Companions of Shamashek
((Dashed lines show former Provinces. Dots separate Holds. Solid lines outline current Provinces. Provinces, past and former, are labeled with letters.
V = Vashni, Province of Conquerors
J = Jermovosni, Province of the Pious
U = Urtza, Province of Unity
A = Aramekni, Province of Progression
K = Kunnekikni, Province of the Intellectuals
G = Graldapakni, Province of Creators
N = Nyolni, Province of Rulers
D = Drunyikni, Province of the Despicable
And because it’s hard to read, the mountain range at the edge of Monokret is called Gromach Summit (the holiest place in all of Shamashek) and the islands off of the Vulpashi peninsula are the Tur Islands.))
[i]
The Thanerosni gather around. They see the world and plan the Thaneros Major has created and make the following series of events possible. Tangible. Faces enter the realm, blue burning eyes open in a sea of electric clouds to process the script.
Pen to paper; chisel to stone.
Creation is born.
At the close of the Period of Change, a divine human shall unify the bringers of change, with aid from the winged Companion of Shamashek, and rescue Karamja from tyranny, all in service to the Dragnani. What occurs after this premonition is fulfilled is clouded in the ocean of unwritten time and uncertainty. However, as the shamans of Skithix have ascertained, bird will swim in ocean, slug will dominate the sky, fire shall quench thirst, vegetation shall recess below the ground, and the role of men shall be likewise drastically altered.
As is the word of the Thaneros.[/i]
This is a tale from another place, another plane, in a time of divinities and true reverence. The divinities, the Torem’hetni, have presided over Karamja since the beginning of known history.
Humanity exists by the deities’ grace and is allowed to live and flourish with the promise to fulfill their divinities’ needs and show them worship. The balance of power between man and god has been stable for a millennia…and yet something is amiss.
Vashni, the last remaining unified province besides Urtza, has been continuing a string of bloody conquest begun nearly five years ago. Now, in fear, the remaining provinces of the great continent of Shamashek have all but dissolved into separate holds as a defensive effort. They all await the sure arrival of the Divine King of War and Battle and his massive army…
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Death. It was the hand of death that brought Troliam’te Dovas into this world, and as a mortal, death would surely return to take away the life it had once offered as a gift.
Such a bleary state of affairs, Dovas thought to himself. How cruel indeed!
“Perhaps death shall return sooner than expected with the continuing conquest of the Vash’Mohrt.”
Dovas said this out loud, looking down on his older brother.
“Don’t be so grim all your life, brother,” Telemas answered. He picked up another wooden plank and lifted it to Dovas with a long arm. “Besides, perhaps some hero will shoot an arrow through the bastard’s spine before we finish this tamak hut.”
Dovas grabbed the wooden board and positioned it on the hut roof to be pegged into place.
“But the Vash’Mohrt is a Divine King. When will the frontier holds understand they would have better chances crossing the domain of Meremba than ending the life of a Divine King?”
Telemas handed the rough hammer and six pegs off the Dovas.
“But unlike crossing the sea, killing the Vash’Mohrt is far from impossible; there is a massive difference between immortality and agelessness,” he added, his voice filled with mock contempt at Dovas’ ignorance. “Divine Kings are ageless and may live for thousands of years. But they are, in the end, as mortal as you or I. They inherit all the weakness of humanity, save time. A simple dagger to the heart or a drop of poison would suffice.”
Dovas pegged the board into place. This would indeed make a good home for their new tamak.
“And so the fate of Shamashek rests on the chance of the Vash’Mohrt being defeated in battle or assassinated? A futile effort!”
“The Vash’Mohrt is a fearsome warrior,” Telemas conceded grimly. “And the combined strength of the province of Vashni knows no equal.”
“Especially when the provinces outside of our own have all but disbanded.”
This Dovas said this as he pegged the last board into place.
“The hut is finished,” he said, standing and straightening his white shendyt.
Telemas turned towards their beige mudbrick home and called his Companion.
“Shenegro! Bring over the tamak!”
Dovas jumped down from the hut roof and onto the cracked dirt.
“I hope father approves of the hut. Murlat has already begun retiring the sun, which means he shall be returning home soon.”
“If he finds issue with it, I’ll be sure to assure him it is my doing,” Telemas said, speaking over his shoulder.
And then suddenly appeared Shenegro, Telemas’ Companion. The large striped tiger sauntered forth, majestic with thick healthy fur and leading a moderately sized tamak with a long leather rope which Shenegro clamped hard upon with his powerful jaw. He stepped forth, tugging at the rope.
The six foot tall beast of burden that was the tamak followed Shenegro’s lead. Its large head, supported by a long neck, swayed back and forth as it moved, looking for large nuts and berries it could crush with its large beak. Its vestigial forearms rested close to the chest as it moved gracefully on long muscular legs ending in cloven talons. It’s thin layer of soft feathers almost glistened in the setting sun.
As Telemas’ Companion led the tamak towards its new home, Dovas spied two shimmering dots in the darkening sky, the first of Provash’s many vigilant shining eyes. Soon Murlat would completely hide the sun and make way for Navora and her endless Void.
This held a grim significance for Dovas: his father was sure to arrive any minute.
As if cued by the deities themselves, a booming voice arose.
“Telemas! Dovas! Prepare my mug of ale, for I have returned!”
The brothers’ burley father, Girogno, approached from the mudbrick house, wearing a dark thick beard which grew to cover the top of his vest. He marched with a pretentious gait, as if the world before him was his to consume and add to his girth. His face, as always, was bitter and red with suppressed anger.
Suppressed for not much longer if he were to have his way with Dovas.
But Telemas was here, and his father would not dare mistreat Dovas in front of his first-born brother, whom he would soon rely upon in old age. Nor would he trifle with Shenegro, the fearsome tiger. Furthermore, he could hardly think of being on bad terms with Telemas, the favorite son, the one who wasn’t a disappointment. In an effort to avoid a confrontation with his youngest son, Girogno addressed Telemas.
“Telemas, I see you’ve built the tamak hut!” he proclaimed with genuine pride. “All by yourself?”
Dovas remained absolutely silent as he saddled the tamak, his head hung low.
“No, father,” Telemas answered. “Dovas helped.”
Girogno suddenly eyed the structure with a critical eye, obviously looking for imperfections his miserable son might have infected the hut with.
“Not too much, I hope.”
He strolled around the wooden hut, his large arms struggling to remain clamped together behind his back, his eyes ultimately centering on Shenegro.
“I see you summoned your Companion,” he said.
“Yes, father,” Telemas answered. “He was helping to keep the tamak from running off. Besides, I felt him growing restless within me.”
Dovas noticed his father’s eyes become imbued with a wistful expression, probably while remembering a time when he wasn’t so bitter as to prevent him from conjuring his own Companion.
There was a period of silence, interrupted by the tamak making a small squeal and Shenegro growling deeply in response.
“Dovas,” Girogno finally said, with a hint of impatience. “My ale.”
“Yes, father,” Dovas said quietly as he walked back towards the house. The sky was now completely darkened, the two moon manifestations of Shaa and Naa hung softly in the sky (much assuredly to the delight of healers and soothsayers alike). Karamja had now passed fully and gracefully, as always, into Navora’s realm of the Void as the planet rested and revitalized itself.
Dovas entered the small home, smelling musk from the small strung up rodents which provided most of the family’s meat. He walked over to the table where the metal mugs were stacked, grabbed one, and moved quickly to the ale keg, constructed of the locally sacred wood of the palm tree. He stopped filling from the spigot when the froth was close to spilling over the top.
He placed the metal mug of ale on the rough wooden table adjacent to the keg, and pulled a seat out for his father. He took a deep breath as he opened the door to call to Girogno, who still stood near the tamak hut with Telemas, Shenegro already absorbed within him. Dovas could not hear much of what they said, but he could sense pride in the way his father looked while talking with his first-born son. Pride which was absolutely alien to Dovas.
“Father!” Dovas called, interrupting the envy-inspiring tender scene. “Your mug of ale has been poured.”
Girogno turned his face suddenly, an intense scowl plastered to it.
“Quit your yapping, I’m coming!”
Girogno left Telemas with the tamak as he marched towards the house, stopping in front of Dovas who held the door open.
“Well, in or out? Get out of my way.”
Dovas decided to move into the home. Girogno marched to the table, nearly shoving Dovas out of the way. He sat upon the chair, and Dovas cleared his throat. He spoke as his father started to drain the mug of its contents.
“How was the capital today?”
“Tek-Yehaf is a shithole, just like the rest of this godforsaken hold,” his father growled after he swallowed, not even bothering to look at his son. He grabbed a piece of dried meat lying on the table and took a large bite of the tough fibrous tissue. “I’d have better luck selling whores to the pious jackass monks in Monokret than to make the snobs in our capital buy our rodent meat. Gods forbid they allow rodent meat pass through their silver-dusted mouths.”
“I assume you did not sell much, then?” Dovas said, lowering his gaze.
“You will have to start eating less if I can’t bring home more money,” Girogno said as he shoveled more food into his mouth. He washed the rodent meat down with a gulp of ale.
“Well,” Dovas’ father said after a moment. “I suppose you should head to bed so you can catch me more rodents tomorrow morning.”
“Very well,” Dovas answered obediently. “May the eyes of Provash protect you in slumber.”
His father merely grunted in return.
Dovas retreated to his small room. It paled in comparison to either the bedroom of Telemas or his father. Indeed, it was little more than an afterthought to their mudbrick home. Telemas’ room was furnished. A carpet, ragged as it was, lay upon the floor. A small painting their mother had made while she was still alive hung on his wall. And his bed was soft and lined with cloth. Dovas, on the other hand, had a cold bare floor, empty walls, and nothing more than a glorified pile of hay to sleep on. His room did not even have a shrine to the deities, a crime punishable by imprisonment in most of Shamashek. Much like himself, Dovas’ room was miserable. Dovas, nevertheless, considered this room as much of a sanctuary as he would ever have in this hell of a home, and therefore was thankful with what he had. He lied down without hesitation on his makeshift bed, and quickly fell asleep.
Some time later, perhaps an hour our two, he was awoken by deep guttural singing coming from beyond his door. Assumedly, his father had drunk one too many mugs of ale, like so many times before. The singing continued intelligibly, and slowly transitioned into restrained sobbing, which then gave into complete silence. Then the shuffling of Girogno’s seat, and the stumbling of drunken steps, as he moved closer and closer to Dovas’ room. As he heard his father touch the wooden slat that was his door, his breathing intensified. The door slid open, scraping the dirty floor as Girogno stumbled in, nearly falling over in his drunken stupor.
“Why did you do it, you piece of shit?” Girogno slurred.
Dovas crawled backwards against the wall, whimpering in fear of what was about to occur.
“Why the hell did you kill your mother?”
Tears began to well in both of their eyes.
“Father…I didn’t…”
“You are a goddamn liar!” Girogno hissed.
Despite his belly and intoxicated state, Dovas’ father quickly reached his son who was still cowering on the floor. He placed a large sweaty hand on his son’s mouth to muffle his cries.
“You killed her when all she wanted was to give birth to your worthless little body. Why did you kill your mother?”
Dovas began to struggle against his father on the floor, but when the much older man put all of his weight onto the 12-year-old boy, there was little he could do. Girogno forcibly turned his son onto his belly and grabbed a switch he kept in the room.
“She was perfect! She was beautiful! She was kind! She was lovely!” Each sentence was punctuated by the sound of the switch striking Dovas’ back.
After a little less than ten minutes of this ordeal, Girogno hiccupped, sniffled, stood, and walked towards the door to his youngest son’s bedroom as Dovas continued to cry softly.
Girogno paused at the door.
“Stop your pathetic sniveling, you weak-“ Girogno’s expression of disdain was promptly interrupted by a mournful howl. It was the cry of a wolf which sounded sickly and weak. But it still prompted Girogno to slowly turn around to face Dovas, murder in his eyes.
“You dare to call your Companion? IN MY PRESENCE!?”
Dovas’ eyes widened with fear, knowing he had commited a grievous sin against his father.
“Please, it was an accident…I’m sorry.”
Dovas had always struggled to keep his Companion suppressed, as per the command of his father. Girogno forbade Dovas to summon his Companion, and thus he had barely ever seen his, but knew from a couple of occasions, such as this, that it was most likely a wolf. From the sounds of it, a lame, old, sickly wolf. His father never told him why he forbade his son from calling his Companion. But whenever he was around to witness a lapse in Dovas’ strength and an accidently summoning, however partial it always was, his father was always red with pure unbridled anger. It was one of the worst offenses Dovas could commit.
Breathing heavily, Girogno closed his son’s door again, as he stepped towards his son, prepared to teach him a lesson in Companion control.