Tales from Asendavia

Urth
21

Content Warning: Suicide

Zhajarkekorva, Ademarkorvu, Asendavia
0706 Hours, August 21st, 3759 AA (2022 AD)

Kamjera stood a few feet away from the precipitous drop. Yesterday, he and a friend of his had hiked up Zhajarkekorva, just as they had done every year during the summer for the past thirteen years. And every year, he’d stand in this spot to take in the nature around him. He’d never had the urge to jump before, but this year he did. Kamjera breathed in. The air was a bit chilly, despite the time of year, no doubt due to the elevation they were at currently. He breathed out. This process repeated itself a few times. Kamjera looked down. The drop itself was only a few hundred feet or so, but it’d be enough. There were other spots with taller drops, but this spot would do, it was close enough to their camp and Kamjera didn’t really feel like walking much further up the mountain to find a spot that may or may not be better. No, this place would be fine. His thoughts briefly drifted to his friend Arvid, who had hiked up the mountain with him. Kamjera wondered if he was up yet. He himself had only gotten up about half an hour ago, and Arvid tended to sleep in, so he probably wouldn’t be interrupted. A twinge of guilt shot through him as he thought about Arvid waking up and finding him gone. He didn’t really want to do something that cruel to Arvid, but he’d already made up his mind. He’d just have to hope that Arvid would forgive him.

He blinked and felt something wet on his face. Tears? He touched his face to make sure. Tears. A small sob left his mouth, and again, and again. Kamjera couldn’t stop now. He vigorously wiped away the tears with his sleeves, yet they wouldn’t stop coming. He shuddered as he sobbed, his snot beginning to mix with his tears. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t go through with it. He had wanted to, and the urge still lingered in a dark corner of his mind, but the overwhelming guilt of what would happen after he did it overpowered the urge. He gripped his sides with his arms and attempted to take some calming deep breaths. While not completely successful, Kamjera had managed to calm himself down somewhat and took a few steps back from the edge. He breathed in, he took a few more steps back, he breathed out. After a few minutes of this, Kamjera managed to get himself to stop crying, though he still couldn’t help but tremble at the thought of what he nearly did. Before he could have any second thoughts about this, he began the walk back to camp. While on the walk back, he managed to at least get himself looking calm on the outside, in case Arvid was awake and wondering where he’d gone, though his thoughts were still a maelstrom inside his head. Quietly, he got back to camp, and quietly he got back into the tent.

Arvid rolled over slightly, still half-asleep. “You go out for a piss or somethin’?”

“Yeah, just had to go out for a piss,” Kamjera said as he zipped the tent door back up.

Arvid rolled back over and within moments was back to sleep. Kamjera crawled into his sleeping bag and curled up into a ball, hoping he’d be able to get some sleep.

22

15 miles west of Uusikauntio, Asendavia
0942 Hours, June 13th, 3759 AA (2022 AD)

Kelazha paused briefly to take a photo of himself beneath one of the wall’s towers. Mulling over the photo for a few moments, he took another photo of the wall itself before continuing his walk. Kurigalzu’s Wall was an impressive feat of engineering for being thousands of years old. Built by Kurigalzu II, a dwarven king who ruled over a large chunk of southeastern Asendavia before the Gliat Sheans had arrived, the wall was actually a series of separate fortifications guarding the many mountain passes and areas of lower elevation between the higher peaks of the Ademarkorvu. For many years, it, along with the Ademarkorvu themselves, was seen as the dividing line between dwarven civilization and the barbarian wilds. Even after the Gliat Sheans arrived and subjugated the native peoples on both sides of the Wall, it was seen as the dividing line between the east and west. For most of the region’s history up until about the 1100s, it served to separate the Kingdom of Asendavia (and those that came before it) from the many kingdoms of the west. Even the Asendavian language has been affected by the wall, with it serving as the border between the eastern and western dialects. Kelazha, however, wasn’t really that interested in the historical and cultural impacts of Kurigalzu’s Wall. He was here because it seemed like a nice place to take photos to post on social media while he was on summer break from university. Kelazha walked into this section of the wall’s gate, posing beneath a series of arrow slits and murder holes, likely a renovation to the wall done by some king over a thousand years ago. Opening Pigeon, Kelazha posted a few of the photos he’d taken and continued on his way.

After a few hours of walking around, taking photos, and chatting to a few strangers who were also at this section of the wall, Kelazha got back into his car and began the drive home. Today had been alright for the most part, though he was admittedly a bit disappointed with the actual bit of wall he had visited today. It was alright to look at, but it wasn’t really all that impressive, just some rather unassuming military fortifications. If Kelazha had been smarter however, he would’ve visited the section of the wall about 100 miles to the northeast. About halfway in between Uusikauntio and Lanafir, Arishaka’s Shield is the longest contiguous portion of Kurigalzu’s Wall at 26 and a half miles long and is also the most famous part of the wall, often being the first thing someone thinks of when they think of the wall. It’s admittedly a much further trip than the part of the wall that Kelazha went to, but it’s also been renovated and adapted for visitors much more than other parts of the wall have. Either way, Kelazha hadn’t thought about this beforehand, and he already had plans to visit the ruins of the underground city of Dazalurshi tomorrow with a few friends of his. And so, Kelazha continued his drive home, thinking about all the different ways he could spend the rest of his summer break.

23

Mazhuqlana, Zhamurev

July 23rd, 731 AA (1007 BC)

“When are our mercenaries expected to arrive, Qamithros?” Zhimudar asked as the pair of dwarves walked to the throne room.

“A few weeks from now, esteemed one. I’ve been told that they should arrive sometime between the 8th and 13th of Vorenbal,” Qamithros bowed his head as he spoke.

Zhimudar frowned slightly. “Not only were they far more expensive than most swords for hire, but you say they’re arriving late? Very well, Qamithros, but if they aren’t worth the cost, you’d do well to remember that you were the one who suggested them.”

“You know how humans are, oh great son of the mountains. Lazy, mostly unreliable, but very effective at violence. They’re perfect for helping to protect your lands from the barbarians that surround us,” Qamithros rushed to explain.

“Yes yes, you’ve said this all before. Since you’re the one who suggested hiring them, once they arrive, I want you to keep an eye on them, make sure they don’t cause too much trouble. You needn’t go yourself to watch over them, as I’d rather keep you here, but have someone sent to stay with them. Keep me informed on how they’re doing,” Zhimudar dismissed him with the wave of a hand.

“Yes, my king,” Qamithros bowed deeply and walked back the way they had come.

As Zhimudar approached his small throne room, two Ursine slaves opened the doors for him, and two Ailurine slaves fell in step with him as he entered the room. One carried a jug of beer and a simple metal cup, the other a platter of bread and cheese.

He gestured toward the slave with the beer as he sat down on his wooden throne. With steady hands, the Ailurine poured Zhimudar beer, but a crash of metal on metal outside caused him to ever so slightly flinch, spilling a small amount of the beer onto Zhimudar.

“Enratum?” Zhimudar called out, retaining his composure.

“Yes, my brother of the stone?” Enratum stepped out from his position behind the throne.

“I’d have you remove his tongue, but he already lacks one. Remove two of this slave’s toes, one from each foot, it doesn’t matter which toe. Fifteen lashes as well, I should think.”

“Ennam! Qalbu! Two toes and fifteen lashes!” Enratum barked out the order and a pair of dwarves stepped away from the wall.

Seizing the Ailurine, Ennam and Qalbu dragged the struggling slave out of the throne room.

Zhimudar glanced down at his clothes and sighed. “I hope this doesn’t leave a stain,” he looked back to Enratum. “Qamithros has told me the humans will be arriving in a few weeks. You’ve spent some time in the west. Tell me, will they be worth it?”

“They may be uncivilized, but they will be worth it. With how long their people have been on the move, they’ve all learned how to fight. They say they come from a great land far to the west, Qlatzha, and that they left to find a new home in the east.”

“Qlatzha, that’s not a land I’ve ever heard of,” Zhimudar remarked.

“Nor I until I heard their stories. I do not know how far to the west it is, but their elders say that they’ve been on the move since the time of their grandfather’s grandfather. They’ve lived in the lands to our west since our father’s time, and I’ve heard many say that they’ve finally found their new home in the east. However, I’ve also heard murmurs that some groups intend to continue their march east, and they won’t stop until they hit land’s end,” Enratum’s voice carried a tinge of worry at the end.

Zhimudar shifted on his throne and frowned. “Further east? That doesn’t bode well. If they continue their march, we’d be one of the first targets, and we don’t have the mountains to protect us unlike our brothers in the east. What of the ones we’ve hired? Do you know much of them?”

“No,” Enratum admitted, “but they seem to be happy in their current lands, they just want our money.”

The Dwarf King sighed. “Hm, that’ll have to do, I suppose. Either way, I’m sick of talking about the humans now and I’d rather not hear about them for at least the rest of the day. Let’s move onto court matters.”

24

A collection of poems written by Asendavian poet Arvijan Embaral (3483-3661 AA / 1746-1924 AD)

The stone beneath my feet quakes, a breath long withheld now exhaled. 
The groaning of the mountains shakes me to my core. 
Slowly, gently, it stops. 
I wonder when next I will hear the breath of the Urth.

A drake’s roar, carried by the wind, scatters my companions. 
The trees sway with the wind, undisturbed by everything around them. 
A second roar, further away. 
The trees continue to sway, and I begin to sway with them.

The waves lapped against the shore, their gentle roar saturating the soundscape of the night. 
I stood and listened to the murmurs of the waves, calling, beckoning. 
With the full moon illuminating my path and the waves calling my name, I entered the sea.

The sand whips up in a frenzy as my guide takes me through the desert. 
Like a spurned lover, it lashes out at me, cutting to the quick. 
But as the wind dies down, I can hear it whisper to me. 
“Be back soon.”

The snow puts my fire out as soon as I light it. 
A flame given life, just for it to be taken away in an instant. 
My frostbitten fingers fumble at the matches, pinching, grasping. 
I strike a match, it breaks. 
I strike a match, it fails to light. 
My last match. 
I strike it, fire! 
For tonight at least, I am saved.

The tunnels of my ancestors twist and turn. 
Deep within the mountains, the air is stale, barely flowing. 
I travel by feel, for while a torch would illuminate, it would also suffocate. 
A pang of longing runs through me for times long gone. 
The work of my ancestors, once the mark of civilization, now ignored and crumbling in the dark.

25

Lertala, Asendavia
1433 Hours, November 23rd, 3759 AA (2022 AD)

Maljanas sat beneath the birch tree, staring off into the distance. It was just one of those days. He didn’t have work or school, he hadn’t made any plans to go out with friends, he just didn’t know what he wanted to do. He’d tried to play a few games but ended up just staring at them before turning his computer off, and he wasn’t really a big reader anymore either, despite owning a good number of books. So, here he was, sitting under a tree a short distance from his home just doing nothing in particular. He saw some mountains off in the distance, a few birds flying in the sky, and lots and lots of trees. Having nothing better to do, Maljanas started looking at the trees. There were some other birch trees out there, and some aspens, and some larches too. It was mostly spruce or pine trees though, they were the best adapted to living in the region. Fall in Asendavia wasn’t as beautiful as other places that Maljanas had seen on the internet, but it wasn’t the worst. At least they had some variety, a pop of orange and yellow here and there among a sea of green. And the leaves from those trees weren’t as difficult to rake up as spruce or pine needles. Though Maljanas did prefer raking needles and leaves to shoveling snow. Snow was just a bitch to shovel, and winter would be coming up in a month. He sighed and stood back up, brushing his pants off in the process. Nature was good and all, but it was just about as effective for him as everything else was today. Zipping his coat all the way up, he began the short walk back home, in search of something else to make today mean something.

26

Three poems written by the Talusian-born Asendavian poet Ingmar Kass (3714 AA/1977 to Present)


Halls

These halls are empty. Once, at some point in the distant past, these halls were filled with life. But no longer. These halls have been abandoned for thousands of years. Back then, you would’ve heard the call of merchants selling their products, the idle chatter of friends, the laughter of children, but all of that’s gone now. It didn’t happen all at once, there was a slow and gradual decline. After a certain point, each year there was just fewer people roaming the halls than the year prior. This all happened over the course of hundreds of years, so no one really noticed, until one day, there was just no one left. I do not know why they left, or what may have happened to them, and I am unable to find out, rooted to this place as I am. They built me to watch these halls, and watch them I have, even long after they went away. Even if I had wanted to warn them that fewer and fewer people were there every year, I wouldn’t have been able to. They didn’t create me with the capability to communicate with them, and I was not as aware then as I am now.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever see someone roam these halls again, as they once did previously. Even if I can’t speak with them, it’d be nice to have someone to watch over again. These halls are all I know, after all. I know not what lays outside their domain, or if there even is anything else. Nonetheless, I will continue to watch these halls for as long as I am able, for that is what I am meant to do. Though, there is one thing I often think about as I watch these halls. If I’m the last one left.



Memories

I was not built to feel the cold, but I feel it. I wasn’t constructed to feel emotions, but I feel them. For tens of thousands of years I’ve dwelt in this place, unable to leave. For far too long I’ve been alone, with no one but myself guarding this place. I wasn’t built to forget either, but I’m beginning to. It’s been getting more and more difficult to remember the faces of my creators. In fact, it’s been getting harder to remember anything that happened prior to the awakening of my consciousness. I recall a time when I could remember those events with perfect accuracy, but now all the lines are being blurred, slowly, steadily. When will I forget entirely? I dread that day, that day where I’m still conscious but I do not remember why. It’s a horrifying feeling. And I know that it’s inevitable too. I will live forever, I assume so at least, and there will be a time when I know nothing anymore. I just hope that one day, it’ll all end, and I can die.



Forgetting

For how long have I watched over this location now? I cannot recall. I do not know if I was born yesterday or thousands of years ago. Maybe once I had a grasp over time, but this is no longer the case. Has this snow always been here? It fills the halls, barely covering the floor in some places and completely filling the halls in others. Why am I here, and why can’t I move? What cruel mother would give their child no legs? I am stuck, I can’t move, I can’t scream, I can’t ask for help, there’s no one except for me. Just me. Me and my thoughts. Forever. Have I had these thoughts before? How many times has this situation played out and I’ve simply forgotten? What am I? Is there anything else besides me? Am I the only thing left, am I the only thing to have ever been? Maybe I’ve been here since the beginning of time, and I’ll be here until its end. What are these halls? What exactly am I watching over? There’s nothing here, has there ever been? Maybe these halls have always been empty, but if so, why am I here? And why is it so cold? I can’t remember ever feeling anything else. How long have I been here? For how long have I watched over this location now?

27

Part of the creation myth of the pre-Ademarist dwarves of Asendavia

Before the sun, moon, and stars were born, the dwarves emerged from the urth. Without life, they wandered the empty Urth aimlessly. When Unelema awoke from their slumber, they imbued the dwarves with Qazhran, giving them life. Indebted to them, the dwarves helped Unelema construct the world, their dig sites becoming the valleys and their piles of rubble becoming the mountains. Inmarqa awoke during this time as well, and he set the dwarves to carving out large basins and channels, which he would fill with water to create the first oceans and rivers.

In the 20,000th year of creation, during the reign of King Arzhaka, the great beast Qazhrumak was unearthed, and so began her rampage. For 4,000 years, the creation of the world ceases as Qazhrumak spewed her fire and set the world alight, killing all but 200 dwarves. Unelema and Inmarqa did battle with the beast but were unable to drive it back beneath the world, their weapons too dull to pierce its hide. With little recourse left, Unelema awoke their brother Baztal from his slumber. Baztal sprung into action and began grappling with Qazhrumak but was unable to subdue her. Unbothered by his failure, Baztal set the dwarven smith Qamithros to craft him a spear capable of piercing the great beast hide.

Qamithros, aided by Inmarqa, spent 100 years forging a spear that would be able to pierce Qazhrumak’s scales. With the spear head done, Baztal chose the wood of an ash tree for the shaft of the spear. Bestowing his weapon the name Keskartum, Baztal set off to face Qazhrumak once again. In the northern mountains of the world he found Qazhrumak and began battle with her. Though her fiery breath and overwhelming heat kept Baztal back for many a year, in the 15th year of their battle, Baztal was able to lunge for the beast and he pierced her flank with Keskartum. A torrent of blood gushed from her wound and began to flow down the mountain, setting fire to all it touched. With her now wounded, Baztal began to drive Qazhrumak beneath the surface of the urth, going further and further until they reached the center of the world itself, where Qazhrumak remains imprisoned, with Baztal staying to remain her jailer. With the beast contained, the gods and the dwarves resumed the construction of the Urth.