Maekan wollis
They had been riding for a day and a half, traversing the immense Nightingale Road, which progressively narrowed as they advanced. Their journey necessitated crossing several bridges, navigating uneven ridges, and surmounting low hills, all of which contributed to the Nightingale Road's perilous and arduous nature.
After hours of battling Kurvatis and subsisting on fish, despite the scarcity of palatable options due to the prevalence of poisonous varieties, they finally arrived at Lake Rumadil. Their diet was supplemented by wild boar and mountain shrakes, which were small, red-striped rabbits known for camouflaging themselves near trees or lakes.
Lake Rumadil lay before them, a body of water that was swift, smooth, and deadly to anyone attempting to raft across or ford it with horses. They were grateful for the bridges constructed by the Manharins. These wooden structures connected one side of the lake to the other; some were broken, while others remained intact.
"I wonder who built those," Jorath mused.
"The Manharins! They built them," Maekan responded in his raspy voice.
Jorath appeared amused. "I haven't heard of them."
"Tales say that a long time ago, a king named Royan the Great ruled these lands. Royan was indeed great, but only to his own people, not to others. He opposed every tribe, even the peaceful ones."
They approached the bridge, slowly urging their horses forward. The bridge was wide enough for them to ride abreast.
"The Manharins were being slaughtered by King Royan's knights. One day, they had enough. Their king, whose name I've forgotten," Maekan scowled, "something like... I don't know."
Jorath nodded. "Continue."
"The Manharin king pleaded for permission to relocate and for King Royan to cease the killings of his tribe, but—"
"The tribe?" Jorath interrupted.
"Huh? What did you say?" Maekan asked, irritated.
"What were the tribes?" Jorath shouted, the noise from the lake below obscuring their voices.
Maekan grunted. "Something to do with woods. They used to... make ships... or perhaps... something else. I don't know."
"They were craftsmen, among the first. They crafted things from wood, if my memory serves. Anyway, the king approved their appeal but slaughtered half of them in their sleep before they could depart," Maekan continued.
"What kind of king was he? He doesn't sound great to me."
"He wasn't, but if you asked his people, he was a blessing from the gods. That's how things operate in Sumaka. If you forget your history, someone can feed you many lies and make you believe things that aren't true."
"So... I'm guessing they built those bridges to cross this lake and attack King Royan."
"Aye... The part that saddens me is that they lost. The poor tribe went extinct. They knew, they knew very well, but it's the effort that counts. They raised their voices and died. Had they died without speaking up, other tribes would have remained silent, and tolerating the king's cruelty would have become their norm. These are called the Bridges of Manharins, a symbol of courage for every tribe too afraid to speak. After that, many tribes simultaneously attacked that cruel bastard, and he was defeated once and for all," Maekan smiled.
The bridge seemed as long as the Nightingale Road, but they eventually reached its end.
After riding hard, they headed north.
"Where is the grave of the Sky Fallen King?" Jorath inquired.
"In the middle of the North."
As they ventured further north, they encountered numerous kingdoms, cities, and towns spread across the fertile and muddy roads of the North. The weather here was slightly chilly, not freezing, but enough to cause an occasional shiver.
They arrived at a three-way intersection where a gibbet stood erected in the barren land. A board with a loosely hanging chain indicated: Snake Road, Emperor Road, and Giant's Road.
"We'll take Giant's Road, the one in the middle," Maekan directed.
"Where do Snake Road or Emperor Road lead?"
"Snake Road leads to twelve kingdoms in the East: Azhur Empire, Kethra Valan, Depths of Zetherkar, Old Crowns of Nagrath, Qadrtyh of Semiza, Ashkareth, Snake Serai Towers, Emerald Fangs, Mazecoil Serpents, Serathis, Voranth Poison, and Anaconda's Tail."
"There's something fascinating about Eldros," Jorath commented, smiling. "What about Emperor Road?"
"We don't talk about Emperor Road, nor do we go there, understand?" Maekan said loudly this time. "Understand?"
"Sure, whatever," Jorath shrugged.
"For now, we take Giant's Road in the middle. We ride until we reach the grave of the Sky Fallen King."
Sonavr (Aldran valemount)
The crisp, resonant clang of steel echoed sharply across the crest of the low hill, a sound that carried on the gentle breeze and signaled both intensity and instruction.
Both Sonavr and brumen had their gazes fixed intently on Jemriah and Iken, who were locked in a spirited duel, their blades flashing like silver lightning in the afternoon sun.
This engagement, though seemingly a fierce contest, was primarily intended as a pivotal lesson, a practical application of weeks of rigorous training. Yet, as the exchange progressed, it became increasingly apparent that the lines between instruction and enjoyment had blurred.
"Look closely, both of you," Iken urged, his voice cutting through the sounds of clashing metal, a seasoned warrior's counsel. He momentarily disengaged from Jemriah, demonstrating with a swift, almost imperceptible turn of his head. "Never, under any circumstances, allow an opponent to gain advantage from your blind spot. Don't let anyone attack you from behind. Instinctively, you must react. Parry, dodge, or roll...employ any means necessary, any technique you possess, but whatever you do, avoid getting caught defenseless in an opponent's attack. Awareness is your first shield."
Iken, with a seasoned grace, moved first. His blade, a whisper through the air, aimed for Jemriah's guard. He favored a style rooted in defensive precision, patiently waiting for openings, then exploiting them with swift, powerful thrusts that sought to end the engagement efficiently. His footwork was deliberate, each step calculated to maintain optimal distance and balance, ensuring he was always in a position to both defend and counter-attack. The way he held his sword, an extension of his will, spoke of countless hours of practice and an intimate understanding of its capabilities. Jemriah, equally skilled, met the strike with a clang that echoed across the field, the sparks flying like fireflies in the fading light. he, in contrast, employed a more aggressive and fluid style, his movements a blur of parries and ripostes, seeking to overwhelm an opponent with a relentless barrage of attacks. His circular movements and agile dodges were designed to create confusion and open new angles for assault, making him a whirlwind of controlled chaos. This was not a clash of brute force, but a dance of precision and foresight, a complex conversation spoken through the language of steel. Each parry, each riposte, was executed with deliberate control, demonstrating the intricate balance between offense and defense, a lesson in itself on the duality of combat.
"Observe closely, young ones," Iken called out, his voice resonating across the training ground, carrying the weight of experience. "Notice how Jemriah uses his entire body, not just the arm, for power. His core is engaged, the legs provide the spring." Jemriah, parrying a quick thrust from Iken with a fluid motion that absorbed the impact, responded, his voice clear despite the exertion, "And see how Iken maintains his center. His balance is his fortress, unyielding. He presents a smaller target and can recover from any lunge." Both Sonavr and brumen nodded, clutching their own practice swords, mimicked the stances, trying to internalize the wisdom being demonstrated. They keenly watched the subtle shifts in weight, the minute adjustments of grip, the almost imperceptible tensing of muscles that preceded each move.
The duel progressed, and the rhythmic clash of steel became a powerful narrative of strategy and adaptability. There were moments of aggressive pressure from Jemriah, his blade a whirlwind of motion, forcing Iken to retreat and defend, showcasing the importance of a strong guard and controlled withdrawal. These flurries were followed by periods of patient probing from Iken, his movements subtle yet impactful, testing Jemriah's defenses for any weakness, demonstrating how to maintain composure under duress. The lessons were unspoken yet profound, delivered through the visceral language of their blades. They showed the young ones how to read an opponent's intentions, to anticipate their next move by observing their eyes, their shoulders, the placement of their feet. They learned to exploit weaknesses without recklessness, to take calculated risks. Iken demonstrated how to break down an aggressive opponent's rhythm through steady defense and unexpected counters, while Jemriah showcased how to create openings against a more defensive fighter through feints and relentless pressure.
"Every step has meaning," Jemriah panted slightly, circling Iken, his eyes never leaving his blade. "Never waste a movement; conserve your energy for when it truly matters." Iken blocked a sweeping strike with a firm, almost effortless motion. "And every block is an opportunity, not just a defense. It tells you something about your opponent's strength and their next likely action." The young ones, sonavr and Brumen, absorbed these insights, understanding that combat was as much a mental game as a physical one. Sonavr saw the value in conserving energy, in reading the subtle cues that could betray an opponent's intent, and in the sheer discipline required to execute each movement flawlessly.
Finally, with a flourish born of years of practice and an acute understanding of his opponent, Iken disarmed Jemriah, his blade resting gently against his throat. There was no triumph in his eyes, only understanding and a shared respect for the art they both practiced. Jemriah nodded, a slight smile playing on his lips, acknowledging the perfect execution. The duel concluded not with defeat, but with a shared acknowledgment of skill, discipline, and the profound lessons imparted.
"Remember what you have seen here today," Iken addressed the apprentices, his voice calm yet firm, drawing their attention back to him. "Fighting is not just about brute strength or raw aggression, but about discipline, strategy, and a deep understanding of your weapon and, critically, your opponent. It is about control over yourself first and foremost." Jemriah added, his gaze sweeping over the impressionable faces, "Every movement has a purpose, whether to deceive, to defend, or to strike. Train your bodies to be strong and agile, but more importantly, train your minds to adapt to any style, to think several steps ahead, and to remain calm in the face of danger." he then picked up his sword, its polished surface reflecting the fading light. "Now, who wishes to try a basic parry with me? Let us begin to translate what you have witnessed into practice." Sonavr and brumen, their minds ablaze with the incredible display, knew they had witnessed more than a mere fight; they had received a profound and invaluable lesson in the art of combat, taught by the masters themselves, a lesson that would shape their journeys as warriors. They stepped forward, eagerness replacing their earlier awe, ready to embark on their own paths of discipline and skill.
I'll be an adventurer... I'll be a knight... And i will travel the world...
Irene
Irene reclined in her chair, her thoughts drifting to her time in Aegis Reach. She recalled their journey, the encounters with Iken, and the arduous island-hopping that eventually led them to Aravan Island.
"Are you all right, my lady?" Fronn inquired, seated opposite her in the main room.
"I am well, but I am no lady," she replied.
"You are to me."
She offered a faint smile. Fronn had always been a steadfast presence, like an elder son to Jemriah, ever ready to assist and eager to contribute.
"Why didn't you accompany them?" she asked.
"I was weary, my lady. I will depart tomorrow, or perhaps the day after."
"I see."
"May I... Is it... Permissible to ask a question, my lady?"
"Yes, Fronn, you may ask anything."
"I have always pondered the distinction between light elves and humans. We appear similar. Dark elves, of course, possess dark skin and wield swords of shadow, but light elves resemble us."
"Light elves have exceptionally fair skin, paler than milk," she explained with a smile.
"But, my lady, you—"
"Yes, I am not as pale because I shaved my head upon leaving Aegis Reach. Shaving one's head diminishes the power of the light elf within me. Consequently, I possess no magic, and my hair is now auburn rather than white."
"Fascinating, my lady. I won—"
A loud, insistent knocking interrupted them.
Both startled, they moved toward the door.
"Allow me to see who it is, my lady," Fronn offered.
"Be careful."
Fronn advanced and opened the door. A knight, clad in tattered armor and a broken helm, stood on the threshold.
"Where is King Jorath! Tell me, traitors, where is he?" He drew his longsword and positioned it beneath Fronn's chin.
World of sumaka through eyes of nametri—
I, Nametri, stand as Jorath's most trusted confidant and devoted right hand, my loyalty an unyielding anchor in these turbulent times. A suffocating unease has settled upon me, a premonition of dread that whispers of his absence. Jorath has vanished, seemingly swallowed by the very earth, and with each passing moment, my worry festers into an acidic despair. The knights, those brave souls who accompanied him on his expedition to the distant Aravan Island, have also disappeared, their fate as shrouded in mystery as his own. Frigid winds of apprehension now buffet me, bringing with them only silence.
I dispatched a messenger, a seasoned courier, from Red Frost Kingdom to aegis reach and to aravan island, a land not so far removed, to seek answers, to demand an explanation for this alarming void. Fronn, one of Jemriah's own, returned, his face a mask of impenetrable indifference, his lips sealed. He offered no solace, no information, absolutely none at all! This deliberate refusal to engage, this wall of silence, gnaws at my patience, slowly eroding the last vestiges of my self-control.
A chilling resolve now solidifies within me. If they, whoever "they" may be, continue to withhold information, to treat Jorath's disappearance with such cavalier disregard, then Aravan Island will experience a scorching baptism by fire. I find myself utterly unconcerned with the potential repercussions, with the innocent lives that may be irrevocably altered. Whether his brothers, his venerable family, or even distant cousins reside upon those shores matters not to me. I will not hesitate. I will unleash an inferno upon every living soul on Aravan Island if it means Jorath's safe return. Oh, he will come back. I will ensure it with every fiber of my being, with every ounce of power I possess. My determination is absolute, my will unbendable.
And then there is Jemriah. That fool. He has approached this grave situation with an appalling lightness, treating it as some sort of trivial jest, a mere diversion to pass the time. His flippant remarks, his callous disregard for the gravity of Jorath's absence, are an insult to my loyalty, an affront to the respect Jorath deserves. I will tolerate none of it. Not a single word of his mockery will go unpunished. I will personally see to it that he pays for his insolence, and the cost will be far greater than he could ever possibly imagine. His flippancy will be met with a reckoning he will not soon forget.
Nametri's letter to king kaisran - year 1200 of Sb (sumaka's birth)