A note from the Past
While some would call him a genius, a more apt description would be dedication. Dedication to the world, nature, science, society. He would always go off on rants about the most outlandish hypotheticals and pursue a solution no matter how or why. I remember specifically, he loved the possibility of going back in time and kick starting an early industrial revolution. He would gather us round and have talks solving the political, technical, medical, and societal problems of that time. I enjoyed it, the bantering... but I think Holland enjoyed it most of all. He had this look in this, one of pure joy, like he had found some inner meaning to life. That guy could crack a smile on anyone's face... I still hope he’s out there... dreaming of solutions to problems.
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/Country of Azam/Ariel Peninsula/Main Road to Velori/
He was somewhere before and now he was somewhere else. The sensation, there was unfortunately nothing in the human language to describe such a feat. The feeling of being abruptly cut off from everything. Vibration. That was the first thing he noticed, echoing throughout his body. Then came the feel of upholstery, scratching against his hands and neck. A burst of sound banged around inside his head. His own breath, another man snoring, horse and wheels running along an uneven surface. A simple quick hypothesis was concluded that such senses needed to come gradually. If returning senses came to be abruptly, the brain might have developed psychosis or even permanent brain damage. Moving on, a more pressing matter was apparently ready to be attended to. A tumultuous cacophony of emotions was slowly building up at the possibility of what reality had in store. A feeling of grief and sorrow was slowly infecting his gut, the sort of feeling you get after last minute cramming for a math test. But not now, he pushed down those feeling into a chest and locked them in. The key wouldn’t be thrown away, simply hidden and out of sight to deal with the situation at hand.
With a deep sigh and bated breath, Holland Smith opened his eyes. The snoring he heard moments ago came from a man, most likely between the ages of forty, forty-five. Black hair with the first grays uncommonly shifting into view due to the rumbling. A great groomed beard connected with an equally polished mustache. An iron mail plate was in the position of the torso. Three clearly defined red circles landed horizontally across the mail. Where the heart would be stationed was an emblem, a shield depicting a hammer and sword crossed over, lavished with brightly stained red and yellow. Popping out from the armor was a tunic lined with a beautifully embroidered grey fur. A Long woolen Hose covered the man's legs where it conjoined with a pair of breeches at the groin.
Giving himself a look over, it was quite the similar fasion. But instead of an armor breastplate, a bright red and yellow striped tabard reached from the top of his neck to unfurling into a skirt at the knees. All held by a belt with quite the magnificent belt buckle that may or may not have been gold. And of course, it was uncomfortable as hell. But there was something more too it. Why was he wearing these clothes, why was this body younger, who was this man in front of him. That terrible gut feeling tried to rise once again, clawing at the inside. Thinking about the tens of hundreds of different logical possibilities but each and every one of them, an impossibility. But... with a stern face a clear breathing rhythm once again, it was time to move on. As he surmised, a vehicle of ancient proportions was driving him... somewhere. At both end of this wagon was a door and there seemed to be a panel in top portion of said doors. Perhaps a wooden panel for seeing outside!
Now while clearly there was the option of asking this middle-aged man in front of him some questions, adrenaline was starting to be pumped something fierce. A more visual understanding of the environment would suit his current needs then the long and arduous task of explaining who he was. And so, without further ado, he opened it.
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Lancast Rala was still pondering over whether he could ever get used to the squeaking and crunching of a wagon. Nearly a decade still and this infernal machine would and could never be a bastion of peace but one of infinite noise. So tired as his current status was, he concluded to shut his eyes, purse a gap in the mouth, and conclude on recent events. The Great Funeral, as dubbed by those idiot Flamen, had lasted an entire 5 hours of mourning with all the superfluous extravagancies that the great capital could offer. That of course only included those rich enough to have influence in the inner district or the nobles. Many of the newly inducted flames had to conduct their own ceremonies at the many poorly constructed and maintained churches that bound the outer districts. This was of course much the same for other cities, towns, and villages here in Azam. But... something had changed when the king and his chosen successor died in that idiotic war overseas. It was not a slight change. Something had been tipping over for the past century and a half. The king, their god was not here to make their lives better. He was not here to solve the famines that have plagued this land since those Laqis desert barbarians cut off trade with the south. He was not here to correct the schisms that have arisen from his people, even before the Motus Magni. And most of all, it had become absolutely clear that war was the kings great companion. Death and destruction plagued throughout the daily lives of generations past whether it be foreign soil or our own. The southern proctorate of Lotland had been finally come under Azam rule after nearly a century of a cycle of wars and for some thirty odd years, there were no alternative plots or sneaky betrayels by the Lotland people. They who had been endlessly grinded down under the presumptious weight of our war-insane king had given up. But after thirty years of renoucning in their entirty their independence, the capitol was purposly evicted of all life on such a insane whim. After nearly six centuries of war, sex, and boredom, cracks had inevitably started to appear. Far too many for his paper thin hoaxed religion to patch up.
Just like any small village or town from the northern penninusla, the majority of local food came from hunting. Growing up, the village relied on multiple hunters with of course their own families. Lancast found solace in these boys who as well aspired to be able-bodied hunters as well. And over the years, they would go out into the forsest alone, not even to hunt but to drink and enjoy each others company. He can still remember those memories like they were just yesterday, a crisp reminder of simpler times. Alone with nothing but the shuffling of the leaves riding against the wind and the merriment of men. Here were ideals and wishes that could said and hypthesized without the need for the local Flames calling out heresay and bringing down the hammer of a crusade. Perhaps thats where it all started, an understanding that something needed to be done. No... More like a fire, one that had driven him to far greater heights than he could have imagined when he was still a hunter in that little village. Perhaps such an abstract metaphor was the reason Balik gave him ward over his son just before the war. Of course there could have been a many more logical reasons for such a given task but perhaps his deeds should be pondered on at a later date. For now... there was quite chilly breeze wafting through.
A note from the Future
His Great empire that had once encompassed the hundreds of tribes of old, names forgotten like dust in the wind. So it held dear to its foundations built with blood, sweat, and toil for six centuries. Flairfilled parties packed with orgies and the thirst of wine. Gigantic architectual projects never before seen in history that sparked a sense of nationalism unparalled in the world. An intermingle of relgions and ideals that could be freely expressed with no punishment. The ancient class of rusticus could become a teacher one day and with enough captiol and support, could become a governer the next. An idyllic lifestyle, one of fancy and adoration but would not be seen until four centuries later. With the rise of our beloved, our gift from above, our light, The King... Lancast Rala.