03-07-2026, 08:40 PM
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"Her Imperial Highness has issued an edict.
Tread softly, the glassiest, and most brittles of calm waters carry the cruelest of monsoons, and her displeasure is a surge few survive." - Rafiq Al-Mubariz
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![[Image: tuxi-myridia-dragon.jpg]](https://i.ibb.co/bRJgnp0F/tuxi-myridia-dragon.jpg)
Season by season, the black, and gold banners of Myridia crept across the sky, eclipsing the horizon, their silks shimmering underneath the glow of the skylight. Through the verdant plains, a tide of knights patiently, and slowly funnel into the succeeding territory.
In the whumps and thrums of the Western Dragon, the slumbering, gargantuan titan stirs, its eyes cracking open, and turning its attention to its surroundings.
The Empire of Myridia's influence now chokes the forests, borders swelling as resistance withers in the face of transgressing warriors, and knights of heavy plated armor riding down the opulent lands. A great cleansing engulfs, without delicacy, knights drag peddlers from their beds, pull suspected villagers from their homes.
Curdling screams pierce a multitude of cabins, as families are separated. Those that recoil from Myridia's grip rot in cells, or fertilize the earth.
Hunters who once profited from trading within the black market, bartering dragon bone, and scales from Drakanite, and Wyverns are gathered, and executed. Heresies are leeched from the veins of the Empire, the impurities given no fair trial, as cultists and lowly witches without a name to their faces, and without a reputation are caught.
Those that have bartered their pride away for dark favor are firm reminders to the more magically influenced that those who hold a malign affiliation is the forfeiture of their right to breathe.
― ✧ ―
The message bears: If you are spotted in these territories as a Void Cultist or a practitioner of Black Magic. You will die.
― ✧ ―
In the midst of these cleansings, the lands whisper with hushed voices, rumors circulating as the Princess herself is seen departing the rebuilt Keep of Caethir. Brief 'negotiations' and 'meetings,' lay a clear term. The land, and the claim sits uncontested, and while the Rose Tavern sat inside of the Empire's territory, eerily untouched, walled in by a ring of disclipined, iron bound sentries. Well built decorations that flank, surround and guard the Rose Tavern like gargoyal statues on behalf of the extended Kingdom of Caethir, as a courtesy.
The border hardens, strengthening as the Myridian war machine begins to pivot south, consolidating its armies in preparation for future expansion.
The flight of the dragon is not stopping.
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![[Image: tuxi-myridia-map.jpg]](https://i.ibb.co/rGsXx1PZ/tuxi-myridia-map.jpg)
[Courtesy of Seneschal for the Map]
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![[Image: tuxi-navy-myridia.jpg]](https://i.ibb.co/S79Vdhbm/tuxi-navy-myridia.jpg)
Fleets flying the mystifying gold banners of the Dunedrake surged from the imperial piers, vessels jutting out. Oars churn the seawater with a steady pace, sailors manning the ships. At the vanguard, a flagship of titanic proportions carve through the surf; upon its eventual return, a hushed awe sweeps, and rocks through the docks. Imperial citizens watch in a feverish silence as Her Imperial Highness stepped onto the stone, followed closely by the Queen of Fortune. Days pass, and the Queen of Fortune that vanished into the seafog is returned in silence, with quelled whispers once fording speculations.
The people of the Emerald Isles are left to wonder about the sudden disappearance of Rubi K. Emeraldi, and her eventual return, as if nothing had ever happened to begin with.
The people are made to wonder no more.
The ports of the Emerald Isles groan under Myridian weight. Sapphire Bay becomes an untrimmed forest of masts, and supplied crates, the surrounding clattered, and suffocated with the thick, metallic clatter of plated knights disembarking in a seemingly endless, heavy footed march.
The whispers in the wind pass, in the taverns, alleys, and households, gossip proliferates.
✧ ✧ ✧
"Did you hear? Rubi sailed a Queen, and returned a Baroness."
"Nonsense! I saw the crown sat on her brow! I've actually heard that they've lowered her dais three steps below in the keep. Ya think they're making an empty throne to represent His Majesty?"
"I saw it myself! She knelt, and kissed the Princess' hand like a common supplicant. Would Atheleon had made her do that?"
"They say Fortune's princes and princesses are sent to Elvira as 'honored guests.' I got my own rugrats at home, and I ain't sure I'd have them be babysat for longer than a day with those royals."
"Aye. Ye heard of the old Myridian custom? Between ye, and me? Their customs have a habit of leaving your pockets empty, and ye cupboards bare. I'd be a beggar in a week."
"They're paying for the privilege of keeping their heads... They sent a king's ransom to stay in the good graces of the Imperials. I'd sooner die a pauper than bow."
"You think they're going to rip Fortune clean of all of its goods? Myridia sure has a funny way of making robbery look like etiquette. I wouldn't want to be in the crossfire of those arrogant sons of flintlocks."
✧ ✧ ✧
The rumors become a clear shout of fact:
The Kingdom of Fortune has capitulated.
It has accepted the yoke, its independence traded for survival.
To prove its new loyalty, Fortune's ships begin to exit the ports, its navy now sails alongside the Myridian Fleet, as a merged wall of oak and iron begins to encircle the Death Isle in preparation for the advance.
Trade routes are bludgeoned from the grasp of smaller, middling villages at the seaside, the presence of Myridian maritime cutting the air with its stifling maneuvering, disallowing supplies from ordinarily passing into the Isle where the Gate of the Sisters sit.
Through guerilla tactics, and obscure trickery is how the people are able to eat their meals. Those that remain.
Cannons are stuffed, fattened up with grapeshot, sat in silence, maintaining diligent watch meant to choke the life from the island or serve as a bridge for the Southern Campaign, dependent upon its successes or failures in the sea region.
Myridia's resources spread, and their armies splinter, splitting to handle differing tasks in quick succession. While this is happening, the skies over Fortune ignite, the ships that remain in the port releasing sizzling hisses.
'Fireworks' bloom in the dusk, a thunderous howl of explosions grease along the clouds, as celebrations spread throughout for Princess Sheba's ascension as the Imperial Heiress.
Across the reach of Myridia, the imperial citizens are commanded to rejoice, whereas official festivals and celebrations for the multiple joyous occasions of the Imperial Royal Family are soon to come.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
"Her Imperial Highness has issued an edict.
Tread softly, the glassiest, and most brittles of calm waters carry the cruelest of monsoons, and her displeasure is a surge few survive." - Rafiq Al-Mubariz
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
Season by season, the black, and gold banners of Myridia crept across the sky, eclipsing the horizon, their silks shimmering underneath the glow of the skylight. Through the verdant plains, a tide of knights patiently, and slowly funnel into the succeeding territory.
In the whumps and thrums of the Western Dragon, the slumbering, gargantuan titan stirs, its eyes cracking open, and turning its attention to its surroundings.
The Empire of Myridia's influence now chokes the forests, borders swelling as resistance withers in the face of transgressing warriors, and knights of heavy plated armor riding down the opulent lands. A great cleansing engulfs, without delicacy, knights drag peddlers from their beds, pull suspected villagers from their homes.
Curdling screams pierce a multitude of cabins, as families are separated. Those that recoil from Myridia's grip rot in cells, or fertilize the earth.
Hunters who once profited from trading within the black market, bartering dragon bone, and scales from Drakanite, and Wyverns are gathered, and executed. Heresies are leeched from the veins of the Empire, the impurities given no fair trial, as cultists and lowly witches without a name to their faces, and without a reputation are caught.
Those that have bartered their pride away for dark favor are firm reminders to the more magically influenced that those who hold a malign affiliation is the forfeiture of their right to breathe.
― ✧ ―
The message bears: If you are spotted in these territories as a Void Cultist or a practitioner of Black Magic. You will die.
― ✧ ―
In the midst of these cleansings, the lands whisper with hushed voices, rumors circulating as the Princess herself is seen departing the rebuilt Keep of Caethir. Brief 'negotiations' and 'meetings,' lay a clear term. The land, and the claim sits uncontested, and while the Rose Tavern sat inside of the Empire's territory, eerily untouched, walled in by a ring of disclipined, iron bound sentries. Well built decorations that flank, surround and guard the Rose Tavern like gargoyal statues on behalf of the extended Kingdom of Caethir, as a courtesy.
The border hardens, strengthening as the Myridian war machine begins to pivot south, consolidating its armies in preparation for future expansion.
The flight of the dragon is not stopping.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
[Courtesy of Seneschal for the Map]
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
Fleets flying the mystifying gold banners of the Dunedrake surged from the imperial piers, vessels jutting out. Oars churn the seawater with a steady pace, sailors manning the ships. At the vanguard, a flagship of titanic proportions carve through the surf; upon its eventual return, a hushed awe sweeps, and rocks through the docks. Imperial citizens watch in a feverish silence as Her Imperial Highness stepped onto the stone, followed closely by the Queen of Fortune. Days pass, and the Queen of Fortune that vanished into the seafog is returned in silence, with quelled whispers once fording speculations.
The people of the Emerald Isles are left to wonder about the sudden disappearance of Rubi K. Emeraldi, and her eventual return, as if nothing had ever happened to begin with.
The people are made to wonder no more.
The ports of the Emerald Isles groan under Myridian weight. Sapphire Bay becomes an untrimmed forest of masts, and supplied crates, the surrounding clattered, and suffocated with the thick, metallic clatter of plated knights disembarking in a seemingly endless, heavy footed march.
The whispers in the wind pass, in the taverns, alleys, and households, gossip proliferates.
✧ ✧ ✧
"Did you hear? Rubi sailed a Queen, and returned a Baroness."
"Nonsense! I saw the crown sat on her brow! I've actually heard that they've lowered her dais three steps below in the keep. Ya think they're making an empty throne to represent His Majesty?"
"I saw it myself! She knelt, and kissed the Princess' hand like a common supplicant. Would Atheleon had made her do that?"
"They say Fortune's princes and princesses are sent to Elvira as 'honored guests.' I got my own rugrats at home, and I ain't sure I'd have them be babysat for longer than a day with those royals."
"Aye. Ye heard of the old Myridian custom? Between ye, and me? Their customs have a habit of leaving your pockets empty, and ye cupboards bare. I'd be a beggar in a week."
"They're paying for the privilege of keeping their heads... They sent a king's ransom to stay in the good graces of the Imperials. I'd sooner die a pauper than bow."
"You think they're going to rip Fortune clean of all of its goods? Myridia sure has a funny way of making robbery look like etiquette. I wouldn't want to be in the crossfire of those arrogant sons of flintlocks."
✧ ✧ ✧
The rumors become a clear shout of fact:
The Kingdom of Fortune has capitulated.
It has accepted the yoke, its independence traded for survival.
To prove its new loyalty, Fortune's ships begin to exit the ports, its navy now sails alongside the Myridian Fleet, as a merged wall of oak and iron begins to encircle the Death Isle in preparation for the advance.
Trade routes are bludgeoned from the grasp of smaller, middling villages at the seaside, the presence of Myridian maritime cutting the air with its stifling maneuvering, disallowing supplies from ordinarily passing into the Isle where the Gate of the Sisters sit.
Through guerilla tactics, and obscure trickery is how the people are able to eat their meals. Those that remain.
Cannons are stuffed, fattened up with grapeshot, sat in silence, maintaining diligent watch meant to choke the life from the island or serve as a bridge for the Southern Campaign, dependent upon its successes or failures in the sea region.
Myridia's resources spread, and their armies splinter, splitting to handle differing tasks in quick succession. While this is happening, the skies over Fortune ignite, the ships that remain in the port releasing sizzling hisses.
'Fireworks' bloom in the dusk, a thunderous howl of explosions grease along the clouds, as celebrations spread throughout for Princess Sheba's ascension as the Imperial Heiress.
Across the reach of Myridia, the imperial citizens are commanded to rejoice, whereas official festivals and celebrations for the multiple joyous occasions of the Imperial Royal Family are soon to come.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬