TrashierThanThou
法皇の緑
Prologue.
The old fortune teller stepped out of the tavern's entrance, wooden cane in one hand and all his earthly belongings in another, and shivered as the cold autumn wind greeted him with a sharp blow that whipped at his face and made his eyes water. He pulled his cloak around him tighter and stood under the ledge of the tavern, taking comfort in what little shelter his worn cloak offered, surveying the street in front of him with squinting eyes.
It was well enough into autumn that the nights brought about brutal drops in temperature, a sheen of frost having descended upon the buildings and the bare trees. The street was almost empty except for a lone straggler or two, men and women hurrying about with their hands deep in the pockets of their plump fur coats and woollen jackets, paying no due to the wizened old fortune teller standing in front of the tavern door. He remembered a time when people were kinder, but in recent years they seemed to have grown afraid of everyone else that wasn't themselves. The tavern itself was empty, for he was the last to leave. For the price of a half-mark a day they allowed him to set up his shop in a table in a corner room where he would read tarots and consult the fates for the people who were interested enough to pay. But business was slow, especially this winter. Times were getting hard, and the fortune teller felt it deep in his bones, a hunger that chilled his core and made his mouth dry, and he huddled further into his cloak.
In a sudden motion he raised his head slightly, as if to take the biting cold of the winter air into his chest, before turning his head to the overcast grey sky. A single crow flew by, shrieking its song, and the fortune teller squinted as it landed upon a slate-grey roof, delivering a single jarring note that broke the silence of the autumn dusk.
The fortune teller heard premonition in the crow's song. There has been a foreboding that had hung in the air for days, a feeling of dread he couldn't explain away, and the crow's song confirmed his doubts. He knew next to nothing about the politics that ran this country, hell- he barely knew how to read. If he could, he would have learnt of the invisible demons that haunted every city, fears and prejudice pushing the people towards the brink of something terrible that threatened to tear the ancient nation apart. But he didn't need knowledge to recognise instinct, and today his vision spelled fear. Of what he did not know, but he was never wrong.
"Something is coming," he muttered to no one in particular.
Thousands of miles away, over many Western cities near the border of the desert, the night sky lit up with gunpowder and fire.
Welcome to Requiem.
About fifty years ago, in the harbours of the nation of Avarein, the Technologists first made their presence known to the native inhabitants of the ancient country. The survivors of a disaster that claimed their own homeland, they sought and were granted refuge by the Mage Council. Docking their steam-powered ships and moving their strange metal devices inland, the Technologists settled into their new homes without much fanfare or dispute. All was well.
Peace, however, is now history.
Today Avarein is a nation at war with itself, the native Mages against no other than the Technologists they welcomed scarcely five decades ago. The growing Technologist population has seen a booming growth in the development and demand for industry and technology, and where the need for land and resources grew louder, so did the voices of prejudice against the Technologists. The tolerance the Mages had for the eccentric ways of the Technologists soon grew into disdain, and eventually into disgust and fear that the strange new immigrants might one day take over the land that they once owned. Louder and louder the voices of protest grew, until the Mage Council, unable to pacify its people, finally decreed for all Technologists to be gone from Avarein in one fortnight’s time, or suffer the consequences.
The Technologists, of course, were angered, and where blind rage and wounded pride clashed together the result was an ugly desire for revenge. Overnight entire cities close to the west border were decimated, flattened to the ground with bombardment and gunfire, and from their base the Technologists pushed further inland, gaining more and more ground at an alarming rate. Entire villages were evacuated, more pillaged and plundered, and soon the Technologist front had claimed nearly two-fifths of Avarein’s land, the situation reaching such a critical point that the Mage Council made the decision to reopen the Auditorium of Calystra- the Sanctuary of Peace, last used for negotiations thousands of years ago for the unification of Avarein- this time to call for a peace conference in hopes of preventing an all-out war from ravaging the country.
Today, the great Technologist front looms as teams of delegates and leaders stream towards the heart of the Avarein, where the Auditorium lies. A nation holds its breath as all eyes, Mage and Technologist, look towards the Auditorium’s doors, set to open in a month to seal the fate of Avarein, through war or through peace. The outcome of the conference is unclear and the nation’s future uncertain.
The Auditorium awaits.
The old fortune teller stepped out of the tavern's entrance, wooden cane in one hand and all his earthly belongings in another, and shivered as the cold autumn wind greeted him with a sharp blow that whipped at his face and made his eyes water. He pulled his cloak around him tighter and stood under the ledge of the tavern, taking comfort in what little shelter his worn cloak offered, surveying the street in front of him with squinting eyes.
It was well enough into autumn that the nights brought about brutal drops in temperature, a sheen of frost having descended upon the buildings and the bare trees. The street was almost empty except for a lone straggler or two, men and women hurrying about with their hands deep in the pockets of their plump fur coats and woollen jackets, paying no due to the wizened old fortune teller standing in front of the tavern door. He remembered a time when people were kinder, but in recent years they seemed to have grown afraid of everyone else that wasn't themselves. The tavern itself was empty, for he was the last to leave. For the price of a half-mark a day they allowed him to set up his shop in a table in a corner room where he would read tarots and consult the fates for the people who were interested enough to pay. But business was slow, especially this winter. Times were getting hard, and the fortune teller felt it deep in his bones, a hunger that chilled his core and made his mouth dry, and he huddled further into his cloak.
In a sudden motion he raised his head slightly, as if to take the biting cold of the winter air into his chest, before turning his head to the overcast grey sky. A single crow flew by, shrieking its song, and the fortune teller squinted as it landed upon a slate-grey roof, delivering a single jarring note that broke the silence of the autumn dusk.
The fortune teller heard premonition in the crow's song. There has been a foreboding that had hung in the air for days, a feeling of dread he couldn't explain away, and the crow's song confirmed his doubts. He knew next to nothing about the politics that ran this country, hell- he barely knew how to read. If he could, he would have learnt of the invisible demons that haunted every city, fears and prejudice pushing the people towards the brink of something terrible that threatened to tear the ancient nation apart. But he didn't need knowledge to recognise instinct, and today his vision spelled fear. Of what he did not know, but he was never wrong.
"Something is coming," he muttered to no one in particular.
Thousands of miles away, over many Western cities near the border of the desert, the night sky lit up with gunpowder and fire.
Welcome to Requiem.
About fifty years ago, in the harbours of the nation of Avarein, the Technologists first made their presence known to the native inhabitants of the ancient country. The survivors of a disaster that claimed their own homeland, they sought and were granted refuge by the Mage Council. Docking their steam-powered ships and moving their strange metal devices inland, the Technologists settled into their new homes without much fanfare or dispute. All was well.
Peace, however, is now history.
Today Avarein is a nation at war with itself, the native Mages against no other than the Technologists they welcomed scarcely five decades ago. The growing Technologist population has seen a booming growth in the development and demand for industry and technology, and where the need for land and resources grew louder, so did the voices of prejudice against the Technologists. The tolerance the Mages had for the eccentric ways of the Technologists soon grew into disdain, and eventually into disgust and fear that the strange new immigrants might one day take over the land that they once owned. Louder and louder the voices of protest grew, until the Mage Council, unable to pacify its people, finally decreed for all Technologists to be gone from Avarein in one fortnight’s time, or suffer the consequences.
The Technologists, of course, were angered, and where blind rage and wounded pride clashed together the result was an ugly desire for revenge. Overnight entire cities close to the west border were decimated, flattened to the ground with bombardment and gunfire, and from their base the Technologists pushed further inland, gaining more and more ground at an alarming rate. Entire villages were evacuated, more pillaged and plundered, and soon the Technologist front had claimed nearly two-fifths of Avarein’s land, the situation reaching such a critical point that the Mage Council made the decision to reopen the Auditorium of Calystra- the Sanctuary of Peace, last used for negotiations thousands of years ago for the unification of Avarein- this time to call for a peace conference in hopes of preventing an all-out war from ravaging the country.
Today, the great Technologist front looms as teams of delegates and leaders stream towards the heart of the Avarein, where the Auditorium lies. A nation holds its breath as all eyes, Mage and Technologist, look towards the Auditorium’s doors, set to open in a month to seal the fate of Avarein, through war or through peace. The outcome of the conference is unclear and the nation’s future uncertain.
The Auditorium awaits.
