Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[The Kingpin]

"Only because it's so much fun," noted the Scholar as he broke the hug with Beshayir's reluctant permission. He then took the cup in one hand, taking a sip of the drink as he walked over to their little sitting area, intrigued by the arrangement Syria had managed. "Pushy pushy," he jabbed teasingly as he sat down, crossing one leg under him as the other was pulled to his chest at the knee, his arm resting casually on it as he sipped his tea slowly. "So, where do you want me to start?"

Beshayir made to sit beside him, perching herself on her cushion once more, grabbing her cup once she was comfortable. Ceridwen, for now, said nothing, a bit peeved with the Scholar, but not wanting to push it.

[C S]

Syria settled back down near Ceridwen as she had been before. She put the kettle down in the middle of everyone and said, "Ideally, from the beginning, but we happen to know that bit. Raider trouble on Thimeyra's merchant routes -- spices we need in short supply or absent from the market because of it." The mage left out Ceridwen's sneeze, knowing she was riled up enough as is. "So... how'd that... end. I guess." Syria sipped her tea and levitated Ceridwen's cup up to her.

[The Kingpin]

"Hmm," started the Scholar as he took another sip of his tea. This was going to be difficult. He knew it the moment he returned to Thimeyra. Steeling himself, he began. "Well to jump to the end is to deny you the context. The raiders had captured a trade ship out in the desert. Killed several crew members, took the remaining ones hostage, along with the trader who owned the ship. They stripped down one of the crew and sent him to Thimeyra in a small sled, to pass on a message; that they would kill everyone unless they were given a ransom of twenty thousand gold for their release."

At that moment, Beshayir's expression sank. She knew these stories. They had grown increasingly common in the months after Valenhad and Thimeyra began trading.

"Thankfully, the crew member survived the cold, if only barely. He was rushed to be treated when I got that information and headed out with a group of Daavenian Rangers. The intention was that I would scare them into surrendering. Unfortunately, it wasn't quite enough," he explained.

"A dragon your size didn't scare them?" asked Ceridwen, surprised.

"Oh, they were scared. I could smell it. In more ways than one. They were terrified. But they refused to surrender. Five ships engaged the Dreamchaser, and I boarded the merchant ship to rescue the captives." He hesitated for a moment, wondering how best to put it. "I tried to warn them. I gave them several chances to lay down their weapons and surrender. But it was like Brakenvald all over again. They refused to heed me. They tried their hardest to kill me, using everything from swords and maces to arrows. They intended to kill the hostages as well when they realised I wasn't going to be hurt by their attacks. So I was forced to kill a few of them. It was only when they finally realised that it was hopeless that they surrendered. From there I took to the sky and crippled a ship, destroyed another. Their crews, along with the surviving raiders from the merchant ship were bound, put together in a sled and brought to Thimeyra to receive a trial and sentencing."

[C S]

There was an uneasy quiet that came over the discussion. Syria's gaze went to the straw on the floor, fingers tight around her cup. "Ah," she said with a tiny voice. The heaviness she felt inside her was twofold: Septimus' dealings aside, she felt for the lost lives and the families they must have left behind. The poor elf set adrift in the desert, naked, as well. How could any number of individuals ever collectively be this cruel? Was this not a more civilized age? Why couldn't this madness be years behind them, after everyone faced oblivion under a hateful shadow?

And despite their heinous crimes, the guilty would perpetuate violence still against ridiculous odds, throwing themselves against Septimus to stain his hands with more blood and claw at his war-worn constitution...

"I'm sorry, Septimus. You already know of the pain I feel when you are dragged into such conflict, left no choice but to... destroy. It hurts a lot right now, especially. I know what you've done has helped those rangers, perhaps saving their lives as well -- this could have been even more tragic without your intervention." It was, after all, her writing that brought her people to the desert sands to begin with. "But knowing you did this for the bounty being offered, to maintain our... family. If only this could have ended with five destroyed ships and captives whisked off to safety and freedom. If only..."

[The Kingpin]

Septimus could see the conflict in the Mage's mind as she spoke. It was upsetting to see her this way, but he knew it was something that couldn't be helped. She was perhaps too kind for the world. Better than it deserved. "Syria, I would have intervened regardless of the bounty. It was a benefit we gained from it, and yes, it would have been nice if we could have gotten it without lives lost," said the Scholar, fixing her with a hard stare. "But the fact of the matter is, our family is not the reason I got involved in this. It's not the reason I went out there to save a crew of merchants. Even more would have died had I not intervened. Nobody in Thimeyra was around who would pay such a ransom. There were two ships in the port that were sufficiently armed to try a rescue, and one of those was damaged to the point it was unserviceable, ambushed by that same raider fleet, and nearly caught. So that leaves one ship. Against a fleet of five. The captain of Dunefox, the Valenhadian Interceptor that was damaged, told me recently that they would have been killed, or worse. I found out later that the raiders were also slavers."

It was a difficult image to cope with, knowing that there were people out there, Thimeyrans, Daavenians, Valenhadians and others, who had fallen to just such a fate by the hands of those raiders. Ones he wasn't around to save. "The only reason they hadn't sold off the merchant crew by the time I arrived was that they thought the trader may have a wealthy family willing to buy his freedom from them," he stated, downing the last of the tea in the cup and setting it down. "It is an unfortunate fact of the world we live in. Here, now... Elsewhere. You've already told me of your ventures with Andruil, so I'm sure you're aware it's elsewhere too. And Yuraelia was no different, if perhaps poisoned by other kinds of evil...and that was over eight millennia ago."

"What's this? Andruil? Yuraelia? Context please?" chirped Ceridwen, cocking her head.

"It's a long story. I'll explain later," said the Scholar with a sight. He noted Beshayir was quiet. He knew that behind it was her own tale of horrible cruelty, if one she didn't wish to speak of.

[C S]

The evils of war. The deranged in times of peace. There was no sense to it, none at all. How could entire nations recognize the sovereignty of one another, respect one another, lay down their lives for one another and still face such hurdles within and without their borders? Syria asked herself yet again, what could drive a soul to lash out against their fellow man, woman, child in such horrid depths of inhumanity? Yes she had seen it, yes she had opposed it vehemently; from Yuraelia to the trafficking of Bragnarks. She now lived in an age where a city like Brodudika could exist, yet that same pinnacle jewel of progress was sick with a hatred within it as well.

There were so many wonderful people she'd met in her travels, both alone and with Septimus, but many of them were fighters. Just, true and brave, but people whose convictions were spawned by the very existence of things the world would do better without. Syria wondered what would become of them if all evils were to disappear one day. Could they lay down their arms, or were they too conditioned to battle to carry on without a fight to win? Could captain Urlox put his sword down? Could Andruil? Could Septimus?

What of Morrelie?

What of Desrium?

Septimus spoke of facts of the world, and that reminded Syria of what Vixen had told her. But I can't stress this enough -- you need to be prepared to protect yourself and your family. Don't lower your guard... Up until you absolutely have to, give peace your best shot. Then if she gives you no other options, you give her hell.

What more did that woman had to endure that Syria did not know of? What twist of fate taught her this? And why?

"Septimus?" Syria's cheeks were wet, and she hadn't realized it until her voice cracked. "Septimus," she began, more steadily, "Do you believe there would ever be a time when peace will find Aster as a whole? Do you believe there will be a time when you won't have to kill a wrong-doer, so that they may heed mercy and turn their life around? Do you believe yet still, that a day will come where all people know better than to stoop to such wrongs?"



"I am feeling very alone in these beliefs. So very alone..."

[The Kingpin]

The Scholar gave the Mage's words several moments of thought, reflecting on her concerns before finally speaking. "It would be nice, to think that one day, all the evil, all the sadness, all the misery in the world would cease. To think that everyone in Leyuna could live happily with no fear of any bad ever befalling them. But the world is one of balance. Would we even understand the meaning, the value of peace, without strife?"

Ceridwen eyed the Scholar quizzically, her head tilting as she tried to make sense of what he was getting at.

"Every living creature in Leyuna seeks its own benefit. Its survival and success depend on other factors. Factors that may fall into the realm of things other than itself. Just as a dragon like myself must hunt and kill to survive, people must do the same. They will constantly strive for a greater share of what the world has to offer than their fellow people. Those raiders? That was their goal. They wanted wealth, power, happiness. Some of them were undoubtedly doing it because they had no other way. Thieves do what they do because sometimes an honest living is impossible for them. In so doing, they take the belongings of others. Sometimes violently," he explained, reaching to the tea pot and pouring another cup of tea for himself.

"Slavers do what they do because slaves are expensive. In many parts of Leyuna they are a commodity worth their weight in gold. So long as that fact remains, so will the practice. And in the long run they are cheaper than hiring someone and paying them, so slaving will never disappear, for as long as there is wealth and power," he explained, sipping his tea. For a brief moment, Beshayir made eye contact with the Scholar, breaking it immediately. He knew she was more experienced in the realities of the world than she let on, but he would not drag her into this. It would be unkind.

With a reluctant sigh, he continued. "Some kill because killing is easy. To end a life, for some, is easier than to toil in fields or trade in a market, or work as a servant to someone wealthier. It is power that many could never dream of having otherwise. So long as there is an appeal, it will happen." Glancing up from his cup to meet the Mage's gaze with his own, he continued, "And so long as it happens, I will stand ready to stop it. Perhaps one day I will become so powerful that I will be able to find ways to change their minds without violence. Perhaps it is why my father chose to become the psychomancer he is."

[C S]

Bar the musings of an immortal draconic warrior on how to best turn the unjust away from their unjust path, what Septimus told Syria was not anything she wasn't already aware of. His words did little to settle what she knew to be some smidgen of irrationality tucked away deep in her head. Lukewarm as it was, she recognized the attempt to bring clarity to such a muddled world. Syria had no lapse in the realities that plagued Leyuna. Where her qualms laid, where her rejection and revulsion was strongest, was the basis of all other vices of men. The unacceptable fact that things could be left so that coins had more value than the priceless worth of a sapient mind, and the life to develop those treasured thoughts.

Syria placed a hand on Ceridwen, a victim because of the incentive to do misdeeds. If that incentive wasn't a factor... if all of them weren't a factor... if by a combined virtue, reason denounced and dismantled the institutions, the despots that they were, that turned people against one another...

A lot of ifs, but the possibility was there, a taunting light behind a murky shroud pertaining to the passing of ages and rulers. As long as this promise remained unrealized, she could not accept this world as it was. It was just too much to ask of her.

"This world is one of balance," she stated, "one that would send lava down a mountainside to burn the village at the bottom, or bury it under mud or snow elsewhere. It is a world where human lives are finite things. Happiness and sorrow will come regardless of whether or not we are good to one another. I'm just asking to see the day when we just start--"

Syria sighed heavily. "It will come. All of these living nightmares... they are just steps towards that better day. Sometimes, it is frustrating being human."

[The Kingpin]

"Frustration comes regardless of race, Syria," stated the Scholar morosely. "But remember, while there are certainly terrible things in the world, there are also great things. Yes, slaving, theft and murder exist. But so does law, justice, the will to right the wrongs. You told me yourself that Andruil dismantled that slaving ring. We contributed to ending a good portion of the theft in this city by giving a home for the orphans that had to do it to survive. When the Elementals unleashed their wrath on the world, the Thunderbird aided me in stopping them!" explained the Scholar, a smile slowly reclaiming its place in his expression. "Yes, there is dark in the world. But there is also light. We cannot look at one without the other."

He decided not to mention his fears of the end of the Eternal War coming at the price of some horrible fate to come. Balance in all things was not always a pleasant concept. For great evil to have been halted in one place, there would have to be something equal that would arise elsewhere. He wondered if, perhaps in halting a concentration of great evil in one place, they had simply caused it to disperse across the rest of Leyuna.

Balance in all things. A sad fact, but an apt description.

[C S]

Syria wiped her tears away on her sleeve, and nodded. "In following the development of a work in progress, it is as much a detriment to focus on the flaws of that work as it is to be impatient for the finished piece. There is always something to commend at each step of the way," she replied, reaching out and taking Beshayir in her arms.

"In the case of this world of ours, I can see three shining examples from where I'm standing. Sitting. Same difference."

[The Kingpin]

The Scholar smiled at that. "Ever the optimist," he stated, brushing the tip of her chin with a curled finger, lifting it. "What do you all say we go do a bit of shopping?" he suggested as he looked between the three around him, finishing up his tea. The glimmer in Beshayir's eyes was enough to decide it before either Ceridwen or Syria could even voice their own opinions on the matter. It was time to buy some spices.


The hustle and bustle of the market was much as it had been the previous day, perhaps more so with the arrival of several traders in the two hours since their way to the city was cleared by the Scholar. Murmurs spread across the market between the traders as those who bore witness to the Son of Storms's victory told the tale, often embellishing the missing details as they saw fit. It was perhaps an unintended effect, as the more vengeful of the traders told tale of the dragon who obliterated a fleet, leaving only a few survivors to tell the tale. They were counteracted by the hostages freed by the Scholar himself, who, for the most part, told the story true.

The side effect of this was that in contrast to the previous day, merchants were clamouring for an opportunity to sell their wares to the Hueilin Emissary. He hadn't intended for it, but word had soon reached Antar that one of his closest allies was in the city, and a messenger was dispatched. "The Qa'id has asked for your presence, at your leisure, Qahir." That word, again. Conqueror. He did not like it. They meant well by it, but it wasn't something he wished to be known by.

Beshayir was also privy to the nickname, giving the Scholar a curious look. And there's why, he noted disappointedly. He was beginning to understand how Desrium felt. "Save one ship from some raiders and suddenly you're a legend. If only they could think of a more flattering title than 'Conqueror'," he noted with some amusement as he walked through the shaded market, the vast multi-coloured fabrics criss-crossing overhead lending themselves to the equally colourful wares on display. Fruit, vegetables, spices, nuts and textile products of every colour and hue stretched as far as the eye could see; the Thimeyran Bazaar that had reached mythic status in the East. 'The Merchant's Paradise', and 'Traveller's Dream', where anything you could ever desire could be found, for a price. Septimus noted that several new stalls had appeared since the previous day, these more utilitarian and mobile-looking than the clay and wood ones that were here normally. A Sahari Caravan had arrived in the city. And it was massive.

Their wares were foreign, even among the things sold in Thimeyra. Things that Septimus had seen as far as Niyera and Koganusan, indeed, even things that seemed vaguely like they may have been Tyrbenetan crafts, could be seen on display, for sale. Behind the booths, in the place of black skinned elves, were tanned men with thick beards, bound and decorated with trinkets and baubles of every sort. They wore turbans that were bound tightly to their heads, often decorated with pins and feathers or other things. The sight of them excited the young elf in Septimus's charge. "My mother used to take me into the market every time a caravan arrived. They always have something interesting," she noted.

"Why is everyone looking at me like I'm going to eat their wares?" chirped Ceridwen with a hint of distress.

"Probably because you sneezed so hard you sent their wares flying yesterday, Ceri," teased the Scholar.

"It's not like I did it intentionally!"

Septimus snorted at that. "It happened. That's all that matters to them."

[C S]

Syria resigned herself an introvert while floating along sidesaddle on her staff. She had her journal in her lap, and two quills drawn for sworn scribe duty. One quill, using one of the colored inks bought from Mish'al, drew in constrained squares that in of themselves, were complex lines winding in and out of each other in an imitation of vine illustration, the likes of which would be more common in a monastery manuscript toiled over by a devout monk. The quill in green light put to page with speed and skill what she saw in glancing up from her writing. The mage thought it to be a true and proper exercise of the things Septimus had taught her. Showing Ceridwen her memories were one thing but actively recording the things that came before her mind's eye was another feat in a league of its own.

Doing this, while writing her conscious words, only compounded the challenge. Syria felt that the time was long due for her to practice like this. It was a rewarding thing, and Septimus could hear her giggling despite the subject of her work. He also heard her huff and grumble in frustration where the juggling of mental faculty resulted in misspelled words, or a stray word that she didn't intend to write ending up in her recollection via script. Practice. Practice until she expanded her horizons to the point that her mind was as close to a Hueilin as humanly possible.

Like mother like daughter, in an unconventional sense.


In her writing, Syria questioned herself on how she reacted to Septimus' calling as a hero. There was a time when his frankness as a dragon took her aback, a casual acceptance of his actions that was offputting to her then. Now, as she had written, Syria could almost find it commendable. Sure, Septimus was prone to speaking a little out of turn because of his unique sense of boundaries, but who else could she claim to possess such honesty? To mention Desrium would be cheating -- the bond between resilient dragon scale and stalwart metal was a power great by itself. She couldn't hold herself to such a standard, not at all. Yet for that same reason, she could never get used to the idea of Septimus being forced to kill against his greatest desires not to. Each mention drilled straight to her core and let loose a dam of sadness she carried for the life that she lived, in spite of her many smiles and laughs.

"This did not have to happen."

"It happened regardless."

"We can all stop it from happening again."

This was her plea to the world, the one she would keep bound between the leather of her book.

[The Kingpin]

"Baba Ameen?!"

The exclamation took everyone off-guard as Beshayir literally bolted out from behind him, practically tackling an older looking elf sitting by a stall with such force he nearly fell off his stool. Septimus was left staring in confusion, Ceridwen was tilting her head, and Syria was given such a jolt that her quill had careened off the line it was writing, leaving an ugly slanting green streak on the page as it dropped into the middle of the book. The accompanying 'eep!' seemed to give voice to her surprise, though to say it was anything more than a 'voice' would be to overstate how collected her focus was on the sudden change of events.

"Beshayir! You're alive!" he exclaimed, the Thimeyran tongue almost disappearing into the noise of the crowds. Ceridwen craned her neck as she looked over Septimus's shoulder at what was happening, and the Scholar himself gave her and the Mage beside him the benefit of hearing them as he understood them.

"You look so well! Where did you go? Your grandmother and I were so worried!" exclaimed the man as he wrapped the girl in an embrace that seemed like it would crush her. The tears were streaming down his cheeks as joy swelled in his heart.

"Uncle Sufyan...turned me away," she explained hesitantly, the older elf releasing her somewhat so he could look her in the face. "After word of mother and father dying in the battle came I went to him...and he told me I was not welcome."

"That snake...I'll have him chained and hanging from the city walls by his ankles for that," snarled the older elf, his features contorting into a look that could only be described as vengeful. Confusion came across his features a moment later, however. "But...You look so well. Well dressed, a genuine Sahari wirshah! You look like you've spent a month in the palace! How have you managed this?" he asked.

"Septimus and Syria," she answered, turning to look at the Scholar and Mage. "They took me in a few months ago...They saved me. Fed me, dressed me, taught me...I can speak the language of the Easterners," she said with a smile, blinking the moisture out of her eyes, rubbing it away with her sleeve.

"Septimus...? You are the one who rescued Miflih, my friend who was captured by raiders! Thimeyra's alive with the tales of your deeds!" he said as he rose to his feet, reaching a hand forward, not for Septimus's own, but for his head instead, quite literally pulling the Scholar to plant a kiss on the dragon-in-disguise's forehead; something that caused Ceridwen to puff up, her head pulling back as she twittered in confusion. It was only after much insistence by Septimus that it was unnecessary that the elf released him, stepping back. "My name is Ameen Hifaadhi. I am Beshayir's grandfather," he said. Looking towards Syria and noting her appearance and outfit, he switched to a more familiar tongue. "Thank you so so much for taking care of my granddaughter," he stated, offering a hand to her for fear of offending her with the kind of hands-on gratitude that was common among Thimeyrans.

[C S]

Syria put her quill down to join the other and put a smile on her face, almost dazed by how quickly things had changed. Dazed. Jarred. The downside to a hyper-attentive mind: when the concentration was broken, the world seemed to spin just a little bit off-kilter, and not in the fun way. The cumulative effect of it had Syria looking especially ditzy as she took the older elf's hand and shook it just a bit too aggressively. Ditziness verging on dopiness. She reasoned that there were so many scratched out mistakes in her journal entry that the smear wasn't something to get worked up over. It just added character and flavor to what was shaping up to be a very eventful day.

"Hifaadhi, not Hakeemi," Syria mused when she came around to grasping what was happening, and realizing that she looked like she was trying to take the poor grandfather's arm off. "Ah, I need no thanks, mister... um... Qahir?"

[The Kingpin]

"Qahir?" asked the man confusedly, before a look of realisation struck him. "Oh, no no. I'm Ameen. Ameen Hifaadhi. Your uuh..." he started, gesturing to the Scholar, whose hand was now resting on the Mage's shoulder, giving her a supportive squeeze.

"Husband," he said with a smile, repeating the word in Thimeyran when the elf's expression contorted into a look of uncertainty.

"Husband! Your husband is nicknamed the Qahir. For his victory against the raiders," explained Ameen, lingering for a moment as he pondered the technicalities of a dragon-human relationship, giving the Scholar a momentary look of curiosity, before dismissing the thought. Dragon or not, it was clear he could assume the form of an elf. Curious magic, but magic was always curious. It was futile to question it.

[C S]

"Mister Hifaadhi," Syria corrected herself as she eased her gesture, her other hand coming to rest on his hand and squeezing in an apologetic manner."Mister Ameen... Grandfather... Baba... Baba Hifaadhi..."

The mage hummed in contemplating the language. She thought she was using the right word here, if Beshayir's greeting was any indication. She shook her head, clearing the last of her magical fog.

"You mentioned that Beshayir's uncle turned her away." Syria's expression was neutral as she spoke, but something in her churned when she remembered how the young elf looked when she and Septimus first saw her in the food court. Something she couldn't rightly describe.

"Why?" Syria wondered.

[The Kingpin]

"Knowing what I know now, it was probably so that he could claim her inheritance. Without anyone to claim it, it would go to the nearest living relative of her father. So her uncle."

"No..." The Scholar gritted his teeth, his eyes narrowing somewhat. "So he would condemn his niece to death for the sake of wealth?"

"I never did like him. His brother was a good man, but he...His actions were always questionable. I never thought him capable of such cruelty, though. He is even more of a coward than I ever imagined." As the older elf spoke, Beshayir clung to him, squeezing him uncomfortably. She did not like where the conversation was going, unpleasant memories she had done well to bury resurfacing. And with it, the pain, the feelings of betrayal, of neglect, the thoughts that she was unwanted. Sensing her discomfort, Ameen pulled her to his chest, planting a small kiss on the girl's head.

[C S]

"And Beshayir couldn't stay with you and her grandmother?" Syria continued down the logical train of thought. Obviously not. That left only one question to ask. "Why?" she repeated.

[The Kingpin]

"Because we were not here. The life of a merchant is one of constant travel. Her grandmother and I are part of a Sahari Caravan. The one that arrived last night, no less," explained the old elf.

"Couldn't she have...I don't know, stayed with someone else? One of your other children?" chirped Ceridwen, her head tilting as she voiced her thoughts for the first time.

"Her mother, Imneera was an only child. There was no one else for her to go to. And as you may have gathered, her father's family... They are not good people. She had been staying with her aunt before her parents died, but the story we were given was that she vanished mere weeks after the battle. I suspect she moved to some other place... One of the Valenhadian cities, perhaps. And now I learn that Beshayir was turned away by her uncle."

"Knowing this, I can't help but think this was the plan all along," stated the Scholar, his hands balled into fists, nails digging into his palms.

"It seems so. Abandonment of a child is a serious crime. I wish I had known sooner. I wish Beshayir was aware," stated the old elf. "But no matter. If I am to be honest, I would rather we learn of his treachery openly like this, than to have had Beshayir let into their home and suffer in silence. That does not change the fact that Sufyan must be brought to justice."

[C S]

"But why!?" Syria clamored. She squeezed a little too hard on Ameen's hand in so doing. "What kind of wealth did these people stand to gain by--" Letting Beshayir starve on the street was what she wanted to say, but the words dissipated into the nethers of her mind and conscience when she looked down at the elf. Sorrow of a magnitude she had not felt in years was threatening to send her into hysterics, harkening right back to Septimus' explanation of all manner of cruelties being tied to some selfish gain for those sick enough to commit them. Syria's hands squeezed tighter as her vision blurred with welling tears.