Twenty Seven Light Years To Heaven
- Thread starter Laplace
- Start date
- Original
-
- Tags
- god transcending humanity
Namer
ᵘʷᵘ
- Location
- Bangladesh
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X]- Convene a council immediately. Naturally dispatch troops to reinforce Ysam, but construct a coherent strategy first.
I'm almost positive the reason this is happening now is Exhuman infiltrators.
In that case, no need to go in half-a-cockamamie. They could very easily be waiting to ambush and take us out.
I'm almost positive the reason this is happening now is Exhuman infiltrators.
In that case, no need to go in half-a-cockamamie. They could very easily be waiting to ambush and take us out.
Let Us Have War
- Location
- boundless optimism
Who is King Pu-Surama?
King Pu-Surama was the son of King Pu-Maatre of Shurat, unfavored of his eight sons and seven daughters. He was given a minor kingship that bordered Nar-Huadda where the soil was more rock than loam and covered in storms five days out of seven. He conquered land from his neighbors, stole cattle in raids (which he always did bravely) and was conquered and stolen from in turn, the life and times of a minor king of Shurat.
Pu-Maatre died not a month ago. His sons and daughters plunged Shurat into war to divine a hegemonic king and despite everything, lowly Pu-Surama seemed to be the eventual victor. But why did he now march on Nar-Huadda ?
Nuesh finished the report and laid it on the low table in front of him, sent by semaphore from Id-Elam to Duranki and written out by a scribe kneeling on the floor. "What of the other kings?" Nuesh asked, sitting on where Parha must have once sat in his councils. He was at the right of Nuesh, and his chiefs were too, sitting on dark carved-wood chairs.
"Vizer Abel was unable to receive a semaphore signal from them."
"Enemy action," a prince of Nar-Huadda said from the left side of the hall. Their voice was tight and furious. Indeed, the other princes seemed equally furious, from the gold crowned leader to the one that only had cheap citrine on their rings. "This coward Pu-Surama must have seeded spies amongst them, or silenced the loyal amongst them and made the other kings turn their cloaks somehow."
"Or," Parha yawned, an old dog that has seen his greatest rival savaged by a mountain cat, satisfied with the state of affairs before his eyes, "the kings of Shurat had always greatly disliked the rule of Bal Shuhalla, and are content to allow the bolder of their members to test the patience of our new Bal Nuesh."
"Insanity," that prince scoffed. "I have seen the tax records! Pu-Surama's land can only support a measly ten hundred horsemen, but now he has a hundred thousand! Where do you think those men came from, Chief Parha? From his fellows! The entirety of Shurat has risen in rebellion and you sit there allowing this rot to hold on the eve of Narga's greatest battle!" They turned to Nuesh, standing from their seat and bowed down on the floor. "Bal Nuesh, I entreat you to march upon Pu-Surama with all haste and crush his host!"
The tapping of his finger filled the silence as Nuesh leaned back against the throne. "I have thought about this," he said slowly, "to immediately mount the chariot and make for Ysam."
"So why have you not done so, Bal?"
"Because I only know how to pilot the golem, not how to plan a siege-break. Do you want me to crush Ysam underfoot? I could do that if I'm not careful."
"Ysam is a minor footnote. Bal Nuesh, I entreat you to ride to Ysam with all haste and crush Pu-Surama's rebellion immediately." They forced restraint into their voice, raising up from their kneeling position. "Rebellion is a fire in a tinder-patch. You must quell it immediately and with force else the kingdom is lost."
"I have already sent a detachment to Ysam. What I'm trying to discuss with those gathered today is a strategy for quelling the wider rebellion." Nuesh looked down on a map drawn on linen, a red circle around Pu-Surama's home province, a lonely horn of land jutting out into the eastern ocean. Lines denoting storms swept over it like a tangle of snakes, while the land itself was a slate gray, representing mountains, while the lands around it were golden yellow and verdant green. Was Pu-Surama angered at his paltry lands? Did he see the lands of his siblings and fellow chiefs and covet them? Or perhaps did he see the fat cattle around him and saw that he only herded goats and wanted something better?
Maybe that thought insulted himself. Goats were fine things.
"Bal Nuesh, I believe a lightning strike to Pu-Surama's realm would end this affair quickly. Take your chariot alone, as well as a thousand of Duranki's elite horse-riders and minimal rations." Parha stood and bowed, fist in hand. "Conduct a lightning strike to his home fields and capture as many of his kin as possible and use that to force him to the table, or should that fail, onto the field. This way, we will have more time to ensure that other matters are done before the exhuman makes landfall, and will show your might throughout the land besides."
Oddly enough, this savage declaration had as many supporters from the left side of the hall as the right, some of the princes nodding in support as the chiefs shouted their assent.
But then, just as the shouting built to a crescendo, a dissenting voice rose. The first of the princes, the prince in the golden crown, stepped forward. "I've a better plan to kill two birds with one stone." At Nuesh's 'go on' gesture, they continued. "My lord, you lack the wider support of Shurat, it's hundreds of petty kings who recognize only strength. A fast decapitation raid may secure you the support of some of those fellows, but many others will say that you have only triumphed with luck and surprise on your hand."
"That is the entirety of strategy," Parha objected. "All wars are won through deception and deception alone."
"Forgive me, my chief, but you are a star raider, and never too much concerned with the matters of morale and logistics."
And you are? Nuesh could see Parha's thoughts written on the sarcastic raise of his eyebrow. What right does this merchant have to correct me? He didn't say it out of respect for the spirit of tenuous cooperation or simply because that the prince spoke faster than Parha could respond. "A slow march into Shurat, defeating as many clans as you can, would cement your image in the eyes of Shurat and beyond. It will gather kings to your banner as you march as well as shaking their faith in Pu-Surama."
[X]- Parha's Plan
[X]- The Prince's Plan
King Pu-Surama was the son of King Pu-Maatre of Shurat, unfavored of his eight sons and seven daughters. He was given a minor kingship that bordered Nar-Huadda where the soil was more rock than loam and covered in storms five days out of seven. He conquered land from his neighbors, stole cattle in raids (which he always did bravely) and was conquered and stolen from in turn, the life and times of a minor king of Shurat.
Pu-Maatre died not a month ago. His sons and daughters plunged Shurat into war to divine a hegemonic king and despite everything, lowly Pu-Surama seemed to be the eventual victor. But why did he now march on Nar-Huadda ?
Nuesh finished the report and laid it on the low table in front of him, sent by semaphore from Id-Elam to Duranki and written out by a scribe kneeling on the floor. "What of the other kings?" Nuesh asked, sitting on where Parha must have once sat in his councils. He was at the right of Nuesh, and his chiefs were too, sitting on dark carved-wood chairs.
"Vizer Abel was unable to receive a semaphore signal from them."
"Enemy action," a prince of Nar-Huadda said from the left side of the hall. Their voice was tight and furious. Indeed, the other princes seemed equally furious, from the gold crowned leader to the one that only had cheap citrine on their rings. "This coward Pu-Surama must have seeded spies amongst them, or silenced the loyal amongst them and made the other kings turn their cloaks somehow."
"Or," Parha yawned, an old dog that has seen his greatest rival savaged by a mountain cat, satisfied with the state of affairs before his eyes, "the kings of Shurat had always greatly disliked the rule of Bal Shuhalla, and are content to allow the bolder of their members to test the patience of our new Bal Nuesh."
"Insanity," that prince scoffed. "I have seen the tax records! Pu-Surama's land can only support a measly ten hundred horsemen, but now he has a hundred thousand! Where do you think those men came from, Chief Parha? From his fellows! The entirety of Shurat has risen in rebellion and you sit there allowing this rot to hold on the eve of Narga's greatest battle!" They turned to Nuesh, standing from their seat and bowed down on the floor. "Bal Nuesh, I entreat you to march upon Pu-Surama with all haste and crush his host!"
The tapping of his finger filled the silence as Nuesh leaned back against the throne. "I have thought about this," he said slowly, "to immediately mount the chariot and make for Ysam."
"So why have you not done so, Bal?"
"Because I only know how to pilot the golem, not how to plan a siege-break. Do you want me to crush Ysam underfoot? I could do that if I'm not careful."
"Ysam is a minor footnote. Bal Nuesh, I entreat you to ride to Ysam with all haste and crush Pu-Surama's rebellion immediately." They forced restraint into their voice, raising up from their kneeling position. "Rebellion is a fire in a tinder-patch. You must quell it immediately and with force else the kingdom is lost."
"I have already sent a detachment to Ysam. What I'm trying to discuss with those gathered today is a strategy for quelling the wider rebellion." Nuesh looked down on a map drawn on linen, a red circle around Pu-Surama's home province, a lonely horn of land jutting out into the eastern ocean. Lines denoting storms swept over it like a tangle of snakes, while the land itself was a slate gray, representing mountains, while the lands around it were golden yellow and verdant green. Was Pu-Surama angered at his paltry lands? Did he see the lands of his siblings and fellow chiefs and covet them? Or perhaps did he see the fat cattle around him and saw that he only herded goats and wanted something better?
Maybe that thought insulted himself. Goats were fine things.
"Bal Nuesh, I believe a lightning strike to Pu-Surama's realm would end this affair quickly. Take your chariot alone, as well as a thousand of Duranki's elite horse-riders and minimal rations." Parha stood and bowed, fist in hand. "Conduct a lightning strike to his home fields and capture as many of his kin as possible and use that to force him to the table, or should that fail, onto the field. This way, we will have more time to ensure that other matters are done before the exhuman makes landfall, and will show your might throughout the land besides."
Oddly enough, this savage declaration had as many supporters from the left side of the hall as the right, some of the princes nodding in support as the chiefs shouted their assent.
But then, just as the shouting built to a crescendo, a dissenting voice rose. The first of the princes, the prince in the golden crown, stepped forward. "I've a better plan to kill two birds with one stone." At Nuesh's 'go on' gesture, they continued. "My lord, you lack the wider support of Shurat, it's hundreds of petty kings who recognize only strength. A fast decapitation raid may secure you the support of some of those fellows, but many others will say that you have only triumphed with luck and surprise on your hand."
"That is the entirety of strategy," Parha objected. "All wars are won through deception and deception alone."
"Forgive me, my chief, but you are a star raider, and never too much concerned with the matters of morale and logistics."
And you are? Nuesh could see Parha's thoughts written on the sarcastic raise of his eyebrow. What right does this merchant have to correct me? He didn't say it out of respect for the spirit of tenuous cooperation or simply because that the prince spoke faster than Parha could respond. "A slow march into Shurat, defeating as many clans as you can, would cement your image in the eyes of Shurat and beyond. It will gather kings to your banner as you march as well as shaking their faith in Pu-Surama."
[X]- Parha's Plan
[X]- The Prince's Plan
- Location
- in the trash
[X]- Parha's Plan
We don't have time for this nonsense.
They can be convinced of our strength after we stop the exhumans. Right now the only sensible thing to do is smash this revolt as fast as possible while preserving the strength of our forces.
We don't have time for this nonsense.
They can be convinced of our strength after we stop the exhumans. Right now the only sensible thing to do is smash this revolt as fast as possible while preserving the strength of our forces.
Namer
ᵘʷᵘ
- Location
- Bangladesh
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X]- Parha's Plan
Parha's plan does show some of our might and glory as well, which would cement our image somewhat, whereas there are so many things that could go wrong during an extended campaign against one foe right before a decisive engagement against a second foe.
Parha's plan does show some of our might and glory as well, which would cement our image somewhat, whereas there are so many things that could go wrong during an extended campaign against one foe right before a decisive engagement against a second foe.
InterstellarHobo
Cosmic Vagrant
- Location
- No Fixed Planetary System
[X]- Parha's Plan
Less chance for enemy action.
Less chance for enemy action.
- Location
- Sweden
Trample The Fields
- Location
- boundless optimism
On the break of dawn, a silver giant with mirrored skin strode out of Duranki, leaving the mountain passes like a hunter leaving their house. In six of its eight arms it bore weapons- a javelin, a weighted chain, two short swords and a mace that were still larger than houses. At its feet, tapered off into points, were the serried ranks of Duranki's elite led by Chief Hansa, each wearing bone lamellar engraved with witch-charms.
The giant moved as if underwater, an uncanny grace that should not be. It was a far cry from the spider-like scuttling that was the hallmark of Nuesh's early, fumbling steps with the golem. It didn't fit him like a glove, but it certainly fit him like a new boot that needed some breaking in.
Breaking in, Nuesh mused. That was the word for it. From his bench in the egg within the chariot's chest, he almost felt like the chariot was a part of him and him a part of the chariot. Sometimes Nuesh could feel every inch of the chariot, other times it slipped from him like morning mist.
It didn't matter now. They were marching west to Shurat, a long and fast ride a kilometer wide without a supply trail. The intent was to pillage as they rode, grazing their horses on Shurat's grasses and claiming their livestock. That didn't sit well with Nuesh, although whatever objections he raised to Parha and the crowned prince were rapidly shot down for lack of better alternatives.
Nuesh didn't do it. That was his excuse in the early days, although as they travelled the excuse wore thinner and thinner. The riders did it under his name, wrote receipts for herds of sheep and cattle in Bal Nuesh's name, under the eyes of the towering chariot that stood on the horizon. He could imagine their faces- confused, angry, or blank masks of practiced apathy staring at the riders disappearing in a cloud of dust.
The dry stalks of the plains surrounding Duranki became golden fields of grass to verdant green fields wet with dew when they finally marched into Pu-Surama's realm, a jagged line of mountains on the horizon. The soil was indeed loose and rocky, not fit for anything but the hardiest of livestock and certainly not Shurat's fine horses.
It was the dawn of the eighth day when they were attacked. A charge of Shurat horsemen screamed out of the morning mist that hugged the land, a storm of darts that bounced off of armor silver and bone alike. Nuesh felt them like little pin pricks all along his back. At first, he dismissed it as pins and needles brought on from sitting too long, bcharut the armored wedge of screaming horsemen leaping down from the mountains banished that thought with the second hail of arrows.
"Ambush!" Someone under Nuesh screamed, raw and desperate. "Ambush!" That stirred Nuesh to action, heart beating in his throat. Heat burned in his brow as he swung the chain at the swarm of arrows. They moved too slow, like birds stirred into flight, not sudden streaks of motion. He saw the riders- a hundred cubits away from the host, moving like lazy snakes on a summer field. The arrowstorm was slapped out of the sky, if not by the chain then by the wind that followed it, and halved the distance between him and them with a single step.
The Shurat horsemen wheeled around and fled back into the mist. Give chase? Stay? Decisions flashed through Nuesh's mind, but it was made for him when a second charge from behind smashed into Duranki's riders, turning orderly ranks into a wild, flailing melee of lances and maces. He couldn't see who was who- they were all ants, crawling on the ground under him. Nuesh could only stand at guard for another charge by the first force and hope to God that he didn't step on any of the Duranki hosts
Charge and counter charge, rally and break, Nuesh saw all of this from his perch like a god loftily surveying the trials of his creation, floating a time apart from the chaos underneath. If this is what God sees, the part of his brain that spurred him to chase a falling star, then it is no surprise that the wise men which Bal Shuhalla cast out of their temples said that God had turned their face on Man.
Nuesh bent- at least, he commanded the chariot to bend low enough for him to reach out of the chariot's skin and touch the spears of the horsemen- and dropped the chariot's weapons, spear, swords, javelin and chain shaking the earth.
What was he doing? Nuesh's mind blanked, the sudden and uncomfortable feeling of stepping over open air. Was he planning to pluck all the men from Shurat out one by one and toss them to the field?
Actually that wasn't too bad of an idea. Two fingers plucked a fish-scaled Shurat horseman from his saddle, two great pillars the width of a man's chest holding them like a grape, and tossed them to one side a field away. Nuesh could see the nerve of the horse-kings' men audibly waver with a faceless, mirror skinned titan close enough to touch directing it's attention at them.
A leader yelled something in an uncomfortable, uluating tongue. As one, the riders disengaged as best they could- many broke away easily, wheeling about on the edge of the fray. Others, with their attention distracted, was ended by some mace blow that splattered brains and bone on the skin of the chariot.
"Stay," Hansa yelled as Nuesh unbent the chariot to it's full height, "stay, godsdamnit! Do you want to be hacked to death?" All that was left of the horsemen were trampled grass, already being swallowed up by the mist. Was that it? An aborted foray, with some men lying dead on the grass? Deep breaths. One, Nuesh closed his eyes. Two, Nuesh opened them. Three, he felt a little better, less sick to the stomach.
But they still had work to do.
[X]- Chase the riders. Follow them to their camps and burn them.
[X]- Ignore the riders. Push to the ends of Pu-Surama's realm and force a fight.
The giant moved as if underwater, an uncanny grace that should not be. It was a far cry from the spider-like scuttling that was the hallmark of Nuesh's early, fumbling steps with the golem. It didn't fit him like a glove, but it certainly fit him like a new boot that needed some breaking in.
Breaking in, Nuesh mused. That was the word for it. From his bench in the egg within the chariot's chest, he almost felt like the chariot was a part of him and him a part of the chariot. Sometimes Nuesh could feel every inch of the chariot, other times it slipped from him like morning mist.
It didn't matter now. They were marching west to Shurat, a long and fast ride a kilometer wide without a supply trail. The intent was to pillage as they rode, grazing their horses on Shurat's grasses and claiming their livestock. That didn't sit well with Nuesh, although whatever objections he raised to Parha and the crowned prince were rapidly shot down for lack of better alternatives.
Nuesh didn't do it. That was his excuse in the early days, although as they travelled the excuse wore thinner and thinner. The riders did it under his name, wrote receipts for herds of sheep and cattle in Bal Nuesh's name, under the eyes of the towering chariot that stood on the horizon. He could imagine their faces- confused, angry, or blank masks of practiced apathy staring at the riders disappearing in a cloud of dust.
The dry stalks of the plains surrounding Duranki became golden fields of grass to verdant green fields wet with dew when they finally marched into Pu-Surama's realm, a jagged line of mountains on the horizon. The soil was indeed loose and rocky, not fit for anything but the hardiest of livestock and certainly not Shurat's fine horses.
It was the dawn of the eighth day when they were attacked. A charge of Shurat horsemen screamed out of the morning mist that hugged the land, a storm of darts that bounced off of armor silver and bone alike. Nuesh felt them like little pin pricks all along his back. At first, he dismissed it as pins and needles brought on from sitting too long, bcharut the armored wedge of screaming horsemen leaping down from the mountains banished that thought with the second hail of arrows.
"Ambush!" Someone under Nuesh screamed, raw and desperate. "Ambush!" That stirred Nuesh to action, heart beating in his throat. Heat burned in his brow as he swung the chain at the swarm of arrows. They moved too slow, like birds stirred into flight, not sudden streaks of motion. He saw the riders- a hundred cubits away from the host, moving like lazy snakes on a summer field. The arrowstorm was slapped out of the sky, if not by the chain then by the wind that followed it, and halved the distance between him and them with a single step.
The Shurat horsemen wheeled around and fled back into the mist. Give chase? Stay? Decisions flashed through Nuesh's mind, but it was made for him when a second charge from behind smashed into Duranki's riders, turning orderly ranks into a wild, flailing melee of lances and maces. He couldn't see who was who- they were all ants, crawling on the ground under him. Nuesh could only stand at guard for another charge by the first force and hope to God that he didn't step on any of the Duranki hosts
Charge and counter charge, rally and break, Nuesh saw all of this from his perch like a god loftily surveying the trials of his creation, floating a time apart from the chaos underneath. If this is what God sees, the part of his brain that spurred him to chase a falling star, then it is no surprise that the wise men which Bal Shuhalla cast out of their temples said that God had turned their face on Man.
Nuesh bent- at least, he commanded the chariot to bend low enough for him to reach out of the chariot's skin and touch the spears of the horsemen- and dropped the chariot's weapons, spear, swords, javelin and chain shaking the earth.
What was he doing? Nuesh's mind blanked, the sudden and uncomfortable feeling of stepping over open air. Was he planning to pluck all the men from Shurat out one by one and toss them to the field?
Actually that wasn't too bad of an idea. Two fingers plucked a fish-scaled Shurat horseman from his saddle, two great pillars the width of a man's chest holding them like a grape, and tossed them to one side a field away. Nuesh could see the nerve of the horse-kings' men audibly waver with a faceless, mirror skinned titan close enough to touch directing it's attention at them.
A leader yelled something in an uncomfortable, uluating tongue. As one, the riders disengaged as best they could- many broke away easily, wheeling about on the edge of the fray. Others, with their attention distracted, was ended by some mace blow that splattered brains and bone on the skin of the chariot.
"Stay," Hansa yelled as Nuesh unbent the chariot to it's full height, "stay, godsdamnit! Do you want to be hacked to death?" All that was left of the horsemen were trampled grass, already being swallowed up by the mist. Was that it? An aborted foray, with some men lying dead on the grass? Deep breaths. One, Nuesh closed his eyes. Two, Nuesh opened them. Three, he felt a little better, less sick to the stomach.
But they still had work to do.
[X]- Chase the riders. Follow them to their camps and burn them.
[X]- Ignore the riders. Push to the ends of Pu-Surama's realm and force a fight.
- Location
- in the trash
[X]- Ignore the riders. Push to the ends of Pu-Surama's realm and force a fight.
Stick to the plan. Cut out the heart of this rot quickly, and before the exhumans have time to get any more cats' paws into place.
Stick to the plan. Cut out the heart of this rot quickly, and before the exhumans have time to get any more cats' paws into place.
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Namer
ᵘʷᵘ
- Location
- Bangladesh
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X]- Ignore the riders. Push to the ends of Pu-Surama's realm and force a fight.
I'm pretty sure sticking to the plan means ignoring the Riders. These guys are just a sortie - they're not the head of the snake and there's no guarantee they'll lead us to it.
I'm pretty sure sticking to the plan means ignoring the Riders. These guys are just a sortie - they're not the head of the snake and there's no guarantee they'll lead us to it.
- Location
- in the trash
Wait fuck, I meant to vote for the other option.
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- Location
- World
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X]- Ignore the riders. Push to the ends of Pu-Surama's realm and force a fight.
This is bad. We're trying to do our best here, but justifying both the pillage and the killing in the name of unity against the exhumans sits poorly with me. Whatever happens by the end of this rebellion, we need to focus on getting the unaffiliated factions to join the forces.
This is bad. We're trying to do our best here, but justifying both the pillage and the killing in the name of unity against the exhumans sits poorly with me. Whatever happens by the end of this rebellion, we need to focus on getting the unaffiliated factions to join the forces.
Slavetaker's Handiwork
- Location
- boundless optimism
A thousand eyes stared at him. Nuesh licked his dry lips, breathing in slow and deep. A tangle of nerves sat in his belly as he opened his mouth and began talking. "Of the thirteen hundred that attacked us this morning," he said, chewing over the script that Hansa helped compose, "three hundred are dead." They counted the bodies after the raid. "By any measure, this has been a great success."
A desultory cheer rose like a bird with broken wings and then died.
"Well," Nuesh backtracked, "if not a great success, then a middling one." A chuckle rose like a bird with less broken wings. "However, we at least know that there is something within this horn of land that Pu-Surama does not want us near. And it would give us great pleasure to deny him his preference. We ride to the sea and back!" That roused a proper cheer from the Durankis. They raised their fists with Nuesh. A swell of adrenaline surged in his chest, remaining there until the audience disbanded in ones and twos to huddle around their horses and fires, roasting what rations they had.
Nuesh met Hansa as he returned to the sitting chariot. "Hello, Chief Hansa."
"Bal Nuesh," she inclined her head in greeting.
"What do the riders think?"
She stared into the mist, thick as gray walls. Nuesh thought that the midday sun would banish it, but still it remained. "About you? Or the whole march?"
"Which one's worse?"
"Heh." She blew out a breath, looking up at the chariot. "I think they're frustrated about the march. Not because of your leadership, but because they hardly fought ever. It just wears on the nerves, all this doing nothing. If we could get something done the men would be happier. Hell, even setting a fire on some fields would be nice, but there's nothing to burn here." To punctuate her statement, she leant down and ripped a hunk of dirt from the ground.
"I see."
"As for your presence, well," she waggled a hand, dirt sifting through her fingers. "We don't quite know how to treat you. Most of the riders here still remember Bal Shuhalla and how he utterly crushed us before. You still have his chariot, you have his godhood, but most of the time you're just a peasant. Then every once in a while we'll remember that you're Bal Shuhalla's successor. Mostly when you're on that chariot."
Nuesh grunted. Bal Shuhalla's memory towered tall over his mind. Sometimes he could banish it and be himself, but it returned time and time again. "Where are we going next?" he asked abruptly. If he could focus his mind he could stop it from drowning in a lake of memories.
"Dunno," Hansa shrugged. "Going to the sea would be our best bet- there's more grazelands near the sea, so they'll probably be there, unless Pu-Surama is wise to our strategy and moved them into the hills. But we'll have to go through the hills anyway, but then again-"
"How many but's can you think up?" Nuesh asked with some exasperation.
"Oh, quite many. We can do nothing but hope and pray that we happen upon some of Pu-Surama's kinsmen quite soon. I wish I had a warbird overhead. Oh, well. What can we do?"
The mist was all the thicker on the morrow. It was so thick that one could hardly see three feet in front of their face. Cold too, at least by the accounts of the riders. The sort of cold that brought fevers and chills. Strange, Nuesh thought when he stepped outside the chariot's chest and into a hand to survey the land, he didn't feel cold. Not at all. He felt pleasantly cool, like a cold summer night after a hot summer day. And he was just wearing a linen skirt, nothing more.
Bal Shuhalla also rarely wore anything more than a simple robe fastened over one shoulder, Nuesh remembered. Everyone said so. Maybe he didn't feel heat or cold either.
He shook his head and looked out into the endless sea of mist. It was beautiful at first, like flying above the clouds, mountains jutting out above the ocean. Sometimes the mist cleared, revealing gray grouse and nothing more. They had fallen into a routine of sending regiments of a hundred each to every direction. All of them returned with nothing.
The sun was at the horizon when a lucky sea breeze pushed the mist inland, revealing pinpricks of light that wavered and flickered like fireflies. Nuesh sat up straight. Were they Pu-Surama's kinsmen? He lowered himself to the ground, striding off the hand of the chariot. "Hansa!" he called, and almost immediately she rode out of the mist, reining in her horse.
"What is it, Bal Nuesh?" she dropped down from her horse. An awkward motion without a hand, but she accomplished it nonetheless. "Did you find something?"
"Yes. Come up with me. I need someone else to look at it." They stepped on the chariot's waiting hand, back up above the mist where a swarm of lights danced in the distance. "Are those torches, Chief Hansa?" Nuesh pointed at them.
"Hold on a moment." Her hand went to a pouch by her side. After a moment of fumbling with the clatch, she drew out a bronze tube, which she placed to her remaining eye. A moment went by. Two moments. Hansa made all sorts of faces, grimacing, tutting at some fault of the contraption, adjusting dials Nuesh could not understand the meaning of.
When this was done, she let out a small grunt of satisfaction, and fixed the tube to her eye again. Her face blanched, as if witnessing some great atrocity. But what, Nuesh wondered, could it be? Her jaw lolled open, as if a club struck her head.
"Hansa?" Nuesh asked. "What is it?" She threw the tube at him and covered her mouth.
It was some sick curiosity- the kind that drove boys to play with carcasses- that made Nuesh fix the tube to his eye and point it at the swarm of lights. The tube magnified his view, allowing him to see the dew on blades of grass.
He saw a herd of dead men walking, stone faced and gray skinned without a hint of smiling, laughing, arguing, or any of the things men do with their families. Their flesh was like clay, cold and dead on their bones. There were strange things on their skin too. Or rather, their skin was stretched over some slick black thing. Patches of it jutted out of their joints, crowned their heads like spreading horns. Their horses underwent the same transformation, things with glass eyes moving with the men in perfect, antlike unison.
"Exhumans," Hansa whispered. "They're taken."
[X]- Dispatch the Chariot. A chariot is the definitive commitment of force. Take the chariot and break the exhumans, and collect the corpse for proof.
[X]- Dispatch the Riders. A force of skilled men and women would smash a host better than Nuesh could. Nuesh needs to stand watch for worse thing.
A desultory cheer rose like a bird with broken wings and then died.
"Well," Nuesh backtracked, "if not a great success, then a middling one." A chuckle rose like a bird with less broken wings. "However, we at least know that there is something within this horn of land that Pu-Surama does not want us near. And it would give us great pleasure to deny him his preference. We ride to the sea and back!" That roused a proper cheer from the Durankis. They raised their fists with Nuesh. A swell of adrenaline surged in his chest, remaining there until the audience disbanded in ones and twos to huddle around their horses and fires, roasting what rations they had.
Nuesh met Hansa as he returned to the sitting chariot. "Hello, Chief Hansa."
"Bal Nuesh," she inclined her head in greeting.
"What do the riders think?"
She stared into the mist, thick as gray walls. Nuesh thought that the midday sun would banish it, but still it remained. "About you? Or the whole march?"
"Which one's worse?"
"Heh." She blew out a breath, looking up at the chariot. "I think they're frustrated about the march. Not because of your leadership, but because they hardly fought ever. It just wears on the nerves, all this doing nothing. If we could get something done the men would be happier. Hell, even setting a fire on some fields would be nice, but there's nothing to burn here." To punctuate her statement, she leant down and ripped a hunk of dirt from the ground.
"I see."
"As for your presence, well," she waggled a hand, dirt sifting through her fingers. "We don't quite know how to treat you. Most of the riders here still remember Bal Shuhalla and how he utterly crushed us before. You still have his chariot, you have his godhood, but most of the time you're just a peasant. Then every once in a while we'll remember that you're Bal Shuhalla's successor. Mostly when you're on that chariot."
Nuesh grunted. Bal Shuhalla's memory towered tall over his mind. Sometimes he could banish it and be himself, but it returned time and time again. "Where are we going next?" he asked abruptly. If he could focus his mind he could stop it from drowning in a lake of memories.
"Dunno," Hansa shrugged. "Going to the sea would be our best bet- there's more grazelands near the sea, so they'll probably be there, unless Pu-Surama is wise to our strategy and moved them into the hills. But we'll have to go through the hills anyway, but then again-"
"How many but's can you think up?" Nuesh asked with some exasperation.
"Oh, quite many. We can do nothing but hope and pray that we happen upon some of Pu-Surama's kinsmen quite soon. I wish I had a warbird overhead. Oh, well. What can we do?"
The mist was all the thicker on the morrow. It was so thick that one could hardly see three feet in front of their face. Cold too, at least by the accounts of the riders. The sort of cold that brought fevers and chills. Strange, Nuesh thought when he stepped outside the chariot's chest and into a hand to survey the land, he didn't feel cold. Not at all. He felt pleasantly cool, like a cold summer night after a hot summer day. And he was just wearing a linen skirt, nothing more.
Bal Shuhalla also rarely wore anything more than a simple robe fastened over one shoulder, Nuesh remembered. Everyone said so. Maybe he didn't feel heat or cold either.
He shook his head and looked out into the endless sea of mist. It was beautiful at first, like flying above the clouds, mountains jutting out above the ocean. Sometimes the mist cleared, revealing gray grouse and nothing more. They had fallen into a routine of sending regiments of a hundred each to every direction. All of them returned with nothing.
The sun was at the horizon when a lucky sea breeze pushed the mist inland, revealing pinpricks of light that wavered and flickered like fireflies. Nuesh sat up straight. Were they Pu-Surama's kinsmen? He lowered himself to the ground, striding off the hand of the chariot. "Hansa!" he called, and almost immediately she rode out of the mist, reining in her horse.
"What is it, Bal Nuesh?" she dropped down from her horse. An awkward motion without a hand, but she accomplished it nonetheless. "Did you find something?"
"Yes. Come up with me. I need someone else to look at it." They stepped on the chariot's waiting hand, back up above the mist where a swarm of lights danced in the distance. "Are those torches, Chief Hansa?" Nuesh pointed at them.
"Hold on a moment." Her hand went to a pouch by her side. After a moment of fumbling with the clatch, she drew out a bronze tube, which she placed to her remaining eye. A moment went by. Two moments. Hansa made all sorts of faces, grimacing, tutting at some fault of the contraption, adjusting dials Nuesh could not understand the meaning of.
When this was done, she let out a small grunt of satisfaction, and fixed the tube to her eye again. Her face blanched, as if witnessing some great atrocity. But what, Nuesh wondered, could it be? Her jaw lolled open, as if a club struck her head.
"Hansa?" Nuesh asked. "What is it?" She threw the tube at him and covered her mouth.
It was some sick curiosity- the kind that drove boys to play with carcasses- that made Nuesh fix the tube to his eye and point it at the swarm of lights. The tube magnified his view, allowing him to see the dew on blades of grass.
He saw a herd of dead men walking, stone faced and gray skinned without a hint of smiling, laughing, arguing, or any of the things men do with their families. Their flesh was like clay, cold and dead on their bones. There were strange things on their skin too. Or rather, their skin was stretched over some slick black thing. Patches of it jutted out of their joints, crowned their heads like spreading horns. Their horses underwent the same transformation, things with glass eyes moving with the men in perfect, antlike unison.
"Exhumans," Hansa whispered. "They're taken."
[X]- Dispatch the Chariot. A chariot is the definitive commitment of force. Take the chariot and break the exhumans, and collect the corpse for proof.
[X]- Dispatch the Riders. A force of skilled men and women would smash a host better than Nuesh could. Nuesh needs to stand watch for worse thing.
[X]- Dispatch the Riders. A force of skilled men and women would smash a host better than Nuesh could. Nuesh needs to stand watch for worse thing.
THatWhichWillBe
The Squiddly One
- Location
- In The Darkened Deep
[X]- Dispatch the Chariot. A chariot is the definitive commitment of force. Take the chariot and break the exhumans, and collect the corpse for proof.
I smell trickery. The Chariot is far harder to damage than the Riders, and every Rider we might lose to whatever devilry those nano-machine laden fuckers is one we won't have later.
I smell trickery. The Chariot is far harder to damage than the Riders, and every Rider we might lose to whatever devilry those nano-machine laden fuckers is one we won't have later.
