Conversations

Once the epitome of advancement and wonderment, this ancient city has suffered an apocalyptic catastrophe and now drowns deeper into destruction as schemes and further disasters threaten to tear it asunder. Hope has long since left the land... but some have refused to surrender their place in the sun
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Conversations

Mon Apr 15, 2019 12:08 am


Morning, 40th of Ashan, Arc 719

On the island of Tyros, the town of Miletos hummed with the early morning affairs of the citizens. Merchants, traders, laborers, sailors, and otherwise gathered in parts of the town where their respective businesses would unfurl over the course of what was expected to be another long trial. In Miletos, the sun rose at an early hour and twilight never dawdled for long. The people of Miletos were as eager to awaken and begin their lives again with the blessed golden rays that washed over the arid landscape. Throughout the town, pockets of greenery unfurled as the trees hurried to also soak up the warm light.

Along the top of a slope, at the end of the main town road and on the highest point of the area, a modest basilica sat – the shared estate of the Argonis. Made from a mixture of brickwork, flint, the perimeter pillars were lined with sun-bleached stone. No doors were necessary in the council’s pavilion because everyone in Miletos respected the Argonis and it had remained that way for many, many generations. As such, open archframes led into the polished stone-floor interior. Walls seemed as unnecessary as doors, with sections of the room carved out by the placement of furniture and décor rather than actual stone or wood.

In the back, set up on a raised platform with seven steps, the Kókkinos players gathered. This morning, they would be discussing something of great importance, and awaiting the expected arrival of the lord who’d taken Koros and who wished to earn alliance with them.

Kyriakos had been the first to arrive. Dressed in a thin robe of green that mimicked the colors of palm fronds in a pattern, he wore not much else. Though narrow in his frame, the exposure of his chest proved he had firmly corded muscle packed in his tall silhouette. His legs were similarly bare, except for a thin wrapping of blue fabric around his hips and a pair of skin-tight green shorts that stopped just at the top of his thighs. His sandals twisted up along his lower legs in gilded string, ending in tightly drawn bows at his knees. The black-haired Miletian took a seat on a lounge couch, then stretched as he awaited his team-brothers’ arrivals.

It came as no surprise when Demetrion arrived next, with Tylema at his heels. They’d come together and both had beads of sweat on their brows.

Demetrion wiped away the moisture with a handkerchief, then tucked the luxurious swath of red cloth in the leather waistband around his tapered torso. His tunic was minimalist, but not simple for the ivory-dyed fabric reflected the sunlight in shimmers that followed the flow of the rich folds. The skirt of the tunic was short, the hem barely cut-off at the undercurve of his toned rear. He fixed the asymmetrical sleeve on his tunic, adjusting the gilded clasp of a panther-like engraved visage – his own symbol used in the Games and what the people of both Miletos and all of Tyros knew him by. He thinly smiled at Kyriakos as he approached the back platform.

Kyriakos stood, then, to meet his approach and outstretched his arms. The two raven-haired, fair-skinned lithe men hugged to greet one another. Demetrion kissed Kyriakos on the cheek, whispered a good morning, then seated himself on an airy wide chair.

“Morning,” said Kyriakos to the two. He offered his outstretched arms for Tylema next.

Tylema jogged over from where they’d come in. He leapt up the seven steps with ease, then skipped over. He grinned. Out of the three men, he was the most scantily dressed: only a pair of simple brown shorts adorned his form perfectly like a second skin with a thin gold chain that laid diagonally around his hips with a gilded tassel at the end that bounced against his thigh with each energetic movement he made. His build was much broader than the other two and packed with trained muscle.

“Morning, Ky!” He rushed into Kyriakos’ embrace, gripped the older man around the waist, then spun him about in several twirls before tossing him over to land on the couch. Tylema didn’t pause, however. He leapt on top, straddling over Kyriakos’ fallen form, then he stood with his feet to either side of Ky’s waist to stand above him. He placed his hands on his hips and boisterously laughed so loud that it resounded in the open space. “You have grown weak! Like woman!”

Kyriakos smiled, then he grabbed Tylema’s leg and forcibly pulled him down from the couch. The two sprawled onto the stone floor. They wrestled for many bits before Demetrion cleared his throat.

“Perhaps we should discuss matters before Arios arrives with this Venora man? Or prepare a scene for him,” suggested Demetrion.

Tylema looked up, his palm pressed into Kyriakos’ shoulder as he kept the other man pinned down in a seeming victory. “Okay, what more is there to talk about that we haven’t said with Arios? He’s a powerful man, I’ve heard, like us. The people talk well of him. My sister saw him when he arrived and she said he looks like Arsinos. Should I perform a show of my strength?”

“He doesn’t want to see you flex, Ty,” laughed Kyriakos. He swiftly drew his leg around, broke out of the pinning hold and straddled Tylema’s chest. “We should prepare something though, like Demetrion says. Perhaps… the Growl of the Wild?”

“Without Arios?” asked Ty, who simply threw his hands back and surrendered to Kyriakos winning out in their wrestle match.

Demetrion made a quiet hmph sound. He stood, suddenly, and said, “Arios.”

Both Tylema and Kyriakos swiftly looked in the same direction. Across the way, in approach to the platform, was Arios and the man they’d been discussing for the past two trials in length. Tylema grabbed Ky around the waist and lifted them both to their feet in one fell jump. He shook his shoulders, sending sweat droplets out like a dog shaking its wet fur.

Kyriakos simply fixed his green open-front robe and then his hair. He smiled in a friendly manner, then folded his hands at his lower back with a soldier-like posture.

The three men of varied ages stood still on the platform. For a moment, they simply awaited the other two men. Before Arios reached the platform, Tylema hopped down the first two steps. He took a wide stance, as if to pose for a statue, lifted an arm out and then flexed his muscles in a show of his bronze tan skin – still sweaty from the wrestling match. He laughed then, the noise echoed, and he said in a booming voice, “Welcome Lord Alistair Venora from Koros! You walk into the esteemed council of Kókkinos of Tyros, and at your feet lies the stones of our ancestors, testament to their grand achievements.”

He shifted his pose to the other side, to show his back. “I am Tylema of Kókkinos, champion of the Games and avatar of Arsinos himself in the Arsinaeus Medea, honored by all of Miletos!” He turned back around, outstretched his arms for Arios - and even Alistair if accepted - to greet him in a brotherly embrace as he added in a theatrical conclusion, “I am certain you have heard of me.”
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Re: Conversations

Mon Apr 15, 2019 12:56 am

He had been told much in preparation for this meeting. Alistair had learned of each of the three Kokkinos in-depth, as much as Arios was willing to share on them, their personalities and even their backstories. Before even stepping into the corridor where he would approach the three men, Alistair had learned of their accomplishments and what things they liked; even the words they liked to hear. Affirmation, support, or even fatherly degradation. They were all young - younger than him, at the least - and were as a result able to be molded.

But only if he made the right first impression. In that regard, he focused his mind well on the demeanor he wished to carry and the image he wished to impart. He had already been compared by many to that of a God - their Chief God, in fact, though with political figures he was reticent to leverage that fact. He knew the more intelligent and cynical of men would likely doubt the existence of their pantheon altogether, only utilizing its import to the commoners to fulfill their goals and maintain control over their realm. To no one - perhaps ever - would Alistair ever openly proclaim such deification. He would allow the mystery to weigh quietly in his favor, without the risk of accusations of heresy by those on the fence.

It was the best that he could do to immerse himself in their culture; to become one of them. Earlier that morning, he and Arios slept together for the second time. The man, amidst the act, instructed Alistair on differences between mainland Vahanic and the dialect of the Helians. He corrected Alistair each time he spoke and taught him to string his words differently, with a more flowing tone and greater emphasis on certain letters, vowels and sounds. Alistair was beginning to be re-instructed in the language, and already he felt himself beginning to sound more native.

When they finished, the two men wore tunics. Quite impressively to Arios, Alistair already had a Helian-style tunic with high quality black satin. He wore caligae at his feet and a golden necklace shaped in the form of a giant octopi. He repeated the Helian differentials he'd been taught over and again, and when Alistair felt confident and prepared he joined Arios in the man's kitchen and offered him a fond exchange of words before the two ventured to the basilica at the summit of Miletos' raised layout.

When they first stepped through the large double doors of the building, the mage exhaled a heavy breath, paused on his feet for a trill and stepped forward. It had been some time before he'd truly flexed his diplomatic muscles, and such things were always different to the interactions with common men. The uneducated and powerless were predictable and driven by survivalist goals. Those with power carried with them a degree of free-willed decadence, and that was a thing that Alistair could never fully manage to control.

Nevertheless, they came into view. Three men - all of them were fairly attractive, though Alistair's eyes immediately drifted to Tylema. Of course. The man was of tan skin, a handsome if boyish complexion and fairly robust musculature. He immediately recognized all of them based purely on their descriptors, given to him by Arios. The athlete flexed before him as if to demonstrate his impressive build, and to that Alistair smiled faintly. If the others could not already tell through his attire, he was far grander than any of them.

The boisterous man shouted his greetings and engaged in what - though brief - Alistair could only describe as a speech. Champion of the Games and Avatar of Arsinos Himself. He was certainly an impressive figure, then; on the scale of athletes, he must have been a legendary figure throughout Helice. A man of renown that would have expanded beyond just Miletos, or even Tyros -- he would've been, aside Arios, the most useful of the Kokkinos.

As the man outstretched his arms, Alistair welcomed the embrace, and wrapped his biceps and forearms in a tight grip around the other as he greeted him with a warm and almost familial grin.

"It is good to meet you, Tylema!" he replied, with a summoned level of exuberance. Alistair's accent carried some degree of Quacian influence, but he had already begun to perform much of the verbal tropes of the Helian dialect. "I have heard of you indeed, and am infinitely impressed by your stories and feats. I have heard that at a young age, you wrestled with a Pyrgami Lion and lived to tell the tale. Some say you even managed to extract one of its teeth - is that true? I have been overjoyed at the thought of meeting such a virile warrior. An avatar of Arsinos indeed," he said. Alistair focused on the men as well as he could, and his perception of them. The radiance of the spark. He ensured that his aura washed upon them if only to more easily acquire their favor, though with the intent to extend the effects of his aura more gradually.

"And... Kyriakos," he called to the black haired man. "Demetrion. One of our world's great singers and one of the youngest players in all of the Argonis' history. I am humbled by all of you, truly. But let us begin our discussions shortly -- I have come to convince you all to elect me as the Lord of Miletos, and to support my claim of dominion over all of the Helian Isles."

Arios spoke immediately.

"I would suggest you hear his words, Kókkinos. He speaks things of value - whatever your persuasion on the man's ascent to the throne."
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Re: Conversations

Mon Apr 15, 2019 4:02 am


Tylema hugged Alistair in a fond greeting as if he were as much a brother to him as to Arios. It was a strong grip too, in which he tested the bulk of the taller man’s muscles though he didn't seem to mind their height difference. He nodded and grinned back when he heard Alistair’s exuberant greeting. Once the hug broke, he placed his hands at the back of his hips, and leaned back with his eyes set to make eye contact.

He laughed when Alistair mentioned the Pyrgami Lion. Tylema pointed at Alistair and turned to look at the two raven-haired men who’d approached to hug Arios in respective greeting as well. He waved his hand slightly as if to gesture in silent communication to his team-brothers: you hear this? He looked back, laughed again, then clapped a hand against Alistair’s bicep with a firm resounding thud against the muscle, “Of course it’s true! I have three teeth from that lion. Perhaps I shall show them to you one trial. I keep them at my bedside table to remind me of Arsinos guidance in my life and the strength of the wilds.”

His hand lowered and he stepped to the side as Alistair paid some attention to his teammates. He didn’t seem to mind, glancing at Arios with an energetic, confident grin.

Kyriakos had returned to the platform already, having greeted Arios, and he sat down on the lounge couch. He nodded simply in the call of his name, then glanced over to the much younger raven-haired Alpha who had remained at the base of the steps where the other men were gathered.

For it was Demetrion’s turn to be paid attention to. Demetrion smiled, in a polite and fairly charming expression, though his eyes appeared colder than the natural fire in Tylema’s. He slowly blinked at the compliment. He reached out then, to offer a hug to Alistair as well for their greeting, and his lean arms slid around for a quick but intimate embrace.

And then matters turned to business immediately. Demetrion took a small step back and blatantly surveyed Alistair’s body. He rested his hand at his chin, in a thoughtful pose. Arios had made himself more than well known in how he viewed the outsider, but Demetrion wasn’t sure what this meant for his own position in Miletos. He said, “Arios speaks highly of you, Lord Venora. He would not do so if you have not impressed him, as such, we will listen to all you have to say without interruption.”

Demetrion gestured for Alistair to follow him. He led up the stairs with light steps that lifted the hem of his short tunic skirt up in flares that revealed his undershorts. The fabric shimmered in the sunlight. He kept his gaze directly on Alistair’s golden-glow eyes, not having to look down or in front of him to keep perfect balance.

He reached the top of the platform and held out his hand. But it wasn’t to take. He swept it out in a wide theatrical gesture toward the center of the platform, surrounded by the chairs and couches, and said, “Here is where we stand when we speak to one another about matters of great import. While we often perform for visitors such as yourself, diplomats from other islands or teams, we have decided that instead we wish you to present. This is an honor, to be offered the first stage, as it has been for every player before now and so it shall be for you. You may begin however you like.”

The raven-haired Alpha twirled in a dancer’s spin that ended with him landing in the seat of the wooden chair again. He crossed his legs with his ankle rested on his knee.

Across from him, Tylema had hurried to join on another lounge bed. He gathered himself in a comfortable posture and nodded with a grin, eager to hear what Alistair might say to them.

Kyriakos shifted on his couch to sit up. The quiet player said nothing though.

With each player settled, in a square formation, they patiently waited. The stage was set for Alistair to convince them without interruption.
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Re: Conversations

Mon Apr 15, 2019 11:10 am

He looked to Tylema with a level of enthusiasm as the other man mentioned his lion's teeth and how he kept them at his bedside, and how Alistair might be shown them one trial. The mage withheld an immature, glib snicker, instead nodding with the brightness of a half-fabricated smile as he agreed to the man's proposition. "Indeed, that would be wonderful, Tylema," he replied.

And then, things changed. He spoke to the others and seemed to garner their attention wholly. Alistair was not reluctant to embrace the younger man, Demetrion, and even offered such an embrace to Kyriakos as well. Shortly after, Demetrion spoke to him in formality and Alistair smiled. The man was beckoned to follow the youngest Argonis to a set of stairs that led to a higher level, one with many tables and chairs spread throughout the room. Once they had entered, Alistair had been informed of what he was to do; the honor he was meant to fulfill, of presenting his story to the players in a persuasive manner. It was, in some ways, a performance.

The mage nodded, once more. "Thank you, Demetrion," he replied to the younger man. Alistair wasted no time in standing before all of them, taking center position before the men that viewed him. Arios seated himself beside Tylema and stared with bated breath, as he hadn't prepared Alistair for any such thing; he did not think that they would invite a foreign man with no knowledge of their cultural traditions to present himself thusly.

And yet they did. Alistair was not only on his own for the affair, but he was to do it all in spontaneity. What they sought was not only a speech, but a performance. A method in which he presented the topics he wished to discuss. They wished to be persuaded in the manner that all Tirano men did -- through theater.

But Alistair was no actor. He was a Noble, unskilled in frilly rhetoric for his inexperience with the concept of accountability. Nobles were held to no higher power - they did not need to master such rhetorical performances as the ones his current audience sought.

However, the man had learned enough of the Tirano and their ways to understand what he was meant to perform. He strung together his stories, his warnings, all of the man's provocative tales. Within them was the truth of their danger, but the manipulation of that to invoke feelings of incoming dread within the Helians he sought to acquire. Even the wealthy and powerful carried the fear of death, often more than others around them. These men would understand - he hoped - why the mage moved with such urgency.

A Scrying portal opened. It stood beside Alistair, not quite at his height, but at an impressive length and width that rivaled any tall-standing mirror. Within it was the visage of a gloomy stone city, with filth and blood covering the streets and whittled, impoverished men hauling goods across the cobbled floor. Coughing, heaving, wheezing, spitting, the endless chewing of food with rotted or absent teeth - the disgusting, guttural dialect of Vahanic with which they spoke... these were audible traits that followed the Scrying vision even as he directed and shifted the imagery.

"This is the Broken Land," he told them. "The city of Quacia, home to around... three hundred thousand people. Six times more than there are in Hélice, at least based on the census our islands last performed. I have lived there for some time, and through my stay have found myself relentlessly appalled at every step. By the treatment of the common man, by the distinction between the upper-strata and the lower; by the violence of their religion which defies the truth of Arsinos... and most of all by the filth. Filth permeates the Broken Land, Kókkinos. It is everywhere on every doorstep and through every corridor. Men live and die without a single trill free from it. Plague festers in parts throughout the city at all times. It is madness."

As he spoke, the mage illustrated the picture with gestures and flowing motions of his arms, often emphasizing his words as he expressed himself with a soldierly sort of posture. Alistair stood straight with his arms extending outward from his chest, one hand upon the other arm's elbow and that arm extending and motioning to the Argonis as he spoke. At first, his tone was informative. But quickly, his gaze turned solemn with his lashes curtaining his eyes. Alistair altered the presentation.

"This... is Morovas," he showed them. The Scrying portal altered in its projection to a distant Isle, but perhaps one that they had seen before. It certainly carried Helian architecture and the beautiful ecology of the Isles. But what was pictured might have been unfamiliar to them; a burning village, men being led like sheep by their masters, dressed in dark and briny colors as they scowled at their new and undeserving slaves. All of them had shackles and collars, the Helian ones at least, disarmed and ripe for abuse.

"Only last trial, the Guild of Raw Materials - a Quacian enterprise - assailed them and has already taken many Morovians as slaves. As things currently stand, with the power of the Broken Land, these deeds may be performed all across Hélice. We are all divided. If it was Quacia attempting to invade a unified Hélice, things would be different. But we fight against masters far superior to us in discipline and organization. And this is not the end," he explained. "The Nobility has begun to act as well. I have seen it, for I can see all things in any place and at any time. These doorways of mine have allowed me to look into their affairs, and soon we will have not only the Guilds of Quacia but their Barons, Dukes and other aristocrats bearing down on us. We will have a fleet of enemies and hundreds if not thousands of professional soldiers seeking to colonize and enslave our people. For you see, Kókkinos, we are Quacia's hope. The place they will run to in order to free themselves from their destruction - one that comes nearer to their doors every single trial. That destruction is the Creep, or the Blighted Lands as you may know it by. And they will not leave their city without assurances that they might be our masters when they come here. Quacians never, ever surrender power. They seek more, infinitely."

And then, for a trill, he paused as he looked to all of the men and scanned them with his eyes. Alistair's lips pressed firmly together; he appeared determined to show them these truths. His body language retracted somewhat into his form and grew more stale, as he presented to them a final picture.

"The truth is, while I am afraid of what destruction the Brokenlanders might unleash upon a disunited Helice, their power is the least of what I fear. The thing they flee from, that awakens them in their sleep with visages of utter terror, is far more invasive than they and soon it will be upon our shores."

The portal’s reflection altered. They were now peering deep into the heart of a thicket, with grey vines covering all things. Much of the wood charred black, and the forest was saturated in a putrid amber-colored liquid that grew upon the land like a fungal plague.

As Alistair presented the imagery to them, his expression grew somber and his body language altered; he appeared defeated by sorrow. In his sorrow, it was almost as if he appeared not to notice what immediately happened as his portal was constructed within the forest grounds.

A Ferahorn appeared at the center of the scrying vision, screeching and roaring as bile spewed from its converting intestines. It inspected the portal at first, but perhaps commanded by the Creepheart, the creature began to claw at the edges of the portal in an attempt to close it. An evolutionary understanding of how such things worked.

Before long, after a relentless assault upon the portal that animated the creature’s truly feral approach, the portal was forced shut as a result of irreconcilable damage to its structure and shape. It collapsed within itself and the last image seen was the Ferahorn being flung back as its claws met the white-gold gate with an ethereal crunch.

Alistair’s arm rose. He reached to touch where the portal had once been, but to no avail as his eyes opened to see that it was gone.

Perhaps it was an act.

Perhaps it wasn’t.

The Ferahorn’s actions were real, and what he said -- the things he warned them of -- they were all real.

“This is not the most terrifying creature of the Creep. Not even near it; our strongest adversaries have yet to come, as they evolve constantly and learn how to slaughter men more efficiently, and corrupt their lands. And imagine these beings -- pervasive as they are -- but with flight, a trait they have acquired only this arc. Bleeding into our home, pollinating through our forests. The Koroskai joined me because I alleviated them of their most immediate threat - the Guilds, the Saltfetchers… but these enemies are but flecks of ash and the great enemy has yet to come. Hélice must be unified,” he proclaimed. Alistair’s tone grew resolute - stalwart and inspired. His posture shifted to that of a masculine, commanding stalwartness; peerless in image as he stood straight and tall, his hands clasped together behind his back.

“And I must be King. I came here to unite you all against the tide of evil that comes from the Broken Land, and I will. No matter what must be done.”
Last edited by Alistair on Wed Apr 17, 2019 2:24 am, edited 1 time in total. word count: 1651
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Re: Conversations

Wed Apr 17, 2019 1:40 am


The Kókkinos waited for Alistair to begin. When the Scrying portal opened, both Tylema and Demetrion glanced at it. Kyriakos, however, kept his gaze firmly set on Alistair instead. Whether they were impressed by this summon or not, it was impossible to tell – as their expressions didn’t change in the slightest, only the direction of their respective gazes.

As the Broken Land was visually shown as a backdrop to Alistair’s explanation about Quacia, Tylema nudged Arios’ arm and glanced at the man with a small raise of his eyebrows. It was the closest to a reaction that Alistair got as he explained the filth in the Broken Land and the plague.

Demetrion maintained his posture, his hand rested at his chin in thoughtful contemplation. He remained as expressionless as Kyriakos did. For the Argonis players were concentrating: on the words that the foreign lord spoke and on the way he said them.

Kyriakos gathered his green robe, his gaze surveying the gestures and motions that Alistair made. It was his responsibility, after all, to determine whether the lord had composure and control in the use of his body while presenting. He paid close attention to the gestures used, whether they suited the words spoken or not, and did his best to not be distracted by the moving picture in the scrying portal.

Just as it had been determined for many presentations before this one, though never quite so different as a foreign man like the one before them, Tylema focused on the tone of voice. He listened closely to the control of both pitch and volume utilized in the persuasive explanation. The portal went to Morovas, an island they knew and one that he’d even visited once or twice. His brow furrowed, his prior exuberance channeling into visible concern. And it took all of his theatrical discipline to not simply stand and demand they go to help the island at that very moment. He glanced at Arios next to him and made the quietest of hums to make his discontent known to the older mentor.

It became more difficult for Kyriakos as well. He noticed Tylema’s distress, though for an outsider it’d be impossible to truly tell just how much it meant that the younger man had frowned in such a way at all. His empathetic heart twisted at the sight. He felt himself waver slightly as well, but the only sign was that his gaze had flickered to look at Ty and then to the portal before returning his focus to Alistair’s gestures.

Out of the three players, it was Demetrion who maintained a calm and thoughtful expression as he always did. For the youngest player of the Games, a star in his own right, observed the lord’s emotions – to determine if they were conscious, unconscious, forced or sincere. His eyes narrowed as the portal changed to the deep thicket of a forest. He tapped his finger against his chin. Was the lord truly sorrowful about such a threat? Demetrion wasn’t convinced though he respected the act itself. He glanced at the Ferahorn. His eyes narrowed.

Tylema, on the other hand, stood. He placed a hand on his hip, which if he’d been in appropriate attire for such a thing, his sword would have been resting. After a few trills though, he realized that the beast couldn’t come through the portal. He eased slightly, a faint blush rising to his cheeks for having gotten so riled by the imagery. Ty watched Alistair closely now, his hands curled into fists.

And I must be King. The conclusion was made, the final statements, and after Alistair finished… there were a few trills of traditional silence.

Demetrion stood, ever composed, and he offered three gentle claps in the palm of his left hand to signify a moderate approval of Alistair’s performance for dramatic theatrics. It wasn’t the best score to give, however, which would have been five repeats of the clap. He didn’t smile, nor did he say anything.

Kyriakos stood next. He looked slightly concerned, his mouth open in a slightly ragged breath. The ferahorn and information had been disconcerting, but more so, he was affected by Ty’s reactions. He clapped five times into the palm of his right hand. His mouth felt dry. He looked over to Arios and Ty.

However, Tylema, who’d already been standing, didn’t clap. He broke the tradition by speaking instead. The brunet held up a fist in a dramatic posture of determination and he said, “You speak of many things, Lord Alistair, but we are not a helpless people like maybe you think of the Koroskai. We are strong! We have fought one another, in the past, and we keep ourselves ready in honor of our ancestors who died so we might have what we do today.”

“Tylema,” interrupted Kyriakos in a soft voice. He fixed his robe with his fingers running along the inner edges. His eyelashes fluttered and he looked past them, up at Alistair, with a gentle stare. He asked, “These… Blighted Land beasts… you say they’ve acquired flight? How do you know such a thing? What experience do you have that lends an outsider to claim kingship? Why would we not seek aid from each other, on our own and with our respective claims, without the need to change the structure that our people have come to trust and know?”

“Before you answer him,” interjected Demetrion swiftly. He held up a hand to make it clear that he intended to say something as well before the conversation moved to Alistair’s answers. “This Guild of Raw Materials is to blame for what has happened to the Morovians. Perhaps they might be appeased with an offer of trade and alliance, especially if they are as divided as you suggest. Enslavement takes time and men, and they will find it harder than they expect compared to the Morovians. If the Blighted Lands are such a threat, it could be better to make alliances with the Broken People before the threat arrives so that we might learn from them and handle this Creep together as allies. I neither see nor hear any reason why we require consumption by a single man, no matter how… powerful he might look or sound.”

Tylema made a quiet sound of a huff. He looked confused and ran a hand over his hair before he said, “At least let Lord Alistair answer Ky’s questions, Demetrion.” He added with a nod at Arios, “I understand what you were telling us now.”
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Re: Conversations

Wed Apr 17, 2019 3:15 am

Three claps.

Five.

None, or at least for the moment.

He supposed it was a rating system -- an expression of approval. Demetrion was a hard sell, though Kyriakos seemed visibly altered by the display. Tylema, perhaps, disagreed with the premise itself... though his words were easy to counteract. Alistair knew they were - and truthfully. He did not need to lie to speak through the athlete's fragile rebuttal.

"Though I have seen our people's," he made sure to speak of the Helians thusly, "...strength of body and will, Tylema, you do not know the challenge you face. You have not lived through the chaos of the Broken Lands. You have not watched towns far larger than this one be engulfed by beasts within a single night, even with powerful mages and weapons designed to counteract them. They are an army unlike any the world has ever seen, and it is not a glorious or honorable battle to fight. Fighting the Creep--you watch your lives and the lives of others around you degrade every trial, as control slips away from your grasp. As the beautiful forests, meadows and retreats you used to dwell within become absorbed by a brutal entity designed to do nothing more than corrupt and overcome life. For all I have faced throughout my time on Idalos, no enemy has affected my mind the same as this one. The Creep pervades all good things and rots them to naught."

It was a long reply, but it needed to be said. He would make no jest of the Creepborne's influence, and would not allow for any of them to believe that it was a simple beast such as a Saltfetcher. It was far worse than that; they could fall under no delusions, in that regard.

Kyriakos spoke. He immediately inquired with the Koroskai Lord, rightfully questioning the legitimacy of his claims, as a skeptical mind should. Alistair nodded softly as he spoke, his brows clinging closer to his eyes as his expression grew all the more serious. Before he replied, Demetrion interjected and asked that he consider something in addition before answering Kyriakos' question, or truly saying anything further. And his questions were legitimate, though of course Alistair was displeased to discover that he was not in favor of Alistair's claim upon the Helian Isles. This did not show in his expression, though he determined he would still yet need to make a more concentrated effort to persuade the youngest of the Argonis.

"A reasonable inquiry, Demetrion," he replied. "Allow me to respond to Kyriakos first, and then I will address that question." He said this not rudely, but rather to ensure Kyriakos' questions were not lost within the flux of their debate. Demetrion had been rude to interrupt him, something Tylema noted the moment Alistair thought as such.

"They--the Creep works by corrupting living things. It will kill an entity - say a human - and then somehow manage to 'add' that creature's consciousness to its hive. I speak in highly technical terms because it is a unique phenomena, and I have observed it nowhere else. Previously, it was unable to perform this feat on beings capable of flight, or at least it could not sustain flight once acquiring control over them. Now, it appears that limitation has been restricted. Only this arc, not long ago, a flight of dangerous Quacian predators - large, violent bats - flew overhead the city and attacked many of its citizens. They were under the influence of the Creep, which is not a passive entity. It relentlessly sieges all living things even near to its proximity," he explained.

"As for the rest of your questions," Alistair began, "I was born the heir to the House of Venora, likely the... second or third most powerful family on Idalos. I ruled the Barony of Novilane, home to several hundred thousand people, far more than there are in Helice and even Quacia. If you wish to speak of my qualifications, there you have it. I was trained from birth until now to rule a Duchy of millions, so I am well versed in administrative, military and political affairs." Kyriakos wished for an answer on his experience, and so he offered it. Alistair's arms rested behind his back, his fingers clasped together as he stood straight and tall. His statuesque posture and the confident manner in which he spoke did not waver.

"And for your final questions, regarding your own people and why I must be the one to lead them and into a feudal system, well . . . I have an explanation but it is long-winded. The beginning of my reasoning is that the answer lies directly before us, as all of you can clearly see," Alistair reasoned. The portal's imagery flickered back to Morovas. To the same dehumanization.

"The Guilds attack us. Koros would have been taken over entirely if I had not intervened when I did, and it appears Morovas will be facing a similar fate soon enough. That is two of your six islands, and Quacia has a far superior navy to yours. In fact, even one of the several Guilds likely has a greater navy than all of Helice combined. Your greatest shipbuilders are all Koroskai -- my island -- and their best vessels are triremes. Quacia has better than that. Without naval superiority you will never be able to win a war against Quacia, because Helice is an archipelago. They can attack your islands individually and completely blockade your attempts to respond. You will never again be safe -- at any moment, they will come to take slaves from one of your isles, and you may only pray that it will not be yours."

"But," he continued, "I have better ships than even they do. A frigate -- an extremely rare and powerful warship and line vessel -- and two war galleons. My three ships can oust an entire lower quality fleet with only their triumvirate. The issue, however, is that the Nobles will soon join in this endeavor, and even if I wished to be the altruistic defender of Helice from these attacks with no assistance or compliance from any islands but Koros, my limited quantity of ships will not be enough to patrol these waters. I will need a fleet of my own, and Koros does not have the manpower to build such a thing. I require compliance by all of Helice," Alistair explained. His eyes averted to the other man, Demetrion, and then back to Kyriakos.

"I am sorry -- there is more that must be said," he added. "Why must it be me?" The mage inquired. "Why must we move from your traditional systems, which appear to vary from island to island or even village to village? They have worked for you for so long -- correct? I have heard this. It is wrong."

Arios nodded quietly as he listened to them. He had provided Alistair with key information, though all at the mage's request. He knew what was to come, now, from his lips.

"Endlessly since arriving I have been told of your traditional systems of leadership - many of which are not systems at all, but rather a sort of communal-based leadership of the people. Do these systems work, Kyriakos? All of you? Look upon your people and their history. Arios informed me that during the census of Arc 609, the peak of Helice's population, your isles collectively held over a hundred thousand citizens. Now, you carry half the number. Koros, previously on par with Theros in many aspects, has lost over eighty percent of its population since that time. The island is covered in ruins, desecrated homes and abandoned properties. I have surveyed it relentlessly and the amount of townships and villages I have discovered that I did not even know existed -- due to their complete eradication by monsters -- was... overwhelming. Tyros is the next in line for this destruction. Saltfetchers have migrated across the isles. Mer Raids have increased in frequency, and now... the Guilds. The Quacian Nobility. The Creep. How long do you think you will survive for? Who do you think will come along and save our people from the extinction that we face? I would say that you do not have an answer--"

"But you do. Of all of Helice's isles, Koros was perhaps the most traditionally rooted in democratic ideals. And yet, those systems have within trials faded into obscurity, and already the isle blooms of a vigor even I have never yet seen. The people decided that it was time to throw away such demands, in order to retain a thing that matters far more: culture. Life. Systems exist to serve mankind. If they fail us, we must topple them. I expect that if my monarchy fails that you will all claw upon my gates and throw me to the sea. These Isles, in our crisis, must not tolerate failure."

Finally, he looked to Demetrion to answer him. Alistair's eyes were filled with a sort of paternal concern.

"The moment the guilds learned of Helice's existence, they began to attack and enslave Helians. They are Quacians, and they face the extinction of their own civilization. They will stop at nothing to enslave you all and populate your lands. Alliance. What would an alliance do for them? They have power -- you do not. Not without me. Perhaps, when I am King, we might speak of an alliance. Until then, your words - to their ears - will bleat from your lips like the livestock they see you to be. And like any disobedient animal, you will be broken in. That is the Quacia that I know. If anything, they will speak of an alliance all until the moment their fleet comes into view upon the horizon. Do not be misled by such notions."
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Re: Conversations

Wed Apr 17, 2019 5:17 am


As Alistair responded to each man’s concerns, in thoughtful explanations, the Argonis started to diverge from one another in how they felt about the matter. Tylema, in his nod to Arios, had clearly made up his mind. Though he didn’t say a direct thing about it, for the three other men who knew him well, it was obvious as the sunlight that graced the sky during midday.

Perhaps it was Tylema’s eager willingness to hand over their township, the place they and the players before them had worked so hard to maintain with honor and security, that caused Kyriakos to act as skeptical as he did. Often, the man proved passive, but it was always in these sort of moments – the most pivotal of times – that he made himself known to be an individual of indomitable will like a true player of the Games. Though Demetrion had sidled against his questions, and attempted to override them with his own thoughts, he didn’t show any irritation toward the younger man. He simply crossed his arms over his waist in a loose, casual fashion and listened to the many words that the Lord supplied them with.

“Do you mean to say that what we saw,” queried Demetrion after the discussion of the Creep. “That beast used to be… a living thing?”

Kyriakos blinked slowly, his gaze unmoving as he watched Alistair’s body language still and started to make note of the various facial tics around the golden glowing eyes. He knew of mages, though he was not one himself, and he felt if Tylema and Arios were to be so lax around the outsider – and knowing Demetrion’s true alignments in regard to a situation such as this – he would be the only one who could stand as the voice of the people he knew in Miletos. He had to be their representative, rather than stand for himself or his own mind like he felt the other men were doing… though out of the other three players, he suspected Arios had a similar intention in mind, but on the opposite side of the crowds that made up their township’s population.

He remained quiet, however, and allowed the lord to finish whatever needed to be said first. And it seemed, as Kyriakos caught the glance between Alistair and Arios, that there was more than simply the altruistic notions of a foreign lord offering his might in exchange for a new realm of rulership… but that Arios had shared about their island with the man. When Alistair said his name and asked him if their traditional systems worked, the corners of Ky’s lips turned downward in a barely restrained frown. The lower waterline of his left eye, even, twitched. Whether it was anger or something else, though, it was impossible to tell as the rest of him remained relaxed in posture and expression.

Demetrion spoke first, and with the faintest of blushes on his face in reaction to how Alistair had looked at him. He was used to men treating him like a son, due to his age, especially Arios and yet, it never failed to make him ease somewhat on the otherwise balanced demeanor in which he approached life. Instead of becoming insulted by the picture that Alistair painted with how the Quacians would view him, he nodded in acceptance.

The youngest player spoke in clearly defined diction, “I can’t profess to know the Broken Land like you do, Lord Alistair. If Arios has come to trust you like he has, then I see no reason why I should not as well. It is my aim to assure that our people face as little bloodshed as possible. Alliances would be preferable to this, like we have with the other teams on Tyros. It is with great humility that I feel we must accept your offer, and subsequent claim, for these warship vessels you speak of.”

Tylema gave a small laugh. He gestured with a sweeping arm across to where Demetrion stood opposite of him and he said in a booming theatrical voice, “And so the lamb sees the purpose of the lion!”

Demetrion simply exhaled in a soft breath. He placed his hands at his lower back, then glanced up at Alistair. The blush had disappeared, and he looked as composed and neutral as he had when Alistair first approached them.



“You have swayed my brothers,” said Kyriakos in his quiet voice. He raised a hand to gesture toward Tylema. “One with promise of glory in battle like the heroes he prays to.” His other hand rose to gesture toward Demetrion. “The other with promise of expansion and cultivation of our town.”

Kyriakos brought his hands together, turned his full body, and faced Arios. “And the father to us all, swayed by… what else, but his hope for a future that some of our people proclaim is the way or perhaps…” He didn’t finish his sentence. His gaze flickered to Alistair. The implication rang clear between the players in a way that made Tylema wince from the rare stab of tension between them.

“I never claimed our systems are superior to the ways of… what lies beyond the Broken Lands, but that they are known, and they are trusted.” Kyriakos turned his body to face Alistair directly. He folded his hands in front of him, in a relaxed posture, and without any hostility as he spoke his concerns. “You have heard much about us from Arios, I am certain of it, but you have not heard everything. He is only one of our council, and perhaps you do not yet understand this about our traditions, but this - if not the next - is to be his last arc as a player in the Argonis.”

“If you had come merely a few seasons later than now, you would be speaking to the three of us and another Delta,” explained Kyriakos. “A Delta with… I apologize, Arios… but with fresher eyes and a mind for the future of Miletos that serves the young and virile, not the fading and spent. As the players before us have done, and I see no reason for this to change. Populations decline and increase due to many factors, you cannot place the blame on our system when you, yourself, admit the rise of Saltfetchers and Mer Raids. This is not the fault of our traditions.”

Kyriakos continued, “You miss portions of our history as well. You may speak to us, and we may agree, but we do not speak for Tyros. There is still Kyanós to consider. I can’t imagine Menelaos accepting something such as this, can any of you?”

Tylema made a discontent sound and scratched the back of his head. He appeared to turn sheepish for the moment, as if reminded of something he’d rather not admit. Demetrion simply shook his head.

“We are not resistant to change, Lord Venora,” said Kyriakos. “But destruction is not change. It is ridding our people of a foundation they’ve known for all of their lives, the lives of their parents, and their grandparents, and before then. You suggest if what you seek doesn’t work, we might topple you, but you – yourself – have made obvious the power at your command and perhaps yet there is more we have yet to know of, as well. You ask for our trust, then tell us in the same breath that if you fail us, we must spend the lives of our people to make amends for the decision we make now?”

Kyriakos gave a confused expression with his dark brows furrowed. He shook his head, then raised a hand in gesture that he was almost done, but still had yet more to say as well, “I cannot override my brothers, three against one in the council is… while we try for unanimous decisions, I understand why this might be a departure from such tradition – as it is a complete departure you request from us now, to call you our King and create ties with the islands beyond ours.”

“So let me ask my final questions of you, Lord Venora, and if your answer sways me, then I shall also support you when I speak to the people – the leaders of this town – who often meet with me in confidence to share their woes and hopes. If I feel I would be deceiving them in any way regarding such an immense change to their lives, I cannot support this.”

Kyriakos lowered his hands again to fold them in front of him. He took a dramatic breath, then raised the angle of his head in a proud posture. The other players would recognize it as the face he wore when he portrayed the god, Hargalis, in the Arsinaeus Medea. “You speak of your family name, of which I’ve never heard of and thus neither will our people understand this importance you claim. You share about this Baron title, these several hundred thousand people, and that you are meant to rule millions… and yet… here you are, speaking with our modest council on a small island separated from all other lands.”

“Why?” he asked. “Why are you here? Why are you not in your Barony anymore? Where is your family? Is it benevolence that brings you to our shores or is it… something else? What happened to the several hundred thousand people, far more than Tyros, who used to be yours? ...Did they oust you?”

And with that, he crisply stopped talking. Though his voice had raised in volume, he had not shouted, and he did not appear aggressive. Kyriakos didn’t look away though, as he watched Alistair closely. Not for himself, but for the people of Miletos who he loved.
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Re: Conversations

Wed Apr 17, 2019 11:54 am

Kyriakos was a wise man. Alistair -- despite all of their differences -- respected him, even if he felt that he'd missed the purpose of many of his points. He clung to the Saltfetchers and Mer Raids, though Alistair raised them as validation for the fact that the system had not worked to handle their influence. A unified Helice would have been capable of forming a standing army, one that could cull the Saltfetcher brood-chambers from the coves, and could reinforce ships with bodyguard vessels to protect them from Mer. They could acquire the service of more Necromancers, who could even automate such things, without the loss of a single Helian life.

This sort of collaboration was impossible as things were now. But he supposed that Kyriakos, as rooted in their systems as he was, could not even tell the difference. He had never lived to see a unified realm, a truly unified one. Koros might have been one, and Morovas or so he had heard, but they were small and recovering from a slow whittling of their people. Tyros would have been a far greater example, with its comparatively plentiful population and the infrastructure that already existed.

Finally, his thoughts put together, Alistair replied to the bulk of what Kyriakos had said.

"Destruction is not change?" he asked. "What you undergo now is destruction. Even Tyros - strong as it is - has villages that have been wiped from our world. Some such events were even recent -- I have heard of Kedraion from Arios. You blame the Saltfetchers and Mer Raids but this view of the world, Kyriakos, is one of defeat. These issues - unresolved as they are - are evidence of the failure of your systems. The inability to unite into a single force and the disorganization that has prevented your growth; these are the things to blame for the decline in Helice's population. These islands may be small in single number, but together they are perhaps larger than the Duchy I hail from. Helice, too, could hold millions and prosper as a source of might within our world."

He took a break in his speech, posing the rhetorical question to the man. And then, he continued. "Do you think Rynmere, the Kingdom I came from, did not have challenges as severe as Saltfetchers? It had far greater enemies; the most powerful mage the world had ever seen, the Etherstorm, dragons that flew through the skies and breathed white fire from their jaws. The people of Rynmere - like the people of Helice - fled from a cataclysm. Yet they united and became organized under a simple but effective system of leadership, and now they prosper."

Alistair became - clearly - impassioned. He had always been an ardent feudalist, and having come from the living proof of such a system's validity, he had much to say on the matter.

"That is not to say that Helians are any less wise or any weaker. On the contrary, I love the people I have met here - all of you - and have found myself taken by your wisdom, grace, heroism and sensibility. It is not the people of these islands that have failed to address their own destruction - it is the trope of deferring to these old ways as if your existence impended upon them. But it does not. You will live much the same as you already do, beneath my rule. I am not an autocrat, I am a builder."

And for a trill, he had nothing else to say. He did not answer Kyriakos' concern of overthrowing him immediately, as it was a hypothetical too far from the current. Part of him wished to say that he would simply leave if he was not wanted, but Alistair did not wish to show weakness. He could satisfy the man's concerns another time, though he doubted such things would ever come to fruition. Helice was - he was certain - destined to prosper under his leadership.

But final queries came. Pivotal ones, that would change Kyriakos' attitudes and would smooth the transition from local leadership to feudalistic control. If only he could satisfy them.

Kyriakos cut to the heart - and Alistair thought that he would. He asked of why he was not in Rynmere where he claimed to derive so much power and authority. He even, directly, asked if the mage had been ousted.

"Rynmere is a different world," he began his reply. "Novilane prospered under my leadership. Even now, many of the people of the Barony are loyal to me, and I have made contact with my old councilors who sought to reinstate my power. But I was not thrown from Novilane for my inadequacy, my inability to lead; any factor of my character or the potentials of my rulership. Instead, I was removed from my home because of the mad barkings of my King - a child - who hates and fears mages more than any other thing. I was removed because I called to question the decadence, injustice, nepotism and abuse of the Nobility and the merchant strata. I do not mind if my words, now, only validate your fears; that I am here only because I was thrown from somewhere else. There is no reason why you should not view things in such a light. It is the sensible conclusion."

"But," he continued, "I have talents and powers far beyond that of the common man. I have nearly three decades of training in such affairs as leadership, and rather than to idly sit in recognition of what I have lost, I intend to use what I have gained from my exile to benefit the people of Helice. Perhaps this answer does not satisfy you, but, I speak it in honesty. I do not intend to deceive my flock."
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Re: Conversations

Wed Apr 17, 2019 12:43 pm


Whether Alistair’s words soothed Kyriakos or not, it didn’t show in the slightest visual regard.

It was Tylema who reacted obviously, when the lord spoke of Rynmere, and he quietly exclaimed on the sidelines, “Dragons!” He grabbed onto Arios’ forearm and grinned, too excited by the potential of such a wider and grander world beyond the Broken Lands than he’d ever thought possible but reminded him of so many of the legends he adored. Ty desperately wanted to get the outsider alone so he could question him about the many adventures he assumed Alistair had to share.

Kyriakos sighed, then, once Alistair had finished answering his questions. He tapped his thumb gently against his other hand, thinking for several trills. He said, “Thank you, Lord Alistair, for explaining this to us. It will aid in the answers I might provide our people. Much of it, unfortunately, I can’t make sense of yet. However, we may speak again, I would hope and in further depth about the concerns of those who are like family to me. They will have many, and if you allow us to remain as council for Miletos under your rule and still care for our home as we have been expected to do, then…”

“I will tentatively support your claim, but on the condition that you remain open to the concerns and ambitions to the Miletians in a way they can observe for themselves. That you do not forget them when you inevitably find yourself swayed by our dear Agaperos toward other interests,” he glanced at Arios. He knew the older man had a certain relation with Valsis on Team Kyanós and suspected that they’d already corresponded about how to direct this foreign lord in a way that would benefit their efforts – perhaps even to secure positions of power that they should otherwise relent due to their ages. It was Kyriakos’ time though to transition into fulfilling the role of an older mentor, to replace men like Arios and Valsis, something he’d been preparing for since Demetrion joined their team.

Demetrion concluded for them after Kyriakos’ request had been made. He outstretched his arms and smiled in a charming manner, “So, history has been decided totrial, my brothers. Transformation cocoons our dearly loved home. The ancestral stones that surround us thrum with recognition of what has happened. The artisans will create discs and vases of this moment for others to remember when Kókkinos of Miletos were the first of the Tirano to accept our first King Alistair Venora from the kingdoms beyond the Broken Land.”

The young player walked over, then offered another embrace for Alistair in a fond expression of his acceptance to the idea. He hugged the much larger man around the waist, a momentary squeeze of his own strength, then he stepped back with a nod and reached out for Tylema to take his hand.

Tylema eagerly joined them, his fingers interlacing with Demetrion. He seemed enthusiastic and clapped his hand against Alistair’s shoulder. His hand landed, then rested in a firm hold. He said, “Welcome, Lord-King Venora! How I can’t wait to perform your visage for the people of Theros when the time comes for the next Arsinaeus Medea. I must study you closer, before then, so that I might perform suitably.”

Behind them, Kyriakos kept his arms crossed. He didn’t approach to join the other players. He walked over to Arios, leaned in, and said in a soft voice, “I must talk with you now, alone.” He returned to his straight posture, then added in a clear voice. “Lord Alistair, Tylema and Demetrion might give you a tour of our historical monuments. If you will…” he nodded in a farewell, then left the platform first except for a glance to make sure Arios would follow him.

Tylema nodded. His grin faltered slightly, but not his enthusiasm. “Yes! Perhaps I shall show you these lion's teeth now before you are off to be wooed by the other teams. Demetrion never tires of seeing them! Do ya, Deme?” He nudged the composed man beside him and chuckled.

Demetrion didn’t react much, except for a tired raise of his eyebrows… and a slight smile that flickered on his lips. “I don’t believe your bedroom is considered a historical monument, Ty.”

“Ha!” laughed Tylema and he playfully punched Alistair on the shoulder. “You hear this? Words befitting a scrubber-girl in her poor attempt to act coy!”

“We can go there after we, at least, should show him the Broken Stone,” replied Demetrion. A faint blush had returned to his cheeks. He let go of Tylema’s hand, then started on a slow journey through the basilica in explanation of what the various carvings on the stones meant to their people’s history – and on a long tour of exactly what had been suggested: the representations of Miletian life and people leading up to the historical moment they now shared.
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Re: Conversations

Wed Apr 17, 2019 1:31 pm


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Alistair

Alistair Venora
Skill Points: +15
Magic XP: None.

Renown: +15 for being accepted as a brand-new King by a town council and convincing change to a feudal system.

Injuries/Overstepping: None.
Wealth Points: None.
Loot: None.

Skill Knowledges:
  • Storytelling: Speaking to an audience through visual
  • Storytelling: Corroborating story claims with Scrying images
  • Storytelling: Focusing on your body language and tone
  • Persuasion: Using facts as the basis for persuasive attempts
  • Persuasion: Persuading those close to someone influences their decisions
Non-Skill Knowledges:
  • Tylema: Bold and glory-seeking
  • Tylema: Wishes to bed me
  • Kyriakos: Shrewd and reserved
  • Demetrion: Practical and observant
  • The Kókkinos: Unanimously chose me as their Lord
  • Arios: Greatly assisted me in persuading his peers
  • Tyros: Argonis traditions
Notes: You can claim up to 4 more skill knowledges, PM me if you wish to.

This was an enjoyable thread. Alistair accomplished a lot through diplomacy and presenting a convincing argument for why an established town with a council system should accept a feudal lord instead. His descriptions of the Creep and Quacians were chilling.

Great job and enjoy your rewards!

PM me if you have any questions, issues or concerns.

Total Word Count: 10,858 words.
Review Request Link: GST REVIEW
stampcodehere

Off Topic
This is the Peer Reviewer Account of GST/Zarik's player.
word count: 242
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