Hephaestus

______________________________________________ MIHYAAR, THE CITY OF SKULLDUGGERY ______________________________________________ [Emē-gir] “𐤀𐤍𐤊 𐤕𐤁𐤍𐤕 𐤊𐤄𐤍 𐤏𐤔𐤕𐤓𐤕 𐤌𐤋𐤊 𐤑𐤃𐤍𐤌 𐤁𐤍 𐤀𐤔𐤌𐤍𐤏𐤆𐤓 𐤊𐤄𐤍 𐤏𐤔𐤕𐤓𐤕 𐤌𐤋𐤊 𐤑𐤃𐤍𐤌 𐤔𐤊𐤁 𐤁𐤀𐤓𐤍 𐤆, 𐤌𐤉 𐤀𐤕 𐤊𐤋 𐤀𐤃𐤌 𐤀𐤔 𐤕𐤐𐤒 𐤀𐤋 𐤀𐤋 𐤕𐤐𐤕𐤇 𐤏𐤋𐤕𐤉 𐤅𐤀𐤋 𐤕𐤓𐤂𐤆𐤍 𐤊 𐤕𐤏𐤁𐤕 𐤏𐤔𐤕𐤓𐤕 𐤄𐤃𐤁𐤓 𐤄𐤀 𐤅𐤀𐤌 𐤐𐤕𐤇 𐤕𐤐𐤕𐤇 𐤏𐤋𐤕𐤉 𐤅𐤓𐤂𐤆 𐤕𐤓𐤂𐤆 𐤀𐤋 𐤉𐤊𐤍 𐤋𐤊 𐤆𐤓𐤏 𐤁𐤇𐤉𐤌 𐤕𐤇𐤕 𐤔𐤌𐤔” [Interpreted] “Before his toes touch the threshold of Baal-Hazor, in Mihyaar, he reads,    The blood shed on Yultharan shores,    Since its beginnings, has spelled a splintered history.    Leaving the scene, Ur-Mihyar hums, “In the beginning was the word. In the beginning of the word was ‘blood.’ ” — CHRONICLE OF BAAL-HAZOR, 1732. ______________________________________________ INDEX I. History … a. Compiled History … II. Traditions & Rituals … a. Common Values … b. Naming Conventions; Onomastics … III. Distinctions & Attributes … a. Mihyaari Appearance … b. Lexicon … IV. Civilisation & Society … a. Caste System … b. Military … i. Ksathriya … ii. Instruments of War … c. Architecture … ______________________________________________ I - COMPILED HISTORY “With the basest companions, I walked the streets of Baal-Hazor, in whose filth and wickedness I wallowed, as if in a bed of spices and precious ointments.” — BELSHEZZAAR OF MIHYAR, 1663. In the far reaches of the west, crested by smog and haar, the peninsula of Yulthar settles itself — a realm parallel to that of the descendants. Jungle canopies mottle the forsaken stretch of land: bulwarking all in a shade and blackness which knows no breadth nor borders. For, there that land of beach and pier suits a secluded people — Yultharans — from which the first strata of Easterners is rumoured to have developed. Shantytowns and destitute wharfs littered the banks of that western archipelago, whose docks seemed adjacent those of the common descendant, wherefrom a caste of fief-owners and lordlings found their foothold — and at the summit of those ranks, was Ur-Mihyar. i. He is a language glistening between the masts, ii. he is the inquisitor of strange words. These words were said of Ur-Mihyar: a pillar of Yultharan secularism, and martial fortitude. And, all leagues of common Man coalesced at the fief-lord’s beck and call; ranks which would stretch from seabound sailors to the likes of Aeldinic holymen and downcast courtesans. It was the destitution and carnage of Yulthar from which their desperation came, in terror of the fiends and bogeymen who besieged the fortress’ and battlements of the Yultharans, and lingered in the dankest precipices of the peninsula, when night settled. Ur-Mihyar’s gospels vowed solidarity in that final bastion of Yultharans. For, preservation was the name of that enclave’s grave game — breeding the least shreds and vestiges of valour and will in the fellest of souls. The refugees stood the ranks of that caste, once so few, so many that their numbers tallied those of a nation; all cattle bound to one another, brother-by-brother, in the very same yoke. Baal-Hazor, it was known, this fraternity of theirs. Splintered by reason of those beasts which found solace in the embrace of night, however, the folk of Ur-Mihyar’s caste, which stacked stones so high that their spires were once fated never to be toppled, were cast and driven from the shantytowns of their comeuppance as exiles. Tempests from all four corners of the realm encroached the ships of Ur-Mihyar, their steepled sails sundered by the violent gales, sending the fellowship into the bowels of the sea — their ships subsumed by tossing tides and currents, doomed to see not a shred of day any longer. The riptide subsided, and stragglers from that motley Yultharan band escaped the watery below. And, from below their waists, they took sight of a shoal which churned with some ineffable blackness. Feared and revered in equal gravity, this wanton body of water was dubbed the False Sea, tapering to a narrow inlet which spanned all of Rh’thor’s exotic reaches in many an offshoot stream which foamed with that unnamable iniquity. For, situated within the dreaded moors of Rh’thor, the folk of Ur-Mihyar cobbled walkways which stretched into reaches yonder fro. And, they did stack their stones once more, two-by-two, their spires and minarets spangled with thatch and manure. Though furtive they were, that band of exiles broke bread with the denizens of the sea-girt realm of Rh’thor, eclipsed by leaden fumes, and postulated like sons under the same sun. They shared bridechambers, and joined one another under the briars of marriage and familial covenants; so much so that these Yultharan lepers immersed their own skin with scar-borne seals and glyphs. They were mementos and signets of lineage, aspirations, and triumphs. Yultharan minstrels and bohemians said, of this newly-charted peninsula, "Undeath has changed this city's shape—this stone is a child's head— and smoke is exhaled from Man's lungs. Each thing recites its exile." It was here from which the present Mihyaari covenants of Baal-Hazor were contrived, joining the Easterner and Rh’thoraen conventions and values under a single ethnos. A syncretism of cultural identities which prospered to constitute this doctrine. Cast from the Rh’thoraen steppe, the, then decrepit, fief-lord, Ur-Mihyar, decreed a second exodus from the Xionist prairie. Consensus with regards to his declaration is undefined, however, and is interpreted as largely apocryphal. It is suggested, by wit of some chronicles, that the thane disparaged the catechumens and laymen of Geitheros, the Red Prophet. Others argue it was by reason of his nigh-failing grasp upon common logic — the early frameworks and pygmy of his later-developed mania. The banks of that forsaken peninsula became rife once more with the sails of the exiles, thrashing before their vessels were launched into unknown vistas in the east. And, on the first fortnight of their trek eastward, Ur-Mihyar laid claim and dominion to the waters which the oars of their ships ploughed: sea to glistering sea. “Let this strait, from its inlets in the east, to its banks in the west, be known as Baal-Hazor. And her people, let them be known Baal’hai.” — UR-MIHYAR, 1693. And, it was during the first of their sea-bound summers, that plague and malaise plundered Ur-Mihyar, sending him into his death’s throes. It was later written; [Emē-gir] 𐤀𐤋 𐤉𐤊𐤍 𐤋𐤊 𐤆𐤓𐤏 𐤁𐤇𐤉𐤌 𐤕𐤇𐤕" 𐤀𐤋 𐤀𐤋 𐤕𐤐𐤕𐤇 𐤏𐤋𐤕𐤉 𐤅𐤀𐤋 𐤕𐤓𐤂𐤆𐤍 𐤊 𐤀𐤉 𐤀𐤓𐤋𐤍 𐤊𐤎𐤐 𐤀𐤉 𐤀𐤓 𐤋𐤍 𐤇𐤓𐤑 𐤅𐤊𐤋 𐤌𐤍𐤌 𐤌𐤔𐤃 𐤊 𐤀𐤉 𐤀𐤓𐤋𐤍 𐤊𐤎 𐤌𐤉 𐤀𐤕 𐤊𐤋 𐤀𐤃𐤌 𐤀𐤔 𐤕𐤐𐤒 𐤀𐤉𐤕 𐤄𐤀𐤓𐤍 𐤅𐤌𐤔𐤊𐤁 𐤀𐤕 𐤓𐤐𐤀𐤌 𐤀𐤋 𐤀𐤋 𐤕𐤐𐤕𐤇 𐤏𐤋𐤕𐤉 𐤅𐤀𐤋 𐤕𐤓𐤂𐤆𐤍 𐤀𐤃𐤌 𐤀𐤔 𐤕𐤐𐤒 𐤀𐤉𐤕 𐤄𐤀𐤓 𐤕𐤐𐤕𐤇 𐤏𐤋𐤕𐤉 𐤅 𐤔𐤕𐤓𐤕 𐤌𐤋𐤊 𐤑𐤃𐤍𐤌 𐤔𐤊𐤁 𐤁𐤀𐤓 𐤉 𐤀𐤓𐤋𐤍 𐤊𐤎𐤐 𐤀𐤉 𐤀𐤓 𐤋𐤍 𐤇𐤓𐤑 𐤅𐤊𐤋 𐤋 𐤕𐤓𐤂𐤆𐤍 𐤊 𐤀𐤉 𐤀𐤓𐤋𐤍 𐤊𐤎𐤐 𐤀𐤉 𐤀𐤓 "𐤌 𐤀𐤋 𐤀𐤋 𐤕𐤐𐤕𐤇 𐤏𐤋𐤕 𐤀𐤃𐤌 𐤀𐤔 𐤕𐤐𐤒 𐤀𐤉𐤕 𐤄𐤀𐤓𐤍 [Interpreted] “Given at the seventh of Yathrib, this year of 1696, It was Ur-Mihyar, with whom I have not very much camaraderie nor chummery, wherefrom that noisome hacking in the night came. The thrumming which sent the bosom of my ear ringing with unease. The furtive mourning and gibbering which ululated for the remedies and ointments at his bedside. I was called unto his bedchambers, at which I took sight of his apathetic state. He was as if a praying mantis, the ends of his hair burnt to a brittle straw; and, dank cavities with which his pallid eyes were carried. His pores were inflamed, ‘O Promised-Lord, with cysts which were like the citrus forage and fodder of Baal-Hazor, now many a sea away from me. Now, Ur-Belshezzar dresses in his borrowed robes. The litany of burial and sepulture is due, in the coming month. I fear what havoc is afoot. Light the candles: this winter will be no easy one.” — MEMOIR OF SHADRACH OF YULTHAR, 1696. Those antiquated ships flanked ramshackle, descendant docks, ringing out with a discordant fanfare which trilled throughout the Arcas steppe. The tallow-skinned seamen of old Baal-Hazor charted that shoreside bearing the same fruit of their antiquity, on the shores of Yulthar: penury. Penniless and hapless in equal severity, those Yultharan paupers mounted wares astride their mules and mares, and horses and howdahs – from corner to corner, festooned and decorated with threads and wreaths, those proud mounts. Their newly vested regnant lord, Ur-Belshezzar, rode in tow, settling himself within some gaudy palanquin at its forefront: charging the Baal-Hazor band into new vistas of discovery and civilization. The diaspora sequestered themselves in caverns measureless to Man, charting the extremities of the earth. Beset by the winter clime of the hollow below, and driven to lunacy by reason of their isolation, however, the paupers stooped so low as to pillage the alms and arms of nearby hamlets and boroughs, though squalid and feckless they were. And then, the name of war was spilt from lip to lip, only hushed hearsay: crescendoing into some great concert and call to heed which thrummed throughout the subterranean depths and all the way to kingdom come. On the solstice of that year, the straits and streams of a curious island babbled with the gore of Baal-Hazor, its people plundered and thrust into the throes of warfare with the fell marauders of Seyam. And, smoke ran like fine molasses in the near vista: invoking, for once, a fear which could not be quelled in the spirits of those penitent folk of Baal-Hazor. How the mighty had fallen, that, distressed by the strife of those sun-kissed Seyami, the diaspora acquiesced to their wishes and conventions — catapulted into the snares of indentured servitude, by the conniving warmongers and slave drivers. Christened as Mihyaar, a bastardization of the people’s father, the term means to topple, in Seyami, torn from the lips of lamenting Mihyaari footmen, in mockery and debasement thereof. Having misheard the shamefaced weeping of the Mihyaari on the frontlines, the Seyami misinterpreted the namesake of the dirges, Ur-Mihyar, as a word of their own persuasion. The Mihyaari settled their palanquins in some dank stretch of saharan sands. And, they sang ballads amongst one another, hollering, i. Everything under the sun is my adversary. One and all. All and sundry. And, as if from the blue beyond, came a braying man in the borrowed robes of Ur-Mihyaar; his feet, like burnished bronze; and marred were the fringes of his beard; his rhinestone eyes were as if factories far away; and, when he spoke, the sound of his words was like the sound of multitude, almost as if the drumming of many peals of thunder at once, and his rhetoric was so sharp that it was like a double-sided sword. He hitched his foal to a vine, and his mare’s colt to another vine — and he spoke unto them. The rock striations and formations had become unwound, and in the dune he tore a gorge within whose rifts ran silver threads, often. This refuge — this port in the storm — was dubbed Baal-Hazor, in honour of the timeworn hamlet in Rh’thor: Baal, meaning Tabernacle, and Hazor denoting, in a rudimentary sense, a hamlet or dwelling. This man bode well, refashioning the splintered pieces of Mihyaar into a hardier litter. Hearsay would tell that this man was Ur-Mihyaar brought from the living-dead: reincarnated, for all intents and purposes. He introduced himself as Shah-Almaz — the Diamond-Vehicle — and was vested the pharaoh thereafter. The oracles of Mihyaar postulated that, in times of strife, the tension in the state would aggravate the old bones and stones of Ur-Mihyaar, thrusting him to pick up the pieces anew. ______________________________________________ II - TRADITIONS & RITUALS “The ruins Baal-Hazor left on the mottled rockplains of Seyam appear and fade like the traces of a tattoo on the back of a hand.” — BALLADS AND MINSTRELSY, MĀT-DARIUS-AKKAD. 1818. COMMON VALUES CAROUSAL AND CELEBRATION A tonic against the carnage and turbulence of their history, the folk of Baal-Hazor are merrymakers. The temporal, worldly pleasures and means for amusement are coveted — as devices to muddle and take what little power sits in the mutinies and entropy of their history. These people relish in earthly revelry, launching the basest of occasions and happenstances into garish festivities, and find resolve in the chimes and chords of pompous celebration. Ergo, there is a certain helter-skelter and frenzy to the activities and conventions of the people of Baal-Hazor. Punctuality is not an absolute priority, and outside of their regard. There is always solace in the wildness of leisure — be that, cavendish and tobacco, or ballads and carols. "[Those] who walked the streets of Baal-Hazor are dark and veiled. Oft as not, they walk in troupes, or lounge in palanquins of ebony and ivory— hidden behind dim curtains to fend against the elements, and borne through cities upon the backs of slaves. How they ring out with the chimes of bondage: clinking shackles and chains." RITUAL DECEPTION Desperation and beggary has fostered a new tongue which the bannermen of old Mihyaar have adopted as their native jargon: lies and deceit. By reason of their adversity, the Mihyaari of Baal-Hazor relished the base activities of guile and trickery, and debased themselves among one another if the vile act would bring riches and resources. Treachery, fraud, and subterfuge were excused in the pauperdom, in its antiquity, established as pillars of society, by which means they would turn their hovels to halls, and meadows to Moorish forts which cast a colossus shade that would ensheath the hamlet in a twilight only quelled by the lights and wicks of celebration and festivity. It was here that their haphazard games of poker and other fiendish wagers would crescendo into dynasties which inspired reverence and fear in equal gravity. Mihyaari tall tales would later tell of a swindler whose lies would resound with such cadence that he could lay domain over snakes, serpents, and the likes, launching him into the fruits of strategic stardom. ABLUTION IN ASH Smut and cinder clings to the skin and rind of all Mihyaari. From the fringes of their fires, which danced throughout the night, they coveted ash and soot: instruments for cleansing. The ashes which foul their faces are mementos of the long-dead, and fire is the great lockbox of things — those sealed away, within which the char of firewood, and the spirits of those rendered lost to life and time, are able to travel between the corners of the world. On the dawn of each arrival, a Mihyaari will relieve the coke and soot of his forebear, and char his features with a mask of smut and fire-sediment — almost talismans to stave off ill-wishes and misfortune. The Mihyaari have long held stock in this superstition, that it has crossed the threshold from cultural convention to religious covenant. Ash is a tool through which lords are consecrated, and thieves are cut down; through which sinners are chastised, and saints are immortalised. BRANDS AND SIGNETS A rite bred from breaking bread with their brothers in Rh’thor, brands and tattoos streak across the frame of a Mihyaari from head to heels. To each seal is its own value, and purpose: be that, a mark of arms, lineage, or accolades. Cultic devotion and amuletic protection had its own hand in body art and the tattoos of the Mihyaari — inspiring forces of fortune and the powers that be to join paths with he or she who has accepted their Rh’thoraen forbearance. So opposed to the traditional means for tattoo inscription, the Mihyaari exercised branding in a ritual which called for burnt candlenut oil. This solution was ordinarily practised through rending the skin, and saturating the tissue with motifs of all varieties and qualities. Memento Legatum was said of the Rh’thoraens. It is for this reason that flaying is so lamented, among the likes of old Baal-Hazor’s folk. The rind has been pulled from the pulp: no traces nor mementos. ALL THAT GLITTERS When entombed in the shade of Baal-Hazor, that mausoleum-world of dark and dusk, only the torches of celebration were devoted to quelling that total lightlessness. And, from the bowels of the earth, the miners of Mihyaar procured diamond teardrops and loaves and wedges of gold, and relished the many beads and baubles, and gemstones and jewels. In that time so premature, when the people of Baal-Hazor had only just discovered the fruits of drunkenness and carousing, the last slivers of light in old Mihyaar were focused through gilded ornaments and curios. Glassy chains, hooks, and encrusted threads ensnare the folk of Baal-Hazor: and, vanity was their plight. To those who could afford it, at least. To this very day, the approach of a Mihyari is, often as not, heralded by the ringing and clinking of glistering baubles and decorations — testaments to their decadence. HOOKS GALORE The dervishes of old Baal-Hazor developed all manner of interesting designs and sacraments. Their criminal enterprises led them to many a revelation, from which they became privy to the lamentable avenues of flagellation in self-condemnation and decoration. Often will the laymen of Mihyaar embed demented hooks and hewed points into their skin: the bulb suspended at one cleft of their ash-caked face, and the narrow prick of the hook jutting from the next. All fashions of briars and needles crest the clerics of this peninsula, sounding out in pangs of contrition and repentance. From driving skewers behind the eye, to perforating and piercing the skin beneath the nails, survival is tenuous to those with the gall to engineer and contrive the most terrible, doleful of piercings and modifications. REINCARNATION All men, be they rich or poor, return to their mantle in the land beyond death. The Mihyaari, much like other cultures of their time and region, long sought for dominion over death. Inhibition in the face of the Rh’thoraen practice of necromancy, however, would prove to hinder their mastery over eternal, primaeval rest. To warm their spirits and console themselves in their uncertainty, the men of Baal-Hazor spun tall tales of men brought to the world after their passing by the powers-that-be. Relivened, or reincarnated, to fulfil unkept vows and oaths. They put stock in a threefold-cycle, consistent with life, death, and rebirth. Even then, however, undeath and evading death contribute in part to Nemurîtòri, the mantra of conflicting with mortal order — an inherently wrong machination. Thus, living-from-beyond is only on a spiritual level, so as not to vertically oppose the natural, threefold-order. GORHEN’S FOLLY Derived from the poor soul who served as the first recorded instance of this ailment, it is said that those who wander the vast expanse of sand for too long are struck by fallacy and fantasy, babbling about kingdoms and a mighty noble folk that never were. All manner of healers have proclaimed cures, but their authenticity always varies. What is certain, however, is a certain wariness when trekking the desert they call home, for it may just as soon devour their mind before their body. PRACTICES SKINTAKING It was said by the Mihyaari that with time, all temporal, material things find their ways back to their earliest possessor. That was, without the skin. Being that the signets, and names, and covenants of homes were often borne on a person’s rind by way of tattoos and inscriptions, the skin was made, by designation, a person’s tapestry. Hence, in trial and tribulation, it is a Mihyaari man or woman’s ever-avowed oath to grow their tapestry. Merit and value of skin, for this reason, was particularly especial. On a more sacral level, the belief was held by the Mihyaari that the skin is what binds the soul or spirit to the material world; anchoring he or she to the realm. On the frontlines attended by the Mihyaari, who had his skin was not yet dead. Thus, taking one’s skin — the wicked practice of flaying — was chief among the endeavours of the Ksathriya and Brahmin, the noble and oath-vested warmongers and warriors of Ramasar. It was the only way to ensure one had truly left the world: letting no trace of his or her being known to any soul save empty consciences. This came often at the cost of relative familial history being lost to the annals of time. Traditionally, a Brahman or Ksathriy warrior would strip their foe of their skin and rinse it of impurities, enriching it with jewels in the stead of eyes, etcetera. Certain sources document that the noblest houses would cling to the skin of their viziers or pharaohs, hanging them here and there and about as curtains and draperies, so as to ensure the charms of those kings and governors would not leave the old homes. The practice is, however, for all intents and purposes, the greatest shame and taint to an individual or dynasty. BULL-LEAPING A cultural mainstay and an art in its own right, the ritual sport of bull-leaping was practised in the bulk of Ramasar’s regions and cantons. Much to its attributed name, the activity details an acrobat or Ksathriya and/or Brahmin warrior — male and female — literally vaulting to, over, or from a charging bull. This would often entail grasping or seizing the dual horns of a bull, through whose support the acrobats would somersault or practice all manner of agile, gymnastic feats over the bull. At the moment when the stunt-artist grasped the animal’s horns, the bull rabidly forced or jerked its head upward, providing the acrobat with the necessary momentum. Variations of the sport are practised. Occasionally, the ringleader might release a bull into an assorted group of acrobats, sending it into a rabid frenzy as participants might attempt to bridle the animal and vault over to the other side. Or, the olympian might practice a more streamlined rendition of the sport, wherein they would pole-vault over the bull — the tamer of the sports. The religious and cultural significance of the practice is disputed. In a broader sense, it portrays the Mihyaari people’s hubris and larger-than-life approaches to the harshest climates and most arduous feats. Ritual acrobats have attributed an allegorical meaning to the sport. That, the bull characterises/represents the sun or the elements, filtering the able-bodied from the weak, in the clergy. Similarly, bull-leaping is shared across coming-of-age rites and electing ministers and governors: a means for determining caste and value in society. GREETINGS When exchanging hellos, it is known good faith to spit at the opposite fellow’s feet. In a land and climate where water is pertinent to survival, offering such to a stranger tightens bonds and entails a generous, amicable kindness that is not often seen elsewhere. BURIAL RITES Men and women of Mihyaar hold stock in the belief that the dead need not be restricted nor consigned to the earth. Individual rites and practises are unnumbered, of course, but a rotation of means for burial are shared between the covens and families of Mihyaar and Baal-Hazor. The most streamlined and seminal of these services is cremation. Predictably, this practice discloses that the deceased be reduced to ash following a celebration of dimensions proportional to the life and death of the individual, hence merchants and kings are more often sent away in events of greater magnitude and pageantry. Thereafter, he or she is blazed by any convenient means, and resigned to a tub where their remains may be abluted/cleansed with. Tantamount to cremation is mummification. Reserved for gentry and merchants, at least, the service is consistent with decorating the deceased in the most decadent and gaudy of designs, that is, amulets, talismans, and any monetary possessions or curios. The individual is thereafter sepulchred in a sarcophagus which was often made a display of in the deceased’s court, were they a king or landowner of sorts. However, this practice is largely impractical, being that death, as it stood, is believed as impermanent, at a grander scale, and the individual would have little to no use of any talismans or coin consigned to the sarcophagus. Sky burial, the last of the burial services widely accepted, is penultimate to cremation. The observance details the newly deceased being posted or put to rest at a high elevation, often at sand dunes and hillocks. This ritual gives way for birds of prey, vultures, and larks to deliver the cadaver elsewhere, returning the deceased to another life and continuing the wheel of nature. In the end, though, it is important to note that, given the spiritual impermanence of death, funerary practises in Mihyaar hold little to no sacred merit. They are only pleasantries. RAS-VIDA Ras-Vida is interpreted as a blanket term for any manner of divination or natural medicine. The word is homogeneous to alchemy, however, shared between the practises of tantric prophecy, witchery, and oracle-work. A far-fetch from traditional scientific ‘alchemy’, the Mihyaar partake of spiritual methods in which the main goal is divination, but other considerable outcomes range from anything between healing and foresight. While Ras-Vida revolves around the concept of immortality of the heart and the earth, to attempt the elixir of life is looked down upon, as it is directly conducive to Nemurîtòri. This is because it promotes only immortality of the body, and the spirit is thought to be persistent in the land beyond death. Hence, mastery over the living is not the primary endeavour of Ras-Vida. Ras-Vida is the tantric medicine of cycles and the doctrine of earthen elements. There lie different plants and metals that have an intrinsic connection to the metaphor of alchemy. The symbols, signs, mixtures: they all have meanings beneath their physical uses and processes. To practise alchemy is to practise divination. But beyond that, Ras-Vida remains all-encompassing. There are rituals in which the world is questioned and interpreted to learn more about the past, the future, or the now. One of which is an old practice where a handful of salts is thrown into the air and the fate of said salts is left to the elements, or otherwise cast into fire. Details about the aforementioned things can then be discerned through examining the pattern of the salts. The intricacies of Ras-Vida are ultimately too vast to summarise in some few paragraphs, and the practises date back to long ages. There is much to be discovered. NAMING CONVENTIONS Not dissimilar to the Velians of Atlas, the names of these wizened Yultharans are composed of three individual parts, tethered to one another by hyphens. These names, disambiguated, are dubbed Kaṭanat [singular; Kaṭan]. Designation arrangements vary between castes far and wide, however, evidenced by some patricians’ tendency to affix a second ‘surname’ [e.g. Dzugi, Bihari, Maratha, Badzo] or a pauper’s inclination to eschew their familial designation altogether. Notwithstanding, these labels are, as in any matter, pertinent to the day-to-day activities of a Mihyaari. The order in which these three names appear is typically: familial designation [gentilicum nomen], given name [praenomen], aver nav/talisman name/et. al [cognomen], and, among patrician houses, disambiguation and/or second surname (e.g. Doe-John-Jack [Everyman]). FAMILIAL DESIGNATION; SURNAME Borne by the Mihyaari as keepsakes of the houses and fathers from which they hail, this is the filiation which precedes the personal and/or given name of a Mihyaari individual. Mementos of the forebears of old, great honour is held in these designations – those typically scored upon tomes and scrawled across tablets. As such, these tokens of parentage are prefixed to the personal name, fixed before the given name, typically with a hyphen. Surname designations are spilt from father to son, and are tokens of covenants between bloodlines and dynasties. Sample: Šar–, Ur–, Mât–, Shah–, Kali–, Yr–, Bhat–, Ram– GIVEN DESIGNATION; GIVEN NAME A Mihyaari given name is the name which he/she is, in most conventions, referred to by. It is, in all regards, a personal name fixed between the surname and the aver nav. Where the second designation is seemingly ever in flux, and is able to change on a whim nigh-always, the given name is writ in stone, and is not so often changed without reason. Mihyaari nomenclature calls for the given name to be assigned at birth, lest the child shall assume a bastard designation. Sample: Shaddam–, Belshezzar–, Darius–, Arbaaz–, Vyasa–, Misra–, Shaj–, Kabir–, Raja– AVER NAV; SECOND DESIGNATION Designated through tireless, arduous trials and feats, as opposed to birthright, the aver nav, oft as not, suffixed to the given name, functions in two distinct ways. Scarcity of names in the ranks of the Mihyaari bred a second means for designation – almost formal nicknames – which took the shape of aver nav. A layman’s take on aver nav nomenclature would liken them simply to informal ‘second’ affiliations: the actuality is more rigorous, and has more layers. Awarded by others, the first variation which an aver nav takes is that of a token of its bearer’s quirk(s) and feat(s) [e.g., club-footed, left-handed]. It was common for these ‘second names’ to be leveraged in other ways, however. Mothers would ascribe to their newborns ‘secretive names,’ or ‘talisman names’ to ward off illness and ill-fortune. In this manner of nomenclature, the second name, aver nav, remains unspoken, and unheard of, bar by the ascribed’s mother and/or father. Take, for instance, a child’s given name, or praenomen, is Jahan, and its aver nav is Sahar. It would often happen that an illness might occur, and vie to have power over the child: hence, they would seek the child out by their name. Lesser wretches and evils — as spirits — are privy to aver nav designations. Given that this aver nav is unuttered, at large, though, the wretch fails to accost the child — leaving him out of harm’s winding way. Contrarily, an aver nav is similarly used, on occasions, to distinguish the branch or cadet family from which one hails. Hence, this context is more akin to a disambiguation of one’s parentage, than a lesser name. ______________________________________________ III - DISTINCTIONS & ATTRIBUTES “Dark were they also, diffusing the odour of musk as they moved, like the soft gale bringing with it the stench of clove. Here was their abode, on the edge of the sandy shore, of the salty strait between Yulthar and Rh’thor. And, amid the acacia-shrubs were their eyes blinded with tears, by the smart from the bursting pods of colocynth.” – SONGS OF SHAH-NAMA, SHAH-NAMA-KALI BHAGAVAT. 1733. MIHYAARI APPEARANCE The sun’s swelter and open sea clime has long laid a brand upon the once tallow-skinned and fair among Yultharans — Mihyaari. A lifetime’s ocean-bound exodus has since made their skin dark: red and russet, and unseasonably tanned. Ascribed to as brown, generally, these people sport a broader range of complexions, however, from the warmer olives to the more ruddy, leathery bronze. Prominent and jutting, the occasional atrophy of their facial profile, and somewhat disproportionate features can be attributed to the task of crossing the boundless False Sea. The Stygian waters have rent and bent the faces of those sullen Mihyaari who dared ferry themselves across Rh’thor’s strait, oftentimes rendered inordinate or asymmetrical: crooked. The grey, amber, and ruddy-brown scale of eye colours is shared between most to all Mihyaari, however colours as vivid as the lighter blues tend to slip between the cracks. Ash clings to the leathery skin of the Mihyaari, made leaden and dusted very tangibly in a gloss of soot, from trials and rites of ablution. Anointed in cinder and lampblack powder, the presence of a Mihyaari is not often without the fleeting stench of asphalt sediment. In a similar vein, most recognisable are the brands and tattoos of candlenut wax and boar’s tallow which they wear, zealous glyphs and signets scrawled across them from head-to-toe. This rite was bred from making amends and sharing accolades with the Rh’thoraens. A people rife with vanity, the Mihyaari are welcomed from place to place by the hooks and piercings which encase them in a sheen of gold and bronze. These suntanned Yultharans take to the wretched rites of making incisions and punctures on the surface of their skin, where baubles and beads are frequently fixed and secured. From tongues to brows, and noses and cartilages, the folk of Baal-Hazor are festooned with many a thread, bond, and pearls. This tradition shares suit with the tendency to wear tattoos and tells. Those from Mihyaar take relish in their garb and vestments, often decked with stranger articles of clothing than is familiar. As is with most facets of their culture, the fashions of the Mihyaari are syncretisms of conventions from the east and west, though belonging to neither. From their forts and homes in Yulthar, were borrowed the eclectic, embroidered textiles and sensibilities, while their lodging in the reaches of the east had taught of more contemporary, rational values of fashion. These radically unfamiliar philosophies were intertwined to breed new ensembles of clothing which paid homage to both: long-fitting garments embellished with fewer motifs than was customary. The Mihyaari showed accolades to their banner-brothers in Rh’thor, by fashioning articles of red attire and finery into their ensembles. LEXICON “And now, my tongue’s use is to me no more than an unstringed viol or harp. Or like a cunning instrument, that knows no touch to tune up the harmony.” — MIHYAARI BOHEMIAN, 1730. Wrought from many curvilinear, topsy-turvy glyphs and characters, the Mihyaari script of Emē-gir is, by design, dependent on many suffixes and affixes and linguistic intricacies of far too many designs. For this reason, the language is not homogeneous with other eastern tongues and dialects of similar provenance. Between the tongue of the Qali, and that of the Oyashimans and Li-Wen, Emē-gir is not mutually intelligible, proving a strenuous feat for linguists and chroniclers of all persuasions. Archaeologists have long vied — and failed — to decipher the little licks of this script borne on clay tablets, left raving, braying, and puzzled at its convolution. Much to the very name of the region, the tongue’s lexicon has been bastardised en masse. In furtive frustration, the archivists of Baal-Hazor adopted a fluid dialect and accent of common, through which they conversed and broke bread and made pacts of all proportions with the denizens and island-dwellers of Rh’thor. When they became splintered, however, individual strata and subcultures of Mihyaari loaned words from languages and tongues, leaving no single Mihyaari dialect nor accent reciprocally coherent and legible with the next. Emē-gir has since become consigned to only the archives of time. Its practitioners are far and few between, held in great regard and reverence for their scarcity and perseverance. There is a belief, in fact, that Emē-gir is rather multiple indeterminate languages in one script, than a single lexicon. ______________________________________________ IV - CIVILISATION & SOCIETY “And Ur-Mihyaar’s spirit, raging and raving for retribution, with Shurad at his flank come hot from high hell, should that in these confines with a pharaoh’s voice becry: ‘Havoc,’ and let loose the dogs of war, that this foul task shall smell up on the earth with carrion men, groaning for burial.” — CHRONICLE OF UR-MIHYAAR, SHAH-NAMA-KALI BHAGAVAT, 1741. CASTE SYSTEM Social class is, admittedly, rather fluid in the societies of Mihyaar. There is a tangible rift between the paupers and burghers, the poverty-stricken and the landowners, however caste, as it is, is indeterminate and fluctuant. Incidentally, the class-hierarchy is consistent to merchants and moguls, second only to the king, pharaoh, or prince, and followed by — in order — layman and/or priests, and the impoverished. There is no de jure caste system per se, however, partly ascribed to the fact that there is a sort of praise and acclaim for those who work in ritual deceit, artifice, and thievery. The basis of Mihyaari society, in fact, is built upon the rudimentary idea of establishing oneself and taking root in wealth and veneration through the art of sham: duplicity, and deception. A prince-elect might have found resolve in his position through fraud and skullduggery — these happenstances are far ofterner met with acceptance and reverence than reproach. Ordinarily, administration is conducted through a pharaoh, shah, or prince among greater throngs of collective Mihyaari. Liaison councils (e.g., king’s councils) were vested in the early epochs of Ramasar, but the flux in divination has since driven the idea into obscurity and out of the vox populi. Rather, a shah or pharaoh will instate an oracle or haruspex with whom he or she should navigate the waters of policy and diplomacy. These diviners were responsible for statecraft, in the stead of their lieges, and better equate to viziers or proconsuls than immediate councillors. The seat of Shah — or, Maharaja — is occupied by the old and learned tribe of Ur, whose bannermen and brothers trace blood and covenants to the cultural progenitor, Ur-Mihyaar, below whom are individual Rajas, the feudal lords who are mantled control and administration of their own domains and cantons. In summation, caste systems hold little merit, in a society whose sway is provided to those who dabble in swindling and skullduggery primarily. MILITARY KSATHRIYA A caste in their own right, the Ksathriya (singular; Ksathriy) and less martially-inclined Brahmin (clerics, relative to interpretation [singular; Brahman]) are oath-bound vanguards of old Baal-Hazor. The learned swordsmen metamorphosed from crab-fishers and longshoremen in Mihyaar’s sea-side exodus, making haste to fend the pauperdom from the extraterrestrial fiends in Yulthar-lands, and the horselord marauders who swore by sword and saddle in Ramasar. Historically, however, the ideal Ksathriy or Brahman is more spiritually, fundamentally involved and concerned with the world. They pertain to the principle of preserving and maintaining the unperturbed nature of the world — that is, life, death, and rebirth, and thwarting the pursuers and plotters of Nemurîtòri: primordial, Abyssal imbalance. Likewise in esteem to the samurai of the Oyashiman isle, the Ksathriya and Brahmin are privy to a chief, certain privilege otherwise barred from the paupers of Mihyaar save for certain patricians far and few between. An established Ksathriy is afforded the right to kill without warrant, otherwise reserved for none bar the shah or pharaoh. Having given rise to the threat of mutinies and uprisings in the past, an air of unease follows the gaunt faces of the Ksathriya, bringing with them justice and turbulence in equal capacities. It is worth of note that the honour which was possessing the reputation of a Ksathriy was not a reflection of mastery over a certain martial ability, but rather encompasses a grasp at a range of concepts. These include, but are not limited to, forming bottlenecks or tackling guerilla battle formations, or Vyuhas, fairness of judgement, and tactical awareness. Ksathriya are among the patrician class, formally, and are thereon obligated to adopt a second surname succeeding their aver nav. This reputation comes at the expense of peril, however. The vowed Ksathriya accrue a number of mantle-specific markings, tattoos, and signets, and their skin and rind is sought among the butchers of Ramasar. Hence it is often said, becoming bound by oath as a Ksathriy or Brahman seals one’s fate as predator and prey. INSTRUMENTS OF WAR Even in the blind art of war, Mihyaari footmen and Ksathriya vied to immortalise and distinguish their cultural identity. This was predominately exercised in the armour and accoutrement which the men and women of Mihyaar enjoyed, but liberties were practised similarly in the unpopular weaponcraft. “… mailed, unmailed, e’vry foeman in the charge and rush of war. Down-smitten with the strings of bows, the locking of mails, the charge! The armourless, the armoured; the naked and bare, enemies clothed with coats of mail— All struck down…” Militaristic infrastructure became chief among the pursuits of the radically unpopular Ur-Belshezzar, as all varieties of mail and scale were taken priority by the welders and smiths of Baal-Hazor. Ordinarily, a footman’s varman — that is, his or her entire ensemble of arms and defensive garment — relished a composite armour of deerskin and mail. Renditions of the gambeson, unbeknownst to the Mihyaari, had resolved, albeit fashioned from a coat of leather and pangolin scales. They were traditionally lacquered and gilded to evoke fear in their adversaries. Plate armour and lamellar were less popular, but fixed and connected with wire. Metal or leather gauntlets, or arm guards were typically accoutred around the left arm/hand, so as to avoid any conflict or friction with the bowstring. Most uniquely, however, are the greaves, spurs, anklets, and various garlands which wreathed these mail-clad footmen, hallmarks of the Mihyaari identity. Interestingly, Mihyaari welders fashioned their own adaptations of traditional weaponry from their green pastures in Yulthar. The Oyashiman tachi was crafted by Ksathriy and infantrymen all throughout the numbered trips and diaspora, only made more wicked. And therefrom, the talwar was made, which presented a curvature around the medial half of the sword. The lacquered hilt consisted of a flange which was typically disc-shaped, fixed with a cord or wire. ARCHITECTURE The pride of Rh’thor and the early descendant realms was the old city of Baal-Hazor and the surrounding feudal townsteads. The entryway was a broad aperture of five-hundred cubits in height and one-hundred cubits in breadth, built and brick-laid with intent that caravans and chariots might pass to and from the cities’ battlements and bastions. Truthfully, however, the gates of Baal-Hazor in Mihyaar were as many as the landward ends of the streets, their fringes decorated with figures of elephants and beasts from stone not longer known to men. Tall tales told that the edifice of Mihyaar and their many homes were from lapis-lazuli, and carbuncle, and other choice materials, but rather they were of glazed bricks and rough-cast. There were likewise tall gardens from which hung fulgent greens, and streams ran from between the desert swathes in the interest of agriculture with a profusion of interconnected bridges. And, fountains from whom were cast scented waters in tall jets. At least, that is what was vividly expressed through the frescoes of the city. The roads, in fact, were narrow, far and few between, its edifice and many homes like megalithic blocks of plaster or limestone, with elaborate motifs in the tilework. Complexes were far more prevalent throughout the architecture and stewardship than individual villas, attributed to the minimal effort that needed to be exerted. Articles of architecture from neighbouring cultures were adopted. Vegetal motifs of Kadaksleri architecture, for instance, were most considerable. In fact, Konchak verandas define the vast majority of the invariable architecture of Mihyaar, which is ever in flux. Individual battlements are often joined with minarets, slender spires which make for ease of broadcast and spreading word between people. Meanwhile, homes and stories are often integrated behind traditionally Qali facades and arches, many and various: horseshoe, and lambrequin, and so on. ______________________________________________ Written by Hephaestus @Hephaestus Written by Kujo @Kujo Annotations and consultation from Gaius Marius Consultation from Tibertastic Moral support from Publius @Olde_Publius Consultation from MinasOrDie Co-starring Nozoa (I apologise, forums were faulty and I wasn't able to @ you fellas)

Perched on some faraway, terrific precipice on the maw of very oblivion, a boogeyman cradled the chronicle. Worst of all we’re his digits, gnarled and toughened by many a lesion, bedecked in a profusion of gilded cobwebs and festoons, fantastic talismans and fripperies which made the eyes green with envy. Cold also, were his nails, which were projected out from his fingers and of spidery dimensions in height and breadth, casually spurning the pages from one another. Jingle… Jangle… his callouses traced over the V section. His narrow features who had appeared now twice-dead born twice-again invited an ungainly frown, “… Surely, they would not forget of me. It is spelled V-L-A-D.” And, his noisome cackling encompassed the glade one and all, which measured five-hundred stadia. Slowly, adamantly, the books leaves and pages welcomed his guiding eyes as he made haste to the H section. A retroactive, becoming smile resolved then, the jewel of Man having taken foothold in his lightless eyes.

Consigned to spinning tall tales and weaving ballads in the low altitudes of a mountain somewhere, Ptolemy of Thoth made haste to bring the notice to the attention of Crumena of Kamees. @Heero

i would do smuggler rp if it was possible 100%

A PATRONLY champion of the south spelunked the furthest, dankest faults of Esbec for his goats. Worry crossed his features, as he vied to surmount that gorge once more, nose beset with the stench of char and manure. "No, not here. They shed sheets of gold, do they not know?" And thereafter, he raced to assemble a taskforce.

this guy is pretty much the crème de la crème of anthroparions. trust me, he knows his stuff. plus one.

while our personal interactions have been few, and sometimes bitter (knowing i am far from your favourite lotcer), doing any administrative activity on lotc takes more than a f**king hail mary, and i applaud your resilience. i wish you luck in the future, wherever it'll take you. all the best to squak too. much needed female representation on the admin team.

A ruffian from reaches far and vast, while unable to read, comes upon word of the grapevine. He had since delegated the feat of writing to his brother.

it's appalling, really. i guess red tags are above the law in the server's current climate #freekincaid

while cool in theory, i believe djinn fulfil the niche this CA attempts to achieve. there also remains the izthukii shell-shock. i think you’d maybe have better luck pursuing something on a smaller scale as unwillingly suggested. but in any matter, i encourage you to write some more lore in the future.

THE BOOGEYMAN sat abreast of a Savoisienne scholar; digits looming like colossi, precariously, o’er an ensemble of chess pieces. In his excursion to the bowels of the earth, his artisan’s hand, arthritic as it were, had taken up the fair trade of carpentry. Word of the grapevine inspired the wide-chopped apostle to shake his neaf in frustration — only whereafter his spleen subsided. “Let them see what their exploits will amount to. It will be little more time before the whole of the comital domain, the stalwart Carrion pedigree, tend their loam and crops as sicklemen. Good — we shall observe how much higher they shall stack the stones of their spire before my home crashes down to kingdom come.” He advanced a pawn forth. @Proddy

Out of curiosity, can the Tawkin cold-blood/wtever mutation (I'm unsure if it still exists) be used to circumvent the defects wearing/touching Rokodra poses?

___________________________________________________ ______________ PvBLIVS CLAVDIVS CANTILIA scries his orb — sparkles on digits, slender and pale, — divining the restoration of Renatus for the umpteenth time. His features were rent and bent to flash a vapid frown, from whose remains a smirk had found foothold: "Ave?" Only quizzical anticipation could be deduced from his glottal, nasally gibbering. ___________________________________________________

_____________________________ _____________________________ JINGLE… jingle — brass hooks and cheap jewellery chime all throughout a particular grotto's stratosphere: a familiar tell. An Easterner dervish vacated from the halls of his conclave, hands pressed together in penitence, his gilt baubles and embellishments trilling out in a noisome whining. WORD of the grapevine had come that his good especial acquaintance was set for nupitals, from the bleating serfs and cattle-rearing husbandsmen of Savoy. Who was once beset with much hesitation, had since turned a new leaf — showing giddy enthusiasm, yet relatively taciturn, still. The Yultharan beau slurred out: "Good, Louis. Very good."

________________________________ ________________________________ THE smart from the halcyon pods of the Southern wastes had bred dewdrops and anguish in the waxing, olive-tinted eyes of one Banardian scholar. With laboured, but boyish enthusiasm, he wrenched gilt hooks and festoons, and many a piercing, from his features. He kneaded tallow and pomade into his lineaments, from which he structured faux living and appendages — taking sight of the Savoyard vista strelt which stretched out before him. He had relished this steppe. HE had since relegated the curios procured from his sinews and pompous countenance to a bondslave rightward his flank, all the while juddering in gingerly glossolalia and babbles of all sorts: "Ready the goats and litter-chair. Tonight, we consort with desertmen." @Proddy AWAKEN, MIHYAAR. ________________________________

pumping iron (ingots). i was very religiously working out at the gym up until the last month or two, when i was hit with a very demanding work wave. i still occasionally attend the gym though, and have desperately been trying to get back into my groove. i like to do incline dumbbell chest flys in supersets as often as not. was working on my hamstrings a bit ago so i'd also get into the habit of barbell romanian dls in 4x10 routines also (workout stolen from @KBR). my present goal i've been working towards like crazy is being able to squat 300. i was just recently able to squat 275 (granted, just barely [still killed me]) which i've been proud of but i've admittedly been in a bit of a rut ever since.

i'm gonna kiss you

A hearty thanks to all who made this character possible; _____________________________________ I THE BUTCHER OF BURON “Vlad, by the grace of God, the Duke of Upper Adria, Lower Adria, Khagan of the Turkin, to Otto, be this bill written and delivered. Father, I have entertained a delegation of wisemen from abroad, Radŭ and Bogdan among them, eager to plumb the deepest gorges of their knowledge and share with them morsels of my alchemical expertise I had discovered to yield most excellent results and products. Mastery over the dual living and dying were chief among our fantastical endeavors. We did not then portend the prophetic import of a thing quite as cut-and-dried as the twitch and judder of a lark’s foot. My zeal for dogmatic rituals and litanies for summoning was invariably ebbing with every pursuit, with the failure of nigh-each of our attempts. Suffice it to say, possessed as we were by things from unnamable spheres, we could not rid ourselves of curiosity; vying to bask in our successes, many and plentiful. Prodigious counts of flesh were heaped upon one another, two by two, amounting to a lock in the network of aqueducts atop which our manor has been raised. In this mire, we observed wretched things — fusing together in the filth of Dobrov’s underbelly. Yakov returned to Powys, intent upon pacing the pews of their synagogue. We cried. But, Father. We were not aided by the divine. We made plans. And God laughed. May you be in His governance. Vladislav, written on the road from Woldzmir, to New Esbec. Bendithia Due. 1802.” 1849 LIGHTLESSNESS pooled in the bowels of Heith-Hedran; the tendrils of Rh’thor vying outwards from the reaches of the physical sphere, into the dankest cavities of the Abyss. From then on, the fabrics of the mortal coil were sundered from the very seams, as the cogs of all logic were ushered to a standstill. Death had been bypassed, wrenched, and rent; bent from the very flanges, and made mockery of. A lure was cast into the recesses of Ebrietas, the cache of all those woeful and remit from the waking world, and from that strait of pity and anguish, was a pygmy; no elation; no despair. It teetered on the edges on the fringes of Heith-Hedran, ready to be estranged from that sea of indignity and undeath at a moment’s notice. FROM the ranks of the de-ceased, the furtive spirit was plucked — at first, only a follicle of its prior being. No more than a morsel of a soul. In the subterranean bosom of the earth, remote from any Man’s bounty, the tapestry which was the material world was riven; cloven from the sutures, as the influence of Heith-Hedran was usurped from the strait which was the False Sea, a lough on the fringes of Rh’thor which drove all to atrophy and disfigurement. And, from death’s cold clutches, the pygmy was estranged, entrusted into the hooks of two Yultharan laymen, versed in the base ways of those who walk with their backs crooked and faced away from God. That evening, a vibratory resonance thrummed throughout Petra Turris, the final foothold of Rh’thor, sending it into quiet trepidation, from the helm down to the hooves. QUIET, dulcet glossolalia crescendoed through the tabernacle of the necrolyte gorge, as the duo spoke in tongues. Sinew and cartilage had prior been strewn at the centre of Heith-Hedran, a lesion in the fabrics of life itself. Incredulous lies were exchanged between the basest warlocks of the earth’s underbelly, as the undead were raised from the recesses of the world, unfettered. They had since relocated the pygmy spirit to a cadaver, nigh-palpitating as innumerable spoils of tendon and cartilage agglomerated into the maleficent carcass. The undead thing had begun to burgeon, which was before only a manikin, sprawling out from the centre of its being and fast-expanding to fit the mantle of a full-sized man. Rabid and voracious was the undead, in the beginning. And then, it took sight of the world and vistas which stretched out before it. Before him. His ears became manifest, and he heard. His eyes became manifest, and he saw. His mind became manifest, and he thought. THOSE invocations which prior belted throughout the subterranean depths of Petra Turris were nigh inaudible, as the aberrant thing found its way onto dual feet. The smart from the below-ground pressure had since inspired dew and teardrops to well and coalesce in his eyes, saturating the glassy surface of his aureate iris’ with a gauzy, salt-swept crust. Those acolytes, crested from head to heel in bone, unburdened by cartilage nor flesh, scried into his eyes. There was a bleating silence. A loud quietude. An unnerving inability to express any caveats. And then, the undead thing blinked. Pop… Pop… ! The popping of his joints found ample resolve all throughout the breadth of the underground, sending a grating shrieking, reverberating in the bosom of any mere man’s ear. IT takes a village to raise a child, it was said of old. But, in that moment, it took only the wicked spirits of the basest lords who had shed light upon the face of the earth, to raise a dead man walking. The living-dead peered outward into the world, like a fledgling lark, privy to the many occult incantations told on that eve. Long, black tresses, made glossy and sebaceous from a lifetime of failure to condition oneself, reaching out in tendrils down the centre of his back. The necrolyte panned his cataracts once. Left. And then, right. No tangible sentiments had become streaked across his countenance, only disparity. A mutiny had occurred upon him, in the moment prior to then. And, anguish weighed nigh upon the bosom of his spirit. This was a tragedy. His eyes fixed ‘pon Ostromir the Greater, who stood nary even five steps forward from himself. The relic called out to him, in concert with the second: “Why do you consort with us, Vlad? Dining with we dead men — it is curious.” The glint of the dead-man-walking, Ostromir’s, irate eyes, vacuous save for only concentrated modicums of viridescent fire and fry, caught the necrolyte. He had estranged him from the cool clutches — surely, he’d the authority to question. “Who has dealt unto you the displeasure, and unto us, the labour? You are aware, then, they who are fated never to die, need not be careful to inquire into which place Death shall usher them, but what death they are to die to.” “Felled. And, at what cost? I have been thought a two-trick mage, Prophet. Now, I forsake these sixty-six years which have passed me by?” “These were sooner your first sixty-six years, than they are your last, Vlad.” Reticent, the second necrotic was lulled into the corners of Petra Turris’ tabernacle: biding time in the basest shade of the necrolyte synagogue. It proved taciturn understanding of labour and empathy — presenting a shape and logic that could not be matched to Man’s in the least. This was something created outside of God’s better wishes. A puppet, spun from the fellest fibers of the mortal coil. “Keep to yourself. I, alive, and washed ashore, with bones and stones all sore, fashioned the pulp of your spirit from my labouring hands. From dust you were made and to dust you will return.” THERE it had come again, the same silence which seemed to seize the throes of time itself, save only hushed postulation under the shade cast by the Black Sun, which loomed like a colossus at the grotto’s marquee ceiling. Each of the three leered into the chasm in the centre of the recess. And, each felt its dread as it sent a reverberance through their defiled, maligned bones: and, it leered into them. They had felt, then, agony and reverence in equal gusto, sending outward their aerosol mist of blackness, endeavoring to seal and mend those lesions which had since saturated the physique of Vlad, the Count of Goza. He felt all around his throat for a relict talisman worn once in a life unremembered, lost to all save himself: the count felt nothing. MARCHING was then audible, in the catacombs of Petra Turris, a tell of the trio who had made route to the throne hall, in that moment. Of the litter, only the greater of the warlocks had obliged to retire themselves; the archlich to the cathedra; and the alchemist found solace in the modest, demure of the three seats. The living-dead fixed himself fore the maroon dais, bulwarking the former-men in the brimstone and basalt from the Abyss-Fire of its flanged plate accoutrement: shrouding them, that no soul could have borne witness to their exchange. Vlad proceeded, his grovely murmur low and poignant: “I have seen, on this day, the crudeness of Men. The roughness. The greed to make pride of their… false justice. My discontentment swelled, Otto.” But, with the drop of a hat, it looked that the lich receded into the asphalt throne. Surely, it had not been a figment of the count’s thinking? “How shall you look this time, alchemist?” A third intonated from the hall’s alcove. THE rind of a tome, once consigned to oblivion for merit of its pure age, had managed itself into Vlad’s furtive clutches. The leaflets and pages of the chronicle were fast-unfurling, eyes tracing over the innumerable glyphs of the legendarium. Stanza to stanza, letter to letter. He returned: “Dark, I think, that I might diffuse the scent of cardamom and clove. What is it to you, stalker? You think because you are not in your skin, that all is forgiven? That you have borne powers relegated to you by God, since you were raised? That you can aid in this endeavor?” Low susurrations growled in retort, “It shall be seen to.” _____________________________________ II THE RH’THORAEN RECEPTION “Ready the waterskins. It will be a tenuous trek.” “Especial lord Louis de Savoie, Dog of Drusco, I recommend myself, Vlad of Woldzmir, unto you, my good lordship, beseeching you will find not displeasance as I here say… The bannermen of my home, opulent and known-well, have tired of the conventional extravagance. I employed a particularly unsavory, motley band of mariners who had, par for the course, increased their tarrifs to combat my intense condition of secrecy. A discrete system of pulleys proved plenty to hoist a ramshackle jetty from a shantytown on the fringes of your royal domain. The bastards objected to my initial wager, like a mad litter of errant mites, opting better to parlay, sleeping off the alms and revelry predicated by my haps. And, when night came, I hexed their anchors with each twisted invocation I ever could consider, weighing unto it the load of my contempt for their crude extortion. Waifs slept on the bank which our dingy toppled, and our oars ploughed, and in precocious, child-like wonderment, I indulged my prey. Brackish waters, astoundingly, presented a tribulation in our odyssey, as I tightly fastened myself to the ship’s helm, and fettered my prey to the gaudy idol at the head of our argosy. There was no siren, as was told of old. It was a Redfin Pickerel. We found foothold in the sands of Petra. Interestingly, the days here were thrice shorter, as assumed by a thorough assessment. Tight-lipped and terrifying at first glance, we had made the company of southern slavers — wanton captors, they were. They presented a people, not of carnage, but of saturnalia and yuletide. We quaffed all manner of herbs and concoctions, and mead and ambrosia. Come what come may, to reassert our rule, I prayed that the unscrupulous mariners would apply force and go forth with their proceedings. I will have you notified of further developments. I have neared Savoy. I am your man and ever will be, and pray that you shall return word of your welfare. Vladislav. Written from beneath the springs of Petra. Bendithia Due. 1845.” 1845 THE smart from bismarck weeds bred teardrops in the eyes of Vlad; staining the corners with pinkened tendrils which would vie to their centres. His pallid port-wine marks had since been griddled by the summer swelter of the sahara; made all the more vacuous and unwitting, in his throes of breathlessness by the cloying stench of cordite and smoking asphalt. For, now three long months, his motley gaggle of seamen and mariners had skirted ‘round the fringes of a Seyami campsite, a tribal fief which pledged itself to slavers and slaves in equal allowance. They had made acquaintances with the sonar-ping of skulking bats in the night. The contingent put stock in the minarets of the desert-bound: lengthy spires mounted upon masjids, the synagogues and temples of the people mottled across the arid wasteland. THERE were seventeen men, and fourteen less women — three, — and to each was assigned a duty. Palanquins were borne on the back of Adéwalé, in Meszair, a bondslave and hierodule in the temple of Koszeg, the oldest of the gaggle at sixty years of age. He served as the crew’s quartermaster, and the chief grifter of the litter. He counted bonds and cheques, and shekels and widow’s mites. Often as was not, a lack for humility and poor haps drove the former-slave to the abhorrent practices of swindling and chiselling. It is assumed that the greater part of the will and inheritance relinquished to Vlad by Otto Carrion was heaved on the balance of Adéwalé’s calloused hands. This swindler burnt grapes and spirits, where else was not present. THEN was Laureano Pasqual Aleghieri, a stonemason whose family had settled themselves in Terrazza della Onnisciente, in the recess of Varendoz. A brawn in nigh-every sense of the term, the seaman was the crew boatswain, delivering parcels and provisions to and from ships and ports. He was second then to only Captain Barnim Dijkstra, from Banard, the de-facto head of the mariners. For, stout and no taller than four-feet, at the most, though he was, the seas knew no fiercer foe. The Fiend of Feingard, as the captain was known, had adopted the thrumming of the banks as a second tongue. An undertaker, in his fatherland, appalling tales of his exploits in Aeldin ran amuck from bunk to bunk, in the dingy’s ruinous cabin; a man versed in occult proses, who had wagered with fiends of the night for his unmatched, depraved steering. Be they true or not, he was no regular man, either way. YOUNGEST of the pack was Lanfrid-Piers Cadwallader, a cook of demented designs. Often did he and Vlad consort in the latest hour of the night, fashioning cryptic conditions and contrivances from their crudest intentions. In the dune, in fact, yoked by the whipping sands, their trials for transmutation were imperative. The young, toothless miscreant boasted an uncanny knowledge of wicked goetia and alchemy, though furtive and not yet trained in the elements he was. They carved men from stone, and sought to indulge gratuitous rites and sacraments of alchemical malpractice. But, when interest ebbed, Vlad buried him below the blockades: cast him aside. “Where is he?” Mathurine, a handmaiden aboard the argosy prior, croaked. It had been two days since then, since Lanfrid’s departure. Starvation’s melody purred beneath the feet of, now, eighteen men and women: stomachs thereon vacuous, desolate. The last of their alms had been stripped from their safeguard by marauders with flanged maces and headwraps under which only their eyes were borne. The boatswain, Laureano, made his leave only before Lanfrid, to barter and parlay with the marketeers of a commune not far west. Unbeknownst to the pack was what beast made carrion of him. “… I hunger.” “The world stretches further out, in this region. Pasqual shall make amends in little more time, trust and believe. Quit your yapping, *****-dog.” The irate count, Vlad, beckoned forth a skewer, to which the last morsels of meat clung; dangling it lame near the fireside. “Not him. The boy — the cook. I cannot hear his rabid groaning anymore, the poor whelp.” “Mrm…” Silence. There was not a whine, save the spittle and smart of the fire. Broiled strokes across the skin of those wretched sailors, and their imminent scurvy had inspired a disparity upon each of their fell spirits. Vlad’s hand yoked his gunpowder-leaden mouth, tentatively gnawing at the gristle of his fingers and the excess of his nails. He peered unto the blockades leftward himself. ‘He is there, below the blockades,’ the flitting dialogue was relayed through his mind. Fervent attempts to shroud the smirk which had formed along his chops made for failure. “You are dull swindlers, the lot of you. Do you know any shanties?” PADRAIG Doyle mustered together a slur of half-inebriated interjections. He pressed his clutches to freeze just above his breast: bridling his laboured croaking from imposing any further damage to himself: “In Venclair, we sang an 'earty couple — aye.” “You spend your days thrashing weighty oars on the backs of sirens. Sing for me.” EVENING soughs sent their baritone caroling and chorusing into a crescendo throughout the night: poignant chanting evoking the shreds of resoluteness and fortitude in the vacuum left in their souls which prior could not be filled. By dawn, only one of the departed mariners had returned. And, it was not Laureano. Relieved of his tissue and tallow, two-tonnes of bone and cartilage, walking, braying, spasmodically squirming, had made route to the camp. The goety skeletal animation tore their bosoms open asunder, and took from them their skin, and made lesions in them so dank and so foul, that one could not make front from back, nor face from behind. By God, It was Langfrid. _____________________________________ III CHILDREN OF THE CROW “Leave him in binds. Watch him bleed.” “To Fyodor Ostrovich, and courtesans, in his dwelling in Woldzmir, be this written & delivered. It is of my hopes that you are in fair tidings and governance, Fyodor. Pilgrimage has proven a tenuous feat, but no matter. Simple folk are, by design, loquacious, and those of Dobrov are no exception. I surmise, it should be not long before hearsay of my morbid knowledge and secretive exploits shall begin to haunt local legends. The wild whispers of iconoclasm and devilry which have been spilt from lip to lip grow intolerable, and shall crescendo the rabble into a fit against my genius. Wide-eyed and eager to end the general air of rebellion which has inspired domestic disturbance, my collection of hardened fiends were instructed to act against the treachery and do as they would. They were quick to oblige, suffice it to say. Ire turned to awe, as demonstrations of my barbarity and brutality were held in the plaza. The noisome Woldzkiy population, once stacked so many, has shown more manageable numbers. I hope this shall not interfere with anything. In witness hereof, I set my seal in Providentia. 1813.” 1849 HEMP fetters kept the Butcher of Buron, Vlad Carrion, in bondage. Voracious murmurs sounded throughout the arcades of the Savoyard bastion, a foothold for justice in the face of goetia and dark magicks, doubtless. The butcher wept, but did not weep, in his gently purring, gently humming alcove of the building’s stockade. A contingent of Freymarkish and Hanseti combatants bulwarked him from reaches left to right, two beast-fellers — Hexers — propped before him. Innumerable lacerations had found resolve across the breadth of his anorectic frame. His ebon tresses were burnt brittle; and, eyes borne within sunken cavities; cheekbones cinched. If ever were there a feckless, hapless beggar — it was this man, surely. IN that moment, he did not worry, though flitting fear had streaked about his features: gnarling his countenance. The sentinels peered out from beneath the threshold of the portcullis, at the taciturn relic — Job of Adria, supposedly Vlad Carrion. This was no mere punishment: it was pageantry, and pride, and pomp, as rowdy bacchanalia sounded in the distance, the spittle from those torches producing a grating sibillation in the ears of any mere passerby. The filicide obliged by Vlad, the Bastard Butcher, would surely be penalized, on that eve. Where pitchforks rang out in bimetallic clashing and clanging, an altercation was nigh waxing. Who among the gallant sirs would take the base kinslayer — Vlad Carrion, or, Job of Adria, apparently — between the Haensemen and those who were owed accolades for their proficiency in making roadkill of aberrant beasts. “Beast-feller, do you hear that?” The contralto susurrations of Job sounded in the ear of the lesser Hexer — Oscar of Corazon. Drip… Drop… — like molasses, a surplus of his lifeblood saturated his breast, trickling down in many a vermillion tendrils. “More blood soaks the soil. It feeds the evil they are in, beast-feller.” OUT before him, the vista stretched of carnage and incredulity, sending a vibratory chiming all throughout his ear. With the tolling of each furtive moment the horsemen argued between one another, they allowed the supposed necrolyte all the more time to formulate some dastardly designs. Occult exploits, and wrongdoing. He laboured against those manacles which restricted him in place — no luck. All the while, he postulated a notion in reticent, albeit vexed, consideration: Father lived two more years than I, sixty-nine. The cacophony of radical bickering proved to faze him only then, as the greater of the Hexers — Edmond — recoiled some nugatory count of footsteps: facing the butcher himself. A FLOURISH presented in the Hexer’s taciturn clutches to the silver sword’s hilt. Hexers do not kill Men, or so thought Vlad — or Job, rather. As the horseman before him bridled his stature, fashioning his arms to a relative angle to cleave Vlad’s head, the Carrion did not think yet of what would await him afterwards. Nor did he consider how much it would hurt.. He only pondered how long before it would have happened. Swipe. And then, his head was liberated from his shoulders. And the Butcher of Buron was no more. _____________________________________ IV EPILOGUE IN the recesses of the study in the Kremlin Anavet, in Woldzmir, a layman might have made note of a tabloid from the year prior to the Butcher of Buron’s formal murder. The blurb read: “VLADISLAV O. CARRION, B. 1782 — 1848 Coroners of the right especial house of Carrion regret to make it known that on this day, the Third of Sigismund’s End, the year of Eighteen-Forty-Eight, Vladislav Ostrobor Carrion died, in his residence in Freeport. The very image of his father, Ostromir Carrion, in all feats, the lord proved a well-beloved casanova and prodigious scholar in the niche spheres of alchemy. Much on par with his fondness for the finer things in life, he paid his due and met his end bathing. A failure in the aqueduct network below the residence exerted the tub beyond its intended capacity, detonating the washstand and the lord altogether.” _____________________________________

Glory to you, o’ Dark One.

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