The Empire of the Steppes
Lansius
The Lord of Korelia yawned and stretched out. He had just dictated a letter to Batu, officially informing him about the Market Post route and urging the nomadic tribes to produce more yurts. He also conveyed his wish to purchase or borrow more yurts to house the one-thousand captured n intended to work in the stone quarry.
The yurts alone wouldn’t be enough, but they would be a welcod addition. Right now, all Korelia had was the shaft in the quarries that could be used as makeshift tunnel housing.
According to the staff, the shaft could house at least a hundred. For the unlucky rest, they probably had to resort to building mud houses or ramd earth hovels. It would suffice for sumr and fall, but just like their tents counterpart, it would be inadequate for winter.
Without a good source of timber, Lansius felt stuck. He hadn’t expected that housing a thousand would be so problematic.
Should I just tell them to sleep in the trenches and put so cover over their heads...?
He pondered the problem but ultimately gave up on it for the mont. With two months left of sumr, he felt he could return to solve this another ti.
At least I have sothing as a last resort.
Outside, the sun was beginning to shine, coloring the dusk skies in glorious red against the dark of night.
“Umm, My Lord,” Dietrich asked from the desk, he just finished the letter. “I’m not a scribe so my writing isn’t good.”
“Not too bad, better than Hugo but less than Calub,” replied Lansius lightly as he read the finished letter. “This will do.”
“You’ll send it for real?” Dietrich sounded nervous.
“Yes, you’ll send it personally to Batu, and read it yourself, so it should be fine. Also, bring the two biggest duck eggs we have as gifts.”
Dietrich nodded, morizing the command.
“That is all; you can leave now. The sun is rising soon.”
“Yes, My Lord.” Dietrich began to put the writing tools on the shelf.
“Bring fresh wildflowers when you return,” Lansius quipped.
The stalwart but comical man let out a chuckle, gave a polite bow, and left the chamber.
Now, Lansius was alone, readying his mind for the upcoming day.
To think, I‘ll negotiate the fate of Lowlandia after a mass funeral service...
The art of negotiation required him to be in pri psychological condition. While he could postpone, ti was running out. This was the second day, and he needed to strike while the iron was hot.
Lansius knew he needed to shape this new balance of power, or else it would be filled with mistrust and prejudice. If such were to happen, then the tragedy of Lowlandia, a province in a perpetual warring state, would never end.
Thus, Lansius sat down, cross-legged, on the carpeted floor, and did sothing he had never done before. He sat still, emptied his mind, and ditated.
...
Ti passed, yet the turmoil in his mind remained. He wasn't good at this, but now his thoughts were sharp. He could sense the points he needed to make and the argunts he should advance.
The door to his chamber opened, and Audrey walked in. She watched him on the floor and, instead of questioning, gave a sweet smile. “Morning, My Lord.”
Lansius jumped up to greet her.
Audrey extended her right hand toward Lansius. “Shall we have breakfast before the sun rises higher?”
This ti, the somberness of her voice was evident. It was officially the start of the mourning day.
Lansius took her hand, and they walked together. After a light breakfast, it was ti to pay their respects to the fallen in their last hour under the sun.
***
Audrey
Today was mourning day, the day they buried the dead and wept over them. After sunrise, they laid the brave militia and troops to rest. When the sun rose higher, they laid the n-at-arms and the knights to rest.
As people increased in status, they received better treatnt, even in death. A wooden coffin was used, and a mound was raised.
Audrey watched when Calub broke the news of Sir Callahan’s demise. Lansius, as expected, was distraught. He hadn’t known Callahan had perished in battle. Everyone, even Audrey, had kept it from him.
The late Callahan was Lansius’ ntor and trusted diplomat, and also the father of the cup-bearer. Thus the loss was personal and trendous.
Overcoming his grief, Lansius led the solemn procession and watched as his ntor’s coffin was lowered to its final resting place.
“The last hour under the sun,” the phrase was muttered by thousands who attended the mass funeral.
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