NationStates Jolt Archive

His eyes burned with fire as he walked. He felt her eyes on the back of his neck, like twin pinpricks of fire. He turned, his anger, beyond all knowing at what had happened and what would. And he stared…he stared…And so it came to pass, that a peace was set, and their animosity lifted, and her words would be complete.

She faced him, her voice as cold as the words she would utter. “Men, you are foolish. Thy hearts desires are long since passed, and thou shalt die, unmourned, unloved. Thou shalt fall and then who shalt mourn thee? No one.”

But lo, a change came over her, and she spake in one voice, but many. “When the Hunted and the Companion become the Runner, and when the stars fall from their assigned places in the sky, and when thy line is extinguished in the grip of the grain, then thy people, thy scythes amid the arid wheat, shall move closer and closer. And then, shalt thy people surrender the world. TAKE. Nay, for anagrams are but a fabric of the words themselves, and then shalt the Deer become the Wolf, and then shalt thy grave be defiled in ritual of both purity…and death.

-The Prophecies of Darakan, 11:32

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An Unknown Country, A Hovel By The Shore
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Kazedrankhor watched the figure scuttling upon the shore. It seemed pathetic, to him, that one like Tyranus was doing what he was. There was something morbid about it, like watching a drawn out death of one who could do great things. But then, that was what it was, a fading into anonymity of one of the most important figures of the day. He felt something stir inside him, and, spitting onto the muddy ground, he called, "Azadrazan, come here!"

It would then be, to his upmost surprise and amazement when the figure of his recent calling emerged from the dank, cold, wet, and dirty hut just down the shore. Azadrazan was clad in his tattered robe, his expression sordid and sour with anxiety and barely-concealed anger. Azadrazan was not one to be called, ever, and the son of the emperor was not a very polite person, to put it mildly. Kazedrankhor was then completely surprised when the other, the sullen being whom the other was, actually came.

Surprise would not linger long on Kazedrankhor's face. The tacticurn, lean, man whose pale skin made him look half dead was not one who wasted his emotions on such pastimes. If he ever had to rate emotions, something that he would neither ever do, nor ever think of doing, he would have put surprise last. He hated to reveal his feelings (this, of course, being a feeling in itself) and he disliked being put off his guard. This time, however, it made him smile.

"What?" Azadrazan asked wearily. "Why'd you call me? I've told you already that the High Command, banished as they are, will not do anything. Damned son of a pig Azadis. And Korta, and the rest-of-'em. To worried about the 'Seonaerd'" here his irate muttering were punctuated with a verbal sneer, "like they c'n do anythin'." He had unravelled his cloak and stood hunched on the black sand, still murmuring angrily.

"No, 'Draz. I want something else from you." As always, Kazedrankhor was collected, speaking in a level tone and not wasting any time on other persuits, such as hot undertones. "Has Eklaz sent anything? Has there been a message?" Azadrazan gave a hooknosed smile. "Indeed there 'as been. He wants us to make our move with Tyranus, soon. Then all shalt be ready for the return of the Yaforite Empire!"

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Later, At Dinner, In The Hovel
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Crown Prince, Guardian of the Red Shores, Holder of the Eastern Wall, Honored Carrier of the Scepter of the Ravens, Tyranus Yaforian, had just caught, yes, with his bare hands, his menial labor that was mainly for sevants instead done by him, a school of fish. Of varied kinds they were, all fit for eating. Tyranus had cooked them himself, grilling them to perfection, while adding a hint of mint and other herbs.

The ash table had been set for only three; there was never company on that lonely isle. It was a strange life, one of soliditude and peace, living in a confined space with your son and a loyal friend. It was, to put it both bluntly and rather insultingly, Tyranus' idea of perfection. The grimy floor had been rubbed down and some of the dirt which had lingered on from the last scrubbing had been removed from the chairs, but otherwise, there was nothing else new about this day.

As they sat, Kazedrankhor and Azadrazan barely ate, instead savoring the reality which the were just about to spring upon Tyranus. He had already noticed their unwillingness to put food to mouth and, as any proud chef would, assumed that it was a statement on how nutritious and filling (and tasty) his food was. "Eat up, it's good!" he said, in an attempt to foster them to eat.

"No father, lest you help the people o' your country." Azadrazan spoke in a voice heavy with contempt. "Afraid of power? That is what you call yourself. Since when was the emperor afraid of power? Everything is ready, in place, for you to become emperor. Now go!" Tyranus bowed his head. His son spoke the truth, and sometimes the truth had a heavy hand. Indeed, sometimes it was worse that heavy.

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The Palace Of The High Korut Of The Jakalla Faith
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High Korut Eklaz had a job which many would kill for. Indeed, that was what he had done, not just to honor custom. Eklaz was ambitious, for sure, but he was driven only by the fact that power bequethed more power and so, the ultimate honor would be the chance for more power than the gods in heaven and the demons in the underworld. That was what he wanted.

Eklaz lovingly caressed the intricate gold rob which was an eblem of his office. Designs etched into it with care and purity belied the real purpose of the one who held the metal stick, for that was what it was. Arcane runes had but written the very words which the Korut lived by 'Let War And Battle Rage, For Death Breeds Life And The Jakalla Are Life'. The High Korut was much more than a figurehead; he was the leader of the most radical, controvertial, faith in the world.

"Any word on the Ghored rebellion?" A group of disatisfied Jakalla were mounting an uprising which was plunging much of the Northeast wilderness into blood. The attendant at the wall nodded and smiled. "All good, Maesteren." That was a honorary title, the name of the first High Korut being Maesteren. "They are retreating."

Eklaz smiled. Everything was going right, now. With the Ghored out of the way, Tyranus nearly bending under the persuation of his son and friend, and the government unaware, the time was right to strike. Everything would go according to plan...and then. And then...

OOC:This is, of course, after the Generian situation. This RP will put Yafor 2 on the brink, even beyond. Please TG for anything about this; comment, questions, and criticism encoouraged. Thank you. ~Yafor 2's player~

OOC:To anyone who cares:apologies I couldn't post; I'll do it more in the upcoming weeks.

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The Hovel, An Unknown Country
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Azadrazan's anger was not only completely rational, it was also completely necessary. The Yaforite man hated his father with a passion, a flaming ember which not only was often lit into flames; it was often welcomed into flames. Azadrazan Yaforian, of the ruling dynasty of Yafor 2, was no coward, unlike his father. But magnanimous Azadrazan forgave his father, for all that his father had done, was doing, or would do, or rather would forgive his father if the fool man would only take what was his!

Azadrazan ground his teeth together, making music, of some sort. It was a grating noise, one that insulted the ears of all who listened to it. Personally, Azadrazan, the great one he was, had exceptionally sensetive ears, but he could handle that musical maestro part of him for the pleasure of renting his anger. Why was his father like this? Why did his father have this strange, irrational, fear of power? It was not only insane, but also an insult to the entire family.

But Azadrazan would have to tolerate it. Kazedrankhor and him were working slowly, trying to convince "Emperor" Tyranus to these things. But Azadrazan had his goals set in another direction. Tyranus' other son, Zadarain, was still alive, and Azadrazan wanted to change that. He first needed to get his father to his senses and then...and then.

Azadrazan would make his move so silently and so carefully that no one would realize anything had changed...until he sat on the throne of Yafor 2!

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The Court of the Terradatalis, Seonaerd
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The Darakain stared down from his mother-of-pearl throne, at the arrayed group of men who were flat upon their faces. It was forbidden to look upon the bindings of the august leader, unless one was giving information, and none were doing such a thing. Nonetheless, strings of priceless gems and gemstones hung over the enterance to the throne room, and over his face, so none would look upon him.

The Time Of Return was coming. The Starwatchers had told him, showed him the charts, stated the omens, and given the portents precisely and obviously. He knew that they had spoke the truth, for what he knew was always correct, and this time, as always, he felt it inside of him that it was correct. The gods themselves had chosen a time and place, and both of those were here.

Generals stood arrayed in rank and file, their faces pressed on the ground. A smile curved the omnipresent concience of the Darakain. One more The Time Of Return had come and this time The Prophecised Land would not slip out of their grasp!

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The Palace of the High Korut of the Jakalla Faith
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Eklaz was restless. He strode the halls of his palace in no set rhythm, his feet clapping onto the ground in a precise pattern. Every corridor he turned through, every gilt-embossed window which he stared out from, every gaudy, ornate tapestry which his eyes lingered upon for a short moment, he seemed to be resigned about something, though what, it wasn't clear.

The way he walked, it seemed that he was imprisoned. Nay, not in a prison of iron and stone, but in bonds far greater; those of secrecy and distrust. He seemed to be waiting for something, a letter perhaps, or even a pigeon, an old-fashioned form of communication. Any who guessed the latter would be correct.

Panting, a messenger, his face streaming with sweat, his hair slicked down by the same, grabbed Eklaz's shoulder, his hand calloused, evidence of rough work, and tough, like a street brawler might have. Lines of hair covered his hands, such as a man who had never shaved his hands, as indeed few did. A cold grin was on his face as his fingers slammed down onto the High Korut's shoulder.

"Yes?" Eklaz half turned, only to see a knife speeding down towards his head. Twisting to the side, he recieved his second shock. The first he had recovered from fast, but this he did not. He was paralyzed! Someone, or something, and stopped the flow of blood to his neck, paralyzing his entire lower body and isolating his brain. His head shot to the side and the knife instead punctured the empty space between the base of his neck and his collarbone.

Cursing, the man raised his knife again and...something grabbed the man from the back. The would-be assassin fell, his knife falling as well. Eklaz barely had use of his body again when the hilt of the knife smashed into the back of his head. From a vague perscpective, he heard sounds of wrestling, of shouting, of cursing, and then he went blank.

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Official Jakalla Religious Hospital, 3 Days Later
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It had been all over the paper for three days; an assassination attempt on the life of the holiest of the holy; the High Korut of the Jakalla. There were obvious questions that needed to be answered; who had done this? The criminal was no where to be seen and no evidence presented itself. The other was this; why did they not slay the head of the Jakalla Faith? He was on the ground, uncontious.

Controversy roiled as Eklaz sat up in his bed, grinning. One who saw him would wonder; why was he, an almost-assassinated head of a Faith, grinning like a child who had just gained the last piece of the pie? But then again, they did not know that he had recieved news from far away that, after what seemed like ages, the rightful emperor, Tyranus, was at last, preparing to relent.

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Two Days Previously, The Hovel
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Tyranus' eyes were cast down, facing the floor. It was a position which he knew his son believed that he should stay in; a humble, subservent, position of one who was an equal of no other. Tyranus was no coward - he knew that for a fact. There was a difference between cowardice and caution and Azadrazan did not know it. But his son kew few things.

But why did it come to this? Why did families in power break, tear all ties, just because of the rewards that being them were there? Why did his son have to do this, insult, crash down, spurn, and finally, reaching a pinnicle of his drama, stride away in a huff of anger? Why was Azadrazan so blinded in his persuit of power that he ignored his father, his father?

Tyranus buried his head in his hands, pressing down his eyes so that only infinate blackness greeted his sight. What had he failed in, in his raising of his son? He had done all he could, given the little boy only what he needed, yet given him more, thrust him away from the royal court, so that he would not follow the experience of tyrants like Nero and Commodus, who grew up in royalty and yet showed no gift for ruling.

He had catered for that boy, blasted his skin for this boy, given up all he could for this boy - his fruit of the line, his angel, his devil. When Yalakani, his wife, had died, she had told him everything, how to raise the boy, how to live with him around. He had followed those directions to the letter and beyond, gone as far as he could to follow her words and yet...How could it be? She had never been wrong! She couldn't have begun on his deathbed!

Tyranus dug his fingernails, roughly cut and dirty, nothing like the fingerails of an emperor, into his eyebrows. So if the fault had not been his wife's - and she never made mistakes, than the fault had to be his. But he had done all that he could have, regarding his duties and all of what was possible being crown prince. So was it that he was not ready to be emperor? Had his father made the mistake?

But did it matter whose mistake it was. What had happened had happened. Tyranus rubbed his cheeks and took in a strangled breath. It came out harshly, like he was struggling to survive, but why was it so? Were the emotional strength which his reminicences contained enough to do him bodily harm? He took another breath, calmer, more normal. It could not be...it could never be.

His thoughts, already spinning in the past, moved futher back. He recalled his other son, Azadrazan's brother, Zadarain. Zadarain has been worse, by far, than Azadrazan. He was cruel, even as a boy, excercising his powers as the crown princes' crown prince (third in line for emperor) to practice punishments not worthy of men upon animals and servants. Tyranus had tried to stop him, but the boy would no stop. Where he was now, Tyranus had no idea, another responsibility of a father from which he had shirked. He had no idea whether the boy was aliv, dead, missing. But it rarely troubled his mind - it was restless enough for ten men.

As voice behind him made him urn and only then did he realize that he was kneeling. He turned his head to see Azadrazan standing there, straight and tall, a rare sigh for the hunched Azadrazan. An expression of remorse was upon his face and as he approached his father, he was morose. "Yes, father, I miss her too." And, without warning, he collapsed into tears, the wet soaking into Tyranus' cloak.

"Yes, I miss her, but I wish to do what she would have said. She wanted you to be emperor, father, to rule the Yaforites with the benevolence that you would. Honor her memory, father, please!" He continued to cry, like a baby, into his faher's cloak. But the word father had calmed Tyranus' nerves. Azadrazan rarely used it anymore. Now he knew why would go to Yafor 2. He would go to get his son back!

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The Hovel
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The tears had gone long ago. Now he stood, staring at the rickety wooden walls of the hut, his eyes dry, his mouth in no recognizable emotion. It was, in some ways, the calm after the storm, the time after a calamity or realization where one had a blank moment of comprehension, a dull feeling inside the belly of the sufferer. It was not like it mattered to him.

Anger flooded him, a surge, a massive wave, and he growled, cat-like and ferocious, as he stared at the small cracks in the wall. The slats of pine and ash were laid with care - he recalled the pain and courage to find, collect, and craft this very house, his home, his refuge, his hiding place. But none of that mattered now. No, nothing here mattered anymore.

He drew his right fist back and, in a fluid, strong motion, he smashed it into the wall, screaming in anger and pain. Matted blood congealed upon hin knuckles, but he refused to open his palm. Again he drew his fist back, and again the wall shuddered as he roared in blind and consuming fury. Once again he drew his fist back, and this time the walls shook, and clumps of mud splattered down next to him.

Tyranus Yaforian breathed in, then out again, then in once more. His measured breaths were calm, and yet they contained an anger and sadness beyond understanding behind them. It was subtle, not very obvious, and yet to one who either knew Tyranus or was intelligent, curious, and observant enough to figure it out, it was as plain as day.

"FATHER! FA - " Azadrazan's voice reached the secluded room before he did, though at the speed which the other was progressing, it was difficult to grasp the difference in time. "Father, father, what are you doing here? Why is your hand covered with blood?" Azadrazan's voice yielded no sign of concern and it seemed that he had forced out the last sentance.

"Why are you not packing? We are leaving now!" Azadrazan's voice was fillied with anger, now, and he seemed ready to explode in the sheer depth of his anger. He wanted to be gone from here, from this place, from all the memories (which, to him) were terrible.

"Give me a minute, 'Draz." was Tyranus' answer.

OOC:I'll get more posts up by this break..so boo-yah!

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Outside The Hovel
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Azadrazan stared after his father's retreating form, as his father disappeared into the hovel for the last time and, silently, breathed out. It was a sigh of relief, one who exuded the very sadness and despair which Azadrazan felt. The last few days had had a toll on him. Azadrazan was not stone, no matter what he wished to believe, and the very fact that he was vulnerable was a great source of embarressment to him.

He had had to bring up various memories that he didn't wish to bring up, hadn't wished to bring up, and wouldn't ever want to bring up. Certain memories could be dangerous, and not just to the man they were intended to be dangerous towards. Azadrazan hated to bring up his mother, and yet, feared to bring up his mother and for the sae reason both times.

"T'was a brave thing to do, talk about your mother like that." Kazedrankhor's voice entered Azadrazan's contious. So he had been listening the entire time, while Azadrazan had brought up delicate and dangerous topics. That was very much like Kazedrankhor. He was one of the rare few who inspired trust in people, and yet sent them scurrying to their jewelry boxes to make sure that he hadn't stolen anything.

"As if it was any of your business." Azadrazan was not in a good mood, and with him, that automatically meant that he was irritated. Azadrazan was a very irritatble soul, though he preferred it that way. That way, most of the populace would leave his presence, or not even come near, which was how he liked it. Azadrazan loathed the presence of others, whom he considered inferior to him.

"Oh, everything is my business, when I am stuck on an island with you." It sounded much like and offhand comment, but Azadrazan was intelligent enough to glean the sharp side of Kazedrankhor's voice. "'Draz, 'Draz, when will you learn? Knowledge is like any other commodity and can be taken by a skilled theif. You must be careful, 'Draz." Kazedrankhor looked upon Azadrazan as a second son (as he had a son of his blood) but also as a tool to be used, then discarded.

"And how will we leave?" Kazedrankhor asked, innocently, yet the edge had returned to his voice. "By boat, perhaps? Rowing?" His sarcasm was very obvious by the change in the tone of his voice, yet it seemed almost like he was posing a serious question, as to which he required a serious answer.

"Yes." Kazedrankhor's eyebrows jumped up, a gesture of extreme surprise from him. It was a daring, bold. and crazy plan.

OOC:Apologies as to the length of the wait and of the post.

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The Beach
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Massive waves were everywhere, obscuring even the stars overhead. But it was difficult to see the stars nonethless, for huge storn clouds covered the entire realm of the sky, like an unwanted blanket of mist. Thunder rumbled, though in the distance, and occationally, a brutal fok of lightning sped downwards, seeking the easiest way to reach the ground.

It did not seem like an auspicious day to begin a voyage which would take three men, one of whom loathed the idea of actually working, and the other of whom one was a hard worker, who delighted in physical talents, and the other to whom it did not matter whether work was to be done or not, just that there was a good and obvious reason to do so.

The tattered sail had been stored and away and the rickety boat looked more akin a raft every further glance that Tyranus afforded it. Rainwater was already collecting in the bottom of it, despite the fact that it had only been out in the air for less that a minute, and the boards did not looked joined correctly, for it seemed that bilgewater would seep in, no matter what, evn if canvas would be laid down.

Even so, it was a nice bit of handiwork, if Tyranus dared to say so himself. He had made it, of course, for he was the only of the three who had had any skill of making anything. It's faults, he ruefully admitted, were also his fault, though they could be attributted to the intense pressure which his son had placed upon him and, surprisingly enough, to any bystander who happened to venture upon them, the deadline as well. It seemed odd, a son giving a deadline to his father, but they were no ordinary family.

"Tis' wonderful weather to set out, is it not, Tyranus?" Kazedrankhor's sarcastic voice reached Tyranus' ears and he smiled, a small, amused, smile, though nothing near a grin, or even a regular smile. Kazedrankhor sometimes took like as it came, and other times, created parts for himself, but the other's cynical outlook on life afforded others in his area a rare smile or two, especially during times of peril.

"Blame Draz', not me." Tyranus too couldn't help to get in Kazedrankhor's casual blend of the serious anf the foolish. Sometimes Tyranus wished that he would look upon the world as his old friend did, but being Crown Prince and (as his sone hoped for) Future Emperor, had changed him and the way he looked upon everything that passed around and about him.

It seemed that speaking of Azadrazan made him appear, for he son entered their vision, dragging a solitary rucksack full of what Tyranus assumed was food. He looked tired and flecked with sweat, not rain, though it could have as easily been rain, but Tyranus guessed it was not. he other must have actually been working hard, a rare phenomenon, but sometimes the times dictated what one was to do, against one's hopes and dreams. Tyranus was a living testament to that.

The three of them slowly got into the small rowboat and set off on what would become the journey of their lives...

OOC:Cool, I bet no one has read any of this...:)

Far too lazy to make an IC post now, but, as much as I hate doing this...this is a bump (of sorts), mainly just to get this back on my radar. I'll delete this post once I've got the time to write up an IC post.

OOC:And again...hmm..I may have to abandon this, with my lack of time, but, just keeping this alive...

OOC:Getting a post up soon. Just pushing this up so it might be noticed before I reply to it.

OOC:Time to get this back on track!

BIC:

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A Shore, Somewhere, Seonaerd
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Kazedrankhor's eyes slowly fluttered open. He felt constricted, as if something strong was gripping his ribs and pulling, slowly tightening it's grip upon his body. His strength had long since ebbed out of him and he felt, somehow, that he was nearing death. Weariness hung over him like a bleak cloud, covering him and stopping him from doing anything. It was an effort to just open his eyes, let alone move his body.

He saw, then, through of his pain and anger, sand. He was on a beach, thrown up by the tide when their boat had crashed. He felt understanding and memory float back to him. Yes, their boat had been rent in to by a mighty storm of thunder, and he had passed out. He paused his recollections for a moment to curse Azadrazan. It was his fault that they, nay he, was out here, in the middle of wherever-he-was.

So he had made it clear that he was on a beach. The rest of what was still working in his analytical mind suggested that he follow the obvious path and try and figure out just where he was. With what would seem like a minute movement to an observer, but sent shocks running down his back and arms, he raised his head. Then his eyes widened in recognition. He had been on this shore before. He had spent little time on this stretch of land precisely, but what had happened here had stayed with him his entire life. He was on Seonaerd.

He felt for his right arm, feeling it touching the belt which kept together his ragged clothes. He moved it slightly, letting it touch the flask which was attached to his belt, a flask of pure alchohol. He moved his head down, silently uncorked the flask, and, pulling his hand up, took a long drink. He felt strength course through his veins and felt his senses alive and well. He felt, of all things, totally awake.

With his newfound strength, he pushed himself up, letting his senses take in the sights, smells, and sounds of the beach. They confirmed his first hypothesis. He was indeed in Seonaerd and there were few things he could do about it. But he had to find a way. Then he felt a hand clap down on his shoulder, and heard a cold voice. "He's awake. Bind him." And before he could think, nor even look up, he was bound.

Then something, no someone, grabbed him and shoved him forward. Why would the men of Seonaerd treat him so forcefully and brutally, without prevocation or reason? He had only been to Seonaerd once in his life and, as he knew, he had only offended a few in the land itself and he had made sure that they were all dead -

"Hello, Kaze'." echoed a familier voice from somewhere behind him. Filled with frantic panic, Kazedrankhor looked left and right, struggling with his bonds for the first time. A small laugh greeted his sudden burst of energy, a laugh which the Yaforite had heard time and time again in his visit to Seonaerd. But it was impossible! That man was dead! "As you can see, I escaped your little amusements from our last meeting." the voice said mockingly. "But I'm sure we have a lot of catching up to do. Why don't we, in front of the Darakain!" Cold laughter filled the area.

Kazedrankhor hung limply from his bonds. Of all the possibilities, of the countless possibilities of him landing up anywhere in the world, this was the worst.

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A Coast, Somewhere
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Azadrazan felt groggy. The world swam in front of him, twisting and turning before his eyes. He felt his muscles tighten and relax in a strange rhythm, paining every time he attempted to move one of them. He felt a strange, detached numbness on his shoulders and back, freezing them, stopping all of their movements. Pain gripped his limbs, overwhelming his sense of perception, dulling his nerves in such a way that the Earth seemed like a far away place, a place apart, a place, well, of another world.

How had it come to this? Memory gradually floated back to Azadrazan, though in reverse chronological order. He understood where he was and why first, and then began to comprehend it. He remembered the waves, slashing upon him, the whipping winds of the storm, the frantic yelling of his own voice, his struggles with the planks of the boat, his refusal to submit to the power of the elements, he remembered it all. It was not welcome memory, but it was memory nonetheless.

But now came the time to figure out where he was. Azadrazan was young and strong, and hie willpower exceeded what most thought when they looked at him. Despite his buckling muscles and his weakness, he managed to hoist himself up, pushing on an empty piece of driftwood on the beach as a lever (or was that the keel of his ship? He did not know). He felt sweat pour down his skin and only then realized the muggy air and the humidity of his surroundings.

He scanned the beach, a small, ragged patch of sand that insulted the name of "beach", looking for any sign of his father. There was not a human being in sight. For the first time in his life, Azadrazan felt a sadness tinge in his body for the absence of his father. He had always hated that man! Why did love for his family, for the man who had brought him up, strike now, of all times and places? Why did the gods taunt him so?

Azadrazan shook his head and sighed. Perhaps this was a blessing. Perhaps this was a curse. It was still life.

OOC:I had to stop this post half-way and got this...hmm...well, it's not great, but it is something. Oh, well.

OOC:It's that time of year again...my birthday! Yay!

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The High Command, Najastor
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The sun poked its golden-rimmedhead over the spires and houses of Najastor. The city had been founded my Emperor Fareidi IV, close to one and a half thousand years ago to guard the passage of Mared, and the Opal Sea that it lead to. Since then, the city, as had so many of the Yaforite colonies, had flourished. Of course, it was a colony in only the literal sense of the word; it had total self autonomy, and rarely, if ever, paid taxes or dues to Ajer.

The canals of Najastor lazily snaked their way past the paved roads of the city itself. Stone bridges dating back hundreds of years slowly arched their way over the waters. The roads were dark red brick for the most part, with rocks and sticks noticably absent. It was early morning and only a few people strode along the avenues and paths of the city. They were a varied type, from the elderly, who wished only for time to contemplate their lives, to college students, MP3 players blaring in their ears, fancy jogging clothes on their bodies.

This was the center of Najastor, the area from which the great city spread. Gardens were at every intersection and corner, large trees spreading their branches overhead, flowers just beginning to bloom. This was the beating heart of Najastor, the Old City. Nightclubs and bars, hotels and casinos, restraunts and shops, Najastor was famous for these and more. But the Old City had been unchanged for eons. It was, simply, Najastor.

Lights were on in only one building in the area. This was a large brick building, perhaps five, six hundred years old, with a rusty iron gate out in front. An ancient stable was joined to the side, with a recently-replaced wooden door out front. A knocker in the shape of a gargoyle was at the wooden door, which, too, looked newer. A revolving security camera was barely visible above the window sill of a large window, but it gave some idea to the casaul observer that this was no ordinary house.

"It is clear, comrades, that it is time to return." The fat man in a white suit grimaced at his own words. The room itself was long and wide, with a few oak tables and chairs, mismatched, but still functional, completing the image of a lived-in room. A dusty fireplace lay, boarded up, in a corner, with a window boarded up the same way, opposite. Each chair was occupied by a man or woman, each of whom bore a golden pin on their suit or dress. The pin declared two crossed rifles, surmounted by a garland of roses. It was the pin of the High Command.

These people were the spiritual descendants of a long tradition. The Emperor had not had direct control of the military, the predominant organization in the ancient Yaforite culture. Nay, that job had gone to a council of generals an tacticians, all expertly qualified for their jobs, all of whom knew the military inside and out. These people were the same, people who had escaped when the Empire had fallen to the Grand Democratic Duchy. But they were getting a second chance. Someone claiming to be of the royal lineage was offering them their power back.

"We must accept the offer. We will never get another chance in our lifetime." said an emaciated, gaunt, man on the side. He seemed to hold a place of honor among them, being seated at the head of the largest of the tables. Throughout the room, heads bobbed up and down, and the fat man smiled grimly. Others thoughtfully stared off into the distance, but no on spoke a word. The gaunt man assumed a triumphant expression. "With no opposition the movement to - "

Then the word exploded into fire.