Post by Anne on Oct 5, 2008 14:49:48 GMT -5
The days when Tralia had known peace were ten years gone. Since the first drum had sounded the spirit of the people had been broken and most were so used to the grisly routine of war that they no longer could imagine a world without it.
Where once ten kingdoms had prospered in harmony two Empires now reined on equal ground, neither imperium’s sovereign knowing compassion or mercy. Whomever the victor the peoples of Tralia would know little relief and so it was from necessity and not devotion with which the young men marched to war.
Exactly which side had begun the ten-year conquest was a topic of much debate, usually fought by the fireplace in small town inns. Some believed the trouble started, as it so often does, with the passing of a King.
His majesty, the grand emperor Cleophas Parishie, did not die in glorious battle as was befitting a great King, but perished instead in the seclusion of his chambers, strapped to his decadent bed.
For years the old man’s crazed vociferations had resounded through the cold, vacant halls of the Family’s country home, an archaic manor that had been in the Parishie family many centuries before their rise to the throne. His decline into madness had been gradual but the symptoms blatant and supporters had been quick to send the Emperor to his lavish prison, for his sake and theirs.
In the shadow of the conspiracy was the sole Parishie heir, a young girl of quiet conduct admired for her beauty and coveted by mercenary aristocrats as the ideal puppet queen. As a child the young princess had largely been disregarded in her father’s firm and unwavering expectation of a son, but her mother’s inopportune death and in the wake of Cleophas’ sickness, all eyes had turned to Anyana.
In hindsight those closest to the family profess that they might have realized the folly of putting the daughter of a known madman on the throne, but upon her coronation the whole nation had looked to the newly entitled Mesanitca – or Mesa as she came to be known – with high expectations.
How naïve they had been.
Where once ten kingdoms had prospered in harmony two Empires now reined on equal ground, neither imperium’s sovereign knowing compassion or mercy. Whomever the victor the peoples of Tralia would know little relief and so it was from necessity and not devotion with which the young men marched to war.
Exactly which side had begun the ten-year conquest was a topic of much debate, usually fought by the fireplace in small town inns. Some believed the trouble started, as it so often does, with the passing of a King.
His majesty, the grand emperor Cleophas Parishie, did not die in glorious battle as was befitting a great King, but perished instead in the seclusion of his chambers, strapped to his decadent bed.
For years the old man’s crazed vociferations had resounded through the cold, vacant halls of the Family’s country home, an archaic manor that had been in the Parishie family many centuries before their rise to the throne. His decline into madness had been gradual but the symptoms blatant and supporters had been quick to send the Emperor to his lavish prison, for his sake and theirs.
In the shadow of the conspiracy was the sole Parishie heir, a young girl of quiet conduct admired for her beauty and coveted by mercenary aristocrats as the ideal puppet queen. As a child the young princess had largely been disregarded in her father’s firm and unwavering expectation of a son, but her mother’s inopportune death and in the wake of Cleophas’ sickness, all eyes had turned to Anyana.
In hindsight those closest to the family profess that they might have realized the folly of putting the daughter of a known madman on the throne, but upon her coronation the whole nation had looked to the newly entitled Mesanitca – or Mesa as she came to be known – with high expectations.
How naïve they had been.
