Missives: Stories of Transamara

[North Timistania]

Welcome to Amaropolis

The first thing you see when you approach the capital is the wall, a vast man-made barrier of concrete and steel, its so tall it smothers the light on both sides, perpetual shadows bathing anything too close. Outside a vast expanse of barren and cracked earth spreads as far as the horizon in every direction, once before unchecked industry there was an ocean here, now only dust and unending thirst. The hulls of great trawlers and merchantmen lie rusting in the desert heat, like the bleached bones of long dead leviathans.

As you draw closer the desert gives way to checkpoints, towers and fortifications, the urban grey presence of the union army a vivid reminder that the government rules here. Assuming your papers are in order, or you have a bribe handy, the gates will part and you will be ushered inside. Within the embrace of the city wall a new expanse greets the traveler, an unending sea of white and gold.

So vivid is the contrast that newcomers often refer to the sudden flash as “Amaro-paralysis” the weary traveler briefly becoming blinded as the brown and grey of the outside is suddenly replaced by the overwhelming hues of bone and gilt. And don’t assume that extravagance or bad city planning are responsible for this sensory bombardment, rather it is by design.

The capital is a showpiece, and the message is simple, the government is rich, the government is strong and the government is very much still in control. It is an illusion that holds by the most tenuous of threads and they grow more frayed with each passing year; the government hasn’t been in control for a long time and the façade is cracking.

Still for the moment the vast mausoleum of the Boss and the great processionals of Union square hold, even as the rest of the country pulls away from the once cast iron grip of unity. The Boss’s dream died with him, now his successors can do nothing except try in vain to slow the now terminal decline. But to the newcomer such realities are non-existent, truths hidden by a veil of stately dignity and urban beauty, turns out gold makes an excellent blindfold.

So welcome dear traveler, come inside and enjoy all the delights the capital has to offer, oh and don’t fret if the sirens begin to blare, the government assures us we are quite safe from stray missiles, and the bomb shelters are quite cozy. Welcome to Amaropolis, the beating heart of the union, just don’t listen too hard or for too long, because sometimes this once vital organ skips a beat.

 

[North Timistania]

Halekine Rising



Karr-Timura

Capital of Timura

2026



The night was alive with the sounds of humanity, a cacophonic mélange that banished any hope of silence, above it all the waxing moon stood as mute spectator. The city of Karr-Timura was alive even at this late hour, thousands of citizens lined the streets all shoving and jostling for a view of the advancing parade. The ancient processionals were now the stage for a demonstration of momentous significance, the entire capital eagerly taking part in an act that melded the twin deities of politics and religion.

The air was sweltering in the summer heat, the climate made only more unpleasant by the clouds of fragrant smoke that wafted across the city. Red robed priests busied themselves hurling great bundles of herbs and incense into the ritual braziers that had been installed at every intersection, the air was thus a choking mix of fire and sweetness. The crowds didn’t seem to mind; all attention firmly levelled on the marchers.

Thousands of grey fatigued soldiers marched through the capital, at the head of each column a standard bearer held aloft the national flag, the blood red wolf of Timura glaring out from the black fabric of the banner. Karr-Timura was no stranger to such displays, but today was more than a simple parade, at the center of the advancing army, a queen sat in gilded carriage.

The Imperial clan was at long last being returned to its rightful throne and the Timuran nation was overtaken by a fervor unseen in over a century. Flowers and anointed scrolls adorned every available surface, even the cities traffic gods* did not escape embellishment, their yellowed marble now stained with red ink and draped in woven cloth. Even the tanks and missile trucks now resembled parade floats.

Those not lining the streets were crowding the shrines and temple precincts, rows of men and women queuing for hours to receive the blessed blood print upon their forehead. The stink of blood mingled with ritual incense as untold numbers of cattle were butchered in sacrificial pits and upon great alters, offerings to please the gods and matter to feed the priesthoods augury. Everywhere the ancient traditions came to life anew as a nation descended into ritual frenzy.

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Kadir Baal-Mara watched as the vast line of soldiers drew ever closer, the torchlight and smoke from the festival lending the procession and impression not unlike a wall of moving fire. The balcony of the imperial palace offered a commanding view of the entire spectacle, one that Kadir’s adoptive mother was taking full advantage of.

“Magnificent is it not” his mother in a relaxed, almost purring, voice

General Ishtra Mara, generalissimo and ruler of Timura in all but name, was allowing herself a rare moment of seclusion from the limelight. The crowning of the first high queen in over a century was a blatant challenge to the Union’s grip on power, a re-asserting of the ancient bloodline that had been dethroned by the first president. Ishtra may have orchestrated this moment, but she was content to let its starring persona have her moment in the spotlight.

“It is…momentous” Kadir began nervously

“I am sensing a “but” my son” Mara said in a clipped tone, turning to regard him with her steely grey eyes

She had a striking face, features that were almost feline in shape, her eyes were hard orbs that seemed to only ever hold one of two expressions, stern authority or manic excitement. Long strands of dark hair with flecks of grey were neatly held in place by braids and her grey and red uniform was immaculate. Despite her many decorations, Mara eschewed ornamentation, only the crimson sash of a general and the wolfs head pendant of the head of state were visible.

“Forgive me….its nothing” Kadir replied hesitantly

“I can always tell when you are uncomfortable Kadi, tell me your thoughts” she said in a maternal tone, emphasis placed on her pet name for him

“The Union will be furious…is this…is it too soon?” Kadir replied almost whispering the final words as though he feared they might hear him in Amaropolis

“I am counting on their anger, as for the timing? There will never be a better time my son, the Union is weak and we are breaking no laws, they agreed to the autonomy of the states when they lost the last war. This is strictly an internal cultural matter, they can do nothing, lest they anger the other states” She explained giving Kadir a wicked grin

The union had once been a force to be reckoned with, the combined arms and economy of seven nations, that had been before the boss’s death. The Union of the present era was a sickly and wounded beast, slowly being torn apart by a thousand small wars and throttled to death by corruption. Still, they commanded the largest army on the continent and possessed enough firepower to crush any single nation with relative ease.

“Is it wise to challenge them?” Kadir asked tone uncertain

“Do you remember the story I used to tell you?” Mara replied cryptically

“The wolves and the mammoth?” Kadir said the tale burned into his memory after so many tellings

“The wolves were too small to hurt the great beast, so they nipped at its heels and drove it to madness with a thousand cuts and bites…and then so enraged was the beast, it charged after the pack and fell to its death in a ravine, the wolves ate for weeks, all because they knew how to trick a larger opponent” Mara explained

It was an allegory of course, like so many stories from the old empires, the noble Timurans overwhelming the savage natives with superior numbers and discipline. The story was a window into the minds of the ancestors; the land they had so long ago claimed was hostile and only through unity and cunning could those less worthy tribes be defeated. But the Union was no mere tribe.

“So, we are merely…baiting the Union?” Kadir said after a long pause

“This act will on its own change nothing, but it will force the Union into a dilemma, if they respond they will be seen to interfere in the internal affairs of a state and if they ignore it? well further proof they are too weak to stop us” Mara said with absolute confidence

Kadir could not argue with such logic, it was exactly the sort of ruthless arithmetic that he had come to expect from his adoptive mother. Never one to move too quickly or act with anything other than icy calculus, Ishtra Mara never acted without intention. And so Kadir put aside any doubts and allowed himself to relax, the procession by now was entering the palace gates, the scent of smoke and incense a near overwhelming mélange.

“My son, I found you in the rubble of a broken village, but the world I shall leave you in will be one in which Timura shall be free once more” His mother said fixing him with a burning gaze

“With the ancestors blessing may I be blessed to see it” He replied somberly

That gaze, withering and utterly self-assured, Kadir felt any lingering fears melt away like flame touched snow, his mother would do it, she would make them strong once more.







*In Timura the “small gods” or “civic deities” are common sights in settlements, these statues depict deities who are tasked with all manner of functions from scaring disease out of the water supply to glaring at would be jaywalkers.