NationStates Jolt Archive

Karak-Margul, the Mountain of Power. For many years, for many centuries better said, did this ancient relic of a time long gone remain trapped beneath a different kind of mountain, a never-ending pile of glass and steel, super-technological monstrosities that the people of today called arcologies. Once the very centre of power and command -hence the name-, Karak-Margul was the seat of kings, place of crownings, and perhaps the most important place within the entire realm. Until, of course, the old regiments fell, the peasants rose, and the unworthy claimed the control of an artificial nation.

Things have been changing for a while within the Technocratic Republics. Power began changing hands too fast, too erratically, for the nation to be able to sustain it. Chaos reigned within the endless ocean of bureaucracy that quickly drowned its people, and everywhere one could notice the signs of decay, corruption, and ultimate demise. It seemed as if this one glorious lands was close to a final, definitive twilight, from which it would never again be able to rise. Ah, but there were those who could fix it.

Fifty-or-so years ago, if records do not lie, an event of magnific importance took place within the calm, cerulean waters of the Sea of Bratar, millennial tomb of a thousand memories, the bottomless pit of liquid that since always have the people of the realm used to hide their most feared and obscure secrets. The waves boiled, and hot clouds of steam rose high into the skies of noble Sisgardia, as a massive, impetuous titan of rock and iron raced from within the infinite blackness of the oceanic pit to reach once again the light of day. It was a prison, one cast away by the human usurper of the realm so long ago that only dust remained from the books that such legends contained. Yes, the Arath-Karath, the dwarven lords of a nation long forgotten, one that once proudly stood where now a land of desperate traitors scavenged for the slightest remains of power, had awaken from their forcibly imposed slumber, and were eager to take back what was rightfully theirs, no matter what the cost.

One would have expected a great war to rage when the gigantic, foreboding figure of the Prison of Tarzerkar loomed over the glistening glass towers of the Republics, its humongous chains clashing against everything it passed over by, spewing forth a cloud of golden-feathered gryphons, by thunder-hammer wielding avengers of the dwarf. Yet the nation had fallen into a state of despairing wallowing that had already stripped it from even the faintest will or strength, to the point that it is surprising to think now that no one else ever tried to seize control of it before.
It was not free of blood, in any case. The wizardric masters that ruled the lands were all but powerless and, although corrupted and downgraded, proved to be a mighty match, even to the Chained Masters of Tartzerkar. Conflict raged night and day for thirty moons and thirty suns, quickly turning great patches of development into smoldering territories of ruin and wreckage. The damage was great, and so was the rage perspired, but it did come to an end. And the Old Ones went out victorious.

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The gongs and trumpets of the massive choirs exploded in a nearly cacophonic wave of brassy shouts, filling the air with a kind of music that had not been heard there since times immemorial. The tall bell towers that surrounded the place vomited brutal tolls that could be heard beyond the boundaries of sight, and the deep, rumbling chants of a thousand dwarven throats began reverberating against the exquisitely carved stone of the ziggurath.
Karak-Margul, called as well the Mountain of Power, is a three-mile wide, two-hundred metres high pyramidal structure completely carved from the clear brownish rock of a natural mountain that once stood there. Once the entrance to the grandiose floating palaces of the Old Ones, ages of progress and betrayal slowly covered and drowned it, until it disappeared entirely under the coat of the new nation, becoming not even a legend for the people that day by day walked above it. The short war that raged after the arrival of the Arath-Karath served to reveal it, and now, fifty years later and with the lands once again reconstructed, it was ready to, at last, serve the purpose it was originally meant for: The crowning and glorification of the Nine Thanes, the Adamant Lords, the Rulers who Rule from Above.

As music and chants rose, the immense, literally impossible to enumerate crowds that gathered around the monumental plaza open to the skies awaited in utter silence and respect, not quite sure as what to expect, living a tale that had since always remained untold. The Thanes would soon arrive and walk the whole extension of the Stair of Judgment, a long, hard way that measured ten thousand and fifty eight steps, which would have to be walked one by one by the New Nine. But it would be worthysome, as the realm will once again see its true leaders rise to command it.

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//OOC: This is an open, power exchange/inaugural party/gathering of leader/diplomatic relations-enhancer RP, in which any of you may participate. You may assume that, if you join, your nation has received the appropriate invitations and clearances to enter the nation, as well as having places of honour in the different stages of the ceremony.

Well.

One got used to it. The permanent instability of Sisgardia, that is. DA, GDT, FTR... They all tended to have their revolutions, disasters, civil wars...

Well, this had been another one. Comparatively unobserved, and certainly not interfered with (FTR, especially during its time as Magocracy, had been creepy, after all), and now it was time to look who else was going to run the country.

Which was what Michael Sheppard (An Angstian diplomat) and Viktor Shakhovskoy (A Taraskovyan Archduke) were doing right now, sitting rather quietly among the foreign representatives, and - in the case of Sheppard - using an uplink to play a somewhat altered form of chess - With a healthy dose of poker trown in - with an orbital recon drone.

For now they waited, unfamiliar with the aspects FTR's national culture had taken on.

The huge hypermatter-powered engines woke up in a rumbling crescendo, their large spheroid shapes glowing with a dim, preternatural blackish light. Suddenly, beams of dark energy poured from the tops of the reactors, transmitting their power into the entire vehicle. Although these had been designed to be used within the latest hover vehicles of the Armada, today they were being used to move a rather... different kind of vessel.

The Moronoth had been in the deep past the vehicle used for the ascension of the new Thanes, inside which they were taken to the very base of the Mountain of Power, from where they could start their walk to glory. The entire vessel was shaped like a fifty-metres long manticore -a winged lion, the ancient symbol of the Thanes-, completely made of brass. The original was lost in war of old, however, so it had to be reconstructed for the present celebration, and the chance was taken to implement a few changes, such as using hovering devices to move it instead of the traditional five thousand slaves.

The huge winged statue, which was in a stance similar to that of a resting sphinx, slowly rose a couple of metres in the air, strong guts of warm wind emerging from below its metallic body. Moments later, it began moving forward, through the gates of the great temple where the private blessing of each Thane by the Bell Priest had taken place earlier, and into the large square that surrounded the Karak-Margul, where a seemingly endless crowd awaited both patiently and anxiously for the event. It would be interesting to know that, from the about eleven million attendants, only a handful of a few hundreds of thousands had even witnessed such an event, or knew of its existence at all. There were still many dwarves to be rescued from their stony prisons beneath the sea.

With utter omnipotence, the massive manticore crossed through the large open space, casting shadows over the amazed crowd. Everyone seemed to be looking for the Thanes, yet the old customs indicated that they should remain within the Moronoth's head until the winged lion itself deposited them at the base of the Mountain of Power.

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Such was the length of the square, or the slow speed of the Moronoth, that it took almost two hours for the statue to reach its destination. Meanwhile, aerial shows by the Golden Feathers griffin riders, one of the four personal guards of the Thanes, served to keep the audience entertained, and the various smaller parades, orchestras and choirs also helped to make the wait less tedious. Gladly enough, the day had been one of the typical ones in the Republics -damp, gray, and windy-, so the heat had not been an issue.

When the Moronoth reached the base of the Mountain of Power, it came to a sudden halt, and so did all the parallel spectacles. The brass manticore slowly lowered its mechanized head, and its mouth began to open. From its interior, nine small figures, all clad in impossibly large and heavy frames of golden armour, with long beards that reached their feet, walked out. The Nine New Thanes, who were about to rise to grasp ultimate power within the realm, stood proudly before the ominous ziggurat.

After a pause that barely lasted a couple of seconds, they took the first step, then another, and another. The Ascension had just begun, and ten thousand and fifty eight steps awaited them. No one said the path was an easy one.

One more step... and they arrived. The Nine Thanes now stood at the very summit of the Mountain of Power, from where they had an splendid view of the massive crowd surrounding the place, millions of eyes watching them carefully. The music, the parades, the shows, they all stopped, as the dwarven lords tried to regain their breath after the extenuating climb. Ten thousand and fifty eight steps, one for every room within the Chambers of the Forefathers, from where the first dwarves came into existence. The Stair of Fate had always been an impressive thing.

The top of the stony ziggurat was large, but it seemed to be completely empty... until they saw the lonely figure they were looking for, the Crown Carrier, an old and mysterious being said to be the envoy of the gods themselves, who had the rare yet important task of bestowing the power of rule upon those selected to be the next Thanes of the realm.
As they walked closer, they noticed that the figure was very similar to that of a human, and that shocked them a bit -they expected something like a dwarf-, but they attempted to show no signs of it. The man was dressed in a flowing white robe, with a cape so large that extended for dozens of metres from his back, moving with the winds. He held a large, exquisitely adorned cane of white marble and gold and jewels between his two hands, and his face seemed featureless, no hair, no beard, and with two bleak, colorless eyes.

As instructed by the Bell Priests, the Nine Thanes stopped at exactly three metres from the figure, forming a circle. One after the other, they kneeled and bowed down their heads. Each one began reciting his name...

"I am Ulmir-bhar-Ilmanoc, rightful heir to the Crown of Thalanor"

"I am Korlos-bhar-Kalakmir, rightful heir to the Crown of Zorthil"

"I am Bhalik-bhar-Kôr, rightful heir to the Crown of Kilgur"

"I am Marbakmir-bhar-Kazor, rightful heir to the Crown of Mennoth"

"I am Ordos-bhar-Iphîs, rightful heir to the Crown of Roohr"

"I am Khastos-bhar-Thûl, rightful heir to the Crown of Karabar"

"I am Thondor-bhar-Igh, rightful heir to the Crown of Govros"

"I am Maahr-bhar-Khûzt, rightful heir to the Crown of Kolos"

"I am Undar-bhar-Kashnov, rightful heir to the Crown of Maphîr"

When the last one of them finished, an oppressive silence took over the place, and for a moment they thought they had done something wrong, and that the Crown Carried had been offended. They had heard before the fate of those who have not been accepted by the Crown Carrier, and the stories were all but reassuring.

Suddenly, they heard a dull sound, like if something very hard had hit flesh. Barely lifting their heads to see, they saw the figure of the Crown Carrier standing before that of Ulmir, which lied on the floor, blood pouring from its head. The Carrier's cane was stained with it.
The Thanes tried to stand, unaware of what was going on, but they felt their bodies to weight ten times as much, and were unable to. Then the Carrier, slowly, walked next to Korlos, and with a swift blow, struck him in the head, throwing him unconscious to the floor. Then to Bhalik, and Marbakmir, and Ordos, and so on, until the nine dwarves were left bleeding profusely in the floor.

The crows, eager to know what was going on up there, had no idea of the events.