{Excerpt}
Novel commodities, often ushered forth by the esteemed members of the Sanctuary of Scrolls, imbued material existence with newfound opulence. Not merely did commerce flourish, but also the production of wares burgeoned under novel modes of organization. Merchants amassed and wielded capital in unprecedented measure; many scholars situate this as the maturing, or at the very least the inception, of Eastern capitalism, wherein capital assumed paramount significance not solely in economic edifices but also in the fabric of political dynamics.
Culturally, fresh ethos—many entwined with the Reformation and the denouement of the Great War—permeated Udoris, reshaping comportment and altering the lenses through which denizens perceived themselves and the state. Yet, even as capitalism made strides from the Orient, the erstwhile liberated peasantry of Udoris found themselves inexorably ensnared by the shackles of serfdom. The ostensible prosperity of the epoch gradually ceded ground, in its midmost and latter epochs, to a "general crisis" manifesting in myriad regions of Udoris.
Politically, the burgeoning centralized states exacted novel levels of cultural homogeneity from their subjects; for instance, Aries spurned the presence of prominent religious sects, namely the Wanderers of Radafis, the Band of the Six Divinities—referred to colloquially as the "Band" or the "Faith of the Six" respectively—and the Creed of the Twins. Moreover, dissenters found the employment of the common tongue, Morgar, proscribed, thereby effectuating a state of isolation from the wider world. Understandably, scholars grappled with the exact genesis of this intricate century in Udorian evolution.
The economic expansion of the era owed much to potent transformations already in motion by the zenith of the Great War. Subsequent events wrought radical alterations upon the social structures of Udorian society—pertaining to its agrarian practices, distribution of wealth, societal organization, and treatment of dissidents. This revolution engendered an environment wherein entities like the Sanctuary of Scrolls and the Board of Commerce flourished, birthing seminal discoveries such as the advent of gunpowder siege engines, endowing armies with greater martial prowess and thereby bestowing nations with a heightened sense of security.
Upon the century's denouement, Udoris attained a zenith hitherto unattained over a century prior: an unparalleled leap in technological prowess, curiously juxtaposed with an extended epoch of peace and political stability.
...
Excerpt from Jonas Diane's book on Udorian History- 'Our Origins'
Mallowston.
MUCH like Faywyn, Mallowston could be considered an old town with a rather illustrious past. It had its genesis near a century gone, fashioned from the remnants of Fort Addens, an ancient bastion charged with the solemn duty of safeguarding Algrim's northern marches from Quiltonnian encroachments via the Strega should Faywyn fall. The former fort, ill-suited to withstand the onslaught of cannon fire, had long crumbled to ruin at the hands of Verummite artillery clandestinely smuggled into Quilton by contracted Luscan buccaneers. In the wake of the war's end, a sturdier, more resolute fort—dubbed the Citadel of The North—was erected, from which sprouted the nascent roots of the rather flourishing township.
James sat by an open window, gazing upon the bustle of commoners partaking in their daily toils below. He sighed, his eyes glazed with disdain as he beheld the bustling masses. "Nary a wit amongst the vast majority of them," he mused. "Sheeplike and malleable. Not unlike the insensate masses of my memories, they are but simple, blissfully ignorant creatures with a collective awareness equivalent to that of a doorknob." The earl regarded them with contempt, their lowly state a source of ire. He had always harboured a disdain for the common rabble, despising them and how they so easily let their betters flare their anger and herd their thoughts.
Behind him, the door creaked open, disrupting his reverie as Ser Lancelot entered. "And so?" queried James, his countenance unmoving, identifying the man by nought but the cadence of his footfall.
"Better than anticipated, My Lord," replied the viscount as he joined him by the window, his gaze fixed upon the bustling thoroughfare below. "The Heras and their vassals remain convinced of your seclusion within the Keep. Mayhap they shall remain ignorant of our timely departure a while longer."
James nodded, inquiring further, "And what of our company?"
"Ser Carter encounters difficulty in their extrication without arousing undue suspicion," rejoined the viscount. "He had seen fit to detain several of our peasant folk whose loyalty remains in doubt. Nonetheless, he and his men should arrive shortly, barring ill-fortune. As for the Heras, preparations for their western campaign near completion. A retinue of merchants, strumpets, jesters, chirurgeons, and sappers, accompanied by a fortnight's provender and gunpowder, has been marshalled. Plans to sustain a siege through winter via the Strega also appear set. The landed knights governing the environs of the township shall soon convene at the Keep for a feast before embarking upon their 'conquest.' They set sail for Faywyn come morrow's noon."
"A revelry, you say?"
"Aye, my lord," responded Lancelot with a wry grin. "It appears the conquest of Faywyn is deemed a fait accompli. And who can fault them for such presumption?"
"And are you steadfast in this course, my lord?" ventured the viscount, his uncertainty palpable. "Should this venture falter, we shall be picked us off like crippled pheasants in an open field."
James turned to face Lancelot, his gaze resolute. "We face two paths: to fight and risk death in the attempt, or to flee and pray the ambitious yet circumspect Heras grant us a chance for retribution. Our choices are scant, and I but choose the course that sits most comfortably upon my conscience. I am no fool, Lancelot. There are times when retreat proves the wiser course. Alas, this is not one of them. Do you wish for your wife and daughter to flee like quarry pursued by wild dogs, holding nought but a slender hope of escape whilst the Heras hound us?"
Turning once more to the window, James continued, "I once read that the key to a lasting peace lies in possessing either a deterrent of fearsome aspect, one ruthlessly terrifying and horrible enough to cow one's adversaries into submission"—he cast his gaze upon the ancient Keep atop yonder hill, his visage impassive—"or the means to quell one's foes at first notice with swift and insurmountable violence and destruction. True peace is only possible with magnanimity on one hand and the promise of swiftly delivered annihilation on the other."
"So, to your query, Lancelot," concluded James...
"Aye, I am steadfast."
Bycrest.
Beneath the stone floors of the subjugated Algrian castle, amidst the dank recesses of the castle dungeons, lay a torch-lit cell where faint sounds of lashing and stifled groans reverberated in the otherwise desolate chamber. Seated at one end of this grim enclosure was a fair-haired, stocky youth of middling stature clad in regal garb. Though possessing striking azure eyes and unblemished countenance, his perennially furrowed brow betrayed a lack of the noble charm one might expect of a scion of his station. Adorned upon his attire—just above his heart—was an insignia depicting a crowned, crimson-scaled dragon, emblematic of his lofty status as a scion of Hertalean royalty. With his eyes shut as if in the throes of slumber, an air of ennui and vexation emanated from his motionless frame.
Everhard opened his eyes to regard the deposed king kneeling before him. Within the depths of his cerulean gaze lurked traces of cruelty and frenzied paranoia. The ousted sovereign, Leonard, returned the gaze with a vacant stare even as a Hertalean knight administered lashes upon his bare flesh with a supple leather whip. After a pause of contemplation, the prince extended his hand to halt the soldier's handiwork.
"Where… is she?" Everhard asked, his dull voice conveying much frustration.
The king remained mute, steadfastly ignoring him. His countenance was impassive, and nought but the rasp of his laboured breaths escaped his parched lips.
"Where. Is. She?" The prince asked again.
Yet received he nought but silence and an impassive gaze. Everhard tarried a moment longer before emitting a weary sigh and closing his eyes.
"...Reports allege sightings of disbanded retinues and courtly dames of your court fleeing southeastward. Were I not better informed, I would deem your most loyal subjects to have forsaken you."
Silence persisted.
"Your silence is foolish, Leonard. I am privy to Iris's whereabouts—she does travel with one of your loyalists, aiming for the domain of a remaining vassal, does she not? Or perchance one of the southern ports, seeking passage beyond the kingdom?"
A flicker of emotion briefly passed across the king's visage, imperceptible to most save for the astute observer. The prince discerned it, his heart quickening with hope as a smug smirk played upon his lips. "Am I not correct?" he probed.
Yet Leonard met him with further silence.
Everhard sighed anew, his countenance hardening as he regarded the king with a cold stare. With a languid gesture, he indicated to the knight standing behind the deposed monarch. "Proceed."
"Yes, Your Highness," the man intoned.
"Iris…" Everhard muttered softly as the sounds of lashing and the king's pained utterances resumed within the confines of the cell.
"...Where do you think you can hide from me now?"
Windy Fir Woodlands.
Amongst the yellowing trees, decked in aristocratic garments faded due to one too many washes, Lord Reamus, a stout figure of middle years, tread through the woods. His eyes gleamed with an icy lustre, bespeaking of ruthlessness and methodical calculation.
Beside him strode his aide, a tall, sinewy man, garbed in worn yet clean raiments and gambeson. His composed countenance bore an air of condescension, marking him as one of the most dangerous breeds of miscreants to grace any realm—an educated one.
"Have you found out who killed him yet?" Reamus inquired, his voice a study in impassivity. Though a fervent desire for retribution burned within his gaze, he maintained a semblance of composure befitting a leader before his subordinate.
"Nay, My Lord, the trail of the slayers has grown cold. One amongst them has a skilful hand in eluding pursuit," replied Outhor calmly. "Nevertheless, we have recovered the remains of Lord Vlad, as you commanded, sire."
A period of brief silence ensued. Even the forest seemed to quieten, its usual cacophony of creatures stilled by an eerie quiet punctuated only by the chill wind whispering through the boughs overhead.
"Outhor, did I ever divulge my past as a noble Count?" the bandit lord mused, hands clasped behind his back.
Outhor, naturally, remained silent.
"I harboured ambition," the bandit lord continued, "yet 'twas my undoing. I lost all—my riches, my title, my kin—all due to my folly. Only my nephew, Vlad, and I escaped when the Dark Gryphon came to exact payment for my missteps. My poor nephew's sire, mine own brother, sacrificed himself that we might flee. That we might endure…"
Reamus' countenance remained stoic as he recounted these words, advancing towards a clearing at the path's end, with Outhor trailing in silence.
"Years hence, here I stand. The leader and progenitor of the Forest Wolves, the preeminent and most dreaded bandit band throughout the realm. A terror to wayfarers and townsfolk alike. 'Tis mayhap not the loftiest title in the annals, yet in these woodlands, I am monarch. An unchallenged sovereign… And yet, in the very heart of mine demesne. In. Mine. Own. Fucking. Backyard! A felon has slain my nephew—my sole kin remaining—and fled, evading capture despite my every exertion?"
In the clearing lay six shrouded cadavers. Five lay in orderly repose, while the sixth lay apart, almost reverently so.
Silently, Reamus approached the sixth corpse. As he uncovered the swathes enveloping it, a fetid stench pervaded the air, accompanied by the drone of flies taking flight. Yet, as if impervious to the malodor and repugnant buzzing, Reamus beheld the cadaver's eyes—an expression of abject terror yet etched upon its countenance. His fingers traced the cheek of the corpse, its blanched skin yielding beneath his touch. A faint resemblance between them could be discerned upon closer inspection.
Gazing into the vacant orbs with a gaze tinged with remorse, Reamus' eyes momentarily welled with tears before he blinked them away, his icy stare returning.
"Rest well, my son," he murmured, re-enfolding the body in its shroud. The stout figure stood erect, hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the forest with a cold gaze.
"Find them. Find the wretches responsible for his demise. And deliver them unto me…
"Dead…
Or alive."
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