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The Sands Sit (1 Viewer)


Desert Cataphract Man
Event Team
Patron 3

Over the orange horizons of that Jewelled City of the Desert did the sound of war drums echo in the distance. Bone beat upon stretched animal hide, the hollow thuds merging with the inchoerent chantings of shamans and whipped slaves. As the beat picked up, the crunch of sand under the boot of the conquerers could be heard, edging ever closer to liberate the Sandpeople's Capital from their decadence, from their haze of ignorance and malpractice. For here has come the Saviour, the Liberator! King of the Free, Breaker of Chains! Marov! Marov! Marov! Chant his name and all who hear shall tremble before the Might of his Wind and Fire! The legions are lined up and their deaths are not thought of. For they must make the sun-bleached dunes of Mutajara their final resting place. That, or the sand behind those mighty, towering walls. A majority are indoctrinated, the rest fearful for retaliation. But this is an inevitable fact: War had come to the Walls of Mutajara.... finally.
The two thousand men who had made their approach towards Mutajara through a narrow mountain pass had finally set up against the city, these men being of the hardened variety; Marov's Own. Heavily armored in modified equipment taking insipration from the Bedu tribes of the Azaharr, these pure infantrymen seemed to be the main punching force against the walled city. The 4,000 southeast of the city still kept ready, keeping fortifications close so as to not endanger communication and supply lines. The cage that had once been hauled into the field had been retrieved long ago, back towards the safety of allied lines. The roars could still be heard.
At Tikhameru, the shamans whipped up storms to protect them from any sally attempts from the Tikhameruian garrison, though this actioned dwindled as no action took part throughout the seige. No attacks against the Mandarazi Navy could prevent them from supplying the City, yet the mere presence of these forces allowed no respite nor succor of laxness.

Marov stayed sheltered within his tent. His cold eyes gazed over the horizon as he looked down towards the City. This would be his day... A lieutenant arrived by his side; a slave boy no more than 16 Sands, whipped, dogged, chained. The preparation were set. The Beast was hungry. The City shall fall.

In regards to activity on this post, I would like to respectfully ask of those involved with the sieges of Tikhameru and Mutajara for some leniency regarding the time I need in making posts in response to actions. University is in full swing, so that is taking alot of my attention. I will be heavily monitoring this thread on Friday and the weekend. Feel free to coordinate posts and info with me on Discord. I would also ask that any posts regarding troop movement, supply consumptions, etc. to be header-ed with [SIEGE] and any character-centric info be header-ed with [INDIVIDUAL]. This is for any potential character specific subplots to not be bogged down with all the war RP. Lastly, pardon my lackluster performance. It is inexcusable at this point and has caused most of you grief. TL;DR: AMOH is [redacted].


sad vampire
Event Team
Patron 1


“Isn’t there anything else you’d like to know?”
“If I’ve forgotten anything, I’ll just ask the next one.”

The razor blade set once belonged to someone else. Another crazy cultist, a name similar enough that she mixes them up regularly. There’ll always be another one. The world never seems to run out of villains.

She slides them carefully into her sash, tucking them between folds of fabric so they won’t cut her when she moves. Backup plans, and backup plans for those backup plans. Never hurts to be prepared, even if luck has always been on your side. After all, fortune favors those who rise to meet it.

There have been other preparations, too. Other plans that very few knew. Only one, truth be told, her co-conspirator, her sister, Lynn Fable, providing a voice and a quiet movement that she wasn’t afforded any longer.

Every night a bonfire among the refugees, telling true stories of the desert, singing songs that would counteract those that Marov sang painting himself as the hero. Every day meeting with each one individually, no matter how long it took or how much longer the list grew, carefully recording everything. Every action thought over and executed in the way to best counteract the narrative spun by the book she’s studied night after night; every word and smile meant to tear down a tale told of a liberator and a savior, to plant in anyone who might be watching that this is no decadence, no place of ignorance, but a thing of beauty.

Meant, moreso, to plant that seed that itches at the back of the mind of any man unsure about his path; you have another option, you have another place to go; it doesn’t matter what you did then, only what you do now.

There’s been a sigil showing up all over Mutajara as the siege began and even slightly before. Never within the walls of the city; always outside, the walls near the tent city, the side of the fort. The message is not for anyone inside Mutajara. It is for those who approach. There is an eye and swirls, a bastardization of what was in another world known as the symbol of Venti, and messages. Some are snippets of pamphlets that make their way around the city every so often, and even, occasionally, make it outside. Some are simple phrases. Some are just one phrase.


Dissent. Dissatisfaction. Garai knows how to run a war, but Spinner Fable knows how to run a con, how the mind of a cultist works, how very fragile belief can be. She’s almost lost it herself. Hell, it’s no secret among the city that she’s not entirely pleased with the direction they’ve been going since the start of the war. But personal experience is, after all, the best way to learn something.

The world will never run out of villains. But it’ll never be overrun by them, either, if even one person can keep standing up to meet it.



This place wasn’t her home. This war, not hers. Yet still she stood, tugging at the old war stained buttons of her attire, an outfit meant for convenience and silence. Something she hadn’t used in a great many years. Something she adorned in preparation to help face this storm.

The Vampire Queen’s involvement started with but a simple favor she was willing to do for Spinner. Check the mind of a dancer, a woman taken by a thorn in the side Avaltan man who came from the North to the South to lay claim on sands not his. It didn’t take long for this man’s trap, laden within the woman’s head to try and snare Ishani. A foiled trap that left a vendetta against Marov within.

And now this vendetta left her here, gritting her teeth as her gloves glowed and she took to the skies with silent, ebony wings.

The world was being laid waste by foolish people. Lovers of destruction and power. Another one to be kicked down and put back in their place as the dirt of the world. She was growing tired of these power hungry mongrels. Tired of the irritation they brought.

She has no love for Mutajara or most of its people, and those who knew the Queen’s involvement had brows raised in wonder. Why would she help a foreign Kingdom with no ties to her own? Some plot raised up to snag more control or ruin this foreign Kingdom?

They may never truly know. Personal reasons, kept personal, was what brought Ishani to plot in quiet meetings with Spinner. Personal reasons sided with a touch of boredom. In truth the Queen enjoyed this. It was a twisted internal joy she found that staved the boredom and allowed her to be rid of a thorn not even in her own side. Simply because… she can… and because they annoyed her.

A foolish decision to annoy an unstable Queen.



And on the day you spread your wings
And fly out of the tower,
They’ll marvel at how cleverly
The raven hid her power.

Seanan McGuire

A girl and a bird sit on a wall, high above the city.

The armies are visible below them, but that’s not for their worry. Neither of them was made for battle. One is social; the other, subtle; and today, they have a plan.

(And a backup plan, and another backup plan, because it’s always good to have those sort of things.)

Spinner has the ring, for now, though she and Ishani have practiced swapping it quickly, a simple handoff in a brushing of palms. She’s practiced opening it with her thumb while in the position for a handshake. She has backup plans stored in her sash and her scarf, tiny razor blades that once belonged to the last cultist, her last little vial of the Alabaster Company’s necrotic formula. She has a holy ukulele that she once beat a god to death with. She has a friend by her side who’s stealthier and slyer than Marov, and she’s got something he hasn’t beside; she’s got conviction.

A raven soars through the sky, backlit by the storms. Behind her and below her, Spinner runs along the wall with the confidence of someone who’s never been let down by where the winds take her, who has no fear of falling.

And before the battle raged.
The duo went and their destination? The maw of the beast.

This is a conjoint post between @changelingirl and I.


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