Aug Feyleth's Story

The timekeepers say it is ninety days into the 514th year of Jeytelh's ride.

-

At the southwestern edge of Protectorate City, near the wall, was a restaurant.

At the table closest to the wall, sat two thieves.

"No. I don't believe in it," stated the first.

"'Don't believe in it'? In tipping? Are you serious?" the other one shot him an odd glance.

"Dead serious. They have a wage, why do they need charity from me?" the first thief wiped his hands.

"Well...because they bust their ass for you. Serving others is a hard job. It’s even worse when you live in a place like this."

"In the past hour that we've been sitting here, he's only refilled my canteen once. Once! I don't think he’s doing a good job of servicing. For all I know, he spat in our food."

The second thief folded his arms, "One. You know that water is a scarce resource right? And two, that..that’s just gross."

An explosion ripped through that portion of the wall. Smoke filled the sky, and debris littered the ground. The restaurant that stood there, along with everyone inside, was completely obliterated along with the wall.

---

Drakyvaria

"Aware. Indeed, I am."

The magnificent palace of the Primarch sat at the very end of the long central road that stretched from one end of the Drakyvarian capital to the other. Along the way, the central road was bisected by various other smaller roads and alleyways that made up the heart of Drakyvaria.

The Primarch's palace was an agglomeration of many spires that stabbed into the brown sky with great red banners at the tips of those spires bearing the Primarch's sigil, a Draconian countenance marked in pure black. The great stairs rose from road level and went up many steps until they reached the great entrance of the palace.

Flanking the open entry way were rows of guardsmen clenching their pole-arms with solid faces. While the desert wind blew and the banners flapped, their faces remained the same.

It was another day as the sphere of Jeytelh rose across the sky slowly. The merchants and the bazaars were lively, and they should be. Their great nation was thriving; there was peace with the Protectorates and peace with the Solarians.

Who would have thought that those two other kingdoms could be such lucrative trading partners?

The Drakyvarians did not when they went to war with those kingdoms. Twice with the Protectorates, and thrice with the Solarians. There would have been four wars with the Protectorates had the young city been established sooner. Of course, the city of thieves and swindlers had thieves and swindlers for their leaders. And those leaders were among the best of swindlers and thieves when handling diplomatic matters.

The Solarians on the other hand, a great plague should befall them, thought the average Drakyvarian. They won one, and lost two against the collective of pinks, blues, yellows, browns, grays, and whatever it was that made up Solaria.

The Solarians would not yield their precious crystals, and they understood nothing about honor. Drakyvarians understood much about honor, they claimed that it was bestowed upon them by the Gods, and that every Drakyvarian youngling was born with it in his blood. And that the substance of honor was what created their Xth metal. They thought they knew what they believed to be honor.

They were prosperous under the magnificent reign of their Primarch, Aug'Feyleth. He who commanded the sky and wind as the common Drak claimed to other kingdoms.

In truth, Aug'Feyleth should be known for his shrewdness of character. A trait perhaps not inherited from his father, but has saved his life from many assassination attempts since the day he took to the throne.

-

"Then, Lord Primarch, we must make haste to your retreat in the south."

The prime adviser of Aug'Feyleth was an old Drakyvarian perhaps in his early eighties. Compared to humans and other species, Drakyvarians had long lifespans. The old lizard walked with limber movements, spoke in staccato, and bore paranoid eyes that darted around the great chamber.

He had been a great counselor of Aug'Feyleth's father, but he continues to blame himself for the last Primarch's death. To some degree, he has made it his life's goal to protect the younger Feyleth and ensure that he does not have two Primarchs die during his tenure as prime adviser.

The old Drak paced about before Aug as the monarch sat on his throne in battle dress. Drakyvarian Primarchs were always expected to wear armor in the court, or out in the streets whenever they paraded. It was meant to show strength, but also to protect the Primarch from assassins in the streets.

The only place they were allowed to wear anything else was their private chamber. Sleeping in armor was uncomfortable. And should a Primarch not get enough sleep because of this, his disposition would be affected the next day. The following result would be the rolling of heads. The royal servants knew this better than anyone.

The court room was quiet with the exception of the wind that rolled through. The great banners were partially bathed in the filtered light that shone through the opening in the ceiling.

"They present no serious threat to me at the moment," the Primarch reasoned, "Just another sword above my head like so many others."

"Lord Primarch, your policies as of late have not appeased them. In public they may seem firm. However, within their homes they whisper about how you anger them. We stand upon the threshold of a golden age that could simply slip away if they manage to kill you."

"Manage to. There's really not much to fear as I've strengthened the guard. My own House supports me, as well as our allies. I think that is enough for me to move ahead with our current plans."

"Lord Primarch, your father said the same. For all we know, they might have loyalists within the ranks of your guard. I, for one, am surprised that you see no fear in our current state of affairs."

A smile grew on the Primarch's face, "What is it that those humans often say about fear?"

He stood up from his cushioned seat, his leathery hands knobbed behind him as he strode to the edge of the atrium and looked down the great steps and into the fluttering marketplaces down below. The wind had slowly carried the sand of Ba'Gatha onto the little nooks and crannies of the steps until they were no longer as white as before when the city was first built.

"Fear is a choice, Rielc."

"Lord Primarch," the advisor replied with his own smile, "The humans...they should be the last place that you draw enlightenment from."

---

Protectorate City

"Order please, everyone."

The Dome was the council chamber where the head council met. It was there that they discussed, disbanded, and decreed laws.

The Dome was shaped like a dome, if it was anything else, it would be a misnomer. The dome itself was supported by giant columns planted in a ring at equal intervals to distribute the pressure out from the center of the dome as well as give the structure a feeling of space and openness.

The former being something that denizens of Protectorate City craved, while the latter being something that they disdained when it came to the personal sense of the word.

It was for that exact reason that they decided to keep their meetings in open air. It was one of the few things that put people at ease in a city that tends to distrust itself.

Of course, the Dome had metallic folds that automatically created an interior once they seal off the outside, letting no light or air in except that which comes through the various vents located on the roof of the structure. These serve for privacy purposes, and more often than not they were used. Not only to hide from the city's own eavesdroppers but the spies of other nations as well.

Protectorate City was known as a haven for all, and thus it became home to many types of people from both Solaria and Drakyvaria. It was often hard to identify a Protectorate citizen from an outsider spy. Any critically classified discussions that the council held were to be behind closed blinds.

Inside the Dome was a wide and round central table made of metal with seven seats planted around with equal distances apart similar to the columns that held up the dome.


Each of the current council members were prominent men and women. However, due to the quick rotation of regimes, the only law that prevailed in Protectorate City was the minimal tax needed to fund the Guard. That was barely enforced though. Beyond that, the incumbent members usually devolved into managing their personal affairs and economic territory.

On this day, four of the seven were meeting in the Dome.

"From Cloud Hills to Razor Mesa, my territory."

Abaryn Fells was just one among the seven ruthless merchants, traders, backstabbers, swindlers (the list could go on) gathered around that circular table. He had an eye patch, although people doubted he was blind. He had a blonde goatee with long flowing hair. Many a woman has fallen for his dastardly charms, except for the sharpest of them.

"The hell you are. We all agreed on no claims for Cloud Hills, it was supposed to be fair game for everyone."

And one of the sharpest of them, Cidny Kaith, was there. Jet black hair, trimmed according to Guard regulation. She was a Protectorate Guard captain for a time during the Second Drakyvarian War. She had been successful in swaying the majority vote of four to three for the City to keep the taxes to support the military. Her agents were within that arm, and they funneled part of the funds back to her. She was shorter than everyone else there, standing at a mere sixty two inches, but she spoke with a screechy voice.

"You mean like the Guard?" Homar Noktios interjected with a condescending glare.

Noktios was one of the minority members who voted against the raising of taxes. He was one of the first who became aware of her operations within the Guard. He sported loose light brown garb that draped across his pauldrons, but left most of his tanned torso bare. He also wore thick contraband vambraces. He had a tattoo design that circled his eyes and met at the center of his forehead. His red mane was tied down to one pony tail.

“What about the Guard? I barely get shit from them; nobody bothers to pay taxes except for the idiots…good people, still idiots.”

"She's right about the Hills though. We all agreed on fair play. Whatever fair means these days."

Quinta Valorum, diplomatic, deadly with knives, and despite her amputated arm which she kept wrapped in silk, she was still eye candy for many men in the city.

Abaryn scratched his jaw, trying to determine his options.

"Fine. But tell your people to stay out of Razor Mesa," he jabbed at Quinta.

Quinta simply smiled, "I can't guarantee that hon'."

"Well then I can't make any guarantees about the Hills can I?" Abaryn said.

"I don't think you can make any guarantees about Razor Mesa either. From what I hear, a Drak lord has had his eyes on it for quite a while now," Homar grinned.

"And from what do you hear?"

"Oh…from a couple of ears that I have around," Homar shrugged.

"I thank you for your concern, but that's my business that I can handle," Abaryn concluded.

“So what do you guys think about Jolo?” Cidny asked.

“A threat,” Quinta planted.

“I agree,” Abaryn continued, “If we can reel him in…remove the head and the body will follow. Those rangers of his…”

As Quinta was about to speak, a large explosion in the distance disrupted their little meeting. Smoke billowed from the site as they stood from their seats, unsure of what just happened.

"...By Jeytelh..."

---

Dunes Near Protectorate City

"Don't die on me boy."

Jolo’s voice would not be enough to deliver the man from the grips of oblivion. The ranger's hands were covered in bright red as he tried to hold his intestines in. Jolo's own was drenched in the dying man’s blood as he held tightly onto his free hand.

Wounded. The ranger was clawing for breath. He leaked blood into the sand upon which he laid.

Another ranger shadowed the men; she stood a couple of steps away. This was the first time that they had actually gathered in number, most of the time the Rangers acted independently, but within the confines of their credo. However, this...situation…warranted a different approach.

“What do we do?” she asked as she looked around.

Jolo cradled the younger man within his arms. The veteran knew by then that the dying ranger was very likely…gone.

Jolo remained silent until, “We’re dealing with something else entirely here.”

The dying man choked and gasped while looking at his chief.

Jolo saw the man try to speak. He knew that the ranger was begging him.

It only made things worse.

He pulled out his knife which he laid at the man's throat.

The man twitched lightly as he tried to raise a hand toward his boss, grasping for his coat. One last plea.

-

Once the deed was done Jolo stood up, "Which way did they go?"

The ranger pointed in the direction of Protectorate City.

---

Solaria

"Where am I, Khundis?"

"Why, your majesty, in the Palace of the Sun. Why do you ask such a question?"

At 26 years, Haniea looked out the balcony of her grand palace and into the rest of Solaria. A brief wind touched her face as she pondered how she came to be where she was. Some say she had the look of a goddess.

"My queen," the head servant paused, "You need to get dressed in order for your address before the representatives."

The other servants moved about her chamber gathering her clothes and dress.

"Do you not think that I belong elsewhere?" The young queen turned from the balcony and strode to the center of the chamber.

"My queen, the High Lord himself has made you our queen. He who carries the light of day has chosen you. Please your majesty, stand still."

"No, the Matriarchs chose me," the servants quietly undressed the queen as she stood perfectly still.

"Your majesty, don't be blasphemous," the head servant whispered.

The queen stood there naked before the servants as the sun shone in from the east. They pulled her within the long white robe which she slipped into snugly. It was a dress fit for a queen, with a collar ruff that flared in the back with an air of elegance. It was a simple dress, meant to play a subordinate role to a queen's character.

To adorn her dress was the Pendant of Jeytelh. A fine jewel, it was shaped as a smiling sun with stretching flames. Embedded within his eyes were two Solarian crystals. The pendant served as a royal heirloom, passed down from one ruler to the next. It was a symbol of Solarian royalty, and excellence.

---

“You are still young, so remember not to speak out ahead of the elder representatives.”

“I will remember.”

“This will be your first impression with them.”

“I understand.”

Haniea moved through the hall, escorted by a royal entourage of servants who followed behind her carrying the tail of her dress. Guards stood on both sides of her path to the assembly hall.

She entered the chamber with her hands clasped before her. She was expected to show strength with grace.

The light filtered through the openings in the ceiling. The young queen took her seat on a raised platform. The chamber was filled with drapes that hung loosely for aesthetic purposes. Several support beams stretched from the walls and formed a web in which a giant blue crystal was embedded.

The representatives from the various quarters were there. They were situated at their tables, which were positioned to form a pentagon with the platform upon which the young queen sat.

-

“Desert raiders and our water supplies, they have been sabotaging our canals. As of late the marauders have been hitting closer to our territory. How should we address this?” asked one of the representatives.

“The Protectorates seem to have handled the problem well,” replied another.

“In their territory…we can’t trust a city of thieves to handle our security,” the first said.

“Your majesty, do you believe in the ability of the Sunfires to handle this new threat?”

Haniea paused for a moment, “Yes, I do. This threat is nothing new.”

“Nothing new? These raiders have become bolder with each passing day. They’ve grown cunning. And what of the assassins?

“The Sunfires are patriots of our city. They will handle these matters, as they always have."

“I see…” the Vaul delegate replied.

“We care for your well-being your majesty. The passing of the late queen…has been a terrible tragedy.”

“Thank you, representative Aureliar.”

The delegation concluded once they finalized the funeral arrangements for the late queen.

---

Outskirts of Protectorate City

Mox Ierba had no idea what he had gotten into. In hindsight he realized he should have just hid behind his forge when they came.

Not that it mattered anymore. They came out of nowhere and he had hoped that he wasn’t the only remaining decent citizen in that part of Protectorate City. But he was.

There was an explosion. Everything seemed a blur.

He managed to fight off a couple of blows until they surrounded him, he did not really remember what happened.

All he knew was that the sand and wind kicked in his face, and his hands were bound at the wrists as he was being dragged by some creature. They were taking him somewhere he did not know.

He fell unconscious.

-

The band of twenty or so finally came to a stop at some checkpoint.

The head of the group raised his hand to signal a halt. He was mounted atop a grey quadruped desert beast that had conspicuous curved horns protruding from above its eyes. In fact, each of them was mounted atop these beasts. They served as rapid transport bearing loads of items.

“We’re going to split here to lose them,” the head gruffly voiced.

“Who? The rangers?” asked one of his henchmen.

“Not just them, by now, they’ve probably got the Guard out too. Cover your tracks; we’ll meet on the far side of this desert.”

They disappeared beyond the scarves of sand.

92nd Day

Drakyvaria

Primarch’s Palace

“Rielc, begin.”

Consider this our attempt to nullify any previous grievances between our two cities. It is an attempt to foster more trading and build more cordial relations between our two cities. It is our wish that both of our cities may prosper atop these sands. Which is why I ask that you allow myself…

The old advisor nearly fell out of his seat as he heard the Primarch’s words.

“Lord Primarch! You cannot possibly be considering this. When did you conceive this notion?” The advisor stared at his lord in complete shock.

“I…had some time to think. It’s one of the few things Primarchs have never done, seeing as how we’re always too busy fighting off an enemy outside or within.”

“But Lord Primarch…it is all for the good of Drakyvaria,” the advisor stated in a pleading tone.

“Yes, a thinking Primarch is for the good of Drakyvaria, not one that rushes blindly forward.”

At that, the advisor acknowledged the Primarch with a nod. Perhaps Aug’Feyleth was ruling longer than the others because he had a brain.

“Do tell, Lord Primarch. You will be spurning Duatos’s...”

At the mention of Duatos, the Primarch shook his head. “The Ka’etruscans…”

The halls were devoid of servants.

He chose to say no more, he was aware that there might be a spy in his midst, concealed behind several drapes in the hall. There always was.

The Primarch merely shook his head.

“I would very much prefer a bit of Khalthi syrup, Rielc.”

The advisor stared at his Primarch.

Aug’Feyleth shifted his eyebrows. The advisor understood.

“Right, yes. I will have the servants upon that task quickly,” and Rielc left immediately, leaving the transcript scroll unfinished upon the Primarch’s desk.

As Rielc left, so too did the spy slip away, the Primarch narrowed his eyes.

---

93rd Day

House Ka’etruscan

“And he said nothing more?”

“Nothing more, my liege…”

Duatos Ka’etruscan shifted his sharp gaze away from his underling as he repetitively rotated two metal spheres in the palm of his hand. It was a therapy used to improve manual dexterity and strength. His claws were long and needed a bit of a trim.

He was perhaps in his eighties for a Drak, according to the timekeepers. He bore a scar that carved through his right eye and ran down the right side of his face, ending just below his mouth. The skin there was rougher than most other places, as new and harder scales had formed on the edges of the wound. His skin was a light brown. His crest was bony and covered in rough scales. Four fangs protruded from his lower jaw, two on each side of his face, evenly spaced apart.

He was in his dark grey robes, tied at the waist by a black sash. He had thick, scaly appendages that were analogous to human hair, running from the back of his crest and ending just below his broad shoulders.

Duatos’s quarter was secluded near the rear of the Ka’etruscan manor. It was the patriarch’s place of work and contemplation.

The spy kept his head down as he kneeled on one knee. The Ka’etruscan patriarch paced around slowly, he looked to his palm and felt like crushing the orbs, but that would yield nothing useful for him. He exhaled from his nostrils and took a seat behind his desk, placing the spheres back within the box they came from.

He opened one of the volumes that had been piled upon his desk, “Any word from Melio?”

“Not yet my lord.”

“Dismissed.”

The minion replied by stooping first and then slinking away into the dark recesses of the hall, leaving the lord to his thoughts.

He leafed through the pages of this volume with interest. It was an old work, composed perhaps ages ago by Drakyvarian elders long passed.

The tome was filled with ancient runic markings, not seen by any of the common folk, and very rarely in the manors of the noble houses. Tomes such as these were left among the timekeepers who kept and transcribed the records for future generations.

However, the patriarch managed to comb through the old family records. And he was particularly consumed by this new work. Knowledge was power for him. It spoke of old prophecies, rituals, and even magic. To the average person, such a volume had no value or importance other than perhaps entertainment.

Magic was believed by many to be a long lost art. He knew otherwise.

He looked to his hand, which by now began to glow in a dark blue aura. The waves of light emanated from his hand which he chose as the fount for the power.

But just as he was beginning to draw on a larger fraction of his potential, a quick wit voice danced across the chamber from him.

His energy abruptly faded as he looked up to see a familiar face, a Drakyvarian in dark grey, scaly skin. He had an eye patch across one of his eyes, strapped to one of the two short horns protruding from his crest, arching backward.

“Melio! Do you not knock?”

“Apologies, lord,” the younger Drak smiled slyly, his forked tongue hanging loosely, as he bowed before his lord.

“Where have you been?”

“I found one.”

“One? When?”

“Some time ago.”

The patriarch gazed at him through narrow eyes, “Where is he now?”

“Fulfilling the task,” Melio replied curtly.

Duatos smiled.

---

Protectorate City

It had been three days since the original attack, and repairs were pretty slow.

Rather than waste the efforts of the Guard to hunt down the attackers, the council decided to follow a rather original idea. And it went as followed.



Since this was the first time bandits had ever attacked the city directly, this would be the first time the City would call upon willing travelers and adventurers to hunt down bandits in this manner. The Council members that devised this idea, Cidny and Homar, were in a word, clever. They knew greed was a powerful motivator especially in Protectorate City. The idea would only work, however, if greed overpowered fear. Because if there was one thing everyone knew, the perpetrators were well-armed.

Would it have been worth it to hunt down some bandits?

Three hundred bezants was a good enough amount to get fat on. They were hoping that those who read the postings, which were immediately distributed among the people and pasted onto the walls, would focus on the rewards rather than the other less appealing portions.

Normally, the Council would have left this matter in the hands of the rangers.

However, two more rangers had been found dead in the outskirts of Protectorate City. Each decapitated, their bodies were barely recognizable with the sand covering them.

A wandering merchant caravan stumbled upon the pair of bodies, which were mutilated, whether it was before or after they were killed remained to be seen.

They were only recognized by the vagrant style of dress, their possession of a large assortment of weapons from pistols to sabers to axes, and personal badges that were inspired by the one that adorned Jolo Grossman’s hat.

It was interesting to note that the bandits were bold enough to attack the Rangers, who were possibly the best fighters in the City. They may have lacked formal training, but their experience made up for that. Seros and Jolo, the founders of the group, would often take new recruits and throw them into the middle of a group of bandits. If they lived, then they had some talent. If they didn't, well, it was pretty obvious they weren't going to be rangers. Beyond that, these people had no families, and were completely and utterly devoted to the cause of justice, a lofty motivation. They fought as though they were the last man standing, and if they were going down, they would take as many of their foes down with them.

It was all the more surprising when no other bodies were found beside the two dead lawmen.

The bodies were buried on orders of the Council. Secretly, the Council was actually pleased that the bandits were targeting the wandering lawmen. Their little conflict would keep them busy while they managed their own business without interference from Jolo and his people.

As to the location of the head, he was nowhere to be found, gone off in a wild goose chase as rumor had it.

Perhaps he was already dead. Killed by who?

The Council did not care.

They had to prepare for the horde of travelers arriving at the Dome. The man's fate was his own.