The Lone Call, vol. 1 [under revision]

Move 0: The End is Where We Begin

The sun itself had yet to reach its zenith. It, on that day, was also deeply shielded by clouds--as if unwilling to take any part amidst the noises of clanging, shattering shields; splattered blood; slashed flesh, and incessant snaps of ropes from siege engines in full swing.

For indeed, down there, courage was being put to the test; faith rocked almost to its foundations; and determination as well as unmitigated frenzy were finding wide-open outlets. Two sizeable armies--both of a race renowned as 'Albinon'--had begun to clash; one to try clinging on to their sense of honor, the other to shake it to the point of willing to submit--and this for thirty-two days.

Such was the situation on three of the city's four fronts; for on the fourth side it faced the sea itself. Here, upon the almost complete devastation of its own navy by that of the invaders during the operation's first week, the said city's defenses were already showing signs of inevitable cracking. Barrage after barrage its walls on this side of the ocean had withstood, at great costs in materials and men; and there was now, at long last, a faint ray of hope that the invaders' ships were at last beginning to run out of stones to lob forth.

Deep in the enemy's lines, in the largest field tent set in the center of one of the giant semi-circular clusters, a few heads were in deep conference poring over a scale map depicting pertinent outlines of the city in question--here marked as 'Balaras'--and several white pebbles. These were arrayed close to some of the city's edges, indicating a siege in progress.

A burly man in his armor that had been splattered with battle colors--he had not had the time to properly dress them before attending this small top-brass conference--looked up, revealing his oval face with strong jaws, thin brown moustache, hazel eyes, and an expression of unbending will. His slap on the map's center (fortunately cleared of pebbles) with a flat palm, somewhat added to this.

Hasan had been in this House's service since the last three of its previous overseer's seven-year reign. For most of that period this then-youthful commander had witnessed first-hand his overseer's attempts to mold the various powerhouses on this scarce-regarded backwater region of the 'Sunset Lands' into one single polity. The first large leap of this phase had involved ousting Yzarc, a rival contender, from his stronghold in Balaras. Alas, Husnir did not live long enough to see the fulfilment of his vision by his eldest son, now in his fifth reigning year. As he open-handedly banged the table just now, Hasan imagined grasping the hostile city and tear it down stone after stone.

There was reason to be proud.

"Today shall be the last respite of the Balarians as themselves, before we get to plant our own flag there! They best savor the moments..."

"Observe discretion, Hasan, and patience," someone to the speaker's left advised. "There has indeed been some success in your section, but nowhere a certain breach, so far as we're concerned."

One of the other conferees across the table looked up as well. This one was in an arguably better state: resplendent in his polished armor, the breastplate meticulously etched with his House's symbol. This man, however, had not bothered to don the purple robe signifying his rank. His oval face, pale complexion and unbridled silver hair that reached down to the waist completed the physical features. He was Ingeras, the reigning amir or 'overseer' to House Hospodia--and the second to style himself such.