NationStates Jolt Archive

"The strongest of all warriors are these two - Time and Patience." - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace.

The Isle of Givara

Thunder rumbled softly in the distance. Storms were coming soon, Caliavarus reflected, but it would be a while until he would go inside. There was work to be done out here and it would need to be finished before he could return to his dwelling. He sighed loudly, but there was no one around to hear him. To be wet was one thing, but to be wet and expecting someone was totally another. He sighed again, once again making it audible. If anything, such sighs helped him concentrate. If anything, it was another excuse to blame someone else.

The Isle of Givara was not a good place for someone who wanted a paradise. It was rocky, craggy, and dangerous. Most people avoided it when possible, and for good reason. Apart from the climate and the area, the inhabitants were, well, unfriendly, to say the least. There had been a number of incidents in the past. Of the close to one hundred and fifty million inhabitants of the island, about one hundred million of them were warriors. Not good ones or modern ones, to be sure, but still warriors. After all, warriors the world over were the same in spirit, drive and courage.

It was their climate that made them so, anthropologists and sociologists had speculated for ages. The Yaforite Empire itself had found that out the hard way. Emperors from the Middle Nanarian to the Late Yaforian had learned that the Isle of Givara was worth its weight in blood...with blood to spare. It was still like that, even with the advent of modern weaponry, missiles, and guns. The Isle of Givara was still living hell for invaders and those who lived there alike. It was no regular climate that had forged warriors of such a caliber.

The wind began to pick up and Caliavarus suddenly spied something moving along the bushes. The man rather easily picked up the binoculars that lay on the wicker chair beside him. Focusing it, he was able to make out a disturbance along the lane a few miles from where he was. He rolled his eyes and put down the binoculars. This was the third time that he had seen something down there and he doubted that it was anything important. It was probably expectation of the even that had him in such a state. He rarely acted so oddly.

"Hello Caliavarus. Glad to see your vigilance in preparing for me." Caliavarus immediately turned, startled out of his wits. Behind him, cloaked in shadow, his eyes burning with ambition, was the man he had been seeking. "How is the army?" Caliavarus stared at the other man for several minutes, still shell shocked from his sudden arrival. The other man seemed slightly amused at his antics, but also fairly disappointed. It was to be expected. The other man was a very demanding person. When Caliavarus has recovered himself, he began to speak.

"We've got every soldier we can. It's not likely that we'll be getting any other soon, but its quite a number. Counting in the tens of thousands, I understand, with eager recruits lining up by the score. I would expect a weapons shortage soon, but that can be take care of." Caliavarus had no idea why had he just added the last part, but it had come out and it was in the open. He hoped that it would not aggravate the other man. Thankfully, he seemed oblivious. "I need it ready. My brother is moving and the avalanche will be in motion soon."

The wind picked up, and his cloak billowed up behind him as he stared out at the approaching thunderclouds. Softly, his whispered one word to himself. His name. "Azadrazan."

Braavos, Pantera

Zadarain's body was totally fine. He knew it immediately. It was more than fine. He felt excellent, strong, and powerful. His condensed muscles overlaid upon each other, his lithe physique, his bulging tendons, they were all totally fine. There was not a drop of sweat upon him as his breath continued to run as strong as it always was. He was fit, very fit, and it felt good. He knew just how lucky he was to have such a good body and he thanked his ancestors for it. His ancestors and himself, that was.

He smoothly dodged the wooden sword that darted towards his bare chest. He enjoyed sparring, particularly with mercenaries. Not only were they good at their craft, but they did it with the certain panache that characterized the professional. He enjoyed challenges, but he also enjoyed beating them. He was trained himself, and as good as he was with a sword, his body gave him an advantage over any mercenary, no matter where the mercenary was from or how he had been trained.

"Bravo, Zadarain. Good move." Kalimorr leaned on his gun and stared over the fence at Zadarain. He claimed to be a very good swordsman, but whenever anyone asked for a duel, he declined. Zadarain privately suspected that was because the other man was afraid, or at worst, boasting about skills that he did not have. But that was to be expected. After all, the other man was a mercenary, and mercenaries were famous for their unfounded boasting. And the man was mercenary captain, which probably made it worse.

Zadarain grunted and, sidestepping the other man, he faked an overhand strike. It was easy and his body reacted to it. "Kali, do you think that the High Korut will make his announcement anytime soon?" It was easy, and Zadarain quickly regretted doing such a move, when the mercenary fell for it completely. Only for a second, though. War was not a place for those with compassion and mercy. War was a place for the heartless. A place that Zadarain fit into perfectly.

Kalimorr shrugged. "Hopefully soon. The men are beginning to get restless and..." He let himself trail off. There was no need for him to finish his sentence. Zadarain was on the same page that he was, and both knew it. The men would get restless, they would start demanding more pay, there would be fights, problems, and Zadarain would lose his army. Zadarain angrily blocked the mercenary's cut and with all his might, stabbed forward at the other man's chest.

"We can only hope, Kali. We can only hope."

[OOC: Here it is, at last! The OOC/summing-up/intro thread is located here (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=514556). Go there if you'd like to join. Thanks.

Note: The actual "Claimiancy" declaration will come in the second post. So the real fun has yet to begin!]

The Temple of the Twin Gods, Juhamda, Yafor 2

He stood on a balcony, looking down upon the masses of people spread out below him. It was almost as if the balcony had been made of this purpose, for addressing crowds of vast numbers, instead of its stated function as a spot of prayer for the Twin Gods. It had, in fact, been made almost totally for the first purpose. High Koruts tended to be like that, devious, cold, and totally manipulative. Eklaz fit into their ranks perfectly. He was, in most ways, the ideal High Korut, for head come up with a plan that, measured in sheer brilliance, intelligence, and boldness, outstripped his predecessors' by a large margin.

He stared out and a small smile played around his lips, forcing them upwards. This would be the crucial moment in his time as a High Korut and it had to be delivered perfectly. This day was his day. The throng of people kept expanding, multitudes flocking from far and wide, near and far, to hear him speak. Nay, speak was not the correct word. It was more that the High Korut was going to address the those who followed the religion of Jakallanism. Those who believed in the Twin Gods, Enalla and Ravantur. Those who were the true believers.

It was not simply that an important man was speaking. This was the High Korut, who had been selected upon the death of the previous High Korut, by the Twin Gods themselves, and a sign. This was the man who was more than a man, the man who was inspired in all that he said. He was the man who was the vehicle of the Twin Gods upon earth, who had been blessed with Enalla's vision and Ravantur's fire. The man who was the closest thing most of these people got to a higher being. Or so they believed, in their hearts, and in their minds.

He began to speak, his voice projecting over the entire area without aid. It was an architectural feature of this specific balcony - that words uttered here loudly and clearly would ricochet and reverberate through the entire area, so that all could here. "Brothers, it is a special time for us now." He was speaking in Jakallan, pronouncing every syllable, enunciating to the best of his ability. Many of these people were, despite being well educated, as all in the country were, not as used to talking in this tongue or could not understand his accent. It was the least that he could do for them.

"Yes, this is a time where our lives will be changed, though whether for good or for ill, it is not clear. It is a momentous time, a time of the future and the past, a time when decisions will be made." He took a deep breath and plodded on. "Yes, this is a time when I will tell the world what it has in store, where I shall warn the world of dangers, and show the world how to avert them" The smile that had been threatening was now clearly planted upon his lips. "As I have said, this is a time when the world - our world! - will change forever."

"This country is headed in a strong direction. Yes, indeed, it is! The Grand Democratic Duchy has been extraordinarily good to us, its people." This brought out whispers among the crowd. Was the High Korut actually endorsing the democratic government? It would have been utterly revolutionary if he was indeed. "It has been what we have all wished it to, and now, with our entrance into the Alliance of Progressive Nations, an internationally renowned group of nations, our life courses seem to be rapidly improving." There was less commotion this time, but the commotion that was there was more about his word choice. He was referring to the people of Yafor 2 as "us"? What did that mean? What was this speech going to be about?

"But all is not good in this country." Some people sighed. At least this would be mildly normal, now. "I talk, of course, about our absence of an emperor." This brought eyes back to his face. What? Had he not just endorsed the government. "I speak of the curses. Our country needs and emperor, one to guide us, one to protect us. Ah, yes, your eyes ask, does our democratic government not do that already? Indeed it does. And yet, where is an emperor? Our country cries out for an emperor, cries out to me, and I answer. My people, I answer!"

"I speak not of an emperor, of a coup, of death and devastation for the people of this empire. Many countries have both an emperor and a democratically elected government. I speak of a Praetonian-style constitutional monarchy." This would take time to plant, yes, but it was setting up for his next words. "Yes, my brothers, for the Third time in the turbulent history of this fine nation, I call upon thee to have a Claimiancy! An emperor will be found, to rule the country, in tandem with the democratic government!" He raised his hands wide, to the chorus of stunned faces and damning silence.

"May the Twin Gods bless us!" There was a thunderous roar and applause covered everything. He brought his hands down slowly. It had succeeded. It had succeeded.

Ajer, Yafor 2

Of the men and women who sat around a table, discussing, talking, and deciding for the country, only one was not actually a member of the government. Most of them were high members of the government, people in power, who were expertly qualified to make decisions. Of the people there, all were either ministers, assistant ministers, the leader of the nation, all except one. This was the one man who, despite his extensive connections in the government, despite the fact that he was one of he few who made decisions that impact billions, he was not a member of the government. His name was Aemon Chaliny.

It was true; he had not come into his position out of luck. He was a product of the government, through and through. He had served as Foreign Minister, but had ended his reign nearly a year ago (during that period, he had been forced to the deal with the Fabuses, a task for many lifetimes.) But he was enjoying his time as a civilian. One thing he had learned was the the main difference was the amount of free time that one got steadily increased. Proportional to the decrease in amount of work one got.

However, he still theoretically worked for the government - he was on their payroll (he hoped!) and he joined in their meeting. It was his official position that was not clear. "And yet, religion still survives, in this age of cynicism and pragmatism?" It was Business Minister Vas Aderon, who had never been a religious man. He was quickly put down by a violent glance by the deeply religious, and yet extraordinarily pragmatic recently-promoted Internal Minister Eliana Dagora. She was fiery and a rival of his, if Rudiv Sodo ever really intended to retire.

"That's not the question at hand, Vas." As always, it was the down-to-earth Guillermo Vicente, who took over. "The question at hand is, do we oppose the High Korut, which would bring the anger of all Jakallans down upon us and thus is not an option, or do we sponsor a candidate of our own?" The way he said it, there was no choice. There was no choice. Guillermo was a man who said things how they were. He was omitting one crucial piece of information, a piece of information that all the men in the area were recycling around in their heads. He knew it, too.

"No, I'm not your candidate. I renounced the line when I changed my name. You know that." They closed their eyes, knowing that when Guillermo, who was really Garainan Yaforian, and was the oldest son of the dead Emperor, was set on something, he rarely changed his mind. It was an Imperial trait. Those of the Imperial line often shared traits and obstinacy was one of them. "Are you sure?" Eliana asked, but the look on his face silenced her. She knew that he was not going to change his mind.

"So, then, who are our dangers?" Rudiv Sodo, the Elected Duke, was always quick to stay with the point. "Zadarain Yaforian." He stated, answering his own question, as he flicked a switch. The lights dimmed, and, projected onto the screen in front of the group, was a three-month old picture of Zadarain with Toke in the background. "SRACH has been tailing him. He has been gathering an army, mercenaries, mostly, Panteran of origin, and he's preparing this beforehand. Did he know? We don't know if this is a plot of his, joint plot with Eklaz. Any ideas?"

"Assassination?" It was Arman Adro, Minister of Protection. Rudiv shook his head slightly. "Out of the question." He raised his eyebrows slightly. "Mercenaries seem to be very protective of the man who is paying them." There was an ironic tone to his voice, easy to recognize. Rudiv Sodo was a master at utilizing tone and cadence to show his point, and he did so very clearly. Even in common speech, he was very good speaker and exceptionally good at saying what he wished to.

"I would guess that the only real option would be to stop him. Find a royal cousin or someone to use as a blind." Aemon couldn't stop himself, and he spoke freely. The other men and women nodded. "Good idea. We should find someone." Rudiv Sodo's voice was surprisingly tense

"Soon. There is too much on the line right now."

[OOC:I'm sorry! I wanted to introduce Davamorad! But I can't right now. So I will tomorrow, or whenever I post next. Sorry.]

Uharan, Yafor 2

Davamorad Kordala sat by the bed, a troubled look etched upon his face. He held his mother's wrinkled right hand in his own tenderly. He ran his fingers up and down it, stroking down the lines that age had written in her hands. He was worried and it showed on his face, but her eyes were closed. Standing, but holding her other hand, was his half-brother Illyran, who also bore a similar expression, though his would have been better classified as "apprehension" than "fright". They were both gazing at her and Davamorad's voice was a careful undertone to the scene, warm, but slow.

"And he stretched his arms out and spoke, mother." Davamorad described the scene in Juhamda, a scene to which he had been an observer. Ruhania, his mother, lay on the bed, her eyes closed, imagining the scene. "You could not have even believed what it was like, mother! It was stupendous and stupefying, defying mere words! And that man, that mighty, powerful, godly man, he was amazing!" He stopped letting the full weight of his words sink down, before proceeding. Conversations with his mother were always like this. She could not keep up with even the rate of his casual flow of talking.

"Can you see it, mother? He spoke, and all those arrayed below him, all those watching on television, all those crowding around their radios, all listened! They moved with his each and every cadence!" He felt Illyran's hand on his shoulder and he stopped his flowery descriptions, remembering how difficult it was for his mother to follow him. "He said many things, each greater than that before. But he announced a Claimiancy, mother! A Claimiancy! You remember what that is, right?" There was a slight nod from the pillow. Davamorad recognized it for what it was, recognition and assent, and continued to expound on what the High Korut had said.

It would be as he was reaching the end of his narrative that his mother made her first move. She shifted slightly and opened her mouth. Both brothers suddenly became silent as she spoke. "Davamorad, you have been a good son." Her voice was raspy and the way it sounded tore at Davamorad's insides. "You should not be bound to serving a bedridden old woman like myself. Go and take the prize. You know that you, too, have the blood of the emperors in your veins. Your father was good friends with a Kotareb - Dana'aran I believe his name was. God and meet him. Go and take the prize. Go with your brother." Davamorad stared at his mother in utter surprise. Of all the things he had expected her to say, this was lowest on the list. He stammered something to the effect of "yes", then staggered out of the room, with his half-brother directly behind him.

"Become emperor? Has she...is she...is she..?" he asked his half-brother, unable to whisper the word "insane" aloud. His half-brother - though there were closer than most blood brothers - shook his head. "It is her wish. An interesting one, to be sure, but her wish, to be sure. Maybe you should do as she asks? Perhaps she will receive better care, then?" Davamorad started to stammer that all Yaforites received the same medical care, but then an idea struck him. Maybe his family was correct. Maybe he should try to become emperor. If nothing came of it, at least he would have done something useful in his life.

Seonaerd

Kazedrankhor Jadioran had experience in the politics of the world that few ever had. He had worked in the Imperial Court of Emperor Emmanuel XVI as a force to be reckoned with. There, he had carved a niche out entirely for himself. He was untouchable, incredibly good at reading the expressions of others, and he knew precisely what he wished. His pale skin and lean face, the face that made others tell him how emaciated he was, the skin that told others that he should have been long in the grave, all were used to pull in his prey. That was how he had got out of exile. He had used Azadrazan against himself. Even now, in Seonaerd, he worked for the same.

It had been to his surprise, when he found Seliandris Yaforian, a distantly-connected cousin of Azadrazan and Zadarain's. A fifth cousin or something of the sort. Kazedrankhor had been both surprised and pleased. He had known all along of Eklaz's plan for the succession and to find, in such form, the very person he had been looking for was something that was very welcome. Indeed, he enjoyed it when fate was on his side. There were few enough times in the past that it had been so and each time he had been very thankful.

But, for all his political prowess, Kazedrankhor hated Seonaerd. Seonaerdi culture depended far too much on tradition for his liking. Kazedrankhor, despite the fact that he was a master of subtlety, disliked things that were hidden, disliked manipulation, disliked clandestine activities. It was something that had always driven him to success in those very areas, he had found out. Manipulation, in particular, had always been his specific forte. But Seonaerdi had always taken that to another level, one that he personally hated. That didn't stop his own skills in the area one bit.

Seliandris was a weakling and that was how Kazedrankhor liked. He had managed to prevail upon the man to do as he asked. Since then, Kazedrankhor had struggled for ages, trying to the get the enclosed Seonaerdi to agree upon raising an army for him, trying to get them to agree to his provisions. It was tough work, but he was well versed in work of the sort. It had take him a while, but he had navigated the stormy waters of the intrigues of the court well enough. Now it was time for him to the same regarding the business of armies and international battles.

The Isle of Givara

Logistics.

If there was one word that Azadrazan hated, it was this. It was not that he failed the grasp the concept of logistics, nor that he understood the significance of it. He just hated it. Time that could be spent consolidating his claims, gaining an empire, conquering areas, instead were being wasted on supplies, soldiers, supply routes and other such nonsense. There was no need for this waste of time! Azadrazan had tried to talk to Caliavarus about it, tried to reason with the Givaran, even offered the man money to accept his vision, but the other man had not budged. Like most Givarans, Caliavarus was a soldier, and the thought of fighting in a logistically perilous situation ate at his bones.

"Why is the situation such, then, Caliavarus?" Azadrazan's voice was dry, with scarcely concealed anger, but the Givaran shrugged it off with characteristic ease. When one was dealing with Azadrazan, one got used to the bouncing moods, and clear madness, that the man possessed. Azadrazan had always been very demanding and used to having his way. Or, rather, Azadrazan had always wanted others to follow his way. It rarely happened precisely that way, but Azadrazan persisted. More often than not, Azadrazan's way was actually the worse way, but that was how things such as that turned out.

Even when people made a semblance of following what Azadrazan said, they never did what he had actually asked them to do. While they will tell him that they were, generals and friends of Azadrazan's just did whatever they wished, and kept Azadrazan happy at the same time. It took a clever balancing act to do that, for Azadrazan could be deadly when he learned that he was being deceived, and the prince took a wolfish delight in blood. But it was possible to deceive Azadrazan and the results were usually good ones. If the prince didn't get involved personally, that was.

Caliavarus was different. His approach to Azadrazan was much more direct - and more effective. He simply explained to Azadrazan the impossibility of what he wished in a slow, easy, voice, a teacher talking to petulant child. "Have I not told you this many times before, oh prince?" His voice was weary, tired of telling the other man things that he had told the other man a thousand times before. It was fine being so open with Azadrazan. He was rarely very good at scanning people, and often missed hints as to what they were thinking. It was a dangerous oversight, Caliavarus reflected, but it had not harmed Azadrazan yet.

"The army cannot advance without necessary precautions. We have hordes of willing recruits, but a shortage of engineers, suppliers, spare parts, and food. We cannot march till these are sorted out." Azadrazan nodded, but seemed to ignore what the other man said, and Caliavarus sighed. Azadrazan was rather...difficult, sometimes. But the army would not march and Azadrazan would have to deal with it.

Braavos, Pantera

The port city was full of activity. The air virtually bristled with it. Mercenaries made their final preparations to leave, bidding goodbye to the women that they had found, delaying their payments on the inns in which they had stayed, nearly going insane in the streets, and clearly disrupting business. It caused a stir, but not as large as it might have. For one, this was Pantera, a land where war was a way of life, not a rare occurrence, and it showed. This was also a situation where the Panteran (and, indeed, Gholgoth on the whole) were tacitly supporting the troop movements, but without any real international commentary on the scene, it was not as hard support as it might have been.

The ships were already in the sea and they were full of weaponry. Zadarain had not been lax in giving his mercenaries arms and ammunition. Munitions were in copious numbers and more were being loaded onto the ships every hour. These were not attack ships, more in the line of transports, but it had all that Zadarain had been able to purchase. With the mercenaries on his payroll, his budget was slowly being constricted due to costs, and even the influx of Panteran money could not have solved that problem. Nonetheless, his force was magnificent and his knew it.

His third-in-command, Tharjeld, was among the first aboard the ships. Tharjeld was a pure-bred Panteran and his line was among the most pure in the country. But his was a seventh-son and his chances of success had been limited to the length of his sword. Thus, the life of mercenary had appealed to him and so had Zadarain's gold. He had fought beside the prince in previous campaigns throughout the continent and beyond, and like the other mercenaries, trusted the commanders. He was convinced that they would return in glory.

"And success awaits us?" Tharjeld asked Zadarain, his voice a curious blend of excitement, fear, apprehension, and caution. Zadarain opened his mouth to answer, but Kalimorr leaped into the gap. "It is all on the tips of your swords." Zadarain nodded.

He missed the iron-laden glare that Tharjeld gave Kalimorr.