Across Her Holy Sea

Roleplay Library
21

Sinajärv, Rodoka
The 15th of Šulmet, 145 KV
May 9th, 1634 CE

They certainly didn’t look happy to be there, but at least they were all there. The five chiefs of the five remaining independent Rodokan tribes all sat on one side of a long table, all of them decked out in the finest armor they had. On the other side sat Ilara Nevran Lendreaž, High Priestess of Rodoka and Accessory High Priestess to the Matron for All the Territories Beyond the Sea and her husband Drova, Lord Harbormaster of the City of Lantaž. Two against five felt intimidating, Ilara had to admit, but everyone in the room knew that it was her side that had the military advantage.

Now, all she had to do was leverage it. She hadn’t taken this job to be a diplomat or a negotiator, but the Goddess called us all to do many different tasks, and far be it from Ilara to disagree. It was what it was.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” Ilara said. Shortly afterward, Drova translated what she said. None of the chiefs responded, but she hadn’t really expected them to. It wasn’t as if anyone was happy to be here. “Well, I’d like to get started, unless there are any objections?”

“I have several objections, as many objections as you have soldiers on the land that’s ours.” The Chief of Moenarr slammed his fist on the table. Drova began to translate, but Ilara rose a hand. She had gotten the gist.

“You welcomed us here when we arrived and told us we were welcome to settle on any open land. Fifteen of your fellow chiefs have agreed to join the Empire. We are not here to take your land from you, we are here to end the war.” Ilara spoke very coolly and evenly, and she stared the Chief of Moenarr dead in the eyes as she did so. The Chief’s face turned red as Drova translated, and eventually he exploded again.

“Agreed? Agreed? You conquered them! You destroyed them and made the survivors bend their knees! And now you ask us to bend ours! NEVER!” The Chief slammed his fist down with nearly every syllable he spoke.

After Drova translated, Ilara waved at one of the Acronian soldiers standing behind her. He was holding a rolled sheet of paper, which he handed to Ilara. Ilara unrolled it and laid it on the table - it was a map of Rodoka. The most accurate map they or anyone had of it. It was incredibly detailed, and listed the names of every village, every river, every brook that had a name. Rodoka was an interestingly shaped island, with two separate branches that came together in the east. There were various sectors of the map that were colored in a shade of pale blue, most of them on the northern branch of the island - including the very city in which they were meeting.

“We can argue for months about how we got to this point,” Ilara said. “I want to talk about how we get out of it. I want to talk about peace.”

The Chief of Moenarr looked as if he was about to explode again, but someone - the Chief of Puna - placed a hand on Moenarr’s shoulder to tell him to sit. Puna Tribe was the weakest of the five remaining tribes, Ilara noted, and had the most to gain from peace.

Ilara motioned at the map. It was positioned so north was on Ilara’s side of the table - the Rodokans would therefore see north at the top, as they were used to. It was a deliberate choice on Ilara’s part. “This is our proposal,” Ilara said. “As part of the peace agreement, the five tribes will agree that Rodoka is an Acronian dominion.” She paused for Drova to translate and raised her hand in an attempt to quiet the roar she knew was about to come. “However,” she said loudly, in Rodokan, to get their attention. Surprised, the Chiefs did indeed quiet themselves. Continuing in Acronian with Drova translating, Ilara lowered her hand. “While Rodoka will be an Acronian dominion, the Five Chiefdoms will retain control over their own affairs and control over their own lands.” She tapped a finger on one of the blue areas of the map. “These lands in blue will be, by treaty, forever reserved for the Chiefdoms. It will be yours to do with what you will. Your lands to farm, your livestock and birds to hunt, your rivers and stone quarries and olive groves to control. The Church will have no authority here.”

“You propose to offer us our own land?” This was the Chief of Viha, who Ilara always recognized because he had the most spectacular mustache of any person Ilara had ever known. A shame he was so disagreeable.

Ilara was quiet for a moment. She had known this question would come up, and she had several different ways she could answer it. “I propose to offer you peace,” she finally said. “This war could continue indefinitely. How much land could you farm after another year of war? After another six? Another dozen?” The Chiefs’ expressions all in unison immediately turned even more sour. But none of them had a reply. “This peace will be an Acronian peace. This island will be part of the Acronian Empire. When and how those things happen are in your hands. I hope you can forgive me for speaking bluntly.”

Eventually, the Chief of Puna spoke. “These lands here, in the south, they’re just forest. What are we supposed to do with this?”

“Hunt, I imagine. It’s not like we’ll be doing any hunting. Or you could cut all the trees down. As I said, it would be yours to do with as you please. In exchange, per the treaty, Acronians would have the right to fish and hunt whales in the waters off your coasts. In our lands, we will follow our customs. In your lands, you will follow yours. Rodoka will be part of Acronis, but you five Chiefs will be recognized as sovereigns over your own land. Just as you are today, except that instead of a High Chief, you will have the King of the Acronian Empire. The Church - people like me - won’t have anything to do with it. In exchange, our armies and navies will come to your defense in a foreign invasion. Not only will you have peace, you will have our protection. It’s simple.”

“And if we deny your treaty? What will you do then?” The Chief of Moenarr practically spat at the word “treaty.”

“Then the Acronian Empire will proceed under the terms of the original arrangement that was agreed between our people and your people when we first arrived. We will settle any open land we see, we will farm and fish wherever we please, and if your soldiers come close to our soldiers, we will destroy them. If you want to retreat to the hills and eke out a life of poverty in hiding from now into eternity, that is certainly your right. If you want peace, if you want your children and grandchildren to know wide open skies and and waters, then I recommend you sign the treaty.”

The room was silent for what felt like a long time. Eventually, however, Drova said something. Ilara hadn’t said anything, and she couldn’t tell what he had said, but after a beat, all five chiefs burst into laughter. It was a raucous roar that filled the entire room. The Rodokan guards were laughing, Drova were laughing, even one of Ilara’s own guards were laughing. It carried on for quite some time and Ilara kept looking from face to face, hoping to glean some understanding. It never came, but eventually the Chief of Puna stopped to wipe a tear from his eye and then, after a deep breath, speak again.

“We can have no better peace than this, I suppose,” he said. He sounded defeated, but another of the Chiefs was nodding.

“We owe more to our children than hiding in the hills.” The Chief of Viha was speaking now. He was much less angry. In fact, he sounded sad. “Moenarr is acting High Chief. What say you, brother?”

The Chief of Moenarr was still scarlet-faced. His laughter, long since faded, had been replaced with a mask of rage. With his nostrils flared, he took a deep breath and then spat - literally - on the map in front of him. Intentionally or not, it landed right on Lantaž. “You murdered our High Chief because of a jape. You launched a war against us and made 15 of our counterparts bend their knees under threat of death. And now you come here, to my keep, and offer me to sign a piece of bloody paper so you can give me my own land and tell me I have to accept your King who lives so far away he will never see this island in his life as my liege lord. You, and all your people, are contemptible charlatans. And you are nothing but a cruel and vicious witch.” He waited for Drova to finish translating before continuing. “But let it never be said that I am a coward. Let it never be said that I care not for my people. Give me your paper and I will sign it, but the moment your people break this treaty will be the moment we scalp every single one of you and drink wine from your skulls.”

The room was silent save for Drova translating. Once he stopped, everyone was silent. But, eventually, everyone nodded. “So be it,” said Ilara. She motioned for a guard to place the treaty on the table. A purple parrot-feather quill was handed to her by another of her guards. The purple parrot was the symbol of Line Davras, the royal family. Not that the Rodokans would know the significance, but Ilara was signing this treaty under royal authority, not church authority. Today, she was merely the Acting Governor. She signed it, and then turned the papers and slid them across the table to Moenarr.

The High Chief snatched the quill from Ilara and barely bothered to scrawl his name on the paper. Immediately afterward, he stood up and the four other Chiefs followed him. Silently, they walked out of the room, slamming the door behind them.

“It is done,” Drova said. “It is done.”

“I only have one question,” said Ilara. “What did you say that made everyone laugh.”

Drova chuckled and had to stop himself before looking Ilara in the eyes. “Your Est- My wife. My beautiful, lovely wife. You must find it in your heart to forgive me, but what I told them was that if they sign the treaty they will never have to deal with you again.”

This time, everyone in the room laughed - even Ilara. “Oh, Drova. I hope you understand that what this means is that from now on, they’ll be dealing exclusively with you.” Ilara winked and kissed her husband on the cheek. “Now let’s go home and build our empire together.”

22

The Holy City of Milof
The Grand Palace of the Most Holy Council of Milof
March 10th, 1709

Great Bells rang throughout the Holy City. It was a day of great celebration for the Masses, after such a long period of mourning. Three months before all of the Great Isle of Milofia wept at the death of Flamebearer Oisín the Builder, the man who had in long and fruitful reign of thirty years had from the dirt constructed a Great New City for the chosen people of Milof, one that would serve as a new capital, built from the ground up to be the perfected form of Milof’s vision. While his body had been immolated in the Eternal Flame in the Holy City only a week after his death the decision of who would succeed him would be drawn out. After Oisín’s father Liam Meaghar had died of old age in the Grace of Milof, there had been a faction of the Council that had wished to select one of their own as his successor, but the wishes of the First Flamebearer had won out in the end, out of the 886 children of Liam the Righteous his favorite was Oisín, and with the young man’s  assertive personality he was able to ensure that dissenters were silent.

Though the position of Flamebearer was officially only the first among the Equals of the Holy Council its two holders had made the position that of the De Facto Kings of Milofia, the rest of the council was given a large proportion of the wealth, including kidnapped women for their harems, but the majority of the lands, titles, and gold, went to the Flamebearer, who held the torch of the Holy Father.  This had left the status quo one where the Flamebearers dominated the Faith, making and rescinding proclamations at a whim. And this had all held true, allowing the second Flamebearer to declare that the first city settled by the Milofites was “Not Close Enough to Milof” and to build a new greater city, shining as the sun did without cutting into his own wealth. The old city was gifted to Rasmus, the son of Shiimeon, or as the Milofites had bastardized his name “Sherman”, who had converted heartily to the Milofite creed, and the city was quickly renamed for his father. The New Holy City was so great that legends were already spreading that the new Holy City had been built in a single night through Oisín sheer faith in Milof.

Now that The Builder was dead, the succession had arrived. And this time it would not be as smooth as that of the Builder. Though the second Flamebearer had only had 332 children he had not yet selected a successor. As such it had taken months of deliberation to decide on his replacement, with factions forming and changing over the course of months, before Aífe Meaghar eventually, and with much grumbling, emerged as a compromise.

But none of these theocratic intrigues were apparent to the people as they cheered as their soon to be Ruler was carried on a shining gold litter, one that reflected the sun in a way that almost made the young man seem to glow. Despite being perhaps the thirtieth son of Oisín to be considered to be the successor he was confident that he would be able to rule just as well as his father and grandfather. The crowds cheered as the litter arrived at the steps of the Grand Palace. The luxurious litter was placed down at the foot of the stairs and Aífe practically leaped out of it.

As the Flamebearer reached the top of great stairs he saw that his fellow members of the Holy Council seems almost irritated at him. Aífe made sure to keep his face confident, he would need to impress these old men if he was to enforce his will upon the and to rule successfully over Milof’s Paradise on Urth. He gazed at the Great Torch that would soon be his, it was truly an ostentatious thing, wrapped in gold and studded in jewels, but it had a core, the core of a humble torch that had killed hundreds of heathens. It was a beautiful thing really. Aífe hoped to emulate its original mission. He would show these old men that he was even Greater than his father, and his grandfather as well.

Aífe greedily snatched the Holy Torch from its stand. The Eternal Flame of The Holy Father was blazing greater than ever. The young successor thrust the Torch into the center of the fire and when he tore it out it burned just as brightly as the Great Flame that had lit it. The crowd of worshipers screamed in pure fervor, some of them were even foaming at the mouth, just waiting to hear what their leader had to say. Suddenly the Flamebearer’s vision glazed over, and he was overtaken by a vision of his reign.

An Armada so large that it blocked the ocean, and the demons underneath. Milofites in full battle garb disembarking at a foreign shore. A city burning brightly with holy light and flame. The Blood of Heathens running through the streets as Milofites tore down temples to heathen gods brick by brick. All this and more filled the young priest’s mind, and as they did his hand raised toward the sun, in the gesture of the Divine, and a great sermon poured from his lips.

“My Loyal Followers! I speak to thee today, as an emissary of that which is most holy! I see the future of our people! The Future of the followers of Milof! We will not eternally sit here, merely farming and worshiping to ourselves! The True Faith must not be confined to one minuscule island floating in the sea! The Followers of Milof must conquer! We must force the nations of Urth to tremble before us and before the Holy Fire of our God! One Day, from this most holy of lands, all the World shall be ruled according to the laws of Milof, our eternal king and the granter of our power! We must be vigilant, for there are heathens who would destroy us, and we must destroy them in the name of all that is holy, before they destroy us in the name of barbarism and heathenry! Our Eternal Crusade will begin with the great Arch-Heathens, those who would have women give them their So-called ‘Faith’, the ones who martyred The Holy Father himself, The lighter of this Great Flame! We shall conquer them, and force them to our will, and cleanse their wretched Island with the most holy of flames! None Shall Stand before us!”

With this glorious sermon even those of the Holy Council who had despised the new Flamebearer were drunk with the images of glory and conquest that he invoked, and so Flamebearer Aífe would become known as Aífe the Conqueror among the Milofites.

History would know him by a different name, Aífe na Tamadán.

Aífe the Fool.

23

Lantaž, Rodoka
April 17th, 1713 CE
The 25th of Ažramet, 224 KV

“Governor, I have some disturbing news.”

Andra Delor Nešori, the newly appointed Governor of Rodoka, turned around. She had just decided she was done working for the day and had been mere moments from grabbing her candle snuffer to put out her candles for the evening and retire. “What is it, Nelor?” She had to stop herself from sighing.

“We’ve a frantic report from Admiral Nala Ronamai of the Ninth Fleet. He says he was fired upon by Milofites.”

The Governor blinked slowly. She wasn’t certain she had heard her aide correctly. “I’m sorry, did you say…”

“Yes, your Honor. The Milofites. I can barely read this letter, the Admiral scrawled it so quickly. The messenger who rowed to shore and ran it here spoke of terrible carnage. He said he doesn’t expect that the fleet survived.”

Andra grabbed the letter and read it. Nelor was right - she could barely read it. “It’s dated the 29th. I think. Where was the Ninth Fleet?”

“To the west, my Lady. Most of them in the southwest, although a few, including the admiral’s ship, in the northwest.”

“Well, who else is out there? The tenth fleet?”

“There is no tenth fleet, ma’am. And the eighth fleet in the eastern waters, near here. It will take at least another three or four days for them to reach the Milofites. The rest of the 9th fleet is likely already there, if they have been notified, but who knows. The Milofites could have attacked them as well. We’ve had no other word from anyone in the west.”

“The Tavari take those damned demons,” Andra swore. “This is all we have at Rodoka? Two fleets?”

“Everyone else is at the mainland, ma’am. The Fifth War still rages with Tavaris. It would be some weeks for aid to reach us from home, if they have any ships to spare.”

“So what are we to do, roll over and let these madmen take our island? We banished their ilk 80 years ago. What land troops have we?” The Governor pinched her nose. She had been governor for all of two days now, and while she didn’t know the answer, she was sure it was going to be a small number. Most of their regulars had been sent to the mainland as well.

“A few battalions, but it will take them longer to reach the area by land than the ships. We could put them in ships, but with the armada the Milofites have, we risk losing them all before they can see land again.”

“Send half by sea and half by land. Send a letter to the King… and send for the Priestess. I need a prayer. And dispensation to have a stiff drink.” The Governor slumped in her chair as her aide bowed and dashed out of the room. She stared at the candle on her desk and groaned. She clearly wouldn’t be snuffing it any time soon. In fact, it was nigh likely she wouldn’t be sleeping much at all until only Akrona knew when.

Suddenly, something occurred to her. “Nelor!” She shouted at the top of her lungs. When he returned, breathless, the Governor had a heavy sigh to give him before she spoke again. “And Nelor, since it’s the west in danger… we’ll need to send notice to the Rodokans. Quickly.”

24

Near Rodoka
April 23th, 1713 AD

Aífe lounged on the Great Throne of his flagship. It was equipped with a similar set of golden mirrors as the litter that he rode through his fathers great capital, giving the flame bearer a golden glow coming directly from the sun itself.

The Flagship of the Armada, The MS Flamebearer, was just as ostentatious. While on all of the other ships of the fleet the Sails were merely yellow and blue, the great triangular sail of the Flagship  was half coated in gold leaf, reflecting the Great Sun, allowing the other ships to look back at the ship of the Flamebearer’s Vessel. In the center of the Deck was a massive brazier, the Eternal Flame, which had been kept burning, either in the brazier or in a lamp hanging nearby for when the storms kicked up. It was the greatest of the hundred vessels that the Milofites had built for their crusade.

So far the voyage had been incredibly successful. A pathetic fleet of the heathens had met them near the northmost spike of the Rodokan island. Not a single Acronian ship had escaped their holy wrath. Though there were rumors that a small boat had managed to flee them, but in his holy certainty Aífe knew that was purely nonsense. His fleet’s power was as infallible as the word of Milof himself. They had faced a second larger heathen fleet about a week before, but they had fared similarly well against the Milofite Armada. Aífe’s confidence in his divine mission only grew day by day.

Then he saw the part of the coat of the unholy island where he intended to land, a smaller city, but it would serve perfectly for his purposes. It would allow his men enough supplies to finish their short campaign without relying entirely on the supplies that were on the ships of the Armada. Of course in order for his men to use them he would have to…purify the current population, by transforming them from filthy heathens into pure bloodless cadavers. Fire would be kept to a minmum, the precious supplies and buildings of the city would be needed for the campaign to come.

With that Aífe na Buaiteoir rang the great bell that sat beside his throne, calling the other members of the Holy Council to his cabin. He had not brought the entire council with him of course, someone would need to run Milofia while he was away. Five of the Nine had come with him, just enough of them to make a decision. Only the most loyal of the council had come, ensuring that the decision desired by the Flamebearer would be the one that was made. The four others might be attempting to undermine his rule while he was away, but the glory he would bring when he returned with Rodoka in the palm of his hand would allow him to near instantly undo any undermining.

One by one the members of the Council entered the cabin, each kissing the ring of the Flamebearer as they entered, standing around the slightly more modest throne that Aífe had within his quarters, shifting their eyes away from the two concubines that their ruler had brought with him. Aífe only had ten children so far, and only one of them was male. They had all been left back in Milofia, the chances of anything going wrong were small but it would be best to leave the future heir away from the crusade, at least until he was older than ten years. And with that quick though Aífe began the meeting of the Holy Council.

“This meeting of the Holy Council of Milof, The Supreme Governors, and the Keepers of the Eternal Flame, now begins. Soon our Crusade shall begin in earnest, we have conquered the seas, but we will soon conquer land for Milof. Our time of reckoning is at hand.”

One of the Councillors spoke up, his name was Darragh and of the 5 councillors who had been granted the honor of accompanying the Flamebearer he was the least blindly loyal. “My Lord, i must ask you, why do you call us to you? We know that what you say is true, why do we need another meeting to remind us?”

Aífe glared at the old man. “My purpose in calling this assembly is not merely as a reminder. It has taken much communal with the divine for me to come to this decision, but it is my judgement that rather than stay with me for my whole campaign each of you shall command one fifth of the forces that we shall bring against the Slayers of The Holy Father. That being the forces that are not under my own most holy command. I shall keep 14,000 of our great crusaders for myself, and each of you shall retain 5,000. I call you five here to tell you of the strategy that we shall employ against these weak woman following heathens.”

Darragh looked ashamed at his foolishness and was silent. “I shall take my men, and two of you shall come with me, with your Crusaders. Odhran and Senan shall be my flanks, we shall share in the glory of capturing Lantaž, where The Holy Father, the prophet of our glorious Faith was martyred. Darragh shall take his contingent, and he shall gaurd the passage of the northern peninsula, to stop any heathen armies from managing to destroy us as they once destroyed our Prophet…” Darragh looked slightly frustrated with the Flamebearer at being given such a large task, but the old man was too weak to resist the order anymore. “Cathal and Tadhg will go together, and they shall gaurd the passages of the southern horn of this cursed island. After the Unholy City of Lantaž has been purified through the fire of the Holy Father our armies will take the horns of this unholy cow, which we shall slay on the Altar of the Sun.”

With that the Councillors cheered. Before Aífe waved his hand to banish them. As they filed out Aífe turned his holy eye to his concubines.

While the Flamebearer was preoccupied thousands of Milofites began climbing up from the depths of the ships of the Armada. Filling the landing boats until they were nearly bursting, before moving in formation towards the Acronian city. The boats were fast, taking only an hour to reach the shore. The Milofites were like locusts, bursting out of their hives before charging head first into the coastal city. The Town’s gaurd had been as prepared as it was possible to be, but they stood no chance against the endless tide. The Crusaders swarmed through the city, and all of the heathens that they found were cut down. It was not long before there was not a street in the whole city that was not slick with the blood of both Acronians and Rodokans. But true to the orders of the Flamebearer fire did not rage through the city, all supplies that were found were brought to the center of the city, to be rationed when the time came. The civilians who were not slain were gathered in the Temple. By evening the chaos had subsided, and the Milofites had full control of the city. The Council arrived only a few hours later.

Flamebearer Aífe came to the heathen temple. His Great Torch was burning brightly, almost shining out the rising moon, supposedly the symbol of the Goddess of the Heathen Acronians. But the sun would always outshine the moon, as the Milofites had bested the Acronians. Aífe ordered for kindling to be brought to surround the heathen temple. As the priest brought the Torch of the Eternal Flame down to meet the fire, which would wipe the final Acronians of this city off of the face of the Urth the moon suddenly began to darken, being replaced by a dark circle in the night sky, with only the stars remaining to remind them that the heavens were not lifeless. As the Temple began to catch and collapse in on itself, as the screams of the dying heathens reached his ears, Aífe smiled, for his god had given him an omen of his Triumph.

25

Lantaž, Rodoka
April 25th, 1713 CE
The 4th of Tašmet, 224 KV

“Terevatís is gone, Your Honor.” Nelor’s voice was heavy as he came into the room.

“Gone? You mean… gone?”

“The entire city has been burned, my lady. There are very few survivors. Most of the people there were burned, or… well, the Milofites are not kind. I daren’t say what happened aloud.”

“You needn’t say, I can imagine,” the Governor said with a grimace on her. “Where are our troops?”

“The troops who went by land are a day or two out. The ones by sea will have to land and trek across the island, as the Milofites landed on the inland sea, not on the outer coast. I’ve no idea if the King will send ships from the mainland, but they would be weeks away regardless. I’ve sent missives to Lapinumbia and Dallacqua but I don’t expect any help, we have no treaty with either of them. Either way, the troops we have number about twenty thousand, ten thousand on land now and ten still at sea. Our best estimates put that at half of what the Milofites brought. The land troops, the 1st division, are moving north from Lantaž. The second division will land and march southwest. They’ll head off the major Milofite force. But the problem, my lady, is that the Milofites appear to have stationed bands of troops on both the northern and southern branches of the island.”

“Well, the 8th fleet is still coming back. We can probably have them fire at the southern band, no? They have no land troops on board, but they do have cannons. But the north, I just… I don’t know.” The Governor sighed at the map she had upon her wall.

“Have you forgotten us so quickly?” There was a deep, gruff voice from behind them and both Andra and Nelor jumped. They turned to see a bearded human standing behind them with an intimidating sword on his hip. Andra didn’t know who he was, but he was clearly an official of some degree of the Rodokan tribes. “Viljar of Puna, Ambassador of the High Chief, at your service.”

The Governor bowed instinctively. She hadn’t heard Viljar’s name prior to this, but then, she had only been Governor for less than a month.

“You’re lucky I was on my way here before all this started. You’d be in rough shape. Lucky for you, you people kept your promise, so we’re keeping ours. Eighty years ago you ended the war and said we could have our lands and keep our tribal chiefs, and you’ve kept your word. Rodokans keep our promises, and that’s not even considering that we remember losing men, women, children of our own in the fire they set. Our soldiers are already marching to meet the Milofites. We intend to get our revenge.”

The Governor blinked. “Ambassador, I don’t know what to say, except thank you. How many men have you?”

“Twelve thousand. And by our counts, they have less than half that stationed near the reservation. It’s been some days since my last letter from Sinajärv. It’s likely they’ve already started the battle in the north. And I don’t typically boast, but I have a feeling we’ll have plenty men capable of marching further south once they’re done.” The Ambassador grinned. “That eclipse was a good omen.”

“My lady, I’ll send orders to the 8th Fleet to move towards the southern band of troops. Hopefully, after our land troops meet the Milofites, they’ll be able to march down and clean up the ones we weren’t able to blast with our cannons.”

The Governor allowed herself to smile. “Goddess be praised. I think we might just have a chance.”

Acronian First Division
North of Lantaž
Late April/Early Tašmet

“They aren’t far. I can smell the smoke.” Captain Tovra smiled. They had ended up exactly where they wanted. North of the city, the land started to get higher. Here, the Milofites would have just finished trekking down the hills, and they were almost certainly exhausted and out of formation. The Acronians had snuck up just slightly, back up onto slightly higher land, to the west of where they expected the Milofites to show their faces. Their gunners were ready. The cannons were set. The infantry was poised to charge. “When you see the whites of their eyes, you have my orders to shoot. Do it for Terevatís.” All of his men and women nodded solemnly. It wasn’t long before the first Milofites entered the field of view. “Ora… Nam… Et… Voi!” Captain Tovra held his hand out forward, and his soldiers unleashed the onslaught.

There wasn’t an eclipse that day, but through the gunsmoke, it was still difficult to see the sun. The Acronian Second Division, which had been poised to move in themselves, held off that day. They could help clean up the mess afterward. And one thing was certain - the Milofites now were nothing but a mess.

26

Outside Lantaž
April 25, 1713 CE

Aife wiped the gunpowder from his eyes. The battle had seemingly started well, the pure ferocity of his soldiers allowing their melee units to slash through acronian lines, but this was merely an illusion due to the blindness of faith. In reality the Milofite martyrs were easily cut down, and cavalry crushed them under foot, it wasn’t until the whole army was shattering, except for the one thousand elite horse gaurd of the Flamebearer. Only then did Aife call for the trumpets to be sounded for them to retreat. The entire army followed, but the elite gaurd of Aife was able to travel faster. As the sun set they briefly made camp and Aide met with his commanders.

He had not yet had time to polish the gunpowder off of his helmet, but the torch had managed to stay lit, and it was enough to transfix the two priests.

“Odhran and Senan, you have always been my loyal servants. I must regroup with the other parts of our forces, I shall only keep my most elite horse guard, you two must hold the heathens back so that I may meet with our other troops. With divine favor you will succeed, but should you fail you will be forever martyrs of Milof.” With that the Illustrious Flamebearer left the tent, and his horse guard gathered and rode off into the night. The two council members had become entrenched in their divine purpose. In reality, they would be left to die.

Northern Rodoka
April 27, 1713 CE

Darragh  had held out longer than expected against the Rodokan tribes. It had not taken long for them to realize that they had chosen the wrong peninsula to only send five thousand men to. The only reason they had not yet been driven off was that Darragh had been the one to put down some heretic and peasant revolts a few decades ago. With smart positioning he was able to hold off the rodokans, but he was still hemorrhaging men, he had attempted to get reinforcements from the south but the orders of the Flamebearer had kept them in place.

One of the Rodokan chiefs had led a charge that ended up failing, the Milofites were able to surround that entire unit and slaughter them all. With one singular exception, the chief who had led them. Darragh was angry, and this chief was the perfect thing to release his anger upon. The Chieftain was tied to a pole with straw piled underneath, in the view of the entire Rodokan Army. From the small lantern that held a copy of the Sacred Flame a torch was lit.

Darragh walked up to the bound chief. “Good Afternoon. You seem to have fallen into my care. Your name would be very helpful.”

The Prisoner stared back at the priest. “I am Viha, of Rodoka. You dont scare me, Your kind are not men to be feared, but men to be crushed under foot.”

Darragh chuckled. “You speak quite glibly for a man tied to my pole.”

Viha began to laugh, louder and more truly than the Milofite had. Loud enough for the Rodokans that were fighting so close to hear. “I am not the one who is tied!  It is you who is bound, when you set me alight all you shall do is set me free!” Angered by the confidence of this heathen, Darragh lit the pyre that would immolate the Chieftain. Viha’s laughter of triumph continued, until there was nothing left of him.

Naught but one day later, the Milofites would be driven back to Terevatís, along with all of their coreligionists.

Terevatís, Rodoka
April 30, 1713 CE

The Milofites began to board once more the boats that had once taken the city they were now escaping, the Acronians and Rodokans had surrounded them, and more than half of their number had been destroyed. They would not even be able to fully man all of their ships, forcing them to leave many of them behind, but not before being destroyed using holy flame, to prevent their use by the Acronians. 3 of the 5 councilmembers who had come had fallen, but the Flamebearer was still able to keep control of the two who remained. Hopefully a return to the sea would bring victory once again, where the land campaign had brought only failure.

27

May 2nd, 1713 CE
The 11th of Tašmet, 224 KV
The Pacific Ocean, southwest of Milofia and Rodoka

The Chief of Puna was nauseous. He hated being at sea - rare for a Rodokan. But as much as he hated boats, he had seen his people beat back the raving madmen from Milofia, even where the Acronians had failed. He would see them beaten back to their own damn island, and hopefully a lot further than that. Native Rodokans in their merchant marine ships had taken to the sea to join the Eighth Fleet of the Royal Acronian Navy. The Milofites had better ships, since all the best Acronian ships were presently occupied in the Fifth War against Tavaris. But the Acronians and the Rodokans had more ships, unless you counted the ones the Milofites had to set on fire in the Bay because they didn’t have enough people to man them.

And even as dedicated as the Chief was at wiping the Milofites off the map, the Acronian Admiral was even more so. Her name was Dara, and she stood at the prow of the ship with a mask of fury on her face. Her family had been from Terevatís, the Chief understood. The Admiral looked over her shoulder briefly, to make sure that the rest of her ships were in line as ordered. Then she returned her gaze to the Milofite ships, each of them flying their blue and yellow flag with that accursed hand on it.

She waited a moment. Just one moment of silence. And then she turned to face the rest of the ship and shouted “FIRE!”

The broadside cannons of the ship fired, followed soon by all the other ships of the line. Distantly, the sound of shattering wood could be barely heard over the sound of the cannons. The Milofites would likely be firing soon. Frankly, the Chief thought that naval battles were rather boring. You rarely got to look your enemy in the face. He decided to go back below decks before he threw up on someone - the noise of the cannons wasn’t making his nausea any better. As he began going down the stairs, though, the Milofites began to return fire, and suddenly he decided he ought to stay where he was, because then at least he could see the cannonball coming before it hit him.

Surprisingly, though, the Milofite cannonballs didn’t seem to be landing many hits, at least not on the Acronian flagship. One of the Rodokan merchant mariners lost a mast, and another appeared to be taking on water, but it was likely that the remaining Milofite ships had used most of their supply in taking out the Ninth Fleet and their advance into the Bay of Rodoka. Already, the Chief could see the Milofite line breaking. Past their line of ships, and the smoke from the cannons, he could see land. There wasn’t a name for the island they faced. The main island of Milofia was known to Rodokans and Acronians as Vaimsaar, or the Isle of Ghosts. This island was much smaller than Vaimsaar, and smaller even than Rodoka itself. The Acronians, he knew, were looking forward to giving it a name, because they intended to take it. And the Chief of Puna intended to be the first boot on the ground.

He thought for a moment about what that would mean. If theirs was a joint Acronian-Rodokan fleet, then who would be taking the island? Who would name it? Would it be an Acronian island or a Rodokan one?

Well, he supposed, he was technically an Acronian anyway. They all were. The Chief thought about that for a moment, and decided that he could tolerate that.

28

May 2nd, 1713 CE

The Milofite Fleet was in panic. The brief hope that had been brought with their return to their element of the Sea had been smashed. Their line was in disarray, and the island would clearly be lost. The flagship had taken a beating, but it would be survivable. That was until the Acronian Flagship broke through the line. The Flamebearer’s ship was not prepared for an attack, Aife had ordered a full retreat from the battle. The Acronians on the other hand, were fully prepared to make one final blow. The Acronian ship turned towards the Flambearer’s Vessel, and released a full broadside. At first this seemed ineffective, but then a single cannonball struck…right where the Milofite Flagship had its magazine. The So-Called Avatar of the Sun did not even have time to scream before the powder exploded, and his entire ship was vaporized, sinking to the bottom of the sea far faster than seemed possible. As Darragh watched the ship of his liege sink he knew that this campaign would be much easier with the death of that idiot that he had once felt loyalty to. Aife the fool indeed.

May 4rd, 1713 CE
After intense discussion the day before the fleet was now organized as it had never been under the idiot Flamebearer. Now Darragh was commanding the fleet and this time he would be able to hold off the tide. The ships were arranged at a second set of islands, preparing all day preparing for the coming battle. On the day of the battle itself they spent the whole morning preparing their formation, and recruiting the local fishermen to help them in the fight. In the afternoon the Acronian ships arrived. Seeing the Defensive position of the Milofites the Acronians attempted to bait them out of their position with hit and run tactics. But Darragh ensured that the ships did not take the bait, taking shots back at the Acronians when they tried. As the day continued the Acronian admiral clearly became impatient, and found the weakest spot in the Milofite defensive line. Unfortunately for them that had been a part of Darragh’s strategy. As the Acronian piercing maneuver began Milofite fire ships, fishing vessels stuffed to bursting with combustible materials, piloted by Milofite soldiers willing to sacrifice themselves, came up to the advancing Acronians and lit their vessels, exploding, immolating themselves and sinking the foremost Acronian ships. And with that the Acronian’s backed down. They had been defeated for this day at least, but not as badly as the Milofites had been two days before.

Darragh knew he couldn’t keep this up forever, he knew he would have to talk to the heathens to end this war.

29

The 14th of Tašmet, 224 KV
May 5th, 1713 CE

“Admiral, it really is that simple. It was a miracle we found the soldiers to defend Rodoka at all. We do not have the forces to stage an invasion of Milofia.”

Dara, the Admiral, stared at the map and frowned. It was a small map, and it wasn’t very good - but it was the only map of Vaimsaar the navy had. The Milofites had certainly never shared any of their cartographic knowledge, and Acronian ships had never been exactly welcome in Milofite waters. There were pins in it to indicate the location of known Milofite fleets and ground troops. There were perhaps one or two pins inland - they had almost no knowledge of Milofite fortifications at all.

“Staging an invasion would simply be suicide.” The Chief of Puna spoke bluntly.

“Yes,” the Admiral said finally. “Ultimately, their Navy has been crushed, and they are certainly in no position to stage another invasion of Rodoka any time soon. The King’s letter was very clear that his concern was making sure the Milofite threat is neutralized. I feel reasonably secure in responding that it is. And yet…”

“What, do you really think these people could ever pose a reasonable threat again? They’re great at lighting fires and they’re certainly pests, but beyond that? Put a military base on one of these islands we’ve taken. The thin one there is two, two-and-a-half monai from Vaimsaar. Put a naval base there and keep an eye on them. These people are far more of a risk to each other than they are to themselves. We can watch them collapse.”

The Admiral laughed. “We can name the islands after the King to make him feel better. The Isles of Kanor has a nice ring, eh?”

The Chief smirked. “I’m less of a monarchist than you are, dear Admiral, but we Rodokans are still subjects of the King, so I am obliged to say aye.”

“Very well,” said the Admiral, smirking back at the Chief. “I shall respond to His Majesty. As for you… you’re the ranking political figure here, I say you ought to parley with the Milofites. I think they’ll be happy to give us the islands and be done with us, don’t you?”

The Chief of Puna turned from the Admiral and walked to the door, making sure to grab his rifle as he did so. “If they aren’t, well… I’ll make sure they are.” He laughed as he walked out of the Admiral’s quarters, calling back as he walked “Do take care now, dear Admiral.”

The Chief gripped his seat in the dinghy the entire time he was in the water. It wasn’t the water itself that scared him, at least not this time, it was the idea of one of those Milofite demon men shooting out of nowhere to explode and send them all to Akrona. Thankfully, none did so as they rowed to shore. The camp of the Milofite leadership wasn’t far, and as far as he knew they were expecting an Acronian delegation, sho he tried to quiet his fear as they walked. There wasn’t a Milofite to be seen, not anywhere on the beach, not on any of the roads? Were they all dead, or were they just hiding somewhere and plotting to attack? There wasn’t much of a way to know. Eventually, they sighted an encampment in the distance. It wasn’t flying a white flag, simply the blue and yellow banner of the Milofites. “Well,” said Puna to his detachment of guards. “Let’s go see if they’ll accept our offer.”

“Do you think they will, m’lord?”

“Chief,” the Chief corrected. He was no Acronian lord. “And, well… I don’t know if they’ll want to accept our offer… but they will.”

30

The 14th of Tašmet, 224 KV
May 5th, 1713 CE

The Isle’s village was small but it was a good place for Darragh’s encampment. With his victory of the previous day the troops were behind him, and his fellow Councilor had cowed, despite his still continuing irrational loyalty to the dead Flamebearer, despite all of the failure that he had brought upon them. Out of the surviving milofites he might as well have been a Flamebearer himself. Every command was obeyed as if he were, but Darragh had come to a realization. The Office of Flamebearer must be abolished if Milofia was to surivive, the position only allowed for stupid men to hijack and cause problems for the nation.

Now he was situated in the Temple of the Village. It was a fairly run down place, but large enough for the Councilor’s purposes. It was entirely constructed of wood, but despite this the building was constructed as a dome, the ceiling being removable and aligned with the sun for noontime services. A side room of the temple was reserved for the Temple’s priest, who would be outside of both residence and temple with his Wife. Darragh licked his lips, she truly was a beautiful thing, he might be forced to take her with him after he left this Milof-Foresaken village.

A trumpet sounded, the Acronians had arrived. He gave orders to his men.

“Bring the Heathens here. After they have arrived in this building the door is to be blocked. None are to enter  or leave this Temple until the negotiations are completed. I have much to discuss with them.”

31

The door shut behind them as they entered, and the dull thud of boots on the ground indicated that guards had moved to block it. Great. Locked inside a heathen temple with some of the worst people imaginable. The Chief of Puna had never been to the Acronian home islands, but even after everything he had heard about the Tavari, he would still rather be locked in a building with them rather than the Milofites.

“I am the Chief of Puna. I am here to negotiate on behalf of the Rodokans and the Acronians.” The Chief forced himself to make eye contact with the Milofite leader, as sick as it made him feel. This man looked like the kind of guy who liked to start fires. Though, to be fair, he tended to think that about every Milofite he saw. “Our demands are simple. We have no desire for endless war. We have a desire for safety and for assuredness in the continuation of our state. It is our hope that you feel the same. I have no intention of wasting your time with diplomatic bloviating. This is our proposal.”

One of the men in Puna’s retinue produced and unrolled a map, holding it out with his hands. The map showed the island of Rodoka, the island of Milofia, and a few of the islands off the coast. The Chief pointed to a line in red, that passed through the waters between Rodoka and Milofia. Notably, the line was drawn in such a way as to include two islands near Milofia on the Rodokan side of the border. These were the two islands the Rodokan-Acronian fleet had taken in battle. “This is the front line of the war as we see it. We are proposing to freeze the border at this line in perpetuity. These will be Acronian lands,” said the Chief, pointing at the Rodokan side of the border, “and these will be Milofite lands. These two islands allow us a buffer to assure ourselves of our safety from you, after you have attacked us twice in cold blood. And I am here to promise you, on behalf of the King of the Acronian Empire and High Chief of the Tribes of Rodoka, that if you accept this deal, and if you stay on your side, we will stay in ours, and you will never, ever have to hear from us ever again. Do what you will with your lands and your people. Allow us to do the same. That is the proposal… sir.” The Chief of Puna did not know this man’s title, nor did he care to.

The Chief’s aide rolled up the map and handed it to Puna, who offered it out to the Milofite leader. Puna already had his own copy. His heart beat fast in his chest, and he prayed to Akrona that for once, just once, these people would see reason. He prayed to anyone who would listen. Perhaps even their god. The Chief wanted to go back to his family and sleep soundly in his own bed. Surely these people wanted the same? He couldn’t be certain. All he could do was hope.

32

Darragh stared down the Acronians. He hated them. He could imagine their skin crackling, cooking, as fires rose around them. Perhaps that would have been their fate, had Aife not been a glory seeking fool. He regretted his support for the man, he may have been ambitious, but he did not have the stones to take Rodoka. Lounging upon his throne, his Torch facing out, shining directly into the eyes of the Heathens he began to speak.

“I will not lie when I say that the fact that I am forced to speak to heathens angers me. But it would anger me even more if I should allow the Land of Milof to be conquered by heathens by my stubbornness. So I will grant your request, from this day forth the Chosen People shall wait upon our Isle, until that day when all the world shall be consumed by the Holy Flame of the Creator, And the Unconquered Sun leaves this Urth for us to inherit and Rule. Enjoy your islands while you can, your time is not everlasting.”

With that Darragh signed the Treaty with a heavy sigh, the Gaurds unblocking the door and escorting the Heathens out of the temple. Darragh considered ordering their deaths for only a moment, but he thought better of it. He knew that the remainder of the council would take his side, considering their hatred of Aife. A New Milofia would be born, and now the Council as a whole would bear the Flame.

33

Epilogue

Etmat 16th, 542 KV
January 25th, 2021 CE

Office of the Prime Minister
Government Center One
2 Palace Square
Zaram, Acronis

The Prime Minister put down the book she had been reading with a satisfied sigh. After years of sneaking pages in between meetings, she had finally finished the memoir of Ilara Nevran Lendreaž she had gotten from a book sale years ago. “Look at that,” she said to her partner, who had just stepped into the room. “Actually managed to finish a book.”

Linai chuckled. “You’ve been trying to finish that book for at least as long as I’ve known you.”

“Longer,” said the Prime Minister with a wink. “She’s a fascinating figure. She was an imperialist and a nationalist long before we had words for them. And this book doesn’t even cover her term as Matron. She’s the only Matron we remember by her birth name, and the only Matron to have cities named after her.”

“Where does she have a city named after her?”

“In the Union of Free Cities, the Acronian port city is Ilarís,” said the Prime Minister. “She’s always been one of my favorite historical figures, if only because she is so polarizing. To this day she is venerated in many corners of the Church. There are Akronists who call themselves Ilarist. And yet, on Rodoka, she is despised. And I do mean despised. It was in the news all the time when I was stationed in RAB Sinajärv, at least two times a year someone would throw red paint on her statue in Lantaž. Eventually a group of Natives tore the statue down. And, truth be told…” The Prime Minister looked both ways, as if someone might be eavesdropping. “I don’t blame them at all. I could never say that publicly, but I really don’t.”

“She certainly had a… unique way of interpreting the Akronist belief of protecting life,” said Linai.

“She ordered the slaughter of hundreds of Rodokans. Thousands, even, if you count the entire war. The Ilara Doctrine says that violence, even lethal force, can be justified against a person if that person represents an even greater threat to life than would be caused by their own death. And like I said, people still believe that. To this very day.”

“Are you an Ilarist?”

“Well… no, I wouldn’t say so. Obviously there are times that lethal force is necessary. Acronis has a military, after all. But to call myself an Ilarist would necessitate… a kind of religious zeal that I don’t have. I don’t justify Acronian military actions by claiming they’re for Akrona. I justify Acronian military actions by stating they are to protect the people.” The Prime Minister was looking out her window as she spoke. “I think the real lesson of Ilara’s story is that… we’re all only mortal. We’re all subject to the same… possibility of weakness. I think Ilara Nevran Lendreaž failed her faith and failed Akrona when she ordered the murder of the High Chief of Rodoka. And yet, the simple truth is, without her, Acronis wouldn’t be anything close to what it is today. And every one of us, every Acronian, should have to face that fact, and reconcile with it.”

“You should have that book put in the school curriculum,” offered Linai.

“Oh, I’ll let teachers decide which particular books they use in classrooms. But I do think everyone ought to study Ilara Nevran Lendreaž. If not for all the other reasons, at least because not one but two leading government officials today are her descendants.”

Linai blinked. “Who? Obviously you are, since you’re both in Line Nevran. But who is the other one?”

“Vana Nevran Dandreal,” said Žarís Nevran Alandar. “My distant cousin, the 37th and current Matron.”

Both women were silent for a long time before Linai spoke up again. “Do you think she’s an Ilarist?”

Žarís was still looking out the window. She turned her gaze just slightly to the spires of the New Temple of Administration, which she could see over the tops of the lower buildings of the Old City. “I don’t know, Linai,” she said after a while. “I don’t know.”