Rage and Rebellion (Histories of Havenhearth)

2.5 Unknown

Strong winds from the southeast effortlessly carried heavy water droplets from the snow fields of Petrovia's tundra region of Pliaria. They froze as soon as they hit the earth, coating the countryside around the Cassionian capital of Normontline in a coat of ice. The storm advanced towards the city like a wildfire in a forest in a drought, damaging everything that stood futile in its way. It hammered down, increasing in size and fury until neither cottage nor house nor even palace were strong enough to fully withstand its wrath.

The storm's weapon of choice, spheres of ice, burst into diamond sharp fragments when they struck narrow cobbled streets. They penetrated the roofs of houses, barns and stables, frightening citizens, scaring uncomprehending animals half to death, at best injuring and at worst knocking out any of either which had the misfortune of being stuck in a field or open space. It shook even individuals of the natural world, harming trees by amputation, stripping any remaining limbs clear of their clothing, a trail of destruction in its wake. It ripped through awnings, broke carriages and wagons, fell fences, splintered through gates. Even the capital's ascendant palace gardens suffered, becoming a moonscape of small craters (which maybe even reflected the unsmooth ground upon which laid the power of the ascendancy).

Most of the city's residents huddled in their homes as if under siege, cowering against the noise of the storm. Those in sentry duty atop palace and city walls sought shelter in their towers, protecting themselves as best as they could from the onslaught. Some had received early word and closed up their windows with brick or stone, settling in to the safety their money bought them. Other windows had been covered with cloth or if available with wooden boards.

The worst of all perhaps, was that this attack was occurring in the summertime, on the summer solstice no less and the gatherings associated with the Festival of Lanterns were cancelled, none to be lit in celebration. It was looking as if the end to the day would not have a sunset, an unlucky omen, for the clouds remained thick, leaving the sun entirely powerless and Normontline itself in an unnatural early evening darkness. The night, the capital's inhabitants nonetheless hoped, would at least not be a starless one.

Not far from the centre of Normontline, the market square in the foreign quarter lay empty, save for stones of white quartz building up along the cobbled stones. Nearby, in a room lit by candlelight in a former Cassion palace turned hotel on the Vilsen river, sat a woman. She hunched over a small wooden writing table, reviewing maps of the land. The light of her flame revealed the bumps and curves of the stone walls, a straw mattress upon the floor and a small timber wardrobe for her personal items. She had chosen this room, foregoing the lavish suite that had been prepared for her, so as to be a little further away from the other foreigners.

Her eyes were bloodshot with tiredness: she was suffering from a lack of restful sleep. She must have been slightly fearful of something however, as she was shaking, and beads of sweat formed on her brow. She occasionally paused from her map-reading, standing up and going to the door to peer out of her room into the dark hallway of the staff quarters, paranoid that someone was spying on her, that they would see her notes. When she sat down again, she picked up a feather quill, brought the tip to ink, and dipped it in gently. On a new parchment she wrote:

You may be aware of the presence of X in Cassion. They are in the midst of establishing themselves. I have heard concern about the conduct of their spiritualists, and protectorate, which are excluding information from each other to their mutual detriment. Such an approach is careless, dangerous even, for an area which is prone to rebellion by various groups, both covert and overt. It is also an area which suffers from widespread poverty, rendering the populations subject to indoctrination by local and foreign influences, spiritualist, legis, otherwise.

The ice balls of the storm had subsided, but instead had given way to rain and wind. When a crash sounded from down the hall, the young woman paused, took a quick glimpse outside of her window, and resumed her writing, figuring the noise to be a door slamming in the wind.

The Y are in the west as well, also working towards establishing their own legis, and they intend to construct transport routes throughout the entire western lands of Cassion, eventually reaching Sudmontline, the capital in the south. Very slowly, they are moving into cities and villages across the north and eastlands, I am certain that this is of great concern to the Tainish, but of course to the Cassioni as well. If the Y do eventually succeed in reaching the sea to the west, I am certain that I do not need to warn you what that might do for the prowess of their protectorate. The W are equally suspicious of the activities of the Y. Some even speak of a war between the two, which I believe, given their history, could become a reality. As you know, our interests require preventing that at all costs.

Accordingly, the Tainish have organised support for the Cassioni in way of construction of roads, including the main route to the capital city from the east and west. They are looking into furthering development in the central river plains, including bridges, which will reduce the time to transport to sea, and also give strategic advantages against the Y and the X should an issue ever arise. Local support has already been granted and we have been guaranteed approval should a proposal ever be submitted.

More sweat had formed, which she wiped away with the back of her hand, preventing the drops from splattering onto the ink of her parchment. She leaned back and stretched her arms up, yawning as she did so. Taking a brief respite from her writing sensitized her again to the circumstances of her environment. The storm continued, and she heard more noises, which she once mindfully again put down to doors in the wind. A sound at the door startled her, and she stood up quickly, knocking the chair off of it's legs. A quick glance around the room revealed no weapon to brandish, and so she momentarily picked up the chair itself, realising the paranoia the storm had caused in her mind. She placed its four legs back on the ground, called out 'who's there?' lamenting the meek tone of her own voice. No reply. She tried again, relieved that this time her voice had returned to its normal tone and pitch, adding the same question in Cassioni. "Is anyone there?"
The candle flickered on the desk, and she slowly moved towards the door to open it. The hallways stood dark and empty. I'm going mad. I just need some rest. Get this finished and sleep. She moved back to the desk and sat in silence, just to make sure she really had imagined the knocking.

We need focus on the area known as the Herb Hills in the region of Angounesse, due to its geography and topography: there are fewer ways to enter and exit the towns there than is otherwise possible for a city on a flat plain. I've heard that a well-equipped force could hold off any protectorate force of a much greater size. There is someone who I believe may be of use to us in the near future. It is my intention to return to Angounesse, to glean further information. If you are agreeable, I will provide further details at our next correspondence.

She did not sign the letter- if it were ever intercepted on its way back to her supervisor, her name on it would be equivalent to her signing her own death warrant. With a scribble instead, she placed the quill back onto the ink stone.

By this point, the storm had turned to a gentle rain, and the noises in the corridor had ceased. Her next rational thought occurred in the sunlight, with a single beam streaking onto the brick of her wall, through the small slit between the two wooden shutters. She raised herself out of bed and peered out of the gap in the shutters, wanting to ascertain any damage to them. In the dawn's light they appeared relatively unharmed, having returned to their peaceful state, and she looked further afoot into the courtyard below, remarking that the jade field of grass was now pockmarked, and covered with the fallen petals. The lone tree, a King Cypress, stood as it had the day before, as if the storm had never happened. The previously prepared letter, in some ways as fantastical as the mythical beast in the garden's statue, had fallen from the desk to the ground.