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A Counterfeit Complex [Storyline]


Ibn Khaldun
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𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮


The men in the boat, uneasy with each rocking of their vessel, finally found something resplendent enough to distract them from their source of tension. A canyon unfolded with striations of sandstone and clay, brighter red on top and a dusky purple towards the base of the canyon. The men took their time to make a concerted effort to spy the environs around the canyon from their vantage point.

 

“God, I might say this is more beautiful than the scarlet red of Chorasmi,” one of the men remarked in awe.

 

“I might make a landscape that could put it to shame!” another one of the men declared, draping the end of his turban across his shoulder as he stood.

 

The boat barely sat four and the other two men turned to their oars and steered towards the canyon. A small islet protruded from the shallow water underneath the canyon and the crew decided to moor their boat there. The men, giving thanks under their breaths collectively, hopped out of the boat and brought it further inland. A collective effort followed and they started a small campfire and managed to form a series of earthen mounds facing the sea.

 

All of the men divided up the rations they brought with them on their journey and set out on their assignments dictated by one man in particular among the four of them.

 

“Miqdad, set out past this canyon and see what you can find. I need you to take note of any settlements, encampments, and anything else that might be cause for concern for our wellbeing,” the leader instructed one swarthy man who set out sloshing across the shallow water between their camp atop the islet and the larger landmass. Miqdad held a recurve bow over his head to prevent it from getting wet as he marched into the tall grass below the canyon and disappeared.

 

“Karib, go ahead and take the boat. Let the others know we made it and our findings are promising. Tell that blasted geoturgist to not worry either, doesn’t seem like we have any immediate threats to our safety,” another man peeled away from the group, this time kicking at the moored boat and sending it back into the water.

 

Finally, the leader turned to his last companion. He smiled warmly as he rested his back against a hillock as if finally able to relax.

 

“Paint away Il’Watar aqi, it has been awhile since I’ve seen one of your intricate miniatures. We will be here awhile, so I imagine you can paint the first instance of our ensuing glory. I tell you aqi, we will render this canyon a better abode than Chorasmi must have been for its people.”

 

 

  • Out-of-Character Notes:

 

Spoiler

This event storyline (and in particular, the growing storyline location) is more immediate to those in the confines of the 'Southern Hub', but obviously is open to anyone interacting. I wanted to contribute an interesting storyline that will invariably be affected by how people interact with the storyline locations and/or characters. I am open to any Story Team members who would be interested in learning more and seeing how they can pitch in to make what will hopefully be an intriguing and challenging storyline.

 

These forum posts will slowly reveal the storyline. I ask respectfully that the contents of the forum posts not be metagamed, but will say that the location is discoverable and the characters will be found (and have been interacted with already by a number of players) across the southern hub areas.

 

Based on how people interact with the locations and characters, forum posts may be made that will reveal more of the underlying motives and actions of the storyline characters.

 

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𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

 

 

Miqdad made his way through the hall, half-hewn into the canyon, and found an alcove to rest in. He watched as a small Farfolk boy made swift work of tying up Miqdad’s horse in the shade of the towering canyon. Miqdad distracted himself reading the Qalashi script engraved in the side walls until there arrived a figure dressed in brown and purple robes who greeted Miqdad tersely. Miqdad lifted himself up and made room for the figure to sit in his company.

 

“Merhaba Marib, how are you faring?” Miqdad asked, turning to his new companion.

 

“Fair enough, though some of my students’ stubbornness can tax me,” the figure unfurled his turban and slung the fabric across both of his shoulders.

 

Miqdad reached beneath his tunic and withdrew a purse, the ringing of minas audible and catching Marib’s attention. Miqdad uncinched the purse and poured some of the coins into his lap and used his other hand to separate and count out what he poured. Marib looked dumbstruck, his face betraying his astonishment with each mina counted.

 

“Marib, I managed to get a fine fetch for some scavenged organs off of a rotting beast. God be good, I pray this helps our fortunes as the others continue to work on the hall. A dark-elf paid out the fortune and one of those great big Orcs & I got into a bit of a verbal altercation,” Miqdad laughed to himself as he picked up the divided minas and slipped them into a separate pouch. He held out the pouch to Marib.

 

“Miqdad aqi, be careful not to elicit too much attention. You know better than all of us the uncertainty of this land,” Marib counseled as he received the pouch.

 

Miqdad looked off into the distance in a moment of contemplation, then turned back to Marib.

 

“Marib aqi, I saw something most troubling returning here. I happened upon a party of two, both the man and the woman appeared to be Elven, and there felt a tense energy about them. The man had bloodshot eyes. I am no Majus, but I’d say the geoturgists should be ready lest any maji appear in our midst.”

 

“Let us hope that you may have just found some druids adventuring. After all, they are to our east,” Marib’ replied, his face grew dark as he let out a ragged sigh.

 

“Also, I met an odd horseman with these strange deer with antlers. He claimed he found them in the north. He mentioned our old chieftain in the wilting oasis,” Miqdad began as he saw Marib looked unamusingly at him.

 

“You could have started this conversation with that Miqdad aqi, what did this horseman say?” Marib interjected.

 

“He told me that he knew of our schism, though I did not tell him who I was. Either the wilting oasis is putting bounties on our heads or even more families have decided to depart. The horseman welcomed me to hunt with him any time and I,” Miqdad cringed with embarrassment as he continued, “welcomed him to our canyon hall if he happened upon it.”

 

The hall erupted with chastisement as Marib accosted Miqdad sternly in Qalashi. The halls echoed curse words and scolding remarks as Farfolk artisans laughed while laboring towards the completion of the first of many structures in the complex.

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𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

 

 

A boat, followed by another boat, followed by another came into view on the horizon. Farfolk men and women dressed in robes, boiled leather, and some dressed in gilded bronze armor came to the shoreline to watch the approach. At the head of the swiftest boat stood a man whose jewelry caught and reflected the full moon's light. As the boats encroached on the shallow shore, that man's smile shined almost as brightly as his ornaments. The audience at the mouth of the complex balled the ends of their robes in one fist and offered a hand to the sailing party; some grabbing hold of hands as people jumped off the boat while others gripped the boats and helped moor them.

 

A couple dozen people made it to shore and tied up their boats and made their way past the large columns holding up the frieze overhead that greeted them with engraved Qalashi script - a familiar sight for them all. Some filed into a rotunda and began to seat themselves on the floor or on what chairs they could find; this group sat in a circle and traded greetings. Miqdad slowly made his way into the rotunda and greeted the bejeweled man first with a lengthy and embellished exchange of words. Marib entertained their exchange for a few moments before interjecting and asking Miqdad to stand in the center of the gathering.

 

"Go Miqdad aqi, tell us now what you had found!" Marib exclaimed, ushering him to the middle and withdrawing back to the circle of gathered Farfolk.

 

Miqdad looked around, finding eyes fixated on him with expectation.

 

"Welcome Qahtan," Miqdad began, tilting his head in an awkward curtsy to the bejeweled man he greeted earlier, "All is well here in the Merv-e-ahma! Progress is continuing in a steady pace. . ."

 

Marib shot Miqdad a cold glance before interjecting, "Kesamlak Miqdad, you know damn well what I mean!"

 

"Ah, yes. . ." Miqdad cringed with frustration before continuing, "We had but one lonely soul who happened upon our abode. He came bearing a blade colored blue and would not explain where he came from. From our conversation, I found that he is not a human and he seemed to take a disliking when the Savoyards were mentioned. He would not inform me whether he came from the Druidlands or not so I can't rule that out as a place of origin for him."

 

"Miqdad, tell us what he took though," Marib reminded.

 

"Oh! He took the map to Chorasmia. . ." Miqdad confessed. Qahtan's head fell into his hands, the jangle of jewelry clanking against each other echoed in the rotunda.

 

"And?" Marib prodded further, his arms crossed with frustration at the reluctance to describe in full detail the incident.

 

"He mentioned that he was intent on blowing up a city," Miqdad remembered, his audience growing more alarmed and letting out gasps.

 

"Anti majnoon? Did he specify which city?" Qahtan retorted, standing up from his seat. Miqdad shook his head and didn't appear to have an answer.

 

"Marib, have some of the geoturgists take shifts to watch the grounds. Miqdad, I will have a contingent of spearmen at the entrance at all times. You truly are majnoon, he may have well been meaning this very city!" Qahtan shouted, he clapped his hands and ordered the group to disperse - some returning to labor on the half-hewn hall and others took up arms. Qahtan dispatched Miqdad & another man to scour the landscape and gather more information.

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𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

 

 

Marib al-Zanj entered the rotunda with his students, their feet kicking up corroded soda ash and flecks of salt into the air. They separated and stood at opposite ends of the room as the dust settled. They found a man, restrained tightly, in the centre of the room. The man could neither speak nor stand, his mouth gagged and his limbs tied together. He laid there peppered with salt upon salt, from both the residue that stained the floor and from his own perspiration. Panic excited the captive as his eyes darted frantically between each individual who had entered. 

 

His body began to toss and slide helplessly as he looked past Marib and found a crude collection of ossified creatures decorating a niche inside the rotunda. He cried out in muffled phrases as his eyes met the glassy eye of a calcified hawk; he lost the will to struggle as the eye mockingly reflected his own sad state back to him. His eyes welled with tears as he counted silently each rib of the frozen bird; the bones a silvery white with a chalky mineral cast over them.

 

Marib began his chant, ushering his students to follow with him as they recited in Qalashi. They eventually found a cadence in their recitation and chanted in unison as streaks of salt and soda ash manifested before them. The streaks of minerals grew longer and wider as it expanded towards the captive in the middle of the rotunda. The captive looked with horror as the manifested salts crept onto his clothing and seeped over his skin. The mineral, cold to the touch, began to parch what skin it made contact with.

 

The ritual, known as Tahjiri al-Ard in Qalashi, took an hour. In general, the ritual is one requiring great concentration and manifestation of copious amounts of salt and soda ash (also known as natron) in order to successfully calcify a victim. The premise is that the manifested salt and soda ash will ossify the body to the point that it remains ossified even after the earthen elements return back to the void. A small source of water, such as a pond or other small still pool of water, can also be affected by this ritual.

 

Marib quieted his students as their victim laid there stiff and still. As the minerals departed from the mundane world back to the void, they uncovered taut skin and parted hair calcified and colored white. The body laid there sturdy as a rock, limbs locked as if in rigor mortis and chest tight. Marib beckoned a few of his students to take chisels and ensure the ossified body separated from the floor. The dead man's eyes, expressionless with a thousand yard stare, had streaks of light grey where the tears had eroded away some of the alkali salt during the ritual.

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𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

 

 

An elderly Farfolk, broom in hand, looked to the floor as if training his eyes on rows of planted crops. He swept intently, dust and debris driven and gathered by his broom like dirt dug up by mattock and shovel. Rows and rows of the sandstone floor in the corridor looked spotless all by that lone elder’s labor. He looked up to find Marib pacing with determination towards him and took his broom to wipe away a pile of rubble clearing a path for Marib to continue into the interior of the lower complex. Marib shot him a smile, an endearing greeting, and a warm hand on the elder’s shoulder as they crossed paths.

 

Marib skipped down the flight of stairs that opened into a large rotunda, the draft from his robes passing nearly putting out the candles placed in niches on either side of the stairway. A great table flanked with six chairs whose backrests loomed tall over the plane of the table rested to Marib’s right; all chairs but one occupied by Farfolks. Qahtan, bedecked generously with silver and semi precious jewels, rang like a bell as he stood and welcomed Marib. Marib recognized Miqdad, Karib Felix, and Dhul’Qarnayn, but couldn’t conjure the names of the other two who sat in their company. Marib gingerly seated himself, spending the next few minutes greeting the others and helping himself to some of the prepared food that laid before him.

 

“Karib, how is your survey faring?” Qahtan asked, looking to start a conversation.

 

The young man’s eyes, olive in color which contrasted with his ivory skin tone, rolled and managed to reply without words. Karib tore off some bread, soaking up fatty grease from some of the meat in his ceramic bowl, before mustering up a verbal response. 

 

“Sarissa is a lone castle on a separate island with no one occupying its dead silent walls. I took some of our first boats and just returned from sailing the sea north of here. There is an even larger castle half-sunk and surrendered to an encroaching tide. Stones litter its immediate surroundings like caltrops meant for horses. I believe I saw some Qazmidwed before I sailed back.”

 

Qahtan clasped his hands and rested his chin atop them, enchanted by the description. He looked at Miqdad, grinning and asking, “Can you top that?” Miqdad’s hand, having scooped a morsel of liver, lingered in the air before Miqdad placed his food back down in his bowl with a huff.

 

“Majnoon hajji from San Luciano asked me to escort him the other day. When I say majnoon, I mean majnoon kateeran!” Miqdad started before his eyes fell on Marib rolling his eyes. Miqdad made an obscene gesture with one hand towards Marib before returning both of his hands to animate his story with lively body language.

 

“The hajji with staff in hand told me his staff could sense stone, but not sand see? He told me to escort him through the desert to his oasis. I looked the hajji straight in the eye and told him what made it his oasis. You know? Maybe he was a chieftain like the one we fled in the Fakhri oasis. Lo and behold, he went raving on about how all that the dunewalkers didn’t currently possess would be his.”

 

Qahtan stared at Miqdad for a moment before slamming a palm against the table. Both his jewelry and the panoply of ceramics and cutlery drummed against the table. Marib looked to Qahtan, chuckling softly to himself, and watched as the other guests roared with laughter with Qahtan’s being the loudest. The bout of laughter ended with the guests using any manner of clothing to wipe away tears and blot away running mucus from their noses. Qahtan looked around, making note of when the others gathered their composure again, then struck up another conversation.

 

“Ya asdiqay, I think our complex has grown to the point that we may expect travellers and passing sailors at our entrances. We have done well in remaining hidden, but the towering colonnades and friezes over our entrances become more welcoming,” Qahtan began. Marib leaned back in his chair, his upper body leaning to one side. Marib took out a token made of hardened clay and fumbled it between the fingers of his right hand, his glance moving between the token and Qahtan with apprehension. “Marib, you know that your work will remain safe and out of plain sight. Remind your students to be careful as they go about the complex lest we have guests and I don’t suspect we will have any issues,” Qahtan stated mildly, his own eyes fixed on Marib. Marib let out a sigh of relief and looked over to one of the other guests. Without a word, the guest stood up and left the gathering. The remaining members of the gathering voiced their approval for Qahtan’s motion and took turns bidding farewell before departing.

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𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

 

Banter, quarrels, and pleas echoed from wall to wall within the study. Many men and women packed the room, nearing shoulder-to-shoulder capacity, and engaged in all sorts of animated discussion with Marib seated at his desk. He clutched his hands together with knuckles interlocked and white from squeezing; it looked like the spine of a small rodent draped across his forearms. With the anger visibly written across his face, it made for a fitting simile. Across the desk and sitting with his back hunched and head hung low, Miqdad didn't dare reflect back the glare that Marib tried to lance through his forehead with.

 

"He was under your eye boy, have you any idea what this might mean for our kin?" a swarthy man, nondescript and dressed in a likewise unnoteworthy grey turban shouted at Miqdad's hunched back.

 

"You might have rung our dirge, the dirge of our great complex fool!" a woman, hair covered with a sheer purple veil, shrilled with melodramatic emphasis.

 

Marib seemed to line all of the mob's barbs in a row like a line of lances that he wanted to drive through Miqdad. He kept his hands together, but tapped them lightly on the desk to get Miqdad's attention. Miqdad looked up with a face that was as white as one could expect a tawny complexion to get. Marib stood and finally unclasped his hands; he decidedly used them to recover order in his study by lowering them from shoulder-height to his sides. He began to address Miqdad, acrimony tinged each word he spoke.

 

"Miqdad al'Lakhm, we've known you to be soft of heart and soft enough to let a fool child into our complex. We've known you to be trustful enough to let a bear bury its snout in your meal and trustful enough to not take notice of his whereabouts at all minutes of the day when he visited. Now you put me in the predicament of how best to ensure our complex's safety after the damn child found our terracottas and happened upon the frozen bodies of salt."

 

Marib looked up, noticing his students' eyes all on him now. He fumbled his tongue between his teeth and bit down, trying hard to keep a coolness about him that confirmed confidence and not concern. He looked back down at Miqdad and continued, "The Black Elvellyn child who poked and prodded might go recount his memories as all children are want to do. I have no doubt that most will blow him off as an embellished tall-tale teller who might make a good storyteller for the taverns some day, but I cannot rule out that it might attract unwanted attention."

 

Commotion broke out once more with calls for execution, exile, and all manners of punishment. Miqdad fearfully observed Marib's face, hoping that he didn't receive the suggestions with agreement. Marib looked with pity at Miqdad and gave the slightest shake of the head; Miqdad fell against the backrest of his chair with relief. Marib repeated his earlier gesture to dictate quiet in his study and waited until all that could be heard were murmurs that confided doubt in its content.

 

"Miqdad, with Qahtan's agreement, you will be spared punishment," Marib furrowed a singular brow to dare those standing shoulder-to-shoulder packing the room to protest, then continued, "but we will need to make a. . . show of force if you will. Sumfaya Il'Tariq, one of my students, has made it clear that one of the counties bordering us has seen mass migration out of its town. We will strike the town and raze it as a testament of our strength and hope it'll make any reconsider an easy assault on our complex."

 

Those gathered exchanged looks ranging from confusion to excitement to indifference. Miqdad couldn't spell out how he felt about the plan, but looked back for the first time to find a mixture of spear-bearing soldiers, geoturgist students, and Qahtan himself. He looked back to Marib, leaned forward, and asked, "Marib, mind you the rationale seems fair, but we may be flanked in our approach against Erwinsburg."

 

"Boy, you aren't getting away without repayment owed for the trouble you caused. You'll be clearing a ridge facing those isles and preparing a place for a set of mangonels," Marib replied matter-of-factly. He crossed his arms with a sense of satisfaction as he watched Miqdad hang his head again sullenly.

 

Spoiler

Credit to @Kujofor helping me figure a way to make Sorv- servants.

 

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Marib al-Zanj handed the missive off to another in a series of exchanges. By the time the parchment reached the last set of hands, those who passed it around had crumpled the fringes and smeared the ink in places. The low muttering belied a certain anxiety that the missive conjured inside the complex of Chorasmia Jadida. Glances averted any attempt to speak up with most eyes studying a bejeweled man whose gravity in the drawing room felt greatest.

 

Qahtan al-Habasha slid a bangle against his wrist and thumbed it off his arm. He twirled it a few times before opening his mouth to speak, "We have a decision before us. They have claimed the entirety of the deserts south of our complex and that includes Chorasmia Qadima. Do we move from the new to the old to protect what inspired us or we do find contentment with the new and leave off the old?"

 

A disaffected grunt was the first reply. Marib folded his arms as he found Il'Watar sourly voicing his disagreement. Il'Watar, a geoturgist who held some sway for his artisanal talents including the friezes and paintings that decorated their halls, had little appetite for anything resembling conflict.

 

"You'd have us leave this gilded hearth, beautified in ways that wayfarers say are unmatched, just to reclaim the older complex mired in rock dust and collapsing columns? They don't have any right to claim the entire desert, but nor do we as we are mere ex-patriots," Il'Watar argued with words dipped in invective.

 

"Do you think we are the only ones disenchanted with this jumpstart Sultanate Il'Watar? I'd wager we might have us a following, a host, to fall upon this attempt at empire," Qahtan asserted, slamming a closed fist into open palm as he said fall upon.

 

"That you would think to leave the complex, especially as civil war surfaces in Savoy which may spell disaster for us. . ," Il'Watar managed to say through clenched teeth. Feet scuffled against the dusty floor as men and women shuffled to flank either Qahtan or Il'Watar in shows of support. Il'Watar found his numbers fewer, but enough to embolden him as he continued, "We are fewer than Savoy, but we do not truly the numbers of this Sultanate. You may be tossing men and women against greater numbers and they may not be spared. I mean to hold this complex and to keep our new project alive."

 

"You mean to break us apart?!" Qahtan snarled, his face remained askew as he added insult to injury, "You mean to suggest that I am majnoon, but I am not the one so bullish to suggest that we split into two camps. I am the leader whom you can disagree with, but you take it too far in stating that you'll remain in one place whereas I mean to march to another!"

 

Marib took hold of Qahtan's shoulder and waved off Il'Watar. He motioned for the growing number of partisans to separate and go with their respective leader and mediated for the parties to stay separated.

 

 

Spoiler

This is related to a request by Nestro_Miner for an event for Fakhr.

 

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