[center][img]http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v447/evanbittle/crows2.jpg[/img]

[size=1]Chronicles of Dadiras:[/size]
[b]Maszqueral[/b]
[size=1]By Evan Bittle[/size]

[b]Part I[/b]

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In the middle years of the Second Era, following the triumphant fall of Dadiras and the self imposed exodus of the Elves into isolated territories, the humans left in the wake of years of war and slavery came together. Enamored by their supposed strength, from the ashes of an old empire rose a new one. With the original nameless first city of the humans having been razed to nothing, the people began anew.

For what enemy could slow their growth, especially with a weapon in their care as powerful as the eye of Dadiras? Fledgling into power, as years past they quickly grew. In the East, where once the great Citadel stood, a new great city began its construction.

Its first foundations freshly being placed, the city of Alak'Mal would become one of legends.

But as the times past, dissent began to grow between the humans. While some of them strove to form a single omnipotent kingdom, others chose otherwise. Considered outcasts among their own people, they drove west and drove south.

Some of them settled into what would later be known as the Westlands, the people lowering themselves to barbarism, living in villages under the control of various local lords. A lack of unity came of this, and the separate villages began little more than warring states.

Others moved into the region of Rechina, or the Reach. The most distant humans of this age, they evolved the most extremely along separate lines. Poisoned by the archipelagos many dangers, they became feral and inebriated from islander toxins. Darker skinned and situated in tribal societies, little contact is made anymore with the Rechins.

As of yet, any humans to have moved further south, especially into the deserts of Kreya, are presumed to be dead. Chance of survival in such conditions is slim on its own. However, with wild things still roaming there, such as the Blood Elves and dreaded Tronach, the most recent expeditions are not expected to return.

However, with the growth of the eastern territories unabated, the Eastlanders continued to over the years spread their borders. A great leadership rose up among them, a council of elected officials led by their young and ambitious High Councilman Gerrid. This was the political and religious capital city of the empire, the white bricks of Uburo.

Seated now within a thickly padded and elaborate throne, Gerrid grimaced at the thought of what he would be told to endure today. Robed in white, his body greatly contrasted the glorious reds and gold of the throne. His body, though concealed, was one of a young aristocrat. Hardly a weak body, but hardly one suited for anything outside of a political position. All his brute force would rely on the slew of guards constantly surrounding him.

With dark eyes he glanced around the strong, wooden, circular table. With its center cut out and encompassing most of the council hall, it sat grandly over a flowing red carpet. The marble flooring glared with the bright light of an above skylight, a thing Gerrid seemed to always demand for. His hair now was cleanly cut, his smooth, shaved face setting him out among the other, more aged and mostly bearded men around him. Caught up in his own seductive glow of power, he was known to be quite the narcissist.

But today he could do little to remain satisfied with himself. Recently elections - things he appalled - had created a shift in political seats. While retaining his own position with an overwhelming success, as well as that of many of his envious but loyal supporters, a new face would be meeting with them today.

The man coming was one of great public appeal, but one who obviously held no purpose of being here. Renowned for his work in the military, the young Captain somehow held the hearts of the proletariat.

There were other captains, even higher ranking military men. Lieutenants, Generals even, who did not command the same respect.

Several years ago, specifically, a revolt rose up among the southern Eastlander territories. A recently annexed region which bordered the northern mountain range of the Kreyan deserts, was completely lost of all civilization other than squadrons of violent brutes.

When the Captain brought back their severed heads, having been sent southward on a relatively suicidal mission, the masses couldn't get enough of him.

There were many other examples of his 'grandeur' as well, but hardly any Gerrid would consider very admirable and worth remembering. Obviously his superiors were growing displeased with his success and refused to award him with an increase of rank. Probably because Gerrid had bribed them to do so.

What even was his name again? Ah, but of course: that bastard, Maszqueral.

As the sounds of approaching footsteps reverberated against the mahogany walls, dual soldiers by the entrance archway turned their heads. The soldiers themselves, armed with halberds, wore ceremonial silver armor sashed in red. Ornately engraved with the representative symbols of their many patron Divine gods, they looked menacing. Of course, they were mostly for show.

Between them though approached a man, a soldier as well. Stepping into the hall, the guard soldiers saluted to him. Casually saluting back to them as he passed, he stopped in the center of the hall. All of the other councilmen's eyes turned to him.

Standing there, he wore a gold plated cuirass with light, mobile pauldrons. A blue sash rolled off his waist and over his legs, his black booted feet standing firm. Hands behind his back, he was at attention. Though generally young, his face was quite maturely built, his militaristically trim black hair running across his head. Equally black eyes stared ahead, directly at the High Councilman. His masculine features, tan skin, and slightly unshaven chin all pushed toward a certain appeal. Gerrid sighed at first sight of him. He had to admit, even to one as self-enthralled as himself, Maszqueral was understandably considered an attractive man.

One of the councilmen, an older man, stood. "Welcome, Captain. But your attire is hardly necessary. We aren't going to war here."

Gerrid smiled, lifting a hand, "Don't speak so quickly, Brother. One can never be sure what issues may arise which need our resolve." He turned his attention back to Maszqueral, quite sarcastically gesturing to an open chair. "Please, Captain. Have a seat."

For a moment Maszqueral remained standing, soaking in the sight of his surroundings. Of all the council, beyond reputation alone, he knew only one of its members in a personal matter. A middle-aged man, the dusty bearded Diliri Kur had been a personal friend for Maszqueral's for several years now. Diliri nodded to the Captain as he caught his glance.

Finally taking a seat, Maszqueral took a breath. Gerrid, seeming to simultaneously watch and ignore the man, began to speak his introductions.

Maszqueral chuckled lightly to himself, an older man next to him glaring toward him for a moment. He had been into battlefields, fought men who wanted to kill him, and always stood strong. When faced here, pressed with politics, an underlying sense of nervousness played with his thoughts. These men here didn't just want to kill him, they wanted to tear him apart.

As he had expected, Maszqueral remained mostly silent as debates over uninteresting and trivial matters began. For a while, he could simply listen to the back and forth arguments of which he mostly did not understand. But it was his duty to learn.

Finally, however, his interest was caught.

"In recent months it has become apparent that the Westlands are becoming far too distant and wild." Gerrid began. Already Maszqueral knew the Rechins were far worst off, but never had they cared about them. Gerrid continued, "Both for the reunification of our people and for the territorial gain and subsequent economic advantages, it has been suggested we reclaim these territories." Gerrid nodded to a group of confident supporters to his immediate right.

Immediately, Maszqueral lifted a gloved hand. "Is that reason enough to invade? You call it reclamation, but we have never actually held those lands."

Gerrid slowly turned his head toward Maszqueral, the High Councilman standing a leaning over the table, supported against it by his hands. "You are a soldier, Maszqueral. You know what happens when a region becomes hostile."

"Hostile?" Maszqueral scoffed, "They have done nothing to us. It was we who banished them, and of yet they have done nothing but continue to thrive on their own."

"I am not surprised to find you inexperienced in such things. You do not-" Gerrid was interrupted.

"I agree with the Captain." It was Diliri, standing. "We have no reason to invade a peaceful nation who has shown no hostilities toward us.

Gerrid grumbled something under his breath, then: "It is not what they have done, but what they are capable of doing." He looked directly at Diliri, said harshly, "Sit down."

Diliri sighed, grudgingly sitting.

Gerrid took a breath, addressing again the whole council. "The Westlands, as I have said, have grown wild. They give themselves to natures of heathens and deny our Holy Divines." Standing tall, he clasped his hands together. "They are a broken people, separated by years of internal conflict. With our help, we can bring them back into our fold and unify them as a single people."

Maszqueral spoke again, "At the cost of how many lives? You're right, Gerrid. I am a soldier, and a soldier knows that to achieve victory against an enemy, many of his own brothers must die. But this enemy is not even one worth fighting."

Another nearby councilman lifted his low voice, "Perhaps the man has a point, Gerrid. A full scale military endeavor would strike hell on our coffers."

Gerrid was frustrated, "But the reward!" He looked to Maszqueral a moment with disdain, and slowly sat. "We are not only freeing a people, but giving ourselves free grip on the rich farmland there."

Diliri said, "We already have a plentiful income from the salt mines along the mountain ranges. What need we fields?" He laughed, "I doubt you mean to feed the people, Gerrid."

A wise, elderly council member tapped a bony finger against the round table. "Perhaps we should delay our decision on this matter until we are all clearer of mind."

The High Councilman sighed. "Very well. But I expect all of you to think of this and make your decision by our next meeting. Our decision on it could mean nothing or everything."

A hold on decision usually meant more time for Gerrid to spread his propaganda, to gain more supporters. He wasn't so hard pressed to the idea.

After a while longer of other less important issues, the council ended. Slowly they all began to leave, some lingering and speaking with each other a few moments before leaving.

Gerrid, with soldiers over each shoulder, stood encircled by his supporters. Laughing loudly, they flocked around him like moths to a flame. Maszqueral could only feel sick at the sight.

Diliri Kur casually walked to Maszqueral's side, placing a hand the Captain's armored shoulder and catching his attention.

"Ah, Diliri. Thank you for helping me today." Maszqueral said, slightly nodding to his friend.

Diliri shook his head, his hand lowered again to his side as they faced each other. "It is no problem at all, brother. If you hadn't said it, I would of opposed Gerrid anyway."

Maszqueral managed a light laugh, looking a moment back to the High Councilman. "The man sickens me. How does he maintain his position?"

"It is the way he is." Diliri said simply, then: "Gerrid only wants us to go to war to keep the people in a distracted drone. With their eyes and ears on Western conquest, they won't be keen enough to realize the corruption and decay occurring in their own lands."

Maszqueral sighed, "I find nothing but disgust from how this empire is run. The aristocratic gain all the riches while the downtrodden are denied anything at all."

"The under privileged are those suffering the most. It is easy to maintain a strong society when you keep the people alive, but Gerrid is doing nothing but kicking those who are in the dust further into it." The man paused a moment, stroking his beard. "Do you know what I've heard? Underground cults have been springing up among peasant sects, specifically within the city slums. Making temples to idols other than the Divines. I've heard some of them go as far to worship Dadiras."

Maszqueral seemed surprised, "Dadiras? Blasphemy; he is a dead god."

"But it seems he is on a revival. You know the power of religion among the people. A shame they have strayed so far from our holy Divines, though."

"Dadiras..." Maszqueral thought, entering into thought. "Do you think they would have records of him in the libraries?"

Diliri nodded, "I'm certain they do. But why interested?"

"If the people are turning to Dadiras for the healing of their woes, then clearly there is something neither of us know about that monster's religion. I want to study it." He smiled, "A soldier must study his enemy."

"It would be best if Gerrid not hear of you reading of Dadiras, brother. He hates you enough already - he may think to use such knowledge against you."

"Please, Diliri. I think only of protecting our people."

"You are still young, Maszqueral." Diliri cautioned, "Think well before you bring your thoughts to actions."

"Do not worry for me. I shall see you next time in council." Maszqueral said, extending his hand and taking Diliri's.

"Be well, friend." Diliri Kur said, releasing Maszqueral's hand. Both of them were quick to depart, wanting to get away from this place and Gerrid's influence.

The Captain especially felt more at home with a sword in hand, but until further notice his political duties given to him by the people were more important than his military ones.

Though he would spend the time well, he knew, protecting and trying to serve them. He would need to learn more, however. He would need to learn more of Dadiras, a monster he knew only by reputation.

And hardly yet in any personal matter.