>>5767516The Boy Emperor rules from his tower, the living godhead of a Calandorra prosperous beyond belief. The peasantry eat like kings, so bountiful are the harvests.
In truth the emperor is more of a young man than a boy now, but he is beloved by the fates, and it seems his people too. He does not return their feelings.
The ongoing stains of Ariaios rule offend his sensibilities, even as he himself is knee deep in some of them. No matter how he has been affected, the nation will be set right again.
The early periods of this Tyrn have the emperor and his Tower Guard restoring civil order to the capital of Tor Sulduphan, dissolving the gangs of noble blooded fornicators that frolick the streets and clearing off the unorthodox preachers spouting incorrect, perverse doctrine regarding the heavens.
The Lanthorn is in such a state that Havasad has no clue where to even begin with putting it back together, homunculi crafted in the images of the gods whisper messages to each-other in strange tongues from the heart of the capitals religious centres, the Nadus is completely missing and while the Lanthorn was being inspected, the Samya emerged asking for more children to harvest the skin from. They’re not even supposed to be allowed in temples.
Havasad orders these mockeries of his heavenly family taken away and returned to the looms that wove them, spending much of the rest of his time trying to fix the Lanthorn back up into a functioning organisation.
Slowly, over time, he begins managing to isolate the worst excesses of the Ariaios cult to Tor Loric, a place even he believes it would be foolish to try and bother extracting her presence from. Two crescent moons shine as the west wind picks up, coming into full force. The gales of Veha shout decline, but Havasad will defy fate.
Action 1: Tor Ishum, the burning city.
Cradled within the dunes of Exis, the Tor of Ishum has risen amongst the burning sands, the resilient Dorran people surviving even in such a harsh environment as this. Though named for the lady of dusk, Seihule reigns this land harshly. Even at night the sand is still warm beneath the feet.
The city is great and sprawling, walls built high to provide shelter from the sun and to block the sand from blasting through the streets. It may then come as a surprise that this city is not named for its harsh environment, but for the smoky brew it monopolises, the Ishum Mescal which is said to taste like burning. In a good way, that is.
This is a city of rough linens and harsh living, distant from the gentle luxuries of the oasis, but it serves a crucial purpose in connecting the distant reaches of the empire to the capital and supplying Calandorra with all the lumber it requires, jungle woods of remarkable quality and varied patterns.
