- 1 1st May
- 2 8th May
- 3 18th May
- 4 18th May
- 5 19th May
- 6 23rd May
- 7 27th May
Summer Day - Qrelg
Crooak... so many killed...
Summer Evening - Xhahgus
Timsen sipped his wine as he read the latest round of letters. Getting to King Osgar's letter, Timsen smiled and looked to see what his previous ruler wrote.
Spluttering his wine at the contents of the letter, Timsen shouted, "SCRIBE! GET IN HERE" "GUARDS, BRING A WHIP!"
Summer Day - Xhahgus
Kilhorn would not stop rasping "Cleofa Rica Orbita" to himself for hours. Over and over, like the chanting of a devotee, until the meaningless words turned into a pounding rhythm in Heimar's ears and mind...
Summer Day - Keffa
“Sir, we have captured an enemy scout”, the Captain announced as he approached Araman.
Wiping blood from his sword surrounded by the ruins of the walls which stood before their assault, “Is he alive”, Araman replied?
“Of course not, sir.” the Captain replied plainly.
“Then throw him on the pile.” Araman gestured to the pile of enemy bodies, some 50 or 60 heigh. “And if you get any more scribes coming from our “allies”, throw them on the pile too. Their constant whining is enough to drive a man mad.”
“Yes sir.” The Captain replied as the latest scouts body was thrown into the mound of dead bodies.
“This has been a good day”, Araman spoke aloud to himself, taking in a deep breath of blood and corpse filled air. “A good day indeed...”
Summer Night - Keffa
Heimar sat behind an abandoned smithy, the little track that posed as an alley cut by a swathe of dross, a little river of b*stard metal which had no doubt run for years once upon a time. Hands shaking with the first stages of withdrawal, he struggled to strike flint to steel.
Keffa was probably a depressing little city in the best of times. The last invasion had scoured these lands. Civilization stopped outside the gates. The people here were probably frightened enough when there wasn't an enemy army tearing down the very walls that kept out the monsters and wild-eyed savages that wandered the roguelands outside.
Well, here we are, Heimar thought. The heroes of the north, here to right wrongs and whatever other bullsh*t the nobility thought up today to justify their campaigns of terror.
Praise the All-Creator, the damned tinder finally caught. On hands and knees he bent his old bones to earth, put the end of his raaha joint to the meager flame and sucked desperately. The sweet, acrid smoke drew down deep into his lungs, and he collapsed onto his back in the middle of the dingy little alley.
To hell with it. He would never get up. He would smoke this last joint and lay here and stare up at the stars until the sun rose, and then he would stare at the sun until it set and on and on until thirst took him.
But he knew that was a lie even as he thought it. The drug had a hold on him that transcended life and death and the desire for either. In an hour or two the high would wear off. In another hour or two the itch would start, then in another little while the shakes. Shortly thereafter he would be ready to murder every damn man woman and child in this damn city for a hit.
And who would provide it to him? Whose bounty ensured that poor Captain Heimar, veteran of too many wars, smoker of too much of the Udorian Herb, would manage to make it another day without clawing his own skin off?
"Captain," the all-too familiar voice rasped, somewhere nearby, somewhere too close. Heimar sat up and looked around in the dim light of the pre-dawn.
The smell was what guided him. The Gotlanders had taken it better than he had thought they would, probably because Kilhorn's family name was well known and they needed the Agyrians to get their lands back. But Heimar really, really wished Kilhorn would take the damn mask off already.
"I am here, my Lord," he groaned into the darkness, and a shadow emerged from yet deeper shadow, a cloud of buzzing flies emerging with it.
Kilhorn was, as always, dressed in Dodger black, a long hooded cloak over his leather and mail. The severed goat face he wore over his own monstrous visage, bound messily to his head with a length of string, was, however, not nearly so traditional.
Heimar did not understand the perverse sense of humor that had overcome his master since the emergence of the real Kilhorn only weeks prior. He only knew that, as bad as being Kilhorn's keeper had been in the years he'd served the Khalkar by looking after its deadliest and strangest weapon, things were only going to get worse.
"How can I serve, my Lord?" he asked.
Kilhorn paused a moment, looked him over from behind the goat mask.
"Killing," he said.
Summer Day - Keffa
Time moves slow when one smokes raaha.
The Revenants are not what one tends to think of when one hears the phrase "living man."
Neither are they undead.
Usually, those with experience in them tend to call them "in between."
Summer Day - Sniika
"Did we not plan to dig in?"
"Yes, we did Sire!"
"So? What happened while I was sleeping?"
"We had no shovels, Sire!!"
"Ah, and now?"
"We took some from the enemy, and the spikes and pokes are set up, too!"
"Ah, oki, I go back to sleep, wake me if something interesting is happening".
The captain saluted and walked out ... 'interesting happening' he murmured ... 'how should I know what is interesting ...'
Summer Day - Sniika
"Maximum retreat, he says" ....
"Does that mean we retreat if we have no man left?"
'Sire, I suggest we retreat when ... cough cough ... if it is desireable'
"That will do it! Give the orders!"