Duatos Ka'etruscan's Story

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.

93rd Day

House Ka’etruscan

“Can you guarantee for certain that he will succeed?”

The gray skinned Drak drifted to the other side of the room, over the rug that covered the floor of his liege’s personal quarters. He sifted through the books that lined the shelf, feigning interest, but ultimately combing his inner thoughts.

He took in a tentative breath before answering to his lord, “No.”

Melio continued, “As much as I would like to trust the abilities of a Protectorate, I cannot…in good conscience,” he placed the book back on the shelf.

The Drakyvarian noble would not hound Melio for this, and the servant knew as much because they were already a step ahead. They had prepared in the event that their assassin failed to achieve all the objectives.

Duatos had long trusted the counsel of Melio, who was a seasoned fighter, and a sharpened mind. Picked off the streets, the petty pick pocket was trained to be a servant at first, but the young Drak possessed a mind that was fed by books, an insatiable appetite to learn. He was cunning and clever, his lord knew that much. Any male servant of the house was trained diligently and sharply, and Melio seemed to be prodigious, so much so that he became a first and foremost lieutenant of Duatos.

To some degree, the patriarch regarded his retainer as higher than his own pureborn daughter, whom he would have fed to the lower houses through a hand in marriage to secure his position had the girl not raise herself to be more of the males. She had to fend for herself after her mother left Duatos and stayed with the other half of the family. Now, Duatos’s daughter was living somewhere out in the great Ba’Gatha with an all-female cadre of deadly fighters as her personal guards and loyal followers. Duatos was only pleased by this, as it rid him of having to deal with her marital affairs, but occasionally she would return to the city and perhaps pay her respects. Their relationship was never the best, though he doted upon her in his earlier years, those were soon swept away. Duatos was more focused on training his three sons, two from his first marriage, with his second marriage bearing him his third son and the girl. To him, they were all to be his lieutenants and generals of the lords below him.

“The Solarians can be handled. As for the lawman, he will be a tougher sand viper to deal with.”

“He certainly is capable isn’t he?” Duatos replied, as he leafed through another page in the volume.

“Yes my liege, it is surprising for a human.”

Duatos chuckled slyly, “Enforcing law among the wastes…a noble effort, but a considerable waste of time for a man of his caliber, there’s nothing but filthy dregs out there.”

Duatos tented his fingers before him, as the flame from the nearby candle flickered and glowed in front of him.

“The Lyk fellow,” Duatos said, as he stared at Melio, “He is an astute one, and I fear that he may have already sent word to someone pertaining…”

The lizard’s green eyes went slack as he thought for a moment, “I fear for the same thing lord, my ears have told me that he sent out a courier on the seventy fifth.”

“Did he?” the patriarch anxiously shifted in his seat, his gaze fell upon his servant.

“Indeed lord. Though we caught him, we were remiss, and the letters had fallen into another hand. Presumably an ally of Lyk,” Melio paused.

The patriarch closed his eyes and his nostrils exhaled a lengthy breath, laden with frustration.

“I hope there is more to this,” the patriarch opened his eyes, turning his visage to his subordinate.

“Yes lord, my agents are tailing him through the desert as we speak. He is traveling with two others, an avian and another human from our last reports.”

“What of them?”

“I would not presume them to be the Solarian’s allies, for they seem to be just messengers themselves,” the young Drak held his claws behind him, “However, we believe…that the avian and the girl are the messenger’s bodyguards.”

“We will either kill them all, or separate the messenger, kill him and take the letter.”

Duatos smiled as he saw Melio clench his fist near the end of his words.

“I’ve taught you well,” the old lord returned to his book once more, “See to it that the letter does not reach its intended destination.”

Melio bowed to his lord for the compliment.

“And how fares your dealings with the Protectorates, lord?”

Duatos skipped through some pages in the ragged tome, “They are a crafty and cunning kind, not to be underestimated, but ultimately human. Lord Ko’thnim has made no gains in his attempt to wrestle the mesas from them. Perhaps I should watch and wait before doing anything.”

“A wise call, lord,” Melio said.

Duatos waved his hand, Melio understood the gesture, and replied with a retreating bow that signified his leave.

---

“What makes a city? I ask those of you, sons of Ip’Kesh, born of noble blood?” Duatos asked his three colleagues gathered around him at a table.

They were playing a game called Svolda. It was a game for four players, involving a fictitious map somewhat resembling the desert in which they dwelled, and multiple game pieces. The map was divided into multiple little territories, and the objective of the game was conquest. The game began with one person, chosen randomly by drawing lots. That person was to ask a question to his three compatriots on the subject of war, politics, or conquest. The rest were given only one opportunity to correctly answer the questioner, or master as he was called. They were to answer in rotation, which was clock-wise most of the time. Should none of his compatriots correctly guess the answer to his inquiry, he was allowed to take a territory, and ask another question to repeat the cycle once more. The first person to correctly answer would be the new master, and he would begin his cycle of conquest. The only inherent flaw of the game were the subjective answers, but that was never a matter that worried Duatos or his fellow lords, for this was a game that they devised by themselves, for themselves. None of the lords had ever tried to rig the game in their favor, for they all recognized that it was a pointless game. It was less about the map, and more about the thinking.

“People,” answered Niaos’Ko’thnim, Duatos shook his head.

Lord Niaos’Ko’thnim was broad shouldered, broader than most. His skin was a dark orange, rocky like the desert sands. His dress was among the most traditional, ripped cloth swaddling him incompletely, with a sash at the waist to complete his garb. All his fingers were ringed off with ornamental Xth metal. He stood nearly a head taller than the other lords present.

“An army,” answered Shri’Othrek, Duatos shook his head.

Shri’Othrek, the second oldest member of their little brotherhood was a distinguished general during the first and second wars with the Protectorates. And when the last Emperor, Nusdei’Feyleth, was assassinated, all the other lords fell back to the capital and attempted to claim the throne. Shri, however, remained at the front, caring less about their political struggles; he was more captivated by martial glory. He provided the majority of the Drakyvarian war effort in the closing stages of the war, and subsequently he lost nearly the entire family treasury in the blundering siege of Protectorate City. Nevertheless, the mines in his family’s territory managed to recuperate the losses after war’s end.

“A ruler,” answered Prae’Ylneac, Duatos shook his head.

Prae’Ylneac was the oldest of the group, older than the next oldest member, Shri’Othrek, by as much as ten years, but one could only assume. Time was a fickle thing to measure. Ylneac was slightly stooping as a result of his old age. He had some white specs that covered the rim of his chin. His eyes were greyed and murky, but that never affected his vision. His hands were fixed in cloth, to cover scars that he incurred years ago.

He let slip his tongue, “Water,” before he moved a mounted warrior piece into an empty territory.

The others scratched their chins and contemplated his answer.