NationStates Jolt Archive

Amazing, really, how much dust there could be in a place.

Demetrius Titian, Apprentice Mason of the Palace, stood in the Eighth Depository of the Chamber of Records, and the sheer volume of the dust of centuries was unbelievable. This room hadn't been opened since 2003, when all Imperial records, stretching back to the foundation of the Old Empire around 400 BC, had been painstakingly copied and stored in a mainframe, and before that, only by scrawny historians as dry and dusty as the room itself. As his workmen toiled around him, he reflected on the sheer age of the room in which he was standing. It was impossible not to. These ancient stone vaults had been put here by Typhon himself at the dawn of the Imperium, and within the books and parchments they held lay the secrets of Kregaian history, relics of a grander age. To stand in the Chamber of Records was to see the marks of history.

There was a scholar with them, a representative of the librarians that maintained this place. An annoying fellow, a dry old bookworm in his sixties who muttered constantly what an insult it was to the dignity of the Imperium that their own history was being tossed about by the rough hands of chisel-wielding peasants, to borrow his words. Titian snorted. The man would have to live with his discomfort; the Eighth Depository Door had fallen off its hinges, and since it was a massive fireproof hunk of iron, no one would have ever opened the room again if it hadn't been for him and his "chisel-wielding peasants". And the Lord Regent himself had ordered the subsequent remodeling. So there was really no room for the old man to argue.

All at once, the old man in question stopped his annoying pacing, staring raptly at a stack of parchments. Roughly, Titian grabbed his shoulder.

"What the hell are you staring at? If you have to get in the way, at least pretend to do something useful."

The old man shook him off, and walked slowly towards the parchments, reaching out with bony fingers to stroke them the same way a man might touch the skin of the most beautiful woman in the world.

"This..." he whispered, reverently, "This is a treatise by Arrian."

"What the fuck are you babbling about?"

The scholar shot him a look of pure contempt, muttering, "Barbarian." Turning to face Titian, he explained with a lecturer's air, "Arrian was a historian who wrote during the early thirteenth century. Later scholars referred to his work, but as far as we know, his work didn't survive the Great Schism." The scholar smiled broadly. "Until now." Titian strode forward and squinted at the parchment, barely able to make out the words at the top of it:

An Account of the Gothic Raids and the Consolidation of His Divine Majesty Emperor Sejanus; written by the hand of Arrian, in the eight hundred and ninety-seventh year since the foundation of the Imperium...

* * *

It was a glorious day in Korronis. The skies were clear, blue and bright, and the sun blazed overhead, casting a sweltering heat down on the Bloody City. Midsummer's Day was always hot, but this year the sun seemed to be straining to dry up the oceans, and the heat was incredible. And best of all, the city was alive with excitement and fanaticism, seeming to throb with a dark, primitive fury.

Along the city's sprawling harbors stood row upon row of wooden barracks, warehouses filled with straw mattresses and equipped with such necessities as a small smithy in each barracks, and latrines connected to the city's sewer system. Within the harbor itself, floating in the waters of the Gold Sea, sat scores of large, seafaring ships, such as the Imperium had never built before. Kregaians had explored the coast before, and even sailed beyond at times, but this was a thing never yet done. This was an invasion fleet.

And on the shore, the climax was beginning, the apex of a ritual already centuries old and one that would endure as long as the Imperium. Throngs of citizens filled the streets, dancing and praying and screaming, drinking wine from massive tuns placed in public squares for their entertainment, at the personal expense of Emperor Sejanus. Priests stood at street corners, praising the gods and calling down their wrath on those who opposed the Imperium. The city's whores roamed around, publicly haggling with customers, for today was a day of ultimate merriment, and caught up in the frenzy of excitement and doused with wine, any man would lose his shame. By the docks, the sacrifical altars were filled with captives, the descendants of Sarmatian and Dothraki slaves, and the priests were having the time of their lives ritualistically slaughtering them with jewel-encrusted sacrificial knives, calling on the Destroyer to bless the incipient wars in exchange for the gift of victims.

And the Legionaries came parading through the streets to the moored ships, thousands of tramping men, roaring out battle hymns at the top of their voices, boots shaking the earth with their march. Their armor was polished till it shone, and and their shields and swords gleamed in the noon light. Century by century they came, banners proudly flying, displaying the crimson five-armed cross of the Imperium, and marched, rank upon rank, up the ramps prepared and into the bellies of the great ships.

* * *

In the Captain's Quarters of the fleet's flagship, a four-masted monstrosity, stood Lord Mazrim Ares, a tall, powerfully built man who commanded the invasion force. A commoner by birth, though rewarded with a minor title for putting down a rebellion in the northlands, Mazrim was extremely lucky to receive the honor of such a prestigious command. Emperor Sejanus, it was rumored, had noticed him, which brought with it the possibility of glory and power...or an ignoble death at the hands of one of his assassins. However, Mazrim had been highly seasoned by his years in the north, and though he was of part-barbarian descent, was undoubtedly trustworthy. And thus, he came to be here, on the bridge of the flagship, to be anointed commander and to direct the fleet to leave.

The Pontifex Maximus, an old but zealous priest by the name of Darius Anan, stood in ceremonial robes before him, hands raised, intoning in Latin a prayer to all the gods, particularly the Destroyer and the Dragon, the gods of war and glory, respectively, those most involved with the office of commander. Mazrim was naked before him, as tradition demanded; blazing braziers formed a ring around the two of them, and the priests and tribunes who stood witness. Mazrim was not fluent in Latin, as well-educated Kregaians were, but could understand much of what was said.

"Here stands before you your faithful servant, Mazrim Ares, given by you to your realm of Kregaia. To you we offer him up in return. To you, Great Lords, we offer the flesh and soul of this man. Shower him with your blessings; ordain him, we ask, by your power, and, in exchange for the blood we have poured forth for you this day, mark this man so that all who see him may know him to be a prince among warriors, a master of men."

He continued to offer the prayer, but now the priests chanted a low, repetitive incantation, and the tribunes, his aides, grabbed him and readied the needle to apply to him another tattoo of war. His body was already marked with many of them; on his left shoulder he sported the five-armed cross that all warriors of the Imperium bore, and on his breast he bore another five-armed cross, to prove he was an officer. The word 'VERITAS', Latin for 'truth', was marked on his right arm, proof that he had fought against heretics, and a number of campaign tattoos on his torso and arms displayed the other areas in which he'd fought. Lowering the needle to his chest, his second-in-command's eyes glowed with excitement as he began drawing a laurel wreath around the cross on Mazrim's breast, signifying leadership of an army.

As the tribune finished, Mazrim looked the Pontifex Maximus straight in the eye, and the old man nodded and finished his prayer, beginning a new one.

"By the will of your Holy Brother the Emperor, this man has been gifted with the bronze armor of a warlord in his service and yours. Let him take it up now, and swear once more his undying allegiance."

Again the tribunes stepped forward, holding the panoply of a Kregaian officer: the black iron armor, in this case worked with bronze to denote command of the army, the helmet with its red horsehair crest, the mail shirt and the black tunic beneath. Reverently they dressed him, until he stood in full regalia, armor shining and sword seeming to glow with a cold light. Smiling, the Pontifex Maximus touched his forehead with one finger and proclaimed, "You are chosen, my son. The will of the gods: go forth and conquer."

* * *

And shortly after noon on Midsummer's Day, in the eight hundred and ninety-first year since the foundation of the Imperium, the great fleet left, charged by the Emperor to explore, raid, and where possible, conquer the other lands of the vastness of Gholgoth. Eight legions were with that army, although one was divided into cohorts that were to separate and raid other nations. Thus forty-two thousand Legionaries and five thousand cavalry were with Lord Mazrim in the body of the fleet. As I have written, the number of ships was exceedingly great, to contain the supplies and men and horses of which the army was composed, and the building of these ships had taken many years. Thus there was long preparation for the war which followed.
-Excerpt from the writings of Arrian

The great find in Kregaia was hailed by Freekish scholars as a treasure trove of pre-Gothic history, much of which was lost during countless centuries of neglect and warfare. Automagfreek itself knew very little of the pre-unification history that had been passed down as legend by countless generations of Freeks, but now all of that was about to change. Contained amidst the enormous number of aged scrolls was a full documentation of nearly every noteworthy piece of history from nations all across modern day Gholgoth, and now AMF would discover just how bloody and terrible its past was.

It was the period of time in the 1200's that was of particular interest by the scholars who had flown from Automagfreek to Kregaia to study the great find. It was during this time that the great Freekish nation was nothing more than a weak, disorganized gathering of rival tribal states who had been locked in an age old power struggle. It was in the north where the greatest suffering took place, for the peoples of the Freekish and Krisiun tribes fell under constant siege by raiding Reavers from across the channel as well as the oppressive southern kingdom known as the Order of Therion. The Order had stamped out much of the local resistance in the south, west, and east save for the ferocious Faugh-Lin clan who remained buried deep in the forests and left to their own devices after several disasterous and gore soaked clashes.

With the Freeks and the Krisiuns a mere breath away from defeat, the Order would begin to turn its attentions aboard in an attempt to further cement its reputation as an potential player in the hostile region. Word had reached the Therion king known as Vadrin that widespread turmoil was about to engulf all of the neighboring lands in every direction, and reports were arriving via ship that indeed armies were starting to march and blood beginning to spill. The Order was a greedy and ruthless band of peoples who desired nothing more than glory at any cost, and they cared not for the suffering of those outside their kingdom. With their northern neighbors teetering on the brink of extinction the king decided that he would concentrate his efforts on expanding his dominion abroad and turn his kingdom into an empire. One hundred thousand men from within the Order would be summoned to accomplish the task of sailing across the treacherous seas and taking control of foreign lands, and later it would turn out to be the worst decision he could have made.

Vadrin's arrogance was clear, for he completely underestimated the resolve of the Freeks and Krisiuns, who had not yet set aside their own differences for the sake of defeating a common enemy. It was only when a small village very near the tribal border of the two lands fell under attack by the Order that the leaders of both peoples drew the line. The village was perhaps the only place where Freeks and Krisiuns could mingle in relative peace, for it was a great trading hub from which many valuable goods would find their way to both tribes. The Order was merciless and after brutally slaughtering every civilian their soldiers proceeded to pillage anything of value, and then they burned everything in sight to the ground.

*******

West Krisiun, early 1200's

The Freekish council had braved many days across the hostile northern terrain to the edge of western Krisiun, where the stronghold city of Caldinbard and the local tribal leaders awaited their arrival. The weary horses pulled the two carriages onwards while mounted soldiers in front and back of the column prepared to enter the walls of the sprawling city, which were well defended by legions of archers from high towers overlooking the landscape. Slowly the mammoth wooden doors were opened to allow the visiting Freeks to enter, and as they did they were greeted by servants of the grand Krisiun council who directed them towards their chosen lodging. They would meet with the local tribal warlords the next day and would be allowed to spend the evening feasting and resting after such a long journey.

When the sun rose the next morning it was right to business, and the officials at the grand stone fortress at the center of the city accepted their guests with reluctance. It was mere months after the skirmish at Brahn left hundreds of soldiers from both sides dead, and the carnage caused to the Krisiun border city was not easily forgotten. While their hatred for each other would not disappear after a single meeting it was more than obvious that if they all valued their lives, they would have to cooperate to put a stop to the ongoing atrocities by the Order. A young Freekish prince known as Lord Stoneburner would represent his tribe at the gathering, for he had earned a fierce reputation on the battlefield and was known for his clever yet downright vicious tactics. His host would be the Krisiun warlord known as Sephren-Ka, a man aged some thirty years and well respected amongst his people for his wisedom and resourcefulness.

After an exchange of welcomes and a few tankards of fiery rum, the session between the two leaders began. Both knew the situation before them was grim and that the task ahead would be a difficult and bloodsoaked one.

I believe the solution is very clear, we must rally our armies and begin turning the tide against the Order, for the Freekish people demand retribution for the blood that has been spilled these past seven years.

Sephren-Ka tugged at his beard ever so slightly as he thought, for his words were always deliberate and well chosen.

You would have the Krisiun nation send forth its armies and leave itself vulnerable? We can ill afford to weaken our defenses with Reavers harassing our northern shores, and we are still uncertain as to wether you can be trusted. How do I know that you will not sieze the opportunity to take all of Krisiun for your own while our men are out being slaughtered by the Order?

Stoneburner was outraged at such an insult, and shot a sharp glare towards his rival warlord. Have my people not bled as much as yours? We face the same Reaver threat, the same attacks by Therion, and we share the same mutual distrust. But look at the alternatives we face....the Order has defeated the dozen other tribes that once called these lands home, and now we are the only ones left to stand against them. I understand that our histories have been less than fruitful, but if we do not put the past aside and focus on the future then I fear all will be lost for us both.

Turning away from his Freekish guest, the warlord thought carefully to himself. I will make no decision tonight, you ask too much of us too quickly. We will continue this discussion tomorrow. The other Krisiun warlords agreed and soon took their leave from the meeting, and Sephren-Ka himself soon followed.

Angered and frustrated, Stoneburner retired to his quarters for the night. Little did he know that the Gods would bring the fates of the Freeks and Krisiuns together the next morning, for a legion sent forth from the Order was lurking dangerously near Caldinbard, and all Krisiun scouts that could have given advanced warning to the city had all been intercepted and killed. The next day would be a day that would be worthy of remembrance, and would go down in history as the moment the tables began to turn on the Order...

The knock boomed through the Hall of Confluence, echoing grandly in the huge vaulted space, and from the Iron Throne, one could just barely see the massive doors, perfectly balanced on well-oiled hinges, open just enough to admit the herald from the antechamber. In a booming voice, the young man proclaimed,

"If it pleases His Divine Majesty, the honorable-"

Emperor Sejanus, sitting ramrod-straight in the Throne in full imperial regalia, held up a hand, and immediately the herald shut his mouth.

"I will waste enough of my time talking to this craven filth without standing on ceremony," the Emperor growled. "Admit them."

Bowing in acquiescence, the herald turned and left, and a few seconds later, the doors opened wide, and several men in elaborate senatorial robes strode through. The Imperial Senate. Twenty years ago, Sejanus would have spat on the floor in front of them. A relic of the reign of Geta, a century previously, it had been intended to "stabilize" the Imperium by moderating the Emperor's authority. It had done that, so well in fact that every section of the Imperium was strangled by bureaucratic procedure, and there were even whispers that the Senate would begin holding elections to fill vacant seats, as opposed to simply appointing new members as they had done. A vein pulsed in Sejanus's temple at the thought. How he longed for the day when he could see all those self-righteous, power-hungry cowards on a sacrificial altar.

They stopped at the polite distance away from the Iron Throne. They bowed deeply, as courtesy demanded. They murmured the proper expressions of reverence. Yet there was something so fake about all of it, an attitude Sejanus knew well. All but a few Senators had that attitude when they encountered him, a way of going through the motions that said quite plainly, "We are indulging your little ego for now, but do not expect this childish game to last forever."

He hated it.

After several seconds it was clear he was not going to speak first, so the oldest of the Senators, a man in his late sixties by the name of Cornelius Brutus, took a small step forward and began.

"Great Lord, the Senate is...disappointed at today's activities."

Sejanus said nothing.

"We had repeatedly informed Your Divine Majesty of our displeasure at the gathering of troops here in Korronis."

"Perhaps," the Emperor growled, "you would like to remind me of those complaints. Elaborate. Why does the Imperial Senate believe that it is legally allowed to so much as cough when the Emperor commands the Legions?"

"The fact of the matter, Great Lord," Brutus replied, "is that such a sizable gathering is not a purely military matter. Your Divine Majesty has sent fifty thousand well-trained soldiers out into the ocean, into barely-explored territory. There is a significant chance that many or all of these men will be caught in a storm and drowned before any gain in terms of exploration or colonization can be achieved, with a consequent significant impact on order and security here in Kregaia. The Senate is curious as to how Your Divine Majesty would replace such losses in the case of heresy or a major rebellion? The northlands, after all, are not yet fully pacified, and now we are spread thinner than ever." Sejanus said nothing, his expression never changing, and Brutus continued. "Diplomatically speaking, this expedition may also be a disaster. Gholgoth has never been well explored, and although Your Divine Majesty has not seen fit to explain to the Senate the destination of the expedition, I personally do not see how the information that Your Divine Majesty has available could be any better than ours."

"If you must know, Senator," the Emperor bit out, his patience wearing thin, "the fleets are heading north. Towards a land for which we have no name. We know its location well, and traders and travelers tell us that it is divided by war."

"I see," Brutus replied. "Of course, the consequences of failure are dire. If this expedition does not succeed, no doubt we can expect a larger infidel fleet to arrive on our shores one day soon. My point was that provoking nations we know little or nothing about is an extremely risky thing to do. And furthermore-"

Sejanus cut in abruptly, his tone hot with rage. "Listen to me, Senator. Firstly, remember your place. You are gravely in error if you think you can address me with such disrespect and keep your body in one piece. And secondly, the Senate does not command the Legions. I do. And whatever consequences there are, I will deal with. Have a care, all of you, when you deal with me, or you will find yourselves in the dungeons of the Inquisition, absent a tongue to scream with. Now, get out."

And perhaps most infuriatingly of all, Brutus and his cronies took their time bowing and excusing themselves from the imperial presence, showing themselves in no hurry to escape his rage. To prove they didn't fear him. Sejanus snarled in hate. He would make the filth fear him soon enough.

And with their long and arduous journey having been completed, the fleet of Lord Ares and his legions arrived at the shores of the great northern land, which is populated by barbarians and all manner of infidels who do not know the Seven True Gods.
-Excerpt from the writings of Arrian

* * *

Lord Mazrim surveyed the unfamiliar coast through his simple spyglass, peering at the deserted beach. It was rather anticlimactic; after weeks and weeks of long, boring sail, interrupted only by stopping to take on provisions at small islands along the way, all there was to see was a lonely, bleak shore, punctuated with outcrops of rock and sparse vegetation.

"That's disappointing," he muttered, handing the spyglass to his aide and bodyguard, indicating the shore. The officer, a burly officer named Commander Severus, took a look and nodded in agreement.

"Can't be helped," Severus rumbled. "Maybe if we're lucky, there'll be a whole horde of infidels lurking a mile inland."

"If only," Mazrim replied, laughing. "All the same, here we are. Captain!" he called suddenly, turning behind him to look for the flagship's captain. The scarred ex-pirate who served in that role stood on the aftcastle, keeping a close eye on the helmsman as well as his crew down on the main deck. Catching his eye, Mazrim roared, "Take her in a little further, Captain, and then launch the rafts!" He nodded, and forwarded the orders to his crew.

The great ship, black sails boldly emblazoned with the red five-armed cross of the Imperium, loomed ever nearer to the shore, and behind it along the horizon ranged the vast Kregaian fleet, hundreds of ships, from galleys to massive, resilient vessels like the flagship, each one bearing those same colors. Within the depths of all those ships, Legionaries made their final preparations, polishing their armor and weapons, checking their packs, and offering florid prayers to the gods and to the Emperor. Lord Mazrim himself closed eyes, ignoring the spray of the sea on his face, and prayed the Destroyer that they might have a swift and glorious conquest of these barbaric parts.

He pictured what they looked like to any hidden eyes that were watching them come. From out of the southwest, the infidels would see tiny dots appear on the horizon, hour by hour growing and spreading until the entire horizon was a mass of distant ships. They might run back to their village or town in alarm, raising the alert, summoning masses of ignorant peasants (with maybe a few soldiers in service to a local lord) to defend their pitiful livelihoods. He pictured his own men, rowing ashore and barely containing their bloodlust; they would charge into the shallows and up onto the beach, water dripping from their gleaming armor, swords at the ready. Perhaps they would simply assemble into their squads and centuries there on the beach, as archers aboard the ships used their composite bows to pin down and slaughter the infidels; or maybe they would charge, squad by squad, hacking apart the enemy. The inevitable fighting might occur a thousand different ways, and Mazrim felt contemplating those ways extremely pleasant.

But regrettably, such violent images proved to be complete fiction; no poorly organized band of local defenders, much less a horde of bloodthirsty barbarians, met the Kregaians as they landed. As Mazrim had imagined, when the ships drew near enough, rowboats were lowered over the side, each carrying a dozen men, and rowed to shore: the beginning of the tidal wave of blood that was to come. Lord Mazrim, of course, as honor demanded, was in the first rowboat, carrying an Imperial banner, and once his boat ran onto the beach, he stepped off, and, praising the Emperor and the gods, rammed the banner into the sand. The other rowboats quickly landed as well, the soldiers charging off, disappointed at the lack of any threats around.

These first soldiers to land marched off inland, their trail obvious so that the next waves of Legionaries arriving on the beach would know where to follow them to. For several hours they marched, until they reached a good spot for a camp to be built. There was a sprawling field which would provide grazing for the many animals; a large stream with steep banks ran through the area, providing water; and a forest nearby, which no doubt contained deer and other sources of game. There would be no need for extra wood: every legion had to carry the materials for its own camp wherever it went, and this expedition was no different. As morning wore on and hours passed, the legions all arrived at the camp site, the ships having dropped anchor, and each legion selected its own camp site, in a pattern that would allow any to offer support to the others in case of an attack, setting up tents and erecting a palisade around each camp. By nightfall, although the camps were not quite finished, each was walled, its tents erected in an orderly fashion, with latrines and moats dug properly, and the black and red Kregaian banner flying over Lord Mazrim's headquarters tent.

The Legionaries had arrived.