Trident wrote:Does it sound too out there?
Not at all! I thought that was what it meant anyway; I was just making sure. And I definitely like made-up words.
Again, nice work!
--Cass
Trident wrote:Does it sound too out there?
Trident wrote:Obedience to authority, loyalty to self, devotion to the cause. The life of a soldier. The life of this soldier.
Colonel Kiran Raiz balled his right hand into a compacted fist, his nails biting into the skin.
He released a warm breath that fogged as it came out.
He had been sulking about his quarters, a small improvised tent, for the past hour.
General Yakov’s plans lay on the table in front of him. He threw the parchment aside; this crusade was accomplishing nothing.
Their siege on Mannith Tyr was failing, and the general knew it to be true. Yet here they sat.
The bottle to his left was too tempting to resist.
He took a large swig, half of the liquor running along his face.
It was some god-awful swill, but it went down the way he liked.
The pounding in his head slowly faded as that warm feeling came over him. He fell back against his chair and put his legs up on the table.
He couldn’t help but mull over the complaints of his men. They were getting restless situated in this cold, bleak terrain.
A heavy breeze whistled through his makeshift abode whipping the canvas flaps. “Piss off,” he snapped at it.
There were minor skirmishes almost every day now, mostly Tyr military forces who had escaped death. They raided often, draining off what little supplies the Alkarans had. The Seigneur refused to send aid.
Kiran was about to doze off when a stout major stumbled into his quarters. “Colonel Raiz! You must see this.”
The colonel’s head twitched slightly to the side and he gave the Major Diggs a confused look.
Diggs glanced at the grungy bottle and the corners of his lips turned down.
He passed the colonel yet another piece of parchment, this one tagged with the seal of the Seigneur.
Kiran felt a shiver crawl over him even with the warm blanket of his booze.
He broke the seal and read the message.
“Colonel, what news does the Seigneur send? Is it good?”
“We are to end this siege…” Kiran trailed off.
“So the treaty has been signed? We are going home. That truly is good news. I shall spread the word myself.”
“Hold it, major. We’re not going home.” He fell back into his chair and threw his boots onto the table. “Diggs, did I ever tell you what a decent man you are?”
Diggs sighed. “Sir, if we are not going home, then how is the conflict to end?”
The colonel took another swig, the clear liquid spilling onto his muddled uniform. “We take the city, Diggs. We kill them all.” He lifted the parchment for the major to look at. “Seigneur’s orders.”
Major Diggs grabbed the orders. “Colonel, those are not hardened soldiers behind that wall.”
]Kiran flung the bottle at Diggs’ feet. It shattered on impact, showering the major’s boots with the stale alcohol. “Don’t you think I know that?”
He shut his eyes and rubbed his temples, the ache in his head returning.
“I should go.”
“No… I just think… Diggs, I don’t know what I think anymore.”
“What choice do we have?”
Kiran hesitated, eventually succumbing to what he knew would be the only answer. “None.”
Kiran pulled a small flask from his pocket and pulled off its cap. He dumped the last few drop into his mouth and erupted into a fit of coughing.
Diggs stepped over the broken glass and slapped his back. He kept his hand on the colonel and voiced his final appeal. “Perhaps Yakov could convince the Seigneur otherwise.”
He left Kiran in the tent to brood over the situation. It would be some time before he was sober enough to talk to the general.
Representatives Arthur Darius and Gaius Linus--beloved brother of the Seigneur--navigated the harsh corridors of the Hall of Mannith Tyr. The armies of Seigneur Linus sat outside the city walls, fending off the several pesky scuffles assailed [ 'assailed?' perhaps you mean 'begun', 'essayed' (as in 'attempted')? ] by committed Tyr nationals . It was the hope of the two to come to an agreement that would benefit both.
Representatives Arthur Darius and Gaius Linus--beloved brother of the Seigneur--navigated the harsh corridors of the Hall of Mannith Tyr.
Arthur fidgeted with his hands as he sauntered alongside his colleague. Gaius kept his head high and straight, walked with the dignity one of his office would command, and maintained an arrogance as cold as the corridors they walked. He scratched at his balding scalp; even that was done with poise.
“Peace is in sight,” Arthur said. “I can feel it.”
“Perhaps,” was all Gaius offered.
Arthur had trouble keeping up. Diplomatic envoys, negotiation techniques, alliance systems, he knew little of these things. But his tenacity in the Senate had given the Seigneur all he had needed for a reason to send Arthur Darius. And now here he was, negotiating one of the most important treaties in Alkaran history.
Gaius spoke once again, “I suppose I should give you a small warning about the Premier and his aides. They will try to get information out of you through very simple means. They might ask you a question about your life, something completely trivial, but beware. These questions are meant to warm you up to other, more fattening questions that could give away military positions or ways to infiltrate our political structure. Sometimes the personal questions themselves are meant to seep out information they could use.”
“Quite the deception, Gaius.”
“Indeed, one that fooled poor Felix, and now he is off in some godforsaken hole in the desert. I told you the Premier was adept.”
“I see what you mean.”
Gaius and Arthur entered the study. It was an enormous room filled with oak-paneled walls and bookshelves. The shelves were dusty and unkempt, although they seemed to be put to good use by the Premier. Books lay on the floor, some open, some stack several lengths tall. Light poured through a series of stained-glass windows from the right side of the room, casting a colorful display upon the stone ground. In the center of the room was a large oak table scattered with several papers.
“It’s the way Tyrs greet. It comes from some ancient superstition. I’m not quite sure of the reason, but they don’t like to shake hands upon greeting. It is a sign of the utmost respect if you have the opportunity to shake a Tyr’s hand. It means you have gained their complete trust.”
“Have you ever shaken the Premier’s hand?”
“No.”
"There is adventure in simply being among those we love, and among the things we love -- and beauty, too."-Lloyd Alexander