Beyond Chaos – A DiceRPG
[1261] – Y06.161 – Old Man I

“Thank you again for hosting us,” Adam said, bowing his head towards Mother Crescent, who smiled warmly towards the half elf, holding his hand within her own, clasping over the back and front tenderly.

“Mother of Moons bless you, Adam.”

“I was informed that silver is rather important to the Order, so next time we swing by, I’ll make sure to bring a chest of silver, and also, I hope you’ll accept the silvered weapons, and perhaps other donations,” Adam replied, winking at the woman, a mischievous smile encroaching across his face.

“We will not refuse donations for the Lady,” the woman replied, before allowing him to leave, the group having allowed Adam a moment, only after he promised not to cause trouble. She stood at the top of the gate and watched the carriages whirl away, heading eastern, further into Central Aswadasad. As the carriages disappeared through the hills, she sighed. ‘There is no need for you to rush upon your return.’

The group passed by the outpost, which hailed them from nearby, though as they approached, Dunes stepped forward, proudly adorned within his vestments. After a short moment, and after slipping a band of gold, the soldiers in chain saluted the group and allowed them to continue.

It was during a break, as the group settled upon the top of a hill, that Jurot approached the half elf, holding out his cup, which Adam magicked to taste like the mango juice from his first life.

“You cannot allow that to happen again.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry.”

“You must endure. Once we return home, we may plot our vengeance.”

“Yeah, sorry. It won’t happen again.” Adam flushed a deep red, the shame filling his heart.

“Okay,” Jurot said, patting his brother upon his shoulder gently. “It was a good fight. We should have allowed you to beat their New Moon, but if you had…”

“That’s just how it is,” Adam replied, shrugging his shoulders. “Once the United Kindom becomes a bigger player, we can consider it. A few Basic weapons here, and few Basic weapons there, and we’ll see. You know, buying loyalties is much cheaper than most people realise. A hundred gold goes a long way.”

Jurot hadn’t expected the half elf to speak so openly about it, though seeing his brother’s expression, he realised Adam was joking. Mostly.

As they prepared to leave once more, Dunes stepping into the carriage, he paused, smiling at Jurot. The pair exchanged a bow of their heads, and Dunes entered, allowing Jurot to finish wrapping the spear in the scarf, before he stepped within the carriage and they continued.

The group approached the village, set among the hills, the wooden walls of the village spreading far, with several layers of walls emanating out from the village proper, the largest fencing in the tens of thousands of goats, and the large hill farms, where thousands of Aswadians spread about, as small as ants upon the horizon. As they followed the road towards the top of the hill, they spotted various Aswadians at the gates, many adorned in scale, holding spears in hand, large shields, suspicious eyes glaring through their helmets, the tails of their scarves ruffling in the wind.

As Dunes stepped out, the Aswadians quickly mumbled between one another, and an older woman appeared, adorned in a loose scale cuirass, a small blade at her side, and a walking stick that had been tempered by beating young troublemakers. Her skin was dark, a bronze weathered by time, the sun, and time under the sun, her dark eyes glaring brightly, though softening as Dunes approached, leading the large group towards them. Her silver hair peeked through her scarf, a deep red, like that of fresh blood.

“Mo, of Black Mountain,” her voice called, strained and low, though filled with delight.

“Rais,” Dunes replied.

“Aryashukhur, what brings you this way?”

“I am returning to Black Mountain,” Dunes informed, bowing his head lightly, allowing the old woman to press upon his head gently. “Is there trouble?”

“No trouble, no trouble, Aryashukhur,” the woman replied, reaching up to her heart.

“Have you seen the Reavers?”

The woman shook her head, reaching up to her scarf, fiddling with it lightly. “Aryashukhur, Noorshukhur, we are blessed. How can they come, when the Order is to our west, the dragon to our east, the sun to the north, duty to our south?”

“Aryashukhur,” Dunes stated, before allowing Kitool to hand over the spear within the scarf.

The Rais smiled brightly, accepting the spear within the scarf, and a few of those who had come to guard the gate stepped away to their duties once more, while the Rais blessed Kitool, praying for the young woman, before finally inviting them within.

“Aryashukhur, the Iyr still follows our old ways,” the Rais said, the woman leading them in, passing by the large gardens and longhouses, each two stories tall, formed of wood, with banner and tapestries hanging under the sun, many bleached by time, others freshly formed. A handful of goats lazed about under the shade, eyeing up the visitors. “You must tell them, we cannot accept gold.”

“What about silver,” Adam whispered into Dunes’ ears.

“Aunt, we must spend our gold and silver, it is too heavy to carry,” Dunes said.

The Rais raised her brows, but glanced aside to the rest of those around her, noting the greedy gazes within the youngsters. “How can we accept? The sun sees all, and we have accepted the scarf and spear.”

“We will stay for one night, for we must rush to the Order, but we will need guides, three, four, five, however many you can spare,” Dunes said, raising his brows towards the woman. “If you can, guards too, any who can ride horses to keep up with our carriages, for we will pass to the next village in one day.”

“I can find them, it is no problem, nephew,” the woman assured, smiling warmly towards the young Brother, who hadn’t spent too much time in Aldland, thankfully. “Oiya! Clear the houses! One for the men, one for the women. Tell Bakar, and someone find a fat goat. Betta, my betta, where is Afraz?”

“Afraz is asleep, aunt.”

“Tell the bastara to wake up, we have guests,” she snapped, reaching up to her forehead, for of course he was asleep, for he hadn’t been at the gate.

The groups settled themselves within the longhouses, the men in one, the women in the other, though they all spent their time outside, with the rest of the villagers. Kizwolima remained beside the half elf, holding his hand.

“He must be a sea elf,” one whispered to the other.

“You think that’s his child?”

“It must be. You know how it works with mermen.”

“I don’t.”

“Aye, we don’t, but it is how it is,” the young man said, and the young woman nodded.

“What is that smell?” Adam asked, reaching down to his stomach, smelling the spices hanging so heavily upon the air, already causing his stomach to growl so eagerly.

“I think it’s bazur?” Dunes replied. “It’s available near the forests beside the seas.”

“Whatever it is, I’m drooling,” Adam whispered, and he spotted Kizwolima wiping her mouth. “Any chance we could pay for some fruit and vegetables.”

“It’ll be difficult to hand any silver or gold now, since we’re under their hospitality,” Dunes said, though he stood, approaching someone, who apologised profusely to the Brother, while Dunes tried to ease their worries. “Cousin, if you can find someone to join us tomorrow to the next village.”

The villager smiled, nodding his head, before slipping away to find some fruits and vegetables to cut. Adam spotted a great many villagers around, though most passed on by, returning back to their work quickly, tending their fields, their goats, their tailoring, their cleaning, and all the other chores that were required of the time.

“Ramizash makes his home nearby,” Dunes said, motioning his head towards the east. “Where the rivers meet.”

“Ramizash?”

“A red dragon.”

“Oh,” Adam said, rather alarmed, though furrowed his brows. “Are they a nice dragon?”

“Ramizash has been an ally of old,” Dunes replied. “The villages nearby pay a yearly tribute to the dragon, those in the hills, and those to the forest south of here.”

“What’s salary of a dragon?” Adam joked.

“The villagers pay, I think ten beht yearly, no, four, one for each of the main seasons.”

“How much is a beht?”

“Five silver.”

“Oh!” Adam thought about how much the villagers paid. ‘So what, three thousand adults, probably, about twenty silver a year, twelve thousand silver per village, what’s that, about a thousand gold yearly for each village?’

“Maths?” Dunes asked.

“Yeah, and I was wondering, how much does that compare to the taxes for the local government?” Adam asked.

“It is a beht for each person each month, but for the villagers here? They must take every third sack, every third goat, and in times of war, one in a hundred adults to join the war, though usually one in fifty sign up to be paid, so the government does not call for conscription.”

“Damn, a whole third?” Adam whistled. “I know that the business pays like… one gold for each adult to Aldland, or something like that?”

“Yes, and the land tax, and the shrine tax, and all the other fees,” Dunes replied, his voice a low whisper, speaking in the Aldish tongue too, just in case. “In Aswadasad, the working tax has remained constant. There are many taxes, for food, goods, roads, and some come and go, like the sword tax, but that only lasted a little while, before that Shen realised his… her head was to be taxed in exchange.”

Adam laughed, slapping Dunes’ knee. “It’s good to see that the commonfolk aren’t quite as keen to be treated poorly around these parts.”

“You do not even know half the tales,” Dunes admitted, smiling wide. “Even this village, small as it is, has the heritage of fighting against Aswadasad at one time, I am certain of it.”

“Really?”

“I could not tell you their tales, but I know, for every village has once drawn their blades against the dragon known as Aswadasad.”

“Aya! Mo of Black Mountain! Iyrmen!” The Aswadian was on the shorter side, his head bald, his eyes a deep blue, but he was well muscled, adorned in scale, and upon his back a large greatsword, one gleaming of silver. However, his eyes remained glued on the Iyrmen, two in particular. “I see with these old eyes of mine, drunk as I am, those of the Gaks!”

‘Oh!’ Adam thought.

Finally!