”

“But it is!” She applied a stronger pressure on his arm. “With him by your side, you can prove your leadership. You are born to lead, Darien.”

Darien knew it was flattery, but that didn’t lessen the swell of pride. He smiled at her indulgently.

“My man has still not returned, Bela my sweet. He is probably in the fortress right now, talking to the Grand Master. You will know when he comes bearing new, trust me.” He laid the back of his hand on her cheek and caressed it. In any other table, this would have been a very awkward moment. But this was a Ruvenian table, filled with young Ruvenian lords. The banter continued ceaselessly while Darien flirted with Bela.

Just another night in the Prince’s camp.


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PostPosted: Sat Jul 19, 2014 5:25 am 
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Athan bounced in his saddle, tired from the journey and his lack of information. He had searched across Angmar for years it seemed, though he knew months was more accurate. From border to border, he rode with all possible speed, speaking with all who had heard of what happened to Fourthbridge. All he'd managed to gather was that it may have been kirmu, or it may not have, or any number of absurd claims. All he'd truly discovered that whoever did it was extremely good at what they did, and there was atleast one channeler among them. The residue of weaving had deteriorated significantly, but the faint traces were there.

Athan was a day or two's ride into Meruvian territory when the road forked familiarly; to the left, more endless plains, with a small township a week and a half away yet. To the right, the Black Tower was hidden a day's ride more into the hills. Kneeing his mount, a thick, black-maned colt he'd named Daril toward the right. It wasn't for atleast four hours that Athan saw any form of life, in the form of three vaguely familiar Santi, two he'd trained beside, and one who was much older, and wiser. And more powerful. The latter of the group spoke first.

"Athan al'Car! You've finally returned from your first sabbatical from Tower duties. It's been too long."
Athan could see his compatriots giving him apologetic looks. Barat and Cael he believed their names were. They wore plain, unassuming tan tunics, and tight trousers of a darker brown.
"Master Tanan. I apologize for my tardiness, but I had things I had to attend to."
Without giving him a chance to explain the tragedy, Tanan responded,
"More important than your oaths? If you value your childhood puppy-love more than the life you swore to, perhaps I should speak to the mahdi about your dedication. We will now be late, more than these two already made us, and must be off."
The reminder of what he has lost stung Athan deeply, but he couldn't speak back to a Santi of such standing. Besides, it was true that he'd shirked some duties. His assigned help in the library would surely double.

As the sun fell below the horizon, Athan's sense of loneliness doubled several times over. His mind returned to days of forestry and fishing, of hunting and having fun. He caressed the medallion given to him by Sulvi, his Sulvi; the ram's powerful horns driving him forward faster. He saw the tower rise before him hours before he'd planned, just as the sun was rising. He was greeted with wary nods by two guards at the front gate of the compound, showing just how fully his dereliction was known. Athan engaged in short conversations with Santi and apprentices attending duties, who had no time to listen to his story.

By the time Athan had made it up the innumerable flights of stairs into his quarters, he was dead tired, and tired of having no answers. Just as he was laying in his bed, ready to fall into a surely fitful sleep, his door burst open, with two older Santi standing in the blinding doorway.
"Mahdi wants to see you."
Athan's heart rose to his throat. That was fast.

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View Likes PostPosted: Mon Jul 21, 2014 2:30 am 
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Breathe in.

Pause.

Exhale.

Breathe in.

Pause.

Exhale.

Catch the faintest trickle of fog rolling across the bottom of his armor, muting the sheen of its gold facets. This was the best time of day, for Kekkan. It was cool and still, and he could stare down the long pass towards the thing he hated the most in the entirety of existence. That gate- that thrice damned gate. They very one his people had splattered their blood on endlessly in a futile attempt to get through. Those to the south had never understood true conviction, or hardship. They certainly never understood the real extent of what power could be-

No, they were like turtles, hidden in their shell, and Kekkan would coax them out.

The Dreadlord slid from his armored horse and let his feet fall heavily on the dry grass and dirt below his feet. He was certainly out of range of the wall’s spotters, but not if they sent scouts- which they had, of course. They always sent scouts.

There was much disagreement over how to deal with scouts among his compatriots- at least among the other Dreadlords. Most simply killed them if they could be bothered to capture the nimble and lightly-armored soldiers. The rest just never made the effort- the thickness of their logic astounded Kekkan. Why bother chasing down scouts that would merely report that the kirmu were doing what the kirmu always did?

Even now, there was a gentle growl in his throat at the thought. That was the whole problem- they always did the same thing. They had grown complacent in the slaughter, they had glorified it and held it aloft like something they should be proud of. It was ridiculous. The southlanders could afford to speak highly of their own repetition- it was working. The fact that ten kirmu managed to reach the gate was an irrelevant boast, and Kekkan rarely resisted the urge to demand tribute from anyone foolish enough to make such boasts in his presence.

This also put him in a difficult position- many of the other Dreadlords had led such campaigns against the gate before, and were prone to such boastful thought. Though Kekkan was known as ‘The Guilded’, his wealth did not hold weight when compared with the debauchery of his comrades in their hedonistic revelry over pointless battles. This is why they would stay as they were- praising Lord Ugran like he was a god. His people forgot that Ugran had been flesh and blood like any of them, but he had possessed a mind greater than they could grasp without his goading and rallying. They didn’t understand where Ugran’s greatness truly sat.

No, perhaps he had not been flesh and blood like them. But he had been of Kekkan’s ilk. Bred of the same bloodlines as all kirmu, but with a different mind. If that is all it took to be seen as a divine, the Dreadlord thought his task simple. He must be so great as to be seen as the greatest of all things divine.

Kekkan’s single, spherical ‘eye’ on his faceplate fogged once more before he moved around behind his armored horse, the beast adjusting its footing on war-torn and well-trampled ground. The heavy coffers on its hips jingled with collected coin and tribute. The pleasing sound of coughing and wheezing southerners met his ears. If most of his ilk didn’t expend much effort chasing down scouts, Kekkan was unique in this regard as well. He loved to track them on his own.

But killing them here served no purpose, he reasoned. No, he corrected himself, killing one of the pair would serve a functional purpose for him.

It would be entertaining.

The two scouts were bound around their wrists and necks with rope attached to the back of Kekkan’s saddle. He had fast-marched them for some eight miles after running them down in the first place. His sword had been unnecessary- the two men were so exhausted from their flight that he’d easily subdued them with little need to induce any hungers. The eight mile ride since had let him think on what their punishment ought to be.

One of the two was nearly blubbering when he’d been wrangled by the Dreadlord. He was younger, and fell silent under the steely gaze of his partner. This dichotomy made Kekkan’s work easier- it told him which ought to die, and which would better serve him.

Before the elder of the two had caught his breath, Kekkan’s gauntlet-clad fist backhanded him across the face and sent him to the ground. The Dreadlord knelt down on the man’s chest, tugging the young one’s rope so he’d fall to his knees while Kekkan did his work. For the younger scout, Kekkan was not speaking- his terror and fear made it easy to manipulate him. The Dreadlord had already reached out with his San and gripped the young one’s mind in a golden fist. The elder of the two could see it because Kekkan willed it so.

“Genj.” Kekkan hissed out, fishing in a heavy satchel on his hip. “I see conviction in you. Unfortunate- without it I might have spared you today, but your fate will be less cruel than his.” The Dreadlord spoke cleanly in the southlander’s tongue. The older scout pursed his lips to spit on the Dreadlord’s visor, but Kekkan’s grip was fast, and he dug the sharp thumb of his gauntlet under the scout’s chin, halting the motion. “Do not endeavor to die with dignity. In this instance, that is impossible. I assure you of that.” Kekkan continued, fishing a golden orb, the size of a baseball, out of his satchel. The older scout’s eyes began to go glassy as he stared at his own reflection, distorted in Kekkan’s spherical ‘eye’. “As I said, I can see conviction in you, but that conviction is born from hate. Mine is as well, and this is how I understand you.” The Dreadlord explained, holding the orb in front of the scout’s face. He watched the man’s eyes float to the orb before widening- a sign of the Dreadlord’s unique influence working on him. The man began to squirm and drool, eyes wild and fixated on the orb. “I know you are too consumed with hunger to understand me further. Eat.” Kekkan hissed, releasing the man’s jaw and cutting the binds on his hands. The older scout frantically grabbed the golden orb and began to shove it into his mouth with such force that he shattered his front teeth and quickly began to tear at his lips to make more room. Once it was inside his now distended and dislocated jaw, it became lodged in his throat. Kekkan stepped off the man and watched as he kept trying to force the orb deeper in his throat even as he suffocated. The wet gurgling was satisfying.

Now, there was the matter of the younger one. There was a flask on the older soldier’s hip- Kekkan pulled it free and sniffed it through his visor. Genji-wine, a bootleg spirit brewed by some of the guards in hidden places in the wall. Vile and strong, like any soldier’s drink. The blubbering scout could not hear what Kekkan was saying- the entire time it merely sounded like the Dreadlord hissed like a serpent. Kekkan brought the flask to the boy’s lips and forced him to drink amidst his terrified crying, willing a single thing into the scout’s mind.

Thirst.

He watched the man drink the flask down. Kekkan stood and undid the boy’s rope from his saddle, and instead tied it to the now still form of his partner, binding the dead man’s ankles in it. The boy was quiet, traumatized past tears now. Kekkan pointed down the pass towards the gate, giving the boy the only verbal command he would understand.

“Walk.”

With that, the Dreadlord stepped back up onto his saddle and let his horse walk him away from the pass at its own pace. He need not look over his shoulder- the boy would drag his partner the last distance down the pass and into view of the gate. They would see Kekkan’s handiwork, and how traumatized the boy was.

Old soldiers would feel bad for the young boy, and offer him drink. He would thirst, and take it. And then drink would take him, far after it was offered in sympathy and well beyond when it was withheld for his benefit. With some luck, if he could maintain some post due to the pity of his comrades not wishing to send the broken boy back to nothing but drunken delirium in civilian life. Without drink given to him, perhaps, he would brew his own to fuel his thirst, and the thirst of others. He would help drag others who had escape the depths of drunkenness renew their addictions.

This was but one way that Kekkan would form cracks in the gate. The foundation of the great defense was not stone or metal, not like his people thought. It was flesh and blood, souls and breath. These things could be more easily broken, filled with cracks of want and hunger.

And Kekkan understood hunger. He understood it very well indeed- something he relished as he heard the boy’s stifled sobs fade behind him into the misty pass.


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PostPosted: Mon Jul 28, 2014 11:58 am 

PLaying SQUAD with TASQ

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Temple of the Order, Gurg Mountains
"We need to focus on Mazarid, brother," Husam ben Taufiq spoke to the Grand Master.

"Yes, my brother. Mazarid is important," The Grand Master responded. "We must also take care of Ruven as well. Prince Darien el'Ruven is traveling here and should arrive sometime today. I want you to take a detachment of Cataphract Cavalry to ride out and meet the Prince."

"Yes, brother." Husam considered his options and decided he would take two centuries from Yarbay Boutros' Cohort. He would take Binbaşı Cham with him.

"I agree that we need to improve relations with our southern neighbors, but it is also important to foment our relations with Ruven. Afterall, we do reside in their Southern region."

"Yes, brother," Husam bowed to the Grand Master and exited the room. He had dressed in scale armor prepared to ride with the Cataphracts. His helm was hooked onto his horse's saddle. He strode down stairs and mounted the horse named, Karim, a Southern word meaning noble. And a noble steed Karim was. Husam always rode with his Aide-de-Camp, Qasim ben Kalb who held the rank of Yüzbaşı.

"Yüzbaşı ben Kalb, we will follow Attia's Maniple out of the fortress and then we ride with Binbaşı Cham and two centuries to meet up with the Ruven Prince."

"Yes brother Taufiq," Yüzbaşı ben Kalb responded. The Aide wore the same style scaled armor. Both brothers also wore the white tabard over their armor with the bright sun emblazoned on the chest. The two riders stood at the edge of a parade field.

The post was more rectangular than square, but more oblong than oval. They estimated it was seven miles from north to south and three miles from east to west straddling the bottom of the Gurg mountains separating Ruven from Mazarid. Tuğgeneral Mu'tazz Attia's Maniple were standing on the parade ground, mounted. Brother Attia's Maniple consisted of six Trapezite cohorts or roughly 3600 brothers of the Order. Each cohort consisted 600 brothers organized into six centuries with a Yarbay, commanding. Each century numbered 100 brothers organized into three platoons with a Yüzbaşı, commanding. The Platoon had 33 brothers organized into three sections with an Üsteğmen (Platoon Leader), Astsubay Çavuş and Çavuş assisting. Each section numbered only 10 brothers.

Attia's Maniple were preparing to conduct a training exercise outside the post. They were a Trapezite Maniple. The Trapezites are one of four branches of the order of the Temple. These Light Cavalry troopers provide security during movement. Trapezite centuries may be found in front of or on the flanks of the main body of Temple Order units on the march. Their presence acts as an early warning in the event, an enemy attempts to surprise the main body during the march. When in camp, Trapezites form cavalry vedettes or outposts, acting as Listening Posts or Observation Posts (LP/OP) at a reasonable distance from the camp. They also conduct reconnaissance and security patrols (R&S) in areas of operations (AO) in order to gather intelligence on the enemy and prevent surprise attacks.

Trapezites travel light, while wearing leather, studded leather or padded leather armor. They wear a conical iron or bronze helm that slopes inward into a point. At the top of this point, is an 18 inch length of black or brown horse hair cascading over the back of the neck. The riders typically wear a tall black hard leather riding boot that comes up to the knee. The primary weapon for the Trapezite is a three meter (12') lance. At the point of the lance are tied two colored 24" ribbons. One of the colors is white and the other color denotes which cohort the rider belongs to. The Trapezite also carries a sword or mace to use during melee and more often than not also carries a composite recurve bow. Tuğgeneral Attia's cohorts use red, blue, orange, green, black and yellow for each of the six cohorts.

Lord Captain Husam ben Taufiq sat atop Karim with his Aide watching as the Light cavalry troopers prepared for their training exercise outside the walls of the Temple. After the first cohort exited the main gate leading north into Ruven, he followed behind the last man to watch the remaining five cohorts exit. Husam and Qasim sat off to the side and watched remaining five cohorts leave. It took almost twenty minutes to clear the gates.

Finally, Binbaşı Qutuz Cham rode out with two hundred heavily armored Cataphracts . Husam and Qasim fell in with Qutuz Cham. "Good morning, brother Cham," Husam greeted the Cohort's executive officer.

"Good morning, brothers ben Taufiq and ben Kalb," the Binbaşı responded. "Fine morning for a ride, wouldn't you agree?" he asked rhetorically.

"Yes, my brother, it is."

The Cataphracts are the mainstay of the Temple of the Order. They are the riders the Temple gain its reputation from. They are the heavy cavalry and represent the order on diplomatic missions. Cataphracts are the heavy assault force that deploy as "shock troops" to deliver the bulk of an offensive maneuver, while supported by various forms of infantry, when available and mounted archers. They are the "Shock and Awe" in any offensive operation.

The Order of the Temple Cataphracts are universally clad in some form of scale armor, flexible enough to give the rider and horse a good degree of motion, but strong enough to resist the immense impact of a thunderous charge into infantry formations. Their scale armor is made from overlapping, rounded plates of iron of varying thickness from four to six millimeters, which has two or four holes drilled into the sides, threaded with a bronze wire that is sewn onto an undergarment of leather. A similar suit of barding is crafted by artisans and worn by the horse. A full set of scaled cataphract armor consists of approximately 1,300 "scales" and could weigh 40 kilograms (88 pounds). A few Cataphracts wear plated mail or lamellar armor which is similar in appearance but divergent in design to the scaled armor, as it has no backing. This lamellar armor may be substituted for scale armor and worn with a mail undergarment. The horse armor is sectional rather than joined together as a cohesive "suit". It has large plates of scales tied together around the animal's waist, flank, shoulders, neck and head, especially along the breastplate of the saddle. This independent sectional design gives a further degree of movement for the horse and to allow the armor to be affixed to the horse tight enough so that it should not loosen too much during movement.

Those Cataphracts who do not have a leather backing on their scale armor or wear lamelar armor wear a coat of mail over the gambeson and under the lamellar suit. They all wear an iron or bronze helmet with a conical pointed top with mail hanging from the back and sides to protect the neck. Some riders wear a full visor over their face with small eye slits to protect the face, while others prefer just a simple nose strap to keep their vision unblocked. A few riders wear a mail coif and a simple conical helm. All helms have 18" strands of dark horse hair extending from the pinnacle cascading over the back of the neck and shoulders.

The primary weapon of all cataphract troops is the lance. The weapon is roughly four meters in length, with a capped point made of bronze and is wielded with both hands. Most have a chain attached to the horse's neck and at the end by a fastening attached to the horse's hind leg, which support the use of the lance by transferring the full momentum of a horse's gallop to the thrust of the charge. Members of the Order developed a secure saddle to "fasten" the rider to the horse's body. These saddles have a cantle at the back of the saddle and two guard clamps that curve across the top of the rider's thighs and fasten to the saddle, thereby enabling the rider to stay properly seated, especially during violent contact in battle.

The penetrating power of the cataphract's lance is recognized as being fearful by observers, described as being capable of transfixing two men at once, as well as inflicting deep and mortal wounds even on opposing cavalries' mounts, and are definitely more potent than the regular one-handed spear used by many other Ethnoi cavalry units. This aspect of the Temple Riders have lent the Brethren a reputation as fearful warriors and their cataphracts are widely known for their violence of action when charging into infantry formations.

Cataphracts typically are equipped with an additional side arm such as a sword or mace, for use in the melee that often follows a charge. Some wear armor that is primarily frontal: providing protection for a charge and against missiles yet offering relief from the weight and encumbrance of a full suit. Temple Brothers also carry composite recurve bows to soften up enemy formations before an attack. On this diplomatic mission, brothers ben Taufiq, ben Kalb and Cham were not carrying lances. The brothers in the centuries, however were. The two hundred riders proceeded north across the plain from the Gurg Mountains in a column of two's kicking up dust as they rode to meet the Prince of Ruven.

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"The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. Attitude to me is more important than facts. It is more important than the past, than education, than money, than circumstances, than failures, than success, than what other people think or say or do. It is more important than appearance, gift, or skill. It will make or break a company...a church...a home. The remarkable thing is we have a choice every day regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change our past...we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the string we have, and that is our attitude. I am convinced that life is 10 percent what happens to me and 90 percent how I react to it. And so it is with you... we are in charge of our attitudes. "
~ Charles Swindoll


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