NationStates Jolt Archive


Partition of the Empire – A Ceremony for Everyone (Attn. All Nations)

Jenrak
23-05-2006, 02:59
Partition of the Empire – A Ceremony for Everyone (Attn. All Nations)

~~To all Nations who may stumble upon this~~
Much has passed in our time, much has happened in our experiences this past decade. Many civil wars and great vestiges of violence ravage our fair nation, our Gods harsh and unwillingly cruel yet we were able to stand ourselves against their onslaught with contemptuous fervour. In such, something has come to our attention, a shining beacon most cold and yet arm at the same time, an unfamiliarity we feared yet wished – stability, peace, prosperity. For many years Jenrak has suffered through much turmoil, much warring and much violence, but now, at the height of our empire, we are content and happy, well-fed and graceful as the gods have wished of us. And such we extend, as the last children of brave indifferent Ascherach, our hand, to the world. In this meeting, we will discuss all matters beholding of Jenrak – our possible alliances, our readying military and or perhaps to have others meet others, and friendship bonds the end result of our party.

So, for the first time since our existence, Jenrak extends its hands to the world, and gives naught but graceful words in our wish that any nation interested will attend.

Silver starlets and velvet carpets only shine the room with justification, such glory and unmatched undimmed elegance. The large marble hallways fluttered and glimmered with extensive excitement, beautiful rays and stark sunlight. Shining, piercing knives of the wondrous Sun was now bursting through the hot, sandy desert, into the cold hearth of soil beneath, the bricks which lay in deft foundations piled and the cobblestones – so smooth and brisk their design – simpered about like hungry snakes in a field of sandy dunes. Along the thick sands, a green coastline with the waters as far as the eye could see, stretching high above the shattering waves and crackling whitecaps that bloomed and blossomed with bristling effigies that hearkened in the bright rays of sun. Alongside them, gargantuan statues of long lost heroes and tales or lore sprung, erected many centuries ago in honour of their grace, power, or perhaps even both. Each statue, their faces long and grim, did not perhaps see the peace to come in such days, for they now saw their homeland of dunes and sandy wastes turned into a thriving civilization with utmost brilliance.

The Jenrakians were not a violent, brutish people by nature, though many times they have been forced to take up the sword and ready their wits, but not this time – this time the only thing to be taken up was the slick blade of the tongue, the soft damper of ingeniousness and the stable pardoning of mannerism. This would not be the familiar meeting to decide the declaration of a war to engage in, but to decide the control of the Jenrakian empire. Aristocracy moved about in the large social gallery, paintings upon paintings on silver frames and gold laces shown, women cackling and chuckling as their pin-striped husbands stood with their beards neatly trimmed and their bellies rotund and bulbous. Their hands layered in a soft silky white covered, their suits and shoes black and their vests as white as seagulls on a morning dawn on cluttered rocks. Small dashes of hats and adorable canes were at their sides, as their wives had many identical dresses like their husbands.

Draped in a deep velvet like the room’s curtains, though much less shinier and much more softer, the women adorned costume-like clothes of similarity, their hair in tight buns or down in wavy shanks, a multitude of rings laced on their thin, wiry fingers and their smiles showing the many applications of make-up and cream. Arms pale and sometimes freckled lightly, the warm heat made a few carry soft fans as they chuckled and smiled with their fat, groping husbands. It was the corporate side of Jenrak, the side that kept the country in one piece, as they stood with their leader, a thin man unlike his peers. He had a thin, moon shaped beard curving down upon his lips, his hair slicked back gracefully, showing not a single bald spot as his thin and weary face showed wrinkles of labour and age.

He stood firmly, scars and cuts on his face and neck, his hands in white, silky gloves and his suit as black as the starry night or the irises in his eyes. He was taller than the rest, and his frame and excess skin showed that he had lost much weight, that something forced him to submit his plump form to a thin frame. The soft sculpts of an arm showed the evidence of extensive exercise, and the wiry muscles on his fingers made a slight hint he was working out on every part of his body. On him, a golden name was handwritten onto his suit with perfected experience. Drakthaz, it wrote plainly, with nothing more showing. He was the epitome of his representatives, tall and staunch, straight and conservative, his face a grim but monotone stare into the wall.

The room was lit in a golden glow, a large tray of tables showing large and bountiful amounts of food, as the servants walked about elegantly, carrying trays of crouching shrimp, a variety of food was present, as the loud booming from overhead was heard by many. From the other end of the large circular, dome-like room, was the opposite to Drakthaz’s corporatists. From there, the infamous portrayal of Jenrak arose.

At the other end, from the large sharp pillars, immense men in powerful steel armour stood, their swords as massive as the plump corporate men, their arms powerful and rippling beneath the encumbering shields. Tall, strong helmets rose up like crowns of war, only small spaces for eyes and cape-like transformations billowing and gripping amongst them, silky sashes and long twisted robes beneath a robe of blades. A shirt of knives and a glove of thorns was their adornment, nothing more than the battle scarred armour and the crudely painted symbols on their shields. Each one as massive as the last, muscled and brooding large men, they walked around and looked as the greatest of them all, an enormous green beast-like figure, stood with soft-spoken green eyes across his painted green body. He was large, he was a rippling monster of a man, yet he seemed gentle, and fearsome at the same time, a shining sword larger than two men tied to his back, barely high enough to be placed through the even mounted doors that they entered in. Quiet, solemn and etched in heartfelt silence, these men stood there, looking about as the shocked corporatists looked around at Jenrak’s alter-egos, and the ruthlessness of these ‘barbarians’. Walking about, they had much more interesting chatter than their business selves. One of them, a large figure (even by the standards of these immense men) walked to Drakthaz, and they shook hands. Drakthaz could feel the damage of the handshake, his hands in great pain as he was sure his knuckles were being crushed, and his wrists torn apart in the man’s great strength.

As Drakthaz rushed his hands back, he looked. This man was enormous, tall and towering, an azure armour over his body, covering his stature and his helmet covering his face entirely. His large hands in massive gauntlets with spikes protruding from the knuckles, a careful edge of small plates was visible beneath them. Cobbles of stone on parts of the armour in designated places, the paint on his defences seemed to be quite deliberately done, almost ceremonially. A crude ‘S’ with a small dot on the second curve as the symbol splashed in red on his shield, this man carried a rocket launcher safely in one hand. It was sleek and shiny like an onyx jar polished to perfection, and his blade was almost transparent like it was made of glass. A small single emerald was beset in its center, and along the hilt gold ravishes seemed evident.

The man was Authaulus, as carved in Ascheran on his armour, looking down upon Drakthaz, quite literally. He spoke in a deep, gruff voice, yet a thin wave of coherency was evident in his ruggedness. “Hello, Drakthaz.” He simply chortled.

“Lord Authaulus. How goes the campaigns in southern Rithos Ithrimm?” Drakthaz asked the massive Temsplace, a Jenrakian Elite Holy Warrior. “I take it from your lack of presence on the front lines that it was an amiable front, and thus you were not required?”

“It is a good campaign, and the lands of Krejeistan are going to become a welcome addition to the Jenrakian landmass. However, our borders are long and thick, and this ceremony will be indeed a useful prerequisite to keeping stability.”

“Indeed. However, I am curious – why do you wish more land, when you already have much?”

“Much of our land is battlefield land. If such an enemy comes with hands ready, we will beat it back with the stick, and we will do so on the lands of battle, so that our burgeoning people do not suffer under the lacklustre attacks of our foes.”

“Ah, a reasonable and quite noble respond of propaganda from the government. I am not a civilian, Authaulus, I see more, and I see that the people already suffer. What difference is it?”

“More land means more tributes, Drakthaz. More tributes mean more money, and more to spend on the economy and military. Simple, logic, correct?”

“I agree with that logic myself, I guess.”

“We are satisfied?”

“Yes, but I hear the Khrak’Qiziin front is under heavy strain. What are you going to do about it?”

“You sound like a haughty reporter.”

“Amuse me.”

“Well, Drakthaz, I’m intent on employing the Sadicistra to defending that front so we can push through and destroy the barbarians and gain more into Krejeistan. Soon the capital will become Agudhamn, and we shall prosper and they shall love us. Speaking of the Sadicistra, how interesting they arrive now.”

Authaulus turned his head to another part of the room, as a small party much like Authaulus’ Temsplace, but much more sinister. The Sadicistra – they were tall, thin and terrible beasts, their fingernails like knives upon the tips of their fingers and their teeth covered in metal braces and cages that had sharp fang-like ‘teeth’ protruding. Wires ran about their arms and legs, for unknown reasons, their eyes thin and slanted as their soft tongues licked and smacked hungrily as they stared upon the fat corporatists, but they heeded and stood tall and still when their eyes looked at the dangerous Temsplace. Not wishing a confrontation, the Sadicistra in their dress of steel and armour of knives walked slowly forwards to the large green painted Temsplace.

Heading at the front of the party, a tall man in a thin plastic-like suit, his face covered by a sweaty mask shaded in pearl white, his eyes the only slits as the spherical objects loomed and lashed about in wonder. He was not as tall as Authaulus, yet taller than Drakthaz, who was already of a considerable height. No space was at the location his nose was supposed to be, and his mouth was like his followers’ – a seemingly steel girdle of winding fangs and slashing knives for teeth. When he spoke, small wires in the mechanical-like mouth whirred. “Ah, Authaulus.” He said in an icy, high-pitched voice, almost like a winder chill entering as the blood stains were still apparent on his uniform.

“Egos. You are here, I see.”

“Yes, I am. I see you are preoccupied with Drakthaz, however.” Egos said, looking at the corporatist before he walked away.

“Well, apparently the man has left in fear of you, Egos.”

“I have a tendency to do those things. Fear is a good asset to have in a world like this.”

“Likewise.”

“To be noble is the be like you, I see.”

“Egos, Egos, Egos. You do not understand, do you? Your homeland is here, not there. Not across the sea.”

“You misunderstand. It’s officially recognised by your brother, Authaulus. The Four partitions are becoming official tonight. Tonight, at the beginning of this ceremony, the Jenrakian city-states are becoming a single entity, and they will be the home of the Sadicistra. Nakros Ithrimm will be at the forefront of the helm, and the city-states will be mine.”

“You overestimate your boundaries, Egos. Do not forget that you are not a true Tsellian. You are part traitor.”

“I am not a traitor for being curious. For being interested in another idea. It may be foreign, but is that not the quality of the city states of Jenrak? To take all that foreign and turn them into Jenrakian assets?”

“You seem to be deluding yourself extensively to this, have you not?”

“I do what is necessary. I think what is required of me.”

“So you delude yourself?”

“Oh no, I am not Viraranaar.” Egos concluded, wishing off before his long white cape swirled about in a the grace manner is should have.

From the end, a man walked in, his armour on in a black obsidian tint, his body covered in armour, his height fairly average, his build slight but still prominent. A long golden, but torn cape slashed around in quick speeds, as gold lacing was evident around this man, two swords placed on each end of his waist, each shining in blackness. They both looked like large, and long cleavers, stained in blood still prominent, but they had no stench of death incarnate. Standing in the middle, his helmet a large winding crown of golden bones, this looked up to the powerful rays of the sun, as everybody in the room bowed low upon their knees. In a quick snap, they all rose, and fell silent. This was Lord Saerus Annirak, King of Jenrak, brother of the Temsplace.

When Saerus spoke, he talked with great avaricious conviction. He spoke with unquestionable charisma, passionate submission. His voice was the harmonious clatter of a thousand angels, his voice deep but smooth, his tone rough but civilized. His tongue was swift and his words strong.

“My children, my brothers, my sisters, and all that I have forgotten and fail to speak of. Before this ceremony begins, I will now being the partition of the empire. What empire do we speak of? This one. This empire, this contingent of states that we have carved with the blood of our peoples, and the support of many. As such, I am splitting the governments into four, all watched by me, of course. I am entitling Jenrak’s massive empires into four central parts, each ruled by trusted members of my system.” He looked at Drakthaz, who raised his glass in recognition and respect of this man.

“Of course, the corporate sides of Jenrak will still function as they wish, under the careful eye of Lord Drakthaz. May we prosper in your arms, Lord Drakthaz.” Saerus nodded to the man, who bowed lowly and softly.

“I am committing our territories in Sanduras and Hsac to Lord Eraclius, who has failed to arrive at this moment, due to a problem with the wife.” Saerus said, as the others chuckled. A soft chuckle could be heard beneath the King’s helmet as well.

“In return for the stalwart capture of Rithos Ithrimm, and the quick expansion into barbaric Krejeistan, I commit Rithos Ithrimm and any states further south to the Temsplace, led by my dear brother Authaulus.” He said, as Authaulus nodded in respect, his large Temsplace helmet clanging softly.

“And to commemorate their brilliant manoeuvres in foreign lands, I give my respect to Egos, Rashkta and the Sadicistra the city-states of Jenrak. Whether Rashkta will attend, I do not know. However, Jenrakian city-states and overseas cities in Jenrakian care are now servants of the Sadicistra.” Saerus looked around.

“…And now,” He continued, “We mingle.”

All that was needed was the arrival of Rashkta Nirandu, Lord Eraclius and anybody from foreign lands wishing to come. It was nothing more than a mesh of mingling, and it was the first of any social events Jenrak had in it’s life.
Jenrak
23-05-2006, 20:28
*Bump
Jenrak
24-05-2006, 12:14
*I'm sad now...Bump.
Thrashia
24-05-2006, 12:32
*puts a tag and a smiley face on Jenrak*
Jenrak
25-05-2006, 01:38
OOC: A glorified bump.
IC:

Atop the large statue of the immense statue of Enkur, it’s bronze eyes looming and its large massive hands gripping elegantly with utmost strength and prevalence, a large sword at its foot, sticking into the softened hearth of the ground, as a shadow smaller and smoother was glimpsing along its edge. From this, a thick cavern of spears and capes dragged on like a long legion of followers, a blood red robe followed with an equally blood-red knife, a figure of medium height standing in his glooming presence as the statue still leered with utmost precision upon this form. It was glancing in fury, it’s brows crowned upon a throne of anger, it’s eyes still but cold, heartless and without any sign of diminish. Hands large as ever, the metal cape still in midair, frozen in an awe, the giant bronze and gold statue stood, his wing-like armour spreading out in all of his glory. One of Jenrak’s gods, Enkur was unchallenged in his power, standing before a crippling world without contempt or remorse of any kind. It was here, in this room, in this sanctum, this chasm of space upon marble floors, that a small shadow stood, his head bowed lowly as a hood was slowly lifted over his head onto his eyes, his strong chin and sharp lips showing in nothing but shades of red as his eyes, teal green, did not sparkle like his God.

From behind the simple red robe and cover, a golden gauntlet was beheld on his hand, quivering in the light with it’s beautiful, refracting rays, the dancing, shining bobs of perfection prancing around with subtlety. Arms raised up in an arch, this figure silently whispered his ominous speech.

“I hear the breath of wind, I touch nothing but the gift of Gods, nothing but the treasures beheld before me in the simple air. In this air is the blood of a god who gave it to me, and for that I acknowledge his existence and worship him for as long as I breath air, and in the time that I do not, I still thank for the life he has given me, and for the death he has freed me of such suffering. For such I give thanks to Enkur and the great Vizith.”

It was a dark, ghostly shiver this man spoke, not a strong, unchanged voice that stayed steady like Saerus’, but it was coarse, shocking and at many times incoherent. He knew, obviously, there was fear in his mind, and something was about. From his right arm, where his skin laid bare, the soft flesh shown, his pulled a thin knife from his hilt upon his waist, slowly slicing it on the insides of his arm, the red blood carefully dripping out like rubies, red pearls that shimmered in the refracting dance, and with that he felt the warmth of the pain rush through his body, every cell flaring in heat and intensity.

His mind racked and shook and shivered, but he felt the same emotions rush through his body all the way – it was overwhelming, almost like an uncontrollable lust. But he could do nothing in the soft candlelight that was dancing flames merrily with light, the only glow reflected from the highly polished statue. He shook and throbbed, and it could be the soft simmer in his arm, but he knew it probably wasn’t – he had felt pain before, but not such extreme feelings like these. Kneeling down, his right arm bleeding profusely as the drops of precious rubies formed a thin stream on the floor, the pebbles from his shoes like rushing rocks amidst a red creek, the man kneeled down even more and awaited for himself to become unconscious.

From Haasdra, the familiar silver-haired woman walked down the marble halls, the lights brightly flying up as the sun dipped low beyond the horizon, abandoning the world to a lengthy darkness. Rashkta looked upon her pretty face towards the sands that billowed from the window-like openings of her Castle’s immense structure, the space between the tall pillars enough for her to sit down and lean upon, for her to watch. Sighing softly, she took out a small knife and played with it a little, flinging it up and down carefully and quickly, trying not to nick her soft skin when she played around with the dangerous object.

The steel was cold, as was her body, and she had the typical clothing she wore – a white t-shirt followed by a dark navy jacket. Her pants were a pair of maroon jeans, and she wore simple but sparkling earrings on her small ears. Her face was thin, as she had not tasted much criminal flesh, nor drank much rebellious blood, but she was taking a break from the constant ‘undoing’ feasts. For all her beauty, for her silver hair, her sparkling, innocent eyes, her lithe, luscious body and her vibrant, red lips, this woman was Rashkta. She knew of the ceremony happening in Haasdra, a few kilometres away in the large city, but she did not feel the necessity to go. She knew Egos would be there, and she hated that filthy man.

Rashkta was more than a typical woman – she was a Sadicistra. She fed off nothing but the human flesh. She ate her own people, she killed them and consumed their flesh, from finger to toe, not a single part left behind. The bones were then harvested to create ceremonial shields for training Sadicistra, and it was all through her. It was how she was raised – she ate nothing but human flesh, drank nothing but human blood. She had tried ‘civilized’ food before, but had abhorred it, and wondered if she was uncivilized. The peak of the Sadicistra, Rashkta was one of the most powerful figures in Jenrakian government. Her unmatched beauty, her immense cunning and her unbreakable loyalty made her a powerful and easily remembered figure in politics, war and all others.

Still, she had many things that many others did not know, nor did not bother to know about the soft spoken, sadistic side she had and so dearly was fond of. She was still a virgin, at the very least, for someone of her astounding radiance. She had an adopted daughter nobody knew of, though her focus as a parent was not well, and thus she ate her in the middle of the night, to feel the soft penetration against her soft, white teeth. But now was not a time to reminisce. Would she go to the ceremony? Or would she say?