NationStates Jolt Archive

Chapter One: Don't Cry for Me

Her funeral procession was a quiet, lamenting, sorrowful one. Upon the tilled rows of soldiers who stood in perfect block formation, the others in a mass of red columns, it was a damning cold winter day. Snowflakes were already falling down from the clouds with an angelic feeling, for surely the gods themselves were crying and weeping in the roam. Her domain silent, the cobblestone path absurdly smooth, there were little noises of clicks as even the revving of the hearse's car was like a ghost's cackle. On this hill side, amidst this slope of sheer sadness, stood a lone figure, weeping inexistent tears that drifted through the howling wind.

He had deep, glazed emerald eyes his mouth and his chin covered by a scarf, and although no tears ran down his face, a dribble of snot escaped his nostrils, sniffing it back up as if he were some tiny child bawling his eyes out in silence. His hands were cut, his arm in a cast, and his hair, a jet black shade, was hidden in a crown of knives. He shivered slightly, but only because it was an inexplainable experience of utmost pain, not because of the cold. Standing there, he cried in his wraps, his coat swinging and billowing like the tree leaves that only flew in droves now.

Her coffin, a giant slab of finely polished mahogany, bore only a few words to describe this person. Nabre Hsac, wife of Karrak Hsac, Queen of Hsac. Such a woman was to have attracted a large amount of people, a wailing wave of supporters and reporters and diplomats. But Nabre Hsac was not a woman who was politically astounding, nor did she possess some sort of noble lineage or belonged to some ancient, prestigious family. She was a fragile, soft-hearted and indecisive human being who was always kind to those she met, and could not bear to see unhappiness at her own expense. But her attitude did not change the facts; she was weak, both physically and mentally.

From her birthday twenty one years ago, to her marriage to her husband the seemingly indestructible and feared King Karrak, right up to her terrible death, she lived her life in the throngs of a hospital bed. Her only friends were the nurses that come by and chat to her, the doctors that regularly injected antibiotics to ensure that her constantly failing immune system would fight on, and surgeons with falsely distressful looks who would tell her when her next surgery would be. In a year alone, millions of dollars were spent on keeping her alive, and it was all done without her knowledge (for she was a woman, I think, that would object to such an action). She was a woman with no influence to call her own, with looks that did not even pierce the realms of what people called 'average'. There was no special aura about her, no dark secret or untapped potential that she showed. She had no scientific achievement, no strategic skill, no political persuasion, but she was chosen by one of the most powerful Tsellian kings on earth to be his wife. I truly lamented the day that happened.

But, despite no matter how ordinary she truly was, no matter how talentless she seemed, how fragile and frail she grew up to be, and how submissive she acted in an age that so sorely needed powerful women, she held something that manipulated entire nations to be willing to eliminate each other all for her. She held the love of King Karrak, and mine as well. I was not surprised, that at her funeral procession, only a few people came to express their condolences towards the late Queen Nabre.

What sickened me was the large influx of marriage proposals that soon filled Karrak's palace.

OOC: No OOC posts by ANYONE. No exceptions whatsoever. Any questions send me through telegram, and I will respond to them in due time. As such, I expect that this OOC message is the last OOC message I see in this thread.

I began this will with an anecdote of the funeral of Nabre Hsac for only one reason: to express whom she was. I loved her, oh so dearly, and I make no regrets for what I did. I hope that story, my essay of discontent at the outbreak of the war, would not be manufactured into falsehood. But fleeting hopes fly by fast.

I first met her at the age of six, when I broke my leg for trying my brother's skateboard. We lived in the peaceful village of Hsaan, and the military only came for drafting at irregular intervals. There were advantages to being a primarily agricultural based-village; farmers were of utmost importance in the outbreak of war, and Hsac went to war many times. Karrak was only nine, I believe, and his father was a brutal in waging combat as he was. The campaigns against the Jenrakians west of us were unknown in terms of their efficacy, but I apologize for moving from the subject.

Two centers of religious influence existed; a mosque at the bottom of the river delta on the east side, and our Tsellian church upon the plateau that overlooked out sleepy town, a barrier of forests in between. We rarely ventured to the church, for fear of getting lost (during this time, Hsaan did not care much in terms of pathways) in the woods and being eaten by trolls as our mothers warned us, so we were content to worship it from afar. As long we gave our weekly offerings in the town center, prayed twice a day (one after waking up, and one before going to bed), our priest was fine with it. The mosque, on the other hand, seemed to look like paradise incarnate; rows upon rows of roses and lilies danced amidst the lavender scented streams, the sound of rushing water a wonderful trickling noise that could be heard at night if you opened your window. We rarely did, however, as the wind was brutally cold at the night.

I was like what most children were at that age, just getting out of the toddler stage, when your legs seemed to be the most amazing things ever and walking was equivalent to some sort of magical power you possessed: hyperactive. At the age of six, my older brother (peace be upon him now) had a makeshift skateboard, a sort of wheeled plate of wood adopted from the far west. It was incredibly difficult to control, impossible to steer, and I soon looked like a leper with all the scabs that enveloped my body. It was only when I tried to rush through the town hall that I stuck my leg out to try to impress my friends, only to hit a square pillar, and eventually break my leg.

Many people say that it was the shock that was most unpleasant when a part of your body breaks. I disagree; a sharp, painful, uncomfortable experience jolted through my leg, and it felt as if I was going to die at any moment. I tried to stay tough, but eventually tears escaped, I was overcome, and wailed loudly in the town square. Oh, how embarrassing it was for me.

Because our town was small and deeply religious, doctors were rare, and even more so was medical knowledge. We didn't care too much about getting rid of infections nor did we believe alcohol could be used for any other purpose than becoming viable excuses for committing adultery or a tool used in ravaging women (which, for those sole reasons alcohol became unofficially banned in Hsaan). At first, we had thought that my leg would simply get better over time with some rest, but when it turned a violent violet shade, we decided to equate medicine rather than God.

Going to the hospital was no easy feat to accomplish - it was 2 miles away, and traveling by car was still considered a high class luxury. I can affirm this fact: sitting in a buggy with nothing but horse dung and hay near you while your leg is throbbing with pain was a horrendous and scarring experience for a six year old child. Though, as I looked back on it, I thought it fair exchange for what happened next.

Put into the emergency room, my leg was promptly desensitized, cleaned, disinfected (though I wonder on the fact that they possibly just cut out parts of my thighs and hamstrings as I did not remember my leg being so thin, and still is), and slabbed into a plastic cast, though that was the least of my concerns. I didn't know then, but I was afflicted with tuberculosis, and they said it was a terminal issue if I exerted myself. I blame the horse dung, and still do, no matter who argues that you can't contract it from animal feces. While sitting on my bed (with regular periodic intervals when nurses would come and change my sheets, upon which I slowly moved right), I became friends with my hospital-mate.

She was a thin, wide-eyed girl with a pretty smile but messy hair, and her features were fairly plain, but I argue she did not have makeup or any such cleaning agents to rid her of the red fleshy blotches that seemed to be growing up her neck. I first caught her reading, though growing up in such a place I did not pick up the phonetics of language nor its importance that well. Somehow, she had recognized both me and my illiteracy. "I can teach you to read." She offered, trying to smile, her thin skin stretching.

I felt so sorry for her. Her pain was much more than mine, and yet she could find something to smile about. "You don't have to smile." I told her without considering the consequences. "I don't want you to be hurt." I did not understand the significance of those words then, but it was the root of all my successes, my problems, and eventually, the reason why I am writing this.

She dropped her smile immediately, but I knew that deep down she was happy. And that, was how I met Elano Sildra, who was to be later named Nabre Hsac.

The jackboot smashed against the mud, the splash of wet dirt spraying up in droves as the soldiers marched. It was a long journey, and the rumbling of the darkness soon walked itself towards the horrid chortling of a large and vast city without equal; Nakros Settereun. It was a horrid crown of steel and iron, three giant arches at the front like some sort of immense gateway to a frighteningly dense metropolis. Amidst this daylight shine, night-time lights were still visible, the sounds of cars honking in the distance audible like a raving, majestic beast of industrialism.

In Hsac, the capital of Lerra was in utmost political frenzy. Hsac had been at war many times, waging furious battles against those who willingly took up the sword against them, but this time their opponent was an old enemy who soon became their friend; the slave trades between Jenrak and Hsac in the wake of the wars became a strong of friendship, before soon becoming robotics developments and eventually biological weaponry and finally biotechnology. So what was the purpose of the city of Lerra's fnrezy? It was ready for another war, and this time, it would be initiated by Hsac's most powerful and most enlightened of kings: Karrak Hsac, the seemingly benevolent dictator. He ruled with an iron fist wrapped in lace and cloth, his jackboots environmentally friendly and his truncheons made to stun, not kill.

In everything he did, there was a restraint, a sense of dignity to be given to his opponents, no matter what was happening. But this time, he held no mercy. The death of his wife was a lamentable loss, but he did not vent his pain through war; he vented a feeling of vengeance through war. As the armies marched on, he remembered the horrors. Walking to meet his wife, he saw only a somewhat disheveled man in the act of intercourse with her, tears flowing down through her eyes as she silently whimpered and moaned in pain. His fists tightening, he swore to eliminate whoever it was, for before he could act, the man escaped and the hospital staff pinned him down for his violent outrage. She died later on, the diagnosis was due to heart failure and shock.

Oh, how fortuitous of fate that such a man was a leader of the city, but how spiteful of the deities that he be of the dominions amongst the Jenrakians. Although his connection to Miriana Treyuko was rocky, he did hold a respect for the doll-like, monotonous but almost incredibly pragmatic and intelligent leader of the Jenrakian city states. He would eliminate that man through his armies, as all attempts for his head have failed so far. The Jackboot of the Hsac military would rumble on, past the desolate plains that separated Jenrak and Hsac, and cannons and tanks would bear the hellfire to bring towards the unfortunate city that was Nakros Setterun.

As seasons changed, from incredibly hot to mildly hot, we chattered what we could. I found out that Elano's family was a failing business oriented bunch, without much to claim for themselves. Her father was a lawyer who lost all his cases since the beginning of his work, and it caused a lot of grief with her mother, the only successful woman within the family. Her job, however, was less than dignified, and Elano herself sadly expressed sympathy for her father, as the general consensus of her family was the question of whether she truly was her father's biological daughter. In the fitting rows of absent-mindedness, I did the unthinkable. I had gotten out of my bed and walked over to her swiftly, a slight kiss in her forehead as my hand ran through her messy, somewhat smelly hair.

By now, my leg had healed, but I was still unsure on how I was to deal with my tuberculosis, so I was still within the hospital until it was deemed safe for me to breath the fresh, spicy air once more. My actions surprised her, and she smiled back gently, though a little sliver of skin peeled from her neck, a tiny trickle of blood running down. Immediately, I called the nurses, and they patched her up quickly, eying me with a mischievous look. By this time, I was already in the powerful, almighty grasp of puberty, and I could do little to try and ignore the feminine wiles of the opposite sex. Thankfully, the nurses were not that attractive for me to be dominated by my bestial desires, and without visitation from any of my old friends in Hsaan (the visits slowly trickled to a stop, much to my enjoyment, as that afforded me more time with Elano), I had little to take advantage of. I never considered Elano in that form - she was more of a motherly figure to me, as my own mother (although she did an excellent job of raising me and making sure that I was clothed, sheltered, and fed) ignored me sentimentally for the first six years of my life.

As most children, I felt a tiny tugging feeling in my chest but never understood what it was, only the fact that it was uncomfortable. When I met Elano, this feeling dissipated, and I could not have been happier for it gone, as it was replaced with a new feeling; a warmth and protective urge that tugged at me, and although not in words, told me that her life and her general well being was a paramount over mine. However, that feeling returned when I received that her bastard father had done the unthinkable.

When he walked in, he was a thin man, though tall, and he was certainly handsome. Although not cruel, he had an air of uncertainty and indecisiveness that mirrored Elano, foreboding to me some sort of danger he could pose. That was the first, and thankfully, last time I saw of Elano's father, but sadly he left a lasting impression upon me. Walking into the her room, he kneeled down lovingly beside her as she sat upright on her bed, a copy of Uncle Tom's Cabin placed down and closed neatly in her lap. Grasping her hands, he gave a false act of sorrow. "Elano," He said slowly, as if she were mentally deficient (normally one would consider whether he was merely being over dramatic, but a primary account of the scenario would back up that he truly acted as if she was mentally incapable), "I have bad news."

She only smiled slightly, as I frowned and watched her neck carefully. The infection was getting weaker, and her body was slowly building a better immunity against whatever was ailing her, but it was still a long shot away. I continued to play the bystander, and looked on as her only father sold her away. "You're now going to be the bride of Karrak Hsac, my friend's son." He said, in false solemnity. So, he was friends with the king, and he sold his daughter to some aristocratic bastard so his son could be assured he wouldn't die lonely.

Immediately, he got up, and his false bravado gone, he walked out of the hospital. I immediately crept slowly towards her, my hands reaching out to hers, as she pulled away slowly. "I'm somebody else's." She muttered, smiling slightly and painfully, trying to stay calm. "I've been sold off. He said that because of my medical bills, he can't keep me upheld. It's for my own good, he says." She started to smile brighter, laboriously trying to fight back tears that I tried to wipe away. She repelled me gently. "Please, don't. You'll catch it. I'm someone else's." She repeated again, her logic breaking apart, her hands clenching her book weakly.

I didn't know what came over me that second, but when I saw such a scene, I lost all my sanity, my logic, and (most thankfully), my caution. "Don't!" I yelled in the strongest cry I could, which I had thought would summon the staff to see what was going on, but no one came, "Don't push me away!" I urged. The painful feeling I had once lost was now coming back, and it carried an army of it, besieging my heart. "Please, I ask you." My wailing ways returned, and I bawled my eyes out just like I how did before I met her. "Don't smile like this. I don't want to see your fake smiles." I urged.

My linguistic skills primarily came from her, and hers came from the many books she immersed herself in, so our speeches at many times were very formal and linear. "Why are you doing?!" I queried to her in utmost desperation. "You don't have to do this, please!" I urged again. "There are surely other people who want to help you, please!" I took it to the final step. Standing up, as if it did some difference or painted me in a certain heroic way, I stood and loomed above her. My hands grabbed hers; her hands were so warm, and mine were so cold, that she even winced at the feeling. I felt bad, like some sort of villain.

"I promise you." I said with a staunch resolution, "I will become rich and powerful, just like Prince Karrak, and I will take care of you, Elano. I promise on my soul, my life, and everything in between, please!" In this, she smiled.

Weakly, her hands cupped my cheeks, and for the first time, her joy was genuine. "You made a promise, so you have to keep it now. If you keep up your promise, I will give you whatever you want." She tried to smile, though her strength was already spent. I only wanted her to be happy. A week later, I was deemed capable of leaving the hospital, and immediately, I entered into the shabby world of politics.

It would be seven years before I would see her again.

Karrak was born into utmost aristocracy. He was born in a lavish palace amidst the trickling rivers of the Sajikin, though it was a strict and harsh life. Friends were forbidden, his mother was dead a while ago, and the only person he talked to, his father, was the architect to his loneliness. But as his father was overheard arguing, those who are harmed when losing something only exist when they have it. There is no harm in losing nothing. Growing up, he lived purely cloistered lifestyle; his food was to be given to him via the doorway by silent, dexterous servants, the clattering of the cooks in the kitchen audible in the downstairs bakery. He found that they opened their windows every night to feel the breeze of the night wind in the usually hot bakery, and he in return opened his own window above to smell the delicious waft of cinnamon and sugar cane dancing into his bedroom at night. He woke up extra early everyday to ensure his father did not catch him with his window open.

Sometimes, he did not understand whether his father was overly protective or simply forcing him to grow up anti-social. His argument was that friends were delusive, and such they were to be curbed and eliminated. Karrak did not know how to feel. It was only when he hit near his late teens, however, that his father summoned him to his bedroom. As lavish as it was, he did not care about the decorative instances of his father's cold and dark sleeping chamber. Additionally, there were no portraits nor pictures - he never met his mother, and the only decorations were the multitudes of swords and guns throughout the years. Sitting in his chair at his desk, his father had a tiny cup of fresh tea in his hands. "Karrak." He addressed, his tone staunch. "I have arranged a wife for you."

One can only wonder what Karrak was feeling, as his face did not show it. However, deep down, he was excited, elated, enthusiastic. Within his heart, he promised himself that he would do what was necessary to watch over her, to protect her and to take care of her with all his heart and love. At least, it was proposed. But eventually time passed and his father sent him from college to college, in hopes of having him becoming more and more proficient in political science, with no information on where his wife was. All he knew was that she was hospitalized, and that only fueled his sense of duty.

I went from hell to even worse hell, working from the early afternoons to late nights at work, and then five hours later and six cups of coffee fresher, I was at my university lectures. For one who had almost no experience, I had to get in through sheer brilliance and the all-powerful stimulant of currency. My lectures on economics, public speaking and political science went well, and I caught a glimpse of my competition at a time rally in Sensha. Although I didn't speak to him, I didn't enjoy him talking to the other women present. It gave me an uneasy feeling. Nevertheless, I labored on in my work.

Over time, my once dominant then dormant tuberculosis began to flare up for unknown reasons, and multiple doctors speculated that my affliction could be some sort of super-virus that had finally adapted. I didn't feel that great being God's guinea pig for his biological experiments, nor was the almighty Lord kind enough to have given a doctor the wisdom to invent some sort of resistance medicine. Over time, I was reduced to traveling in a wheelchair, but not because my legs were unable to move or paralyzed, but because of my stomach and the medicine, I was forced to do my work on a slant, allowing a smoother transition of food into my intestines. Sitting up straight caused convulsions at regular intervals.

I stayed as up-to-date on political news as possible, and I kept myself in the now how when I could. Jenrak was in the throngs of a civil war, and a prudent, pragmatic yet cold-hearted man, Miriana Treyuko, rose to power as the dominant leader of our religiously fanatical neighbor to the south. I hear stories against the Jenrakians all the time, and sometimes I wonder whether Hsac truly considered the Amalgamate our brothers as previously stated before. It wasn't long before at a political mock debate (upon which Treyuko himself attended as an act of bonding between the two entities), did he offer me a position of power as the leader of a city named Settereun. I saw this as a quick route to fulfilling my promise, and immediately, I rushed over to the hospital, only to find that she was transferred to a hospital in a different city.

The bus route over was slow, and tedious, and there was a little girl who almost had her hand caught in the spokes of my wheelchair, though her mother swiftly pulled her away as if I was some rabid dog. I thanked her promptly for it, and she did not reply, only shuffling out at the next stop. When I had finally reached Berges General hospital and room 25-B, I got up and straddled in with a certain sense of satisfaction. I smiled brightly at the scene.

Elano was the only one in the room, and I locked the door behind him, so as not to disturb our first meeting together in years. Standing by her bed, she looked up and smiled at me, her neck completely healed, her figure still small and giving an ebbing feeling of frailty, but a much more mature feeling emanated from her. I kneeled down at her bed (sadly, much like how her father had done), smiling as I clasped my hands in hers, and she smiled at me widely. Bags were developing under her eyes, but she was otherwise much prettier than before. Her hair, it seemed, was waist length and flowing all over the bed, and her lips became sharp and fiercely red on their own, her nose a cute shade of pink amidst her fleshy cheeks. She had looked like a woman who had not had sleep in a day or so. "Do you remember me?" I queried, as she looked at me for a second, before slowly nodding. I squeezed her hand, and then released it when she winced. "What's wrong?" I asked her.

Her arms were held out, and she beckoned me closer. I shifted myself closer to her, and she wrapped herself around my head. There was no warmth; only a frigid coldness from her body as her muscles were stiff, her body, although seemingly fine, was internally in conflict. "What's wrong?" I asked again, and and she pulled down a scarf, revealing a giant scar upon her neck. I froze up, unable to know what to do, something I regretted all my life.

When she spoke, it was a laborious, painful struggle on her throat, and despite my efforts, she would not sway from speaking, no matter how much I screamed and yelled at her to stop in fear that she would ruin her voice. I, like so many years ago, had expected staff to come in, but once more, it was just us. "Setta." She said fondly, smiling beautifully. "I haven't seen you for so long." She smiled again, as if it were some sort of habit now, kissing my forehead. Her lips were cold. "I hear you on the news a lot. The bills, they go to you now." She was referring to the hospital bills, for I had offered as signatory actions to take them. "You fulfilled your promise. Even so," She kissed again, this time much warmer. "I would have never forgotten you anyways."

I began to cry, and wail, and it seemed every time I talked to her in such importance, my inner sensitivity would always come out of my heart and force me to wail in pain. I grabbed her hand gently, looking at her slim arms. "You're so cold." I said, my hand placed atop her still messy, slightly smelly hair. "Have you been well?" I asked. She stayed silent, and for that period of time, there was an eternity.

"I want to fulfill my promise to you." She said, pulling me in tighter, and with uncanny strength, pulled the rest of my body atop hers. "Thank you so much." She said, smiling dimly, as I looked around at our situation, her hand slowly moving down towards my pants.

"D-Don't." I stuttered violently, unable to know what to do. A woman who wanted what I thought she wanted in her condition was not to believe that kind of give and take, and so I thought of her as delirious. It was an odd struggle, where I could force myself off of her at any moment, but whenever I did, she always winced in pain and I would be unable to bear it. No matter what I said, I could not force her out of it, and she forced herself upon me. Looking back, I still do not know how I should have taken that action, but as to that date, it was to be my first, and to be my last. For those few minutes, she and I were one, and all that suffering in those past years, for me, was worth it for this seeming eternity.

When it was over, she felt colder than ever, and her eyes glazed over in a blank stare, my body throbbing but my heart crying. As I ran across her cheeks with my fingers, felt the emptiness of her heart, she was void of a pulse, a throbbing sign, a living soul. She was gone, and I had wrapped my hands around her body in sorrow, hugging her tightly before from within the smashing of the door, came none other than the fabled Prince Karrak himself.

To this day, I could only imagine what he must have felt, to see his soon-to-be bride (they already even began to change her name from Elano to Nabre) under the weight of a half-naked wrapping his arms around her. Although there may have been room for logical deductions of what has happened if he was particularly cool headed (and I was certain he wasn't), what robbed him of any chance at explanation in my situation was the fact that she was dead. "What the FUCK?!" He yelled loudly, as the staff rushed over, their eyes upon me with accusing stares.

The line of events explained that I was the one who had been raped, as I was the one forced into sexual intercourse, and that she had spent her last bits of strength within such a intensive action, but I, in all my love for her, would not besmirch her name, at whatever the cost. I spoke the words, that in the whole of my life, I have never regretted to this day. "I raped her." I said, with a pompous confidence, an arrogant snicker. Hate me. Hate me! Hate ME! Those thoughts ran through my head. I would make sure that she was the victim, that I was the villain, that everything that was horrible was because of me.

As proof of my love for Elano Sildra, renamed Nabre Hsac, I took the blame for all her suffering, and I barely escape with my my mind, quite literally, intact.

Negotiations were meaningless against the backwards Jenrakians. Miriana Treyuko, in all of his supposed infinite wisdom, denied the head of the disgusting Lord of Settereun from me. I demand vengeance against him for my bride, whom I had so devastatingly seen ravaged before my eyes. I will mobilize the Sand Kings towards my allegiance, and I will show him what true mastery of the Sand is seen as. I will show him that even if I raise my fist in aggression, he will be the aggressor. ~Karrak Hsac

The commanders sat within the Dome of the Seled'Hreck, the massive command center of the Hsac military that lived within the holes and confines of the massive military bases in the gargantuan city of Serradon. It was a deathly sand pit, this city, as the buildings themselves were frequented by rushing sandstorms that smashed hourly, daily, weekly, monthly, and annually against the large city, giving the impression of a post-apocalyptic scene. It looked very much as if some has glassed the entire city over and over and over. Amongst the skeletal bare images of a large series of unfinished skyscrapers, apartments and stores were enclosed in a wrapping protection, though it did little to give the image of a sand-covered city. In the roads, snakes slithered harmlessly as sandwinders twisted left and right, so used to the existence of people that they ignored them outright. In response, the citizens of Serradon did so as well.

Every day, 14 minutes past noon, a raging sand storm would bring bursting gulps of sand amongst its furious gale into the entire city, entire kilometers trapped in the blackness, before another would rip the sand blanket off, allowing them to resume their continued movement and trajectory down towards the banks of the Hela River. Here, because of the harsh conditions of the city, the military training sessions made it extremely brutal for soldiers, but those who pass are the hardiest of the sand. Additionally, Miriana recently expressed desires to talk out this situation in Haasdra. In Haasdra! How impudent!

"I will go." Karrak said furiously, his fingers running through his head, his crown atop his skull glittering and crackling amongst his pillared golden palace half hidden in the sand. "I will speak with Miriana Treyuko, only to delay the inevitable as to paint myself as what I am; the victim of this injustice."

Miriana Treyuko did what he could, his eyes looking at this case with utmost interest and speculation. The woman was insane, the man was sane, the man himself claimed his abstained position upon the situation, and he believed that perhaps the Lord of Settereun was in fact, innocent. Although the circumstances were against him, human beings were logically illogical beings without consideration with their surroundings in the first place. Karrak, his dearest friend, was no different from any other mortal being. He can not claim God.

Sitting down in his chambers, his eyes scanning the paper, his sword dangling at his drawer, his finger making a gentle sound. It was all silent on his front, only the pattering of sand dipping slowly upon his window sill, the chirping of the birds audible in his gardens, the crackling of the hungry hawk high above in the cloudless blue sky laughing at him below. Miriana closed his eyes in silence, waited silently, shifted uneasily, before resuming his normal actions. He couldn't handle it. He had read the first parts of the Lord Settereun's will, and as it went by more and more, he began to have less faith in the man, no matter how well he managed the city. Sighing, Miriana leaned back in his chair, only to find that it did not lean easily at all. "Karrak Hsac." He said, frowning. "Negotiations won't do against you, but I will not hand this man over to you without reason, nor for a reason of a mere human being." He clicked his sheath, icy cold gas dancing wildly from his sheath.

Immediately, the doorbell rang, and he only lifted his head to look at whom would bother him. At the door, a long haired, sharp featured man stood, his front bangs messy and his back hair messier, his with slits for eyes, his mouth a wide, sharp grin with pointy corners, his nose thin, tall and carrying a knife-like bridge. He smiled, as he usually did, papers in his hands as he threw it into Miriana's hands. "Here's the papers you wanted." He said with a doll-like visage.

Miriana thanked him promptly. "Thank you, Geriuusk. I hope I can get Nakros Ishidun's assistance in this endeavor?" He asked. Ishidun Geriuusk only chuckled menacingly, before walking out the room.

Landing in the soft land of Jenrak was a difficult and arduous journey. The sky was a scrape of azure beauty with nothing more than metal picks floating in the sky, steel birds flying gently from place to place, airport to airport with a blank minded line of thought. The airport was bustling, the people chattering loudly, contently, fueling a burning, raging, powerful anger within his stomach as he gripped the tip of his cane roughly and his eyes were flaming with agony and hatred. If only, if only, then he could burn such a hateful city into a fleeting shield of ashes.

Beside him was his behemoth of a bodyguard, a man who was the complete opposite of Hsac idea of strength (which, by all standards, focused highly on a matriarchal society). He was a muscled, powerful wall of flesh that stood well over six feet tall, cloistered in a black wrap of silk of a suit. He had a stern, frowning face with a set of large, dark lips and perpetually overturned eyes upon a button nose, his hair covering much of his face to look like some gigantic caveman in set of crisp business clothing. At his side was a gargantuan axe-like object in plain sight, attracting murmurs and words of discontent from people around him, shielding his king as the escorts, all identical, rowed themselves out in a neat line.

Hsac walked briskly; he was a king in appearance and attitude indeed. Atop his clean, brown hair was a giant golden crown - the metal twisted up at the top like ends of a trident slithering sneakily around his forehead. His face was covered by a long, wondrous silk veil, his eyes revealing he wore some sort of eyeliner upon his eyes, though the rest of his face invisible to give only a shivering stare with a set of opal eyes. His robes were large, elegant, waving, billowing, but even in the wind not a single slice of flesh was shown; gloves, boots, undergarments, all of it covered his skin, and only his stare was visible from his veil. He seemed less like a man and more like a beast, and although he was short of stature compared to others, he nevertheless loomed in presence in exponential difference against others.

Any self-respecting theologian would be appropriately familiar with the famous Tsellian script story of when the god Ciranaar appeared to Arnalia Sethronne, the bastard child of Neledgra Sethronne in a dream and subsequently murdered the poor being in pure slumber. Although professors all over the world always try to analyze what religious significance it bore (since historically, it was quite inaccurate), the priests and lords of Jenrak stood by the same sort of philosophy: stay to yourself, and should you dwell too much into the realm of the homeland you will only bring harm to yourself. As vague as this message was, it could not be refuted. It was the same thing here.

At the end of the 1970's, Jenrak emerged as nothing more than a poor, backwater nation with nothing to call its own than the destitute, desolate and nomadic tribes that wandered endlessly. It was not to be called a developing nation, as such a word would put shame to other developing nation. However, within its throngs, the aristocracy kept power still, and that was through the all mighty invisible (and sometimes inexistent) fist of religion. The Tsellian faith preached the dominance of a few over the many, the testing of suffering for the willingness to paradise, and all the normal jargon that came with religion. Faith itself was a brisk of power that danced all over the lands, and people seldom questioned its iron tongue. So began the control of the masses through the strength of the book, as many enlightened bastards around the world addressed them as.

When people talk about third world, or undeveloped, or developing, they speak through gross capita, through nationwide debt, through the use of fancy words and abbreviations such as GDP or equated standard of living. Tourists and missionaries who come to such countries live there temporarily, with an army of reporters and cameramen along with them, backup units to bring them to the idyllic comfort of their own homes when they are unable to live the hard life. What people don't see or understand is that in a world of physical suffering, spiritual comfort is the only way out. And that is how the Ascheran continent became dominant in terms of religion in unity. Widespread deprivation became widespread fanaticism. And that was how Hsac became subservient to the Jenrakian continent.

Haasdra was the religious center of the Tsellian world (which was quite a large world, in fact), and Karrak, a Tsellian himself, had to pay respects to those around him. Not a single army dared to desecrate a single slit of concrete within the city, for there is nothing to stop the fastidious that awaited to pull their fingers. As Miriana approached Karrak, he nodded promptly. For a country to send their King, one must meet proper etiquette with equally important etiquette. A king must meet a king, a diplomat must meet a diplomat, and so forth. There would be none other way to have it. "Karrak Hsac, king of Hsac. 24th holder of the Hsac bloodline. I am honored to meet you." Miriana spoke softly, gently, and politely.

"Thank you." Karrak only replied briefly. "I have only one issue to discuss with you."

What makes a king? Is it his lineage? Is it his clothing? His armies? His subordinates? His wife? His treatment towards the people? Because Miriana Treyuko the king of Jenrak, gained power through none of those things. An odd man he was, to have ascertained a position of utmost capability in a manner of years, to be the head of one of the largest financially powerful empires on the face of the planet. While military-wise they were weak and tiny in armies, they made up for it in their unbelievable wealth. For every nation they fought, they would have rather bought their enemies into surrender. So, why such cowardice to be accepted? Why did Miriana Treyuko, a man without nobility, a man without the look of a king, hold the position as so? One can only look at the hypocrisy of Karrak's actions as a king himself who wedded a common woman, but one digresses.

He stood there, Karrak, the king, his eyes fixated upon the zombie-like figure of this doll man (as many within the lands of Hsac tend to view him as for his pale and silvery white complexion), his fingers tapping on his sword gently, as not a sign of the desire to strike a blow, but rather impetuous impatience that was not befitting of a king. He was not in Hsac, and he had no need to follow any proper ceremonial preceding. In this summit for two, only he would have the dominant say; Miriana held no power the state of the other cities, and he knew it.

Jenrak's city state system would allow him to properly justify an attack on Nakros Settereun, but first to acquiesce the insurance that no retaliation would come in the terms of 'economic restructuring' and 'financial enforcement', or however pretty words one loved to dress up a retaliatory strike with. Most of the time children in history books decades on would snicker and laugh or giggle and cough up in amusement at how ridiculous the words sounded back then, or how idiotic such ideas were. Many teenage military tactician wanna-bes who have played too many strategy games will naively comment on how idiotic diplomacy was, or how the move would obviously be the spark of some catastrophic war that people would later speak of 'moderation' or 'foresight'. No, they were all naive. No such thing as moderation existed in the extremes, and foresight itself was cloudy at best, where events with no prediction would occur, and those whom would predict those events with no prediction to occur would not have predicted that the reasonable would occur. War, at most, only allowed a sliver of moderation. This was not a moderate war.

Years ago, Karrak had visited Nabre once. She was not the prettiest of women, nor did she act with some sort of wondrous ability, some incredible formality nor did she carry any particular physical strength. She was, first and foremost, a plain and simple woman, with average intelligence, thought it was obviously into the above average section with her tenacious desire to consume knowledge at astounding rates. Much of that was lost in her memory losses, and she frequently began to forget bit by bit. It took Karrak a few times to address himself to her and have her remember. Still, he smiled.

When he first met her, only a question was asked; "Dear lady," Karrak proposed, his speech soft and gentle, his usually rough and rowdy voice turning in a smooth strumpet of noise (as many in his nation have learned to do with utmost proficiency), "will you be so kind to honor this man with a hand in marriage?" Karrak asked, without a smile - such a smile during such a solemn moment would only induce idiocy. Her reply was, shockingly, expected.

"Who are you?" She asked, "What did you need?" She smiled briskly, as Karrak smiled back softly, not a wide grin, but one of content.

"Dear lady," He repeated, "will you be so kind to honor this man with a hand in marriage?" He asked again, patiently, the quietness so powerful that every tick on the clock on the wall was a banging of the noise of cannons roaring in the very room.

Four times that day, Karrak proposed to Nabre, and for the first three times, she had forgotten immediately who he was. Karrak did not kiss her, nor did he hug her or have any form of physical contact with his soon-to-be bride. When she remembers him, surely, is the day she would love him. For he would go to any length to see her smile for him; to see the first woman he met, and who treated him so kindly, to be happy to be with him.

But now, in such this present day, what about him? How would justice be enacted for him? Those claim that it was a tragic loss, but many of them even said nothing, or even a 'good riddance' at the death of the first person, and woman, to have entered Karrak's life. How was he to retain his humanity? His sanity? His logic? He was a normal, everyday man, a regular ordinary person with extraordinary control over the nation. And as every man would burst into a riotous outrage and immediately start a fistfight should one berate his beloved wife (and dead one, to make it worse), Karrak would have the same weakness. Except his fistfights always meant death for those who spoke so harshly, and they were much less like fistfights than public executions or black cars that roared into homes menacingly in the night.

But still, others condemn him. Democracies around the world threaten him that they would act against him for his crude, barbaric, violent ways, and what did not burn his hatred for the other nations that attacked him verbally was their threat of military force. Whom is the one at fault?! The question would rattle his mind. Wake up from your world, and consider your circumstances. Whom is to judge what domain is not theirs?! Karrak would have vengeance.

I will always remember Nabre Hsac by the hospital upon which I met her. When I was a runaway, I returned briefly to my hometown in Hsac, but I had rather wished not. My parents died in a coal fire almost eight years prior to my return, my brother shot in a campaign far off against some unknown foreign power, and many of my former friends (not that I had many, but a close knit of them that I truly adored in company) did not recognize me. They did not believe that the once thin, scraggly and weak boy whom had wailed in the town square would later grow up to become what many magazines would rate as one of the handsomest political figures on the planet (and although I do thank the wonderful staff for considering me as such, I asked them to stop as it only bears an arrogant attitude, where in return they applauded me for my apparent modesty). Many of them were shocked, and one Cynthia Telal was certainly keen on trying to get in a relationship with me. How I missed the town of old, for now it numbered in a healthy 5,000 or so, where only a quarter existed before. A few faces and houses were erected I did not know, and now cobblestone pathways existed where it was merely the smashing of horse hooves for roads.

Within the still deep forest, there still existed the Tsellian church that loomed like some sort of malicious castle upon a sleepy village sort of scenery, and upon the lowered riverbanks was the mosque, still as bright and beautiful and colorful as ever, and it reminded me of her. Such a wondrous person she was, I had said to myself, before taking the trek through the forest towards the Tsellian church. Of course, I never ran into trolls, or gremlins, or goblins, or cannibals, or demons, or none of that which we were taught many, many years ago, but it did have the occasional fox scouting about, but they did nothing but flee upon sight. When I had finally reached the clearing of the church, it was a much larger entity than I had anticipated.

Row upon row of pillars not visible from the town lined the flowery courtyard, as effigies of crystal-shaped towers rose up in a powerful roaring awe. The windows were slanted, shiny, and only in black and white, without any form of color within their dark and moody but sophisticated architecture (as the Jenrakians, I finally found out, were quite atrocious at practical architecture, but quite skilled at making them unique or beautiful). This structure was no different.

When I had met the priest inside, he was a young (at least, he seemed to me), scholarly fellow, with a large draping coat upon his back and he loved to sit in an upright position, the smell of incense wafting out from his coat as a candle was held ceremonially in his hand gently, a wax trail laid out so gently that the floor was covered in a thin layer warm ice. I stood there, unwilling to trip, as I bowed twice in prayer. How long has it been since I have began neglecting to pray in proper service? I did not know.

Sitting down, I smiled at him and paid the normal donations towards the end of the seats, before he smiled back and offered to me a candy. I shook my head, before he sat down as well, sensing my distress, I must guess. "What's wrong?" He asked informally, without any religious connotations or formal tone in his voice. I was quite taken aback. I had never heard a Tsellian priest talk, but they were usually labeled as highly formal and cryptic, so this man, I believed, must have been a poor representation of his occupation and co-workers around the world. I only sighed.

It took quite a hours to properly explain the story, and many times I had to return to the beginning to clarify the many facts he did not understand. It was then, at the ending of the story, he gripped his chin in wonder and deep thought. I didn't do so in fear of looking like a fool, so I merely waited, tapping my finger impatiently for his reply.

"What's done is done." He told me frankly. "Ciranaar praises those who are genuinely good of heart to be worthy of salvation, and you cannot force yourself to be good of heart. You are either born good, or born bad, and with every rebirth your incarnation washes away the evils of your previous life. Don't worry, dear friend," He addressed me as dear friend, for Tsellian theologian rules could not allow a priest to address a Tsellian for any reasons on a personal basis, for reasons unknown, "what you do is truly up to you. But know that there is no victory in cowardice, and what you do is what you will be taking on for the next life. You must negate your evil actions and your guilt by taking up enough action to help those around you. Remember, if you feel guilty about something, it means one has wronged you in some way, and that someone may not be saved. But if you discard your guilt, you will only make yourself unable to feel as it repeats. So, live what life you have left, that is all I have to say."

I had wished he had never given me those kind words, for I was already to have let my body drop at the hangman's gallows.

They say that accidents happen. They do. The term ‘accident’ implies that it could not be prevented. In all fairness, I cannot be avoided, for what happens, happens. Fate is all the more powerful, with nothing in its way to contest against it, so I can only say that accidents and the peoples responsible do not have to be blamed. How would I call the death of Nabre Hsac an accident? That no one is at fault, that it could not be prevented? No, I could not stomach the term in such a case, and thus my hypocrisy shows its face in such a time. Was Nabre Hsac such a woman to have been swooned by the inevitabilities of fate? That I to be sucked into the affair of the bestial, primal foe that was the unstoppable force of destiny? He was a dangerous foe to contend with, and many times I was unsure on how I would pull through in my attempts to finalize the actions that I have done to ensure that Nabre Hsac would remain mine. But fate was not a soft lover, and he showed himself in the form of a handsome young man with a golden smile upon his visage, and he led an army under the nation called Jenrak, which now mine own army marches towards with impunity. There is no accident in my attack, for it was inevitable. Nothing can be changed, for we are preordained, and I am within my righteous desire to exact vengeance against those who wronged the sanctities of my precious.

Is this unfair? Heavens no. I feel nothing wrong with crushing the skulls of those who wronged me, for wronging them only brings along equilibrium within the sepulchre’s vial that is life.

Karrak stood there, looking at Miriana, his eyes condensed, his stare convoluted, his mouth ready to lash out as many insults as he could. But he kept his calm, his posture, and waited for his opponent to make the first move. Standing there silently, almost obediently to the stare of others around him, it was already a competition of quietness as the two leaders stared at each other, and Karrak did nothing of the sort to break the silence. He only stood, his fingers tapping gently against his legs in stark impatience.

What was the constituency of one's capability? Is it the past records of his actions? His willingness to do these things? His desire to do them for, and with what intent? What drives men to commit atrocities, but also what would drive them bring about their own derivative of heroic proportions? What makes up the competency of one such person? No one knows. But Miriana, in all his planning and thoughts and philosophy and capability, knows something very interesting. He knew everything about his opponent, the man whom he was called the Golden Viper of the Sand. No one deserved that title, save from him and him alone. Miriana was impressed with one to deserve it at such a young age.

"Karrak of Hsac." Miriana said, getting into his car, as Karrak would follow suit, "I did not properly outline what details I require within this negotiation. I will specify what I hope to achieve. Firstly, the existence of a living and intact Lord Settereun. Secondly, a formal apology for recent movements within Jenrakian territory without consent of any of the Council of Nine, and the additional act of repaying for loss funds within this diplomatic council. I believe the terms are equal and fair for the grief you put me through."

"What grief? Does this grief that you have been put under equate to the grief that I have felt at the sight my one and only wife to be ravaged by the disgusting vicissitudes of that vile man you call a Lord? No such Lords seek sensual pleasures with the women of others within my noble nation, dear Treyuko. Do not make your commoner blood boil and reach such disgusting heights that you make a fool of yourself. My jackboot marches and my truncheon has not smelt the stench of gunpowder in many years. My mind grows weary and my thoughts are unraveling, but my tenacity and my ferocity, I say, does not waver, especially when this time is coming." Hsac roared distastefully, spit flying from his mouth as he wrapped up his face with onyx wraps as his crown was softly covered in silk.

"I come here with moderation, in hopes that the fair and human thing, the trade of one life for another, would be welcomed most harmoniously by the one who controls the hound who takes my deer. However, I come to this blasted sand-pit of a nation, only to find that my dear neighbor does not love my words as much as he wishes to hide his hound from danger. So, I warn you, dearest Miriana Treyuko, do not force me to take righteous action and force this fist of mine to crush all that you believe is logical." Hsac threatened, the roaring of the car they were in loud, but nevertheless low enough for them to sink themselves in their thoughts.

Outside of Settereun, the Hsac army mobilizes; legion upon legion of troops prepare for the strike, artillery geared up as cannons upon the tanks were steaming with test fire. large clouds of black smoke drift softly in gaze upon the horizon, the sky a dreamy sheet of gasoline and distorted clouds torn apart by the bombers and choppers that rip through the sky, their rotors rumbling and grumbling with hunger for war. Cargo trucks rushed from rally point to rally point, a spider web of chaos and destruction awaiting to snatch the unlucky amidst the city walls. There was no silence before the storm, just a quick flash of light before the roaring would escalate.

"The term commoner only applies to the power hierarchy within domain. Make note, wise Hsac, that when you leave the domain of your kingdom and your source of power, and enter into mine, a place with no such delusions, you are nothing more than a commoner here. You are a diplomatic emissary representing nothing but yourself, and your matter is nothing more than your own trivial anger, and for that, you hold in value nothing more than your own being, and that makes you no more than a man who begs for forgiveness for a crime he has not committed. But, you have committed a crime, have you not? You have committed the crime of idiocy." Miriana closed his eyes in succinct silence, his fingers tapping on his cheek.

"Your deductive skills are novice at best, your intuition brutally simple at its zenith. You have not taken in any other situations, allowing yourself to be easily misunderstood by the brief image you see before you. Have you ever considered for a second that why my Lord should be in your domains? I highly doubt that he was in your domain for one woman, and if not, then why her? It makes no logical sense for him to be there. However, unless there was some sort of connection between the two. Given records, it's unlikely they were family, and then yet again, I distinctly remember him being one of your brethren, born in your domain?"

"And what about this woman of yours? About her? She was hospitalized, was she not? Yes, I know very well the circumstances around her, very, very, very well. I always make a note to look into the past of those who are involved. I know you have graduated at the bottom of your classes at your academies, but your father manipulated the system to ensure that you had the highest credentials. I also know that you, despite have the claim of being an honest, pure, being, lost your virginity at the age of fifteen, and with a house servant, nonetheless. A problem child, aren't you?" Miriana asked back. "There is nothing that cannot be explained. This man you are wanting the head of, and this woman you adored so much, both have histories together, and what is to say that she loved you in the first place? A marriage arranged between two fathers, accepted by one child, no response from another? When on the other hand, two children growing up together, harboring feelings so strong for each other, being there for each other, and now what is to say that as her final act she was to give herself to him in her entirety?"

"Have you ever considered that your dear bride-to-be never loved you at all? That she was forced into your adoration by nothing more than fate's own vicissitudes? Do not use big words on me, Hsac. You seek nothing but your own doom if it should be a battle of logic and words." Miriana snapped back, though with much eloquence.

"I have heard rumors of the famous serpent of Jenrak, where his tongue is much swifter than his bite, and where his lips spout forth such terrible verbal diarrhea that his verbose disease causes such a deathly disease none can compare. Well, perhaps they are right, or perhaps they are wrong. I have come to the conclusion that I am quarreling with nothing more than a child here, as I have nothing else to say to such a disgusting fiendish monster who calls himself a politician. Make savvy your words, Miriana, before I rip your tongue out to make yourself no longer a snake before a worm."

Hsac frowned. "There is no land for the forgotten men. When you expire, if you are remembered, it is the greatest honor for one to ascertain, for one to acquire. You to be remembered is the only place that can exist, for you will be kept amongst others as a vessel of greatness in either demons or benevolence. Which side in such a detestable conflict do you choose, Miriana? Do you wish to expire now, and hear the cannons roar in your thunderous demise? Or will you live and exist in the shadows of history, to be known as the one who did nothing? For I can warn you now, when I am your opponent, I will take whatever measures needed to ensure your downfall. Can you guarantee the same thing, Miriana Treyuko?" Hsac smiled maliciously at him.

"If you seek to goad me into villainy, then you have succeeded." Miriana replied with an intensely hateful stare, his hand clutching his sword's handle tightly as the blade clattered in the sheath with a bloodthirsty ring. "There's a difference between you and I, Hsac." Miriana spoke calmly, his arms crossed with a blatant discontent at his presence. "The difference is that there is a marginal stability on the insight of political activity. You fail to see that difference, and that microscopic property is what makes all things work and fall. Because you have failed to recognize the microscopic properties that make things, especially leaders, you have become a failure of a man as well." He stared back.

"Make no mistake, Hsac." Miriana warned him instantly. "I do not approve of your actions in the mobilization of the Sand Kings upon the city of Settereun. If the greatest Lord of the Dunes wishes to take his head, he may try, but the wolves of the Wastelands will not allow one of their clan to be humiliated before the eyes of the world." He took a cup of tea, and sipped it gently as the rumbling of the limousine was heard and the liquid slipped gently. It gave off an elegant odor. "The clan moves even now, as I talk to you, the most worthless of men, and the fist of Enkur prepares itself to smash upon your termites. I will also make another claim that is not to be mistaken." He pointed at Hsac. "You are responsible for your wife's death, through and through."

There wasn't a single second of rage or fury that throbbed through his mind, that tore through his soul. Rather, it was an accumulation of discontent that boiled in silence. Hsac took out his phone, and typing into it, every beep spelling an ominous doom, he placed it up to his ear and waited for the dull ring. "Zakrash." He said with an angry, commanding voice. "Dkhai sennai (Continue it)." With that, Hsac placed his phone back into his pocket, and knocked on the window in the car. "I want to go home." He demanded.

At Settereun, on the highways leading into the city's stone walls, tanks rushed the plains as the dunes sprayed up volleys of sandstorms, yellow cyclones ripping and roaring in the howling noon wind. The sky was black with ash and smoke and fumes, and the drums of war were complimented by the rhythmic beating of the jackboot. Soldiers, numbering in the hundreds of thousands, left behind decimation as their camps moved from rally point to point, garbage and dirt and debris and human waste of all kinds trailing in their wake. It was an ant army with guns, a locusts' swarm with knives, and the thickets of the inky blackness they represented were like plagues that swept through the terrain. But it was not the worst of the things that were to set fire to Settereun. Cargo trucks, shaped like smoky blue fire trucks, were carrying parts and pieces of massive cannons and gargantuan platforms, entire battery loads and human-sized shells tucked under the arms of four men at once. They carried along the trail, leaving behind a deeply embedded line to show their weight, and the sky blackened in the heat of the sun.

Camps, a slum-like visage outside its walls, Settereun was beset by an enormous army that made little covert to its operation - it was blatantly obvious what it was here to do, and so speedily they did it, that within four hours of deployment of their forces, the first Gigacannons pounded shells high into the sky, where the looming and dropping and screaming of the lobbing was heard. Higher, higher, higher, and even so, much higher! That was how it moved, arcing up into the blackening blue towards the shine of the sun, and the three black circles drifting in the sky that were as if they the moon. And then it happened. Instantly, they burst into shrapnel like pieces, raining down a cloud of metal and steel and gas and flames. Screaming was heard throughout the city, and tiny fires began to emit cackling apparitions of smoke far off for the eyes to see. The Gigacannons roared again, preparing for another burst.

The attack was expected, but it's timing was sorely out of the realm of thought. It was to be another week or so before the Lords of the Sands were to strike upon the city, and the makeshift militia that formed from the bosom of the core armies of Settereun were barely able to escort and siphon the civilians to safety, let alone combat an enemy that dared not to enter the city themselves. For hours in the initial bombardment, metallic shrapnel rained down like gargantuan needles from the sky, and even though they could see them coming down and where they were landing, they dared not to take their eyes up, in fear of going blind in the downpour. The Hsac military was not to be trifled with so lightly - every few minutes another blast, another volley, with sheer speed and tenacity and coordination and accuracy, and every single minute for eight straight hours the roaring of their cannons echoed through the canyon valleys. There was no fire to rain down, only steel, and soon enough when the rapture subsided the city was a needle bed of steel and lead.

Corpses were lined along the roads, all of them women, men and children, trying to flee as even soldiers, most of them not even dead yet, groaned and cried in pain. They tried to get themselves up to gear, trying to forget their woes and sorrows, and to try and go push on and on and on, and further and further they pressed into the heart of the courtyards of the Lord, where Settereun himself had tried to tended. Even his domains were not immune to the rain - here and there were large knife-shaped shards of steel erected from the burgundy dirt. There were no flames to prevent the spread of disease, as plagues of infestation began to manifest.

"I understand." Miriana said, as the car turned around. Meanwhile, within the Necromarnen, the mobilization commenced. The Temsplace roared and cheered, as the Sadicistra howled in the thickset of their bloodlust and hunger. Their claws and guns readied for the battle, their truncheons ever so thirsty for the pain of others. They were to fight the jackboot of the sands, and they, beasts and wolves of the wastelands, were to be put into the ravenous pits of the vipers to test survival against them. Settereun was their den, and as their den, they had to defend it. From the podiums of the war domes, the Temsplace Lords stood in commanding silence as the soldiers watched and looked onwards. Quiet. Bare. Noiseless. Those were what fit the dome, and the atmosphere was no less than the tensest of feelings.

"To impose your rights and limitations upon others is the worse thing a man can do." The Temsplace Lord shouted, his back flowing with banners, his face covered by his tall and elaborate helm, his eyes dark and hidden in the shadows of his armour, as his body - like all Temsplace bodies - rippled with muscle and steel. He carried his gargantuan sword on his back, and his javelin by his waist, and he looked at the Sadicistra and his fellow Temsplace with a sense of duty. "We have seen the damage done when cultures conflict. When things of the differing metaphysical manifestations come to bear violent fruit, we must pluck out the seeds of this horrific action. And I pose a question, to you, my brothers and sisters within the holy helms of this legion, sent forth by our Lord Miriana, what is the correct method to eliminating the rotten fruits of the world?" He yelled, as they roared and clamoured back with a wild and passionate outburst.

"Speak loudly! I hear naught but whispers!" The Temsplace Lord yelled.

"Smash them!" They cried back at him, in response to his words. "Smash them! Smash them! Smash them!" They cried in unison, the building angst echoing into the brightening chain of fervent excitement.

"Nay!" He cried. "We do more than to smash them! We will light them up in a brink of flame, and we will do all short of annihilation. They are the Ackdruai, and as the Ackdruai, we will treat them as such! All of us, members of the 96 children of the Jenrakian Amalgamate, we march to war, to feast upon the torments of our enemies, and to smash their bodies, minds and souls into nothing more than the thinnest of manifests! In the name of Miriana Treyuko, we will pass righteous judgment against the heresy of the whoreson Hsac. No Lords of Sand scares us, the children of the wastes. Bring forth our desolation to them!" He cried, as the armies cried with him.

And so that was how the war of the Lords of the Sand, began.

While the roaring of the Temsplaces were heard within the far off conjuncts of the Jenrakian wastelands, the sands were booming with their own valiant echoes. Within the Council of the Fourteen, Hsac tried desperately to appeal to the Lords of the Sands to unite assist him in his righteous endeavor. "As children of the same land, we have a certain duty to uphold and continue." He began, his hand movements exaggerated but scarily effective. "Kings and Queens have been born in our realm, our great home, but now! Now exists the time of destruction and reckoning and doom and horror!" He continued trying to push them onwards to war. They looked at him, their uniforms the same, their veils the same, their figures the same, all covered, like him, in a dark shadowy blackness. But they, unlike him, had no crowns upon their heads, and for that, they were jealous. They didn't want to go to war to increase Hsac's power - they wanted him to fall against the war machines.

"Know the circumstances, my brothers. The curs of the southeast comes towards us, and from far up in the north the Sandurians mobilize to their master's defense. We fight a slave army that seeks to undo our very existence, and as such, in our initiative, we must make them see and fear what is our intent and resolute decision. I, upon the behalf of my people, force a fear into our enemies for us to be great!" He argued, as they murmured amongst themselves. It was never a good sign.

"Know that the Jenrakians are very brutal and relentless in their warmongering. Miriana may be an economist and a manager at most, but he has displayed little temperament for enemies when he is forced to do it. The Fourteen Lords decide that we should withdraw our support for a war that is blatantly our initiative. We cannot risk a war against the Sandurian empire to the North, nor can we risk angering the Amalgamate to the south. Both of them are under the throngs of Miriana, for he controls the Tsellian faith in that fortress of a city he calls The Haasdra, and we cannot, no matter how much is put in to assist you, our Lord, risk a two front clash against them." They argued, as Hsac frowned and spat upon the ground, silencing them. It was disgraceful Hsac tradition to spit upon such holy ground.

"Then, I, as King of Hsac, hereby claim the lack of existence of the Fourteen, and all your effects are mine to make effective. Immediately, I am the sole decision maker within this war. This Council is dismissed. Permanently." With that, Hsac strolled out.

As the world's largest and most reliable supplier of chemical and biological weaponry and medical supplies, the Jenrakians were well on their way to starting a drawn out war. Their medics were some of the best in the world, and their health care programs, while costly and only to the privileged, worked with a superhuman efficiency and accuracy. None could contest them in that regard. And so, it was through that reputation, that the Jenrakians had grown impatient with the Hsac, with their powerful neighbors to the north. Miriana, alone, would challenge the entire Hsac military, but he would fight a war of prudence and numbers, not the war of passion that he believed Hsac would expect them to fight. As such, when thousands of Lancer tanks and hundreds of choppers sped through the dunes, racing to their capital of Horsingra, the Jenrakian military would strike instantly at their heart, and leave Settereun to a later date.

A second group, funded by Nakros Eimunn and Nakros Argos, would be lauching a defensive group that would defend the city until the enemy capital could be taken. Miriana, in a collaboration with his generals, planned it out in utmost detail. "The best place to strike is not the enemy that comes to us, but to take the heart of the empire." He argued. "Right now Hsac is likely wanting to fight us with all his might, but luckily through our exercises we may have convinced the Fourteen to reconsider their decision to support their king, as given by the meager force presented." Miriana thought, looking at the city. "But I know Hsac, and from our conversation, he's irrational and jumps the gun. Tell me, what powers do the Kings in the Hsac sands have?"

"Nearly anything. It's an absolute power monarchy, so he could override anything." The General spoke, as Miriana smiled. "What is it?" He asked him.

"So, he plans to augment. He does have a one track mind. Get the Fourteen together, I will see what I can do to gain their assistance in dethroning this mad King." Miriana chuckled. "First, we need to spider out our attacks. We will launch by the day in waves of hundreds to thousands to maybe hundreds of thousands, if they can be spared."

"But won't they fight them off?" The General asked, as Miriana shook his head.

"There's no point in fighting according to convention. There are two cities that are in our way - Selemaun and Fialang. It would be prudent to gas the entire city, and then that would ensure our rush to Horsingra would be a surefire victory." Miriana looked at Settereun. "But since Settereun is in the amalgamate, I can't leave him there alone. We'll have to send in a defensive army to deal with the enemy. How are the Temsplaces?" He asked.

"They're ready for orders. I would suggest we take the most appropriate action - the canyon cliffs." The General spoke.

"You're my General for a reason. Do what you think is necessary. Guarantee victory at any cost."

Selemaun and Fialang, the horns of the north. For centuries, these two cities like the guardians of an ancient temple rose up to fight off all challengers with the most brutal of immunities, the strongest of powers and the most capable of fighters. Here, at the twin cities that etched a line of immovability across the desert, the soldiers prepared. They knew fully well just how vicious the tactics of Miriana Treyuko would and could be, and so they braced themselves for the attacks. He was predictable, but nevertheless required some sort of watch, as perhaps he was feigning idiocy. Nobody could tell in this day and age.

Column upon column of supplies and tents were set up, soldiers with their truncheons naked, their butts smashing into the ground, their rifles gleaming and their masks mustered. The Jenrakians were slow forces, unable to move properly in the desert within times of natural or man-made crisis, and so in those moments the Hsac military would strike. A long, thin line was formed between the kilometer of distance in the wall city, men prepared for the attack. If this was a war elsewhere, it would have been foolish, idiotic, and costly, but this was not an elsewhere. This was Hsac, a son of the Ascheran continent, and upon these lands the greatest soldiers were those who were shadows.

Quiet dunes on the northern front. The kicking of dust up into the devilish whirls, the sand picking around as rolling thunderous anvil heads of reddish cumulus rumble. The city was aghast and blanketed in blood-red sand, but it was nothing more than the ordinary within the vast deserts of the Ascherans. It was a while, a long time, that they should be facing each other now, but it was certainly a stalemate of a position. On one end, the chortling logistics of the enemy Hsacs were mediocre, at best, and if cut off from their supplies they could be in quite the situation. However, on the other hand, the soldiers were ready to take the city. Neither knew how long the other could truly last, and neither knew the other's condition.

Spies on both ends destroyed, defeated, executed, whatever the outcome - both were lingering as the ant army crawled and waited now in silence with the thirst of war upon the termites' mound. The loom of the castles in the distance, the blackening shadows of the tall turrets of the Azhujurius' Keep as battlements were lined with shining steel and polished barrels, the stench of smoke overwhelmed by the smell of the oily whiff of the maintenance spray. It was a mist of a day, and the city's walls held still, yet it was only a matter of time before it would crumble.

Here, in the morning drift of the sunrise, the ghostly apparitions of the clouds stalking through the gates, the soldiers within the city rushed to and fro, gathering resources and men to work as the long needle-filled roads were disquieted by the cries of the early rising children. Pain and suffering echoed through these halls as the reaper paid a visit to many, enticing and offering an afterlife to a disgusting amount. Even still, shadows etched along the walls and the bricks were smoked with must. Here, at the fortified city hall, the Temsplaces had arrived.

Tall as pines, like living tanks, they were bulky and powerful men who carried long, massive swords on their backs, rocket launchers or shotguns carried in tow behind them. Disciplined, calculative, and most of all, expensive, they were what they were - holy warriors who have accustomed to the bleakness of warfare. Draped in thick shimmering armor as the thickets of the rosy fur on their shoulders absorbed their sundering sweat, they walked with flags tied to their backs. At the forefront, a Temsplace with obsidian black armor that tingled with the dizzying rays of the sunlight. He gave off the image of a blood drenched man who had just had it dried.

"So, I guess we need to break the army outside?" He asked, looking at the men who sat there, their eyes induced with fear and admiration. Fickle senses, they had. Poor reputations for assistance, they carried. Arrogant demeanors, they possessed. Commanding attitudes, they nurtured. But it was without a doubt that from their high success record, if there ever was a military force within the Jenrakian military that could turn the tide so quickly, these lumbering geniuses were the ones, burgeoning their crosses and raising their holy flags high into the oceans of silky red waters. "How many can be spared?"