NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: I was struck with an idea today over my friday-afternoon cappuccino/course reading/general laxness while thinking about how I'm going to develope regional histories in Snefaldia. I've fleshed out Neer Dal to have a very civilized, sophicistated history, and I thought: what better way to develop my characters than through a historical novel!

I was inspired by the Tale of Genji and Heian Japanese court life.

The Background

Têisnáya, the Great Kingdom, was the most powerful state in Neer Dal from 1078 to 1385 and the capital, Mavátêisnáya, was the jewel of cultural development and sophistication. The court of Ráes Dá Têisnáyán, the Great King, was renowned for its high class and indulgent lifestyle, and the arts and culture were given great attention during his reign. Nobles from the various families of the realm aspired to come to the court, and all manner of silent schemes and dramas unfolded in the halls of the Court. Secret affairs, secret deals, bribes, murders, slander, gossip- all of it was a part of the daily happenings of the "floating world" of Ráes Dá's court. This is the story of three young people in the Great Court of Ráes Dá.

The Players
Satóril na Cèitán - A young noble from Dàl Ceítín
Amatás a Mináyán - a young noble Minayá

Princess Saláfièl - one of the daughters of the Great King
Prince Solás - Crown Prince, son of Ráes Dá
Lady Análás - Sister to the Great King
Lord Usálás - Lady Análás' husband and Palace Chancellor

Ráes Dá Têisnáyán - Great King of Têisnáya
Illionás Quèstayán - Prime Minister of Têisnáya
Tang Yuezhi- Poet and writer from Zhong, visiting the court of the Ráes Dá

Sondoël the Wise- Lord of Eláiösuíl
Uliel of Sárdavär Leed - Lord of Piúkánda
Usa-mar-abad - Arsathae at the court of Lord Sondoël, one of the few in Neer Dal.

More to come...

The Scene
Mavátêisnáya, the Jewel of the West, Capital of Têisnáya
Eláiösuíl, the Oaken Vales, great forest province in central Neer Dal
Hrotándä Vale, the Sacred Valley, ancient forest vale considered sacred


Logistics
Neer Dal is divided into three areas- East, West, and South.

The people of the West who rule Têisnáya are the Belädányä and speak Belädányán , and call their territory Glendáuál. The people of the east call the west Alondarien, and the people that live their Alondaren

The people of the East are called the Sendaren, speak Melimentan and call their territory Sendarien, which in Belädányán is called Moriál. The western name for their people is Moríquétás.

The people of the South are the Sankrè, speak Asòvá, and their name for the south is not known. The Belädányä call the southlands Sankrètœr, while the Sendaren call it Sautolien.


OOC: There is a great deal of fuzziness about the distinctions right now, because they're being developed as I write this. Readers may notice some inconsistencies between posts; this is because I am revising my legendarium as I go along.

For a quick overview - The Sendaren and the Belädányä are the "Neeri" people. The term Neeri is used as a catch-all, because in this time it was applied only to the people from the Neeri line. The Sankrè are a bit more mysterious, because even though a clan of Sankrè ruled over the land for years, they never integrated and remained in the south.

There is a connexion between all three peoples far in the past, as sort of nebulous Tolkienesque "Sundering of the Elves", but the specifics are lost to history- factors being lack of written records and the short lifespans of human beings. More will be revealed.

The differences between eastern and western will be made more apparent, first through language and then through culture/ethnicity.

It wasn't the clattering of the wheels or the braying of the horses that woke the dozing occupants of the sedan carriage, but rather the thunderous timpanis pounding that jolted the two young men out of their slumber. They had been travelling for three days and had woken up early this morning to get underway, and it was only natural that sleep would conquer them.

Satóril na Cèitán shook the sleep out of his eyes and pulled back the gauze drapery to find the source of the pounding drums. The last touches of a dream left his eyes as the light streamed into the darkened sedan, and his eyes were momentarily blinded by the midday sun, slowly adjusting to reveal in one perfect exposition the gates of the great city of Mavátêisnáya.

He turned and shook his groggy companion, who was squinting in the light, and Amatás a Mináyán blinked once, then twice, before pulling back the gauze drapery and bathing the carriage in the golden light of day. The white gravel avenue stretched out ahead of them, line with hoary old trees that soared into the sky and branched out over the road, dappling the light. Following the line ahead, the young men looked up the road and past the trees to see the curving facade of the South Gate of the capital rise up ahead of them, ant-like figures raising their hands into the air and bringing them back down onto the shining brass drums.

The two men smiled excitedly at each other, gleeful grins like children discovering a new game to play. It was beginning to sink in, after three days of travel, that they were going to the shining capital of Têisnáya, to the serene city, and to the glorious court of Ráes Dá.


* * *
Among the trees and ponds of a quiet garden, graceful figures reclined in apparent ease. An idyllic scene, robes blending with the greens and browns of the trees and grasses, the chirping birds dancing in the dappled sunlight.

"Oh, enough!"

In an instant the relaxed atmosphere was broken and the recliners sat up with a start at the harsh words. A man, clad in soft red robes glinting with silver, strode toward cluster of divans and people, flanked by servants.

"Enough of this ridiculousness!" he shouted. "If you want to have an audience, do it in the proper time and place. I hate having to walk all the way out here."

A man rose, clasping his hands. "I'm sorry you feel that way, nephew, but you know how your aunt loves to hear the birds chirp at this time of day. And besides, your father would like you to spend more time among the trees."

A smirk. "Uncle, my father would like me to do a great many things." he said with false deference, the looked over at a reclining woman. "But if dear Aunt Análás wishes to be in the garden, then I'll be in the garden."

The woman smiled broadly. "Oh my dear nephew, you're such a good boy when you do what you're told. Your Uncle Usálás only has the wishes for you."

The elder man nodded, then beckoned to an aide with a book. "Well then, Prince Solás, since you've come... Your father returns from Sankrètœ tomorrow, and in the few weeks he has been gone you have neither called court nor taken audience with any prospective wives. The Prime Minister has taken up the state without you. What will you say to your father?

The Prince grimaced, falling back onto a divan and paging absentmindedly through a book. "You tell me, Uncle. You always tell me what to say anyway."

"Perhaps if you would think of something to say that wouldn't get you shouted at, I wouldn't need to put the words in your mouth." Usálás shot back. "Someday you will be the Great King, and now is the time to start thinking like one."

Solás dropped the book and glared at his uncle. "Now, why don't you tell my sister half the things you tell me? It's as if Saláfièl is perfect and I'm just the horrible little child."

Análás chuckled and her nephew shot her a withering look. His uncle shook his head. "Saláfièl will never be Great King, and you know that. But fine, Solás, if you would like me to stop telling you what to say then I will stop. When Ráes Dá arrives tomorrow morning, you'll have your chance to explain to him why you haven't done anything he's asked."

The Prince opened his mouth to speak, but Usálás held up a hand. "No, no more. You may return to palace now. The only business left in Chancery business, and you won't be interested in that."

Rising from the divan, the young crown prince looked ready to say something withering, or most likely ill-thought, but he caught sight of his aunt, a sinister half-grin on her face, and swallowed the words. Clasping his hands, he turned on his heels and with a swish of his robes disappeared into the trees. Usálás watched for a moment, then turned back to his chair and wife, heaving a sigh.

Análás laughed. "Oh, my love, don't be sad. He's still young. When my brother returns tomorrow all will be set right with him. The winter court will come in, and we'll get to see a whole new chapter." She laughed again, waved her hand at a servant who proffered a curled silver cup, and settled into the divan, absorbing the midday sun and the sounds of the chirping birds.

In the modern day, the city of Mahavisjaya bears little resemblance to the ancient capital of Ráes Dá. Filled with apartment complexes, highrises, and densely packed buildings, the Snefaldian regional city is a far cry from the elegant city of Mavátêisnáya. For two young men, ignorant of the ways of the world, the refined beauty of the City of Sublime Virtue was mysterious and powerful, with each gracefully curving street or tree beckoning the walker ever further into a floating world of wonder.

Satóril na Cèitán adjusted his robe for the fifth time since he had gotten dressed, fidgeting with the silver belt and shining ornaments. Amatás laughed.

"You need to calm down. Nothing bad is going to happen."

His companion frowned. "That's quite easy for you to say. You've never had to worry about anything in your life- like you've got some blessing." He turned to a polished silver mirror, brushing his long blond haira certain way, readjusting the occasional curls he had folded. "Ama, we're going to the court of the Great King. How can you not be the least bit tense?"

The other man laughed, fiddling with his own dark hair. "I never said I wasn't tense. I just said you needed to calm down. Our fathers wouldn't have sent us to court if they thought something bad was going to happen- and we're lucky to have been able to stay in such a nice hostel before our presentation, I heard that Saiêlé Nitæló had to put up in a common inn."

Satóril chuckled, dropping his hands and nodding with satisfaction at his appearance. Even for the common peasant-farmer, appearances were everything in Neer Dal and every nobleman took special care of his appearance, as it was an indicator of both wealth and propriety. Both of the men wore similar robes- cut close to the figure above the waist, while carefully folded pleats kept a slim figure for the legs and waist. Satóril wore a pale green flecked with silver, while Amatás' were a shade of brown with the pattern of golden leaves above the waist.

"As ready as I'll ever be." Amatás laughed at his friend.

"Then let's go."

* * *
The Great King had, for the past five years, spent the month of October in Sankrètœ, the ancestral home of the Kmuw clan, who had ruled over Neer Dal before the founding of Têisnáya. It was always a great affair when he returned to the capital, full of the graceful ceremony which he enjoyed so much. The return of the Great King to the capital meant the start of the winter court, and all nobles would come to present themselves to the Great King and try to ingratiate themselves in the hierarchy of the royal world.

Poetry, music, and artwork were prized by the people of Têisnáya, and the court of the Great King took the love of fine arts to a new level. Noblewomen were expected to be well-spoken, well-read, and well-written, while noblemen were expected to be the same, as well as physically adept and martially able. Ráes Dá was a great lover of archery, as had been his father and grandfather, and contests of skill and accuracy were often held. A statue of the Great King was set by the East Gate, his steed in full gallop and the King himself turned back with bow drawn in the classic Parthian Shot.

The nobles from the far east provinces referred to the capital as the "floating world," where the high nobility engaged in relaxing pursuits as if they were lily flowers in a calm pond. The nobles in kind often called the far-flung rustic nobility as "Moríquétás," or "lightless ones"- nobles who couldn't see the light of the capital.

The huge timpanis sounded the return of the Great King to his capital, and it was the solemn procession of return that the two young nobles, in their best, came out to watch and follow. At the head of the train were the armored cataphracts of the King's guard, their shining armor engraved with the silver image of a curling tree- the tree of the line of Nál Dá, who had founded the state. Their golden hair was covered only by silver circlets, and their curved blades hung at their sides.

The flags and standards of the Great King proceeded on foot and horse, greens and browns, greys and oranges, muted reds and shining silvers. The various officials that had journeyed with him to Sankrètœ came in line with their own standards- Tal Sirilán of Ondo, Udräsaí from Nènyónd Twyll, Calmen á Vasâr of Nènalátá - all proceeded with their own retinues before the Great King himself approached.

Amatás and Satóril watched in utter amazement at the procession of powerful nobles and glorious personages. They were both from ancient and prestigious lines themselves- Satóril from the line of Dàl Ceítín, which had combined with Nērilisán to form the Kingdom of Nēr Dàl, and Amatás from the even older Minayá line, which traced their blood back to Radhré-ná-Mâl, the first prince of a unified state - but their houses were ancient and lightly regarded among the powerful lords of Têisnáya.

It was when the Great King himself, Ráes Dá Têisnáyán, passed by that they were truly focused. The man was descended from the founder of Têisnáya, he was the Great King, the most powerful and refined man in the kingdom. Hi was tall, with long dark hair that shimmered in the sun, wearing the same style of armor as his guards over a light grey pleated robe, a curled silver circlet on his head. He had an aquiline nose that was neither too large nor too small, and sitting atop his brown charger he seemed like a statue come to life, the bow and quiver on his back exactly as they appeared in the figure by the East Gate.

The Court had returned to the capital, and the fête of celebration would pass through the whole city.

The palace of the Great King was a huge twisting affair, built out of an ancient stand of trees and not existing so much as surrounding the forest as it was incorporating it. Domes and pavillions were spread throughout the palace compound connecting audience halls, the tall spires of the royal quarters and various appellate rooms, all built around the lush ancient trees.

When the city was founded by Talām Pishtar in 1078 it was revolutionary. The general, who had ruled over the grungy fortress town of Gorádāl, based the initial design of his city on the ancient cities of pre-Minayá Neer Dal. Intensely organic, the only parts of the forest that were cleared away were to make the two main roads and the main gates of the city. Curling streets and natural-style architecture made Mavátêisnáya revolutionary.

Satóril and Amatás dismounted their horses after following the procession of the Great King to the palace, presenting their lineage to a pair of solemn, dour guards.

"Minayán and Cèitán? An honorable pair indeed." one guard mumbled as he opened the side gate and called out for an interior guard.

"These two are to be presented." The other guard simply nodded, beckoning the two young men and disappearing into the palace grounds. Satóril and Amatás followed at a pace, weaving through hills and trees, with each step delving deeper into the world of the royal palace, with each step seeming to leae behind the city and go deeper into a forest.

Deer bounded through the trees and birds flocked in the branches above, and the two men were almost as awestruck as they had been by the procession of the Great King just earlier that day. Pavillions and ornamental arches peppered the winding path as the guard led them toward the interior. Passing by two huge oak trees a structure rose up from the terrain, a huge peaked door connected to a silvery hall, with spires reaching into the sky.

Four of the Great King's guards stood at attention, their breastplates shining in the dappled sun, elegant halberds rigid. The guide stopped, clearing his throat.

"Presentation for the court of the Great King."

Two guards turned, walked, and slowly opened the door, revealing a vestibule of carved wood, inlaid with silver swirls, like vines and leaves curling around polished pillars. The vestibule was populated by groups of people, chatting quietly, dressed in similar fashion to the young men. Satóril and Amatás ascended the steps into the hall, joining the group, and the doors closed again.

The two nobles looked bewildered among the new surroundings, and another young man saw them and beckoned them.

"You must be new too! Don't worry, come here, we'll all go in together. I'm Oriel, from Béldáburö... My father is Ötaliál."

"Satóril na Cèitán, and my friend Amatás a Mináyán."

Oriel seemed impressed for a moment. "Old trees! Well, it's my honor to meet you. Have you composed any poems for the Great King?"

Amatás blinked. "Poems? We didn't know anything about any poems..."

Oriel, shocked, grabbed Amatás by the shoulder. "No poems? Everyone's supposed to have something to present to the Great King. Usually poems work, but he loves songs, dances, horses, all those sorts of things! You mean to say that men from Old Trees like you didn't bring anything?"

The two young nobles were frightened at the prospect of their appearance at court being immediatly marred by a serious breach in etiquette, and all sorts of terrifying punishments ran through their heads.

"W-well, no..." Satóril stammered.

"You don't need to worry." a deep musical voice said from behind. Oriel turned red for a moment, and the two men turned around, looking up into the face of a tall, fair-haired man in his mid-40s with a wry smile on his face. "There isn't any sort of requirement for the presentation to the Great King, Oriel son of Ötaliál, I don't know where you could have gotten the idea."

Oriel reddened even more, mouth gaping, and the other two men looked even more confused. The elder man chuckled, raising his palm in greeting.

"I am Illionás Quèstayán. It is a great pleasure to meet two men from such Old Trees."

Illionás Quèstayán. His name was familiar even to the young nobles from far reached of the Kingdom. Illionás Quèstayán, the Prime Minister of the Kingdom and one of the most revered men in Neer Dal.

"Do not be worried. The Great King is not a harsh man, nor is he given to punish the young who come to his court. There has never been a requirement for presentation in the court since Nál Dá founded the great kingdom."

The timpanis sounded from inside the hall, and the conversations stopped, and the peopel began to order themselves for a procession into the hall. Quèstayán smiled, raising his palm again, and walked forward to lead the procession in. Oriel, frowning, took his place next to some women in flowing dresses, and the doors opened.

Elsewhere...

The silence in the darkened woods was broken only by the panting of rushing, stumbling through the underbrush, the panting of a man running, as if chased, the heavy breathing and the scratching of branches against his face.

They're right behind me they're right behind me they're right behind me

A stumble and down the wet embankment sliding in the mud and water, loam and moss. Sitting for an instant listening listening listening...

Nothing. No sounds behind him. No crashing through the underbrush. Nothing. Settling back against the hill to breath, realizing that there was nothing behind him, realizing he was alone in the dark forest, only the light of the moon and his shadow against the earth.

Only a bit further, a bit further and I'll be there... Just a bit further to Hrotándä Vale...

Stand up, brush off, breath in deeply, and freeze. Sound in the distance, pounding against the ground in rhythmic time thump thumpthump thumpthump thumpthump thumpthump.

Just a bit further to Hrotándä Vale just a bit further to Hrotándä Vale

The panic set back in and stumbling rushing he started to run again as the thumpthumpthump thumpthumpthump thumpthumpthump grew closer, faster, the snorting and thumping of the brass against the ground in rhythmic time, the rustling of the cloaks and cowls.

Just a bit further to Hrotándä Vale

The neighing of the black horse and the thumpthump of the brass shoes against the packed earth through the brush and the trees, black cloaks rustling in the dark, the moonlight reflecting off the obsidian circlet.

Hrotándä Vale! Hrotándä Vale!

The smooth sliding shhhhh of the dart leaving its leather cloak, the quiet shhhh as it moved through the air to point straight and true, the rubbing resin and the creaking wood pulling back to hold the powerful thrust...

Hrotándä Va-

"Tälielnás Gälondinás!

The name! He froze! And the sht! of the dart through the air as the finger released!

No more running panting rushing. The dead drop of inanimate heaviness, the spirit gone, the dart flown true. The horse dancing around the corpse, its rider reaching pulling replacing his dart, pulling from the pack of the fallen runner the scroll and the gleaming green jewel.

"Hrotándä Vale."

A kick and the thumpthump again, back into the forest in the night, the only sound the brass hooves against the ground. No Hrotándä Vale.

"They found him in the early morning, crumpled over in a glen. The ranger noted he had been running at full speed when he died..."

Lord Sondoël frowned as his chamberlain droned on about the corpse before him. Eláiösuíl was a peaceable domain, and Sondoël took the murder of a man in the forests of his domain very seriously. A death so close to the sacred vale of Hrotándä had negative implications. The court of Eláiösuíl buzzed at a low volume as the Lord conducted his business, and conspicious among them was a man in black embroidered robes, a full beard and a low fur cap.

"Who was this man?" the Lord asked, his melodious baritone voice filling the hall. The chamberlain blinked. "We are not sure of his name, my Lord... he had nothing but his clothing."

"From whence did he come?"

"The ranger counted his tracks back through the forest, a line back to the west. The ranger said Piúkánda was likely."

Sondoël frowned again. A dead man had been found in his forests, coming from the west, likely from the realms of the Lord of Piúkánda... running for his life to the sacred vale.

"My lord, the ranger said there were other tracks... a horse. He was pursued by a great steed, struck on the run by a skilled marskman, and left where he was. The rider never dismounted. The ranger said also the marks of the hooves were passing strange... as if they hade been burned into the earth by heated metal."

The hall of the Lord fell silent, and Sondoël's eyes widened in slow realization. Rising slowly from his chair he put his hand on the hilt of his scimitar.

"Call up the Astári and send word to Lord Uliel at Sárdavär Leed. The Rider is abound and we must protect the Trees of Hrotándä."

The chamberlain shouted for the guards to rally the riders and gird the Lord's armor, turning to his ruler. The man in black, who had henceforth listened and taken in, rushed forward with his hand outstretched. "My lord, this man of books will accompany you! My horse is strong!"

Sondoël looked skeptically at him. "Your horse may be strong, but we do not know your trees, Usa-mar-abad. But, if your sword is sharp and your bow in true, I shall be glad to show you what our people do in defense of our sacred places"

The horses drew up, and the long-haired Neeri warriors, in their shining armor and powerful bows, mounted their steeds, resplendent in the muted autumn reds of the Lord of Eláiösuíl, and watched at the scholar Usa-mar-abad strapped on his own cuirass and sword, mounting a chocolate stallion and pushing down his fur hat. Sondoël rode to the fore, kicked his steed forward, and the body of warriors drove out of the city and into the countryside, the great engulfing forest.

* * *
In the language of the eastern Neeri the southlands are called Sautolien, and in the western tongue of the capital Sankrètœr, the land of the Sankrè. In ancient times the Sankrè had ruled over the great kingdoms under the hegemony of the Kmuw family, and when the Kmuw were finally displaced through cunning marriages on the part of the great lord Alluhásäi. The Sankrè were called "wild peoples" and "worthy of fear" because of their prowess in battle and harsh practices. Their legends claimed that they had come from over the mountains and settled in the shadow of several volcanoes in the south.

The Great King who founded Têisnáya subjugated them, and began a practice of travelling to their lands to ensure their obedience. The Sankrè were aptly called the "people of the wood" for even though all Neeri felt at home among the trees and leaves, the Sankrè lived in the trees and could move through the forests like the spirits themselves. In the early days of the Great King there was a legend commonly taught and the Sankrè, that a rider in black, whose bow was always true and whose sword was always sharp, would ride the forests like a spirit, cutting down those who had incurred his wrath.

When the Sankrè were subjugated they attempted to strike back against the Great King by attacking the sacred lands of the northern warriors. Attacking the trees was tantamount to attacking the ancestors themselves.

The dulcet tones of a singer were the background as the courtiers of Ráes Dá moved about in the garden, the afternoon sun shining through the trees. The life of a court aristocrat was one of luxury and beauty, composing poetry about the trees and natural surroundings, archery contests, comparisons of clothing, in essence the trappings of the floating world.

Lord Usálás was a Neeri like any other and appreciated the things that aristocrats valued highly, though definitely not as much as his wife did. The Palace Chancellor was not a title of sinecure like some of the painted nobles that came to pay homage to the Great King, and he actually had work to do that precluded the enjoyment of the idle day. He approached a group of courtiers that were chatting quietly on a verandah, clearing his throat.

"Prime Minister, if you please."

Illionás Quèstayán looked up, his pleasant features in a smile. "My friend Usa, you have found me. How can I help you?"

The Chancellor nodded. "Perhaps I we should speak in private? The matters of state, you understand..."

Quèstayán waved his hand. "These young nobles are loyal servants of the Great King. They may one day serve him. Let them hear the affairs of state, that they may understand how to serve. Satóril na Cèitán, Amatás a Mináyán, Saiêlé Nitæló, and Odowinden Mandoel."

Usálás nodded curtly, his lips pursed. He liked the Prime Minister, who was a thoughtful and intelligent man, as well as devoted to the administration of the Kingdom and the continuing prosperity of the Great King's house. The other nobles couldn't claim as much- but these young ones might be a new crop. He didn't know the four young men- but while the names of the first three were clearly western, the third piqued his interest.

"Odowinden Mandoel? How far from the east did you travel?"

The young man bowed. "The Lord Chancellor is astute. My father is Talmarindan Mandoel, Lord of Varsa in the eastern provinces. I was taught to speak Belädányán as well as my native Melimentan from an early age, but I have not yet taken a Belädányan name."

Usálás nodded in understanding, turning back to the Prime Minister.

"The news, then. I will not trouble you with the Crown Prince's affairs, the Great King has taken to it himself. But I have come with a report from the south, delivered this morning from Piúkánda. Uliel of Sárdavär Leed sends word that the Astári of Eláiösuíl have been taken to the forests."

The Prime Minister furrowed his brow, frowning. "Wise Lord Sondoël's lands? Has there been news from Sondoël?"

"There has not. Uliel writes that Sondoël sent word he was riding to protect the Trees of Hrotándä. He left without delay."

Quèstayán raised his eyebrows. "The vale! Passing strange..."

"There is more. The Wise Lord took with him the man of the north, the man of the books, in armor and with sword."

The Prime Minister nodded. "Send riders south to inquire further. I will inform the Great King." He gestured to the young nobles. "My friends, excuse me. The matters of the Great King are paramount."

Bowing, he left the four of them to talk, following after Usálás toward the King's chambers.

Burnt wood imparts a deep earthy flavor to the air, the scent of the trees and the soil. A roaring fire imparted warmth and comfort in the winters of the north, protection from the leviathan blizzards that wracked that region. In the south, though, the winters were light and fires used only for cooking. It was a fact, too, that the burning of wood was looked on unpleasantly, in terms of the smell it gave off and the feeling of sacrilege for the Neeri. A people that worshipped the spirits of the trees regarded burning them as particularly distasteful.

Fires in the land of the Belädányä were bright white affairs, using powders and grasses to make brilliant colors and long, lingering flames. Incense colored the air in fires, imparting exotic scents to the city. It was the scent of roses and sandalwood that filled the forests of Ráes Dá in the morning, as a procession of solemn courtiers moved through the walkways, with the Great King himself a party.

Satóril and Amatás stood side by side in the column, holding fragrant rods of cedar, bound with silver wire. It was amazing how the royal insulated the court from the city- it was like a fantasy world, walking in the woods of a dream. The party came to a weathered stone wall, blocked by a glimmering gate of curling metal, swinging open to allow the processional in.

Huge trees surrounded them, lined in eerie symmetry. Rising high into the air, a feeling of great antiquity and age came over the young men as they beheld faded silver cords wrapped around some trunks, bundles of cedar at the bases of others, and inscribed tablets embedded in the roots of some. Through the mysterious garden they moved until a circle of stones set in the earth, surrounding a massive hoary denizen of the garden, rising 100 feet into the air and spreading green and brown branches over the heads of the men.

The Great King stepped forward, his palms raised, uttering a silent prayer. This was a Great White Cedar, one of the indigenous varieties of that tree, and it was one of the most sacred and important flora in Neer Dal.

"My fathers, I have come to give you thanks and praise, and recieve the wisdom of you ancient years. Father tree, we give you the offerings of your brethren, taken in the ancient way as your ancestors did."

The Great King lay down his bundle of cedar, and each couple did the same. This was the most sacred tree in the capital, for beneath the great trunk of the fragrant cedar Talām Pishtar, the Great King Nál Dá Têisnáyán, had been interred centuries ago and the great tree planted over him. This was the Grove of Kings, where the Great Kings and their families were buried to be revered as trees. Coiled silver chains wrapped around the trunk and branches, ancient and new, and the white-brown bark of the tree seemed almost to be bearing the precious metal as fruit. Each chain represented the death of a descendant of the Great King- in direct descent. Whoever ruled and died in Mavátêisnáya was represented by a cord of silver - as would one day Ráes Dá

"Nál Dá Têisnáyán, my ancestor, may I rule with the wisdom by which you brought our peoples together. May our trees grow strong and tall for years to come, and may those that lay their bundles before you do the same."

The Great King lowered his hands when the groups had finished, and as slowly and solemnly as they had entered the group departed.

It was a sunny spring day in the lush forests of Glendáuál, the kind of day that the Beládanyá loved, and was perfect to enjoy the wide fields and deep woods ingrained in the ethos of the people.

In the spring, when the rains and warmth came, the rivers overflowed and the trees exploded in greenery, the Great King's court took a two-week trip to the countryside, in the more wild and unkempt (at least according to their sentiments) countryside. Though the Royal Palace was, in essence, a gigantic nature preserve, the nobility still preferred to depart to the countryside and relive the days of their distant past- in complete style, of course.

The stiff Royal Astári stood guard in a glade, where the dappled sun shone through on a graceful arrangement of divans and tables, linen tents and fragrant flowers. The Great King's seat was empty; he had gone off with his riders to hunt the red deer. But the Lady Análás and her husband were sitting, sipping deep red cordial. A gaggle of young nobles also lounged about in the warmth.

"My dearest, what news from the south? It has been some months since the problems began, and I have heard nothing from my brother." the Lady asked, looking off into the trees.

Usálás shifted uncomfortably. "As well as can be expected. Lord Sondoël is an able commander, and the Sankré inconstant."

The noble lady sighed. "Oh, yes. But they always lose. It's so tiring."

"But madam" came a deep and melodious voice, "They are getting stronger."

Illionás Quèstayán, the famed Prime Minister, strode in with a cadre of young civil servants behind him, hanging on his words. "The Sankré have become much more than the wild threat they were in years past. They have ordered themselves, as did the Moriquétás to the east."

The King's sister waved her hand dismissively. "And where did you hear that nonsense? From those damnable northerners infecting the people with their filthy words? I know as much, that the black-cloaked northerner with Sondoël disappeared soon after the battles started."

The dark-haired Minster smiled concedingly. "They do have such things to teach us, my lady. Though the Great King was right in the moment to outlaw their faith, I believe in the future it will become untenable. Think of the story of Udás and Lâmanë- Udás cast the foreigner out, but he returned with a great host to punish the King for his inhospitality."

The lady merely waved him away. Among the murmuring civil servants were Amatás and Sátoril, new among the number of the favorites of the Prime Minister. Oriel, meantimes, had fallen in with the Crown Prince's crowd of luxury-loving nobles, and he snickered at them as he lounged. They paid him no mind.

Odowinden Mandoel, the young Melimentan, shook his head. "To think, Master Quéstayán, that the Great King will not make his trip to Sankrétœr this year for cause of the war."

Oriel snorted. "Do you put such little stock in our riders, and the wise lord of Piukandá?"

"Nay, my friend Oriel. It is the Sankré that put little stock in him. Never underestimate, my comrade."

The Lady waved her hand. "Enough. My brother will return soon, let us save the politics for then."

OOC: with new inspiration, I return!

The Court of the Great King was massive, gilded, and bloated affair. The Eight Ministries each had dozens of officials of varying importance and relevance, from the Astrologers of the Ministry of Ceremonies to the Assistant Tax Collectors of the Ministry of Finance, each person held a court title and a grandly inflated view of their own importance.

In the Great King's absence, Illionás Quèstayán held court as the "Great Minister of the Council of State," though he was content to be referred to as the Prime Minister, often rolling his eyes at the numerous officials, warriors, and provincial officials who came to call. The Great King had departed with his riders to the East, paying a visit to the River Prefecture with, Beldiël, the General of the Army of the Western River, and thus the Prime Minister was forced to listen to the advice of the multitude of officials.

"The Honored Chief inspector of imperial tombs"

Quèstayán rolled his eyes as the Majordomo of the Palace announced the first appointment. The Prime Minister's seat was set down in front of the Imperial Throne when the Great King was not in attendance, which was becoming more frequent as he got older; much of the business of the Kingdom was left to the Ministries.

"The Honored Chief court musician"

The Minister's eyes roamed while the musician droned, nodding absently. He fell on the figure of the black-clad northerner, quietly writing the exchanges of the court. That was Usa-Mar-Abad, the theologian, returner from the battles to the south where he had accompanied Sondoël. The rumours were that he had abandoned the army in the first battle (owing to his evil demeanor as a filthy northerner, the King's sister had said), but it was clear after the first conflict that he had his horse shot from under him and was pinned.

The Minister mused on the change of opinion in the palace when he returned three months later, having led a battalion of warriors when the Captain was killed by southern arrows, with a letter from Sondoël praising his prowess.

"The Honored Chief prison warden"

The rumours in the palace were increasing, the Prime Minister thought, at the behest of the King's Sister- the Lady Análás. She was quite well known for her happy demeanor and vicious tongue, and the disproval of her opinions in regard to Usa-ma-Abad meant she had to spread wicked gossip about someone else- and Quèstayán, heretofore admired by the woman, entered her poor graces for his support of the northern man- and for the two young nobles who had come to court months ago and were now serving in the Ministry.

"The Honored Prefect of the Hill City"

Quèstayán suddenly paid attention- the man approaching the throne was a surprise indeed, the Prefect of the northernmost city in the Kingdom, not event technically a part of Glendáuál. The Hill City was called- what was it, Usa-mad-Abad had told him- "Wowlmeenu" or something like that.

"Prefect Wendávär! You have certainly traveled far from the north, and without reason- the Great King is visiting Beldäburö."

The Prefect, a man of medium build and wider features than the typically tall and fair Neeri, smiled. "I am saddened by missing his August Personage, but I will have to settle for the illustrious Great Minister of the Council of State."

"Please, speak then!"

"I have ridden in person because I trust no messenger to carry the message. The Hill City, entrusted to my family to guard as Prefect since my grandfather's days, has learned of movements on the horizon."

The Minister noticed Usa-mar-Abad look up from his writing.

"Movements from the north. Reports have come that the armies of the northern cities are marching against the people of the river. They have not yet crossed the Great Northern River, but I fear for the safety of the Great King's holdings. I cannot guarantee the safety of the Hill City or it's lands without more forces."

The entire court went silent, and the Prime Minister furrowed his brow.

"Threats against the Kingdom... from the north? What do you mean?"

"The people of the northern river are simple farmers, but many refugees have come south looking for respite against the horses of the great northern mountains. They claim the Hill City is threatened, and that they marshals of the north cast their eye south. We have, of late, received many visitors from the north- men of learning, from the Libraries of the north, carrying new teachings."

The Minister quickly looked over at the northern visitor, whose pen was sitting on the parchment while the librarian looked intently on the dialogue.

"Then what it is you ask, Honored Prefect?"

"Soldiers, Honored Minister. The Tiger General of the North-"

"The Tiger General of the North died last month during the hunt."

"Then another general- Lord Sondoël."

"The lord of the wood commands the forces of the Great King against the southerners, and his Majesty proceeds to the east with the General of the Army of the Western River. Can you not levy forces from the prefecture?"

"We are trying, Prime Minister."

The Majordomo of the Palace was looking frazzled, as the line of officials was piling up, and franticly waved at the Prime Minister to hurry.

"Honored Prefect, visit the Chief Curator of the Palace and you shall speak to me later."

The Prefect bowed, and the Prime Minister nodded, stealing a glance at Usa-mar-Abad, who had picked up his pen again, watching the Prefect leave the court. This was serious business, and would require immediate attention.

"The Honored Chief Storekeepe-"

The Prime Minister rose sharply, much to the Majordomo's dismay, and cleared his throat.

"The business of the Prime Minister is concluded hereby. Call forth the Council of State, summon the Ministers of Left and Right and the Major Councillors- the Great King's business must be done."

Leaving the shocked courtiers he stepped down, he summoned one of his Equerries with a hand signal.

"Summon the Favored Foreigner to the Western Flower Pavillion, and wait for the command of the Ministry."

With that continued to a meeting of the most powerful bureaucrats of the Kingdom, to address this new information.

Prime Minister Quèstayán shifted in his chair, a spindly affair that passed for "graceful" in the eyes of the nobility, who probably knew less about what went into making the chair than where it came from. He sat at the head of an expansive table, polished and painted stone that glimmered annoyingly in the afternoon sun, filled the the attendant imagery of the Court's ceremony and religious symbology. The various ministers and officials were clustered in their appropriate spaces around the table, set in a pavillion originally dedicated for the Council but rarely used because it wasn't the Great King's favorite.

Quèstayán cleared his throat and a low drum beat off in the corner as one of the numerous attendants of the Ministry of Rites and Ceremonies attempted to quiet the Ministers. Annoyed, the Prime Minister slapped his hand against the table.

"Dispense with the ceremonies, we have serious business to discuss and His Royal Majesty is not present."

The Minister of Rites and Ceremonies, an aging bureaucrat with a penchant for ostentation seemed shocked, but the Minister of the Left gave a slight chuckle. Usálás, who had been appointed Minister of the Right a month prior, shook his head imperceptibly.

"The Prefect of the Hill City came before the Throne not an hour ago with requests for military aid." continued the Prime Minister, ignoring the outrage of the more conservative councilors, who didn't like him anyway. "He claimed military forces from the far north threaten the Great King's holdings."

The Left Minister, one Tälielnás Morequíl (an old aristocratic family from Minaya area), raised an eyebrow. "The Prefect cannot defend the city for himself? Surely the forces of the north are uncivilized and lack the proper finesse our own warriors possess."

Lord Usálás shook his head. "The Hill City is far to the north, the furthest holding our Great King controls. The number of true-blood riders is slim. And besides, from what I hear the northerners are monsters, great brutes with huge horses and great numbers. Why, look at the King's Honored Guest from their lands... he proved his mettle in battle against the southerners."

The Prime Minister nodded. "Precisely why I have called this meeting. We must ascertain the knowledge of Usa-mar-Abad in regards to the north. This Council has been lax in ignoring the benefit he has to offer in telling us of their ways of life and their capacities."

One of the Minor Councillors snorted derisively. "What do they have to teach us? We are the light of the world, our culture is the greatest and most advanced. If the northern peoples, just like the southern people, fight against us we will chastise them and educate them." The Minister of Rites nodded approvingly, glancing unhappily at the Prime Minister.

"I don't recall you riding with our Great King when the Sankre sacked Vilverin." Usálás said with and icy twist. The Councillor shrank back into his spiny chair as best he could. "I don't recall any of us doing so either. We cannot underestimate the power of enemies we have not met in battle. Let us question Usa-mar-Abad and learn all he has to teach us."

The Prime Minister nodded. "With respect to the rites, and due course. I have summoned him to the Western Flower Pavillion, let us adjourn and I will proceed."

The Council of State rose, observed the niceties, and departed, leaving Usálás and Quèstayán.

"Should we inform the Crown Prince? asked the Minister of the Right.

"I don't see any particular reason to. There's something else... two young men I see great potential in. They should become Equerries under your office, my friend."

"The young nobles from the country? I will trust your judgement, though they will be viciously slandered by the aristocrats for it. My wife will be most cruel, I am sure."

"You have always shown yourself to be above that sort of thing. I am fearful for the future, my friend, and the less the indolent nobility have to do with the function of the state the better. When His Royal Majesty returns we will discuss it further... but the Prefect has frightened me, perhaps more than the news of the Sankre."

"We shall see."

"Indeed. Let us hope it is nothing more than fright and rumour."

"...I should hope my lord Questatha is feeling well this morning?" came the cheery inquiry of the young attendant, much to the chagrin of the weary commander.

"My young friend, when in the field the general is supreme- and from henceforth, such exuberance will be met with a lashing." he said with a sly smile on his face. The months in the deep forest were beginning to take their toll on all the soldiers of the Great King, victorious though they were over the rebels in every battle; the constant harrying attacks of the Sankre warriors were draining. The deep forest of the south was hard to navigate compared to the well-ordered roads and cities of the northern kingdom; Sondoel's camp and armies had made base in the larger settlement of Silorn, one of a string of small cities established by the Great King's grandfather to strengthen the control of the southern lands.

His eyes wandered over the maps of the south. The string of towns had been attacked, one by one, the last few months in a systematic way- harass, devastate, and retreat. First Sercen, then Nagasel, then Beldastare... each larger than the last. He sighed.

The smiling face of his young attendant, the cheerful Astar Vilvethara, brought some happiness into the mind of wise lord Sondoel, the jewel of the kingdom's armies, honored servant of the Great King. The stress of the campaign would soon begin to show on his handsome features were it not for the companionship the happy young man provided him. He was wrenched from the happy contemplation of Vilvethara's youthful beauty by the hurried arrival of his liutenant on horseback, riding breakneck into the camp.

"The Sankre harass Niryastare." he breathed heavily. "The advance guard struggled bravely. They took many warriors with them."

Niryastare.. His eyes shot back to the map.

"Sequence!" murmured Vilvethara. "One after the other."

Sondoel nodded, his mind working.

"Lord Sondoel, your orders?" his liutenant inquired, the horse nervously trotting about.

"Order a general retreat to Silorn of our forces in Niryastate-" he pointed on the map to the town- "to Lattasel. Prepare for another attack. Call up for the riders; we will march to reinforce."

"As you command!" the horsebound soldier kicked off at at full gallop, his horn sounding the call to arm.

Sondoel sat down into his chair with a slump. Sankretoer had been the turning point in the great campaign, when the rebels set fire to their own city after it had fallen to his army. He retreated to find the Sankre towns they had captured emptied, forcing him to seek refuge in the settlement towns of the Beladanya pioneers. They were absolutely insufficient to house the armies of the north.

"I am going to write to the Prime Minister." he said, mostly to himself. "Another commander must be assigned."

Vilvethara shook his head. "The Great King would never approve it. My lord is the greatest general he has."

"Flattery! It will be the death of me." Sondoel spat angrily. Vilverthara fell, dropping his head and quietly stepping backward. Sondoel softened, looking up.

"Forgive me. The younger man nodded understandingly.

"My lord is distressed, as are we all. I mean all my words; there can be no greater general."

"The Sankre fight for their homeland, the Great King for his dominion. How can the righteous man be commander of such an army? My warriors are tired, their horses are exhausted. The forest archers poach us like deer at the hunt; we cannot meet them in the field. When they burn their own cities, how can we achieve victory?"

Vilvethara came closer, placing his hand over Sondoel's. "I will follow my lord whatever his command." Sondoel looked up, smiling.

"You brighten me."

"The King's decision will destroy us all." the Prime Minister complained to no one in particular, although several servants milled about his apartments performing their labors- all from the east and unable to properly speak the Enlightened Tongue. Quèstayán sighed, removing one of the several silk scarves tied about his robes and sank into a spindly chair.

As if on cue, the servants went to the deeply polished wooden wall and unhooked an unseen mechanism, folding the sections of wood in on themselves and exposing the room to a green garden outside. The private gardens of the Prime Minister's quarter reflected, like many of his brethren, his mindset- spartan, but with a certain aesthetic calm that gave the sense of a fullness of space and mind despite the sparse decoration. A tree in the corner, with carefully trimmed grass surrounding a small rocky pool, moss-covered stones.

Thinking quietly to himself, the consequences of the Great King's decision to send a greater army south and set fire to Sankretoer were unfolding in his head. Sondoel's reports had become more frantic as the guerrillas began to take their toll. But the edict of tolerance, the object of Usa-mar-Abad's constant visits to the Great King's court, was reason to be happy.

"There is much good in this religion of learning..." the Prime Minister said, again to no one in particular.

"The new library commissioned by His Majesty will be small recompense for the burning of the Southern Capital..." he said with a sad smile.