You, Yorat of house Kalinvan, have ascended the throne in a time of uncertainty and crises.
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Kalinland
- Thread starter NeutralPlank
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Chapter 1
NeutralPlank
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Feb 23, 2022
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You, Yorat of house Kalinvan, have ascended the throne in a time of uncertainty and crises.
To the north, migrating tribes of a strange species bring terror to the hearts of your people. And to the south, an emerging empire threatens the region's stability. But within, there is danger of another kind. A danger that lurks in the shadows and strikes when the iron is hot. A danger of intrigue and ambition. A danger that may very well be your unending.
How will you navigate through these troubling times? Will you be the stuff of stories or but a footnote in the annals of history?
With a heavy sack of kindling fastened around the shoulders, he walks forward. The clank of metal on metal, distant shouts of peddlers hawking their goods, and children kicking up dust storms do nothing to avert his attention from the ground before him, for a misstep and fall could render his frail bones useless for weeks to come.
This has been his routine for years, decades, and it will be so till his dying breath. Life is cruel like that, but she is all the more seductive; she seduces with the smell of cooked meat wafting through a chimney, with fantasies of fire caressing his numb toes and fingers, and with thoughts of a giggling baby being cooed by her mother. He walks forward.
Hours later, he stops by a well for drink and respite. A hill enclosed by walls rests before him, and a castle crowns the top of said hill. There, on a balcony, stands a man with his hands clasped behind his back. Layers of velvet and linen bellow about, but his eyes are resolute on all that lies below his abode.
By chance or design, their gazes meet. Countless thoughts and flights of fancy run through the laborer's mind. He gives voice to none of them. For it's a shameful thing, a shameful thing to beg after a lifetime of austerity, honest living, and a head held high despite the weight of existence. He does not give voice to them, but his soul is tired, so tired that it runs to his eyes in hopes of being seen, pitied, and…
Short castle walls, shabby battlements, and a guard picking his nose; a miserable sight to behold, made worse by howling winds biting at your ears. You were heading towards the castle balcony to do some people wat—ehem, to supervise your subjects, when your valet asked if he should bring your coat since it's cold outside. You were about to give him the very order, but as he said it first, one can't accept and appear weak now, can they? No.
So here you are, on the balcony, looking at cottages that surround the hillside and the not far away walls enclosing the metropoli—cit—town? Yes, a small town, though it would take you great lengths to admit it.
Peasants idle about, an old man is fixated on your eyes, and a wagon leaves the main gate. They should be tending to their crafts, tilling your lands, and paying their due taxes! Do they not know of productivity? Efficiency? Time management? Apparently not! But in all fairness, neither do you. Such words don't exist in your backwater kingdom. Regardless, there's a lot to do. Taxes to be raised, criminals to be guillotined, lazy guards to be punished, and… other equally important things. Your attention returns to the old man whose focus is locked on your eyes. Is he truly that mesmerized by your regal presence? There's an awful itch on your neck dying to be scratched, but his revering stare stops you halfway. Thou art no uncouth peasant; appearances have to be maintained.
Creak, a door from behind opens.
"Milord," a voice calls, oddly jubilant despite the speaker's head of scant white hair (combed to perfection) and a frame reminiscent of famine and starvation.
"It's not Milord, Layton, it's Your Majesty. My King will also suffice."
"Yes, milord."
You sigh, "I'm surprised my father didn't have your head for such offences."
"Indeed Milord, his majesty was ever merciful."
"Yes, he was." You walk towards the door. A servant closes it upon your entrance, separating the chill of the outside from the fragrant embrace of cedar burning in the room's fireplace.
King Kalin III and your two eldest half-brothers were due to return to the capital two months ago. Days passed with no news, and when a week became two, numerous parties were sent in search of them, only to find the mangled remains of your father's steed and rotten entrails splattered on the ground and surrounding shrubbery. Their corpses weren't found, neither was the monster responsible for the butchery, but the message was crystal-clear; Kalinland needed a new king.
The realm's peerage and your remaining family members were called to the capital for the funeral. Your third eldest half-brother and uncle, on an expedition in the Aur-lands and long unheard of, were absent. So was your younger brother, who has probably not yet heard of the news. Of father's five male offspring, only you were present.
That was ten days ago. Now, after many oaths of fealty, socialization with feudal vassals, and one too many marriage proposals to your younger sister by hot-blooded & ambitious nobles, you are free to get accustomed to your new role as king.
"Sire," Layton interrupts the pause, "there are a number of concerns that must be attended to, chief among them Prince Estemore's host and the treasury's deficit. I've prepared a summary of summer's fiscal report."
Something something report? Layton always has a way with strange words.
One look at the parchment he hands you and confusion turns to excitement. "Ah, summer's piscal report. The treasury, as some would call it. Yes, Layton?"
"…Yes." there's a disturbing lack of milord in his response.
You try reading the fancy shnaby words and small numbers on the parchment, but soon, fantasies of a bed and the pleasures of midday naps overtake you. "What am I looking at, Layton?" you frown.
"The piscal report, milord," he hides a grin. "Would you like me to give a summary?"
"I order you to."
"As you say, milord. The treasury's revenue—"
"My revenue."
Layton looks you square in the eyes. "Milord's revenue for the previous quarter is a total of 409 Kalinies and 17 silver. Of this, 245 Kalinies 6 silver are from demesne taxes and 108 Kalinies 5 silver from feudal taxes." Of all its afflictions, the limitations of age have done no harm to Layton's mental faculties. You, on the other hand, are still trying to figure out how those numbers add up to 409.
"Industries and investments gave a profit of 22 Kalinies 17 silver. Customs and tolls yielded 26 Kalinies 6 silver and 7 Kalinies 1 silver respectively. There was no surplus from the Mint, which barely broke even."
You lose focus after the first set of numbers and placate yourself with the initial sum of 409 Kalinies and something silver.
"These are good numbers, Layton. Half of this is more than enough for enchanted gear and a few powerful spells." You'd know that considering your adventuring career before ascending the throne; slaying monsters, chasing bandits, rescuing maidens in distress and whatnot. Actually, as much as one might want it to be so, there were no maidens in need of help. To your eternal displeasure, monsters have a tendency to eat their prey rather than lock them up and wait for prince charming to come and save them.
"For an individual, milord, yes, but for a baron—" you squint as Layton coughs into a fist, "—kingdom, your majesty, this amount is certainly not adequate."
Yes, he has a point; Kalinland is a backwater. Natural given the infancy of the kingdom and its recent acquisition into human hands. That's why your late father had you go adventuring abroad—as opposed to staying in Kalinland—to learn and adopt good customs from the more prosperous southern Kingdoms.
"Indeed, you speak the truth, and as king, I admit that. A lesser man would have been blinded by pride, but I am a king. Is that not so, Layton?" you smile.
"Yes milord," he replies dryly, "but the issue at hand is not the state of our revenue, but our expenses, which for the previous quarter were at 1,246 Kalinies and 4 copper coins."
You are about to reproach him for the treacherous use of the word 'our'—as if he is king along with you! However, anger is superseded by incredulity at the sheer amount of gold leaving your treasury. In fact, you now wish that it truly were our expenses and not yours alone to cover.
"H-How?"
Layton's calm and collectedness seems to be mocking your stupefied response, and the man himself doesn't seem disturbed at the least by your loss of royal demeanor. You even might have noticed a concealed smile.
"Prince Estimor's host."
Prince Estimor. You had heard mention of his coming months ago. When news of a ghauv tribe migrating south through the Aur-lands spread, human frontier kingdoms in the north bordering the aurs responded in different ways: some built makeshift walls in key passageways, some sent army detachments to support the aurs and prayed to their patron god for the best, and some—like your father—hired mercenaries. But, there are mercenaries, and then there are mercenaries. Prince Estimor's host, a battalion of 6 hundred men, is undoubtedly the cream of the crop; so is their pay.
"Not all of that money is spent on their maintenance, but they account for the majority of our expenses. Precisely, 872 Kalinies, 2 silver and," he looks down for a moment, "33 copper."
"How did my father pay him?"
"The nobles chimed in. We were still running a deficit then, but it was more manageable."
"What happened?"
"After the ghauvs were defeated in Oilesh-Bain, the lords… claiming the threat dealt with—and because of the financial strain on their coffers—stopped sending war aids. The treasury has been paying the prince's host ever since."
"The threat dealt with? Financial strains?" you bellow. "That was one battle. They could regroup and come here any minute! And what of our financial burdens?" Nearby servants cower backward, but Layton holds his ground; a testament to his experience in serving three generations of Kalinvan kings.
You pace back and forth for Craytin knows how long, eventually slumping in a nearby chair with no regard whatsoever to the lack of proper cushioning. As a youngster, you loathed his overbearing desire to correct your every mistake, but now, you can't help but study his eyes for a response, an answer, reassurance of some sort...anything. Nothing. There's nothing to find.
"Why didn't father just disband them?" you ask, half hoping the thought never occurred to anyone.
"He refused. Prince Estimor refused."
"Of course he did," you whine. No wonder your ascension was so smooth. No one wants to assume leadership in a time of crisis.
Layton takes a deep breath. "He said his troops came for honor and a fortune—battle and gold—, and they won't leave until they get one or the other."
"Warmongers, the lot of them! Send them north to fight the damned ghauvs then."
"He refused to do so without a forcible size, possibly your levies, accompanying them."
Your eyes go wide, "Then what ought we do?" At this point, all decorum is lost between the two of you, and in the face of economic desperation, you put no effort into rectifying it.
"I've thought of possible ways to resolve the issue," Layton momentarily closes his eyes in recollection, and after a short pause, recounts his thoughts. "We could impose an aid on our pioneering villages directly to pay for Prince Estimor. This aid will stint their growth and avert new settlers from establishing communities in your lands. It'll also no doubt displease the nobles, for such villages under their jurisdiction will be included as well, but the treasury will probably be able to break even."
"What form will this aid be in?" You're not sure what aid means, but as king, you obviously can't just ask him for a definition!
"What do you mean?" he raises an eyebrow.
"I mean, in what form will it be collected in?" Layton gives you a deadpan stare, the like of which you are very familiar with; your childhood was littered with them. You got them during his tutoring classes, mainly for failing to answer a question after he explained something for the umpteenth time.
"In any form, milord. Coin, supplies, relics… anything." He's done with the topic, but the confusion in your eyes prompts him to elaborate. "As is the case with some of our neighbors, pioneer villages are given special exemptions, such as less tax and levies. While the aid is technically also a tax, it is only imposed in times of necessity."
A viable solution to maintain the status quo. Pay the prince, and in the coming months, if the ghauvs attack, he'll be called to take arms. If they don't invade, you'll be back to square one; only now, your subjects are economically worse off, and you'll have to deal with grumpy nobles.
"Then again, we could dispatch Prince Estimor's host with a sizeable force of your levies north. This will deal with the ghauvs, endear the crown with your Aurish subjects, and possibly improve relations with aur kings in the north. However, it will leave our lands more vulnerable to being attacked by neighbors, and it'll take a toll on the treasury."
"A toll on our treasury?" you shift in your chair.
"Yes," he hesitates. "The Prince's forces are currently at half pay, if they are sent off for battle, full payment will be required. We'll also have to account for—"
You breathe blasphemous curses too impolite for even the roughest and lowest of gatherings, but Layton continues, unamused by the show.
"…We'll also have to account for the maintenance of levies. While feudal levies will pay for themselves, the cost of milord's personal levies is partly covered by the treasury. These costs will be nothing compared to the price of Prince Estimor's host, but they are still no insignificant amount."
You want to be angry, you do, but there's no steam left. You look at the withered man in front of you and wonder if the creases on his face are a result of old age or the affliction of his duty. Will that be you one day? No. You heave a sigh, and in an uncharacteristic show of humility, order a servant to bring Layton a chair.
"Thank you, milord," he says after sitting down.
You nod, "What is the state of my levies?"
"From your demesne, milord, I estimate 12 hundred men, and of the feudal levies, 14 to 17 hundred. In total, 2,600 to 2,900."
"That is not much."
"Yes, milord, but in extreme times, like if the ghauvs attack our territory, we could exact further levies. The nobles would also organize their forces to fight them off."
You hum in contemplation. "How many men should we send with Prince Estimor?"
"A body of 13 hundred soldiers would satisfy him while leaving us with a reasonable defensive force in case of a military threat."
True, but a crucial question arises. This army of 1,300 men, what proportion shall be from your personal levies, and what proportion from your feudal vassals? You leave such thoughts aside for now, as you have yet to commit to this course of action.
"Another option, milord, is to give prince Estimor a lump sum to leave. I believe 2,000 Kalinies would be adequate, but then again, negotiations could fail or he might ask for more."
You grimace. "How many Kalinies do we have in the treasury?"
"3,400 Kalinies"
A huff leaves your mouth. That's the accumulation of six-plus decades of savings. To have more than half of it go to waste like this is heart-wrenching to say the least.
"Anything else?" you ask hopingly, but you both know the answer.
"That is all for now, milord."
That is all. You brood over your options, considering each with a wit the gods frugally spared your soul before birth. Something smells odd, though. Why are you on the back foot? None of these decisions shout kingly. Would a king submit to pressure? No! You need something with more punch, more power, more…pazam? Something that goes 'Hey, I'm the king, and this is how we do things around here.' Then what ought one do, pray tell?
Thud. A guard far behind Layton stumps the bottom of his halberd on the ground. A fine weapon, the halberd be. Pointy spike, sharp ax head, and small hammerhead—it is as tall as the man in question. A Fine weapon indeed. The guard slightly bows under such intense scrutiny. You pay him no heed; focus immersed in his weapon. It is a fine weapon; not because of the holder, its good artisanship, or that it was a gift from your father for meritorious service. No, it is a fine weapon for it lights a spark in your mind. An image of marching men, songs of glory, and the sweet odor of sweat, metal, and blood.
"War," your head quirks up, your back straightens, and your hands grip the chair's armrest. "We can declare war! There's Olieptain, Karamien, Windayr, Wlaces—well, perhaps not Karamien and Wlaces, but, yes, the spoils of war will pay the troops, the realm's borders will expand, Estimor's issue will be resolved, and it'll…cement the crown's standing!"
"Yes, that is an alternative, but I strongly advise against it," Layton crisply replies, face devoid of any emotion.
You wait for him to continue, but he has said his piece. You contemplate on the matter, and slowly, the crackling of firewood and whistling of wind from the outside are replaced with scenes of battle and glory in your mind. The thrill of a dance of swords, showers of arrows coloring the sky, and men praising thy name. This would be your first real campaign, a perfect stage to prove your mettle to anyone harboring doubts about the new king's legitimacy.
That's not to say you're unaware of the follies of war. Declaring war will leave you vulnerable to both the ghauvs if they make it south and your neighbors if they are somehow inspired by your example. You further ponder on the idea, but to no avail; thy awesome mind has struck a dead end. That is not to say there are no other potential consequences and advantages to this course of action, but they fail to present themselves to your majestic intellect.
"What if," you ask, "what if I were to strike north, or attack a neighbor, and at the same time have the pioneer communities support the crown's finances. Would that not partially solve the issue?"
"Milord, the state does not have the administrative capacity to tax the entirety of the communities, nor the military force to effectively guard all the tax caravans as they transport the coinage. Prince Estimor's troops would have helped with that, but with them sent off to war, the collection of this aid would either be very slow, or we outstretch ourselves and most of the funds are lost to corruption, bandit raids, and monster attacks." Disappointing news. You've somewhat gotten used to it, at least in this particular talk with Layton, and you'd expect nothing better from him. You decide to dismiss before he further dampens your mood.
"I understand, Layton, you may get back to your duties, I'll call on you when I've made a decision."
He bows, a bow too short for your liking, and leaves. You remain seated, eyes shut, thinking of your new station. You wanted this, oh, you wanted it very badly. Ever since you remember, you would play at being king, commanding men in battle, and being respected by all. However, you soon realized this was a futile dream. After all, you had the weakest claim, second only to your younger brother. It was only by the virtue of tragedy, perhaps an unfunny joke by Lu'Kais—the god of pranks, chance, and other silly things—that you are where you are today. Back then, you didn't know the Gods' plans, so you left, with the blessings of your father, to seek your fortune as an adventurer.
All was well and life was good. You even made a name for yourself among the adventuring community: Mr. Stick up his a — ehem, anyway, that was your life for the past three years, and you enjoyed it quite so, mainly because your men did all the scouting, cleaning and other menial tasks too mean for a member of high society. At this point, you'd given up on inheriting the throne, and were content with your life as a fourth son. That is, until a fateful day one month and a half ago.
Your team had succeeded in a difficult monster hunt. Morale was high, and you wanted to commend your subjec–teammates by making them your (in)famous Yorat-stew, or The Yorat, humbly named in your honor. Game, any kind will do; vegetables & herbs, whatever's available; flour, only wheat flour; a dash of spice, and everything nice; anything else you might feel like adding and… voila! Perfection incarnate! The Yorat. A delicacy, exquisite in nature, such that it takes years of cultivation to refine one's tastes to enjoy the full experience. You had finished eating five bowls and were contently observing your men as they savored their first serving with tears of gratitude.
The doom-bringer, haggard from a long journey, arrived mid-feast with word of your father's passing. You took the news somberly and with all the grace befitting your royal stratum. Anyone who heard you weeping and wailing that night is full of feces and they ought to be reported to the nearest authorities to receive an according punishment. But, yes, you cried. You cried for the first time in gods know how many years. For the second time in forever, you cried for a human being. Despite this, you are ever ashamed that even during your grief, you were giddy with the idea of assuming command of the kingdom. So, you rode back, with such haste, that upon reaching the capital, your poor stallion—Krafes— all but collapsed on the spot. However, no matter how foul your heart may be, filial piety still burned within it. Thus, confident in your new capabilities after years of adventure, you organized another search party; an endeavor that ultimately failed to bear any fruit.
You were not immediately crowned king upon return, oh no, those bootlicking nobles wouldn't have it! Him? King? Preposterous! The lot of them wanted to wait for your 3rd older half-brother or uncle to return and take the mantle instead, but there'd been no news of them for the past year. Cooler heads prevailed, and betwixt you and your fashionably late younger brother, you were appointed king. You were ecstatic, but recent events have rightfully made you more apathetic to the promotion.
Now, you'd rather lie down on a field of lush grass and—oh, oh, and how would you have it! You are lying on a field of damp grass. A cool breeze caresses your face, massaging your eyelids, cheeks, nose, and… at a distance three, no, four…or is it five?…squirrels are… dancing in a circle to the merry tune of a purple nightingale… perched on a branch. Everything. From the texture of your coarse hemp tunic. The aroma of trees. And dirt and. Happiness… to the smile of the, sun hugging your skin…everything is so vivid. Knock…and you look to the left. She's walking your way with, a wooden bowl of broth in hand. She sits and you snuggle your tiny head on her thigh, extra careful. Not to touch her stomach. She feeds you a spoonful, of broth after blowing on it a couple times. You can't put a finger on the flavor, but it tastes. Wonderfully amazingly fantastic! You look up. It's an unfamiliar face you recognize. She smiles. It's a beautiful smile, it is. Just the right amount of teeth showing. Lips. Raised up not too much and not too little. Small creases where her smile meets, the cheeks. It's a beautiful smile.
"H—"
Knock. A loud noise awakes you from dreamland. Before you deem the intruder fitting a response, the door opens and a young lady of nineteen summers enters. With her head held high and a gaze that could belittle giants; she walks inside with terse but level steps. After a brief look at you, she takes the room in, tsks, and faces you once more. A maid follows closely behind, profusely bowing in apology on behalf of herself and her mistress.
"Brother."
You look up from your chair. There she stands, the vile creature, dressed in a burgundy gown. Fine complexion, light brown eyes, and brunette hair; an immaculate replica of her mother's beauty. But see, unlike her sweet mother, she's very grating on your most august eyes.
"Half-sister."
"Yes, my bad, half-brother." She smiles, a smile so fake blind men could see it for what it is, yet one that would ignite the fire of passion within the most zealously celibate monk. At least, that's what she'd like to believe; you know she's as appealing as a turd.
She walks to a guard stationed to your left, examining his mail armor and trusty pike.
"Layton was here, wasn't he?"
"He was."
"On what matter?" She ambles to another guard with the grace of a princess, but all you see is a bumbling buffoon.
"State matters."
"Specifically?"
"Specifically none of your business."
There is a break in her steps as she glances sideways at you. Her methodical strut continues, and upon arriving at her destination, she takes off the guard's helmet and caresses its polished metallic surface.
"They do not love you, you know," she says.
"Who?"
"Anyone. Everyone. This guard, for example." The man in question turns towards you. His contorted face, pleading eyes, and trembling hands paint a clear picture. He would have fallen on the ground and begged forgiveness if protocol allowed it.
"The same could be said for you."
"True, but some do, the fools do. The ones here, they're afraid of me!" she laughs. "They're afraid of a woman!"
"Perhaps they just despise you?"
"Perhaps," she regains her composure as the guard in front of her is reduced to a pool of sweat. "But not Estimor."
What?
"Prince Estimor." She delights at your confusion. "The cause of your recent sorry state of affairs."
You remain unusually calm, for past experiences with Polaine have taught you that anything else would be the wrong response.
"He asked for my hand in a letter, three months ago."
"What did father say?"
"He refused. He should have agreed, though. Estimor was willing to halve his price and even leave if father asked it of him." She walks to the chair you had brought for Layton and sits.
"And what of you yourself?"
"Does it matter?"
"I suppose not. But I want to know."
She picks up a bunch of grapes from a nearby bowl and drops them into her mouth one by one. That fruit bowl wasn't there before. "Why?"
"I just do. Answer the question."
"You've never cared before. What's with the sudden ch–"
You stand up and head for the door.
"I don't care," she says. "It's either him or the next bloke. It might be better for you if it's him, though. Your troubles will be dealt with, and I'll be gone, far away. You'll never have to think of me again. Wouldn't that be nice?"
The door closes behind you, a fitting goodbye to her ramblings. Diplomatic marriages, arranged marriages—they are a fact of life, but her nonchalance puzzles you, so does your father's opposition to such an optimal deal. Polaine is not one to stand idle as others make decisions for her. She is stubborn, and you once gifted her a mule to drive the point home. A mistake you lived to regret, for in the coming weeks you would wake up every day to the stench of fresh dung violating your nostrils. No amount of finger-pointing, changing rooms, and begging on your knees for forgiveness made a difference. Father laughed, but in the end, he asked her to stop, and she did. By then, however, she had marred your psyche with an irregular fear of dung, dungphobia for short. With father gone and you back in the capital, not a night goes by without two guards and a dog stationed outside your bedchamber. The guards to catch your traitorous sister's agent if she pulls the prank again and the dog to smell the dung and do with it what dogs do to dung. You would have the dog immediately replaced after his duty is done, though, as dung within is no better than dung withou—okay, that's enough dung for a day. Or a lifetime. Back to the topic at hand, which is about dun—no it's…ah, yes, it is about Polaine's indifference to potentially being wed to a prince hailing from another continent. A tempting offer, you'd like nothing more than to never lay eyes on her again, but why did father refuse, and why were you informed of this from her of all people? Layton and your other advisors surely knew of this.
Such thoughts trouble your mind as you walk through the keep's corridors. You come upon two servants busy with whatever it is they do.
"Where's Layton?" you ask one of them.
"He's retired to his chambers, your majesty. Would you have me summon him?"
"No…let him rest. What about the Lord Marshal?"
"I don't know, your majesty."
You scowl and face her companion. He cowers and looks at the captivatingly dull stone floor below his feet. You then head for the Marshal's office. Upon arrival, his valet greets you.
"Is Rayvink inside?"
"No, Your majesty. Lord Wadergull has taken the men-at-arms out for training."
"Ah, is it that time?" You look at the bright light coming through an unglazed window, (not that there are any glazed (glass) windows in the whole keep, or the country for that matter).
Soon, you and a group of five men-at-arms leave the castle on horseback. The townsfolk make way, and most look up in excitement. For some, it is their first time to chance upon your most regal and handsome features. You smile, which elicits a grimace from one of your riding companions, Toles, who was your teammate during the good old adventuring days. You choose to ignore his suicide-warranting mistake on account of the times he had saved your royal buttocks in days of yore.
Your trip to the main town gate is short. The paved cobble road makes it a pleasant trot for the horses, who look with abject terror at the uneven dirt roads leading to other parts of the town. Minutes later, you come upon a makeshift training ground, compromising of an archery range, wooden poles, straw figures, and other oddities. Lord Rayvink Wadergull, partially donned in scaled plate armor and a wooden ax in hand, spars a young man wielding a steel sword. No, upon closer look, instruct would be a better term. In the rest of the camp, 90-some-odd soldiers are occupied with their own training of archery, horseback riding, wrestling, sparring, etc., without any apparent semblance of order.
Your presence causes the men to break off from their activities in a gradual ripple. Rayvink soon notices the cause of the disturbance, relieves his sparring partner, and walks your way.
"Your majesty," he bows.
"Lord Marshal," you say from atop your horse. "How goes the training?"
"Good, sire, but the new recruits require more practice."
You nod at the soldiers, which prompts Rayvink to order them to return to training. "Let's go for a ride Lord Wadergull, I am in need of good counsel."
He bows in response. Soon, the two of you, plus your original five riding companions, leave. You want to speak in private, and considering how Rayvink understood your previous nod, you try it on one of the men-at-arms. He misunderstands it as you wanting them to come closer, and so they do. You then spur your horse and hint at Rayvink to ride faster. The men-at-arms follow along. Frustrated, you turn towards another soldier, and with your hands, gesture for him to leave. He gives you a miserable look of confusion. Defeated, you explicitly order them to maintain as much distance as possible. All of this has you further away from the capital than you would have wanted.
There are trees to your left, and a river to the right. A pleasing combination of gushing water and wildlife. It is named after an ancestor, the river, after Gerdo Van, House Van's founding father. Your grandfather wanted to change the name to Kalin-something, considering the Kalinvan dynasty is technically higher in rank than the main branch, but he hit a creative block; all the good Kalin-something names were used up by your great-grandfather. Fortunately, or unfortunately, there's no landmark or city with a Yorat in its name—a situation you'd very much like to remedy, the sooner the better. But first, your emptying coffers.
"Lord Wadergull, do you know that the treasury is in a deficit?"
His eyes narrow "I do, your majesty."
"And do you have any solutions in mind?"
"Have you spoken with the lord steward, sire?"
"Yes, he's the one who informed me of the matter."
"I have nothing to add that he did not say, sire."
You nod, unpleased by the lack of helpful advice. *Silence reigns as you examine your horse's white mane, thinking of what to say next. You turn to Rayvink to continue the conversation, but he is staring at the woods, some two hundred yards away. *His eyebrows furrow together, and in one swift motion, his left hand removes his bow from its holster while the right one takes three arrows from a quiver. He draws the bow, aims, and shoots, then twice more in quick succession. The arrows race for the forest, and by the time the first arrow hits, the third one has already left his hands.
"Terlock," he says.
"I know." Not really. The men-at-arms, having just noticed the disturbance, gallop towards you.
"It's a terlock," Rayvink points. "Might still be alive. You three, go make sure the job is done. Toles, you know the call, you're in charge." With that done, he returns to you. "Your majesty, shall we go back?"
You agree, and as you slowly make way for the camp, one guard riding in front, the other behind, you continue your conversation.
"I never knew you were so adept with the bow."
"Kind words, your highness."
"Are all the other men as good as you are?"
"The archers are better," he says, "barring the greenhorns."
"What of the sword and spearmen, can they outmatch you?"
"They are a good lot, sire." You imagine a faint smile on his face.
"And how would they fare against an enemy?"
"Of what kind?"
"Humans."
"Which humans?"
"Those from Windayr or Olieptain." Rayvink's mare neighs, which elicits a similar response from Karfes, your stallion. An omen?
"Against Windayr, they would hold their ground, your majesty. Olieptain is more resourceful. Their men-at-arms and levies are thrice our numbers according to a battle report from two years ago."
"Would we be able to defeat them in war?"
"Olieptain?" You nod, and he continues. "No, not even with Prince Estimor's support. We might win skirmishes and battles, but not the war. Even if we do prevail, there'll be considerable losses in manpower."
The ride back continues with the thoughts of war occupying your attention. Olieptain may be militarily stronger, but their expansionist actions have left them with no allies in the realm of diplomacy, and were it not for the threat of the ghauvs, a coalition would have been created against them. A coalition you may very well organize now that the invading ghauv tribe has been weakened. You also have a valid casus-bellis against Olieptain; they conquered some eastern territories of Kalinland decades ago during your grandfather's time.
On the other hand, although Windayr is militarily weaker, they have dependable allies. You also need to fabricate an excuse to attack them, which will take some time. There are also political ramifications to declaring war on Windayr, considering you are fighting a relatively peaceful country while the threat of the ghauvs, although weaker than before, still looms in the north.
"Do you mean to declare war, sire?" Rayvink asks.
"I'm entertaining the thought, Lord Wadergull, unless you have any alternative in mind?"
"No," he belatedly replies.
"What about marrying Polaine to Estimor?"
This time, the pause is longer, and Rayvink's troubled frown is more apparent. "Your Majesty, from whom did you hear of this?"
"Not you, nor Layton, nor any other of my trusted advisers. I heard it from Polaine."
"May I explain, your highness?"
"You very well should."
"His Majesty… your father, ordained it so. He told us to not speak of the matter."
"Why is that?"
"He did not say, but if I may speculate." He stops, as if asking for permission to continue.
"Go on," you uncertainly say.
"He did not trust Prince Estimor's motives."
"What motives? It's a political marriage, what is there to not trust?"
"Yes, your highness, but someone of the Prince's stature has many… expedient options back in Caribat."
"And?" You had learned at an early age that a simple and was the most effective way to have someone explain something without making a fool of yourself.
"There is no political motivation for him to marry the princess." Indeed, Rayvink may have a point. Why else would Estimor want to marry Polaine? For her looks? Ha! Only blind men would fall for that wench, and blind men are a many in your kingdom for bette– worse or worse.
"Then do tell, Sir Rayvink, why did he make such an offer?"
Rayvink remains silent, but before you are about to repeat the question, he answers. "Although the princess is of great natural beauty, I–"
"My dear vassal," you laugh, "you need not lie to me. I know my sister is not pleasing to the eyes. Speak the truth, for that is what I look for in good counsel." The Lord's pupils expand in admiration and thanks for your wisdom, honesty, and kindness. You reach to pat him on the shoulder as a gesture of reassurance, which makes for an awkward sight, for your horses are a distance apart, and if he were to make a slight move, you'd lose balance, demount your horse, and spread on the ground in an un-kingly fashion.
"As you say, my liege. Regardless of the princess's…charms, the point is that his majesty, King Kalin the third, probably did not know of the Prince's ambition, and so he remained skeptical of the possible repercussions of such a marriage."
His ambitions? Surely, it is for gold and glory. That said, marrying your sister wouldn't help him with said goals. Maybe there's something you're missing.
"What do you make of Prince Estimor, Lord Rayvink?" Having never met the man, all you know is of his background as a Prince of Caribat from the Old Continent and tidbits of information from word of mouth.
"A reserved, yet socially capable man, your highness. He… also seems to know a little Ghaitesh."
"He speaks Ghaitesh?"
"Perhaps, your majesty. During a feast the King held a few months prior, I noticed the prince's ears and eyes twitching when the nobility conversed amongst themselves in Ghaitesh, as if he knew what they were saying."
That isn't convincing in and of itself. Wadergull might be overthinking; the prince might've been reacting to the small similarities between Ghaitesh and Caribatian. But, a highborn from the old world learning your tongue? Have those snobbish oldlanders learned the errors of their ways, finally submitting to Ostontany, no, Kalinland superiority? Ah, a tantalizing thought, but unlikely nevertheless.
"Did you tell my father?"
"I did."
"What did he say?"
"To not disclose of my suspicions."
"Then why are you telling me?"
"You are the king now, sire. It is only natural that I inform you of such discoveries."
"True, but you didn't speak of the Prince's marriage proposal."
"Your majesty," he adjusts his horse's rein, "I thought–"
"Enough, I understand. It's a difficult situation to be in. I'll bring up the matter no more."
"You are kind, sire." That you are. A grin creeps on your face, which you promptly hide.
Your mounts make quick work of the hilly countryside, returning to the capital with daylight to spare. You catch sight of the old man, the very one you went eye-to-eye with earlier today. He is still hard at work carrying sacks of…whatever it is he's carrying. He seems oddly dejected; absent is the vitality and passion to provide for king and country you expect from all your subjects. Will his laziness spread to the other townsfolk? That would be very displeasing.
The remainder of the day is spent in contemplation on perhaps the second most important decision you shall make since being coronated. The first was your decision to be crowned king while being mounted on your horse. Layton flatly said no, but he isn't the king. So, in front of aristocrats and common folk alike, you (and Karfes) ate a morsel of raisins, Ures's favorite snack, and took your vows to protect the country…nobles, and…other things.
Then, to the plain displeasure of the nobility and clergy (and the joy of present peasants), every one of them had to climb a stool, put a long string of flowers around your neck (which weighed heavily on you towards the end), and kiss your shoulders, or for the 45th and last noble, the 45 layers of flowers covering you from head to toe. Karfes' appetite not fulfilled with a few raisins, he resorted to nibbling your vassal's garments when they came close, which made them no happier, but the few common folk of importance given the honor to participate did not mind in the slightest. See, that's the good thing about peasants—they know their place.
Back to more important affairs, namely the lack of readily available information. True, you can postpone the decision, and in the meanwhile, gather more intelligence, perhaps think of new solutions, then make a more informed choice. But, alas, although the adage time is money is unknown to you, it'd take a donkey, which you are not, to know that every day spent in inaction is gold coins taken from your treasury in… action? And every day spent in inaction is a day closer to winter, which will undoubtedly be of importance if you decide to go on a war campaign. The choice is yours, but more importantly, so are the consequences.
You will:
Later on in the afternoon, you are reminded of the old man, the laborer who was staring at you earlier today. Why was he so intent? Was it a look of admiration, or gods-forbid, one of envy? Perhaps he's harboring a sinister plot! You have half a thought to summon him to relieve your curiosity.
On the ghauvs & the aurs.
Much can be said of the latter: their surreal beauty, strange customs, affinity with color, and their control over the supernatural. They lived on these lands since time immemorial—at least as long as men have cared to record history—and some still do, but there is little contact between your people; you for one have never met one.
But whatever the aurs may be, they have coexisted in relative peace with your kind, a statement which doesn't hold true for the ghauvs; not because of any inherent conflict between humans and ghauvs, but because there has been no recorded contact between your species.
What you do know of them is secondhand knowledge from merchant caravans trading with the aurs. 'Baby-sacrificing, puppy-kicking, blood-drinking demons the lot of them' is what most accounts can be summarized to. However, if one digs deep enough, they'll find testimonies of the ghauv's skin which is like the ash of burned forests, tales of their height which towers over the tallest of men, and stories about their younglings wrestling with adult gorillas for sport.
Author notes:
If you have any alternative choices in mind, feel free to post on platforms where I host Kalinland. If they are within reason (setting, character personality & stat, or story wise) and get enough support, I'll add them to the list of choices in the end of the chapter & on the polls for readers to vote for.
You may have noticed (Reader) at the end of some choices. This indicates that this choice was suggested by a reader.
Current platforms I host on: RoyalRoad, Reddit (r/Kalinland), SufficentVelocity, SpaceBattles, Fiction.live, Questionable questing. (On SF & SB, the title may be a bit different, but will include 'Kalinland')
For chapter 1, since the story needs to garner more support/readers, Polls will be closed later than usual (on the 26th. A bit after midnight (00:00) UTC time). I will then post a side chapter. Henceforth, This will be my schedule: New Chapters will be posted on Thursdays and polls will be closed on Saturdays (UTC Time).
For example, Chapter 2 will be posted on the 3rd of March (Thursday), and the poll will close on the 5th of Match (Saturday).
If you enjoy the story, please consider telling others about it. Because Kalinland is very reader-interactive, more people reading Kalinland will result in improvements in the story's quality and scope.
* You might have noticed this sign (*) in the writing. This means that a dice roll (based on stats) was done. For example, in "You nod, unpleased by the lack of helpful advice. *Silence reigns as you examine your horse's white mane, …", and the following sentence which also includes an asterisk symbol, a dice roll for perception was done. You failed (a result of your stats & luck compared to the opponent's stats & luck, the general mood, environment … and the dice roll itself), but Lord Wadergull succeeded. Hence, he spotted the terlock.
I won't put an * every time there's a dice roll. I did it this time to present an example.
The colored -/+ percentage marks (-5%) or (+9%). These are a representation of your (protagonist's) preference for a given choice. They do not equate to a direct decrease/increase in percentage of votes. Their effect is negligible most of the time.
For example, if the outcome of this chapter's choices were to be:
A=11%, B=16%, C=21%, D=27%, E=13%, F=10%, G=2%, those preferences would result in
A=11.05…% B=15.09…%, C=19.58…, D=29.48…, E=12.4...%, F=10.35...%, & G=2.05...%
I also won't often present you with the protagonist's preferences in the shape of percentages. It's up to you to make a rough guess based on the writings in the chapter and your understanding of the protagonist & …
(These percentages aren't supposed to add up to 0.)
I'd like to point & clear out some things so that there are no misunderstandings in the future
Sorry if it felt a bit rambly. I needed to get these points across.
To the north, migrating tribes of a strange species bring terror to the hearts of your people. And to the south, an emerging empire threatens the region's stability. But within, there is danger of another kind. A danger that lurks in the shadows and strikes when the iron is hot. A danger of intrigue and ambition. A danger that may very well be your unending.
How will you navigate through these troubling times? Will you be the stuff of stories or but a footnote in the annals of history?
With a heavy sack of kindling fastened around the shoulders, he walks forward. The clank of metal on metal, distant shouts of peddlers hawking their goods, and children kicking up dust storms do nothing to avert his attention from the ground before him, for a misstep and fall could render his frail bones useless for weeks to come.
This has been his routine for years, decades, and it will be so till his dying breath. Life is cruel like that, but she is all the more seductive; she seduces with the smell of cooked meat wafting through a chimney, with fantasies of fire caressing his numb toes and fingers, and with thoughts of a giggling baby being cooed by her mother. He walks forward.
Hours later, he stops by a well for drink and respite. A hill enclosed by walls rests before him, and a castle crowns the top of said hill. There, on a balcony, stands a man with his hands clasped behind his back. Layers of velvet and linen bellow about, but his eyes are resolute on all that lies below his abode.
By chance or design, their gazes meet. Countless thoughts and flights of fancy run through the laborer's mind. He gives voice to none of them. For it's a shameful thing, a shameful thing to beg after a lifetime of austerity, honest living, and a head held high despite the weight of existence. He does not give voice to them, but his soul is tired, so tired that it runs to his eyes in hopes of being seen, pitied, and…
Short castle walls, shabby battlements, and a guard picking his nose; a miserable sight to behold, made worse by howling winds biting at your ears. You were heading towards the castle balcony to do some people wat—ehem, to supervise your subjects, when your valet asked if he should bring your coat since it's cold outside. You were about to give him the very order, but as he said it first, one can't accept and appear weak now, can they? No.
So here you are, on the balcony, looking at cottages that surround the hillside and the not far away walls enclosing the metropoli—cit—town? Yes, a small town, though it would take you great lengths to admit it.
Peasants idle about, an old man is fixated on your eyes, and a wagon leaves the main gate. They should be tending to their crafts, tilling your lands, and paying their due taxes! Do they not know of productivity? Efficiency? Time management? Apparently not! But in all fairness, neither do you. Such words don't exist in your backwater kingdom. Regardless, there's a lot to do. Taxes to be raised, criminals to be guillotined, lazy guards to be punished, and… other equally important things. Your attention returns to the old man whose focus is locked on your eyes. Is he truly that mesmerized by your regal presence? There's an awful itch on your neck dying to be scratched, but his revering stare stops you halfway. Thou art no uncouth peasant; appearances have to be maintained.
Creak, a door from behind opens.
"Milord," a voice calls, oddly jubilant despite the speaker's head of scant white hair (combed to perfection) and a frame reminiscent of famine and starvation.
"It's not Milord, Layton, it's Your Majesty. My King will also suffice."
"Yes, milord."
You sigh, "I'm surprised my father didn't have your head for such offences."
"Indeed Milord, his majesty was ever merciful."
"Yes, he was." You walk towards the door. A servant closes it upon your entrance, separating the chill of the outside from the fragrant embrace of cedar burning in the room's fireplace.
King Kalin III and your two eldest half-brothers were due to return to the capital two months ago. Days passed with no news, and when a week became two, numerous parties were sent in search of them, only to find the mangled remains of your father's steed and rotten entrails splattered on the ground and surrounding shrubbery. Their corpses weren't found, neither was the monster responsible for the butchery, but the message was crystal-clear; Kalinland needed a new king.
The realm's peerage and your remaining family members were called to the capital for the funeral. Your third eldest half-brother and uncle, on an expedition in the Aur-lands and long unheard of, were absent. So was your younger brother, who has probably not yet heard of the news. Of father's five male offspring, only you were present.
That was ten days ago. Now, after many oaths of fealty, socialization with feudal vassals, and one too many marriage proposals to your younger sister by hot-blooded & ambitious nobles, you are free to get accustomed to your new role as king.
"Sire," Layton interrupts the pause, "there are a number of concerns that must be attended to, chief among them Prince Estemore's host and the treasury's deficit. I've prepared a summary of summer's fiscal report."
Something something report? Layton always has a way with strange words.
One look at the parchment he hands you and confusion turns to excitement. "Ah, summer's piscal report. The treasury, as some would call it. Yes, Layton?"
"…Yes." there's a disturbing lack of milord in his response.
You try reading the fancy shnaby words and small numbers on the parchment, but soon, fantasies of a bed and the pleasures of midday naps overtake you. "What am I looking at, Layton?" you frown.
"The piscal report, milord," he hides a grin. "Would you like me to give a summary?"
"I order you to."
"As you say, milord. The treasury's revenue—"
"My revenue."
Layton looks you square in the eyes. "Milord's revenue for the previous quarter is a total of 409 Kalinies and 17 silver. Of this, 245 Kalinies 6 silver are from demesne taxes and 108 Kalinies 5 silver from feudal taxes." Of all its afflictions, the limitations of age have done no harm to Layton's mental faculties. You, on the other hand, are still trying to figure out how those numbers add up to 409.
"Industries and investments gave a profit of 22 Kalinies 17 silver. Customs and tolls yielded 26 Kalinies 6 silver and 7 Kalinies 1 silver respectively. There was no surplus from the Mint, which barely broke even."
You lose focus after the first set of numbers and placate yourself with the initial sum of 409 Kalinies and something silver.
"These are good numbers, Layton. Half of this is more than enough for enchanted gear and a few powerful spells." You'd know that considering your adventuring career before ascending the throne; slaying monsters, chasing bandits, rescuing maidens in distress and whatnot. Actually, as much as one might want it to be so, there were no maidens in need of help. To your eternal displeasure, monsters have a tendency to eat their prey rather than lock them up and wait for prince charming to come and save them.
"For an individual, milord, yes, but for a baron—" you squint as Layton coughs into a fist, "—kingdom, your majesty, this amount is certainly not adequate."
Yes, he has a point; Kalinland is a backwater. Natural given the infancy of the kingdom and its recent acquisition into human hands. That's why your late father had you go adventuring abroad—as opposed to staying in Kalinland—to learn and adopt good customs from the more prosperous southern Kingdoms.
"Indeed, you speak the truth, and as king, I admit that. A lesser man would have been blinded by pride, but I am a king. Is that not so, Layton?" you smile.
"Yes milord," he replies dryly, "but the issue at hand is not the state of our revenue, but our expenses, which for the previous quarter were at 1,246 Kalinies and 4 copper coins."
You are about to reproach him for the treacherous use of the word 'our'—as if he is king along with you! However, anger is superseded by incredulity at the sheer amount of gold leaving your treasury. In fact, you now wish that it truly were our expenses and not yours alone to cover.
"H-How?"
Layton's calm and collectedness seems to be mocking your stupefied response, and the man himself doesn't seem disturbed at the least by your loss of royal demeanor. You even might have noticed a concealed smile.
"Prince Estimor's host."
Prince Estimor. You had heard mention of his coming months ago. When news of a ghauv tribe migrating south through the Aur-lands spread, human frontier kingdoms in the north bordering the aurs responded in different ways: some built makeshift walls in key passageways, some sent army detachments to support the aurs and prayed to their patron god for the best, and some—like your father—hired mercenaries. But, there are mercenaries, and then there are mercenaries. Prince Estimor's host, a battalion of 6 hundred men, is undoubtedly the cream of the crop; so is their pay.
"Not all of that money is spent on their maintenance, but they account for the majority of our expenses. Precisely, 872 Kalinies, 2 silver and," he looks down for a moment, "33 copper."
"How did my father pay him?"
"The nobles chimed in. We were still running a deficit then, but it was more manageable."
"What happened?"
"After the ghauvs were defeated in Oilesh-Bain, the lords… claiming the threat dealt with—and because of the financial strain on their coffers—stopped sending war aids. The treasury has been paying the prince's host ever since."
"The threat dealt with? Financial strains?" you bellow. "That was one battle. They could regroup and come here any minute! And what of our financial burdens?" Nearby servants cower backward, but Layton holds his ground; a testament to his experience in serving three generations of Kalinvan kings.
You pace back and forth for Craytin knows how long, eventually slumping in a nearby chair with no regard whatsoever to the lack of proper cushioning. As a youngster, you loathed his overbearing desire to correct your every mistake, but now, you can't help but study his eyes for a response, an answer, reassurance of some sort...anything. Nothing. There's nothing to find.
"Why didn't father just disband them?" you ask, half hoping the thought never occurred to anyone.
"He refused. Prince Estimor refused."
"Of course he did," you whine. No wonder your ascension was so smooth. No one wants to assume leadership in a time of crisis.
Layton takes a deep breath. "He said his troops came for honor and a fortune—battle and gold—, and they won't leave until they get one or the other."
"Warmongers, the lot of them! Send them north to fight the damned ghauvs then."
"He refused to do so without a forcible size, possibly your levies, accompanying them."
Your eyes go wide, "Then what ought we do?" At this point, all decorum is lost between the two of you, and in the face of economic desperation, you put no effort into rectifying it.
"I've thought of possible ways to resolve the issue," Layton momentarily closes his eyes in recollection, and after a short pause, recounts his thoughts. "We could impose an aid on our pioneering villages directly to pay for Prince Estimor. This aid will stint their growth and avert new settlers from establishing communities in your lands. It'll also no doubt displease the nobles, for such villages under their jurisdiction will be included as well, but the treasury will probably be able to break even."
"What form will this aid be in?" You're not sure what aid means, but as king, you obviously can't just ask him for a definition!
"What do you mean?" he raises an eyebrow.
"I mean, in what form will it be collected in?" Layton gives you a deadpan stare, the like of which you are very familiar with; your childhood was littered with them. You got them during his tutoring classes, mainly for failing to answer a question after he explained something for the umpteenth time.
"In any form, milord. Coin, supplies, relics… anything." He's done with the topic, but the confusion in your eyes prompts him to elaborate. "As is the case with some of our neighbors, pioneer villages are given special exemptions, such as less tax and levies. While the aid is technically also a tax, it is only imposed in times of necessity."
A viable solution to maintain the status quo. Pay the prince, and in the coming months, if the ghauvs attack, he'll be called to take arms. If they don't invade, you'll be back to square one; only now, your subjects are economically worse off, and you'll have to deal with grumpy nobles.
"Then again, we could dispatch Prince Estimor's host with a sizeable force of your levies north. This will deal with the ghauvs, endear the crown with your Aurish subjects, and possibly improve relations with aur kings in the north. However, it will leave our lands more vulnerable to being attacked by neighbors, and it'll take a toll on the treasury."
"A toll on our treasury?" you shift in your chair.
"Yes," he hesitates. "The Prince's forces are currently at half pay, if they are sent off for battle, full payment will be required. We'll also have to account for—"
You breathe blasphemous curses too impolite for even the roughest and lowest of gatherings, but Layton continues, unamused by the show.
"…We'll also have to account for the maintenance of levies. While feudal levies will pay for themselves, the cost of milord's personal levies is partly covered by the treasury. These costs will be nothing compared to the price of Prince Estimor's host, but they are still no insignificant amount."
You want to be angry, you do, but there's no steam left. You look at the withered man in front of you and wonder if the creases on his face are a result of old age or the affliction of his duty. Will that be you one day? No. You heave a sigh, and in an uncharacteristic show of humility, order a servant to bring Layton a chair.
"Thank you, milord," he says after sitting down.
You nod, "What is the state of my levies?"
"From your demesne, milord, I estimate 12 hundred men, and of the feudal levies, 14 to 17 hundred. In total, 2,600 to 2,900."
"That is not much."
"Yes, milord, but in extreme times, like if the ghauvs attack our territory, we could exact further levies. The nobles would also organize their forces to fight them off."
You hum in contemplation. "How many men should we send with Prince Estimor?"
"A body of 13 hundred soldiers would satisfy him while leaving us with a reasonable defensive force in case of a military threat."
True, but a crucial question arises. This army of 1,300 men, what proportion shall be from your personal levies, and what proportion from your feudal vassals? You leave such thoughts aside for now, as you have yet to commit to this course of action.
"Another option, milord, is to give prince Estimor a lump sum to leave. I believe 2,000 Kalinies would be adequate, but then again, negotiations could fail or he might ask for more."
You grimace. "How many Kalinies do we have in the treasury?"
"3,400 Kalinies"
A huff leaves your mouth. That's the accumulation of six-plus decades of savings. To have more than half of it go to waste like this is heart-wrenching to say the least.
"Anything else?" you ask hopingly, but you both know the answer.
"That is all for now, milord."
That is all. You brood over your options, considering each with a wit the gods frugally spared your soul before birth. Something smells odd, though. Why are you on the back foot? None of these decisions shout kingly. Would a king submit to pressure? No! You need something with more punch, more power, more…pazam? Something that goes 'Hey, I'm the king, and this is how we do things around here.' Then what ought one do, pray tell?
Thud. A guard far behind Layton stumps the bottom of his halberd on the ground. A fine weapon, the halberd be. Pointy spike, sharp ax head, and small hammerhead—it is as tall as the man in question. A Fine weapon indeed. The guard slightly bows under such intense scrutiny. You pay him no heed; focus immersed in his weapon. It is a fine weapon; not because of the holder, its good artisanship, or that it was a gift from your father for meritorious service. No, it is a fine weapon for it lights a spark in your mind. An image of marching men, songs of glory, and the sweet odor of sweat, metal, and blood.
"War," your head quirks up, your back straightens, and your hands grip the chair's armrest. "We can declare war! There's Olieptain, Karamien, Windayr, Wlaces—well, perhaps not Karamien and Wlaces, but, yes, the spoils of war will pay the troops, the realm's borders will expand, Estimor's issue will be resolved, and it'll…cement the crown's standing!"
"Yes, that is an alternative, but I strongly advise against it," Layton crisply replies, face devoid of any emotion.
You wait for him to continue, but he has said his piece. You contemplate on the matter, and slowly, the crackling of firewood and whistling of wind from the outside are replaced with scenes of battle and glory in your mind. The thrill of a dance of swords, showers of arrows coloring the sky, and men praising thy name. This would be your first real campaign, a perfect stage to prove your mettle to anyone harboring doubts about the new king's legitimacy.
That's not to say you're unaware of the follies of war. Declaring war will leave you vulnerable to both the ghauvs if they make it south and your neighbors if they are somehow inspired by your example. You further ponder on the idea, but to no avail; thy awesome mind has struck a dead end. That is not to say there are no other potential consequences and advantages to this course of action, but they fail to present themselves to your majestic intellect.
"What if," you ask, "what if I were to strike north, or attack a neighbor, and at the same time have the pioneer communities support the crown's finances. Would that not partially solve the issue?"
"Milord, the state does not have the administrative capacity to tax the entirety of the communities, nor the military force to effectively guard all the tax caravans as they transport the coinage. Prince Estimor's troops would have helped with that, but with them sent off to war, the collection of this aid would either be very slow, or we outstretch ourselves and most of the funds are lost to corruption, bandit raids, and monster attacks." Disappointing news. You've somewhat gotten used to it, at least in this particular talk with Layton, and you'd expect nothing better from him. You decide to dismiss before he further dampens your mood.
"I understand, Layton, you may get back to your duties, I'll call on you when I've made a decision."
He bows, a bow too short for your liking, and leaves. You remain seated, eyes shut, thinking of your new station. You wanted this, oh, you wanted it very badly. Ever since you remember, you would play at being king, commanding men in battle, and being respected by all. However, you soon realized this was a futile dream. After all, you had the weakest claim, second only to your younger brother. It was only by the virtue of tragedy, perhaps an unfunny joke by Lu'Kais—the god of pranks, chance, and other silly things—that you are where you are today. Back then, you didn't know the Gods' plans, so you left, with the blessings of your father, to seek your fortune as an adventurer.
All was well and life was good. You even made a name for yourself among the adventuring community: Mr. Stick up his a — ehem, anyway, that was your life for the past three years, and you enjoyed it quite so, mainly because your men did all the scouting, cleaning and other menial tasks too mean for a member of high society. At this point, you'd given up on inheriting the throne, and were content with your life as a fourth son. That is, until a fateful day one month and a half ago.
Your team had succeeded in a difficult monster hunt. Morale was high, and you wanted to commend your subjec–teammates by making them your (in)famous Yorat-stew, or The Yorat, humbly named in your honor. Game, any kind will do; vegetables & herbs, whatever's available; flour, only wheat flour; a dash of spice, and everything nice; anything else you might feel like adding and… voila! Perfection incarnate! The Yorat. A delicacy, exquisite in nature, such that it takes years of cultivation to refine one's tastes to enjoy the full experience. You had finished eating five bowls and were contently observing your men as they savored their first serving with tears of gratitude.
The doom-bringer, haggard from a long journey, arrived mid-feast with word of your father's passing. You took the news somberly and with all the grace befitting your royal stratum. Anyone who heard you weeping and wailing that night is full of feces and they ought to be reported to the nearest authorities to receive an according punishment. But, yes, you cried. You cried for the first time in gods know how many years. For the second time in forever, you cried for a human being. Despite this, you are ever ashamed that even during your grief, you were giddy with the idea of assuming command of the kingdom. So, you rode back, with such haste, that upon reaching the capital, your poor stallion—Krafes— all but collapsed on the spot. However, no matter how foul your heart may be, filial piety still burned within it. Thus, confident in your new capabilities after years of adventure, you organized another search party; an endeavor that ultimately failed to bear any fruit.
You were not immediately crowned king upon return, oh no, those bootlicking nobles wouldn't have it! Him? King? Preposterous! The lot of them wanted to wait for your 3rd older half-brother or uncle to return and take the mantle instead, but there'd been no news of them for the past year. Cooler heads prevailed, and betwixt you and your fashionably late younger brother, you were appointed king. You were ecstatic, but recent events have rightfully made you more apathetic to the promotion.
Now, you'd rather lie down on a field of lush grass and—oh, oh, and how would you have it! You are lying on a field of damp grass. A cool breeze caresses your face, massaging your eyelids, cheeks, nose, and… at a distance three, no, four…or is it five?…squirrels are… dancing in a circle to the merry tune of a purple nightingale… perched on a branch. Everything. From the texture of your coarse hemp tunic. The aroma of trees. And dirt and. Happiness… to the smile of the, sun hugging your skin…everything is so vivid. Knock…and you look to the left. She's walking your way with, a wooden bowl of broth in hand. She sits and you snuggle your tiny head on her thigh, extra careful. Not to touch her stomach. She feeds you a spoonful, of broth after blowing on it a couple times. You can't put a finger on the flavor, but it tastes. Wonderfully amazingly fantastic! You look up. It's an unfamiliar face you recognize. She smiles. It's a beautiful smile, it is. Just the right amount of teeth showing. Lips. Raised up not too much and not too little. Small creases where her smile meets, the cheeks. It's a beautiful smile.
"H—"
Knock. A loud noise awakes you from dreamland. Before you deem the intruder fitting a response, the door opens and a young lady of nineteen summers enters. With her head held high and a gaze that could belittle giants; she walks inside with terse but level steps. After a brief look at you, she takes the room in, tsks, and faces you once more. A maid follows closely behind, profusely bowing in apology on behalf of herself and her mistress.
"Brother."
You look up from your chair. There she stands, the vile creature, dressed in a burgundy gown. Fine complexion, light brown eyes, and brunette hair; an immaculate replica of her mother's beauty. But see, unlike her sweet mother, she's very grating on your most august eyes.
"Half-sister."
"Yes, my bad, half-brother." She smiles, a smile so fake blind men could see it for what it is, yet one that would ignite the fire of passion within the most zealously celibate monk. At least, that's what she'd like to believe; you know she's as appealing as a turd.
She walks to a guard stationed to your left, examining his mail armor and trusty pike.
"Layton was here, wasn't he?"
"He was."
"On what matter?" She ambles to another guard with the grace of a princess, but all you see is a bumbling buffoon.
"State matters."
"Specifically?"
"Specifically none of your business."
There is a break in her steps as she glances sideways at you. Her methodical strut continues, and upon arriving at her destination, she takes off the guard's helmet and caresses its polished metallic surface.
"They do not love you, you know," she says.
"Who?"
"Anyone. Everyone. This guard, for example." The man in question turns towards you. His contorted face, pleading eyes, and trembling hands paint a clear picture. He would have fallen on the ground and begged forgiveness if protocol allowed it.
"The same could be said for you."
"True, but some do, the fools do. The ones here, they're afraid of me!" she laughs. "They're afraid of a woman!"
"Perhaps they just despise you?"
"Perhaps," she regains her composure as the guard in front of her is reduced to a pool of sweat. "But not Estimor."
What?
"Prince Estimor." She delights at your confusion. "The cause of your recent sorry state of affairs."
You remain unusually calm, for past experiences with Polaine have taught you that anything else would be the wrong response.
"He asked for my hand in a letter, three months ago."
"What did father say?"
"He refused. He should have agreed, though. Estimor was willing to halve his price and even leave if father asked it of him." She walks to the chair you had brought for Layton and sits.
"And what of you yourself?"
"Does it matter?"
"I suppose not. But I want to know."
She picks up a bunch of grapes from a nearby bowl and drops them into her mouth one by one. That fruit bowl wasn't there before. "Why?"
"I just do. Answer the question."
"You've never cared before. What's with the sudden ch–"
You stand up and head for the door.
"I don't care," she says. "It's either him or the next bloke. It might be better for you if it's him, though. Your troubles will be dealt with, and I'll be gone, far away. You'll never have to think of me again. Wouldn't that be nice?"
The door closes behind you, a fitting goodbye to her ramblings. Diplomatic marriages, arranged marriages—they are a fact of life, but her nonchalance puzzles you, so does your father's opposition to such an optimal deal. Polaine is not one to stand idle as others make decisions for her. She is stubborn, and you once gifted her a mule to drive the point home. A mistake you lived to regret, for in the coming weeks you would wake up every day to the stench of fresh dung violating your nostrils. No amount of finger-pointing, changing rooms, and begging on your knees for forgiveness made a difference. Father laughed, but in the end, he asked her to stop, and she did. By then, however, she had marred your psyche with an irregular fear of dung, dungphobia for short. With father gone and you back in the capital, not a night goes by without two guards and a dog stationed outside your bedchamber. The guards to catch your traitorous sister's agent if she pulls the prank again and the dog to smell the dung and do with it what dogs do to dung. You would have the dog immediately replaced after his duty is done, though, as dung within is no better than dung withou—okay, that's enough dung for a day. Or a lifetime. Back to the topic at hand, which is about dun—no it's…ah, yes, it is about Polaine's indifference to potentially being wed to a prince hailing from another continent. A tempting offer, you'd like nothing more than to never lay eyes on her again, but why did father refuse, and why were you informed of this from her of all people? Layton and your other advisors surely knew of this.
Such thoughts trouble your mind as you walk through the keep's corridors. You come upon two servants busy with whatever it is they do.
"Where's Layton?" you ask one of them.
"He's retired to his chambers, your majesty. Would you have me summon him?"
"No…let him rest. What about the Lord Marshal?"
"I don't know, your majesty."
You scowl and face her companion. He cowers and looks at the captivatingly dull stone floor below his feet. You then head for the Marshal's office. Upon arrival, his valet greets you.
"Is Rayvink inside?"
"No, Your majesty. Lord Wadergull has taken the men-at-arms out for training."
"Ah, is it that time?" You look at the bright light coming through an unglazed window, (not that there are any glazed (glass) windows in the whole keep, or the country for that matter).
Soon, you and a group of five men-at-arms leave the castle on horseback. The townsfolk make way, and most look up in excitement. For some, it is their first time to chance upon your most regal and handsome features. You smile, which elicits a grimace from one of your riding companions, Toles, who was your teammate during the good old adventuring days. You choose to ignore his suicide-warranting mistake on account of the times he had saved your royal buttocks in days of yore.
Your trip to the main town gate is short. The paved cobble road makes it a pleasant trot for the horses, who look with abject terror at the uneven dirt roads leading to other parts of the town. Minutes later, you come upon a makeshift training ground, compromising of an archery range, wooden poles, straw figures, and other oddities. Lord Rayvink Wadergull, partially donned in scaled plate armor and a wooden ax in hand, spars a young man wielding a steel sword. No, upon closer look, instruct would be a better term. In the rest of the camp, 90-some-odd soldiers are occupied with their own training of archery, horseback riding, wrestling, sparring, etc., without any apparent semblance of order.
Your presence causes the men to break off from their activities in a gradual ripple. Rayvink soon notices the cause of the disturbance, relieves his sparring partner, and walks your way.
"Your majesty," he bows.
"Lord Marshal," you say from atop your horse. "How goes the training?"
"Good, sire, but the new recruits require more practice."
You nod at the soldiers, which prompts Rayvink to order them to return to training. "Let's go for a ride Lord Wadergull, I am in need of good counsel."
He bows in response. Soon, the two of you, plus your original five riding companions, leave. You want to speak in private, and considering how Rayvink understood your previous nod, you try it on one of the men-at-arms. He misunderstands it as you wanting them to come closer, and so they do. You then spur your horse and hint at Rayvink to ride faster. The men-at-arms follow along. Frustrated, you turn towards another soldier, and with your hands, gesture for him to leave. He gives you a miserable look of confusion. Defeated, you explicitly order them to maintain as much distance as possible. All of this has you further away from the capital than you would have wanted.
There are trees to your left, and a river to the right. A pleasing combination of gushing water and wildlife. It is named after an ancestor, the river, after Gerdo Van, House Van's founding father. Your grandfather wanted to change the name to Kalin-something, considering the Kalinvan dynasty is technically higher in rank than the main branch, but he hit a creative block; all the good Kalin-something names were used up by your great-grandfather. Fortunately, or unfortunately, there's no landmark or city with a Yorat in its name—a situation you'd very much like to remedy, the sooner the better. But first, your emptying coffers.
"Lord Wadergull, do you know that the treasury is in a deficit?"
His eyes narrow "I do, your majesty."
"And do you have any solutions in mind?"
"Have you spoken with the lord steward, sire?"
"Yes, he's the one who informed me of the matter."
"I have nothing to add that he did not say, sire."
You nod, unpleased by the lack of helpful advice. *Silence reigns as you examine your horse's white mane, thinking of what to say next. You turn to Rayvink to continue the conversation, but he is staring at the woods, some two hundred yards away. *His eyebrows furrow together, and in one swift motion, his left hand removes his bow from its holster while the right one takes three arrows from a quiver. He draws the bow, aims, and shoots, then twice more in quick succession. The arrows race for the forest, and by the time the first arrow hits, the third one has already left his hands.
"Terlock," he says.
"I know." Not really. The men-at-arms, having just noticed the disturbance, gallop towards you.
"It's a terlock," Rayvink points. "Might still be alive. You three, go make sure the job is done. Toles, you know the call, you're in charge." With that done, he returns to you. "Your majesty, shall we go back?"
You agree, and as you slowly make way for the camp, one guard riding in front, the other behind, you continue your conversation.
"I never knew you were so adept with the bow."
"Kind words, your highness."
"Are all the other men as good as you are?"
"The archers are better," he says, "barring the greenhorns."
"What of the sword and spearmen, can they outmatch you?"
"They are a good lot, sire." You imagine a faint smile on his face.
"And how would they fare against an enemy?"
"Of what kind?"
"Humans."
"Which humans?"
"Those from Windayr or Olieptain." Rayvink's mare neighs, which elicits a similar response from Karfes, your stallion. An omen?
"Against Windayr, they would hold their ground, your majesty. Olieptain is more resourceful. Their men-at-arms and levies are thrice our numbers according to a battle report from two years ago."
"Would we be able to defeat them in war?"
"Olieptain?" You nod, and he continues. "No, not even with Prince Estimor's support. We might win skirmishes and battles, but not the war. Even if we do prevail, there'll be considerable losses in manpower."
The ride back continues with the thoughts of war occupying your attention. Olieptain may be militarily stronger, but their expansionist actions have left them with no allies in the realm of diplomacy, and were it not for the threat of the ghauvs, a coalition would have been created against them. A coalition you may very well organize now that the invading ghauv tribe has been weakened. You also have a valid casus-bellis against Olieptain; they conquered some eastern territories of Kalinland decades ago during your grandfather's time.
On the other hand, although Windayr is militarily weaker, they have dependable allies. You also need to fabricate an excuse to attack them, which will take some time. There are also political ramifications to declaring war on Windayr, considering you are fighting a relatively peaceful country while the threat of the ghauvs, although weaker than before, still looms in the north.
"Do you mean to declare war, sire?" Rayvink asks.
"I'm entertaining the thought, Lord Wadergull, unless you have any alternative in mind?"
"No," he belatedly replies.
"What about marrying Polaine to Estimor?"
This time, the pause is longer, and Rayvink's troubled frown is more apparent. "Your Majesty, from whom did you hear of this?"
"Not you, nor Layton, nor any other of my trusted advisers. I heard it from Polaine."
"May I explain, your highness?"
"You very well should."
"His Majesty… your father, ordained it so. He told us to not speak of the matter."
"Why is that?"
"He did not say, but if I may speculate." He stops, as if asking for permission to continue.
"Go on," you uncertainly say.
"He did not trust Prince Estimor's motives."
"What motives? It's a political marriage, what is there to not trust?"
"Yes, your highness, but someone of the Prince's stature has many… expedient options back in Caribat."
"And?" You had learned at an early age that a simple and was the most effective way to have someone explain something without making a fool of yourself.
"There is no political motivation for him to marry the princess." Indeed, Rayvink may have a point. Why else would Estimor want to marry Polaine? For her looks? Ha! Only blind men would fall for that wench, and blind men are a many in your kingdom for bette– worse or worse.
"Then do tell, Sir Rayvink, why did he make such an offer?"
Rayvink remains silent, but before you are about to repeat the question, he answers. "Although the princess is of great natural beauty, I–"
"My dear vassal," you laugh, "you need not lie to me. I know my sister is not pleasing to the eyes. Speak the truth, for that is what I look for in good counsel." The Lord's pupils expand in admiration and thanks for your wisdom, honesty, and kindness. You reach to pat him on the shoulder as a gesture of reassurance, which makes for an awkward sight, for your horses are a distance apart, and if he were to make a slight move, you'd lose balance, demount your horse, and spread on the ground in an un-kingly fashion.
"As you say, my liege. Regardless of the princess's…charms, the point is that his majesty, King Kalin the third, probably did not know of the Prince's ambition, and so he remained skeptical of the possible repercussions of such a marriage."
His ambitions? Surely, it is for gold and glory. That said, marrying your sister wouldn't help him with said goals. Maybe there's something you're missing.
"What do you make of Prince Estimor, Lord Rayvink?" Having never met the man, all you know is of his background as a Prince of Caribat from the Old Continent and tidbits of information from word of mouth.
"A reserved, yet socially capable man, your highness. He… also seems to know a little Ghaitesh."
"He speaks Ghaitesh?"
"Perhaps, your majesty. During a feast the King held a few months prior, I noticed the prince's ears and eyes twitching when the nobility conversed amongst themselves in Ghaitesh, as if he knew what they were saying."
That isn't convincing in and of itself. Wadergull might be overthinking; the prince might've been reacting to the small similarities between Ghaitesh and Caribatian. But, a highborn from the old world learning your tongue? Have those snobbish oldlanders learned the errors of their ways, finally submitting to Ostontany, no, Kalinland superiority? Ah, a tantalizing thought, but unlikely nevertheless.
"Did you tell my father?"
"I did."
"What did he say?"
"To not disclose of my suspicions."
"Then why are you telling me?"
"You are the king now, sire. It is only natural that I inform you of such discoveries."
"True, but you didn't speak of the Prince's marriage proposal."
"Your majesty," he adjusts his horse's rein, "I thought–"
"Enough, I understand. It's a difficult situation to be in. I'll bring up the matter no more."
"You are kind, sire." That you are. A grin creeps on your face, which you promptly hide.
Your mounts make quick work of the hilly countryside, returning to the capital with daylight to spare. You catch sight of the old man, the very one you went eye-to-eye with earlier today. He is still hard at work carrying sacks of…whatever it is he's carrying. He seems oddly dejected; absent is the vitality and passion to provide for king and country you expect from all your subjects. Will his laziness spread to the other townsfolk? That would be very displeasing.
The remainder of the day is spent in contemplation on perhaps the second most important decision you shall make since being coronated. The first was your decision to be crowned king while being mounted on your horse. Layton flatly said no, but he isn't the king. So, in front of aristocrats and common folk alike, you (and Karfes) ate a morsel of raisins, Ures's favorite snack, and took your vows to protect the country…nobles, and…other things.
Then, to the plain displeasure of the nobility and clergy (and the joy of present peasants), every one of them had to climb a stool, put a long string of flowers around your neck (which weighed heavily on you towards the end), and kiss your shoulders, or for the 45th and last noble, the 45 layers of flowers covering you from head to toe. Karfes' appetite not fulfilled with a few raisins, he resorted to nibbling your vassal's garments when they came close, which made them no happier, but the few common folk of importance given the honor to participate did not mind in the slightest. See, that's the good thing about peasants—they know their place.
Back to more important affairs, namely the lack of readily available information. True, you can postpone the decision, and in the meanwhile, gather more intelligence, perhaps think of new solutions, then make a more informed choice. But, alas, although the adage time is money is unknown to you, it'd take a donkey, which you are not, to know that every day spent in inaction is gold coins taken from your treasury in… action? And every day spent in inaction is a day closer to winter, which will undoubtedly be of importance if you decide to go on a war campaign. The choice is yours, but more importantly, so are the consequences.
You will:
- Impose the aid tax on pioneering villages to pay for Prince Estimore. (His soldiers will be dispatched to collect said aids along with some of your subjects)
- Dispatch Prince Estimore's host north (accompanied by a ~1,300 strong army of your levies) to fight the ghauvs. (-6%)
- Offer to pay Prince Estimore a lump sum to annul his military contract and leave. May cost ~2,000 Kalinies. (-7%)
- Begin preparations to declare war on a neighboring country for loot and to expand your borders. (+9%)
- Accept Prince Estimore's marriage proposal to your half-sister, Polaine. (-5%)
- Ruminate on the issue and try to gather intelligence for a more informed decision. (+3%)
- Disregard the situation for now and turn your attention elsewhere. (-12%)
- Try convincing the nobles to contribute funds to pay for Prince Estimore's host (Reader)
- Attempt to organize a coalition of human armies from different kingdoms to go north to fight the ghauvs. (Reader)
Later on in the afternoon, you are reminded of the old man, the laborer who was staring at you earlier today. Why was he so intent? Was it a look of admiration, or gods-forbid, one of envy? Perhaps he's harboring a sinister plot! You have half a thought to summon him to relieve your curiosity.
- Summon him. There was something in his eyes that you can't put a finger on.
- Summon him. He must be plotting something!
- Leave him alone. Stop bothering me with such frerevoli...frirvol...fevol—distractions.
- Leave him alone. So what if he's planning something. He can't even get inside the castle. Ha!
|
Revenue |
|
Expenditure |
||
|
Demesne Tax |
245 Kalinies, 6 silver |
Capital Guards |
107 Kalinies, 5 silver |
|
|
Feudal Tax |
108 Kalinies, 5 silver |
Men-at-arms |
173 Kalinies, 9 silver |
|
|
Production |
22 Kalinies, 17 silver |
Mercenaries (Estimor) |
872 Kalinies, 3 silver |
|
|
Customs |
26 Kalinies, 6 silver |
Administration |
72 Kalinies, 12 silver |
|
|
Tolls |
7 Kalinies, 1 silver |
Castle & Palace |
21 Kalinies |
|
|
Total |
409 Kalinies, 17 silver |
Total |
1,246 Kalinies, 11 silver |
|
|
|
||||
|
Income |
-837 Kalinies, 6 silver |
|||
|
*1 Kaliny = 18 silver, 1 silver = 50 copper (coins) |
||||
On the ghauvs & the aurs.
Much can be said of the latter: their surreal beauty, strange customs, affinity with color, and their control over the supernatural. They lived on these lands since time immemorial—at least as long as men have cared to record history—and some still do, but there is little contact between your people; you for one have never met one.
But whatever the aurs may be, they have coexisted in relative peace with your kind, a statement which doesn't hold true for the ghauvs; not because of any inherent conflict between humans and ghauvs, but because there has been no recorded contact between your species.
What you do know of them is secondhand knowledge from merchant caravans trading with the aurs. 'Baby-sacrificing, puppy-kicking, blood-drinking demons the lot of them' is what most accounts can be summarized to. However, if one digs deep enough, they'll find testimonies of the ghauv's skin which is like the ash of burned forests, tales of their height which towers over the tallest of men, and stories about their younglings wrestling with adult gorillas for sport.
Author notes:
If you have any alternative choices in mind, feel free to post on platforms where I host Kalinland. If they are within reason (setting, character personality & stat, or story wise) and get enough support, I'll add them to the list of choices in the end of the chapter & on the polls for readers to vote for.
You may have noticed (Reader) at the end of some choices. This indicates that this choice was suggested by a reader.
Current platforms I host on: RoyalRoad, Reddit (r/Kalinland), SufficentVelocity, SpaceBattles, Fiction.live, Questionable questing. (On SF & SB, the title may be a bit different, but will include 'Kalinland')
For chapter 1, since the story needs to garner more support/readers, Polls will be closed later than usual (on the 26th. A bit after midnight (00:00) UTC time). I will then post a side chapter. Henceforth, This will be my schedule: New Chapters will be posted on Thursdays and polls will be closed on Saturdays (UTC Time).
For example, Chapter 2 will be posted on the 3rd of March (Thursday), and the poll will close on the 5th of Match (Saturday).
If you enjoy the story, please consider telling others about it. Because Kalinland is very reader-interactive, more people reading Kalinland will result in improvements in the story's quality and scope.
* You might have noticed this sign (*) in the writing. This means that a dice roll (based on stats) was done. For example, in "You nod, unpleased by the lack of helpful advice. *Silence reigns as you examine your horse's white mane, …", and the following sentence which also includes an asterisk symbol, a dice roll for perception was done. You failed (a result of your stats & luck compared to the opponent's stats & luck, the general mood, environment … and the dice roll itself), but Lord Wadergull succeeded. Hence, he spotted the terlock.
I won't put an * every time there's a dice roll. I did it this time to present an example.
The colored -/+ percentage marks (-5%) or (+9%). These are a representation of your (protagonist's) preference for a given choice. They do not equate to a direct decrease/increase in percentage of votes. Their effect is negligible most of the time.
For example, if the outcome of this chapter's choices were to be:
A=11%, B=16%, C=21%, D=27%, E=13%, F=10%, G=2%, those preferences would result in
A=11.05…% B=15.09…%, C=19.58…, D=29.48…, E=12.4...%, F=10.35...%, & G=2.05...%
I also won't often present you with the protagonist's preferences in the shape of percentages. It's up to you to make a rough guess based on the writings in the chapter and your understanding of the protagonist & …
(These percentages aren't supposed to add up to 0.)
I'd like to point & clear out some things so that there are no misunderstandings in the future
- Kalinland will always be free to read, and all users will have the option to vote on important decisions.
- I do hope to make money off of this. That's why at some point, readers who are willing to support the story will get certain voting rights (i.e. a percentage of votes will be reserved for readers who donate), extra content, and ...
- Readers who support the story in other ways will also be given certain privileges and a percentage of votes. For example, those who contribute by translating the story, attracting new readers, drawing fan art, can help with editing, or…
If you're interested, please first send an email to neutralplank@outlook.com explaining how you can help.
If you've made a post about Kalinland with good traction and attracted readers, please also send an email with sufficient proof to the above email if you're interested in having extra votes. - A majority in votes does not translate to that decision being chosen to continue the story. I will explain this in detail in the future, but for now, here's an example:
Scenario 1:
A=47% B=7% C=13% D=9% E=10% F=14%
Scenario 2:
A=47% B=42% C=2 % D=3% E=2% F=4%
In scenario 1, A will almost always be chosen, but in scenario 2, option B still has a good chance of winning. - If you're interested in posting Kalinland on another platform, I'm generally ok with it, but:
1) Please send me an email first and tell me the name of the website you
want to post it on. (no links, just the name)
2) Give full credit, & provide links to any main platform I use to post the
3) Don't add, remove, or alter anything (including author's notes.)
4) Third-party votes will not be accepted. Only votes conducted in
platforms I myself host the story will be counted.
Sorry if it felt a bit rambly. I needed to get these points across.
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iamweirdo
Know what you're doing yet?
- Joined
- Oct 7, 2020
- Messages
- 233
- Likes received
- 114
OK no pay this dude the ~2000 gold or whatever to leave our lands. The dude is leaching all our gold we can't have that if we want to play tall so we make more gold so shit like this does not happen again. fucking mercenaries I hate them leaching our gold when they are not dying for us in conquest or putting down peasant revolts.
NeutralPlank
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Feb 23, 2022
- Messages
- 13
- Likes received
- 11
Indeed, they've been mostly (completely?) useless so far
NeutralPlank
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Feb 23, 2022
- Messages
- 13
- Likes received
- 11
Chapter 1's polls are closed. I'll post the results when I release Chapter 2
I'm going to start writing a side chapter (not in Yorat's POV but it will affect the story's plot/progression) I might finish it in the next 8~12 hours or so
I'm going to start writing a side chapter (not in Yorat's POV but it will affect the story's plot/progression) I might finish it in the next 8~12 hours or so
Chapter 1.1 (side chapter)
NeutralPlank
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Feb 23, 2022
- Messages
- 13
- Likes received
- 11
(As promised, here's today's side chapter. It's not in the POV of Yorat, but this chapter will influence the main storyline.)
There's something about forests that inspires awe: the chirping of birds, branches and leaves rustling in the wind, wide-spaced trees shooting for the sky, and the fresh smell of nature permeating every nick and corner of this birthplace of life.
"Well, that was a big waste of time," Gratep says, looking around for confirmation. Your retinue of thirty or so horsemen face downwards; this isn't their place to speak.
"Quiet, Gratep," your eldest responds.
"What? It's the truth."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point? He's milking us dry! We can't just—"
You slightly kick the sides of your steed to pick up speed, further distancing you from your sons. Gratep gets the hint and drops the matter; he may be right, but such behavior is unbecoming of royalty.
You had gone to the north of Kalinland where Prince Estimor's troops were encamped. He received you with a grand feast (which was ultimately financed by the treasury's coffers) and even addressed you as a lower vassal would. However, despite his deferential attitude, he still declined to heed your request; his troops would not leave until he got what they came for.
"Orwein," you say.
No response.
"Orwein?" You turn back, but he isn't there. Gratep isn't there either. No one is there.
You stop your horse and ride in a small circle to take in your surroundings. Everything feels…different. Absent are the beasts of the wild that once gave this place life. Even the wind has calmed. The forest is quiet. Too quiet.
On all fronts, you are surrounded by majestic trees whose trunks stretch ever upward, and the further up you look, the further they seem to extend. The fragrance of vitality and earth after rain have given way to the stench of mold, rotting wood, and graveyards. The forest has changed aplenty, such that it isn't the same one you treaded upon moments before.
Shhhhhhhh, comes a distant hiss from your left. You make to ride that way, but your steed doesn't budge. You dismount and tie it to a tree. Then, after unsheathing your sword, you head toward the origin of the disturbance.
A short distance later, a squealing hose gallops towards you at full throttle. You roll to the right and take cover behind a tree. When the beast passes, you stand up and continue on the same path.
Minutes later, one of your men runs away from the same direction the horse came from.
"Halt!" you order. He does, long enough for you to notice the tremble in his dilated eyes. He resumes fleeing, but something yanks his legs and trips him headfirst on the ground. Unconscious, an invisible force pulls him away to where he ran from.
You don't attempt to save him; that would leave you exposed to a sneak attack. Instead, sword gripped tightly, you follow from a distance.
Minutes of being smacked into trees and rocks later, he's towed through and levels a cluster of bushes. You follow along and come to a clearing.
It would have been a beautiful sight, for thousands of stars lighten the sky above in all hues of color. Some are big, some tiny specks of light hidden beneath their neighbors, and some aren't even necessarily stars, but luminous lines that hide the secrets of the cosmos. Your youngest would've loved to be here.
A humanoid fiend stands below this vast expanse. It is draped in a robe of pitch black, the edges of which continuously smolder into nothingness. Under its hood is a hollowed face of pale gray and eyebrowless sage green eyes. It holds a soldier, the one you were following, by the neck. Seconds later, his skin loses all color and crumbles into fine powder. A silent gale takes over, bending trees and tearing out grass; it takes the ashes of your warrior and dissipates it into the air. Nothing is left of his existence. All is quiet. The night sky is stunning.
The fiend's head turns to you.
You:
You can vote here: Have your say: You
There's something about forests that inspires awe: the chirping of birds, branches and leaves rustling in the wind, wide-spaced trees shooting for the sky, and the fresh smell of nature permeating every nick and corner of this birthplace of life.
"Well, that was a big waste of time," Gratep says, looking around for confirmation. Your retinue of thirty or so horsemen face downwards; this isn't their place to speak.
"Quiet, Gratep," your eldest responds.
"What? It's the truth."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point? He's milking us dry! We can't just—"
You slightly kick the sides of your steed to pick up speed, further distancing you from your sons. Gratep gets the hint and drops the matter; he may be right, but such behavior is unbecoming of royalty.
You had gone to the north of Kalinland where Prince Estimor's troops were encamped. He received you with a grand feast (which was ultimately financed by the treasury's coffers) and even addressed you as a lower vassal would. However, despite his deferential attitude, he still declined to heed your request; his troops would not leave until he got what they came for.
"Orwein," you say.
No response.
"Orwein?" You turn back, but he isn't there. Gratep isn't there either. No one is there.
You stop your horse and ride in a small circle to take in your surroundings. Everything feels…different. Absent are the beasts of the wild that once gave this place life. Even the wind has calmed. The forest is quiet. Too quiet.
On all fronts, you are surrounded by majestic trees whose trunks stretch ever upward, and the further up you look, the further they seem to extend. The fragrance of vitality and earth after rain have given way to the stench of mold, rotting wood, and graveyards. The forest has changed aplenty, such that it isn't the same one you treaded upon moments before.
Shhhhhhhh, comes a distant hiss from your left. You make to ride that way, but your steed doesn't budge. You dismount and tie it to a tree. Then, after unsheathing your sword, you head toward the origin of the disturbance.
A short distance later, a squealing hose gallops towards you at full throttle. You roll to the right and take cover behind a tree. When the beast passes, you stand up and continue on the same path.
Minutes later, one of your men runs away from the same direction the horse came from.
"Halt!" you order. He does, long enough for you to notice the tremble in his dilated eyes. He resumes fleeing, but something yanks his legs and trips him headfirst on the ground. Unconscious, an invisible force pulls him away to where he ran from.
You don't attempt to save him; that would leave you exposed to a sneak attack. Instead, sword gripped tightly, you follow from a distance.
Minutes of being smacked into trees and rocks later, he's towed through and levels a cluster of bushes. You follow along and come to a clearing.
It would have been a beautiful sight, for thousands of stars lighten the sky above in all hues of color. Some are big, some tiny specks of light hidden beneath their neighbors, and some aren't even necessarily stars, but luminous lines that hide the secrets of the cosmos. Your youngest would've loved to be here.
A humanoid fiend stands below this vast expanse. It is draped in a robe of pitch black, the edges of which continuously smolder into nothingness. Under its hood is a hollowed face of pale gray and eyebrowless sage green eyes. It holds a soldier, the one you were following, by the neck. Seconds later, his skin loses all color and crumbles into fine powder. A silent gale takes over, bending trees and tearing out grass; it takes the ashes of your warrior and dissipates it into the air. Nothing is left of his existence. All is quiet. The night sky is stunning.
The fiend's head turns to you.
You:
- Charge the fiend. Your enchanted sword, unmatched in all of Kalinland, will make short work of this monster.
- Hold your ground.
- Run.
You can vote here: Have your say: You
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