Game of Tears — Part 34
Tuesday, September 29th, 2009 | Research | No Comments
My friend Tomas,
I must needs beg your forgiveness. You have treated me far better than I deserve, and I fear I have not adequately returned your kindness. I know it has been too long since I last wrote you, and that is the primary slight I have committed. My wife and I had been quite busy establishing our new estates. I thought it prudent to simply return your letters to you, rather than risk their being lost in the hectic shuffle.
It means little now, but I must also offer you an apology for not extending either you or your delightful sister an invitation to my wedding. Ismene’s reaction to hearing that my parents had chosen a wife for me was quite… spectacular. She is a woman of rare and incredible passion. And though she has long been one of the closest friends a man could ever ask for, I feel safe in admitting to you my fear that she might have disrupted the ceremony. Having made that decision, it would have put me in a rather awkward position to have invited you and not Ismene. I hope you will forgive me, for I surely meant no Insult by it.
Though now I must confess it appeared there was little to celebrate that day. We had expected our fortunes to be tied together until Solace came upon us. Yet now I must report the sad death of my wife.
She has been murdered. Most foully and most cruelly. I cannot fathom it, my friend. Perhaps you might be able to offer some advice. I know you have a superior understanding of such things. You have cultivated an insight into the darker motivations of the ven heart than I have cared to.
My wife was the sweetest woman I have ever met, hardly the sort of woman who went about making deadly enemies. She was also quite pretty, though nowhere near as beautiful as Ismene. Ismene carries herself with a certain sort of sensual self-possession few women ever seem to master. Ah, but I am letting thoughts of her distract me!
Though my bride was quite confident herself, she lacked that smoldering inner fire so unique to your sister. I did not think she was a woman who would ever stir a great passion within me (my bride, that is), but I could certainly come to care for her. And, more importantly, we would easily be able to manage our estates together and raise strong daughters and competent sons. I was looking forward to our future prosperity. Isn’t that what a marriage is all about?
She did not deserve what has been done to her. As Ismene might have told you, part of my wife’s lands included an expanse of swamp infested with all manner of abominable ork. As I was chosen theyvestra in this marriage, the responsibility of clearing my wife’s lands of course fell to me. I assembled a group of brave Swordsmen and we ventured into the boggy terrain. We were gone for three weeks. Though we could not exterminate all the orks, we certainly made a significant dent in their population. A wary and well-armed traveler might now cross the swamp in safety.
I rode back to my castle looking forward to a soft bed, sweet brandy and the coming Summer opera Season. I was quite sad to learn that your sister had tried to visit me while I had been away. We had, in fact, just missed each other! She departed the day before I returned home. A wonder we did not meet on the road. She did leave a note for me, which lightened my heart to read. Though your sister might be a woman of rare passion, she is sensible when she has had time to cool off. She expressed happiness for my situation, and asked forgiveness for her outburst upon hearing I was to be married. She also wrote several quite nice things about my wife. Apparently, they had shared several meals during Ismene’s brief stay. I am not sure what to think about that, but Ismene can be quite discreet when she needs to be.
I was pleased to read her note, and immediately dispatched my own roadmen to come find your sister on the highway and beg her to return. If all has gone well, she is on her way here.
My happiness turned sour in my mouth, however, when I entered the chambers I shared with my wife.
She was in her nightclothes, tangled in the bed linen. I could not begin to fathom what I saw. There was blood, so much blood! It soaked her clothes, the sheets, even the mattress. Her hair was matted with the stuff. I ran to her body. There was a dagger rising from her chest. She had been stabbed through the heart. I reached to pull it out, but gasped when I touched it. It was a blood dagger, Tomas!
Who would murder my wife with a blood dagger? As I said before, she was a sweet woman. I cannot imagine her being able to incite such hatred in even the most vengeful of ven.
The entire situation is confusing. Not only was it a blood dagger, but when I examined the weapon from a safe distance, my questions only multiplied. This was not a true weapon that she had been murdered with, the edge was completely wrong. It seemed more a plaything, perhaps something someone might use whilst playing the Game of Knives. Yet someone had turned it into a blood knife, and then murdered my wife with it. Not only that, but she had also been strangled. With a length of dirty white cord. It looked quite old, and crudely made.
I cannot begin to comprehend it.
Does any of this make sense to you? There are rumors that my wife made an Enemy through her marriage to me, but I cannot find any solid proof. You have many more connections to Society than I do. What I have heard speaks of a suitor, upset at losing her to me. But if that is true, why kill her? As long as she brought us no shame, I would have been happy to look the other way when it came to her forming especially close friendships. After all, I am scarcely pure myself, in that respect.
Ismene is on her way here, I am glad to hear it. I could use the presence of a friend tonight. I intend to ask her as well what she thinks of this sad affair. I know her forte is poisons, though, so I do not think she could offer me as much insight as you might. Though, on the topic of your sister… please forgive me, I do not wish to cause offense. But I have heard some disturbing rumours about her. I cannot believe she might ever be capable of what is spoken about her. Please, my friend, reassure me that these are but rumours. They say Lady Shara is behind them, and I well know the enmity between her and Ismene. A word from my closest friend and mentor, and my heart shall be at rest.
I hope to be able to visit you soon. I remember well what you have taught me, and I have already had all my veth killed for allowing a murderer into my home.
Your friend,
Shajar Thorne
Blooded of the Falcon
Baron Teravie
A Game of Tears — Part 33
Friday, September 25th, 2009 | Uncategorized | No Comments
My dearest Kassana,
You must die.
You must trust me now more than ever before. There is a delicate reason why this must be accomplished and it is a reason I cannot tell you. However you may do it, do it quickly. I have bought you enough time to conspire with whom you must to create and maintain the illusion, but it must be quick. By the end of the Season. Sooner, if possible.
My beloved, I would tell you the reason this must be accomplished, but I cannot. I must not. Only know that I have been commissioned for your death and find my hand incapable of doing so. Despite ourselves and who we are, I now know that I love you and I cannot bring myself to destroy the only woman I have ever loved.
I beg you, leave your husband and come to me now. I will make the arrangements myself. I realize now, even now, as I write these words, that such brutal work can only be accomplished by a villain. A villain such as I. As unworthy I am of your love, I shall prove its worth by breaking the most sacred promises I have ever made. I hope these revelations will prove my truth and devotion to you. I hope they are not wasted in vain.
The danger to your life lies in the mind of my sister, Ismene. She sees you as a threat to her own legacy. A dangerous woman driven by jealousy and hate. Jealousy for your beauty and cunning. Hate for the love that has grown between us. And all of this because of our Game. Of that, I can say no more in letter, but I shall reveal all when you arrive.
I beg you again: leave your husband and lands. Come to me now. I have already made preparations in my mind and soon I shall fulfill them with my hands. Come to me and we shall be together. There are many lands in Shanri where we will not be recognized. I will go with you wherever you desire. Together, we will build a new home and I shall serve you as you desire.
I have sent this letter with my most trusted servant, Isha. He shall bring you to where I am now. I have sealed the letter in such a way that only one of my family may open it. Such is my concern for your safety.
I hope that I shall see you soon. Already, I fear to lose your laughter forever. It has been the only light in my dark life.
Your beloved,
Tomas
A Game of Tears — Part 32
Friday, September 25th, 2009 | Uncategorized | No Comments
My Dearest Brother,
You shall have to forgive me, as I fear this note must be shorter than many of my previous letters. I am currently packing for a short trip. It has been too long since I have taken respite. I have decided to go to the seashore. I shan’t be long. I daresay not longer than a week or so. Nothing to worry you. Merely a small, niggling, annoying issue begging to be taken care of.
You do realize, of course, that allowing you to murder Lady Kassana violates the long-established rules of our private game? If I might restate rules we have clung to as if they were holy dogma: I have a Season to murder your newest lover; you have the same amount of time to return the favor for mine. Failure requires a forfeit, one which we neither of us has ever had to surrender. And surrender, indeed, is the word of the forfeit. You know precisely what I should ask if I won; the name I crave to hear. But I must admit not knowing what you might demand of me, though you have oft teased and mocked me with insinuations of what my forfeiture might entail. If I didn’t know you better, I would believe, dear Tomas, acknowledging my supremacy as the Mistress of Poisons (as I understand certain ven now whisper of me) and understanding I might never fail, were trying to manipulate the rules. After all, if Lady Kassana dies by a hand not my own, you could conceivably claim the forfeit.
Should you give me your word of honor, O Prince of Rakes, that you shall not make any such claim, regardless of how or when Lady Kassana expires, I shall concede to your request. I must admit a morbid curiosity to see how you shall kill her.
And now, my darling, a carriage awaits and I must be off on my small adventure!
Yours forever,
Ismene Yvarai
Blooded of the Fox
Countess Sha’av
Mistress of Poisons
P.S. I except you shall hear from Shajar within a fortnight of receiving this letter.
P.P.S. Don’t be ridiculous, Tomas. I am beyond jealousy and all such petty emotions. I am Ismene Yvarai.
A Game of Tears — Part 31
Sunday, September 20th, 2009 | Uncategorized | No Comments
My dearest sister,
Your latest later, I must admit, drove me to distraction. I could not believe the words I was reading. Not for their content, mind you, but for what was shown to me through their most hidden meaning.
I have attracted the attentions of Lady Kassana. “The Rake Breaker” herself. What a fool I was, falling for her pretty promises. I admit, I was taken in by her at the beginning, but now that I know exactly who she is, I shall deal with her myself. It was I who was fooled, my sister. It shall be I who murders her.
At the same time, I must admit, your latest letter only confirmed my suspicions at the party. Never before had I seen the light that was in your eyes. The way you watched her, not like my sister, but like something else. I had seen that light in other women before, but never in you. And I must say, it was… enlightening.
The light I saw, dearest sister, was jealousy.
Could it be, dearest one, that you believe my love for you has faded? Or become eclipsed by the love of another? Such a concern is ill-founded. If put in the position of having to decide between the two of you, you know well enough that I would choose you. She was, is, and shall always be a momentary distraction.
The jealousy you feel toward her has no basis in fact, my sister. You should not concern yourself with her. As I said, now that her identity has been revealed to me, I shall deal with her in my own way.
In the meantime, I notice you have not made any announcement regarding a new lover. With Shajar gone, I expect your castle must be getting quite chilly. The loss of a friend is much greater than the loss of a lover, but one can certainly make up for the absence of the other.
Do not allow yourself to be alone too much longer, dearest sister. We both know how melancholy you become when you are alone too long.
Your beloved brother,
Tomas
A Game of Tears — Part 30
Tuesday, September 15th, 2009 | Research | No Comments
My Dearest Brother,
Words cannot describe the joy I still feel tonight, even after all our guests have departed and my veth are bleaching their hands raw scrubbing blood off the floor. Our soiree was a complete, inarguable, inimitable success! They shall speak of this night for many Seasons to come. Though we hosted but a single duel, what a duel it was! A dear friend known to write opera from time to time hinted upon leaving that just such a duel might appear in her next great work.
My red dress did not have quite the effect I was hoping for. I think most assumed my intent murderous and so avoided me, when nothing could have been further from the truth!
Poor Yoli. Correct as always, my brother. How did you describe him? “As broken as a porcelain plate dropped onto bricks.” Not too far from the truth, I will admit. But, my beloved sibling, his broken soul was precisely what I found so intoxicating about him. I have invited too many perfectly sane, boring men in my bed. A little madness always spices up an affair. I did hope to catch a taste of his insanity, to unearth what hidden drives might persuade a man to change his Blooding and catch ork babies for sport. Unfortunately, he had his grand demise somewhat too soon. A pinch of madness might be a delectable spice, but too much ruins the whole dish. I would not worry overmuch about what “he” said. Without a doubt, Yoli spoke with our vanquished foe’s voice. Though, truth be told, I do not believe what possessed Yoli to have been a real specter. Simply an echo of the old Count’s rage at his loss and defeat. I understand when our armies had at last battered down the portcullis and he could feel my handiwork burning through his veins, our erstwhile Count ended his own life in precisely the same manner Yoli did. Poor man. I remember the Count as having been quite good with horses, I would have certainly offered him a position tending our stables.
I did manage to attract one dashing young Swordsman, one Lord Oswald. Also wearing the red. Unfortunately, he has a bit of a reputation as a man with a wandering eye. I certainly don’t care about my lovers’ histories before they come to my bed, but they had damn well be faithful to me until I either tire of them or you shuffle them off the mortal coil. No matter. I shall find a new plaything soon enough. I am Ismene Yvarai.
I must admit still being a bit unclear on what precisely led up to the duel between Lord Uval Yvarai and Lord Talon Steele. A mystery for the ages, I believe. I know for truth Lady Irene was grievously wounded, as there was no disguising the copious amount of blood staining an otherwise exquisite gown in a very indiscreet location. The fellow whom she accused of wounding her (with his member!), Lord Davon Steele… well, he might have been capable of inflicting such injury. Not the largest I’ve ever seen, but certainly substantial. Then again, Lady Irene is no blushing virgin, and I doubt it was the largest she’d ever seen either (in fact, if the rumors are true, she enjoyed Lord Voxilaven far before I did, and my darling lost canary would certainly have bested this fellow in that sort of duel. And I had no difficulties with him. You see, dear brother, my habits are good for something after all!)
However, somehow, the Lady Irene was Injured. To all appearances, Lord Davon seemed the one responsible. The Lord claimed a surfeit of passion drove him to it, and deeply regretted harm done to the Lady. Unfortunately, his words came a bit too late, as he spoke before a jury already convened. His passionate defense came not from regret, but a sincere desire to keep his life. That much was obvious. But of course, that, my dear brother, you know already! Or were you simply too dazzled by the luster of your Green Woman’s gown to pay attention to Lord Davon addressing the jury? I must admit, her clothing was quite sumptuous! I shall have to win her tailor to my own estate. He’ll not have work with her for much longer anyway.
A pity I could not eavesdrop on the jury’s deliberations when they retired to the privacy of their room, I would have loved to know what the Only Honest Man in Shan’ri made of the whole thing. The jury returned a strange verdict - Injury, but no Insult. And you and I know well the limits set upon the duel. True pain inflicted, True Pain received. The Lady Irene easily found her champion in Lord Uval. Did you invite him? You must have, I know I would have done better than to be so gauche as to extend an invitation to one wearing the black. Though perhaps I ought to take credit for Lord Uval after all, seeing as he gave a stunningly good show in the duel. And I understand his wardrobe was the result of writing an unflattering opera about the Emperor. There are worse reasons to take the black.
It took Lord Davon the better part of an hour to find a man willing to stand for him in the duel. The poor dear… despite his victory against you at the Game of Knives, I could tell he probably hadn’t touched a Sword since his Blooding. But somehow, through love or bribery or the Sua’ven only know how, he procured a Wolf champion, one Lord Talon Adrente. Upon which, of course, all the duelists and their champions retired to seek comfort in prayer and perhaps wheedle a last minute gift from Ikhalu.
The duel itself was quite thrilling and bloody. Lord Uval must have received half a dozen cuts and given just as many. The Wolf’s blade slashed his lovely lacy poet’s sleeves to bloody ribbons, though our cousin managed to get in a few good nicks himself. It was quite obvious the men were matched equally in both passion and skill. I found myself on the edge of my seat! I had think hard on who I was hoping would win. It was difficult to work up overmuch sympathy for a man in all black, but his devotion and adoration to Lady Irene was nothing short of inspiring, as was his bladework. I also pitied the poor Lady for all that she had suffered that night, and wished to see justice done to the one who had wrought her ill.
And the end! Ah, dear brother, the end of the duel is what inspired my operatic friend. I have heard some of the rumors about how it ended. Let me set the record straight. No, no one stabbed themselves. And as far as I know, the blades were not poisoned (though even if they were, there would not have been time for poison to take effect). Instead, Lord Uval had pressed the fight so long and hard that he drove his opponent to the edge of the circled ven who watched the duel. And as luck would have it (or perhaps this was Lord Uval’s plan all along), Lord Davon stood but a pace from the clashing blades. As soon as he got within range, Uval whirled on his heel and plunged the blade deep into Davon’s heart!
I was close enough to see the whole thing. The Sword cut into him with such ease, it might have been slicing through butter. Lord Davon looked surprised and scared as blood leaked from between his lips, while more ran down to Uval’s hands. Davon fell to the ground slowly, sliding off Lord Uval’s Sword with the strangest rasping sound I have ever heard. Now I know what steel on bone sounds like in slow motion.
And though he had achieved his goal of vengeance on behalf of Lady Irene, victory came at a terrible cost for Lord Uval. In skewering Lord Davon, Uval had left himself open to Talon. Lord Talon immediately took the opportunity to sink his own blade into Lord Uval, killing him almost instantly. Reaching out to the crowd with a bloodied, shaking hand, Lord Davon gasped out what was either a farewell to his lover or an apology to Lady Irene before expiring. An unorthodox, yet thrilling, end to a rather unorthodox duel. So you see why, even though there was only the one, I still consider the evening to have been a smashing success. The bodies were disposed of as you ordered - Lord Uval shall be given all due honors, whereas Lord Devon was thrown onto a hastily constructed pyre, his end witnessed by only a handful of veth tending the blaze.
If this ever becomes opera, it shall be quite a stirring scene.
Oh, and a little credit, Tomas. it was ridiculously easy to pick your Green Woman, Lady Kassana, out of the throng of simpering little doves. I did not bother marking with whom you spent your time. You are too much the rake. You thrive on any sort of attention. Moving from woman to woman, looking deeply into her eyes, speaking sweetly, treating her as if she is the love of your life. Child’s play for you. No, my brother. Instead, I watched their eyes as you spoke with them - and when you spoke with others. It was too easy. I watched for the woman whose eyes never left you, even when you were done speaking with her. The woman who could easily flirt with other men, but only had fire in her gaze for you. The one whose eyes narrowed when she saw you flirting with the other women. The one who looked at me with fear. You are remarkably talented at hiding your emotions, but unfortunately, the Lady Kassana is not.
Or, rather, her fire burns so hot and so bright for you that it cannot help but shine so visibly. She feels quite passionately about you, this much was easy to determine. The Rake Breaker and the Prince of Rakes, who in all the world would have thought? I can hear the Sua’ven laughing from here. This is how legends are born, my brother. And what a story it might have been! Lady Kassana surrenders her everything to a man who is the epitome of everything she once claimed to despise in your gender. And yet she manages to contain her overwhelming feelings for you with grace and dignity. I admire her, Tomas, I quite honestly am in awe.
I haven’t yet decided how I will murder her.
Poison is my old standby, but is a bit too easy. This must needs be a special death. How many of the women you have taken into your bed could honestly claim to have loved you? Infatuation, flirtation, Romance… but what I saw in Lady Kassana’s eyes. Ah, dear brother, it was true love! I know it well, I do. And so I think Lady Kassana deserves something a little more… elegant. An epic end to an epic love story. I do have that blood knife, which is a tempting thought. But they are dangerous weapons, and I have already been toying with the idea of piercing a different woman’s heart with it (nothing for you to worry about, dear brother, just a personal conflict I find myself unavoidably enmeshed in). Perhaps I shall take a page out of your book, and sneak into her chamber in the middle of the night to put an end to her that way. Perhaps I shall strangle her with the same cord I strangled our mother with. She has a very graceful neck. I would enjoy seeing it crushed beneath my hands.
Or maybe poison is the solution. I would have to come up with the perfect formula for her, though. Something which works slowly but ever so surely. Something to draw her death out. That would be a romantic death, would it not? Her lying abed, coughing her life up in wet, ruddy gobs as her lungs slowly dissolve from poisoned blood, her begging you not to grieve and you begging her to stay strong. I should like to watch that, I think. Maybe if the pain became unbearable enough, she would stare deeply into your eyes, speak of how much she loved you and plead for you to do the merciful thing.
As if you ever had any mercy.
Though the sudden approach has its appeal, too… there one moment, and taken away in the very next heartbeat. Perhaps I might enlist the aid of your little lost lavender plaything. I know you broke her heart, quite ruthlessly. And I wasted a whole evening trying to plan the best way to put an end to her! I have decided for myself to be merciful - as far as I know, you two didn’t have time to consummate your Romance, and so she is of no concern to me and our Game. Or if you did manage consummation in the brief minutes you were not in the room, I feel even worse for the poor girl! Lady Irene gets a better showing from the men she picks.
Besides, I shall enjoy breaking the Rake Breaker. This is a rare challenge, dear brother, and I ought to thank you for it.
Yours in all devotion,
Ismene Yvarai
Blooded of the Fox
Countess Sha’av
P.S. I cannot begin to guess at Shajar’s mind. If you really want to know why he’s returning your letters unopened, go to his lands and ask him. That is, if you can peel him away from his new wife. His parents found him quite a winning match, you ought to at least congratulate him on marrying a rich woman who will no doubt bring him many strong children. He swore his marriage would not interfere with the depth of our friendship, and that he would send for me when he could. Send for me. As if I were a parcel. Or a veth. You begin to understand why I wore red that night, dear brother. Shall we not speak of Shajar again? At least for the next Season or so, as the problem should not take much longer than that to solve. And I would be ever so grateful!
“Staple” Characters
Sunday, September 13th, 2009 | Research | No Comments
There are a few characters that show up in multiple pillowbooks, plays and operas. Shara, Lady No, Count Kether, Lady Peacock and Baron Von show up all over the place. In tragedies, these characters often die, but then show up in works by other authors.
For example, one of the most popular stable characters–Lady Peacock–shows up in the plays of Talve Yvarai, operas of Joya Steele and the pillowbooks of Adaren Adrente.
Authors use these characters to communicate to the audience. For example, in A Game of Tears, Lady Peacock makes a short but important appearance. The fact that she gets murdered in Part 1 illustrates the severity of the work. “No-one is safe.”
Using a staple character in your own work–such as Shara or Lady No or Valin Burghe–is fair game. In fact, if you want to really simulate ven literature, using at least one staple character is highly suggested.
A Game of Tears, Part 29
Wednesday, September 9th, 2009 | Research | No Comments
Her name is Kassana. Kassana. Kassana Valar. “Blessed by the Moon.”
And after confronting my sister, she is still alive.
Kassana
Kassana
Kassana
Kassana
Kassana
___
My dearest sister,
We have blessed our floor with the blood of the courageous.
A Game of Tears — Part 28
Tuesday, August 4th, 2009 | Uncategorized | No Comments
What have we wrought upon the land?
I apologize for not writing sooner. After the Count’s most recent attempt to assassinate me, the safest thing for me to do is keep moving. I try not to spend more than two nights in the same place, which makes keeping up with my correspondence passingly difficult. I don’t believe I told you about the last attempt. The plan itself was rather clumsy, I feel almost insulted. It involved a poisoned dagger and a poor, doomed, bribed veth. Or perhaps he was blackmailed, I didn’t care to ask. The dirt died quickly on the tip of Shajar’s sword. I had no idea he was so fast! You have trained him well.
In my constant traveling, I have seen things I could not imagine, not in my darkest and most morbid of moods. I have seen the burnt out shell of the count’s old castle, and witnessed the destruction wrought upon his fields and farms. Once-fecund soil has drunk in so much blood that only the meanest scrub grass will now grow there. The veth have tried to plant crops, but too much death has been absorbed into the ground. No life will sprout, and even the hardiest wheat will simply wither without bearing fruit. So many have died by the score, of war and famine and disease, there are not enough of them left to sustain any sort of productive industry. The young men have died of war, their wives have died of grief, and their children and parents have died of starvation.
What use is winning this land for our own if it is no use to us once it is ours? In the last town I stayed at, there was not a single veth left who was strong enough to drive a plow. I can certainly move some veth from my land to this once it is ours, but even my own resources have been sorely depleted by our long struggle. I can ask no more favors from my friends, I have asked too much already.
At least the end is in sight. Despite all our sacrifice and suffering, it is obvious our Count knows he can no longer win. All hope of victory left him after the battle at Aisa’s Ford, when half his men fell dead of the poison before the fighting even started. I think now he seeks only to make sure our victory is as costly as possible, and that winning will give us no peace. It may be working, my brother. I had never thought to have been the instrument of so much death. A pinch of powder in a glass of wine administered to a single target is one thing. But when my spies told me the number estimated to have died from the water we contaminated, I could not imagine being responsible for that many deaths. It is a heavy weight, and keeps me up at night.
I had always thought myself strong in the face of killing. I murdered my own parents, with my own hands. I played our private Game will a deadly skill, of which I have always been rightly proud. Yet now I am haunted by the faces of the nameless dead. I suppose that is why I have such difficulty. It is easy to kill someone you know and hate. But this sort of mass murder is just so… impersonal. I didn’t particularly hate any of the men who succumbed to the powder I made for you, they were just unfortunate enough to be working for the wrong man. An accident of fate, with no more meaning nor motive beyond that.
And as each one of mine dies, I find my fury at the Count grows. My veth have done nothing to offend him except being mine. I can almost forgive him for attempting to have me killed. It is a more honest way of setting disputes, I think, than bidding strangers murder each other and whoever ends with the fewest deaths is the victor. Sometimes, I think -
[incomprehensible]
Ah, but I am getting too sentimental. Forget what I wrote, dear brother. At long last, we have achieved the dreams we treasured as children. While I might wish dearly someone had warned me of the cost before we set down this road, I would do nothing differently. We deserve this. We have earned it.
Shajar has been of immeasurable comfort during this time. I cannot begin to describe the depth of our friendship. It is strange - he is so much younger than I, and yet I find myself being the one to turn to him for advice and guidance. He is possessed of a wisdom beyond his years. I wish I had his talent, of seeing the good in everyone. You might as well give up asking for him to return to you. Shajar knows he may come or go as he pleases, and he chooses to remain with me. I will not force him to do what he does not wish to do. If you can persuade him to leave me for your side, I shall not stand in his way. But, dear brother, you must persuade him first. Besides, travel is too dangerous durng this time of war.
[incomprehensible]
And I want to make one thing explicitly, abundantly clear. What you wrote in your last letter was not just shocking, it was utterly insulting, patently ridiculous and completely untrue. I did not, nor have I any intention of, writing a letter to his parents attempting to begin marital negotiations between the two of us. Anything you have heard to the contrary is an absolute and utter lie, no doubt perpetrated by the Count in a desperate attempt to discredit me. Shajar is a very dear friend, perhaps one of the dearest I have ever had (except of course for you, my best beloved brother). But I would not think of trying to marry him. Especially not now, when I am about to become a Countess and he is barely a Baron. We should be too wildly mismatched to be an effective partnership.
Not to mention, it would be unforgivably gauche of me to begin betrothal discussions on my own behalf. Such things ought rightly be done by one’s parents, and mine are sadly deceased and unable to perform such a service for me.
Lastly, you know my thoughts on marriage. I could never be a submissive partner. From what the rumors tell me, Shajar’s parents would never allow him to become ytola, either.
Besides, my reputation is well known to the both of them. Shajar tells me his parents are already looking for a bride for him, among the Mwrrs or Adrentes to balance out his Falcon blood. The thought of their only son marrying an intemperate woman with a lifetime of scandal behind her would no doubt send them into fits.
Having cleared up THAT particular issue, perhaps we might turn our thoughts to securing our victory? My spies tell me the Count is attempting quite the ruse. He is having a veth dress in his clothes (can you imagine!) and travel in his coach to his manor in Diavale. The journey shall be quite public. Not a parade, but certainly not in utter secrecy, especially since the road to Diavale passes close to my own lands - in fact, the vineyards burnt several years ago by Lady Shara. He hopes to distract us with a decoy while he travels in the opposite direction, towards the ports wheere he hopes to make good his escape by ship. Whether he sails in flight or to an ally to beg for more troops, I cannot say.
Part of me wishes to let him go, claim his lands and be done with it. However, letting him live is a risk we may no longer take. There is always the chance he will show up with another army at his back, or that we might bite into the wrong morsel and have all our hard work come to naught.
It seems as though there is only one thing left to do, and then it is finished. Shall we meet at the ports, ready to make an end to this after several long years? I am tired of all the killing. Just one more death, the death we have been working towards for so long, and our shared desires shall finally be realized.
I shall see you soon, Tomas.
Until then I remain,
Your loving sister,
Ismene Yvarai
Blooded of the Fox
Baronness Sha’av (for now)
P.S. The rumors of marriage between Shajar and I are forgiveable. Annoying, but forgiveable. However, if you ever DARE imply Shajar might father a bastard on me again, I will kill you. I am not threatening you. I am simply stating fact. A fact which you, of all people, ought to have known without being told. I have already heard a few disturbing rumors coming from the capital. I can forgive what I have heard so far as nothing more malicious than mere attempts by my enemies to ruin my character, but it had damn well better stop. And it had damn well better not be you behind them. I’ll be charitable and assume it was some tactless attempt to discover if he and I had grown intimate since my last letter. Well, darling brother, until you tell me what’s going on with you and your Green Woman, I shan’t reveal a bit of what’s between Shajar and I.
The Sky Galleons of Shanri, Part 1
Sunday, August 2nd, 2009 | Design, Research | 1 Comment
Recent researches reveal the ven wrote much about “sky galleons” (althenta: “air ships”). While I have been reluctant to include these in the rules (as I was reluctant to include the controversial interpretation of vadenda, or “firearms”), it seems some others have included them in their games and requested “official rules” for them.
Okay, here you go.
Sky Galleons
A sky galleon, or althenta, is a rarity in Shanri, showing up in only the most fanciful fiction (including some references of “flying to the moon” which I shall ignore in the official rules, but encourage others to explore in more experimental games).
Althenta are able to break gravity through the use of a particular kind of tree found in the most dangerous parts of Shanri. Most althena trees grow in a place called “the Wine Dark Sea,” of which you can read about in the Research forum over at www.housesoftheblooded.com. When processed a particular way–with sorcery and blood–the wood of the tree defies gravity, floating upward toward the sky. Because of the size of althea trees, making a large ship from the treated wood is incredibly expensive.
Sky galleons were primarily used by very wealthy dukes and earls, although very rarely, lesser nobles could acquire them. Because the making of such craft involves sorcery, special permissions are required from higher nobles to create them. Proof of necessity. Such paperwork can be questioned by any of the Senate’s (or Emperor’s) officials. If the paperwork is found lacking, the ship can be confiscated and the captain punished for falsifying his lord’s name.
Not a pleasant punishment, in the least.
Because of the rarity and danger of creating such vessels, the ven never undertook the task lightly. Ambition is what pushes blood through the veins and any ven with a notion to create a flying ship will not do so with modesty. These ships were always huge, always grandiose and always extravagant. Think of conspicuous consumption. “Look at what I have. I have it and you don’t.” That’s what a flying ship says. To do it any other way is an insult to yourself.
Making a Sky Galleon
To create a sky galleon, you first need Lumber, Industry and Metals. A lot of them. Lumber for the hull, Industry for the sails and Metals to bind it all together. You also need a few years of work. Specifically, you need five years to make an airship.
Like all other creative tasks, making an airship is a Beauty risk (TN 10). Make the roll and count up your wagers. Every wager cuts off one Season of time needed to create the airship.
For each Season of creation, you need one Metals, one Lumber and one Industry.
Ship Virtues
When it is all finished, you may assign ranks of Virtue to a ship. A ship is just like a character–it has all six Virtues.
Strength is the hull of the ship.
Cunning is the speed of the ship.
Courage is the crew of the ship.
Beauty is the Style of the ship.
Wisdom is the maneuverability of the ship.
Prowess is the attack force of the ship.
And in Part 2, we’ll discuss what those numbers mean and how to use them in the game!
A Game of Tears — Part 27
Monday, July 27th, 2009 | Uncategorized | No Comments
[trans. note: many letters from this particular time period, estimated to last approximately one year, are either lost or indecipherable. Given that these letters are written during a fairly chaotic period of Tomas and Ismene's life, this is somewhat understandable. Rachel and I are doing our best, but unfortunately, the next batch of letters will be fragmented and sporadic. We briefly considered not even publishing this segment; however, after long discussion decided we owed it to our readers to do our best with what we had. We hope you enjoy Part 2 of A Game of Tears.]
My dearest sister,
Once again, I find myself opening a letter with concerns for Shajar. When he refused my orders to stay here, despite my threats of abandoning his tutelage, I knew his boldness would put him in danger. But I never expected him to try confronting the Count himself. Last time I wrote to you, I hoped his bravado would have been tempered by his failure to defeat the Count’s swordsman, but it seems, his injuries only stiffened his resolve. Finding himself at the point of certain death was not enough for him, so he thought to throw himself upon it. Word got back to me swiftly–seeing the boy’s life is in my charge–and now I find myself writing to you, hoping to find him still alive.
And I write to you now from the battlefield. Here, through the fire and smoke, I can see the walls of his castle. My own men were insufficient for such a siege, but I have managed to find allies in the capital; although it took a great deal of promising to make them crawl out of the corners. I have two hundred men marching on the Count’s northern borders while my own men are currently poisoning his castle’s water supply. After all these months–nearly two years–it is nearly finished. He hides in his castle like the turtle in his shell. He forgets that I can simply flip him over and eat out his belly while he flounders on his back.
It has been almost one hundred years since these lands have seen such bloodshed. An open war. That is what we caused, my sister. An open war. If only you could see it.
The jackals sit on the borders of the lands, waiting to pick up the scraps. In the west, Duke Venel sits with his seven hundred men. I can see them on my hilltop here. I will require a miracle to put him off the scent of blood. I may need you here, sister. Your history with his son will make things much easier, I suspect.
Your last letter inquired on my progress with the Jade Lady. As I told you before, there is no progress until all this blood is settled. Her own husband, I am told, argues against me in the capital. I think he begins to suspect our “friendship.” At least, that is what the Lady told him we held. The irony is thick, my sister, for that is exactly what we have. She has refused any advances from me, and in her one moment of weakness, I found myself refusing her.
Ah, but I have not told you of that moment, have I? Let me tell you a story.
It was shortly after my recovery from Shara’s duel. I was feeling well enough to walk about the grounds, albeit with the assistance of a cane. My butler announced her arrival and I granted her my hospitality. I saw her walk into the garden carrying a bundle tied up with a handkerchief. She insisted we have lunch in the garden, revealing meat, cheese, fruits, bread and a baked pie. How could I refuse?
“You are looking healthy enough,” she told me.
“Another week,” I said. “And I may be ready to ride.”
She blushed a little. I drank the wine she brought, spiced with healing herbs.
“Am I so obvious?” I asked her.
“Predictable,” she told me. “Predictable.” She paused and cut some bread.
I smiled. “Would you prefer me to be mysterious?” I asked her.
She shook her head. “No,” she said. And then she began to speak again, and my ears distinctly heard her begin to say, “I love you just the way…”
She stopped. Her hand, on the knife, cutting an apple, slipped just a little and she stabbed the tip of her finger. She cursed and dabbed at it with a handkerchief.
“How stupid of me,” she said.
“For what you did or what you said?” I asked.
She did not look at me then. She only said
[sic]
consequences
[sic]
possible future.”
She drank the wine again, deeper than before. “Forgive me,” she said.
I nodded and took her bleeding hand. “There is nothing to forgive.”
Although, you must forgive me, sister, for sounding like a hero from one of your beloved pillow books. The Lady was mine. In my hands. Willing. Wanton, even. And could not find it in my heart to take her. Something overcame me. An emotion I have never felt before.
Pity.
And so, as
[sic]
Your brother, who loves you,
Tomas