Mak's Tent
"Yes, there's quite a bit you could do." Mak replied. "This is meant to be done with multiple people, and hours of preperation. Currently, there's just us, and we have to do it quite soon. I need you mostly to record the number of changes in the colour of the light, and what colour it is. I have a quill, a pot of ink, and a parchment on my desk. But first, we need to get set up. Faros can set up the tubing, but we'll need to handle the rest." The Dramer rushed through the sentence quickly, seemingly fearing running out of time.
As they had talked, Faros had begun to set up the tubes, they appeared to be made out of glass, and were thus handled with extreme care. The base of the system was on the ground beside Mak, and it carried on before emptying into a small vial at the end. "The glass is mostly to contain the light." Mak explained. There were small notches in the glass every so often, and in them Mak placed several mithril, ebony, and gold rings. "The metals serve to conduct the magic around us, they draw it in and allow it to pass through the light, and from the composition of the magic, we can tell how strong the palisade is here, and what manner of breaches there are." he added. "Q'lorra, could you hand me the vial of light? Be very careful with it, pure light is very volatile."
Q'lorra could see the vial of light sitting on Mak's desk, it was large for a vial, and housed a misty liquid substance - pure light. Q'lorra knew from her time in the college that pure light could only be made in the Juruna Lightwell, an ancient Lyrian construction in the city of Juruna, in the Nokana Empire. This made pure light a very rare substance, and the amount Mak had was far beyond what most mages could ever afford.
The Mercenary Camp
"Get f***ed, Dunaan." The Leoth said, barely managing to say the words. However, his fall had attracted the attention of other Black Axe men, who obviously weren't about to let Odhran attack one of their own and get away with it. Two Thyrids and another Leoth advanced on Odhran, and drew their weapons. The Thyrids held shortwords, and the Leoth was gripping a mace.
They however, were the least of Odhran's worries. Out of his tent stormed the Mercenary Captain, the leader of the Black Axe. The Jarvah towered over the rest of his men, and was larger than even Baldric. He wore a suit of iron plate, and his face was covered with the scars of a hundred battles. He had greying hair, and two horns, one on the right, and one on the left, chipped in half.
"You picked the wrong place to start a fight, boy." he growled, pulling a large ebony waraxe off his back, presumably the black axe the name spoke of. "I've fought in a hundred wars, I've killed thrice as many men, you're just a pathetic little worm to me, let's get him, boys!"
The Lyrian Camp
"What are you doing?" The Lyrian girl asked Ael, noticing his book and quill. "Are you drawing?"
The Storeroom
The Legionaries looked Saroné up and down, attempting to see if he had any seals or other marks that would allow him to access the storeroom. Finally, they realised he didn't and dismissed him.
"No." one replied, and they went back to their guard duties, though they kept a watchful eye trained on Saroné.
Lord Eláron's Tent
"One could say that, and one would be wrong." Eláron answered. "You see a serf whelp and an elder royal, which one is more likely to command your respect? The serf, not even an adult, who spends his days looking at different patches of dirt in the grass, patches which are not even his, but administered by his lord, or the king or prince, a man who has lived a full life, and is far more likely to have done some great deed? You say not all high ranks are earned with merit, and that again is where your ignorance comes into play. It is true that people are born into to their titles, but they manage to keep them despite the schemes of the men around them, is that not merit enough, Rínnan?"
At Aneira's second question, Eláron let out a laugh, and looked at Aneira in the same way that one would look upon a dunce or a simpleton. "You are trying to tell me that your monarchies are only in existence because of tradition and the collective? I wonder if you've even laid eyes on your claimed homeland. In the Dún the political schemes of the nobles are far greater than anything we could hope for here, how could they not be? You are several countries, and yet the same country, your nobles are the only people that even provide you with your regional identities, I dare say they're kept around for more than just tradition. However, it is true that the feudal system governs our laws here in Thyressia, as in the rest of the empire, save the Mún and those stretches of land considered free and outwith our feudal system, it is just easier to have different ranks of people, I feel. You have the Emperor, or you normally do, followed by Kings and Dukes, and it continues down in rank until you get to the farmers and other such lowborn groups. It is easier to have a clear cut picture of who has power over who, I feel. However, I will admit that it can cause certain complications, my own nephew Cephas is an example of that. The scandal surrounding the circumstances of their conception is never that they are [&@%!], no, a noble [&@%!] would be treated fine, the crime is that their mother is nearly always lowborn, a base element of society. That is what our system gives us, the lowest stay low and the highest stay high, save by the incompetence of those that should know better. It is always that way, and it always will be."
The Legion Camp
The legionary let out a snort. "What a pile of [&@%!]!" he exclaimed. "I'll admit, you've got an awful lot of balls and no brains to concoct a story such as that. Someone like you can't be an honoured guest of our duke. You look more like my brother than a noble. Ah, you may as well get a bite to eat for your troubles. Come with me, honoured guest. Ignore Thyrós' plight. The centurion will stop before thirty, they always do, they can't risk losing a man as it is. Though, thirty seems to blend into forty, and forty into fifty."The legionary led Luthais through the camp, and into the tent in which his squad was based. The squad, headed by the decurion, was the smallest unit in the legion, consisting of only ten men. In the past, it had been eight legionaries and two slaves, though it was now ten legionaries. The tent was devoid of people, save for an old and injured legionary, who sat on the edge of his bedroll and nursed his leg.
"Alright, Angaidh?" asked the legionary escorting Luthais.
Angaidh laughed bitterly and spat on the grass. "Aye, right, this leg'll never get better. I'm going to be stuck with a [&@%!] gimp leg for the rest of my life. Who's that [&@%!] with you? Have you kidnapped one of the levies, Anndra? Didn't know you were into men, you poof."
Anndra slapped Luthais in the back. "Go on, introduce yourself to my friend Angaidh here."
