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13th of August in the Year 765 of the Millennium of Flame
Midnight
The walls groaned as the violent pounding shook them to their foundations. Screams and wild yelling could be heard above the din of the pounding, and smoke was thick in the air. With a thunderous crack a portion of the roof caved in, letting in the dancing light of a village on fire. But for all the commotion and mayhem outside, within the dark hall it was as silent as a tomb.
Chief Boson de Namur sat with his face in his hands. The end was nigh, not just of his rule but of his tribe. Of his people. Of their way of life. He had known the ambitions of the Samrat would never permit Færeyar to escape conquest, but Boson had hoped to favorably influence the terms of his oath of fealty. Not even a month ago his emissaries had brought back promising news, suggesting the wedge he had driven between Costanzo Ardu, the Maharaja of Arduen, and Hélie de Crecy, the Raja of Crecyony, might encourage Costanzo to grant Boson control of the duchy of Crecyony to spite Hélie once Boson swore him and the Samrat fealty. He had met with the Samrat himself and parted on friendly terms. He had organized and executed a daring raid of Iona to bolster an illusion of strength. He had even spread rumors of plague afflicting Færeyar to buy time.
And all of it had been for nothing.
Chief Boson de Namur
On the 1st of August they had spotted the first ships. Bérenger, the chancellor of Crecyony, had come in command of five hundred men to force Boson to surrender. Of course, both men knew the Færeyar Tribe could muster nearly twice that, but rather than underestimate his opponent Boson decided to err on the side of caution. He gave Bérenger the run-around as he strengthened his defenses, promising to meet with him each day yet unfortunately never finding the time between his official duties or conversing informally but oh-so-frustratingly being interrupted before getting to anything important. Bérenger never complained, even after ten days of such treatment, and finally Boson began to suspect it was actually he who was being given the run-around.
He had caught on too late.
Though a man of modest capabilities, Bérenger's humility ensured he never overplayed his hand or assumed victory in a negotiation before it was already certain
When he at last met with Bérenger, the man explained that Settimio, chancellor of Arduen, had been authorized to either accept Boson’s oath of loyalty or take Færeyar by force. The whole time Bérenger had been waiting for an audience, Settimio had been gathering his liege’s forces. He could show up any day now. The chancellor of Arduen was well-known to be a deceitful, paranoid rogue who favored direct conflict but underhanded tactics: as Bérenger pointed out, if Boson had not surrendered by the time Settimio arrived there would be no further negotiating.
Boson had promised a reply on the morrow and spent a sleepless night trying to figure out a way to turn things to his advantage. If he gave in to Bérenger, he would be forced to swear fealty to Hélie de Crecy and give up his bid for the duchy. If he did not, Settimio would come and crush him. There was a chance Bérenger was bluffing, of course, but Boson did not think so. The man was too unassuming, too mild-mannered for bluffs and gambits. Besides, what need was there to bluff when he held all the cards?
The vassals of the Khottigidian Empire, which spans the Isles but for the Rudradevidian Raj on the southern tip (in brown) and isolated little Færeyar alone far to the north
The choice between submission and death might seem simple: survive now, take it all back later. But the issue was more complicated than that. After all, Færeyar was the last stronghold of the Fæ: magical beings that had walked the earth millennia ago. The entirety of what was now the Khottigidian Empire (and according to some sources, so much more) had once belonged to them. However, the Fæ had long since vanished, and very few bloodlines could trace all the way back to Færie relatives. Since the rise of the Khottigids, and especially after the bloody conquest of Arduen, so-called “Fairy” culture was in the final stages of being ruthlessly stamped out. Boson’s line, the de Namurs, was the last on Earth with pure Færie blood in it. And upon the untimely demise of his cousin Bruly, Boson and his sons were the last living de Namurs. Could he truly submit, knowing he would be signing off on the very same forcible assimilation that was happening in Hélie de Crecy’s domain at that very moment? Was a noble end to the blood of the Fæ not preferable?
The Cultures of the Khottigidian Empire, Gwyneddian being the dominant one
The last holdouts of a once vast culture
It turned out the choice would be made for him.
On August 12th, the day he was to announce his decision to Bérenger, Settimio’s ships were spotted on the horizon. Bérenger returned to his own fleet to meet with Settimio and prepare his troops for a landing. Boson had mobilized his men to defend the shore at all costs. It would be a fight to the death after all, and Boson was determined to make it one the armies of Arduen would never forget.
By nightfall Settimio owned the shore and was pushing into the village. For all of Boson’s traps and tricks, all of the fighting spirit of the citizens of Færeyar, in the end sheer manpower was winning out. While Boson’s forces were double Bérenger’s, Settimio and Bérenger’s forces combined easily doubled Boson’s. Hundreds had been cut down as the invaders pushed inexorably into the village, and once the enemy made it there the slaughter had really begun. Women and children died by the dozens as the soldiers of Arduen swarmed into their homes with rape, pillage, and murder at the forefront of the invaders’ minds. Boson witnessed his own sons perish, each fighting valiantly to their last breaths. Ultimately Boson had taken his best surviving soldiers and barricaded himself in his main hall for a final stand. The building, made of stone, was the only one that would not burn when Settimio’s forces set the village ablaze.
So here Boson sat, awaiting his death. He would be the last of the de Namurs, the last of the Fæ, and the last free chieftain of Færeyar.
Place Your Bets
The door splintered, folding inwards but just barely managing to stay on its hinges. One more barrage and the enemy would be through. Faces could now be spotted through the cracks, battle-mad and bloodthirsty. The walls quivered again, and an avalanche of debris poured down as more of the roof collapsed.
Boson rose to his feet. “Men, you know fancy words have never been my strong suit: I say it like it is. We’re all going to die here. But I want you to—”
Before he could tell them what an honor it would be to die alongside them, or how glorious their end was going to be, or whatever other platitude he had planned to espouse, the door burst inwards with a mighty BOOM and the soldiers of Arduen charged into the hall. Roaring like demons, the enemy soldiers leapt over fallen roofing to engage Boson and his paltry force of seventeen. The doomed chief’s warriors raised their weapons in grim resignation; after all, their chieftain’s motivational speech had just amounted to telling them there was no hope. Boson hefted his ancestral sword, an ancient weapon time had not been kind to, and as the two sides collided he bellowed out what he presumed would be his final words:
“For Færeyar! FOR THE FÆ!”
The blade was made of a metal that did not rust or shatter, but time and use had worn the edges down all the same
His men were falling quickly, taking one or two enemy soldiers with them but making no difference overall. Louis, Champion of Færeyar since winning the Færeyar Games, was holding his own, but in the blink of an eye Boson’s seventeen soldiers had become seven. The chieftain leapt forward to meet his first foe, catching the man off-balance and thrusting the de Namur Blade up into his chest cavity from below the ribcage. The next man to face him tried to bludgeon him to death with the broken haft of an axe, but while he got one good blow in Boson managed to pull his sword free just in time to deflect the second attack. Before the chieftain could riposte, however, another soldier rammed into him, stabbing a dagger into his thigh. Boson went down, the de Namur Blade skittering out of reach, and his foe’s dagger flashed in the light of the purple lightning as it was raised overhead to be plunged into his heart.
Boson blinked. Purple lightning?
Only then did he notice the nauseating purple smog with crackling lightning flickering through its murky expanse as it swept into the building through the holes in the roof. All of a sudden everyone was choking, rubbing their eyes, and groping for the exit. Boson had the wherewithal to seize his enemy’s weapon hand and thrust it downwards so the man’s own dagger pierced its owner's right eye, but then Boson too was overwhelmed by the noxious, blinding cloud. A strand of lightning struck him in the back, setting his hair on end and his body to spasming. He lost his footing and flopped uncontrollably on the floor like a fish out of water. His jaw locked up and his stomach churned like the sea in a storm. When his jitters finally subsided Boson got a brief respite and, believing the worst was over, attempted to stand.
Abruptly the screaming started, and Boson’s own agonized cry soon joined the chorus. His very bones felt as though they had been set on fire. Curling into a ball, Boson tried in vain to find some way to make the pain go away. His fingernails scraped against the floor, clawing for a nonexistent escape. He began to weep, and blood mixed with the tears to leave little red tracks through the grime and war paint on his face.
Anguish! Pure, breathtaking torment filled his entire body. The only thing that could compete with his suffering was his fear: before his very eyes his hands were warping, his legs crunching into shorter versions of themselves and his ribs condensing as though they intended to squeeze his innards until they burst. It came to the point that Boson could scream no more, his raw throat suffocating any sound he attempted to make. He wished he could black out, but it seemed like the very pain he wished to escape from kept his senses cruelly alert.
Finally the fog bank of arcane energy dissipated, continuing its fell journey through the night. After a minute or two the shrieks of pain that had engulfed all of Færeyar dwindled, the crashing waves on the rocky shore once more dominating the symphony of the night. Louis, Champion of Færeyar, climbed out from behind the broken table he had fallen through during the battle and peered around him with terrified eyes. All across the floor bodies stirred, twitching and writhing, but he seemed the only one able to stand.
Everyone else was adjusting to their new physiques.
Boson stared at his hands, small and unscarred. The clothes he had been wearing felt gigantic, like he had wrapped an entire sail around his torso instead of a simple shirt. The snap of wood under a boot drew him out of his reverie, and in astonishment he looked up at Louis as the man approached him. Had Louis always been so tall?
“Chief… Chief Boson?” Louis stammered.
A New Look for the Old Chieftain
“What happ—” Boson began, but at the sound of his new voice he clamped his hands over his mouth. He tried again, muttering some random syllables. He sounded prepubescent! He sat up, shrugging out of the ridiculously overlarge shirt. Louis watched him, his mouth agape. Somehow the expression on his Champion’s face irked Boson immensely. “Louis! What happened?”
“I-I-I,” Louis stuttered, clearly at a loss for words.
Boson looked around. Everyone other than Louis and two soldiers from Arduen had been transformed into children. The newly-young boys were getting up, struggling out of suddenly too-heavy pieces of armor or comically enormous clothing. They looked around in utter confusion, goggle-eyed and gaping. Their ages varied from toddlers to preteens, and Boson even spotted some infants here and there. None of them seemed to have any idea of what had happened.
“Louis! The soldiers!” Boson hissed, reaching for the dagger he had thrust into his enemy’s eye. He noticed the corpses were unchanged; all of the still bodies surrounding them remained fully grown. The dagger was firmly stuck, forcing Boson to try to jiggle it loose with all the strength his young arms could muster. The blade finally popped free of the socket with a harsh scraping sound, and the eye came with it. Boson waved the dagger until the eyeball slid off, landing with a wet plop at his feet. He looked up.
Everyone was staring at him.
“Louis!” Boson shouted, and the Champion stirred. He turned to look at the enemy soldiers, who returned his gaze with uncomprehending looks of their own. However, when Louis raised his war axe they seemed to take the hint. Both men dove for their own weapons, unwittingly relinquished in the shock of the moment, but it was far too late. Louis cleaved one’s head in with his axe while Boson leapt on the back of the other, stabbing his borrowed dagger again and again into the man’s throat. The two soldiers from Arduen crumpled to the floor, their blood pooling out around them amid the dirt and debris.
The children started screaming. The babies started crying. Toddlers wet themselves. Every one of the newly-young boys near Louis or Boson tried to crawl away from the two murderers, shock and terror written plainly on their faces. Boson wiped a smear of blood from his eye and glared at them. Just because they had been turned into children didn’t mean they had to act like it.
“What do we do?” Louis asked.
“What do you mean? They’re still the enemy!” Boson responded, advancing on the nearest enemy soldier. The enemy keeled over, his toddler legs too uncoordinated to carry him to safety. “If I have my wits, they have theirs. Kill them, Louis! Kill them all!”
Louis hesitated only a moment, for though he had serious reservations about killing children his chieftain’s logic made hideous sense. Axe and dagger went to work, slashing and stabbing their way through the ranks of wailing children. If they could not tell the target was from Færeyar beyond a shadow of a doubt, whether by clothing or by war paint, then the target was cut down. By the end of the grim business only Boson and four other children remained.
“And now, Chief Boson?” Louis panted, somewhat winded from chasing the final squealing ten-year-old around the room. He had a queasy look on his face and his eyes were disturbingly wide open.
“Now we continue our work outside,” Boson whispered, his throat tight and his heart pounding painfully in his chest. He glanced at the four boys they had saved. The boys huddled together, cowering away from him and crying pitifully. Boson bit his lip. “For Færeyar. For the Fæ.”
GAMES OF DEATH IN THE COURT OF THE FÆ
13th of August in the Year 765 of the Millennium of Flame
Midnight
The walls groaned as the violent pounding shook them to their foundations. Screams and wild yelling could be heard above the din of the pounding, and smoke was thick in the air. With a thunderous crack a portion of the roof caved in, letting in the dancing light of a village on fire. But for all the commotion and mayhem outside, within the dark hall it was as silent as a tomb.
Chief Boson de Namur sat with his face in his hands. The end was nigh, not just of his rule but of his tribe. Of his people. Of their way of life. He had known the ambitions of the Samrat would never permit Færeyar to escape conquest, but Boson had hoped to favorably influence the terms of his oath of fealty. Not even a month ago his emissaries had brought back promising news, suggesting the wedge he had driven between Costanzo Ardu, the Maharaja of Arduen, and Hélie de Crecy, the Raja of Crecyony, might encourage Costanzo to grant Boson control of the duchy of Crecyony to spite Hélie once Boson swore him and the Samrat fealty. He had met with the Samrat himself and parted on friendly terms. He had organized and executed a daring raid of Iona to bolster an illusion of strength. He had even spread rumors of plague afflicting Færeyar to buy time.
And all of it had been for nothing.
Chief Boson de Namur
On the 1st of August they had spotted the first ships. Bérenger, the chancellor of Crecyony, had come in command of five hundred men to force Boson to surrender. Of course, both men knew the Færeyar Tribe could muster nearly twice that, but rather than underestimate his opponent Boson decided to err on the side of caution. He gave Bérenger the run-around as he strengthened his defenses, promising to meet with him each day yet unfortunately never finding the time between his official duties or conversing informally but oh-so-frustratingly being interrupted before getting to anything important. Bérenger never complained, even after ten days of such treatment, and finally Boson began to suspect it was actually he who was being given the run-around.
He had caught on too late.
Though a man of modest capabilities, Bérenger's humility ensured he never overplayed his hand or assumed victory in a negotiation before it was already certain
When he at last met with Bérenger, the man explained that Settimio, chancellor of Arduen, had been authorized to either accept Boson’s oath of loyalty or take Færeyar by force. The whole time Bérenger had been waiting for an audience, Settimio had been gathering his liege’s forces. He could show up any day now. The chancellor of Arduen was well-known to be a deceitful, paranoid rogue who favored direct conflict but underhanded tactics: as Bérenger pointed out, if Boson had not surrendered by the time Settimio arrived there would be no further negotiating.
Boson had promised a reply on the morrow and spent a sleepless night trying to figure out a way to turn things to his advantage. If he gave in to Bérenger, he would be forced to swear fealty to Hélie de Crecy and give up his bid for the duchy. If he did not, Settimio would come and crush him. There was a chance Bérenger was bluffing, of course, but Boson did not think so. The man was too unassuming, too mild-mannered for bluffs and gambits. Besides, what need was there to bluff when he held all the cards?
The vassals of the Khottigidian Empire, which spans the Isles but for the Rudradevidian Raj on the southern tip (in brown) and isolated little Færeyar alone far to the north
The choice between submission and death might seem simple: survive now, take it all back later. But the issue was more complicated than that. After all, Færeyar was the last stronghold of the Fæ: magical beings that had walked the earth millennia ago. The entirety of what was now the Khottigidian Empire (and according to some sources, so much more) had once belonged to them. However, the Fæ had long since vanished, and very few bloodlines could trace all the way back to Færie relatives. Since the rise of the Khottigids, and especially after the bloody conquest of Arduen, so-called “Fairy” culture was in the final stages of being ruthlessly stamped out. Boson’s line, the de Namurs, was the last on Earth with pure Færie blood in it. And upon the untimely demise of his cousin Bruly, Boson and his sons were the last living de Namurs. Could he truly submit, knowing he would be signing off on the very same forcible assimilation that was happening in Hélie de Crecy’s domain at that very moment? Was a noble end to the blood of the Fæ not preferable?
The Cultures of the Khottigidian Empire, Gwyneddian being the dominant one
The last holdouts of a once vast culture
It turned out the choice would be made for him.
On August 12th, the day he was to announce his decision to Bérenger, Settimio’s ships were spotted on the horizon. Bérenger returned to his own fleet to meet with Settimio and prepare his troops for a landing. Boson had mobilized his men to defend the shore at all costs. It would be a fight to the death after all, and Boson was determined to make it one the armies of Arduen would never forget.
By nightfall Settimio owned the shore and was pushing into the village. For all of Boson’s traps and tricks, all of the fighting spirit of the citizens of Færeyar, in the end sheer manpower was winning out. While Boson’s forces were double Bérenger’s, Settimio and Bérenger’s forces combined easily doubled Boson’s. Hundreds had been cut down as the invaders pushed inexorably into the village, and once the enemy made it there the slaughter had really begun. Women and children died by the dozens as the soldiers of Arduen swarmed into their homes with rape, pillage, and murder at the forefront of the invaders’ minds. Boson witnessed his own sons perish, each fighting valiantly to their last breaths. Ultimately Boson had taken his best surviving soldiers and barricaded himself in his main hall for a final stand. The building, made of stone, was the only one that would not burn when Settimio’s forces set the village ablaze.
So here Boson sat, awaiting his death. He would be the last of the de Namurs, the last of the Fæ, and the last free chieftain of Færeyar.
Place Your Bets
The door splintered, folding inwards but just barely managing to stay on its hinges. One more barrage and the enemy would be through. Faces could now be spotted through the cracks, battle-mad and bloodthirsty. The walls quivered again, and an avalanche of debris poured down as more of the roof collapsed.
Boson rose to his feet. “Men, you know fancy words have never been my strong suit: I say it like it is. We’re all going to die here. But I want you to—”
Before he could tell them what an honor it would be to die alongside them, or how glorious their end was going to be, or whatever other platitude he had planned to espouse, the door burst inwards with a mighty BOOM and the soldiers of Arduen charged into the hall. Roaring like demons, the enemy soldiers leapt over fallen roofing to engage Boson and his paltry force of seventeen. The doomed chief’s warriors raised their weapons in grim resignation; after all, their chieftain’s motivational speech had just amounted to telling them there was no hope. Boson hefted his ancestral sword, an ancient weapon time had not been kind to, and as the two sides collided he bellowed out what he presumed would be his final words:
“For Færeyar! FOR THE FÆ!”
The blade was made of a metal that did not rust or shatter, but time and use had worn the edges down all the same
His men were falling quickly, taking one or two enemy soldiers with them but making no difference overall. Louis, Champion of Færeyar since winning the Færeyar Games, was holding his own, but in the blink of an eye Boson’s seventeen soldiers had become seven. The chieftain leapt forward to meet his first foe, catching the man off-balance and thrusting the de Namur Blade up into his chest cavity from below the ribcage. The next man to face him tried to bludgeon him to death with the broken haft of an axe, but while he got one good blow in Boson managed to pull his sword free just in time to deflect the second attack. Before the chieftain could riposte, however, another soldier rammed into him, stabbing a dagger into his thigh. Boson went down, the de Namur Blade skittering out of reach, and his foe’s dagger flashed in the light of the purple lightning as it was raised overhead to be plunged into his heart.
Boson blinked. Purple lightning?
Only then did he notice the nauseating purple smog with crackling lightning flickering through its murky expanse as it swept into the building through the holes in the roof. All of a sudden everyone was choking, rubbing their eyes, and groping for the exit. Boson had the wherewithal to seize his enemy’s weapon hand and thrust it downwards so the man’s own dagger pierced its owner's right eye, but then Boson too was overwhelmed by the noxious, blinding cloud. A strand of lightning struck him in the back, setting his hair on end and his body to spasming. He lost his footing and flopped uncontrollably on the floor like a fish out of water. His jaw locked up and his stomach churned like the sea in a storm. When his jitters finally subsided Boson got a brief respite and, believing the worst was over, attempted to stand.
Abruptly the screaming started, and Boson’s own agonized cry soon joined the chorus. His very bones felt as though they had been set on fire. Curling into a ball, Boson tried in vain to find some way to make the pain go away. His fingernails scraped against the floor, clawing for a nonexistent escape. He began to weep, and blood mixed with the tears to leave little red tracks through the grime and war paint on his face.
Anguish! Pure, breathtaking torment filled his entire body. The only thing that could compete with his suffering was his fear: before his very eyes his hands were warping, his legs crunching into shorter versions of themselves and his ribs condensing as though they intended to squeeze his innards until they burst. It came to the point that Boson could scream no more, his raw throat suffocating any sound he attempted to make. He wished he could black out, but it seemed like the very pain he wished to escape from kept his senses cruelly alert.
Finally the fog bank of arcane energy dissipated, continuing its fell journey through the night. After a minute or two the shrieks of pain that had engulfed all of Færeyar dwindled, the crashing waves on the rocky shore once more dominating the symphony of the night. Louis, Champion of Færeyar, climbed out from behind the broken table he had fallen through during the battle and peered around him with terrified eyes. All across the floor bodies stirred, twitching and writhing, but he seemed the only one able to stand.
Everyone else was adjusting to their new physiques.
Boson stared at his hands, small and unscarred. The clothes he had been wearing felt gigantic, like he had wrapped an entire sail around his torso instead of a simple shirt. The snap of wood under a boot drew him out of his reverie, and in astonishment he looked up at Louis as the man approached him. Had Louis always been so tall?
“Chief… Chief Boson?” Louis stammered.
A New Look for the Old Chieftain
“What happ—” Boson began, but at the sound of his new voice he clamped his hands over his mouth. He tried again, muttering some random syllables. He sounded prepubescent! He sat up, shrugging out of the ridiculously overlarge shirt. Louis watched him, his mouth agape. Somehow the expression on his Champion’s face irked Boson immensely. “Louis! What happened?”
“I-I-I,” Louis stuttered, clearly at a loss for words.
Boson looked around. Everyone other than Louis and two soldiers from Arduen had been transformed into children. The newly-young boys were getting up, struggling out of suddenly too-heavy pieces of armor or comically enormous clothing. They looked around in utter confusion, goggle-eyed and gaping. Their ages varied from toddlers to preteens, and Boson even spotted some infants here and there. None of them seemed to have any idea of what had happened.
“Louis! The soldiers!” Boson hissed, reaching for the dagger he had thrust into his enemy’s eye. He noticed the corpses were unchanged; all of the still bodies surrounding them remained fully grown. The dagger was firmly stuck, forcing Boson to try to jiggle it loose with all the strength his young arms could muster. The blade finally popped free of the socket with a harsh scraping sound, and the eye came with it. Boson waved the dagger until the eyeball slid off, landing with a wet plop at his feet. He looked up.
Everyone was staring at him.
“Louis!” Boson shouted, and the Champion stirred. He turned to look at the enemy soldiers, who returned his gaze with uncomprehending looks of their own. However, when Louis raised his war axe they seemed to take the hint. Both men dove for their own weapons, unwittingly relinquished in the shock of the moment, but it was far too late. Louis cleaved one’s head in with his axe while Boson leapt on the back of the other, stabbing his borrowed dagger again and again into the man’s throat. The two soldiers from Arduen crumpled to the floor, their blood pooling out around them amid the dirt and debris.
The children started screaming. The babies started crying. Toddlers wet themselves. Every one of the newly-young boys near Louis or Boson tried to crawl away from the two murderers, shock and terror written plainly on their faces. Boson wiped a smear of blood from his eye and glared at them. Just because they had been turned into children didn’t mean they had to act like it.
“What do we do?” Louis asked.
“What do you mean? They’re still the enemy!” Boson responded, advancing on the nearest enemy soldier. The enemy keeled over, his toddler legs too uncoordinated to carry him to safety. “If I have my wits, they have theirs. Kill them, Louis! Kill them all!”
Louis hesitated only a moment, for though he had serious reservations about killing children his chieftain’s logic made hideous sense. Axe and dagger went to work, slashing and stabbing their way through the ranks of wailing children. If they could not tell the target was from Færeyar beyond a shadow of a doubt, whether by clothing or by war paint, then the target was cut down. By the end of the grim business only Boson and four other children remained.
“And now, Chief Boson?” Louis panted, somewhat winded from chasing the final squealing ten-year-old around the room. He had a queasy look on his face and his eyes were disturbingly wide open.
“Now we continue our work outside,” Boson whispered, his throat tight and his heart pounding painfully in his chest. He glanced at the four boys they had saved. The boys huddled together, cowering away from him and crying pitifully. Boson bit his lip. “For Færeyar. For the Fæ.”