Feir Fireb
First Post
Knowing Nina, he/she/it has been with us the whole stinking time and we've just never been able to tell
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The Talismans of Aerdrim
Knowing Nina, he/she/it has been with us the whole stinking time and we've just never been able to tell
Orichalcum
First Post
Which he borrowed from C.S. Lewis fairly blatantly, only lightly paraphrasing it...
Still, that's totally reasonable. I was just curious.
havenstone
First Post
Overlord Daiqao
THE WEATHER GROWS colder, forcing the prisoners to cling to each other in the cage at night for warmth and taxing Ontaya’s ability to cure disease. The Xaimani guards finally toss furs into the cages; a week later, after the first snowstorm hits, they also take a day to bind hides around the bamboo bars to create some shelter and keep all the slaves from dying of exposure. The winter is somewhat milder than the party is used to, but there are still many weeks of bitter cold. Hamber and T’harai, bundled up with their adoptive mothers, acquire a taste for the icicles that hang from the ceiling most mornings.
One winter evening, a tall Xaimani officer bearing an ornate ceremonial spear approaches their cage, escorted by a dozen guards. The officer’s armor and helmet are adorned with golden characters, and a golden mask with a snarling mouth mostly obscures his face. “I am cadan Tshien Lo Dan,” he says in the common Xaimani tongue, speaking at a measured enough pace that some of the cage’s faster learners can just about understand him. “This legion of the Spear Path is under my command on the field of battle, following the will of qil-ayan Daiqao.”
None of the prisoners dare to respond, which the cadan seems to consider normal. “The guards tell me that you are the leader,” he continues, pointing to Ontaya. The paladin makes a noncommittal gesture; Lune and Atrix both roll their eyes, and Curago’s upper lip curls. “You will come with me at once.”
“Bow and thank the cadan,” one of the guards adds sharply. Ontaya bows to the gilt-armored officer and is released from the cage. The cadan also demands that “the Jendae” come along to translate. Korael and Ontaya’s makeshift fur shoes do little to keep out the snow as they trudge out of the cage zone and through the seemingly endless ranks of Xaimani military tents.
The great central tent is decorated with gold banners, and its axial pole culminates in a stylized pair of crossed swords bound together with gilded cords. Outside, a black-armored honor guard stand with spears whose ghostly glow is plainly visible in the snowy twilight. The gruff officer issues Ontaya into the tent, where the air smells of woodsmoke, incense, and spicy meat. Several other soldiers and a black-robed man wearing a heavy fur mantle are seated on cushions around a brazier. Just behind them at the rear of the tent stands a suit of plate armor that appears to have been cast from pure gold; beside the armor hangs a long, curved sword with runes engraved along the blade. Casting her eyes around quickly, Ontaya concludes that the armor and sword belong to the short man who sits slightly to one side of the brazier, gazing at her without expression. She bows politely in his direction.
He smiles slightly and says a word Ontaya doesn’t recognize. “The Overlord compliments your perceptiveness,” Korael whispers. “He is qil-ayan Daiqao -- the high general of these legions. You might want to make a deeper bow.”
Ontaya complies silently. She notes that general’s voice is crisp and authoritative, even when she does not understand half of what he is saying. His skin is also distinctly lighter than most of the Xaimani Ontaya has seen, and his features are flatter. Korael translates as the Overlord speaks: “Your cage of slaves has been the only one to suffer no deaths by violence, starvation or sickness. Can you explain this?”
Ontaya feels disoriented, sure that she should be sensing more evil on these men, given the near-constant brutality and atrocities against the innocent she has seen since her capture. Her paladin sense of evil is there, but muted to a strikingly low level, as though their appalling cruelty were accompanied by no particular malice. “The blessing of the One.”
When Korael translates, Daiqao inclines his head to regard the black-robed man. “What do you say, Reflective One? Does the beneficence of Ii rest on these barbarians?”
The Xaimani cleric shrugs. “The glory of Ii is over all the nations. It is known that these barbarians have priests, and from what we have heard, it would seem that the Northerners have a clearer image of the One than do the Arawai or Lakshari.”
Daiqao turns back sharply to Ontaya, who is resisting the desire to ask some theological questions of her own. “Is it the blessing of Ii that keeps the slaves in your cage from fighting, raping, and killing each other?”
“No, Overlord,” Ontaya replies, meeting his eyes. “It is our decision not to act like animals.”
The Southern general nods. “I think you will make a good slavemaster -- for an owner far more auspicious than the Legions. Your cage will be saved for Tziwan itself.” He waves the slaves away in dismissal. “Thank you, cadan.”
The cadan exits the tent and regards Ontaya with an approving stare. “You Northerners may not make much account of yourselves on the battlefield, but some of you will make excellent slaves.”
Ontaya shows no expression as she bows again.
THE WEATHER GROWS colder, forcing the prisoners to cling to each other in the cage at night for warmth and taxing Ontaya’s ability to cure disease. The Xaimani guards finally toss furs into the cages; a week later, after the first snowstorm hits, they also take a day to bind hides around the bamboo bars to create some shelter and keep all the slaves from dying of exposure. The winter is somewhat milder than the party is used to, but there are still many weeks of bitter cold. Hamber and T’harai, bundled up with their adoptive mothers, acquire a taste for the icicles that hang from the ceiling most mornings.
One winter evening, a tall Xaimani officer bearing an ornate ceremonial spear approaches their cage, escorted by a dozen guards. The officer’s armor and helmet are adorned with golden characters, and a golden mask with a snarling mouth mostly obscures his face. “I am cadan Tshien Lo Dan,” he says in the common Xaimani tongue, speaking at a measured enough pace that some of the cage’s faster learners can just about understand him. “This legion of the Spear Path is under my command on the field of battle, following the will of qil-ayan Daiqao.”
None of the prisoners dare to respond, which the cadan seems to consider normal. “The guards tell me that you are the leader,” he continues, pointing to Ontaya. The paladin makes a noncommittal gesture; Lune and Atrix both roll their eyes, and Curago’s upper lip curls. “You will come with me at once.”
“Bow and thank the cadan,” one of the guards adds sharply. Ontaya bows to the gilt-armored officer and is released from the cage. The cadan also demands that “the Jendae” come along to translate. Korael and Ontaya’s makeshift fur shoes do little to keep out the snow as they trudge out of the cage zone and through the seemingly endless ranks of Xaimani military tents.
The great central tent is decorated with gold banners, and its axial pole culminates in a stylized pair of crossed swords bound together with gilded cords. Outside, a black-armored honor guard stand with spears whose ghostly glow is plainly visible in the snowy twilight. The gruff officer issues Ontaya into the tent, where the air smells of woodsmoke, incense, and spicy meat. Several other soldiers and a black-robed man wearing a heavy fur mantle are seated on cushions around a brazier. Just behind them at the rear of the tent stands a suit of plate armor that appears to have been cast from pure gold; beside the armor hangs a long, curved sword with runes engraved along the blade. Casting her eyes around quickly, Ontaya concludes that the armor and sword belong to the short man who sits slightly to one side of the brazier, gazing at her without expression. She bows politely in his direction.
He smiles slightly and says a word Ontaya doesn’t recognize. “The Overlord compliments your perceptiveness,” Korael whispers. “He is qil-ayan Daiqao -- the high general of these legions. You might want to make a deeper bow.”
Ontaya complies silently. She notes that general’s voice is crisp and authoritative, even when she does not understand half of what he is saying. His skin is also distinctly lighter than most of the Xaimani Ontaya has seen, and his features are flatter. Korael translates as the Overlord speaks: “Your cage of slaves has been the only one to suffer no deaths by violence, starvation or sickness. Can you explain this?”
Ontaya feels disoriented, sure that she should be sensing more evil on these men, given the near-constant brutality and atrocities against the innocent she has seen since her capture. Her paladin sense of evil is there, but muted to a strikingly low level, as though their appalling cruelty were accompanied by no particular malice. “The blessing of the One.”
When Korael translates, Daiqao inclines his head to regard the black-robed man. “What do you say, Reflective One? Does the beneficence of Ii rest on these barbarians?”
The Xaimani cleric shrugs. “The glory of Ii is over all the nations. It is known that these barbarians have priests, and from what we have heard, it would seem that the Northerners have a clearer image of the One than do the Arawai or Lakshari.”
Daiqao turns back sharply to Ontaya, who is resisting the desire to ask some theological questions of her own. “Is it the blessing of Ii that keeps the slaves in your cage from fighting, raping, and killing each other?”
“No, Overlord,” Ontaya replies, meeting his eyes. “It is our decision not to act like animals.”
The Southern general nods. “I think you will make a good slavemaster -- for an owner far more auspicious than the Legions. Your cage will be saved for Tziwan itself.” He waves the slaves away in dismissal. “Thank you, cadan.”
The cadan exits the tent and regards Ontaya with an approving stare. “You Northerners may not make much account of yourselves on the battlefield, but some of you will make excellent slaves.”
Ontaya shows no expression as she bows again.
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havenstone
First Post
A Welcome Visit
THE SNOW DISAPPEARS as the army passes into the driest reaches of the Arawai plains, but spring comes slowly to the arid landscape. For more than two months, the captives spend their nights shivering in the dusty, bitter wind that croons ceaselessly around the cage. The Arawai seem to be giving the Xaimani a wide berth; the party never see a single camp or riding party from the horse clans within eyeshot of the legion.
Carwyn bonds fiercely to Hamber, as though becoming a mother to the orphan is her rejoinder to all the injustice and horror of the last few months: the murders of her adoptive father and ex-lovers, her torture by the Sistecherns, the party’s enslavement by the Xaimani. Deep inside, she remains terribly frightened that Lune will leave her and Hamber if the possibility arises... but she has to admit that so far, the rogue hasn’t shown much sign of wanting to run, and his wariness around Hamber seems to reflect an inexperience with babies rather than fear of the commitment they represent. Carwyn does discover that she’s contracted a (cough) social disease from Lune, curses him out, and sheepishly asks Ontaya to cure them both.
Kyla is always conscientious and tender to T’harai, but finds that she is unable to throw herself into adoptive motherhood with Carwyn’s fervor. The little albino baby never feels like her own child; rather, T’harai represents the one unambiguous duty Kyla can now fulfill, after months of being pulled in agonizingly opposite directions by conflicting loyalties. In the many moments when waves of regret threaten to sweep her out of control, Kyla clings to the small, needy creature under her furs and ruthlessly pushes back the memories of Kalitha, Tevrala, Gareth.
AS THE NIGHT breezes grow warmer, the guards remove the hides and flea-ridden furs from the cages, and patches of green begin to appear in the wilderness around them. At times, the cage feels almost cheerful. One day, Ontaya senses a welcome presence -- one she has not felt since their enslavement. Casting her eyes around, she feels a tremendous surge of joy to see a huge white horse trotting past the army, accompanied by a single Sufza on foot. A Xaimani detachment questions the jogging, jovial Sufza, who replies in fluent Xaimani to their queries about the origin of the warhorse; he appears to be offering to sell the animal to them. Finally, they wave him on and tell him to keep moving.
That night is particularly dark, with only the gray moon Sheresc in the sky, half-eclipsed by the twin red moons Ascha and Tischa. Just after midnight, from the blackness beneath their cage, a cheery voice whispers in Northron: “Greetings and salutations, most palatable of paladins, most able of Atrixes, most lovely of larcenous ladies! My heart is singing to find you well and at peace!”
“Nurak,” Carwyn breathes back, calming Hamber, who has begun to fuss at the unfamiliar voice. “We are so, so glad to see you.”
“And thank you for looking after Dorma,” Ontaya adds warmly. “And not selling her.”
“It is a thing not to be mentioned,” Nurak replies at once. “Your stubborn steed would not suffer any but your sanctified self to sit her. This Sufza will keep her safe until you can ride her once more.”
“Have you seen Kay?” Atrix asks in an urgent hiss. “And bloody Agerain?”
“After days of devoted diligence, I can say they appear to be alive. Sadly, my speaking to the kindly Kay would arouse the attention of several slaves who could not be assured of staying silent.”
“Nurak,” Darren whispers, “can you think of any way for us to all get out of here? It would have to be all of us, or the Xaimani would kill the remaining ones.”
“In the open plains, the sorcerers of the South would likely find even the best-concealed of groups,” the mournful voice comes back. “A superior opportunity will assuredly arise once we are in Xaiman itself. Have you heard where this aggravating army intends to sell you?”
“In Tziwan,” Ontaya replies.
“Several scores of Sufza abide in the imperial capital,” Nurak informs them jubilantly. “My cousins and I will find you there, once you have been safely sold, and we will plan the most resplendent of rescues.”
“Excellent,” Meeshak breathes. “Go safely, Nurak. Watch for the guards.”
“They will not find the stealthiest of the Sufza,” the voice says dismissively, and with no more noise than the wind shifting in the grass, the skinny rogue is gone.
THE SNOW DISAPPEARS as the army passes into the driest reaches of the Arawai plains, but spring comes slowly to the arid landscape. For more than two months, the captives spend their nights shivering in the dusty, bitter wind that croons ceaselessly around the cage. The Arawai seem to be giving the Xaimani a wide berth; the party never see a single camp or riding party from the horse clans within eyeshot of the legion.
Carwyn bonds fiercely to Hamber, as though becoming a mother to the orphan is her rejoinder to all the injustice and horror of the last few months: the murders of her adoptive father and ex-lovers, her torture by the Sistecherns, the party’s enslavement by the Xaimani. Deep inside, she remains terribly frightened that Lune will leave her and Hamber if the possibility arises... but she has to admit that so far, the rogue hasn’t shown much sign of wanting to run, and his wariness around Hamber seems to reflect an inexperience with babies rather than fear of the commitment they represent. Carwyn does discover that she’s contracted a (cough) social disease from Lune, curses him out, and sheepishly asks Ontaya to cure them both.
Kyla is always conscientious and tender to T’harai, but finds that she is unable to throw herself into adoptive motherhood with Carwyn’s fervor. The little albino baby never feels like her own child; rather, T’harai represents the one unambiguous duty Kyla can now fulfill, after months of being pulled in agonizingly opposite directions by conflicting loyalties. In the many moments when waves of regret threaten to sweep her out of control, Kyla clings to the small, needy creature under her furs and ruthlessly pushes back the memories of Kalitha, Tevrala, Gareth.
AS THE NIGHT breezes grow warmer, the guards remove the hides and flea-ridden furs from the cages, and patches of green begin to appear in the wilderness around them. At times, the cage feels almost cheerful. One day, Ontaya senses a welcome presence -- one she has not felt since their enslavement. Casting her eyes around, she feels a tremendous surge of joy to see a huge white horse trotting past the army, accompanied by a single Sufza on foot. A Xaimani detachment questions the jogging, jovial Sufza, who replies in fluent Xaimani to their queries about the origin of the warhorse; he appears to be offering to sell the animal to them. Finally, they wave him on and tell him to keep moving.
That night is particularly dark, with only the gray moon Sheresc in the sky, half-eclipsed by the twin red moons Ascha and Tischa. Just after midnight, from the blackness beneath their cage, a cheery voice whispers in Northron: “Greetings and salutations, most palatable of paladins, most able of Atrixes, most lovely of larcenous ladies! My heart is singing to find you well and at peace!”
“Nurak,” Carwyn breathes back, calming Hamber, who has begun to fuss at the unfamiliar voice. “We are so, so glad to see you.”
“And thank you for looking after Dorma,” Ontaya adds warmly. “And not selling her.”
“It is a thing not to be mentioned,” Nurak replies at once. “Your stubborn steed would not suffer any but your sanctified self to sit her. This Sufza will keep her safe until you can ride her once more.”
“Have you seen Kay?” Atrix asks in an urgent hiss. “And bloody Agerain?”
“After days of devoted diligence, I can say they appear to be alive. Sadly, my speaking to the kindly Kay would arouse the attention of several slaves who could not be assured of staying silent.”
“Nurak,” Darren whispers, “can you think of any way for us to all get out of here? It would have to be all of us, or the Xaimani would kill the remaining ones.”
“In the open plains, the sorcerers of the South would likely find even the best-concealed of groups,” the mournful voice comes back. “A superior opportunity will assuredly arise once we are in Xaiman itself. Have you heard where this aggravating army intends to sell you?”
“In Tziwan,” Ontaya replies.
“Several scores of Sufza abide in the imperial capital,” Nurak informs them jubilantly. “My cousins and I will find you there, once you have been safely sold, and we will plan the most resplendent of rescues.”
“Excellent,” Meeshak breathes. “Go safely, Nurak. Watch for the guards.”
“They will not find the stealthiest of the Sufza,” the voice says dismissively, and with no more noise than the wind shifting in the grass, the skinny rogue is gone.
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havenstone
First Post
Tsanyang
THE PLAINS TURN to hills, the desert to grassland, the grassland to scattered pine forests. The spring grows hotter than a Northern summer, and much more humid. Unfamiliar broadleaf trees begin appearing along the roadside, as do stands of bamboo -- “cage-wood,” as the captives think of it. The first settlements they roll through are populated by a mix of settled nomads (Arawai, Sufza, and Jendae) and other peoples from further south, whose features and skin colors vary greatly. Soon, however, the villages are populated almost entirely by gold-skinned Xaimani.
The party members spend hours pressed up against the bars, taking in the mix of familiar and alien: farmers wearing broad, flat straw hats and driving plough-oxen around their terraces; women pruning and grafting fruit trees that look nothing like the North’s; seemingly fragile houses of finely worked wood, with sliding doors and broad verandahs; children in luridly dyed clothes running alongside the cages to stare at the strange slaves, dodging the occasional blow from the tolerant Xaimani guards. The captives begin to receive a strange, mushy, white grain in their morning food buckets instead of millet.
The forests grow denser around the army, and torrential rains begin to frequently turn the tracks into thick, choking mud. “They won’t be able to keep us in the cages for long,” Korael predicts. “There are hundreds of leagues still to travel before we reach Tziwan, and even a Xaimani legionnaire will mutiny if he has to pull slaves through the mire that far.”
THREE DAYS LATER, they emerge from the jungle into a broad, terraced valley and can see in the distance a sprawling city nearly the size of Lynar. “Tsanyang,” they hear their guards call it. The cages halt at the edge of the farmland, and the guards bring new clothing to each cage, all made out of the same rough gray fabric. The male captives receive a loincloth, the women a shoulder-baring shift which cannot be rearranged to hide their slave brand. By this point, the lack of privacy for changing seems normal -- hardly even reason for embarrassment.
With their rags discarded and wearing new gray slaveclothes, the prisoners are drawn along the cobbled road toward the gate of Tsanyang. Examining the steep outer reaches of the city, Ontaya deduces that it must have had a rather grand wall a hundred or more years ago, but the city long ago spilled up onto and over its fortifications, leaving only an indefensible sea of buildings and a few grand, ceremonial gates.
As the cages creak through the gate and into the packed outer markets, the prisoners are overwhelmed by the explosion of colors, smells, and sheer novelty around them. The packed streets are lined with shops selling strange foods and spices, vivid caged birds and elaborately inked wall hangings, ice and coal, alchemical powders and apothecarial drugs. While chatting with their customers, the Xaimani shopkeepers’ fingers deftly shift beads along small wire frames; Darren recalls hearing about something similar used by the Chramic merchant clans, a strange game that somehow aids counting. In small courtyards just off the main road, acrobats stack themselves into improbable pyramids and magicians -- real or fake? -- conjure bursts of flame and smoke from their broad sleeves. For the first time the party members see the beautiful crafts they will later know as porcelain, enamel, and lacquer-work. Street musicians strike padded bamboo sticks against intricate arrays of drums and draw their bows across keening instruments with at least three dozen strings. Thousands of curious Xaimani press up to an invisible line, roughly one arms’ length from the marching soldiers, to gawk at the alien, pale-skinned slaves.
The cages halt along a broad, tree-lined avenue close to the heart of Tsanyang, with many-tiered wooden pagodas and brightly colored banners rising above the street. Three dozen long bamboo platforms have been erected along one side of the road, where passers-by can view them comfortably from the shade of the trees. Several prosperous-looking local Xaimani stride up to the cages, with slaves carrying chains and shackles behind them. The cages are opened, one by one, and the Northern captives led out to have the iron bonds fastened around their ankles. Most of the Northerners stumble, after months of hardly being able to use their legs at all. The guards push them up onto the platforms to stand, single-file, in the blazing sun. Then the spearmen step back, and the crowds surge up to the platforms, staring and shouting animatedly.
The legion’s heralds cry out over and over: “Behold the greatness of Xaiman! Behold the might of the Emperor! Behold the limitless power of his Empire, which now extends beyond Arawai to the northern lands of the Pale Folk. In lands unmapped and unknown, the Emperor’s glorious name is known and feared.”
“What’s the Emperor’s name again?” Atrix murmurs impertinently, as his leg is prodded by an inquisitive citizen.
“No idea,” Korael replies in a whisper. “I think it’s generally not spoken aloud, out of reverence.”
Atrix laughs, and gets a spear butt in his back. “But you mentioned his family earlier?” he says almost inaudibly when the guards’ attention is elsewhere.
“The Khou Dynasty,” the Jendae says. “They’ve lasted for centuries, at least since the last grand civil war. I don’t remember the details.”
“Once you’ve got used to having one Family in charge, I suppose it’s simpl--” Atrix breaks off, his face going taut. He has spied Agerain and Kay being displayed three platforms down. Both look pale, listless, and unwell. Kay’s eyes are closed, Agerain’s open but unfocused.
“Easy, d’Loriad,” Lucian hisses.
“I know.” Atrix swallows and forces himself to look away.
“Time later for vengeance, if we find he’s laid a finger...”
“I know!” Atrix snaps, and receives another blow for it.
THE PLAINS TURN to hills, the desert to grassland, the grassland to scattered pine forests. The spring grows hotter than a Northern summer, and much more humid. Unfamiliar broadleaf trees begin appearing along the roadside, as do stands of bamboo -- “cage-wood,” as the captives think of it. The first settlements they roll through are populated by a mix of settled nomads (Arawai, Sufza, and Jendae) and other peoples from further south, whose features and skin colors vary greatly. Soon, however, the villages are populated almost entirely by gold-skinned Xaimani.
The party members spend hours pressed up against the bars, taking in the mix of familiar and alien: farmers wearing broad, flat straw hats and driving plough-oxen around their terraces; women pruning and grafting fruit trees that look nothing like the North’s; seemingly fragile houses of finely worked wood, with sliding doors and broad verandahs; children in luridly dyed clothes running alongside the cages to stare at the strange slaves, dodging the occasional blow from the tolerant Xaimani guards. The captives begin to receive a strange, mushy, white grain in their morning food buckets instead of millet.
The forests grow denser around the army, and torrential rains begin to frequently turn the tracks into thick, choking mud. “They won’t be able to keep us in the cages for long,” Korael predicts. “There are hundreds of leagues still to travel before we reach Tziwan, and even a Xaimani legionnaire will mutiny if he has to pull slaves through the mire that far.”
THREE DAYS LATER, they emerge from the jungle into a broad, terraced valley and can see in the distance a sprawling city nearly the size of Lynar. “Tsanyang,” they hear their guards call it. The cages halt at the edge of the farmland, and the guards bring new clothing to each cage, all made out of the same rough gray fabric. The male captives receive a loincloth, the women a shoulder-baring shift which cannot be rearranged to hide their slave brand. By this point, the lack of privacy for changing seems normal -- hardly even reason for embarrassment.
With their rags discarded and wearing new gray slaveclothes, the prisoners are drawn along the cobbled road toward the gate of Tsanyang. Examining the steep outer reaches of the city, Ontaya deduces that it must have had a rather grand wall a hundred or more years ago, but the city long ago spilled up onto and over its fortifications, leaving only an indefensible sea of buildings and a few grand, ceremonial gates.
As the cages creak through the gate and into the packed outer markets, the prisoners are overwhelmed by the explosion of colors, smells, and sheer novelty around them. The packed streets are lined with shops selling strange foods and spices, vivid caged birds and elaborately inked wall hangings, ice and coal, alchemical powders and apothecarial drugs. While chatting with their customers, the Xaimani shopkeepers’ fingers deftly shift beads along small wire frames; Darren recalls hearing about something similar used by the Chramic merchant clans, a strange game that somehow aids counting. In small courtyards just off the main road, acrobats stack themselves into improbable pyramids and magicians -- real or fake? -- conjure bursts of flame and smoke from their broad sleeves. For the first time the party members see the beautiful crafts they will later know as porcelain, enamel, and lacquer-work. Street musicians strike padded bamboo sticks against intricate arrays of drums and draw their bows across keening instruments with at least three dozen strings. Thousands of curious Xaimani press up to an invisible line, roughly one arms’ length from the marching soldiers, to gawk at the alien, pale-skinned slaves.
The cages halt along a broad, tree-lined avenue close to the heart of Tsanyang, with many-tiered wooden pagodas and brightly colored banners rising above the street. Three dozen long bamboo platforms have been erected along one side of the road, where passers-by can view them comfortably from the shade of the trees. Several prosperous-looking local Xaimani stride up to the cages, with slaves carrying chains and shackles behind them. The cages are opened, one by one, and the Northern captives led out to have the iron bonds fastened around their ankles. Most of the Northerners stumble, after months of hardly being able to use their legs at all. The guards push them up onto the platforms to stand, single-file, in the blazing sun. Then the spearmen step back, and the crowds surge up to the platforms, staring and shouting animatedly.
The legion’s heralds cry out over and over: “Behold the greatness of Xaiman! Behold the might of the Emperor! Behold the limitless power of his Empire, which now extends beyond Arawai to the northern lands of the Pale Folk. In lands unmapped and unknown, the Emperor’s glorious name is known and feared.”
“What’s the Emperor’s name again?” Atrix murmurs impertinently, as his leg is prodded by an inquisitive citizen.
“No idea,” Korael replies in a whisper. “I think it’s generally not spoken aloud, out of reverence.”
Atrix laughs, and gets a spear butt in his back. “But you mentioned his family earlier?” he says almost inaudibly when the guards’ attention is elsewhere.
“The Khou Dynasty,” the Jendae says. “They’ve lasted for centuries, at least since the last grand civil war. I don’t remember the details.”
“Once you’ve got used to having one Family in charge, I suppose it’s simpl--” Atrix breaks off, his face going taut. He has spied Agerain and Kay being displayed three platforms down. Both look pale, listless, and unwell. Kay’s eyes are closed, Agerain’s open but unfocused.
“Easy, d’Loriad,” Lucian hisses.
“I know.” Atrix swallows and forces himself to look away.
“Time later for vengeance, if we find he’s laid a finger...”
“I know!” Atrix snaps, and receives another blow for it.
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havenstone
First Post
The Slave Road
THREE CARTS’ LOADS of slaves are sold in Tsanyang. The cages are dismantled; from here on, the Northern slaves are expected to walk in their shackles. For months they trudge through the intensifying summer swelter, dodging snakes and being devoured by insects. Ontaya does her best to discreetly heal the sores that develop on their ankles from the heavy chains, and Meeshak tries to encourage them with exhortations from his half-remembered dreams. They pass the babies back and forth among party members, with Ash and Ontaya taking more and longer turns as the children gain weight.
The terraces in the hills around them are flooded, with thousands of Xaimani women crouched to transplant small, vibrantly green plants into the brown water. As the summer passes with daily torrents of rain, this unfamiliar “rice” crop rises in the fields until they are walking through a landscape of gently undulating waves of lurid green, with the jungle rising beyond on all sides.
The slave train is constantly surrounded by murmuring crowds. Usually the curious Xaimani keep their distance, though there are a few exceptions -- notably during the Festival of Colors, which involves the Xaimani delightedly throwing lots of water and red powder at each other, leaving even the passing slaves drenched and dyed. No one throws anything at the legionnaires, of course; dishonoring a triumphal march would surely elicit severe penalties. When the wind is right, the captives can hear the Imperial Heralds at the head of the column, incessantly proclaiming the victory of the Xaimani legions over the pale Northerners.
ONE DAY THE throng parts rapidly around an unshaven, filthy Xaimani with cuts all over his body. The pariah lurches up to Ash -- who is carrying baby T’harai -- and shrieks out words the party doesn’t understand. T’harai gives a high, terrified scream, and Ash shoves the madman, who falls spasming and babbling to the ground. The rest of the crowd gives him a wide berth, while several legionnaires knock him away with the butts of their spears.
“Spirit-bound,” Korael says with fascinated distaste. “Don’t touch him if you can avoid it. The madness probably isn’t contagious, but no one knows for sure.” Ash looks down at his hands with concern.
“Who was that?” Kyla demands, quickly reclaiming the wailing T’harai. “What did he say?”
“The Spirit-bound are reported to be under the sway of powerful evil spirits that even a Xaimani High Priest or Jendae Elder finds nearly impossible to exorcise,” Korael explains. “They aren’t common, but I’m told one does come across them from time to time, especially in the slums of the bigger Xaimani cities. I don’t know why you don’t have them in the North. And what he said was: ‘Changeling -- a changeling.’”
That night, having rocked the upset T’harai to sleep, Kyla is awakened by his chuckling. She opens her eyes to see tiny sparks of light swirling around the half-Arawai baby. He meets her uncomprehending stare with a laugh of joy, and dust sifts up from the ground to briefly form an image of her face.
Looking around, she sees that Darren and Korael have also woken up. The young Jendae looks appalled. “Kyla... I didn’t think such talents existed in the North.”
“Oh, Ain! Tell me this isn’t... what that Spirit-Bound had?”
“No, no. This is magic. A Radiant Path talent -- I’m sure.” Korael looks around in dread to see if any soldiers are within eyeshot. “Kyla, the Xaimani will never abide this kind of power in a slave child. It’s worse than using swords. They’ll burn the babe’s mind away if they find him doing this, if they don’t just kill him outright.”
With her skin prickling uncomfortably, Kyla waves away the lights and dust and pulls T’harai close to her. “Stop, little one.” The baby begins to cry. “Hush, ssh. You mustn’t make the lights any more. We’ll keep you safe.”
From then on, the party members take watches during the night to make sure T’harai doesn’t provide any more displays that might alert the guards.
THE JUNGLE HILLS descend to a lush plain of rice fields and rain forests. The broad, muddy tracks they have been following give way to stone-paved roads, and one village begins blending into the next with scarcely any space between them. The houses and temples grow finer, taller, and more elaborate as the slave column marches into the densely populated heart of Xaiman. All around them, the party members see technologies (in bridge-building, roads, irrigation, and crafts from porcelain to paper-making) and cultural practices far more elaborate than anything they had known in the North. They pass through cities far larger than Tsanyang, and unremarkable towns that are easily the size of any city they have seen in the North. For the first time, even the Lynar-born Senallines feel like barbarians.
Late in the Xaimani month of the Burning Lotus (early autumn), they find themselves sharing the broad stone highway with another legion coming from the northeast, leading two strings of fifty slaves each. These captives have deep brown skin, narrow eyes, and dark hair turned golden by long exposure to the sun. They are being forced to keep up a slightly faster pace than the Northerners. One of them, a muscular young man with blacker hair than his compatriots and an incongruously jaunty grin, gives a discreet salute as he passes the Northern slaves. “Hail, strangers. The heralds keep calling you the Pale Folk. Surely Pink Folk would be more appropriate?”
“When we have to walk in the sun for months,” Ash replies ruefully. “What do they call you?”
“Lakshari scum,” the youth says with pride. “Three and a half centuries since the Xaimani managed to bring Lakshadar into the Empire, but we can still manage a rebellion now and then. Sadly, they all tend to end like this.” He gestures at the slave column. “These were desert tribesmen from the north country. We had a few good hits at the legions before the damned Radiant Path began destroying all the springs in the north and forced a surrender.”
“And you’re also from the desert?” Kyla asks.
“No, my Arawai rose. I’m a city boy who got lost and found myself in the wrong place at a very wrong time.” He grins at her. “My name’s Chandur, by the way.”
“You seem pretty cheery for a slave,” Meeshak comments dourly.
“Does it make sense to cry over it?” Chandur shrugs. His eyes brighten as he draws abreast of Carwyn. “True, the shackles make it more difficult for me to win ladies’ hearts with my dancing. You’ll have to take my word that I can strut and spin as beautifully as any man from here to Orokin.” Carwyn smiles in spite of herself.
“Did you not have any Radiant Path talents on your side of the rebellion?” Ontaya asks in a low voice.
Chandur looks over to her, his grin taking on a harder edge. “No. The Empire does its best to keep control over the mages. The Kardei insurgency sixty years ago taught them that. After all it cost them to pacify the Kardei, they’ve tried to make sure all talents are registered and watched. What about your little war up North?”
“No mages,” Lucian answers curtly. “We don’t have them in the North. Nor slaves.”
“Is that so?” the young Lakshari says, eyes gleaming. “Gods, no wonder you lost. No Radiant Path, lots of beautiful women -- it’s a miracle you weren’t overrun centuries ago.”
Atrix chuckles. “And here I was starting to think that no one in the South had a sense of humor.”
“No, that’s just the Xaimani. The other nations of the Empire haven’t acquired the permanent indigestion that’s the true mark of civilization.” Chandur drops his voice to a whisper as the guards driving his column approach. “Keep your spirits up, Pink Folk. If the Divinities are kind, in a few weeks we’ll see each other in Tziwan.” He winks at Carwyn. Lune bristles.
THREE CARTS’ LOADS of slaves are sold in Tsanyang. The cages are dismantled; from here on, the Northern slaves are expected to walk in their shackles. For months they trudge through the intensifying summer swelter, dodging snakes and being devoured by insects. Ontaya does her best to discreetly heal the sores that develop on their ankles from the heavy chains, and Meeshak tries to encourage them with exhortations from his half-remembered dreams. They pass the babies back and forth among party members, with Ash and Ontaya taking more and longer turns as the children gain weight.
The terraces in the hills around them are flooded, with thousands of Xaimani women crouched to transplant small, vibrantly green plants into the brown water. As the summer passes with daily torrents of rain, this unfamiliar “rice” crop rises in the fields until they are walking through a landscape of gently undulating waves of lurid green, with the jungle rising beyond on all sides.
The slave train is constantly surrounded by murmuring crowds. Usually the curious Xaimani keep their distance, though there are a few exceptions -- notably during the Festival of Colors, which involves the Xaimani delightedly throwing lots of water and red powder at each other, leaving even the passing slaves drenched and dyed. No one throws anything at the legionnaires, of course; dishonoring a triumphal march would surely elicit severe penalties. When the wind is right, the captives can hear the Imperial Heralds at the head of the column, incessantly proclaiming the victory of the Xaimani legions over the pale Northerners.
ONE DAY THE throng parts rapidly around an unshaven, filthy Xaimani with cuts all over his body. The pariah lurches up to Ash -- who is carrying baby T’harai -- and shrieks out words the party doesn’t understand. T’harai gives a high, terrified scream, and Ash shoves the madman, who falls spasming and babbling to the ground. The rest of the crowd gives him a wide berth, while several legionnaires knock him away with the butts of their spears.
“Spirit-bound,” Korael says with fascinated distaste. “Don’t touch him if you can avoid it. The madness probably isn’t contagious, but no one knows for sure.” Ash looks down at his hands with concern.
“Who was that?” Kyla demands, quickly reclaiming the wailing T’harai. “What did he say?”
“The Spirit-bound are reported to be under the sway of powerful evil spirits that even a Xaimani High Priest or Jendae Elder finds nearly impossible to exorcise,” Korael explains. “They aren’t common, but I’m told one does come across them from time to time, especially in the slums of the bigger Xaimani cities. I don’t know why you don’t have them in the North. And what he said was: ‘Changeling -- a changeling.’”
That night, having rocked the upset T’harai to sleep, Kyla is awakened by his chuckling. She opens her eyes to see tiny sparks of light swirling around the half-Arawai baby. He meets her uncomprehending stare with a laugh of joy, and dust sifts up from the ground to briefly form an image of her face.
Looking around, she sees that Darren and Korael have also woken up. The young Jendae looks appalled. “Kyla... I didn’t think such talents existed in the North.”
“Oh, Ain! Tell me this isn’t... what that Spirit-Bound had?”
“No, no. This is magic. A Radiant Path talent -- I’m sure.” Korael looks around in dread to see if any soldiers are within eyeshot. “Kyla, the Xaimani will never abide this kind of power in a slave child. It’s worse than using swords. They’ll burn the babe’s mind away if they find him doing this, if they don’t just kill him outright.”
With her skin prickling uncomfortably, Kyla waves away the lights and dust and pulls T’harai close to her. “Stop, little one.” The baby begins to cry. “Hush, ssh. You mustn’t make the lights any more. We’ll keep you safe.”
From then on, the party members take watches during the night to make sure T’harai doesn’t provide any more displays that might alert the guards.
THE JUNGLE HILLS descend to a lush plain of rice fields and rain forests. The broad, muddy tracks they have been following give way to stone-paved roads, and one village begins blending into the next with scarcely any space between them. The houses and temples grow finer, taller, and more elaborate as the slave column marches into the densely populated heart of Xaiman. All around them, the party members see technologies (in bridge-building, roads, irrigation, and crafts from porcelain to paper-making) and cultural practices far more elaborate than anything they had known in the North. They pass through cities far larger than Tsanyang, and unremarkable towns that are easily the size of any city they have seen in the North. For the first time, even the Lynar-born Senallines feel like barbarians.
Late in the Xaimani month of the Burning Lotus (early autumn), they find themselves sharing the broad stone highway with another legion coming from the northeast, leading two strings of fifty slaves each. These captives have deep brown skin, narrow eyes, and dark hair turned golden by long exposure to the sun. They are being forced to keep up a slightly faster pace than the Northerners. One of them, a muscular young man with blacker hair than his compatriots and an incongruously jaunty grin, gives a discreet salute as he passes the Northern slaves. “Hail, strangers. The heralds keep calling you the Pale Folk. Surely Pink Folk would be more appropriate?”
“When we have to walk in the sun for months,” Ash replies ruefully. “What do they call you?”
“Lakshari scum,” the youth says with pride. “Three and a half centuries since the Xaimani managed to bring Lakshadar into the Empire, but we can still manage a rebellion now and then. Sadly, they all tend to end like this.” He gestures at the slave column. “These were desert tribesmen from the north country. We had a few good hits at the legions before the damned Radiant Path began destroying all the springs in the north and forced a surrender.”
“And you’re also from the desert?” Kyla asks.
“No, my Arawai rose. I’m a city boy who got lost and found myself in the wrong place at a very wrong time.” He grins at her. “My name’s Chandur, by the way.”
“You seem pretty cheery for a slave,” Meeshak comments dourly.
“Does it make sense to cry over it?” Chandur shrugs. His eyes brighten as he draws abreast of Carwyn. “True, the shackles make it more difficult for me to win ladies’ hearts with my dancing. You’ll have to take my word that I can strut and spin as beautifully as any man from here to Orokin.” Carwyn smiles in spite of herself.
“Did you not have any Radiant Path talents on your side of the rebellion?” Ontaya asks in a low voice.
Chandur looks over to her, his grin taking on a harder edge. “No. The Empire does its best to keep control over the mages. The Kardei insurgency sixty years ago taught them that. After all it cost them to pacify the Kardei, they’ve tried to make sure all talents are registered and watched. What about your little war up North?”
“No mages,” Lucian answers curtly. “We don’t have them in the North. Nor slaves.”
“Is that so?” the young Lakshari says, eyes gleaming. “Gods, no wonder you lost. No Radiant Path, lots of beautiful women -- it’s a miracle you weren’t overrun centuries ago.”
Atrix chuckles. “And here I was starting to think that no one in the South had a sense of humor.”
“No, that’s just the Xaimani. The other nations of the Empire haven’t acquired the permanent indigestion that’s the true mark of civilization.” Chandur drops his voice to a whisper as the guards driving his column approach. “Keep your spirits up, Pink Folk. If the Divinities are kind, in a few weeks we’ll see each other in Tziwan.” He winks at Carwyn. Lune bristles.
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havenstone
First Post
Meeshak's Dreams
That night, Meeshak dreams:
That night, Meeshak dreams:
havenstone
First Post
The Heart of the World
NO ONE IN the party will ever forget their first glimpse of the shining pinnacle of Imperial Tziwan: dozens of gilded towers reflecting the sun, suspended at an incredible height above the treeline of the forested plain. Even the normally impassive Xaimani legionnaires cannot restrain the excitement and reverence in their voices. Nearly a year after the cataclysm at Guardwatch, the party’s long march south is nearly over. The trees thin out around them as they trudge onward, soon replaced by a warren of buildings built densely upon each other, with people seemingly living or plying a trade in every crevice, ledge, tunnel, and corner.
Then the party turns a corner and can see in the distance, rising out of this teeming ocean of houses, the glorious entirety of the central mount of Tziwan: nine vast tiers resting one upon the other, in a cascade of domes, hemi-domes, towers, and ornate battlements descending from the gold and ivory splendor of the Imperial Palace. The enormous pagoda spires jutting above the walls of the lower tiers look like miniature sculptures when set against the overwhelming mass of the mount above them. Banners big enough to shroud a Guildhall in Lynar hang from the walls of the fourth tier, covered in stark, vivid calligraphy and images of brilliantly colored beasts. The plodding column of slaves comes to a halt, trying vainly to fathom the scale of the capital mount. Gripped by the same awe, the soldiers stand still for several minutes.
After a long silence, Curago speaks hoarsely. “If this Empire has seriously turned its eyes North, the war is already over.”
THOUGH THE STREET crowds part quickly for the legions, it still takes the better part of a day for the triumphal column to descend to the muddy, mile-wide Shanyang river. They camp for one final night in a riverside military compound, with an outer field where the slaves sleep in the dirt. As the sun sets and seven moons rise, the river becomes a shimmering field of stars, with paper lanterns, torches, and magical spheres kindled on hundreds of ferries, barges, and trade boats.
In the morning, the slaves are led down to the Shanyang to bathe, washing their matted hair in the brown water and rinsing off the muck of the long road. (Atrix, who has put considerable resources into the skill of Looking Good At All Times, manages to come out looking almost like he’s been groomed for a ball, despite nearly a year’s growth of hair and beard). They are then loaded onto ferries across the river and marched through the seemingly endless outskirts of the great city. At last they come to a towering gate whose glass, gold, and enamel ornamentation catch the sunlight and create a brilliant nimbus around its peak. As in Tsanyang, a steep rise marks an outer wall that has long since been overrun by the sprawling city.
“The Celestial Gate,” says Korael, dry-mouthed. “I only remember a little about the map of Tziwan. Within this outmost, ninth tier, the tier without walls, are the qohei -- the residential quarters -- of the Empire’s favored subject nations.”
“What’s behind that first wall?” Ash murmurs, pointing to the massive battlement just ahead of them. The stone of Tziwan’s mount is ivory-colored and appears unnaturally smooth, as if the walls had not been built so much as grown. Along the very top, made tiny by distance, trailing flower-vines bloom in magenta, pale yellow, and silvery blue.
“The city of artisans, I think. And one of the tiers beyond that belongs to the legions.” Korael looks back from the immense wall. “We won’t be going there. Slaves are sold in the outermost tier.”
The road winds southwest for two miles, following the wall of the eighth tier to an enormous gate of dark bronze: the Slave Gate. The party can see Overlord Daiqao’s gold plate armor shimmering as he rides triumphantly through the gateway into the upper city, followed by most of his army. A few dozen legionnaires, under the command of cadan Tshien Lo Dan, remain to escort the shackled slaves further south.
Thousands of spectators from all over the Xaimani Empire line the roads around and beyond the Slave Gate. The cheers for the legionnaires are deafening, and the captives shuffle forward with shouts and taunts echoing in their ears: “Where are you from, barbarian? How many of your sisters and brothers escaped the net this time? Don’t worry, they’ll soon be here with you! What rock have you been hiding under, little whiteface, little onion? Did you think the Xaimani wouldn’t find you one day? They find everyone... Did Ii forget to paint you, or was it just not worth His trouble? We’ll put some color into you. Do you even understand a civilized language? Welcome to the heart of the world -- welcome to Tziwan!”
THE PARTY LIMPS into the grand slave market, a mile-long strip of raised stone platforms where human wares of all ages, nations, and sexes stand for inspection of passers-by. Some of the slaves are wearing gilt and perfume, others nothing but their own filth. Terrible shrieks echo through the market as women are parted from their children or gray-clad men are beaten for some infraction. Almost as loud is the constant, raucous haggling beneath the slavers’ canopies, where chains and shackles hang in great, vine-like clusters from the rafters. Many of the stalls are guarded by burly, branded men wearing rough gray slaveclothes but also brandishing clubs and staves. The side streets are lined discreetly with wheeled bamboo cages of all sizes.
A great square has been set up exclusively for the sale of the Northerners. Beneath the canopies on all sides of the square stand the Xaimani rich and noble, wearing radiantly colored silks and elaborate hair arrangements, carrying jeweled fans and weapons that appear to be both beautifully crafted and lethally efficient. Other robed men and women who appear to be priests and sorcerers stand among the nobles. Seated at a dais, surrounded by an impressive honor guard, is a thin-faced man whose pale gray robes are embroidered in gold and pearls with two shimmering, winged mythical beasts, their necks intertwined just below his high collar.
When the slaves have all mounted their blocks, cadan Tshien Lo Dan ascends the dais and kneels before the official, holding out his short ceremonial spear with the point toward himself. “Exalted Chancellor Hun. On behalf of qil-ayan Daiqao, I present to you these spoils of the great Northern campaign. If they do not please, my life stands forfeit.”
The Imperial Chancellor takes the spear, turns it upright, and hands it back to the soldier. “Rise, cadan. Your legion brings honor to the Emperor.” He turns to the assembled Xaimani nobility. “On behalf of the glorious and generous Emperor, his humble servant cedes the Imperial right to these spoils, and permits the Sword Path to open their sale to all the honored guests here present. All praise to the benevolent Emperor for his great generosity.”
“Praise and gratitude,” the nobles call back, clearly itching to approach the slaves. “The blessings of Heaven be upon him.”
The Chancellor and cadan descend from the dais. Tshien Lo Dan raises his spear and calls out in a ringing voice, “Let them be sold.”
NO ONE IN the party will ever forget their first glimpse of the shining pinnacle of Imperial Tziwan: dozens of gilded towers reflecting the sun, suspended at an incredible height above the treeline of the forested plain. Even the normally impassive Xaimani legionnaires cannot restrain the excitement and reverence in their voices. Nearly a year after the cataclysm at Guardwatch, the party’s long march south is nearly over. The trees thin out around them as they trudge onward, soon replaced by a warren of buildings built densely upon each other, with people seemingly living or plying a trade in every crevice, ledge, tunnel, and corner.
Then the party turns a corner and can see in the distance, rising out of this teeming ocean of houses, the glorious entirety of the central mount of Tziwan: nine vast tiers resting one upon the other, in a cascade of domes, hemi-domes, towers, and ornate battlements descending from the gold and ivory splendor of the Imperial Palace. The enormous pagoda spires jutting above the walls of the lower tiers look like miniature sculptures when set against the overwhelming mass of the mount above them. Banners big enough to shroud a Guildhall in Lynar hang from the walls of the fourth tier, covered in stark, vivid calligraphy and images of brilliantly colored beasts. The plodding column of slaves comes to a halt, trying vainly to fathom the scale of the capital mount. Gripped by the same awe, the soldiers stand still for several minutes.
After a long silence, Curago speaks hoarsely. “If this Empire has seriously turned its eyes North, the war is already over.”
THOUGH THE STREET crowds part quickly for the legions, it still takes the better part of a day for the triumphal column to descend to the muddy, mile-wide Shanyang river. They camp for one final night in a riverside military compound, with an outer field where the slaves sleep in the dirt. As the sun sets and seven moons rise, the river becomes a shimmering field of stars, with paper lanterns, torches, and magical spheres kindled on hundreds of ferries, barges, and trade boats.
In the morning, the slaves are led down to the Shanyang to bathe, washing their matted hair in the brown water and rinsing off the muck of the long road. (Atrix, who has put considerable resources into the skill of Looking Good At All Times, manages to come out looking almost like he’s been groomed for a ball, despite nearly a year’s growth of hair and beard). They are then loaded onto ferries across the river and marched through the seemingly endless outskirts of the great city. At last they come to a towering gate whose glass, gold, and enamel ornamentation catch the sunlight and create a brilliant nimbus around its peak. As in Tsanyang, a steep rise marks an outer wall that has long since been overrun by the sprawling city.
“The Celestial Gate,” says Korael, dry-mouthed. “I only remember a little about the map of Tziwan. Within this outmost, ninth tier, the tier without walls, are the qohei -- the residential quarters -- of the Empire’s favored subject nations.”
“What’s behind that first wall?” Ash murmurs, pointing to the massive battlement just ahead of them. The stone of Tziwan’s mount is ivory-colored and appears unnaturally smooth, as if the walls had not been built so much as grown. Along the very top, made tiny by distance, trailing flower-vines bloom in magenta, pale yellow, and silvery blue.
“The city of artisans, I think. And one of the tiers beyond that belongs to the legions.” Korael looks back from the immense wall. “We won’t be going there. Slaves are sold in the outermost tier.”
The road winds southwest for two miles, following the wall of the eighth tier to an enormous gate of dark bronze: the Slave Gate. The party can see Overlord Daiqao’s gold plate armor shimmering as he rides triumphantly through the gateway into the upper city, followed by most of his army. A few dozen legionnaires, under the command of cadan Tshien Lo Dan, remain to escort the shackled slaves further south.
Thousands of spectators from all over the Xaimani Empire line the roads around and beyond the Slave Gate. The cheers for the legionnaires are deafening, and the captives shuffle forward with shouts and taunts echoing in their ears: “Where are you from, barbarian? How many of your sisters and brothers escaped the net this time? Don’t worry, they’ll soon be here with you! What rock have you been hiding under, little whiteface, little onion? Did you think the Xaimani wouldn’t find you one day? They find everyone... Did Ii forget to paint you, or was it just not worth His trouble? We’ll put some color into you. Do you even understand a civilized language? Welcome to the heart of the world -- welcome to Tziwan!”
THE PARTY LIMPS into the grand slave market, a mile-long strip of raised stone platforms where human wares of all ages, nations, and sexes stand for inspection of passers-by. Some of the slaves are wearing gilt and perfume, others nothing but their own filth. Terrible shrieks echo through the market as women are parted from their children or gray-clad men are beaten for some infraction. Almost as loud is the constant, raucous haggling beneath the slavers’ canopies, where chains and shackles hang in great, vine-like clusters from the rafters. Many of the stalls are guarded by burly, branded men wearing rough gray slaveclothes but also brandishing clubs and staves. The side streets are lined discreetly with wheeled bamboo cages of all sizes.
A great square has been set up exclusively for the sale of the Northerners. Beneath the canopies on all sides of the square stand the Xaimani rich and noble, wearing radiantly colored silks and elaborate hair arrangements, carrying jeweled fans and weapons that appear to be both beautifully crafted and lethally efficient. Other robed men and women who appear to be priests and sorcerers stand among the nobles. Seated at a dais, surrounded by an impressive honor guard, is a thin-faced man whose pale gray robes are embroidered in gold and pearls with two shimmering, winged mythical beasts, their necks intertwined just below his high collar.
When the slaves have all mounted their blocks, cadan Tshien Lo Dan ascends the dais and kneels before the official, holding out his short ceremonial spear with the point toward himself. “Exalted Chancellor Hun. On behalf of qil-ayan Daiqao, I present to you these spoils of the great Northern campaign. If they do not please, my life stands forfeit.”
The Imperial Chancellor takes the spear, turns it upright, and hands it back to the soldier. “Rise, cadan. Your legion brings honor to the Emperor.” He turns to the assembled Xaimani nobility. “On behalf of the glorious and generous Emperor, his humble servant cedes the Imperial right to these spoils, and permits the Sword Path to open their sale to all the honored guests here present. All praise to the benevolent Emperor for his great generosity.”
“Praise and gratitude,” the nobles call back, clearly itching to approach the slaves. “The blessings of Heaven be upon him.”
The Chancellor and cadan descend from the dais. Tshien Lo Dan raises his spear and calls out in a ringing voice, “Let them be sold.”
Last edited:
havenstone
First Post
On the Block
THE BUYERS SURGE in. Auctioneers for the legion step up to each slave block and begin unshackling the slaves one by one and dragging them forward for inspection and sale. The auctioneer on their block begins with Lucian, declaring him a Northern warrior who would make a fine bodyguard. After fierce competition, the party’s Caragond friend is led away by a sharp-featured, middle-aged woman who eyes him appreciatively and comments that her “last champion fell in the Grand Arena at the summer games.”
Several of their other cagemates are sold in quick succession. Then, as Lune is brought forward, one of the legionnaire guards who taught him to play the tiles gives a quick nod to two oily-looking Xaimani in the middle of the auction yard. The two men make a strong opening bid for Lune. Carwyn tries to shuffle forward with Hamber to catch Lune’s arm, but the guards restrain her. After a few other quick bids, the auctioneer declares Lune sold, and pushes him off the block. “For that much money, he’d best be as good as you say he is,” one of Lune’s new owners says darkly to the grinning soldier.
“Put him on any table you please; he’ll win you back your gold in a week,” the guard promises in an undertone. The gamblers shrug and turn to leave. When Lune digs in his heels and points back to Carwyn, he receives a punch that almost breaks his nose. “One of you costs more than enough,” his new master snarls.
“No -- no, you can’t separate us,” Carwyn screams.
“Woman, if you want to keep your child, hold your tongue,” hisses another guard. Carwyn collapses to her knees, sobbing, as Lune is hauled away.
ONTAYA IS GRIMLY working to keep her fury in check when hears the cadan’s voice behind her. “This is the woman, slavemaster.” Turning, she sees the legionnaire commander accompanied by an older, shorn-headed Xaimani wearing muted gray slaveclothes and a fine silver chain around his neck with a Xaimani symbol pendant.
“This is the one who comes with the qil-ayan’s recommendation?” The slavemaster regards Ontaya dispassionately.
“She kept everyone in her cage alive.”
“I could not have done it without my friends,” Ontaya says at once. “They helped to keep order -- one leader alone could not have achieved it.”
The bald Xaimani nods dubiously, looking over the little group. “Such is the way of things.”
“Order can be better preserved by keeping a strong group than by dividing a house,” cadan Tshien Lo Dan says piously, clearly hoping to sell the party together at a set price.
“I have found it so myself. However, I do not know how many Northerners the Minister will require.”
While they haggle, Ontaya suddenly senses (against the general backdrop of selfishness and callousness) a stronger, sharper evil than any she has felt in her life -- a deep and cultivated malice, a cruelty so immense and inhumane it defies description. Her muscles clench as every instinct pushes her to charge from her block and attack the abomination. Instead, she cautiously turns her head and finds her eyes drawn to a tall, fine-featured man wearing long robes of ebon and gold under an elaborate black silk mantle. The elegant Xaimani has walked up to the blocks where the party and their cage-mates are being sold. His dark, serene eyes drift across Ontaya’s face; for a moment she is certain that he has sensed her presence, just as she sensed his. Then he looks emotionlessly away and calls out, “Three hundred for the prophet boy.”
“The Jendae to Archmaster Orozu,” the auctioneer responds at once. Korael, who had clearly not expected to have much bid for him, goes pale as he is dragged from the block. The black-mantled Xaimani also outbids several other buyers for Curago. Then Atrix is unchained and brought forward. Ontaya feels her stomach churn as Orozu regards Atrix with sharp, thoughtful interest and raises his hand to claim the auctioneer’s attention. The young paladin whirls to try to convince the cadan’s favored slavemaster to bid on them.
ATRIX, HOWEVER, HAS eyes only for the Imperial Chancellor, who has been wandering around the blocks chatting indulgently to several nobles. “Exalted Chancellor!” Atrix calls out in his most practiced Xaimani accent. The nobles catch their breath at this impertinence, and the three nearest guards angrily swing their staves and clubs in Atrix’s direction. The dexterous young d’Loriad ducks under their blows and spins into a deep obeisance. “Exalted Chancellor, forgive me for daring to speak in your presence.” He springs up into the air, again managing to escape the irate guards’ attacks. “But whether the Imperial Palace seeks a slave to serve gracefully, or to tell glorious tales of far-off lands, or to dance--” dodging a staff-- “you will find none here more capable than I.”
“Let him be,” Chancellor Hun says to the guards, sounding amused. “You have learned some eloquence in the common tongue, slave.”
“I am a quick learner, noble lord,” Atrix declares. “I know the stories, songs, and dances of my own people well, and I can learn a thousand others.” And if I’m going to be sold, then let me be sold to none lower than the Xaimani Emperor himself...
The Chancellor smiles benignly. “Five hundred for this one, cadan. He looks healthier than the others, and he may amuse the princes.”
“Six hundred.”
Again a handful of gasps arise, as Archmaster Orozu speaks out above the clamor. The Chancellor does not turn his head, but his voice acquires a distinct note of displeasure. “Eight hundred.”
“Nine hundred.”
“One thousand.”
“One thousand, two hundred.”
“Two thousand,” Chancellor Hun grates. A silence falls all around them. Ontaya releases her breath slowly as Orozu bows, his lips pressed together, and stalks off to join another auction. Curago and Korael are marched close behind him by his guards.
The Imperial Chancellor approaches the block to regard Atrix, his amusement gone. “The Archmaster clearly appreciates stories and dance more than I had imagined,” he remarks coldly to the cadan. “There must be scant amusement on the estate of Minister Goru.”
“Exalted Chancellor,” Darren ventures in a humble voice. The guards hesitate, unsure whether any of the Northern slaves are to be beaten for insolence. The Chancellor is clearly considering the same question. Darren continues hurriedly, not wanting to let Atrix be sold all by himself, and hoping to stick with his good friend. “Exalted Chancellor, I also know many stories of the peoples above the earth and the peoples below it -- and none of the other slaves have my gifts as a craftsman, with springs and gears and machines.”
The Chancellor purses his lips. “You understand the workings of mechanical devices?” When Darren nods eagerly, the Imperial official strokes his long, wispy beard.
“Glorious and exalted Chancellor,” Atrix murmurs, “he was indeed known in the North as the most clever and, er, new-machine-making young man in our humble nation.”
“Exalted one,” the cadan hurriedly says, “if you consider this second slave to be of any worth at all, please accept him as a gift to the glory of the Emperor’s name.”
“The eternal Emperor accepts your generosity,” the Chancellor says, still sounding disgruntled from his bidding war. Atrix dares a cheerful, slightly smug wink at the relieved Darren. “But having ceded the Imperial right to these spoils, we will not deprive our nobility of any more slaves today. Let these two be given to Slavemaster Chang and brought to the Palace.”
Ontaya is rubbing her head in weary incredulity at Atrix and Darren managing to get themselves sold to the Emperor. Then behind her, a voice speaks decisively. “Name your price, cadan. The Minister will have these remaining slaves and their young.” The slavemaster’s gesture takes in Ontaya, Meeshak, Carwyn, Kyla, and Ash.
“The Minister is both wise and generous,” Tshien Lo Dan says without inflection, and leans in to whisper in the older man’s ear. The shaven-headed senior slave nods again, and the remaining survivors from Rim Square are led down from the block.
“I am Slavemaster Daoran, head of the Tziwan estates of His Excellency the Minister of State,” their purchaser informs them. “Consider yourselves most fortunate to become the property of Minister Tang. His glory is reflected to even his least possessions, and an obedient slave will know a good life in His Excellency’s service.” The party members nod, though Carwyn still looks shattered. They are led away together along the same road by which they entered the market. Darren looks mournfully after them, but cheers himself up with the prospect that the Imperial Palace might conceivably offer more resources -- both to build his understanding of Xaimani society, and to arrange an escape.
ANOTHER SLAVEMASTER, a short and decorous-looking Xaimani, soon walks over to Darren and Atrix. “You are the two who so impressed the Exalted Chancellor?”
“His Exaltedness was kind enough to recognize us,” Atrix says, bowing low.
Their custodian raises one eyebrow slightly. “The Exalted Chancellor is always referred to as His Magnificence. ‘Exaltedness’ is not a word. I am Slavemaster Chang of the Imperial Palace. Follow me.”
As the three make their way out of the slave market, they pass a block where Kay and Agerain stand, both looking sicker than ever as they are jabbed and examined by a dozen potential buyers. Atrix grabs at the chance. “Slavemaster Chang: that girl may be unwell, but she is a dancer of exquisite skill.”
The short Xaimani looks dubious. As he considers Kay, a black-robed man who is examining Agerain lets out a sharp breath. “Auctioneer -- this one bears the mark of the oldest curse!” He is holding back Agerain’s lank hair to reveal the round white mark on his forehead.
The bidding and prodding immediately cease, as the would-be buyers shrink away. “No wonder he looks so sick,” a noble says with contempt. “What about the girl?”
To Darren and Atrix’s dismay, the Xaimani part Kay’s matted hair and expose the spot on her forehead where she was kissed by Death. The embarrassed auctioneer quickly shuffles them both off the block.
A slaver near Atrix shakes his head with a grimace. “Waste of good space. Should have checked those two before bringing them all this way.”
Atrix looks to him in desperation. “Where will they be sold, sir?”
“The Mines of Graiqal,” the slaver replies as Slavemaster Chang beckons the two of them onward. “They might live out the week.”
THE BUYERS SURGE in. Auctioneers for the legion step up to each slave block and begin unshackling the slaves one by one and dragging them forward for inspection and sale. The auctioneer on their block begins with Lucian, declaring him a Northern warrior who would make a fine bodyguard. After fierce competition, the party’s Caragond friend is led away by a sharp-featured, middle-aged woman who eyes him appreciatively and comments that her “last champion fell in the Grand Arena at the summer games.”
Several of their other cagemates are sold in quick succession. Then, as Lune is brought forward, one of the legionnaire guards who taught him to play the tiles gives a quick nod to two oily-looking Xaimani in the middle of the auction yard. The two men make a strong opening bid for Lune. Carwyn tries to shuffle forward with Hamber to catch Lune’s arm, but the guards restrain her. After a few other quick bids, the auctioneer declares Lune sold, and pushes him off the block. “For that much money, he’d best be as good as you say he is,” one of Lune’s new owners says darkly to the grinning soldier.
“Put him on any table you please; he’ll win you back your gold in a week,” the guard promises in an undertone. The gamblers shrug and turn to leave. When Lune digs in his heels and points back to Carwyn, he receives a punch that almost breaks his nose. “One of you costs more than enough,” his new master snarls.
“No -- no, you can’t separate us,” Carwyn screams.
“Woman, if you want to keep your child, hold your tongue,” hisses another guard. Carwyn collapses to her knees, sobbing, as Lune is hauled away.
ONTAYA IS GRIMLY working to keep her fury in check when hears the cadan’s voice behind her. “This is the woman, slavemaster.” Turning, she sees the legionnaire commander accompanied by an older, shorn-headed Xaimani wearing muted gray slaveclothes and a fine silver chain around his neck with a Xaimani symbol pendant.
“This is the one who comes with the qil-ayan’s recommendation?” The slavemaster regards Ontaya dispassionately.
“She kept everyone in her cage alive.”
“I could not have done it without my friends,” Ontaya says at once. “They helped to keep order -- one leader alone could not have achieved it.”
The bald Xaimani nods dubiously, looking over the little group. “Such is the way of things.”
“Order can be better preserved by keeping a strong group than by dividing a house,” cadan Tshien Lo Dan says piously, clearly hoping to sell the party together at a set price.
“I have found it so myself. However, I do not know how many Northerners the Minister will require.”
While they haggle, Ontaya suddenly senses (against the general backdrop of selfishness and callousness) a stronger, sharper evil than any she has felt in her life -- a deep and cultivated malice, a cruelty so immense and inhumane it defies description. Her muscles clench as every instinct pushes her to charge from her block and attack the abomination. Instead, she cautiously turns her head and finds her eyes drawn to a tall, fine-featured man wearing long robes of ebon and gold under an elaborate black silk mantle. The elegant Xaimani has walked up to the blocks where the party and their cage-mates are being sold. His dark, serene eyes drift across Ontaya’s face; for a moment she is certain that he has sensed her presence, just as she sensed his. Then he looks emotionlessly away and calls out, “Three hundred for the prophet boy.”
“The Jendae to Archmaster Orozu,” the auctioneer responds at once. Korael, who had clearly not expected to have much bid for him, goes pale as he is dragged from the block. The black-mantled Xaimani also outbids several other buyers for Curago. Then Atrix is unchained and brought forward. Ontaya feels her stomach churn as Orozu regards Atrix with sharp, thoughtful interest and raises his hand to claim the auctioneer’s attention. The young paladin whirls to try to convince the cadan’s favored slavemaster to bid on them.
ATRIX, HOWEVER, HAS eyes only for the Imperial Chancellor, who has been wandering around the blocks chatting indulgently to several nobles. “Exalted Chancellor!” Atrix calls out in his most practiced Xaimani accent. The nobles catch their breath at this impertinence, and the three nearest guards angrily swing their staves and clubs in Atrix’s direction. The dexterous young d’Loriad ducks under their blows and spins into a deep obeisance. “Exalted Chancellor, forgive me for daring to speak in your presence.” He springs up into the air, again managing to escape the irate guards’ attacks. “But whether the Imperial Palace seeks a slave to serve gracefully, or to tell glorious tales of far-off lands, or to dance--” dodging a staff-- “you will find none here more capable than I.”
“Let him be,” Chancellor Hun says to the guards, sounding amused. “You have learned some eloquence in the common tongue, slave.”
“I am a quick learner, noble lord,” Atrix declares. “I know the stories, songs, and dances of my own people well, and I can learn a thousand others.” And if I’m going to be sold, then let me be sold to none lower than the Xaimani Emperor himself...
The Chancellor smiles benignly. “Five hundred for this one, cadan. He looks healthier than the others, and he may amuse the princes.”
“Six hundred.”
Again a handful of gasps arise, as Archmaster Orozu speaks out above the clamor. The Chancellor does not turn his head, but his voice acquires a distinct note of displeasure. “Eight hundred.”
“Nine hundred.”
“One thousand.”
“One thousand, two hundred.”
“Two thousand,” Chancellor Hun grates. A silence falls all around them. Ontaya releases her breath slowly as Orozu bows, his lips pressed together, and stalks off to join another auction. Curago and Korael are marched close behind him by his guards.
The Imperial Chancellor approaches the block to regard Atrix, his amusement gone. “The Archmaster clearly appreciates stories and dance more than I had imagined,” he remarks coldly to the cadan. “There must be scant amusement on the estate of Minister Goru.”
“Exalted Chancellor,” Darren ventures in a humble voice. The guards hesitate, unsure whether any of the Northern slaves are to be beaten for insolence. The Chancellor is clearly considering the same question. Darren continues hurriedly, not wanting to let Atrix be sold all by himself, and hoping to stick with his good friend. “Exalted Chancellor, I also know many stories of the peoples above the earth and the peoples below it -- and none of the other slaves have my gifts as a craftsman, with springs and gears and machines.”
The Chancellor purses his lips. “You understand the workings of mechanical devices?” When Darren nods eagerly, the Imperial official strokes his long, wispy beard.
“Glorious and exalted Chancellor,” Atrix murmurs, “he was indeed known in the North as the most clever and, er, new-machine-making young man in our humble nation.”
“Exalted one,” the cadan hurriedly says, “if you consider this second slave to be of any worth at all, please accept him as a gift to the glory of the Emperor’s name.”
“The eternal Emperor accepts your generosity,” the Chancellor says, still sounding disgruntled from his bidding war. Atrix dares a cheerful, slightly smug wink at the relieved Darren. “But having ceded the Imperial right to these spoils, we will not deprive our nobility of any more slaves today. Let these two be given to Slavemaster Chang and brought to the Palace.”
Ontaya is rubbing her head in weary incredulity at Atrix and Darren managing to get themselves sold to the Emperor. Then behind her, a voice speaks decisively. “Name your price, cadan. The Minister will have these remaining slaves and their young.” The slavemaster’s gesture takes in Ontaya, Meeshak, Carwyn, Kyla, and Ash.
“The Minister is both wise and generous,” Tshien Lo Dan says without inflection, and leans in to whisper in the older man’s ear. The shaven-headed senior slave nods again, and the remaining survivors from Rim Square are led down from the block.
“I am Slavemaster Daoran, head of the Tziwan estates of His Excellency the Minister of State,” their purchaser informs them. “Consider yourselves most fortunate to become the property of Minister Tang. His glory is reflected to even his least possessions, and an obedient slave will know a good life in His Excellency’s service.” The party members nod, though Carwyn still looks shattered. They are led away together along the same road by which they entered the market. Darren looks mournfully after them, but cheers himself up with the prospect that the Imperial Palace might conceivably offer more resources -- both to build his understanding of Xaimani society, and to arrange an escape.
ANOTHER SLAVEMASTER, a short and decorous-looking Xaimani, soon walks over to Darren and Atrix. “You are the two who so impressed the Exalted Chancellor?”
“His Exaltedness was kind enough to recognize us,” Atrix says, bowing low.
Their custodian raises one eyebrow slightly. “The Exalted Chancellor is always referred to as His Magnificence. ‘Exaltedness’ is not a word. I am Slavemaster Chang of the Imperial Palace. Follow me.”
As the three make their way out of the slave market, they pass a block where Kay and Agerain stand, both looking sicker than ever as they are jabbed and examined by a dozen potential buyers. Atrix grabs at the chance. “Slavemaster Chang: that girl may be unwell, but she is a dancer of exquisite skill.”
The short Xaimani looks dubious. As he considers Kay, a black-robed man who is examining Agerain lets out a sharp breath. “Auctioneer -- this one bears the mark of the oldest curse!” He is holding back Agerain’s lank hair to reveal the round white mark on his forehead.
The bidding and prodding immediately cease, as the would-be buyers shrink away. “No wonder he looks so sick,” a noble says with contempt. “What about the girl?”
To Darren and Atrix’s dismay, the Xaimani part Kay’s matted hair and expose the spot on her forehead where she was kissed by Death. The embarrassed auctioneer quickly shuffles them both off the block.
A slaver near Atrix shakes his head with a grimace. “Waste of good space. Should have checked those two before bringing them all this way.”
Atrix looks to him in desperation. “Where will they be sold, sir?”
“The Mines of Graiqal,” the slaver replies as Slavemaster Chang beckons the two of them onward. “They might live out the week.”
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havenstone
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Imperial Tziwan
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