[Exalted] Heaven thy Home and Earth thy Slave
- Thread starter Chehrazad
- Start date
- Mature Fantasy
- Pronouns
- Ze/Hir
[X] Angry
[X] Pessimistic
[X] Pessimistic
Spear
Sun-In-Rags
- Location
- North Macedonia
[X] Resigned- Ultimately, that is how the world is. Fate comes and goes. Empires rise and fall. Men live and die. Come anger, come rage, come weeping, come sound and fury and the gnashing of teeth; fate's calm judgement remains the same. Not even the Exalted can stay the hand of fate once decided and the greatest hero can not return to life what death has claimed. Is that sad? Is that unfair? You don't know, but you suppose there is little you can do to change it. In a sense, it is comforting to know that fate was decided before your birth, and that you should simply focus your mind on other things. Is this the release that Impassioned Exhortation described? (This is a personality vote. Holiest Gift will be resigned to fate.)
[X] Optimistic - No Shogunal army has ever laid siege to Kemenganih before for the entire duration of the Yalpageshig reign. It had once been a significant regional capital, and while armies had laid siege to it when it hosted rebels, the Yalpageshig had proven too mighty to challenge. That the Yalpageshig army was routed repeatedly shows that perhaps, the once-mighty dynasty was not as strong as it once was, and that perhaps fate was with you this time. Maybe the Eastern District, Shabkhost, the Karvand and more would once again be in Shogunal possession. You cannot tell, but it seems undoubtable that you live in times of great change.
The weight of history is strong, and god, The Unfolding seems to be like the Iliad in-context.
I suppose that's what will always be emblematic about the Dragonblooded, they're the ones who can build societies of themselves for themselves. That's how the mythic history of Creation and the Shogunate is made, being able to pass on your legacy to the next generation until it has reached Holiest Gift herself in the present day. I think that would maker her resigned, being able to point back towards heroes on heroes and monumental glory. She can do them justice, make them proud even as a mortal - how mortal can a Shogun really be considered :think: - but she still feels inadequate to the task.
And it's this same knowledge that would lend itself to optimism. She lives in a time of tumult, of struggle, even if she may think the scale of the past greater than the present. The Shogunate was born from the feuding ruins of the First Age, a thousand polities crossing swords as friends and foes for a thousand years; Holiest Gift is heir to more than a crown and an ancient banner, to a legacy of survival; to the ultimate winners of those thousand-thousand struggles.
it's another struggle here and now, so let her be hopeful.
[X] Optimistic - No Shogunal army has ever laid siege to Kemenganih before for the entire duration of the Yalpageshig reign. It had once been a significant regional capital, and while armies had laid siege to it when it hosted rebels, the Yalpageshig had proven too mighty to challenge. That the Yalpageshig army was routed repeatedly shows that perhaps, the once-mighty dynasty was not as strong as it once was, and that perhaps fate was with you this time. Maybe the Eastern District, Shabkhost, the Karvand and more would once again be in Shogunal possession. You cannot tell, but it seems undoubtable that you live in times of great change.
The weight of history is strong, and god, The Unfolding seems to be like the Iliad in-context.
I suppose that's what will always be emblematic about the Dragonblooded, they're the ones who can build societies of themselves for themselves. That's how the mythic history of Creation and the Shogunate is made, being able to pass on your legacy to the next generation until it has reached Holiest Gift herself in the present day. I think that would maker her resigned, being able to point back towards heroes on heroes and monumental glory. She can do them justice, make them proud even as a mortal - how mortal can a Shogun really be considered :think: - but she still feels inadequate to the task.
And it's this same knowledge that would lend itself to optimism. She lives in a time of tumult, of struggle, even if she may think the scale of the past greater than the present. The Shogunate was born from the feuding ruins of the First Age, a thousand polities crossing swords as friends and foes for a thousand years; Holiest Gift is heir to more than a crown and an ancient banner, to a legacy of survival; to the ultimate winners of those thousand-thousand struggles.
it's another struggle here and now, so let her be hopeful.
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"O king, that which is fated (τὴν πεπρωμένην . . . μοῖραν), for better or worse, neither man nor city can change; for there is a destiny (μοῖρα) for cities just as for men. It seems good to the gods that the city endure for ages (χρονιωτάτην), having its origin at this hour. For we altered the fated time, fearing lest the city should be a stronghold against us. But destiny is stronger than knavish Magi or an unsuspecting king..."
I believe that all will be fine for us. It seems good to the fates to favour us, of this I have no doubt.
[X] Resigned
[X] Optimistic
I believe that all will be fine for us. It seems good to the fates to favour us, of this I have no doubt.
[X] Resigned
[X] Optimistic
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- Location
- New York
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Angry
[X] Pessimistic
Damn, court life seems pretty toxic. I have severe doubts about the shogunate viability.
[X] Pessimistic
Damn, court life seems pretty toxic. I have severe doubts about the shogunate viability.
grommile
nasty-minded old cynic
- Location
- NERV-Mercia
- Pronouns
- Traditional/Animate
When has it ever not been?
[X] Angry
[X] Optimistic
[X] Optimistic
- Location
- Australia
[X] Resigned
[X] Optimistic
Though personally I trust the Voice not at all and the Yalpegeshig factions even less, there's nothing wrong with having a bit of hope that we are not eminently screwed.
[X] Optimistic
Though personally I trust the Voice not at all and the Yalpegeshig factions even less, there's nothing wrong with having a bit of hope that we are not eminently screwed.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Angry
[X] Pessimistic
[X] Pessimistic
- Location
- [REDACTED]
[X] Resigned
[X] Pessimistic
[X] Pessimistic
- Location
- Virginia
[X] Angry
[X] Optimistic
[X] Optimistic
- Location
- Denmark
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Keep in mind that this is the experience of court life of specifically Holiest Gift, whose experience is somewhat different than many others, but yeah it's not exactly the most healthy kind of life. The Realm has a similar court, of course, though it's structured very differently and much more focused around how close you are to the immortal Scarlet Empress.
- Location
- Portugal
It continues to strike me very strongly how dedicated to the atmosphere and the texture of culture this quest is. The court speech is difficult to follow, the references to in-story literature and history are more than I'll be able to remember if they come up again, but these are essential parts of the framing.
[X] Resigned
[X] Optimistic
[X] Resigned
[X] Optimistic
- Location
- Denmark
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Alright, I shall be closing the vote in about 6 hours!
[X] Resigned
[X] Optimistic
[X] Optimistic
- Location
- Denmark
- Pronouns
- She/Her
And with that, I will be closing the vote in favour of Resigned and Optimistic.
Jack vile Ripper
The swellest guy in Creation.
- Location
- Indonesia
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Huh, those are some interesting mixup of personality.
I've seen many hate and anger towards fate. Cynical view of life after all the heaps of dumpster fire that collapses on those unfortunate souls.
But not many... resigned yet still hopeful. Well, at least it will be interesting combination.
I've seen many hate and anger towards fate. Cynical view of life after all the heaps of dumpster fire that collapses on those unfortunate souls.
But not many... resigned yet still hopeful. Well, at least it will be interesting combination.
TenfoldShields
Lounging on a Hoard of Words
- Pronouns
- He/Him
This bit I think is definitely one of my favorites so far for the way that it conveys that…the Blue Monkey Shogunate as a whole and Keinginan-i-Gehan are kind of bowed beneath the weight of their history, bent by their inherited catastrophes. Former vassals have become peer polities and the Realm has taken the best of what remains for itself. There's a sense of like- dilapidation on the edges of the picture we get, of the palace and the city. How they can't really maintain what they have and can't restore what was lost in the fighting and successive collapses. There's a lot of pride, bolstered by the ritual and the routine of court but it's also like-
Rather than being a kind of polite mask for the incredibly lethal forces, political and military, of the Realm. A delicate dance so that the power brokers and movers and shakers can all get their piece. Life around the Peacock Dias seems mostly to perpetuate itself for its own sake. There's not much fire and venom beneath it all and there's just not that much to fight over. Their legacy dwarfs what they actually have at their disposal, what's there to defend and sustain the nation as it exists practically, and I'd make a solid bet that the Voice and Shogun are both now worried about Cutting Voice rolling back in with a junta if she's too successful.
I think it's less likely that it's a trap necessarily and more that the Realm is nearby and keeps a keen eye out for exactly this kind of frontier conflict. They have a strong incentive to intervene in the interests of expanding the Protectorate (and also Cathak influence in the Protectorate) and if and when the current Yalpageshi ruler gets desperate enough the Realm will be there to helpfully hollow his ass out and work him like a puppet. But hey he'd Realm soldiery, Realm resources, plus get to live and keep his big chair so there are worse deals.
Granted I say that but they could just as easily come to the Blue Monkey Shogunate with the exact same offer if things destabilize enough on our end and the Shogun would probably take it too.
- Location
- Denmark
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Something that should be emphasized is that Holiest Gift has a very limited perspective on account of her position. To her, the court does perpetuate itself for its own sake, because her life is full of ennui and expectations a part of her long ago gave up on ever being able to fulfill. As you say, the legacy of the Shogunate dwarfs anything they actually have at their disposal, and I personally like to imagine that even highly educated Dynasts would find themselves more than a little intimidated at the court of the Shogun of Shoguns, just because it's full of these kinds of people who just casually cite three poems and five classics to make a joke. Like, who does that? The vibe I kind of want to create for the Shogunate is that it is a place that is drowning in itself.
One thing to add is that the Protectorate is largely the main imperial representative in the region and there's a big mountain change between Keinginan-i-Gehan and it. Ever since the Western Shogunate's authority collapsed, the entire southern side of the mountain range has basically become an ungovernable frontier, and it's only fairly recently that the rise of Yalpagesh has seen some kind of major polity rise to fill the bill of any local power other than small frontier lords who basically do what they want. The Realm has a lot of trouble controlling things this far to the southwest, so having to pass the mountain range - which to be fair used to be under Shogunal control too - might not be an attractive prospect to them. On the other hand, though, Yalpagesh represents an Immaculate (of the Immaculate Philosophy, not Orthodoxy) state in the region with heavy imperial influence in its court culture, so who knows; maybe the Realm might favour it!
...Though admittedly Satrap Protector Cathak Zamati might be somewhat busy with other things right now.
TenfoldShields
Lounging on a Hoard of Words
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Oh yeah that definitely comes across imo. It's a place that at its highest strata is very like- all empires or nations with aspirations to conquest and expansion and shit mythologize their history I think. But the Blue Monkey really carries the idea in the mix of the Shogun's kinda ambient exhaustion and the constant churn of low key scheming and gossip in the court that it's very much a society that prefers its glorious past to the uncertain and precarious present or the pessimistic future.
Obv the peasant or merchant view is different but it's really compelling imo how like- Holiest Gift is simultaneously in a position of enormous cultural cachet and importance. But feels deeply disconnected and kinda disaffected by events around her. That she's both sorta responsible for but also unable to control. She has her own personal mini-court and cabinet kinda, but even her more influential mother is getting the end run (maybe?) by the actual agents in her court. While Gift has been (deliberately?) excluded.
If all that makes sense I mean lmao.
Especially when you kinda measure it sidelong against the frenetic (methed out, maybe psychopathic) pace of politics within the younger and more energized Realm. And how it cuts and polishes away at its Dynasts over the course of their internal House upbringing, their secondary educations, and adult careers. Like they're so much jewelry almost. The Realm constantly has an eye on its future and it shapes its leaders as such, so it's really interesting when you contrast that with a place, ancient and steeped in its history and caught out in the game of empires, like the Shogunate.
Arc 1. IV: A Bright Star for the City of Cities, pt. 1
- Location
- Denmark
- Pronouns
- She/Her
My very deepest apologies for the radio silence, I was very busy and some stuff happened in my life. Next update will be far sooner!
A Bright Star for the City of Cities, pt. 1
As the rainy monsoon season passes, it gives way to the dry summer climate of the fire season. The summer is the home season of many things you delight in: lounging on balconies, trying out stylish umbrellas and enchanting dresses with your friends, the refreshing taste of sharbat in the flavours of lemon, tamarind, pomegranate and rose petals and touring the city in the covered howdah of a royal yeddim. Truly a season of innumerable delights! But the bright season is also home to other things, and as the muddy terrain and weeping skies of the monsoon give way to the sun's unclouded eye and the warmth of summer, you know that the war season is upon you. A flurry of couriers and messengers let you follow the war in speed you never thought possible, and throughout the season you feel your spirits rise with the sun.
News from the campaign in Yalpagesh seem to arrive faster than monsoon rain and if the news did not come from the prajuritkhwaday herself, you would find it hard to believe them all. Another battle with the Mirza's army should have seen him decisively on the run and his entourage in the prajuritkhwaday's captivity and the north of Yalpagesh should stand aflame and rebellions against their Yalpageshig lords threaten to break their control entirely. Delivered over time and in bits, rebellion by rebellion and battle by battle, it became easy to take them step by step and their absurdity became only evident when you stopped to think of them as a whole. Now they seem so distant to you, but the greatest news have yet to reach you. For on a warm summer day, in a somehow warmer summer court, another exhausted messenger reaches your court and pronounces before the court of the Shogunate that the city of Kemenanganih had fallen and that her armipotent ladyship, the prajuritkhwaday Two Brown Cutting voice, had entered the city and installed the prince Seizing-Prey-as-a-Falcon as Mirza of all Yalpagesh.
You still remember the silence of the court. How does one react when the world is remade before your eyes?
A little part of you asks if you don't remember the silence because it is still with you. The shadow of Yalpagesh, that you have lived your life in, is gone.
And yet the old Mirza, the one whose name you do not even know, is still alive. And yet the prajuritkhwaday, who allegedly serves her Shogunte so selflessly, is still pursuing him.
Will that terrible shadow of Yalpagesh remain gone? That is not within your power to answer. The future was much more comfortable when it seemed so certain; even if what seemed certain was your doom.
Those are your thoughts as you make your way across the Image-of-Creation Square, the centre of a small army of courtiers and servants. Though you are faceless to the public beneath your wide-brimmed silken hat and its layered chiffon veil and might as well be a shadow in your robes, you command the attention of every single one with your smallest breath. This migration across the palatial plaza happens every year on the same date, in the same sweltering heat and to the same sweet scents of rosewater, lily-of-the-valley and ambergris that make up the essential repertoire of court perfumes to cover up those human smells of sweat and frustration that the summer heat creates. The laughter, the whispers that are significantly louder than their owners think, the sound of silken robes brushing against one another and the oohs and aahs of observers whose eyes pass over gauzy veils, bearded guards and colourful fans are also the same every year.
But this year, it is different.
Soon, you know, you will cross behind the temple gates escorted by your closest attendants. They will unclothe you, and you will be robed in the ceremonially humble temple garments. Then you will pass into the inner holiness of the Sublime Tranquil Grave Temple and there you will eat a cake of figs and drink sour doogh. To remind you of the humble past of your ancestors when Shoguns ruled from their tents, you'll be told. And then you will pray. For the rest of the day and the rest of the night, you will pray. In the heart of the temple, there will be none but you, and though you may rest or ration your food, you will pray; for a secure succession, for victory over your enemies, but most of all for the continuation of the Shogunate. This is a ritual you have practiced many times, and even when in the captivity of the Protectorate, you were permitted to return home to perform it. But this year, it feels different. This year it feels necessary. It's in the air.
You stop before the temple gates and take it in. Encircling the wood-and-gold temple gates is an enormous blind arch, the marble stone playing host to innumerable paintings of all the divine Elders and the deeds of the Dragons, their faces artfully concealed to not bring mockery upon them. When you were younger, you could spend hours admiring the facade and interrogating passing monks about every little detail. A weak smile plays upon your lips beneath the veil, before muscle memory and the demands of ritual assert themselves. Folding your silken parasol, you strike the great door of the Sublime Tranquil Grave with the iron-capped tip and open your mouth to speak.
"I am Eight Vermilion Holiest Gift of the Five Days of Mela, Heir Apparent and acclaimed by the notables and dignitaries of the Great Terrestrial Shogunate, Shogun-Banu-to-be and Commander of the Faithful of the Grand Exalted Host! By the right of the Shoguns, I demand my entrance!" You shout, your voice snapping through the air with verve and command.
"I know her not!" Comes the ritual reply. You respond according to the protocol.
"I am Eight Vermilion Holiest Gift of the Five Days of Mela, student of the Interior Court School, devotee of the Five Immaculate Dragons and walking in the path of occulted Pasiap Who Illuminates Both Worlds With Majesty and Power, taught by the sangha of the Great Terrestrial Shogunate and unfailing in my piety! By the right of the Dragons, I demand my entrance!" You shout again, striking at the gate. You have had this exchange many times.
"I know her not!" Replies the monk behind the door. You have not heard his voice before, so it must be a newer monk doing the reception.
"I am Eight Vermilion Holiest Gift of the Five Days of Mela, a humble link in the Great Chain of Being, a mere servant in the Perfected Hierarchy!" There is no begging for entrance in the last part of the ritual, you already know the reply.
"All pearls in the Necklace of Creation are known to the Immaculate Dragons. Thou art welcome to enter our holy gates." And the gates open before you. Adopting the slow and stilted ceremonial gait required of the Shogunal rituals, you step within the gates, only Wave following you as the remainder of the court stays behind.
The interior of the Sublime Tranquil Grave is just as gorgeous as the outside. To evoke the Immaculate joining of heavenly and earthly harmony, pillars join the ground and roof like stalactites protruding from the ceiling and impaling the floor. Turquoise decorations wind their way around tiles, circling pillars like serpents and Immaculate manthras carved into fine-hewn stone and since filled with jade cover almost every surface in the temple. The ceremonial weapons ,commonplace in Immaculate temples to ward away the influence of the Anathema, hang from the walls in all kinds of shapes and sizes; spears, swords and many more. This grandeur is one which you are intimately familiar with, yet nonetheless your eyes still drink thirstily of it as if you stood here for the first time. Perhaps they will always do so. The ritual proceeds apace, monks turning their backs to you as you walk towards the inner chambers of the temple while Wave takes off a piece of your clothes for every pair of pillars you pass in tact with the ceremonial gait. At the end, you stand nearly naked but for your undergarments. This part used to embarrass you, now you barely really consider it. Your thoughts are elsewhere.
You let Wave clothe you. A simple cotton skirt that barely reaches your knees calls to mind the war-garb of soldiers, and the red tunic and beige vest above it that clothe your upper body are no different. You raise your legs, one after the other, and allow Wave to fit sandals to them. You always found this part of the ritual exceedingly funny. You have serious doubts that even the poorest Shogun would ever wear clothes like this; not even in the days of the devil-kings were your ancestors so impoverished! When Wave has finished clothing you, she ceremonially kneels before you and presents a well-aged roundshield of iron, and an undecorated kris-sword resting upon it; the panoply of the soldiery. You each play your part in the ritual to perfection. In the moment, you are a soldier going off to war, and she is there to see you safe to return. You set the shield upon your arm and hang the sword off your belt, and you make the promise to return should the Dragons permit you to. You turn your back to Wave and step into the inner sanctum of the temple. You realize that you are sweating. You're not used to having to pray for the Shogunate's survival for real. It was always just a ritual.
The innermost temple sanctum is a different building. Not just in style, but it is in fact literally different; the humble pentagonal enclosure has no signs of the glazed marble of the outer temple, the elaborate pillars and eye-captivating icons. You let your eyes pass over the wizened walls of fired brick, the gaps between them free of the touch of mortar, and wonder about the ones who built it. This room predates the temple. That much is known, because it was here when the Shoguns first went west. In this room lies buried the divine Elder Assakawat, the monks tell you, though you have heard them wonder about its construction before much as you do right now. Your eyes fall on the elaborate characters drawn on the otherwise undecorated sarcophagus resting in the middle; animal shapes and drawings of tools arranged in no order that seems sensible. If anyone can read them, or if they even mean anything, neither you nor the monkhood knows. In each of the room's five corners stands an altar to their respective Immaculate Dragon; unlike a regular temple room with four corners and Pasiap in the middle, each Dragon has a corner in this room. The jade busts glitter faintly in the firelight.
You turn your attention to the more immediately important things. At the feet of the sarcophagus lies a plate bearing a simple fig cake, a silver drinking vessel full of doogh - the fermented yoghurt drink of soldiers and farmers - and a bowl filled with beer yeast, a waterskin and numerous other ingredients and tools. You sigh, lift the kris-knife and speak.
"In the name of the divine Elders, the holy Immaculate Dragons and their incarnated heavenly Shogun-Banu; the most gracious, the most merciful. Eight Vermilion Holiest Gift of the Five Days of Mela am I, to the great Immaculate Dragons and their divine Elders do I devote this meal!"
You sit cross-legged, drinking some doogh and eating a piece of fig cake as you imagine a soldier might on campaign. The food is pleasant if simple, as it always is, but as you eat, your mind turns to the campaign being waged while you sit here in seclusion. They say that Kemenganih has fallen and that the prajuritkhwaday has triumphed. You believe them, for your upbringing has taught you nothing but the harsh realism of the position that the Shogunate stands in; that much is sure. But as much as you believe them, and as much as you want to have faith that things will be better, you turn your gaze to the faceless bust of occulted Pasiap and can't help but ask yourself if it can really be that simple. It feels strange to sit face to face with history being made. You take another bite of the cake, saying the requisite manthra, and turn your gaze to look at the bust of Hesiesh, wondering how the Reciter of Loud Hymns and Efficacious Prayers felt as he sat meditative in his cave while Mela battled with devil-kings and demons outside. Did he too feel doubts? Or did he know his purpose from the start? You let out another tired sigh and very unregally sling your shield over to his bust, wincing as the metal clanks against the stone floor.
Carrying over the waterskin and bowl of yeast to Danaa'd's bust, you start forming a dough from the yeast to knead and shape. Once you have a nice dough form, you prostrate yourself before the Dragon, letting out a loud manthra that reverberates through the room and echoes in your ears. Reciting the One-Thousand-Elders Chant, you ceremonially lay your shield on the ground and pour palm oil over it, placing the dough on top and covering it with a piece of cloth to let it rise before Mela's bust. You rise and circle the room, prostrating yourself five times before each Immaculate Dragon, making sure to never stop singing the ritual hymns except to breathe. In the silent room, there are no other noises but the soft sound of your sandals against the floor and the pleasant echo of your voice against the walls; here you are no heir or Shogun-to-be, merely yourself. A "common soldier against the lie of the demon-kings", as the monks would put it.
After an hour and a half of prayer, you return to your dough, carrying the shield to the bust of Sextes Jylis. You shape the dough into a flat disk spread over the iron surface of the roundshield and start decorating it with hand-torn date fruits and goat cheese. You pray to Sextes Jylis and thank him for his continued protection of the good animals and plants, gifted to mankind, against the Anathema. Finally, you set down the shield before Hesiesh's bust, lighting his ritual fire and placing it beneath the shield; as the dough warms and the goat cheese melts, you remain prostrated and recite the Hesiesh-Holy Glory-Hymn. Thanking Hesiesh for the alliance of fire and man, and his protection of the act of prayer so that the Anathema cannot seize upon it, you finally raise yourself from the ground to sit cross legged and turn towards Pasiap with your finished bread.
"Thou Illuminateth Both Worlds With Glory and Power, O Lord Pasiap, thou holy one! As thou were born a slave, the littlest speck raised to the most sublime glories, am I now but a humble soldier; a great star lowered to the dust before thine holiness. So did thee humble the devil-kings and so doth thee bring Shoguns lower than the dusts. To thee do I dedicate this meal, of goat's cheese, simple dough and humble figs; fit for a soldier against the Lie, fit for a soldier in thine army." You raise up a ripped-off piece of bread and take a bite, praying a full short prayer to Pasiap between each new bite. As the day - and eventually night - goes on, you continue your prayers, your mind each time turning to thoughts of distant wars and your mother's impassive face as the Voice spoke on her behalf without a single finger movement. And as you imagine yourself a humble soldier in the camp of Two Brown Cutting Voice, dreaming of the day she can return to the City of the World's Desire, you fall on your knees before the bust of occulted Pasiap deep within the inner sanctum of the Sublime Tranquil Grave and pray.
When the morning comes after a long hour of prayers broken up by rests, a monk knocks on the doors before the rest of the temple wakes. Outside the ritual space, it would be a scandal if the monks saw the heir apparent without her covering garments. True to the tradition, Wave has slept outside the door and stands ready - though having done a very poor job of concealing the tired rings under her eyes - to receive you and clothe you for public once again. You slip outside the temple, just the two of you, and stand in the otherwise empty Image-of-Creation Square, taking in the morning fog. As with all other aspects of this ritual, it is not the first time you've stood here, and you are sure that it won't be the last either. Despite that, it feels somehow special, like a magical curtain has been cast over you.
"I couldn't stop thinking of Yalpagesh, Wave. And the war, you know? It wouldn't leave my mind." You cautiously say after a long pause.
"I know how you feel." She says curtly, dropping the usual honorific.
You think back to your talk months ago, when she was the terrified one and you assured her there would be no wars. "What do you think of the victories in the war?"
"I'd prefer not to talk about it," She responds after a short pause, and looks away, "your divine Highness." She adds eventually.
"I apologize."
"Don't."
You are both silent as you make your way across the square and to the palace. You want to speak to her, to ask her if she's okay or if she needs your help. You do none of those things. You remain silent, give each other the customary farewell greetings and then go to your respective rooms to rest and recuperate for the remainder of the day. What began as a decision to recuperate for the rest of the day comes to encompass the night as well, and it is with a heart full of anxieties and fears that you greet the night.
You just hope you're feeling better in the morning.
You sleep well, and strong black morning tea is enough to take the edge off the little bit of grogginess that remains. By the time you're out under the early morning sun, among the bright greens of the jungle, you're raring to go. The tiger hunt is an important tradition in the Shogunate, and also simply plain fun. Normally, tigers are hunted in prepared areas - Shogunal parks or other courtly hunting grounds - but today is different. A few days' ride from Keinginan-i-Gehan lies the dependent village of Khwartanah, and it is the residents of Khwartanah who not many days ago sent a petition to the Shogunate for aid against a supposedly man-eating tiger. And it is on their behalf that you now sit astride your horse, relaxing in the amber-silk saddle of the powerful creature beneath you, enjoying the view of the dry summer forests. In the fiery season, the trees shed their leaves and become like skeletal growths that rise from the forest floor and provide ample vision for your trained eyes.
All around you, to the left and your right and behind you, members of the hunting party walk or ride forward, the sound of dry leaves crunching underfoot and whispered banter filling up the air. Such a vast hunting assembly is no new innovation, but quite the standard for tiger hunts; were there any nearby, you would surely scare them off with your mere presence. Rather the goal is to catch the tiger in its territory so that you can surround it with beaters and direct it into a prepared ground where you will kill it. And so, you ride forth leisurely, now and then adjusting the feathers and pearls in your iket hat and enjoying the pleasant shine of the sun above in your brocade tunic. Hanging from your right hip is a gilded gorytos, your bow and arrows resting comfortably within. To your left, Song sits comfortably on her own tawny-skinned horse, the curved sword at her left rattling softly in tune with the step of her mount. Bait has already been laid out near strategically chosen water sources to ensure that the tiger will not stray too far away. Now there is nothing to do but wait and survey.
It does not take long. In little more than an hour, one of the hired village boys runs up to you, clearly a mixture of terrified and overawed by your presence, as he throws himself to the ground and announces that he spotted the tiger near a certain baiting spot. You smile and hand him a suitable sum of mekh-coins, then give the order to proceed.
In only a few minutes, the sound of hoarse shouts, bells and whistles and the clangor of cymbals fill the air. In no more than a minute, beaters and shouters echo the clarion from other ends of the forest, and shouting-boys render themselves hoarse as they run back and forward screaming where the tiger runs. Here and there, the distant sky explodes with fire as a thrown dragon javel casts the forest in its baleful red glare and the forest is all pandemonium, smaller animals leaping and running in every direction. Panic fills the forest and your line slowly but surely begins to advance through the shrubland and underbrush; the sound of snapping twigs and crunching leaves a junior partner in the duet of beaters and hundreds of walking feet. You spot your first glimpses of the tiger as you trot forwards, the striped creature visible for a few seconds through the leafless trees. Larger than any tiger you have ever seen before, the beast is almost as large as the horse you sit upon. You smile with your teeth like a barbarian; you can already feel the exhilaration of the hunt.
The tiger is running now, moving towards the hills where you have stationed a third group of beaters and your smile widens at the joy of a successfully sprung trap. As they hear you approaching, two dragon javelins fly into the air, exploding with fire and fury and briefly paralyzing your prey with fear, before the clamorous symphony of thrown stones, chaotic cymbals and cacophonous voices resumes from the hills. Your own beater line approaches, and the tiger is caught between the hills and the plains. Steadily, you separate from the line behind you, advancing on your horse and drawing your bow. Now comes your part to play. You concentrate on the beast in front of you, let your eyes glide over the ragged fur, the night-black stripes, the paws still coloured by hints of dried blood sticking to tufts of fur. It is not the first time that you have faced a tiger, but when you meet its ruddy amber eyes every last doubt that you may have had that this tiger was a man-eater fades like mist. Tigers you have faced before, but never a man-eater. You put the horse into a canter and pull back the string of your bow, loosening an arrow against the beast, only for the tiger to throw itself to the side, a small cloud of dust emerging as paws meet dry grass. You raise an eyebrow. That is definitely not normal tiger behaviour. You quickly string and loose another arrow as you turn your horse to circle it, this time enjoying the ensuing growl of pain as the arrow sets within its shoulder.
You don't get to enjoy it for long. As if to size you up, the tiger's eyes pass you over, and then it seems to make a decision, turning tail and running straight at a line of beaters towards the deeper forest. That is not normal tiger behaviour. You quickly set the horse into a gallop and can only gasp as the tiger falls upon a shocked beater, savaging him with its claws and quickly breaking the line meant to contain it, capitalizing on the surprise. You follow as fast as you can, splitting the line with a command and leaping over sticks and shrubs, turning your eyes entirely to the tiger's bounding shape in front of you as the rest of the world blurs past. A part of you is definitely enjoying this; the thrill of hunting a clever enemy and without the well-tried strategies of beaters and shouting. An even deeper part whispers to you that the great heroes of the Shogunate among your ancestors in ancient chronicles and literary manuscripts took their Second Breath on hunts like this; when something went wrong. But your conscious mind thinks none of that, for you only have eyes for the tiger and mind for the bow. You loosen another arrow in full gallop, shouting a cry of joyous triumph as you see the arrow embed itself within the tiger's behind. You swear that you can hear the growl of pain.
You are a gust of wind, a bolt of lightning. Left! Right! Over that trunk! Duck! The chase continues as you weave through the forest, lamenting the limits of a horse's ability to traverse forests. When you set out for the hunt not a single wind blew, but at the speed you ride your hair flutters behind you like a train. Still, even wounded the tiger is born for this environment and your poor horse must compensate for uncertain ground and reaching branches, and slowly but surely you find yourself losing it ahead. Where before the tiger was right ahead of you, it has become little more than an orange blur, occasionally glimpsed through the tangle of skeletal branches. And at one point, it is no longer there and you are alone, stopping the horse and letting it catch its breath.
You have not the slightest idea of where you are.
Tangles of naked roots, spires of bark and branch; all around you the trees seem to almost surround you, as if you are locked within a wooden panopticon. The forest that seemed before so alive and full of life seems now eerily silent, the clearing you find yourself in reminding you more of a courtyard than a jungle. When you turn, you are suddenly confused. You could swear you came in right there, yet the trees grow so thick that you can't pass through yourself, let alone your horse. You draw an arrow and nock it, keeping a whispered prayer in the name of Mela - Accordant to the Call of Battle - on your lips. Something is very, very wrong. You can feel your hairs stand on end as you survey the clearing around you and realize the obvious conclusion. This was not a clearing before, and the trees have moved.
Spirit-
You manage to think before a rustling sound alerts you, and you throw yourself to the side and off your horse, a spear of sharpened roots impaling the animal straight through the heart and directly up to where you sat just a split second ago. You can hear the drum-like beat of your heart and feel your skin flush with panicked blood underneath the coat of leaden paint that covers you.
No further spears come, but the eerie silence remains. The trees around you seem so tall and vast. Towering above you as if to say "We will bury you here. Your body will nourish our roots and your eyes will make ornaments for us." You shudder.
Mustering what illusions of courage you can, you pretend there is no shaking or fear in your voice. "Show thyself, thou spirit of the jungle! Strong thou might be, but know thee that every drop of blood that thine roots spill from mine body the world-governing Shogunate that dispenseth crowns and breaketh thrones shall avenge sevenfold upon your forest!"
The forest remains silent. Your ears catch a rustling beneath you, and you leap forward - just barely dodging a spear like the one that impaled your horse - and stumble as your foot catches on a root. You utter a curse as your right arm sticks to the ground, roots and stalks binding it tightly. In an instant, your left arm has drawn the sword at your belt and sheared the binding in two, only for you to find that your legs have been similarly bound while you were busy with your arm. Discarding the sabre as useless, you throw it away and pull your bow, holding the three arrows you manage to salvage from the gorytos in your left hand, one of them nocked and ready.
"Show thyself, thou spirit of the jungle! Art thou desirous of putting to an end the Shogunate, show thine face at least!" You hear yourself proclaim in court-speech with courage that you do not possess. You are not even sure you could really hurt the spirit if it did manifest.
From the opposite side of the wooden panopticon, feline paws step out from between the trees, a pair of eyes shining like amber staring into yours, black stripes on fiery orange and an arrow sticking out from its right shoulder. You suppose that there is little surprise in the man-eating tiger the size of your horse being some kind of unearthly spirit, that much is comforting at least. As the tiger approaches, it seems almost as if the beast is smiling patronizingly, a deadly calm ruling in its eyes.
"Mayhaps not the courtyard you are used to, little princess, hmm? I do say you look fabulous on your knees. Drop the bow and get your hands on the ground and we might make a fine courtier out of you yet." The tiger's voice is gentle and almost sweet, mocking as it is. A feminine voice that would not be out of place at the court. It lazily approaches, looking not the least concerned with the raised bow. "One supposes I should be more respectful, you are after all still managing to hold that bow, ineffective as it will prove."
"Kill me and this entire forest will burn to the ground, foul spirit." You once again manage to say with more courage than you have in your body.
"Very impressive and very scary." The tiger says, neither particularly impressed nor scared.
"However, I am no mere spirit and have nothing in particular to fear from your Shogunate. All your hundreds of beaters and retainers could comb this jungle for years, and not only would they not be able to penetrate into this space of ours, they would not even be able to see us." The tiger dashes aside the bow with an apathetic paw-strike, its maw close enough that you can smell the reek of its breath.
"If you are no mere spirit, then you must be Anathema." You observe, your voice remaining calm in defiance of all instincts in your body telling you to scream until your lungs burst and puncture.
"Very astutely observed, you must have gone to some kind of palace school. One would think you were a scholar." The tiger is suddenly not a tiger anymore, a woman seemingly no older than perhaps thirty sitting on a tree stump in its place. Her hair is neatly combed and tied beautifully into a loop behind her, a medallion tied to strings of beads resting on her forehead. Her skin is the same bronze colour as Wave without the leaden cosmetics that so predominate in the Shogunate, but her eyes remain a tiger's golden eyes, the minimal sclera at their edges as black as the stripes that covered her feline form. Her body is otherwise naked except for the hundreds of different pieces of jewelry that cover her body, hanging in strings of pearl and jewelry, medallions and necklaces. Her bare skin is full of tattoos - depicting animals, people and all sorts of creatures hunting and running - rubbed with firedust, so they seem more like flames beneath her skin.
"Anathema I am indeed, as you say". She smiles patronizingly and pulls out the arrow lodged in her shoulder, and you observe as the wound instantly seals itself behind it. "Though it would be much more polite to call me by my name, Seven Cerulean Laughing Dancer."
You remain silent.
"What? You're just going to remain silenced? You're faced with a demon out of warning tales and you're not even saying anything?" She mock-pouts as she pulls out the other arrow and snaps it between her fingers.
"I have little to say to the Anathema." You spit out with a mixture of contempt and faux-bravado.
"I suppose that's fair. You are the one kneeling right now anyways. Regardless, what you have to say doesn't really matter. In a minute, I will kill you, then eat your heart and then I will walk in your footsteps, take your shape and enjoy your life. You will be forgotten out here, and each pearl that adorns your body will follow me." She leans in close, cupping your face with her hands as she says that final part, her red-gold eyes reflecting you perfectly. She idly plays with one of the feathers in your headdress and a pearl necklace with another hand, and you notice that she has two pairs of arms, something you are quite sure that she did not have just before.
"And what then?" You ask, your voice miraculously exempt from shaking, "You will take my powerless position and be a good girl and stand still and silent at the weekly court sessions? You will talk to my friends and agree that you are equally powerless to do anything? You will write poems and reflect on the meaninglessness of your actions in the face of overwhelming duty?" You can feel a tinge of anger bubbling up within you. Did she just assume that your life was a cavalcade of unending luxuries and unbounded power?
She raises an eyebrow and leans out, resting her head on one of her four hands, though keeping another hand on the pearl necklace around your neck, pulling it downwards as if to force you to incline your head.
"Awww, is the little princess sad? Why don't you tell me all about it?" She smiles with all her teeth, and her mouth contains the sharp-toothed maw of a tiger.
"Only confused at what you would accomplish. Hopeful I may be, but in the court I am little more than a pretty ornament. You would be the ruler of a few rooms at most, not a Shogunate. And should Mother die and her Voice be silenced, doubtless someone else would take their place and you would simply be their puppet. My life comes contingent, after all, on not being Anathema." You can feel your voice beginning to shake as you desperately attempt to convince a shapeshifting she-demon not to consume your heart and steal your life.
"You are afraid." She observes. "I can hear your heart beating and smell your fear."
"I am." You concede, your voice cracking at the second syllable.
"And what then, if our Shogunate fails its war against Yalpagesh, Anathema?" You ask, stammering on the first few words, "What would you be then? Running away from a fallen state, having accomplished nothing, is what you would be doing!" You involuntarily raise your voice on the last few words, feeling your control slip.
"But I would not have lost anything either, really. Nothing gained, nothing lost." She retorts.
"If the end result is nothing, then the beginning is surely pointless." You reply, doing your best to not let the desperation seep into the cracks of your voice.
"Could the same not be said for your own doomed war with Yalpagesh?" She coos, clearly entertained more by the debate than by thoughts of eating your heart.
"I did not set that in motion, all I can do is hope that it succeeds."
"So you do believe in the war, then?"
"I believe in my duty to the Shogunate."
"Do you now?" She leans forward, clearly interested in your answer, cupping your face in her hands again. "Let's put that to the test."
"Now, answer me truthfully. What are you really fighting for, my little princess, hmm?"
A Bright Star for the City of Cities, pt. 1
[X] Resigned
[X] Optimistic
[X] Optimistic
In the name of the divine Elders,
the holy Immaculate Dragons,
and their incarnated heavenly Shogun;
the most gracious, the most merciful.
My dear, I learned one thousand words of wisdom,
of those I chose four hundred,
of those I chose eight,
which are the monarchs of all wisdom:
Do not be the companion of one quick to anger.
Do not enter into discussion with a senseless person.
Do not make your meals with a drunkard or a liar.
Do not hear the words of a gossip or a liar.
Consult with the one who is well-behaved, well-informed, intelligent and good-natured.
Avoid the company of the vengeful.
Hold in respect one who is a notable and wise; ask their advice and listen to it.
Deny the Anathema in all your deeds and all your words.
-The Counsels of the divine Elder Assakawat, from time immemorial
the holy Immaculate Dragons,
and their incarnated heavenly Shogun;
the most gracious, the most merciful.
My dear, I learned one thousand words of wisdom,
of those I chose four hundred,
of those I chose eight,
which are the monarchs of all wisdom:
Do not be the companion of one quick to anger.
Do not enter into discussion with a senseless person.
Do not make your meals with a drunkard or a liar.
Do not hear the words of a gossip or a liar.
Consult with the one who is well-behaved, well-informed, intelligent and good-natured.
Avoid the company of the vengeful.
Hold in respect one who is a notable and wise; ask their advice and listen to it.
Deny the Anathema in all your deeds and all your words.
-The Counsels of the divine Elder Assakawat, from time immemorial
As the rainy monsoon season passes, it gives way to the dry summer climate of the fire season. The summer is the home season of many things you delight in: lounging on balconies, trying out stylish umbrellas and enchanting dresses with your friends, the refreshing taste of sharbat in the flavours of lemon, tamarind, pomegranate and rose petals and touring the city in the covered howdah of a royal yeddim. Truly a season of innumerable delights! But the bright season is also home to other things, and as the muddy terrain and weeping skies of the monsoon give way to the sun's unclouded eye and the warmth of summer, you know that the war season is upon you. A flurry of couriers and messengers let you follow the war in speed you never thought possible, and throughout the season you feel your spirits rise with the sun.
News from the campaign in Yalpagesh seem to arrive faster than monsoon rain and if the news did not come from the prajuritkhwaday herself, you would find it hard to believe them all. Another battle with the Mirza's army should have seen him decisively on the run and his entourage in the prajuritkhwaday's captivity and the north of Yalpagesh should stand aflame and rebellions against their Yalpageshig lords threaten to break their control entirely. Delivered over time and in bits, rebellion by rebellion and battle by battle, it became easy to take them step by step and their absurdity became only evident when you stopped to think of them as a whole. Now they seem so distant to you, but the greatest news have yet to reach you. For on a warm summer day, in a somehow warmer summer court, another exhausted messenger reaches your court and pronounces before the court of the Shogunate that the city of Kemenanganih had fallen and that her armipotent ladyship, the prajuritkhwaday Two Brown Cutting voice, had entered the city and installed the prince Seizing-Prey-as-a-Falcon as Mirza of all Yalpagesh.
You still remember the silence of the court. How does one react when the world is remade before your eyes?
A little part of you asks if you don't remember the silence because it is still with you. The shadow of Yalpagesh, that you have lived your life in, is gone.
And yet the old Mirza, the one whose name you do not even know, is still alive. And yet the prajuritkhwaday, who allegedly serves her Shogunte so selflessly, is still pursuing him.
Will that terrible shadow of Yalpagesh remain gone? That is not within your power to answer. The future was much more comfortable when it seemed so certain; even if what seemed certain was your doom.
Those are your thoughts as you make your way across the Image-of-Creation Square, the centre of a small army of courtiers and servants. Though you are faceless to the public beneath your wide-brimmed silken hat and its layered chiffon veil and might as well be a shadow in your robes, you command the attention of every single one with your smallest breath. This migration across the palatial plaza happens every year on the same date, in the same sweltering heat and to the same sweet scents of rosewater, lily-of-the-valley and ambergris that make up the essential repertoire of court perfumes to cover up those human smells of sweat and frustration that the summer heat creates. The laughter, the whispers that are significantly louder than their owners think, the sound of silken robes brushing against one another and the oohs and aahs of observers whose eyes pass over gauzy veils, bearded guards and colourful fans are also the same every year.
But this year, it is different.
Soon, you know, you will cross behind the temple gates escorted by your closest attendants. They will unclothe you, and you will be robed in the ceremonially humble temple garments. Then you will pass into the inner holiness of the Sublime Tranquil Grave Temple and there you will eat a cake of figs and drink sour doogh. To remind you of the humble past of your ancestors when Shoguns ruled from their tents, you'll be told. And then you will pray. For the rest of the day and the rest of the night, you will pray. In the heart of the temple, there will be none but you, and though you may rest or ration your food, you will pray; for a secure succession, for victory over your enemies, but most of all for the continuation of the Shogunate. This is a ritual you have practiced many times, and even when in the captivity of the Protectorate, you were permitted to return home to perform it. But this year, it feels different. This year it feels necessary. It's in the air.
You stop before the temple gates and take it in. Encircling the wood-and-gold temple gates is an enormous blind arch, the marble stone playing host to innumerable paintings of all the divine Elders and the deeds of the Dragons, their faces artfully concealed to not bring mockery upon them. When you were younger, you could spend hours admiring the facade and interrogating passing monks about every little detail. A weak smile plays upon your lips beneath the veil, before muscle memory and the demands of ritual assert themselves. Folding your silken parasol, you strike the great door of the Sublime Tranquil Grave with the iron-capped tip and open your mouth to speak.
"I am Eight Vermilion Holiest Gift of the Five Days of Mela, Heir Apparent and acclaimed by the notables and dignitaries of the Great Terrestrial Shogunate, Shogun-Banu-to-be and Commander of the Faithful of the Grand Exalted Host! By the right of the Shoguns, I demand my entrance!" You shout, your voice snapping through the air with verve and command.
"I know her not!" Comes the ritual reply. You respond according to the protocol.
"I am Eight Vermilion Holiest Gift of the Five Days of Mela, student of the Interior Court School, devotee of the Five Immaculate Dragons and walking in the path of occulted Pasiap Who Illuminates Both Worlds With Majesty and Power, taught by the sangha of the Great Terrestrial Shogunate and unfailing in my piety! By the right of the Dragons, I demand my entrance!" You shout again, striking at the gate. You have had this exchange many times.
"I know her not!" Replies the monk behind the door. You have not heard his voice before, so it must be a newer monk doing the reception.
"I am Eight Vermilion Holiest Gift of the Five Days of Mela, a humble link in the Great Chain of Being, a mere servant in the Perfected Hierarchy!" There is no begging for entrance in the last part of the ritual, you already know the reply.
"All pearls in the Necklace of Creation are known to the Immaculate Dragons. Thou art welcome to enter our holy gates." And the gates open before you. Adopting the slow and stilted ceremonial gait required of the Shogunal rituals, you step within the gates, only Wave following you as the remainder of the court stays behind.
The interior of the Sublime Tranquil Grave is just as gorgeous as the outside. To evoke the Immaculate joining of heavenly and earthly harmony, pillars join the ground and roof like stalactites protruding from the ceiling and impaling the floor. Turquoise decorations wind their way around tiles, circling pillars like serpents and Immaculate manthras carved into fine-hewn stone and since filled with jade cover almost every surface in the temple. The ceremonial weapons ,commonplace in Immaculate temples to ward away the influence of the Anathema, hang from the walls in all kinds of shapes and sizes; spears, swords and many more. This grandeur is one which you are intimately familiar with, yet nonetheless your eyes still drink thirstily of it as if you stood here for the first time. Perhaps they will always do so. The ritual proceeds apace, monks turning their backs to you as you walk towards the inner chambers of the temple while Wave takes off a piece of your clothes for every pair of pillars you pass in tact with the ceremonial gait. At the end, you stand nearly naked but for your undergarments. This part used to embarrass you, now you barely really consider it. Your thoughts are elsewhere.
You let Wave clothe you. A simple cotton skirt that barely reaches your knees calls to mind the war-garb of soldiers, and the red tunic and beige vest above it that clothe your upper body are no different. You raise your legs, one after the other, and allow Wave to fit sandals to them. You always found this part of the ritual exceedingly funny. You have serious doubts that even the poorest Shogun would ever wear clothes like this; not even in the days of the devil-kings were your ancestors so impoverished! When Wave has finished clothing you, she ceremonially kneels before you and presents a well-aged roundshield of iron, and an undecorated kris-sword resting upon it; the panoply of the soldiery. You each play your part in the ritual to perfection. In the moment, you are a soldier going off to war, and she is there to see you safe to return. You set the shield upon your arm and hang the sword off your belt, and you make the promise to return should the Dragons permit you to. You turn your back to Wave and step into the inner sanctum of the temple. You realize that you are sweating. You're not used to having to pray for the Shogunate's survival for real. It was always just a ritual.
The innermost temple sanctum is a different building. Not just in style, but it is in fact literally different; the humble pentagonal enclosure has no signs of the glazed marble of the outer temple, the elaborate pillars and eye-captivating icons. You let your eyes pass over the wizened walls of fired brick, the gaps between them free of the touch of mortar, and wonder about the ones who built it. This room predates the temple. That much is known, because it was here when the Shoguns first went west. In this room lies buried the divine Elder Assakawat, the monks tell you, though you have heard them wonder about its construction before much as you do right now. Your eyes fall on the elaborate characters drawn on the otherwise undecorated sarcophagus resting in the middle; animal shapes and drawings of tools arranged in no order that seems sensible. If anyone can read them, or if they even mean anything, neither you nor the monkhood knows. In each of the room's five corners stands an altar to their respective Immaculate Dragon; unlike a regular temple room with four corners and Pasiap in the middle, each Dragon has a corner in this room. The jade busts glitter faintly in the firelight.
You turn your attention to the more immediately important things. At the feet of the sarcophagus lies a plate bearing a simple fig cake, a silver drinking vessel full of doogh - the fermented yoghurt drink of soldiers and farmers - and a bowl filled with beer yeast, a waterskin and numerous other ingredients and tools. You sigh, lift the kris-knife and speak.
"In the name of the divine Elders, the holy Immaculate Dragons and their incarnated heavenly Shogun-Banu; the most gracious, the most merciful. Eight Vermilion Holiest Gift of the Five Days of Mela am I, to the great Immaculate Dragons and their divine Elders do I devote this meal!"
You sit cross-legged, drinking some doogh and eating a piece of fig cake as you imagine a soldier might on campaign. The food is pleasant if simple, as it always is, but as you eat, your mind turns to the campaign being waged while you sit here in seclusion. They say that Kemenganih has fallen and that the prajuritkhwaday has triumphed. You believe them, for your upbringing has taught you nothing but the harsh realism of the position that the Shogunate stands in; that much is sure. But as much as you believe them, and as much as you want to have faith that things will be better, you turn your gaze to the faceless bust of occulted Pasiap and can't help but ask yourself if it can really be that simple. It feels strange to sit face to face with history being made. You take another bite of the cake, saying the requisite manthra, and turn your gaze to look at the bust of Hesiesh, wondering how the Reciter of Loud Hymns and Efficacious Prayers felt as he sat meditative in his cave while Mela battled with devil-kings and demons outside. Did he too feel doubts? Or did he know his purpose from the start? You let out another tired sigh and very unregally sling your shield over to his bust, wincing as the metal clanks against the stone floor.
Carrying over the waterskin and bowl of yeast to Danaa'd's bust, you start forming a dough from the yeast to knead and shape. Once you have a nice dough form, you prostrate yourself before the Dragon, letting out a loud manthra that reverberates through the room and echoes in your ears. Reciting the One-Thousand-Elders Chant, you ceremonially lay your shield on the ground and pour palm oil over it, placing the dough on top and covering it with a piece of cloth to let it rise before Mela's bust. You rise and circle the room, prostrating yourself five times before each Immaculate Dragon, making sure to never stop singing the ritual hymns except to breathe. In the silent room, there are no other noises but the soft sound of your sandals against the floor and the pleasant echo of your voice against the walls; here you are no heir or Shogun-to-be, merely yourself. A "common soldier against the lie of the demon-kings", as the monks would put it.
After an hour and a half of prayer, you return to your dough, carrying the shield to the bust of Sextes Jylis. You shape the dough into a flat disk spread over the iron surface of the roundshield and start decorating it with hand-torn date fruits and goat cheese. You pray to Sextes Jylis and thank him for his continued protection of the good animals and plants, gifted to mankind, against the Anathema. Finally, you set down the shield before Hesiesh's bust, lighting his ritual fire and placing it beneath the shield; as the dough warms and the goat cheese melts, you remain prostrated and recite the Hesiesh-Holy Glory-Hymn. Thanking Hesiesh for the alliance of fire and man, and his protection of the act of prayer so that the Anathema cannot seize upon it, you finally raise yourself from the ground to sit cross legged and turn towards Pasiap with your finished bread.
"Thou Illuminateth Both Worlds With Glory and Power, O Lord Pasiap, thou holy one! As thou were born a slave, the littlest speck raised to the most sublime glories, am I now but a humble soldier; a great star lowered to the dust before thine holiness. So did thee humble the devil-kings and so doth thee bring Shoguns lower than the dusts. To thee do I dedicate this meal, of goat's cheese, simple dough and humble figs; fit for a soldier against the Lie, fit for a soldier in thine army." You raise up a ripped-off piece of bread and take a bite, praying a full short prayer to Pasiap between each new bite. As the day - and eventually night - goes on, you continue your prayers, your mind each time turning to thoughts of distant wars and your mother's impassive face as the Voice spoke on her behalf without a single finger movement. And as you imagine yourself a humble soldier in the camp of Two Brown Cutting Voice, dreaming of the day she can return to the City of the World's Desire, you fall on your knees before the bust of occulted Pasiap deep within the inner sanctum of the Sublime Tranquil Grave and pray.
Article: [ ] Peace - You beseech the Dragons for peace, that there will be contentment between the nations and hope for a day in which you can greet the princes of Yalpagesh, not as foes but as brothers.
[ ] The Shogunate - You beg of the Dragons for the survival of the Shogunate, that the legacy of your ancestors is not ended. You pray that the City of Cities may still stand for a thousand years.
[ ] Your Friends - You pray that your friends, your beloveds, Wave and Song and more, make it through all of this unscathed. You pray that they will be safe, regardless of what happens and whatever hardships you must endure.
[ ] Yourself - You pray for your survival.You are sure that there are more important things to pray for.
When the morning comes after a long hour of prayers broken up by rests, a monk knocks on the doors before the rest of the temple wakes. Outside the ritual space, it would be a scandal if the monks saw the heir apparent without her covering garments. True to the tradition, Wave has slept outside the door and stands ready - though having done a very poor job of concealing the tired rings under her eyes - to receive you and clothe you for public once again. You slip outside the temple, just the two of you, and stand in the otherwise empty Image-of-Creation Square, taking in the morning fog. As with all other aspects of this ritual, it is not the first time you've stood here, and you are sure that it won't be the last either. Despite that, it feels somehow special, like a magical curtain has been cast over you.
"I couldn't stop thinking of Yalpagesh, Wave. And the war, you know? It wouldn't leave my mind." You cautiously say after a long pause.
"I know how you feel." She says curtly, dropping the usual honorific.
You think back to your talk months ago, when she was the terrified one and you assured her there would be no wars. "What do you think of the victories in the war?"
"I'd prefer not to talk about it," She responds after a short pause, and looks away, "your divine Highness." She adds eventually.
"I apologize."
"Don't."
You are both silent as you make your way across the square and to the palace. You want to speak to her, to ask her if she's okay or if she needs your help. You do none of those things. You remain silent, give each other the customary farewell greetings and then go to your respective rooms to rest and recuperate for the remainder of the day. What began as a decision to recuperate for the rest of the day comes to encompass the night as well, and it is with a heart full of anxieties and fears that you greet the night.
You just hope you're feeling better in the morning.
You sleep well, and strong black morning tea is enough to take the edge off the little bit of grogginess that remains. By the time you're out under the early morning sun, among the bright greens of the jungle, you're raring to go. The tiger hunt is an important tradition in the Shogunate, and also simply plain fun. Normally, tigers are hunted in prepared areas - Shogunal parks or other courtly hunting grounds - but today is different. A few days' ride from Keinginan-i-Gehan lies the dependent village of Khwartanah, and it is the residents of Khwartanah who not many days ago sent a petition to the Shogunate for aid against a supposedly man-eating tiger. And it is on their behalf that you now sit astride your horse, relaxing in the amber-silk saddle of the powerful creature beneath you, enjoying the view of the dry summer forests. In the fiery season, the trees shed their leaves and become like skeletal growths that rise from the forest floor and provide ample vision for your trained eyes.
All around you, to the left and your right and behind you, members of the hunting party walk or ride forward, the sound of dry leaves crunching underfoot and whispered banter filling up the air. Such a vast hunting assembly is no new innovation, but quite the standard for tiger hunts; were there any nearby, you would surely scare them off with your mere presence. Rather the goal is to catch the tiger in its territory so that you can surround it with beaters and direct it into a prepared ground where you will kill it. And so, you ride forth leisurely, now and then adjusting the feathers and pearls in your iket hat and enjoying the pleasant shine of the sun above in your brocade tunic. Hanging from your right hip is a gilded gorytos, your bow and arrows resting comfortably within. To your left, Song sits comfortably on her own tawny-skinned horse, the curved sword at her left rattling softly in tune with the step of her mount. Bait has already been laid out near strategically chosen water sources to ensure that the tiger will not stray too far away. Now there is nothing to do but wait and survey.
It does not take long. In little more than an hour, one of the hired village boys runs up to you, clearly a mixture of terrified and overawed by your presence, as he throws himself to the ground and announces that he spotted the tiger near a certain baiting spot. You smile and hand him a suitable sum of mekh-coins, then give the order to proceed.
In only a few minutes, the sound of hoarse shouts, bells and whistles and the clangor of cymbals fill the air. In no more than a minute, beaters and shouters echo the clarion from other ends of the forest, and shouting-boys render themselves hoarse as they run back and forward screaming where the tiger runs. Here and there, the distant sky explodes with fire as a thrown dragon javel casts the forest in its baleful red glare and the forest is all pandemonium, smaller animals leaping and running in every direction. Panic fills the forest and your line slowly but surely begins to advance through the shrubland and underbrush; the sound of snapping twigs and crunching leaves a junior partner in the duet of beaters and hundreds of walking feet. You spot your first glimpses of the tiger as you trot forwards, the striped creature visible for a few seconds through the leafless trees. Larger than any tiger you have ever seen before, the beast is almost as large as the horse you sit upon. You smile with your teeth like a barbarian; you can already feel the exhilaration of the hunt.
The tiger is running now, moving towards the hills where you have stationed a third group of beaters and your smile widens at the joy of a successfully sprung trap. As they hear you approaching, two dragon javelins fly into the air, exploding with fire and fury and briefly paralyzing your prey with fear, before the clamorous symphony of thrown stones, chaotic cymbals and cacophonous voices resumes from the hills. Your own beater line approaches, and the tiger is caught between the hills and the plains. Steadily, you separate from the line behind you, advancing on your horse and drawing your bow. Now comes your part to play. You concentrate on the beast in front of you, let your eyes glide over the ragged fur, the night-black stripes, the paws still coloured by hints of dried blood sticking to tufts of fur. It is not the first time that you have faced a tiger, but when you meet its ruddy amber eyes every last doubt that you may have had that this tiger was a man-eater fades like mist. Tigers you have faced before, but never a man-eater. You put the horse into a canter and pull back the string of your bow, loosening an arrow against the beast, only for the tiger to throw itself to the side, a small cloud of dust emerging as paws meet dry grass. You raise an eyebrow. That is definitely not normal tiger behaviour. You quickly string and loose another arrow as you turn your horse to circle it, this time enjoying the ensuing growl of pain as the arrow sets within its shoulder.
You don't get to enjoy it for long. As if to size you up, the tiger's eyes pass you over, and then it seems to make a decision, turning tail and running straight at a line of beaters towards the deeper forest. That is not normal tiger behaviour. You quickly set the horse into a gallop and can only gasp as the tiger falls upon a shocked beater, savaging him with its claws and quickly breaking the line meant to contain it, capitalizing on the surprise. You follow as fast as you can, splitting the line with a command and leaping over sticks and shrubs, turning your eyes entirely to the tiger's bounding shape in front of you as the rest of the world blurs past. A part of you is definitely enjoying this; the thrill of hunting a clever enemy and without the well-tried strategies of beaters and shouting. An even deeper part whispers to you that the great heroes of the Shogunate among your ancestors in ancient chronicles and literary manuscripts took their Second Breath on hunts like this; when something went wrong. But your conscious mind thinks none of that, for you only have eyes for the tiger and mind for the bow. You loosen another arrow in full gallop, shouting a cry of joyous triumph as you see the arrow embed itself within the tiger's behind. You swear that you can hear the growl of pain.
You are a gust of wind, a bolt of lightning. Left! Right! Over that trunk! Duck! The chase continues as you weave through the forest, lamenting the limits of a horse's ability to traverse forests. When you set out for the hunt not a single wind blew, but at the speed you ride your hair flutters behind you like a train. Still, even wounded the tiger is born for this environment and your poor horse must compensate for uncertain ground and reaching branches, and slowly but surely you find yourself losing it ahead. Where before the tiger was right ahead of you, it has become little more than an orange blur, occasionally glimpsed through the tangle of skeletal branches. And at one point, it is no longer there and you are alone, stopping the horse and letting it catch its breath.
You have not the slightest idea of where you are.
Tangles of naked roots, spires of bark and branch; all around you the trees seem to almost surround you, as if you are locked within a wooden panopticon. The forest that seemed before so alive and full of life seems now eerily silent, the clearing you find yourself in reminding you more of a courtyard than a jungle. When you turn, you are suddenly confused. You could swear you came in right there, yet the trees grow so thick that you can't pass through yourself, let alone your horse. You draw an arrow and nock it, keeping a whispered prayer in the name of Mela - Accordant to the Call of Battle - on your lips. Something is very, very wrong. You can feel your hairs stand on end as you survey the clearing around you and realize the obvious conclusion. This was not a clearing before, and the trees have moved.
Spirit-
You manage to think before a rustling sound alerts you, and you throw yourself to the side and off your horse, a spear of sharpened roots impaling the animal straight through the heart and directly up to where you sat just a split second ago. You can hear the drum-like beat of your heart and feel your skin flush with panicked blood underneath the coat of leaden paint that covers you.
No further spears come, but the eerie silence remains. The trees around you seem so tall and vast. Towering above you as if to say "We will bury you here. Your body will nourish our roots and your eyes will make ornaments for us." You shudder.
Mustering what illusions of courage you can, you pretend there is no shaking or fear in your voice. "Show thyself, thou spirit of the jungle! Strong thou might be, but know thee that every drop of blood that thine roots spill from mine body the world-governing Shogunate that dispenseth crowns and breaketh thrones shall avenge sevenfold upon your forest!"
The forest remains silent. Your ears catch a rustling beneath you, and you leap forward - just barely dodging a spear like the one that impaled your horse - and stumble as your foot catches on a root. You utter a curse as your right arm sticks to the ground, roots and stalks binding it tightly. In an instant, your left arm has drawn the sword at your belt and sheared the binding in two, only for you to find that your legs have been similarly bound while you were busy with your arm. Discarding the sabre as useless, you throw it away and pull your bow, holding the three arrows you manage to salvage from the gorytos in your left hand, one of them nocked and ready.
"Show thyself, thou spirit of the jungle! Art thou desirous of putting to an end the Shogunate, show thine face at least!" You hear yourself proclaim in court-speech with courage that you do not possess. You are not even sure you could really hurt the spirit if it did manifest.
From the opposite side of the wooden panopticon, feline paws step out from between the trees, a pair of eyes shining like amber staring into yours, black stripes on fiery orange and an arrow sticking out from its right shoulder. You suppose that there is little surprise in the man-eating tiger the size of your horse being some kind of unearthly spirit, that much is comforting at least. As the tiger approaches, it seems almost as if the beast is smiling patronizingly, a deadly calm ruling in its eyes.
"Mayhaps not the courtyard you are used to, little princess, hmm? I do say you look fabulous on your knees. Drop the bow and get your hands on the ground and we might make a fine courtier out of you yet." The tiger's voice is gentle and almost sweet, mocking as it is. A feminine voice that would not be out of place at the court. It lazily approaches, looking not the least concerned with the raised bow. "One supposes I should be more respectful, you are after all still managing to hold that bow, ineffective as it will prove."
"Kill me and this entire forest will burn to the ground, foul spirit." You once again manage to say with more courage than you have in your body.
"Very impressive and very scary." The tiger says, neither particularly impressed nor scared.
"However, I am no mere spirit and have nothing in particular to fear from your Shogunate. All your hundreds of beaters and retainers could comb this jungle for years, and not only would they not be able to penetrate into this space of ours, they would not even be able to see us." The tiger dashes aside the bow with an apathetic paw-strike, its maw close enough that you can smell the reek of its breath.
"If you are no mere spirit, then you must be Anathema." You observe, your voice remaining calm in defiance of all instincts in your body telling you to scream until your lungs burst and puncture.
"Very astutely observed, you must have gone to some kind of palace school. One would think you were a scholar." The tiger is suddenly not a tiger anymore, a woman seemingly no older than perhaps thirty sitting on a tree stump in its place. Her hair is neatly combed and tied beautifully into a loop behind her, a medallion tied to strings of beads resting on her forehead. Her skin is the same bronze colour as Wave without the leaden cosmetics that so predominate in the Shogunate, but her eyes remain a tiger's golden eyes, the minimal sclera at their edges as black as the stripes that covered her feline form. Her body is otherwise naked except for the hundreds of different pieces of jewelry that cover her body, hanging in strings of pearl and jewelry, medallions and necklaces. Her bare skin is full of tattoos - depicting animals, people and all sorts of creatures hunting and running - rubbed with firedust, so they seem more like flames beneath her skin.
"Anathema I am indeed, as you say". She smiles patronizingly and pulls out the arrow lodged in her shoulder, and you observe as the wound instantly seals itself behind it. "Though it would be much more polite to call me by my name, Seven Cerulean Laughing Dancer."
You remain silent.
"What? You're just going to remain silenced? You're faced with a demon out of warning tales and you're not even saying anything?" She mock-pouts as she pulls out the other arrow and snaps it between her fingers.
"I have little to say to the Anathema." You spit out with a mixture of contempt and faux-bravado.
"I suppose that's fair. You are the one kneeling right now anyways. Regardless, what you have to say doesn't really matter. In a minute, I will kill you, then eat your heart and then I will walk in your footsteps, take your shape and enjoy your life. You will be forgotten out here, and each pearl that adorns your body will follow me." She leans in close, cupping your face with her hands as she says that final part, her red-gold eyes reflecting you perfectly. She idly plays with one of the feathers in your headdress and a pearl necklace with another hand, and you notice that she has two pairs of arms, something you are quite sure that she did not have just before.
"And what then?" You ask, your voice miraculously exempt from shaking, "You will take my powerless position and be a good girl and stand still and silent at the weekly court sessions? You will talk to my friends and agree that you are equally powerless to do anything? You will write poems and reflect on the meaninglessness of your actions in the face of overwhelming duty?" You can feel a tinge of anger bubbling up within you. Did she just assume that your life was a cavalcade of unending luxuries and unbounded power?
She raises an eyebrow and leans out, resting her head on one of her four hands, though keeping another hand on the pearl necklace around your neck, pulling it downwards as if to force you to incline your head.
"Awww, is the little princess sad? Why don't you tell me all about it?" She smiles with all her teeth, and her mouth contains the sharp-toothed maw of a tiger.
"Only confused at what you would accomplish. Hopeful I may be, but in the court I am little more than a pretty ornament. You would be the ruler of a few rooms at most, not a Shogunate. And should Mother die and her Voice be silenced, doubtless someone else would take their place and you would simply be their puppet. My life comes contingent, after all, on not being Anathema." You can feel your voice beginning to shake as you desperately attempt to convince a shapeshifting she-demon not to consume your heart and steal your life.
"You are afraid." She observes. "I can hear your heart beating and smell your fear."
"I am." You concede, your voice cracking at the second syllable.
"And what then, if our Shogunate fails its war against Yalpagesh, Anathema?" You ask, stammering on the first few words, "What would you be then? Running away from a fallen state, having accomplished nothing, is what you would be doing!" You involuntarily raise your voice on the last few words, feeling your control slip.
"But I would not have lost anything either, really. Nothing gained, nothing lost." She retorts.
"If the end result is nothing, then the beginning is surely pointless." You reply, doing your best to not let the desperation seep into the cracks of your voice.
"Could the same not be said for your own doomed war with Yalpagesh?" She coos, clearly entertained more by the debate than by thoughts of eating your heart.
"I did not set that in motion, all I can do is hope that it succeeds."
"So you do believe in the war, then?"
"I believe in my duty to the Shogunate."
"Do you now?" She leans forward, clearly interested in your answer, cupping your face in her hands again. "Let's put that to the test."
"Now, answer me truthfully. What are you really fighting for, my little princess, hmm?"
Article: [ ] Your Past - You are fighting for the legacy of the Shogunate, the weight of your ancestors on your shoulders, the history of a thousand years carried on your back. You fight for all that your predecessors have built, a polity that is larger and grander than Shoguns and their Voices, that is mightier than you and whose history puts even the great Realm to shame. You are fighting for the thousand poems you reference in daily talk, the high culture that you immerse yourself in with Wave and Song, the art that adorns the walls of temples and palaces.
[ ] Your Present - You are fighting for your friends, the weight of their fates on your shoulders, the smile of Song and the quivering voice of Wave begging you to reassure her that life will go on. You fight for the pointless daily rituals, for the whispering and the amusing intrigues and gossip of the ladies' court, for the people who happen to merely live in the Shogunate unconnected to the machinations of the court. You fight for the soldier so clearly unused to courtly speech nonetheless trying to explain himself to the Shogun.
[ ] Your Future - You are fighting for what you are owed and what you can owe your descendants, the weight of history not yet made on your shoulders. You are fighting for a husband or wife not yet married, you are fighting for temples and monuments not yet built, you are fighting for peace treaties and friendships not yet forged. You are fighting for what your predecessors spent and what you will rebuild, and for the tears that will go unshed, the houses that will one day adorn the worn-down streets of the City of the World's Desire once more.
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