Wondering what New Elgante is? Who are those karkans squatting on their mountains, what do the tribesmen of the snakes do in their free time?
Well here I try and fill you in on some of this, providing various information on things, as they come to me. This includes stories I have written or am writing.
Rough explanation of the current situation.
Here is a diary entry of a priest who lives in Silver Shore, he effectively sums up the colonial situation.
The Tribe of Snakes
This is a compilation of known information of the Tribe of Snakes by a colonial scholar. It is still being worked on
This is a document with information regarding the two main deities of the Snake Culture
Disparity: A Short Story
This is a short story I have written based within the world of New Elgante. It should be interesting to those wanting to know more of the background of the land. If you like this then I will post some more. I hope you enjoy
I recommend it be read by a mature audience as it is a tad grim.
Smoke in the Hills: A Short Story
Emrik: A Novel (WIP)
This is a novel I am writing told from the eyes of a young colonial.
Timeline
Timeline of events leading up to colonisation of New Elgante
Well here I try and fill you in on some of this, providing various information on things, as they come to me. This includes stories I have written or am writing.
Rough explanation of the current situation.
Basically the colony has been abandoned for reasons unknown, the rebels beleive that without the emperor surveying the area, that they should make their own ruling class. Which are not tyrannical, it is an ideal however. They do not realise that the civil war is only tearing the already weakened colony in half. The Karkan tribe (the "filthy tribe from the mountains") have reportedly been consorting with the rebels but the Empire are not well informed on this. The Arlen tribe are basically the tribe which is being bribed by Elgante to turn on its neighbours. The Lundmen are a break-off of the Karkan Tribe who are on speaking terms with the empire. They trade all sorts of things which sometimes include weapons. They have been slightly duped in this though since the empire sometime does not tell them how to use them. Like the cannon shots being traded to them, without the cannons! The strange tribe who live on the southern promontory shaped like a snakes head seem completely alienated with every other tribe, as well as the colonist and rebels. They are providing the most stubborn resistance
to the colonists.
to the colonists.
18th of Welence in the reign of Emperor Laden second of that name since the formation of the Empire, Year 142 since discovery of New Elgante.
The colony reels after a shocking raid made by the filthy tribe of the mountains upon the small town of Hamgild, most inland settlement. Talks of abandoning all towns and villages which are not at least a day and a half from the coast are being discussed. The Duke of Port Horizon has offered to campaign upon the barbaric tribe and bring them to justice but little support for this has been forthcoming. The Arlenmen which have so far proved trustworthy towards the Empire and its interests are proving reluctant to take action upon a tribe which has been neutral to them. The Rebels grow in number each day as the scum of Elgante fall victim to the promises of their false ideals, they burn every book or script they find which contains any mention of the good and righteous Emperor Laden. The last ship which was sent back to the mainland has not returned in over a year, just like the one that preceded it. Fears are growing among the populace that the colony has been abandoned, both by the Emperor and by God, since no contact has been established in the past seven years. With more and more atrocities like the raid happening each day, I confess, with a heavy heart, not even I am immune to such misgivings. Lord Halrod of Hamgild has been reported to have been captured by the rebels after he survived the raid. No ransom message has been received as of yet. I hope that support from the Arlen tribe is given and the good Duke of Port Horizon can make a successful campaign to show these worthless barbarians and natives who is the one and true god. But most of the colonies money is being put towards horses, since the number of them severely dwindle and now it is a very uncommon sight to see anyone who is not of an upstanding rank to own a horse. I sincerely hope that a fleetis on its way to the colony even now and that the support it brings will help restore the glory that the colony of New Elgante once knew.
Signed Priest William, Silvershore
The colony reels after a shocking raid made by the filthy tribe of the mountains upon the small town of Hamgild, most inland settlement. Talks of abandoning all towns and villages which are not at least a day and a half from the coast are being discussed. The Duke of Port Horizon has offered to campaign upon the barbaric tribe and bring them to justice but little support for this has been forthcoming. The Arlenmen which have so far proved trustworthy towards the Empire and its interests are proving reluctant to take action upon a tribe which has been neutral to them. The Rebels grow in number each day as the scum of Elgante fall victim to the promises of their false ideals, they burn every book or script they find which contains any mention of the good and righteous Emperor Laden. The last ship which was sent back to the mainland has not returned in over a year, just like the one that preceded it. Fears are growing among the populace that the colony has been abandoned, both by the Emperor and by God, since no contact has been established in the past seven years. With more and more atrocities like the raid happening each day, I confess, with a heavy heart, not even I am immune to such misgivings. Lord Halrod of Hamgild has been reported to have been captured by the rebels after he survived the raid. No ransom message has been received as of yet. I hope that support from the Arlen tribe is given and the good Duke of Port Horizon can make a successful campaign to show these worthless barbarians and natives who is the one and true god. But most of the colonies money is being put towards horses, since the number of them severely dwindle and now it is a very uncommon sight to see anyone who is not of an upstanding rank to own a horse. I sincerely hope that a fleetis on its way to the colony even now and that the support it brings will help restore the glory that the colony of New Elgante once knew.
Signed Priest William, Silvershore
This is a compilation of known information of the Tribe of Snakes by a colonial scholar. It is still being worked on
Introduction
The people who live on the southern landmass of New Elgante, commonly referred to as Snakes Head Promontory, are grave enemies to the good and righteous empire. Their culture is based around catering for huge on call armies to combat whomever is the greatest threat on the island. If you ask any other tribesman you will find naught but animosity for these dark haired individuals. Arguably they are the most civilised of all the tribes encountered on New Elgante, although only in structure and not in practice. Recently a man called Eral Hodstog has arrived in Whitcliffe claiming that he had escaped captivity with these vile tribemen. The insights he had to offer on the workings and machinations of the culture was intriguing to say the least, so intriguing in fact that I felt compelled to write a short summary explaining and detailing exactly how this society has managed to live on this island for so long. For those of scholarly pursuits this is to provide insight into a complex yet repulsing society. For those of authority this is some information, a reference and even some advice on what to expect should you ever encounter this race.
Background
First I will start with what many already know, the tribe of snakes, as they are known, appear to be of a different breed to that of the rest of the native population of New Elgante. This is attributed to a supposed migration from the south, appearing to have come by raft from various smaller islands and archipelagos. Although their heritage is unknown, no one knows where exactly they came from and where they formed their barbaric ideas. They call themselves the Ez’ran.
Architecture
The Tribe of snakes have a unique architecture which mostly consists of stone (either lime or sand), wood and thatch. Just like in the empire there are varying hierarchies which affect how rich a family is and what style of house they can build. Although the hierarchies themselves are completely different. The poorer classes generally build stone (low quality) walls with grass/thatch rooves.
Some other example consist of mud constructed in an arch and held in place with wood, is packed and dried to provide a semi-spherical shaped house. This is mostly seen on the borders.
The middle class build houses mostly out of stone. Using the same material for walls as the poorer classes they have more of a cubic look, the roof is of tiled limestone. These sorts of buildings usually make up the majority of towns and a minority of villages.
The upper class live in large mansions of a sort, and for those of a military inclination it can take the look and functionality of a small castle. It uses similar materials to the lower class but uses newer and stronger stone with a clean look. These are seen mostly in towns but also as outposts in the countryside.
Last but certainly not least is the occurrence of stair like pyramids, or temples as they are in practice. These can be seen in the lowliest of villages to the largest of congregations, varying from small to large respectively. At the top of these structures usually is a structure of some sorts for which was originally thought to have been used as a worship place but has since been discovered by Eral that it is in-fact used for the vile practice of human sacrificing.
Society
Not as much is known about their society as other areas but it is known that it functions like a hierarchy. At the top of the scale is the Arryens leading class noblemen who live in the manors and stronghold detailed earlier. At the top of these is the Head Arryen though exactly what his power over the other Arryens is unknown. It appears they rule the tribe separately however and only converse during times of war, which is almost all of the time. Despite this there is rarely any infighting at all which Eral attributes to a lack of competition between the tribesmen, he was once told that anybody who boasts of their achievements and as such says that their actions are greater than any others will be banished or executed. The next down in line is the warriors, who are the trained and dedicated soldiers of the tribe. Then there is the labourers, who construct anything from houses to tools. Followed by the gatherers, who live on the land and produce food.
Whether the tribe has several gods or one is unknown but it is known that the reason they make human sacrifices is because of a god. These events are highly publicised and glorified, Eral said many of his fellow captives were sacrificed but he was never allowed to see. Inside the family the parents unsurprisingly reign supreme over the children but it is how that is intriguing. The fathers never talk to their own children until they are considered to be of an age where they are considered an adult, the mother does all the talking to the children and sometimes the father talks to the kids through the mother. At several stages in the Child’s life the mother will deem him or her to be wise enough to be considered an adult and they will talk to the father. The father will ask them a number of predetermined questions and see how they react based on this they are either finally advanced to be an adult or remain a child until the next chance. Sometimes the father may be so ashamed of his child he will banish them and they become outcasts, who infest the wilderness and many of them act as bandits. Another thing of note is the fact that other than women being unable to become a warrior or arryen they are completely free to do what they want and are in no way restricted by their husbands.
The people who live on the southern landmass of New Elgante, commonly referred to as Snakes Head Promontory, are grave enemies to the good and righteous empire. Their culture is based around catering for huge on call armies to combat whomever is the greatest threat on the island. If you ask any other tribesman you will find naught but animosity for these dark haired individuals. Arguably they are the most civilised of all the tribes encountered on New Elgante, although only in structure and not in practice. Recently a man called Eral Hodstog has arrived in Whitcliffe claiming that he had escaped captivity with these vile tribemen. The insights he had to offer on the workings and machinations of the culture was intriguing to say the least, so intriguing in fact that I felt compelled to write a short summary explaining and detailing exactly how this society has managed to live on this island for so long. For those of scholarly pursuits this is to provide insight into a complex yet repulsing society. For those of authority this is some information, a reference and even some advice on what to expect should you ever encounter this race.
Background
First I will start with what many already know, the tribe of snakes, as they are known, appear to be of a different breed to that of the rest of the native population of New Elgante. This is attributed to a supposed migration from the south, appearing to have come by raft from various smaller islands and archipelagos. Although their heritage is unknown, no one knows where exactly they came from and where they formed their barbaric ideas. They call themselves the Ez’ran.
Architecture
The Tribe of snakes have a unique architecture which mostly consists of stone (either lime or sand), wood and thatch. Just like in the empire there are varying hierarchies which affect how rich a family is and what style of house they can build. Although the hierarchies themselves are completely different. The poorer classes generally build stone (low quality) walls with grass/thatch rooves.
Some other example consist of mud constructed in an arch and held in place with wood, is packed and dried to provide a semi-spherical shaped house. This is mostly seen on the borders.
The middle class build houses mostly out of stone. Using the same material for walls as the poorer classes they have more of a cubic look, the roof is of tiled limestone. These sorts of buildings usually make up the majority of towns and a minority of villages.
The upper class live in large mansions of a sort, and for those of a military inclination it can take the look and functionality of a small castle. It uses similar materials to the lower class but uses newer and stronger stone with a clean look. These are seen mostly in towns but also as outposts in the countryside.
Last but certainly not least is the occurrence of stair like pyramids, or temples as they are in practice. These can be seen in the lowliest of villages to the largest of congregations, varying from small to large respectively. At the top of these structures usually is a structure of some sorts for which was originally thought to have been used as a worship place but has since been discovered by Eral that it is in-fact used for the vile practice of human sacrificing.
Society
Not as much is known about their society as other areas but it is known that it functions like a hierarchy. At the top of the scale is the Arryens leading class noblemen who live in the manors and stronghold detailed earlier. At the top of these is the Head Arryen though exactly what his power over the other Arryens is unknown. It appears they rule the tribe separately however and only converse during times of war, which is almost all of the time. Despite this there is rarely any infighting at all which Eral attributes to a lack of competition between the tribesmen, he was once told that anybody who boasts of their achievements and as such says that their actions are greater than any others will be banished or executed. The next down in line is the warriors, who are the trained and dedicated soldiers of the tribe. Then there is the labourers, who construct anything from houses to tools. Followed by the gatherers, who live on the land and produce food.
Whether the tribe has several gods or one is unknown but it is known that the reason they make human sacrifices is because of a god. These events are highly publicised and glorified, Eral said many of his fellow captives were sacrificed but he was never allowed to see. Inside the family the parents unsurprisingly reign supreme over the children but it is how that is intriguing. The fathers never talk to their own children until they are considered to be of an age where they are considered an adult, the mother does all the talking to the children and sometimes the father talks to the kids through the mother. At several stages in the Child’s life the mother will deem him or her to be wise enough to be considered an adult and they will talk to the father. The father will ask them a number of predetermined questions and see how they react based on this they are either finally advanced to be an adult or remain a child until the next chance. Sometimes the father may be so ashamed of his child he will banish them and they become outcasts, who infest the wilderness and many of them act as bandits. Another thing of note is the fact that other than women being unable to become a warrior or arryen they are completely free to do what they want and are in no way restricted by their husbands.
This is a short story I have written based within the world of New Elgante. It should be interesting to those wanting to know more of the background of the land. If you like this then I will post some more. I hope you enjoy
I recommend it be read by a mature audience as it is a tad grim.Smoke in the Hills: A Short Story
Wekren tensed his muscles as he drew back the string, carefully and deliberately pulling it towards him, his fingers firmly holding the arrow in place. When the string near touched his cheek he
adjusted the angle, allowing for the gusty breeze blowing across the range between him and the target. For his part, the boar did nothing, as still as Wekren's brothers who surrounded his lair. The wind lulled for a moment and in that moment Wekren loosed, the arrow arcing down towards the still boar almost faster than could be perceived. Nearly soundless, the arrow landed on its foreleg and immediately afterward it burst upright, bellowing its unexpected pain to the world. Leffen was on him before he could even realise his leg was lamed, shoving the spear straight through his exposed neck, ending the screams as abruptly as they started.
Relief flooded through Wekren, he had done it, he had made the shot. Silently Rakslern made his way towards him, great wooden staff in hand. "You are one of Narken's children" he stated, plainly, the
rustling of leaves highlighting his words. But the meaning was profound for Wekren, he was a hunter of the people, a person blessed by the Great God of Forests, Rain and Hunting. He was tasked with providing food for the people and he was filled with pride at the thought, he had passed the final test.
Leffen soon followed, he had passed his test as well, but he had not yet proven he was blessed by Narken. They both looked to Rakslern, the master of the hunt, he was to decide what to do next. His face was impassive, dedicated to its duty, it betrayed none of the emotions that plagued the younger
brothers. "We return to village" he said, looking at the darkening sky. The disappointment was evident on Leffen's face; he was not to prove himself this day. With determined strides the Master set off to the south towards the village, the sun lighting his wizened features from one side. The village was not far, although they had to veer off to meet up with other parties, Wekren could tell the success or failure of others by a mere glance at their faces. He ignored those that had failed, they were not important and instead focused on those that had succeeded. Young Biret, Gofert, Histel these were his brothers now.
It wasn't until the smoke hit him that he realised, whilst walking the last rise, glancing at Rakslern he noticed that he was already crouching, moving silently ahead of him. With growing trepidation Wekren followed in his path, matching his strides. The smoke smelt of charred wood and flesh, mixing with the sweet smell of dusk to create a sickening odour, it had already burnt itself out. This wasn't any mountain raiders, who would not have burnt any people along with it, this was far worse. As the rise
grew higher the group crouched lower, eventually crawling along on their stomachs. With a last final drag Wekren pulled himself to the top of the hill to view the blackened shell of his village. The space where not so long before had stood a cluster of hovels and shacks now stood a few upright posts,
declaring their stubbornness to the sky. The ground was littered with debris, but from this height it just looked like a black smudge on the countryside.
Rage enshrouded Wekren's mind, he knew who had done this before they even went down there; the snivelling men from the coast, who marched about the landscape. Cowards, all of them, shooting
sticks at them with their strange contraptions. But all of Wekren's resolve fled when he saw the first body; its features blackened and smoothed by the fire, its belly bloated, blood caked on its hands. It took all of his effort not to retch right there, but such a thing would only show weak conviction to
his brothers, an inability to witness deaths grip. The most unnerving thing, Wekren thought as he stared intently at his feet, and the blackened soil which surrounded them, was the lack of bodies.
"Aaaooooo!" he heard a brother scream, a half wail half shout. Instinctively Wekren followed his gaze but instantly wished he hadn't. In the centre of the burnings, lay a mound, which Wekren had
originally thought was the remains of the longhouse.
They were bodies.
Even with only a glance, it was branded in Wekren's memory like he was still looking at it. Seared and twisted arms reached out as though still waiting for someone to grab hold of it and pull them out of their nightmare. To be burned to death was a great insult, it meant that Renarl, the god of Fire, despised you and you were not worthy of the heat of his glare. But to be killed in such a way, was beyond insult... beyond belief, it was a sign.
Wekren had no idea how long they stood there, contemplating the gravity of the situation. It could have been days, none of them would have felt like eating whilst in that place. But it was Rakslern which broke them out of their daze, words didn't need to be said, but they were said anyway. "Brothers of Narken! Of Tolren! Men of the Mountains! What has been done here today is a grievous sign; Renarl is furious, Renarl is beyond reasonability. Something must be done and nothing short of the burnings of every one of the people who have done this will appease him. We are all brothers of Renarl now, our minds have been cleansed by fires devastation, no longer do we have commitments, we have been given only one thing to do!" No one needed to say what that thing was.
And suddenly, when all the men were still a second before, they all erupted in a flurry of motion. Prayers were said, weapons coated in ash, revenge foremost in everyone's mind. Since all of the war paint was gone, ash was the next best thing. Wekren lay down and rolled in it, from side to side, until he couldn't feel any exposed skin. Standing up again he took stock of their party. Many were covered from head to toe in ash like himself, some had drawn patterns on their chests and faces, some had even chopped off fingers or toes to show their conviction. They were not getting ready for war, they were ready for a hunt. The bastards had chosen a horrific time to raid, because all that were left now were the fighting men.
They would pay for that mistake.
adjusted the angle, allowing for the gusty breeze blowing across the range between him and the target. For his part, the boar did nothing, as still as Wekren's brothers who surrounded his lair. The wind lulled for a moment and in that moment Wekren loosed, the arrow arcing down towards the still boar almost faster than could be perceived. Nearly soundless, the arrow landed on its foreleg and immediately afterward it burst upright, bellowing its unexpected pain to the world. Leffen was on him before he could even realise his leg was lamed, shoving the spear straight through his exposed neck, ending the screams as abruptly as they started.
Relief flooded through Wekren, he had done it, he had made the shot. Silently Rakslern made his way towards him, great wooden staff in hand. "You are one of Narken's children" he stated, plainly, the
rustling of leaves highlighting his words. But the meaning was profound for Wekren, he was a hunter of the people, a person blessed by the Great God of Forests, Rain and Hunting. He was tasked with providing food for the people and he was filled with pride at the thought, he had passed the final test.
Leffen soon followed, he had passed his test as well, but he had not yet proven he was blessed by Narken. They both looked to Rakslern, the master of the hunt, he was to decide what to do next. His face was impassive, dedicated to its duty, it betrayed none of the emotions that plagued the younger
brothers. "We return to village" he said, looking at the darkening sky. The disappointment was evident on Leffen's face; he was not to prove himself this day. With determined strides the Master set off to the south towards the village, the sun lighting his wizened features from one side. The village was not far, although they had to veer off to meet up with other parties, Wekren could tell the success or failure of others by a mere glance at their faces. He ignored those that had failed, they were not important and instead focused on those that had succeeded. Young Biret, Gofert, Histel these were his brothers now.
It wasn't until the smoke hit him that he realised, whilst walking the last rise, glancing at Rakslern he noticed that he was already crouching, moving silently ahead of him. With growing trepidation Wekren followed in his path, matching his strides. The smoke smelt of charred wood and flesh, mixing with the sweet smell of dusk to create a sickening odour, it had already burnt itself out. This wasn't any mountain raiders, who would not have burnt any people along with it, this was far worse. As the rise
grew higher the group crouched lower, eventually crawling along on their stomachs. With a last final drag Wekren pulled himself to the top of the hill to view the blackened shell of his village. The space where not so long before had stood a cluster of hovels and shacks now stood a few upright posts,
declaring their stubbornness to the sky. The ground was littered with debris, but from this height it just looked like a black smudge on the countryside.
Rage enshrouded Wekren's mind, he knew who had done this before they even went down there; the snivelling men from the coast, who marched about the landscape. Cowards, all of them, shooting
sticks at them with their strange contraptions. But all of Wekren's resolve fled when he saw the first body; its features blackened and smoothed by the fire, its belly bloated, blood caked on its hands. It took all of his effort not to retch right there, but such a thing would only show weak conviction to
his brothers, an inability to witness deaths grip. The most unnerving thing, Wekren thought as he stared intently at his feet, and the blackened soil which surrounded them, was the lack of bodies.
"Aaaooooo!" he heard a brother scream, a half wail half shout. Instinctively Wekren followed his gaze but instantly wished he hadn't. In the centre of the burnings, lay a mound, which Wekren had
originally thought was the remains of the longhouse.
They were bodies.
Even with only a glance, it was branded in Wekren's memory like he was still looking at it. Seared and twisted arms reached out as though still waiting for someone to grab hold of it and pull them out of their nightmare. To be burned to death was a great insult, it meant that Renarl, the god of Fire, despised you and you were not worthy of the heat of his glare. But to be killed in such a way, was beyond insult... beyond belief, it was a sign.
Wekren had no idea how long they stood there, contemplating the gravity of the situation. It could have been days, none of them would have felt like eating whilst in that place. But it was Rakslern which broke them out of their daze, words didn't need to be said, but they were said anyway. "Brothers of Narken! Of Tolren! Men of the Mountains! What has been done here today is a grievous sign; Renarl is furious, Renarl is beyond reasonability. Something must be done and nothing short of the burnings of every one of the people who have done this will appease him. We are all brothers of Renarl now, our minds have been cleansed by fires devastation, no longer do we have commitments, we have been given only one thing to do!" No one needed to say what that thing was.
And suddenly, when all the men were still a second before, they all erupted in a flurry of motion. Prayers were said, weapons coated in ash, revenge foremost in everyone's mind. Since all of the war paint was gone, ash was the next best thing. Wekren lay down and rolled in it, from side to side, until he couldn't feel any exposed skin. Standing up again he took stock of their party. Many were covered from head to toe in ash like himself, some had drawn patterns on their chests and faces, some had even chopped off fingers or toes to show their conviction. They were not getting ready for war, they were ready for a hunt. The bastards had chosen a horrific time to raid, because all that were left now were the fighting men.
They would pay for that mistake.
This is a novel I am writing told from the eyes of a young colonial.
Chapter 1:
Emrik closed his eyes to insistent beating of the sun on his already sun dried face. The heat felt like a pressure on him, trying to force him to the ground, to fall over amongst this hellish march. Three days he thought, three days with only two stops on each, nighttime and noon. Mustering his voice through a dry throat he croaked “Why is it so hot?”
His only answer was that of the ever present sound of leather boots trudging through the dirt and the bump of a soldier behind him, forcing him on. The pace in which they moved offered no respite to the increasing heat, the continual motion of his legs made him regret ever having learnt it in the first place. His eyes opened again to the searing light which bathed the landscape. The grass underneath him was brown, drying fast in the summer heat. Heat, the locals said, which would last for more than just the summer. How he already longed for the cooling breeze of the ocean of his home village, just north of Whitcliffe. But instead he was forced to trudge through this desolate landscape. He had heard someone mumble, a grizzled veteran, last night when he had laid sprawled on the ground, desperately trying to recover his energy from the day’s march that it was at this time of year that “summer storms” came in from the ocean to the south. Fine, thought Emrik, let them come, it will bring some respite to that villainous sun. But it wasn’t just the weather that irked him, no there was much worse than the sun to worry about.
There was a reason he was out here in this god-forsaken place, reports were coming in about a marauding tribal band. Seemingly separate from the larger tribes which plagued the island, this one consisted of just enough to not be obvious, but enough for him and the men surrounding him, to be out here in search of them. Many a story had been passed around at rest times, of the atrocities committed by the men they were hunting. Many questioned who were the hunters, and who was the hunted and some went as far to say they were being watched. The thought unsurprisingly gave Emrik the shivers, something which he concealed well from his comrades, whom he assumed many of were doing the same. Emrik had only joined up to this expedition because he saw it as his only opportunity to see the island. Before he was pushed into a job he would never get out of. He still didn’t regret it, apart from the heat, which had really only began yesterday, the marching and the threat of an enemy ambush it had been interesting. The routine of army life attracted him, in a weird way. It seemed silly, and he could push the feeling out of his mind whenever he so wished. But it always came back to him.
Pulling his issued hat off his belt he placed it on his head, slanting it slightly forward so as to block the sun from his eyes. The hat was not a great fit, but soldier issue equipment was not very varied to fit the wearer. “If it can fit on your head without falling off, then you ain’t got nothin’ to worry about” the man had said as he had received his equipment, his poorly shaven beard seeming to be an extension of his mouth, his dark eyes had warned him to move along or he was in for a thrashing. They were indeed a strange bunch, he thought, in the patrol. The Captain was prone to gambling, which often ended in his loss, several men boasting that they earnt more than the captain did for this whole expedition in one game.
He heard a command from far away, it was quickly relayed to a nearby sergeant “Halt!” Craning his neck to get a better look, an effort which was impeded by several people in front of him with the same idea, he could just make out horsemen in the front line. No cavalry had been brought on the expedition, it was too minor to waste some of the Empires best weapons on. But scouts were a time honoured and tested tactic and judging by the horses he presumed these were the scouts. After a short amount of time he saw the dust kick up and the scouts ride off, in the direction the column was soon to be heading. “March!” the command came through, one which was quickly taken up. If a little disorganized, pre-expedition training had consisted of a rag-tag group of peasants being drilled in the art of an ordered march by a smaller group of veterans accompanying them. Weapons had been issued and such little time was spent on instructing them how to use them that Emrik began to wonder if they merely wanted to scare the marauding band by sheer numbers. Emrik touched upon his standard issue sword at his belt, its iron hilt bound in leather gave him comfort, despite his lack of skill.
Word soon filtered through that they were approaching the village of Oral, which promised a break to this marching. As the commanders discussed possible strategies and scouts scoured the landscape for tracks and signs of their enemy. Soon Emrik could see the cluster of huts and wooden constructs built upon a hill and he relaxed a bit. The sun would be setting soon and with the village looking like a safe haven for the night. There were no walls, a luxury few villages could afford. Marauding bands this far inland were viewed by the locals like natural disasters, they simply couldn’t be helped. The ground underneath Emrik turned to be a bit more worn, revealing itself to be a makeshift track further on.
And as it always is, once you can see your goal it comes faster. The village was soon within a distance at which Emrik could view the details. A discarded cart was randomly placed outside the village, near a small farm. A dog barked loudly in the front yard at the horde of ‘invaders’ to its territory, not backing down after already seeing many minutes go by with these men trudging by. Its owner was resting on the fence, as though he was the exact opposite of his dog was watching with cool detachment. A full beard covered his chin and scraggly, matted hair covered his head. Judging by the size of the farm Emrik thought it safe to assume his life wasn’t easy. And this far from the bustling port towns he wasn’t surprised. Looking up to the top of the hill he could make out a few people staring at them, though several people just went about their business as though they were not there. Looking around him at the line of soldiers, Emrik thought that they probably outnumbered the population of this village, or hamlet more likely. The column began to dissolve in front of Emrik, and benches and tables had been set up around the spacious entrance to the village. Suddenly he felt very tired, and Emrik slumped at the nearest bench, a mere log with a flattened top. It wasn’t soft but after a day’s march it felt like a bed of wool. A luxury Emrik had never felt, but from what he was given to understand it was very comfortable. The feeling in his legs was mostly numb, and he shook them around to get the feeling back again. Through the pins and needles he felt forming in his legs he scanned the landscape, his recent soldier training kicking in. On all sides of the village the land gave way and sloped downwards to valleys. To the south west he could spot a river, its water glinting in the uncannily bright dusk. Some of his comrades appeared to be taking stock of the landscape as well, some were resting while others spent the time discussing trivial matters. In amongst all this Emrik began to feel at home, he didn’t want to be some common laborer he wanted to be a soldier.
Chapter 2:
Emrik awoke to the gritty dawn that surrounded him. Dirt was in the air and it made him cough violently. Surveying the area with a recently acquired soldiers instinct he realized that the wind was blowing it around. Something which, if he could assume correctly from what the veteran had said, a storm was coming. The thought excited him somehow, yet at the same time made him nervous about how they could march through torrential rain. With sheer force of will he sat up, muscles straining from the previous days march. His back stung, it was as though he had slept on a bed of rocks, and looking at how thin his sleeping roll was it wasn’t far from the truth. Dust whipped up in front of him and stung his eyes, adding to the seemingly endless string of pain which assaulted his senses since he joined the patrol. He groaned but checked himself before someone overheard, they were all going through the same thing and complaints would only serve against him. He methodically rolled up his sleeping roll, just as he had done each morning since they left and crammed it into his tiny pack, slinging it over his shoulder in the process. With deliberate care he put on his hard leather boots and placed the hat on his head, feather flying. What a useless component of a hat, Emrik thought, a feather in no way helped to shade one from the sun nor did it add to any other function of a hat. It was all part of the weird order the patrol had set up, the feather was just a small part of it. Whilst pondering this Emrik trudged to the baggage train, a collection of horses and carts always strewn behind the marching soldiers to place his pack. The one good thing about the patrol was the fact he did not have to carry his pack, a fact he was grateful for with every step. All around him were signs of the camp stirring, soldiers beating dust off their clothes and rubbing tired eyes, as though it would miraculously cure their fatigue. As Emrik placed his pack on the back of a cart he noticed how high the sun was up, they had never been allowed to sleep in for so long before. The captain was nowhere to be seen either. Strange, perhaps they were camping the day in the village Emrik thought with hope.
It was with that same hope he noticed the guards stationed out the front of a village hut presumably with the Captain inside. Good, perhaps he was discussing his plans. Whatever it was it was clear that they were not going to be moving any time soon. With nothing better to do Emrik strolled to the edges of the village, past the farm with the barking dog to look back the way they had come. It looked as barren as every other direction, the dry grass trodden over and still showing signs of their march over it. Emrik heard a crash sound behind him, wood on wood. He spun around only to see a wooden shutter on the farmhouse flap about and crash against the frame once again. It occurred to Emrik that through all the exhaustion he had almost forgotten about the tribal band. But yet his nerves betrayed him and the worry came gnawing back at him, eating away his reserves. He spent the day wandering amongst the weary soldiers and passing a word here or there, maybe even a no stakes game of cards. But his worry didn’t go away, there was something about staying in the same spot which irked him, taunted him, until he wanted to scream it out to every person he passed.
But he didn’t, it was insanity to do so. As the day wore on he got word of a bored veteran who had made a challenge that no recruit in the patrol could best him in single combat. Considering the lack of training received by the fresh faced youngsters, which included Emrik himself, that accompanied the party he was probably right. But the bored soldiers had nothing better to do. Emrik stood by and watched as the veteran bested recruit after recruit with such efficiency that Emrik wasn’t sure whether the soldier was a brilliant swordsman or the recruits were worse than originally thought. They were using long slender sticks, roughly hewn off branches really, but they worked well. It was just after the veteran knocked another recruit off his feet that it happened. A single nudge to the back and Emrik stumbled right into the cleared space, was forced to cross the difference between spectator and contender. With clear confidence the veteran chuckled and as his defeated opponent crawled to his feet he chuckled more. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t need to but several of his comrades began chuckling too. Did he really look that young, Emrik put a hand to his face unconsciously, feeling the stubble growing on his chin. He knew he couldn’t possibly contend with the man but he had to do something. He awkwardly strode over to the stick left lying on the ground by the previous contender who was now falteringly walking to the growing crowd of spectators. Swallowing drily he picked it up felling the weight in his hands. It was coarse, rough yet the slick sweat which had formed on his hand almost made it fall right out of his grip. The wind had picked up, even more dust filling the air and giving the sky a reddish tinge. The veteran composed himself with obvious effort and took his stance, the same one he had taken each time he was going to fight. “Ready?” the man said, roughly, Emrik had no time to answer. No sooner had the words left his mouth than the man was swinging the stick in his face. Emrik stepped back, it was all he could do to remain out of reach. Tensing the muscles in his own arm he swung out at the grinning man, the swing so hopelessly out of range that Emrik overstretched himself, leaving his arm vulnerably outwards. With lightning speed the veteran stepped in and brought the stick down with terrifying force on Emrik’s arm. He almost dropped the stick, but something made him hold on, perhaps the shock had made him clench his fist, whatever it was the fierce tingling made him gasp in surprise, desperately trying to regain his footing.
Emrik lashed out with his left hand frantically trying to strike the man. His fist glided through thin air and Emrik looked up quickly. It all happened in seconds, one moment the man was in front of him, the next he was behind him and an explosion of pain ran up his back forcing him to the ground with such force that the world went black around him. Laying there on the ground the world suddenly seemed to contract to just his own thoughts and feelings, blood rushed through his ears and the pain up his back sharpened. He was lying face first in the dust the realization making him cough, which made him breath in more dust causing him to cough again. Propping himself up off the ground he coughed some more, his chest heaving with the effort. The taste in his mouth was horrid causing him to swallow instinctively. The feeling was nauseating, the droning of the wind through the trees only seemed to add to his discomfort. Suddenly he felt weightless, rising from the ground with dizzying speed, he was being pulled by his collar to his feet. “Get up” the same rough voice said as he pushed him to one side looking for the next opponent. Discarded and already quickly being forgotten Emrik didn’t want to see another fight, all he wanted was water, no he needed water. His dry throat tickled once again sending him into another coughing spasm. Remembering the well located in the centre of the village Emrik headed towards it spitting out the accumulated dust in his mouth as he went. It was with relief that Emrik reached the well stumbling up to its wooden walls. He looked down the well, water lapped at the bottom of it, enticingly calling to him. It was with a grave disappointment that Emrik noticed the lack of a bucket, his stomach sinking. Looking around feverishly for a bucket, a cup, a bowl anything would do; he spotted a small wooden bucket out the front of a village hut. He almost ran to it, snatching it up and tying it to the rope at the well. Just as he was about to send it down he heard footsteps behind him, crunching in the dust. “What are you doing” the voice demanded, the tone was firm, the sound of someone who expects respect. Emrik froze, considering his actions, was he allowed to take from the well? Was this the owner of the bucket? A small wooden splinted thing Emrik doubted he would care. With increasing foreboding Emrik spun around, his eyes resting on a tall scraggly aged man, his thinning hair now grey yet still holding some of it dark colour of youth. All these things were mundane, nothing to take notice of, yet it was the way the man held himself, stood upright that drew attention. He commanded every bit of authority his voice demanded and the thought made Emrik’s heart sink.
The man was dressed in loose fitting linen which was coloured the same as the dust swirling about him, or perhaps it was just dirty. He wore pants of the same make although they were lighter and his boots were pulled up over the bottom of them. He wore nothing on his head, something which immediately identified him as someone from outside of the patrol. He wore a sword at his belt and considering his expression he wasn’t far off reaching for it.
Emrik swallowed again, his parched throat annoying him even more than before. “Just getting some…” he broke off into another coughing fit his face contorting with the strain.
“Helping yourself?” the man asked, but it seemed more like a statement than an actual question. “Do you want to start a riot? The villagers are already suspicious of us and anything could set them off, especially if they catch you stealing from their water supply at this time of year.” The man’s eyes took into account the cuts and bruises dressing Emrik’s face and softened slightly, “Harwood give you a thrashing did he? Look I’ll get you some water from the baggage train. Just don’t do anything else stupid.”
Emrik closed his eyes to insistent beating of the sun on his already sun dried face. The heat felt like a pressure on him, trying to force him to the ground, to fall over amongst this hellish march. Three days he thought, three days with only two stops on each, nighttime and noon. Mustering his voice through a dry throat he croaked “Why is it so hot?”
His only answer was that of the ever present sound of leather boots trudging through the dirt and the bump of a soldier behind him, forcing him on. The pace in which they moved offered no respite to the increasing heat, the continual motion of his legs made him regret ever having learnt it in the first place. His eyes opened again to the searing light which bathed the landscape. The grass underneath him was brown, drying fast in the summer heat. Heat, the locals said, which would last for more than just the summer. How he already longed for the cooling breeze of the ocean of his home village, just north of Whitcliffe. But instead he was forced to trudge through this desolate landscape. He had heard someone mumble, a grizzled veteran, last night when he had laid sprawled on the ground, desperately trying to recover his energy from the day’s march that it was at this time of year that “summer storms” came in from the ocean to the south. Fine, thought Emrik, let them come, it will bring some respite to that villainous sun. But it wasn’t just the weather that irked him, no there was much worse than the sun to worry about.
There was a reason he was out here in this god-forsaken place, reports were coming in about a marauding tribal band. Seemingly separate from the larger tribes which plagued the island, this one consisted of just enough to not be obvious, but enough for him and the men surrounding him, to be out here in search of them. Many a story had been passed around at rest times, of the atrocities committed by the men they were hunting. Many questioned who were the hunters, and who was the hunted and some went as far to say they were being watched. The thought unsurprisingly gave Emrik the shivers, something which he concealed well from his comrades, whom he assumed many of were doing the same. Emrik had only joined up to this expedition because he saw it as his only opportunity to see the island. Before he was pushed into a job he would never get out of. He still didn’t regret it, apart from the heat, which had really only began yesterday, the marching and the threat of an enemy ambush it had been interesting. The routine of army life attracted him, in a weird way. It seemed silly, and he could push the feeling out of his mind whenever he so wished. But it always came back to him.
Pulling his issued hat off his belt he placed it on his head, slanting it slightly forward so as to block the sun from his eyes. The hat was not a great fit, but soldier issue equipment was not very varied to fit the wearer. “If it can fit on your head without falling off, then you ain’t got nothin’ to worry about” the man had said as he had received his equipment, his poorly shaven beard seeming to be an extension of his mouth, his dark eyes had warned him to move along or he was in for a thrashing. They were indeed a strange bunch, he thought, in the patrol. The Captain was prone to gambling, which often ended in his loss, several men boasting that they earnt more than the captain did for this whole expedition in one game.
He heard a command from far away, it was quickly relayed to a nearby sergeant “Halt!” Craning his neck to get a better look, an effort which was impeded by several people in front of him with the same idea, he could just make out horsemen in the front line. No cavalry had been brought on the expedition, it was too minor to waste some of the Empires best weapons on. But scouts were a time honoured and tested tactic and judging by the horses he presumed these were the scouts. After a short amount of time he saw the dust kick up and the scouts ride off, in the direction the column was soon to be heading. “March!” the command came through, one which was quickly taken up. If a little disorganized, pre-expedition training had consisted of a rag-tag group of peasants being drilled in the art of an ordered march by a smaller group of veterans accompanying them. Weapons had been issued and such little time was spent on instructing them how to use them that Emrik began to wonder if they merely wanted to scare the marauding band by sheer numbers. Emrik touched upon his standard issue sword at his belt, its iron hilt bound in leather gave him comfort, despite his lack of skill.
Word soon filtered through that they were approaching the village of Oral, which promised a break to this marching. As the commanders discussed possible strategies and scouts scoured the landscape for tracks and signs of their enemy. Soon Emrik could see the cluster of huts and wooden constructs built upon a hill and he relaxed a bit. The sun would be setting soon and with the village looking like a safe haven for the night. There were no walls, a luxury few villages could afford. Marauding bands this far inland were viewed by the locals like natural disasters, they simply couldn’t be helped. The ground underneath Emrik turned to be a bit more worn, revealing itself to be a makeshift track further on.
And as it always is, once you can see your goal it comes faster. The village was soon within a distance at which Emrik could view the details. A discarded cart was randomly placed outside the village, near a small farm. A dog barked loudly in the front yard at the horde of ‘invaders’ to its territory, not backing down after already seeing many minutes go by with these men trudging by. Its owner was resting on the fence, as though he was the exact opposite of his dog was watching with cool detachment. A full beard covered his chin and scraggly, matted hair covered his head. Judging by the size of the farm Emrik thought it safe to assume his life wasn’t easy. And this far from the bustling port towns he wasn’t surprised. Looking up to the top of the hill he could make out a few people staring at them, though several people just went about their business as though they were not there. Looking around him at the line of soldiers, Emrik thought that they probably outnumbered the population of this village, or hamlet more likely. The column began to dissolve in front of Emrik, and benches and tables had been set up around the spacious entrance to the village. Suddenly he felt very tired, and Emrik slumped at the nearest bench, a mere log with a flattened top. It wasn’t soft but after a day’s march it felt like a bed of wool. A luxury Emrik had never felt, but from what he was given to understand it was very comfortable. The feeling in his legs was mostly numb, and he shook them around to get the feeling back again. Through the pins and needles he felt forming in his legs he scanned the landscape, his recent soldier training kicking in. On all sides of the village the land gave way and sloped downwards to valleys. To the south west he could spot a river, its water glinting in the uncannily bright dusk. Some of his comrades appeared to be taking stock of the landscape as well, some were resting while others spent the time discussing trivial matters. In amongst all this Emrik began to feel at home, he didn’t want to be some common laborer he wanted to be a soldier.
Chapter 2:
Emrik awoke to the gritty dawn that surrounded him. Dirt was in the air and it made him cough violently. Surveying the area with a recently acquired soldiers instinct he realized that the wind was blowing it around. Something which, if he could assume correctly from what the veteran had said, a storm was coming. The thought excited him somehow, yet at the same time made him nervous about how they could march through torrential rain. With sheer force of will he sat up, muscles straining from the previous days march. His back stung, it was as though he had slept on a bed of rocks, and looking at how thin his sleeping roll was it wasn’t far from the truth. Dust whipped up in front of him and stung his eyes, adding to the seemingly endless string of pain which assaulted his senses since he joined the patrol. He groaned but checked himself before someone overheard, they were all going through the same thing and complaints would only serve against him. He methodically rolled up his sleeping roll, just as he had done each morning since they left and crammed it into his tiny pack, slinging it over his shoulder in the process. With deliberate care he put on his hard leather boots and placed the hat on his head, feather flying. What a useless component of a hat, Emrik thought, a feather in no way helped to shade one from the sun nor did it add to any other function of a hat. It was all part of the weird order the patrol had set up, the feather was just a small part of it. Whilst pondering this Emrik trudged to the baggage train, a collection of horses and carts always strewn behind the marching soldiers to place his pack. The one good thing about the patrol was the fact he did not have to carry his pack, a fact he was grateful for with every step. All around him were signs of the camp stirring, soldiers beating dust off their clothes and rubbing tired eyes, as though it would miraculously cure their fatigue. As Emrik placed his pack on the back of a cart he noticed how high the sun was up, they had never been allowed to sleep in for so long before. The captain was nowhere to be seen either. Strange, perhaps they were camping the day in the village Emrik thought with hope.
It was with that same hope he noticed the guards stationed out the front of a village hut presumably with the Captain inside. Good, perhaps he was discussing his plans. Whatever it was it was clear that they were not going to be moving any time soon. With nothing better to do Emrik strolled to the edges of the village, past the farm with the barking dog to look back the way they had come. It looked as barren as every other direction, the dry grass trodden over and still showing signs of their march over it. Emrik heard a crash sound behind him, wood on wood. He spun around only to see a wooden shutter on the farmhouse flap about and crash against the frame once again. It occurred to Emrik that through all the exhaustion he had almost forgotten about the tribal band. But yet his nerves betrayed him and the worry came gnawing back at him, eating away his reserves. He spent the day wandering amongst the weary soldiers and passing a word here or there, maybe even a no stakes game of cards. But his worry didn’t go away, there was something about staying in the same spot which irked him, taunted him, until he wanted to scream it out to every person he passed.
But he didn’t, it was insanity to do so. As the day wore on he got word of a bored veteran who had made a challenge that no recruit in the patrol could best him in single combat. Considering the lack of training received by the fresh faced youngsters, which included Emrik himself, that accompanied the party he was probably right. But the bored soldiers had nothing better to do. Emrik stood by and watched as the veteran bested recruit after recruit with such efficiency that Emrik wasn’t sure whether the soldier was a brilliant swordsman or the recruits were worse than originally thought. They were using long slender sticks, roughly hewn off branches really, but they worked well. It was just after the veteran knocked another recruit off his feet that it happened. A single nudge to the back and Emrik stumbled right into the cleared space, was forced to cross the difference between spectator and contender. With clear confidence the veteran chuckled and as his defeated opponent crawled to his feet he chuckled more. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t need to but several of his comrades began chuckling too. Did he really look that young, Emrik put a hand to his face unconsciously, feeling the stubble growing on his chin. He knew he couldn’t possibly contend with the man but he had to do something. He awkwardly strode over to the stick left lying on the ground by the previous contender who was now falteringly walking to the growing crowd of spectators. Swallowing drily he picked it up felling the weight in his hands. It was coarse, rough yet the slick sweat which had formed on his hand almost made it fall right out of his grip. The wind had picked up, even more dust filling the air and giving the sky a reddish tinge. The veteran composed himself with obvious effort and took his stance, the same one he had taken each time he was going to fight. “Ready?” the man said, roughly, Emrik had no time to answer. No sooner had the words left his mouth than the man was swinging the stick in his face. Emrik stepped back, it was all he could do to remain out of reach. Tensing the muscles in his own arm he swung out at the grinning man, the swing so hopelessly out of range that Emrik overstretched himself, leaving his arm vulnerably outwards. With lightning speed the veteran stepped in and brought the stick down with terrifying force on Emrik’s arm. He almost dropped the stick, but something made him hold on, perhaps the shock had made him clench his fist, whatever it was the fierce tingling made him gasp in surprise, desperately trying to regain his footing.
Emrik lashed out with his left hand frantically trying to strike the man. His fist glided through thin air and Emrik looked up quickly. It all happened in seconds, one moment the man was in front of him, the next he was behind him and an explosion of pain ran up his back forcing him to the ground with such force that the world went black around him. Laying there on the ground the world suddenly seemed to contract to just his own thoughts and feelings, blood rushed through his ears and the pain up his back sharpened. He was lying face first in the dust the realization making him cough, which made him breath in more dust causing him to cough again. Propping himself up off the ground he coughed some more, his chest heaving with the effort. The taste in his mouth was horrid causing him to swallow instinctively. The feeling was nauseating, the droning of the wind through the trees only seemed to add to his discomfort. Suddenly he felt weightless, rising from the ground with dizzying speed, he was being pulled by his collar to his feet. “Get up” the same rough voice said as he pushed him to one side looking for the next opponent. Discarded and already quickly being forgotten Emrik didn’t want to see another fight, all he wanted was water, no he needed water. His dry throat tickled once again sending him into another coughing spasm. Remembering the well located in the centre of the village Emrik headed towards it spitting out the accumulated dust in his mouth as he went. It was with relief that Emrik reached the well stumbling up to its wooden walls. He looked down the well, water lapped at the bottom of it, enticingly calling to him. It was with a grave disappointment that Emrik noticed the lack of a bucket, his stomach sinking. Looking around feverishly for a bucket, a cup, a bowl anything would do; he spotted a small wooden bucket out the front of a village hut. He almost ran to it, snatching it up and tying it to the rope at the well. Just as he was about to send it down he heard footsteps behind him, crunching in the dust. “What are you doing” the voice demanded, the tone was firm, the sound of someone who expects respect. Emrik froze, considering his actions, was he allowed to take from the well? Was this the owner of the bucket? A small wooden splinted thing Emrik doubted he would care. With increasing foreboding Emrik spun around, his eyes resting on a tall scraggly aged man, his thinning hair now grey yet still holding some of it dark colour of youth. All these things were mundane, nothing to take notice of, yet it was the way the man held himself, stood upright that drew attention. He commanded every bit of authority his voice demanded and the thought made Emrik’s heart sink.
The man was dressed in loose fitting linen which was coloured the same as the dust swirling about him, or perhaps it was just dirty. He wore pants of the same make although they were lighter and his boots were pulled up over the bottom of them. He wore nothing on his head, something which immediately identified him as someone from outside of the patrol. He wore a sword at his belt and considering his expression he wasn’t far off reaching for it.
Emrik swallowed again, his parched throat annoying him even more than before. “Just getting some…” he broke off into another coughing fit his face contorting with the strain.
“Helping yourself?” the man asked, but it seemed more like a statement than an actual question. “Do you want to start a riot? The villagers are already suspicious of us and anything could set them off, especially if they catch you stealing from their water supply at this time of year.” The man’s eyes took into account the cuts and bruises dressing Emrik’s face and softened slightly, “Harwood give you a thrashing did he? Look I’ll get you some water from the baggage train. Just don’t do anything else stupid.”
Timeline of events leading up to colonisation of New Elgante
