Karnavia

The large oak doors swung open. In came Prince Darius, intent on learning about the Elf king’s purpose in Ver’jal. Four bodyguards were with him, marching with eight foot pikes in their arms, sticking straight up in the air. The guards were the same ones that approached him at the hill.
The chamber was a massive one, with gleaming white marble walls. The ceiling was a dome of solid diamond, fashioned by the legendary Tah’jzik architects. Marble columns helped support the structure, and these columns also had faces of the Tah’jzik kings of the past carved into them. At the center of the chamber was a huge, circular red carpet, atop a flight of ten stone steps.
There stood Darius’s father, the King of the Tah’jzik, Lernus IV, known by his people as the Builder, as he had greatly expanded upon the city during his reign. Lernus was a massive Tah’jzik, standing one and a half feet taller than Darius. His scales were dark blue, and atop his head were four small olive colored horns stretching backwards. The king wore a shining silver suit of armor with abdominal muscles etched into it. Behind him was a flowing green cape, stretching down to his ankles.
Darius ascended the steps, and his father turned around to face him.
“Ah, my son,” Lernus said in his deep and powerful voice, “you have arrived just in time.”
Darius glanced over to the right of his father to see Kamran, king of the Elves to the east, exactly as his daughter had described him. Kamran shot him a disrespectful look, and turned to face Lernus.
“Father, may I inquire as to why we are hosting the honorable Elf king this morning?”
“My son,” Lernus replied, slowly walking towards Darius, “there has been an unexpected development in the north. There have been sightings of a horde of Terra, heading westward. They’re burning villages and seem to be growing in numbers.”
Darius looked at Kamran, then at his father again, who was now only an arm’s length from him.
“And why are we to be involved?”
Kamran spoke up in his nonchalant and smooth voice.
“My warriors are more than enough for any good sized horde of Terra, but we require the expertise of Tah’jzik scouts, so that we may traverse the rough and unknown terrain of the north.”
“The Elves have protected Karnavia from the Terra for centuries now,” Lernus stated, “I have great confidence in their ability to push back the monsters, but I believe the good king is right, my son. This horde is hiding in a very rocky and dangerous area. Our scouts will be of use to them.”
“So take a handful of our finest riders, then,” Darius told Kamran.
Lernus cleared his throat, a sound which echoed throughout the entire room.
“Darius, I intend to travel with them as well. I haven’t fought in a long while, now. My sword arm could use some work. Also, this would be a great opportunity for you to demonstrate your ability to rule in my absence.”
Darius’s mouth slightly opened in surprise.
“Father. . . I don’t believe it is entirely wise for you to be putting yourself in harm’s way like this. Let me go with them if you believe they will need a member of the royal family to lead-”
“Darius, my son, you have already proven yourself as a capable tactician in previous engagements against Terra hordes. I know you would do an excellent job, but I won’t be around forever. You need to have raw experience in the political field. Do not worry, Darius. I believe this is a good decision.”
“But father, what if there is an emergency in your absence?”
“I know you will have the wisdom to handle it, my child, and you have a loving family that will always be there for you.”
Kamran spoke up.
“I hate to interrupt your private conversation, but I do have a schedule to keep up with.”
Lernus turned to the pale Elf king.
“Yes, of course, forgive me, I was only conversing with my son.”
Darius felt a wave of frustration fall upon him, and the snide Elf’s scathing voice didn’t help. As Lernus was about to back away, Darius grabbed his father’s right shoulder gently, and whispered into his pointy ear.
“Father,” he murmured, “I will do as you ask, but I would beg you with all my heart not to trust this company. The Elf smells of harlots and cheap wine.”
Lernus grinned slightly, and whispered back to his son.
“Do not fear for me, Darius. The Blessed Mother will watch over us.”

The city of Delrikia was also known as the City of the Sun, and for a good reason. Nearly all power in the town that created the street lights, house lights, and machines was energy from the sun, converted at the Temple of the Sun, created by master architects centuries earlier. This technological feat made Delrikia the most powerful and envied country in all of Karnavia. The paved streets were of white stone, and the buildings were either of stone or wood, many with blue or red roofs, and even chimneys. Steam and smoke came from various armories and factories around the city, and thousands of citizens clothed in fine wool or silk outfits of all kinds of colors traveled through the streets, many with donkeys or horses carrying packs of goods. The most noticeable feature of the city was the epic and massive palace, a gleaming fortress with eight thick square towers built around one massive tower with a circular top. These towers were of white stone, with dozens of red flags fluttering atop them.
Down on the ground, one particular man strode through a busy street rather angrily. This man was six feet and two inches tall, and his body was hidden by a brown cloak that covered everything from his neck to his ankles. He wore dark brown leather boots that made a pleasant sound when walking on the paved stone path. His fairly tanned Caucasian face was very well rounded, and he had shining green eyes and long brown hair that went back to the bottom of his neck, with several strands draping over his face.
This man approached a pudgy looking merchant wearing a white robe and a short black beard, which was the only hair on his head. The merchant was one of the only ones not busy dealing with curious customers, unlike many of the others adjacent to him. These merchants had their own colorful carts with their own various goods. This particular merchant’s cart was filled with daggers and small knives.
The merchant quickly caught sight of the man, and tried to look away, seeming rather nervous.
“You,” the man said in a suave and assertive but very serious voice, “merchant. I wish to have words with you.”
The merchant let out a nervous gasp.
“Oh, it’s you again!”
The man reached into his cloak, and pulled out a knife. The knife’s blade was broken off only an inch from the hilt. He tossed the broken knife onto a small wooden table next to the cart.
“You claimed that your blades are in top condition.”
“Well,” the merchant spat out with a panicky chuckle, “some blades may be weaker than others, my friend. I do not make the-”
“I do not like liars. Nor do I like clumsy excuses such as the ones you are throwing at me at this very moment.”
“Please, forgive me. . .perhaps it was a fluke?”
The man grabbed the merchant by the hem of his robe, and pulled him to where their faces were only inches apart. The man could see the fear pouring out of the merchant’s wide eyes.
“You sold me poorly made equipment. I want my money back.”
The people near the two men began to look at them, alerted.
“I’m sorry, sir, but it can’t be done! No refunds!”
“I paid you twenty Crowns. I am not asking for it back. I am telling you to give it back.”
The merchant looked at the many witnesses, who were gasping at the sight of the man’s threat, then he looked back at the man.
“Alright. . .take it. Take it!”
The merchant reached into his left pocket, and pulled out a small brown pouch filled with an unknown amount of coins. He tossed to the man, who caught it with his free right hand. He immediately let go of the merchant, and felt the pouch. He could tell how much was in it.
“This will be more than sufficient. I would suggest you up the quality of your goods before a less polite customer shows up.”
The merchant was still catching his breath.
“Yes. . .of course.”
The man turned away and walked off as swiftly as he had approached the merchant. He was angry over the broken blade, which had come about by merely testing it on a wooden board, but not as angry as witnesses might have thought. He wanted the Crowns back not so much because of the poor blade, but because he needed it for his greatest weakness.
He quickly approached the building he was heading for, a two floored one made of hard wood and with two smoking chimneys at both sides of the roof. At the front, right above the double wooden doors, was a sign that read “The White Moon”.
He went through the doors. The inside was fairly dark, lit only by small lanterns on the many round pine tables scattered around the room. At the opposite end of the room was a long table that stretched from one wall to the other horizontally, with many cabinets behind it and many empty glass containers on top of it. A single bald man with a thick black mustache and wearing a brown vest stood behind the table, washing emptied cups with a rag. The man approached the table, and placed five Crowns, large dark gray coins, on the table.
“Whiskey. Leave the bottle.”
The bartender looked down at the coins, and quickly took them.
“Whatever you say, chum,” he said in a deep and thick Anglo accent. He filled a six inch tall glass with whiskey and put it on the table, along with the clear bottle that was still over half full. The man grabbed the glass quickly, and downed the entire thing in a matter of seconds.
A stranger suddenly sat down at the stool next to the man. This stranger had a full head of messy and curly black hair, and a goatee covering his upper lip and chin.
“A glass of your finest wine,” the stranger said, placing ten Crowns on the table. The bartender put a glass full of purple wine on the table. The stranger gripped it, and put it to his lips, then suddenly noticed the cloaked man next to him. He put the glass back down.
“You there,” he blurted out in a raspy voice, “I’ve seen you before.”
The man looked at the stranger, then looked away and took a gulp from the bottle, and put it down, still looking away.
“I don’t recall meeting you,” he replied.
“No, no, I’ve seen you before, by the Blessed Mother I know I have,” the stranger said, pointing a finger at him.
The man turned to face him.
“I’d prefer for you to not say those words around me.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Blessed Mother. It offends me.”
“And what exactly about my religion offends you?”
“The fact that I don’t believe in it.”
The stranger let out an insulting laugh.
“I know you,” he bellowed out, “you’re that mercenary! The one that got hammered last month and smashed two men and a bouncer into the dirt!”
Everybody in the tavern started looking at them.
“What was your name again?” the stranger asked.
The man looked away again, and put his hand around the bottle, silent.
“Valderon, right?”
Two other men at one of the round tables shot up from their chairs.
“Valderon,” one of the men shouted, “the mercenary?!”
One of the men approached Valderon from behind, and put his burly hand on his right shoulder, gripping it hard.
“I really don’t like mercenaries, mate,” the man said in a hoarse voice, “they’re hired swords who kill for money. No cause, just greed.”
Valderon remained silent, but tightened his grip on the whiskey bottle, listening to the man’s words. There was a pause for a moment, then the other man, also behind Valderon, spoke up.
“What’s the matter, merc? Your balls fall off now that you’re outclassed?”
Valderon chuckled quietly.
“Believe me when I say that I am not outclassed.”
The man that was sitting next to him was now on his feet as well, with his fists clenched.
“I’d rather not,” he said.
“Suit yourself,” Valderon grunted.
The mercenary stood up instantly, and swung his whiskey bottle at one of the men. The man he hit was the one in the middle, directly in front of him and only inches away. The bottle shattered upon impact, dumping whiskey on the floor, and sending shards of glass into the man’s head. He fell down, screaming in utter agony.
The other two men let out startled yelps, and the one to the right backed up by a few steps. The one to the left stood his ground, and swung his right fist clumsily at Valderon‘s head. The hardened mercenary easily ducked the blow, and drove his left fist into the man’s stomach. The blow sent them man stepping backwards while bending downwards and clenching his stomach, leading to him stumbling into a table.
The man on the right came at Valderon. He swung his left fist at Valderon’s chest. He grabbed the man’s fist with his left hand and tossed it to the man’s right, and, with his right hand, slashed the man’s left cheek with the broken bottle. Blood flew out of the open wound, and the man grabbed his cheek while falling to his side, screaming.
“Blessed Mother,” a man’s frightened voice cried out, “what an animal!”
Another man jumped over a table to Valderon’s left, and managed to grab his neck. He bent Valderon backwards over the table, trying to strangle him. Valderon tried to reach for the broken bottle he had dropped to the floor, but it was too far down. He raised his hands back up, and shoved his thumbs into the man’s eyes as hard as he could. The man let out a painful yelp, but only tightened his grip.
Suddenly, a large hand wrapped around the right side of the man’s neck, and he was pulled away instantly. A Centaur had somehow entered the room, and had thrown the attacker into the wall on the other side of the room. This Centaur’s horse body was a nearly golden, and his human face seemed middle aged. His hair was short and at a color between black and gray, and his upper lip, chin and cheeks were covered by a thin beard of the same color.
Valderon gazed at the Centaur, but took no time to ask questions as yet another burly man clad in a black vest closed on him from his right with a knife. He swung the knife at his throat, but he backed away from it in time. The man swung once more, and Valderon caught his hand with both of his own. He twisted the man’s wrist, and forced him to stab the knife into the table. Once the knife was in the wood, he pulled his right hand away, and balled it into a fist. He could see the panic in the fighter’s eyes as he delivered a smashing blow to his face that sent him on his back.
Two more men started to step into the fight, coming in from behind the Centaur. However, the mysterious horse-man turned around to face them, which was enough to frighten them into leaving.
Suddenly, five more men entered through the doors. These were not barbaric brawlers, however. They were armored Delrikian guards, clad in heavy white plated armor and wearing matching full helmets that covered their faces. They all had their iron shortswords pulled out, and were pointing them into the room.
“You two,” one of the guards shouted angrily, “you’ve caused enough ruckus for the day! Get outta here before we throw you into the dungeon!”
The Centaur held his hands up, and spoke in a polished and sophisticated voice.
“I mean no trouble to you men. I shall leave immediately. I’m not so certain about my friend, though.”
Valderon turned around to face the bartender, who was standing against the wall with a look of shock on his face. He reached into his cloak, and pulled out ten Crowns. He placed the coins on the table.
“Sorry for the trouble.”
The two walked out of the tavern together, behind the guards. It was clear that they had been banned from the tavern. The guards left them after escorting them outside, and the doors shut. The Centaur proceeded to laugh very loudly. Valderon looked at him.
“What’re you laughing about, Centaur?”
The Centaur answered between laughs.
“I’ve never seen a man jump at a group like that before!”
Valderon glanced back at the tavern, then looked at the Centaur.
“They started it,” he said quietly.
“I know, my friend, I saw.”
“Yes, why do you call me friend? I know for sure I have not befriended any Centaurs.”
“Well, we fought the same men, which makes us allies.”
“Yes, but what made you decide to help me?”
“I could tell from the look of you that you are not what those men made you out to be. Were you a typical mercenary grunt as they described, you would have downed them upon the first insult. It’s clear to me that you don’t enjoy picking a fight.”
Valderon looked into his new friend’s bright blue eyes. This Centaur seemed alright to him, but he wasn’t about to trust him just yet. However, he extended his hand to the stranger.
“Valderon,” he said.
The Centaur extended his arm, and shook Valderon’s rough hand.
“Gavinor,” he said back, with a friendly smirk.
“Your voice,” Valderon commented, “it’s very debonair. You’re no raider, for sure.”
“Yes,” Gavinor responded in a slightly more serious tone, “I am a chieftain of a small tribe from the forest, here to study. But to be on the safe side, I’m not about to tell you any of the specifics.”
Valderon’s mouth broke into a smile.
“You’re my type of person, Gavinor.”