Reign of Phyre
Only the ignorant believe history lies in the past.
Gedric, the Last Emperor
The sages say that were you to ever stand atop the walls of the last great Citadel of the Old Empire, you would have the Myrian Mountains on the horizon, the Lepcian Isles far out to sea, and felt as safe as any man who had ever set foot in all of Cerenea. That is, of course, had you chanced to stand upon the walls and cast your gaze before the Conquest.
Virel Bartael, The Elders
Woe to the Conquered, and the realm doth weep. Generations pass, and memories falter. But buried deep within the hearts of those most stout, that yearning, those flames of vengeance, doth rage.
And rage they had. But now they stood as the beleaguered, ragged remnants of an entourage that had for the last few months fought so valiantly against what had been thrown against them. The Khasari legions of the newly formed state of Karzark had annihilated them at Myros, and so no reinforcements would arrive today to help them fend off Euphyrian steel and Yalean bow. No, it would be here they make their last stand, and they would stand alone.
The grey ominous clouds overhead blocked out the sun. This day was not to be theirs. Bravely they had stood against an army well-fed, well-equipped, and well-informed – every indication their plans had been all but thwarted. Their tattered banners blew in the chilling wind, the eagle’s wings frayed and torn. Was it all in vain?
Jalmorrah marched through their woeful camp, heading to his liege, Tarryn Rhasphyre, the true emperor. Their fires burned bright, for the enemy had long since made it clear that their victory would only come with the complete utter annihilation on the field of battle, and not through some dishonest rendezvous under shadow and moonlight.
Would it all end here, their struggle, their fight, their cause? An end to the revival, the resurrection of their domain? Or had it ended before it had started, and the dreams of their people had been shattered years ago, lost, along with their great citadels. Perhaps, thought Jalmorrah, they had accomplished nothing but assure the countless deaths of fathers, sons, brothers, who otherwise may have scrounged a meagre living and provided for a family. Perhaps, he wondered, it had all indeed been in vain.
“My lord, it’s not too late to retreat,” said Jalmorrah, Tarryn’s second-in-command, as he found the emperor staring into the fire.
Tarryn Rhasphyre turned to the man he had known since they were boys. The emperor's armour was resplendent, tarnished though it was from the campaign; each dent indicated a blow that would otherwise have been fatal. It saddened him to think how far they had fallen, and how few remained.
“The rebels have horses, and we do not. We will not outrun them,” said the emperor. “There is naught left to do but face them on the field and give them something to remember us by.”
The soldiers sharing the fire with their emperor planted their spears into the muddy ground to show their support. If this had been any other campaign, Jalmorrah would have seen the fear in the men. Smelt it. But this time was different. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere but the field. And even if there was, no one would take a step backwards. Each one of them was here because they believed their cause was worth their paltry deaths. So Jalmorrah forced a smile to his face.
“Suggesting we was never my intention. There are enough horses for you. We will buy you enough time. None are unwilling,” Jalmorrah retorted stoicly, before he too planted the butt of his spear into the ground. The crusted blood under his nose began to flow once more. He wiped it with his sleeve.
“Enough time to live another day, to flee in my own lands, hunted as a trophy by the usurpers? No, my friend. You know it as well as I do. There is no place to run. I am Phyre. I will not tread in a world that is not ours. And please, Jalmorrah,” Tarryn said as he straightened up Jalmorrah’s breastplate, “spear and shield, no more. I cannot see you suffer. The burden is too much. Honour me and fight by my side tomorrow.”
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The rain had started in the middle of the night and had not stopped by the time the sun had risen over the mountains. The survivors didn’t bother packing up their camp. There would be none to reclaim it. Instead they ate their breakfast in relative silence, eating all of what was left. They did not rush. There was no need. Their enemy would wait for them – their end of their unspoken pact. A sole scout kept an eye on them from atop a hill in the distance.
“It’s time,” said the emperor as he put on his helmet. His army followed suit, their eyes settling into their helmets. Steely resolve stared out from those helmets, utterly devoid of hope, yet lacking fear and hate. An unnatural peace had settled over the camp.
They marched towards their enemy over the rocky, scarred land. It could not be changed. This scab on the land would become part of it. The paths ran parallel to the steep cliffs either side. There were no branches; it winded its way around but there was only forward and back. The path led straight their enemy, already in formation, ready to usher in their new era of the youngers.
A mounted knight awaited them at the front of their army and began trotting towards them after he allowed for them to form their own line. There was arrogance within chivalry.
Tarryn signalled for Jalmorrah to accompany him to meet with the mounted knight half way. They planted their spears in the ground and walked to the midway point, forcing the knight to wait. He remained mounted.
When they were close enough, the knight removed his helmet.
“Yelia above, if it isn’t my dear uncle Misral,” said Tarryn Rhasphyre with a smile and no hint of surprise. “I hope you have come to give me back my empire.”
The old man ignored his nephew. It had been years since Jalmorrah had last seen emperor's uncle – before the outbreak of the rebellion. Before the world had turned to shit. He hadn’t aged well. His frame, once heavy with muscle, now seemed at odds with the armour that he wore. His beard had lost its dark colour and was now a mix of gray and white. His left eye had also been replaced by a large slash down his face, allegedly from a duel with Tarryn’s father three years earlier.
“Surrender. Your men will be spared, and you can live out your days on an island somewhere along the southern coast.”
“An emperor should die standing with an army at his back.” The smile had disappeared.
“Your foolish father’s last lesson in life.”
“You know as well as I do this can only end one way, uncle.”
“I know. You made your choice the day you raised your banner.” Misral put his helmet on. There was nothing ornate about it. It was a practical piece of armour for a practical man. “You are my nephew, in the end. I will call in some favours, and have you buried at our family’s tomb.”
“And I will take your other eye,” the emperor said, pointing.
Misral turned towards his army. “I will be on the right flank, if you want a quick death.”
Tarryn and Jalmorrah returned to their army in relative silence. The walk felt twice as long.
“Jalmorrah, thank you for being true to me until the end. I’m sorry it must end like this. It seems Yelia has other plans for us.”
Jalmorrah wiped his tears away and put on his helmet. “Yes, my lord. It has been an honour. Yelia guide us.”
The remnants of his army opened up and let the two back into their ranks.
Tarryn had known every bit of this land. Every mountain, every raging river, every village. It was his land. But another had now laid claim to it, backed by an army twenty thousand strong. He had rallied his countrymen to his cause, to reclaim what was his, to reclaim what was theirs, to reclaim the way it had always been. And they had given their all.
Jalmorrah knew all their faces; their tired, ragged, sombre faces. They had all been to hell and back
. He looked at them one last time. The bloodied veterans of a defeated army. A collection of bandages, bloodied bodies, and men barely able to stand. They had seen the depths of hell. Aye, and we’d do it all again, Tarryn.
Jalmorrah let the rocky earth course through his fingers as he bent down, offering a silent prayer to the Goddess, as did the emperor. His throat bobbed as he turned to face his destiny.
Tarryn rose, his sword offering support to his battered body. He put on his helmet, narrowing his vision to what lay in front of him. As if that was the signal, the Euphyrian cavalry began their charge, spears eagerly tipped towards them. The dust rose under their hooves, covering the Yaleans who would soon loose a volley of arrows towards them. Well, at least they weren’t taking any chances - testament to how bravely they had all fought. The last of the resistance, the last of the Sons of the Phoenix. The shattered remnants of the blood of Old Phyre. Their annihilation would be complete.
And thus, they made their stand: shields raised high, spears straight and true, marching forth. Onwards, to meet their end.
“Let’s give them something to remember us by!” shouted Tarryn.
And ever did they march.
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The Desari Desert, they say, was created with the sole intention of preventing east meeting west. Inhospitable to life; it is a fool who thinks he may make it to the other side alive. The world has no shortage of fools, however. If you were to meet the hardy people that called this pocket of the world home, they would tell you that a small number of only the most entrepreneurial-minded of people who resided in the small enclaves centred around the ruins of bygone days made their living from crossing the uncrossable. Small settlements lined the edges of the Desari Desert, promising a route dotted with the occasional oasis, providing weary travellers some respite.
Kleaxe Rebereks, Guide to the New World
It was from one such oasis that the young Karzarki had set out into the desert. Heading east on horseback, his hood shielded his face from the sun, sand and prying eyes. The relentless easterly wind however, ensured that he rode looking towards the ground as his horse refused anything more than a walk. The Desari refused to bow to a master. Then, the young man caught a break as the wind momentarily lapsed into a breeze. He lifted his gaze. There was some rubble that jutted out from the desert landscape in the distance. Changing course, he galloped directly to his prize.
The Karzarki dismounted from his horse and began to wander the ruins. Four colossal pillars lay broken amongst the sand, drowning against the tide of time. He sifted through the ruins, wiping away sand and dust from anything that caught his attention. Nothing piqued his interest, though he was careful not to damage anything.
Finally, he came across a large stone tablet, one of its extremities jutting out from the sea of sand. It was decidedly less ancient than the other ruins, judging by the wear in its appearance. Heaving it upwards, one exertive pull at a time, the sand poured from its carvings, and he finally freed it from its desert tomb and carefully leant it against what remained of one of the once mighty pillars of the temple. After dusting it off meticulously, he began reading it by tracing his hand over the inscriptions in the stone, as if the tablet gave more of its secrets through touch than through what it yielded to the eyes.
Suddenly, he stopped, his hand going back over one line of the inscription. A second time, and then a third time. He leapt for his satchel and took out some tattered parchment. Tracing the words with his hand a fourth time, he closed his eyes, and with aphonic mumbling he wrote down what the tablet bore. After finishing his work, he looked around one last time to make sure he hadn’t been followed.
Carefully rolling up the parchment, he put it back into his bag, and then unsheathed a dagger from his belt. It would take a while, and it pained him to have to do so, but it needed to be done. A palm-sized stone the hammer, and his dagger the chisel, he began the arduous task of defacing the tablet one symbol at a time. Finally, sweat covering the tablet, his work was done. Unrecognisable. He picked up the tablet, and smashed it against the pillar, shattering into pieces. And then those shattered pieces into more shattered pieces. No one else could know.
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In the beginning, Yelia gave birth to two sons: Galaces and Pyres, and the world knew good. Yelia loved her sons as any mother would. As the two brothers grew bigger, she bequeathed to them The Gift, a beautiful, bountiful land that they may play and grow together. And play and grow they did, under the loving protection of their mother.
“And tell me,” scoffed the haughty man, tilting his chair back against the wall, “why it is in my interest to accompany you all the way to bloody Tannis and back, when I clearly can make ends meet in the service of any one of these cockroach merchants needing some hired muscle around here?”
The tavern master briefly looked up towards the source of the conversation, decided it was no business of his, then threw another log on the fire, sending up a whirl of embers. It was a good place to be during the cold season. A fire, a hot meal, and some drink and company. It was twice as good after spending so long outside civilisation.
The younger man narrowed his eyes, before covering his face with his cup, downing the remainder and trying his best to hide his agitation.
“Because,” wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “Tannis was the last of the strongholds of the Euphyrians. The last Great Citadel. Not only could I guarantee you a life’s worth of treasure, Yaren, but there is also something else that I’m looking for. Something that would repay any debt you think I owe you tenfold over.” A cautious smirk creeped over his face, “Besides, it’s not like the merchants are going to need hired muscle too much longer, and where will that leave you?”
Yaren raised an eyebrow. His weathered hand stroked his greying beard. “Tenfold, you say. And none of this you think I owe you shit. You do owe me,” he warned. Stern, but fair. “…And what is it you’re seeking, exactly?”
The young man ordered another tankard of ale, more confident now the bait had worked. “Tenfold, I told you. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the tales of the riches of Old Euphyria, Yaren.”
“They are but that, boy. Tales. And tales do not guarantee a man a meal.” Yaren took the cup from the serving girl – pretty thing she was – and took a gulp. His friend would need more than honeyed words to convince him to head halfway around the world and risk being caught by a pack of rebels and butchered.
The young man's hand ran down his ragged face. It had been days since he had enjoyed a good night’s rest. Dark rings had formed around his green eyes, heavy with exhaustion. He had cultivated a face full of hair at what seemed to be the expense of civilised patience.
“There’s no denying Euphyria’s treasures. They were always richer than us. Besides, this is different. You don’t even know where I’ve been the past couple of months. And from the looks of you, I wager I’ve travelled more in a day than you have since I last saw you. You were here the night I left. Perhaps the last time I saw you was also the last time you had left this tavern.”
“Easy, Rhenias.” - This is a weird one. You suddenly start using the protag's name, but haven't introduced it. Would be better to change this to Rhenias or find a way to make Yaren introduce his name similar to how Rhenias says his earlier.
Undeterred, Rhenias cleared his throat. “I have travelled far and seen much. I am not, as you say, a boy anymore.” Rhenias looked directly into Yaren’s eyes, amounting almost to a challenge which, he would surely lose. So instead he continued, “Furthermore, I have come across a rumour – no, it is more than that. I have read it myself. A relic that has so far evaded the scent of Karzark.”
“Oh-ho. So this is what you were doing whilst I was pissing away my fortune in this tavern the last few months? Reading ancient scrolls and searching for lost treasure.” The disdain in his voice was insincere, but he had gained a firm grip of control over the conversation now. Diplomacy wa
s, after all, as much a battle as any other.
“Keep your voice down, man,” Rhenias hissed, scanning the room. An average crowd for this time of night, but you never knew who was listening. Rebels never dared venture this far west, but a spy never wore rebel clothes, nor did they necessarily think this was too far west.
There were three other tables; one entertained by the serving girl who had just brought over another round of drinks to a bunch of laughing, weathered old faces, another that had nearly drunken themselves unconscious, most asleep on the table with the sole survivor swaying back and forth between the light and slumber, and the last table more focussed on giving the same request for the seventh time to the bard who had been filling the tavern with his trade.
Still, Rhenias leaned forward, bringing his face closer to Yaren’s. Yaren returned the gesture, leaning in. “What I’m looking for,” Rhen continued, no more than a whisper, “is also sought by the Khasari.”
Yaren straightened in his chair and ran his hand through his receding hair. “So, you seek your own death. I shall drink to your every success.”
He signalled to the tavern master for another ale after seeing the maid was preoccupied with chastising a wandering hand.
“Just listen. They’ve been searching for years and they’ve found nothing. They’re as aimless as when they began. But they have never sought help, never asked anyone with information to come forth.” Rhen scanned the room cautiously. He should probably shave his beard and cut his hair tomorrow, just to be sure.
“Oh?”
Yaren invited further explanation. He would take the bait again, slightly annoyed that he had lost ground in the conversation.
“The last Emperor of Pyresia, what was his name… the last of House Rhasphyre, Marcen. Well, the pretenders took their name, but that’s irrelevant and I’m sure you don’t care. Anyway, their ancestral heirloom. The Dawn Shield. Passed all the way down to his son Tarryn before he went off to battle. Then, the sources say that after Tarryn’s last battle at Myros there was no trace of it. Why?”
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