FA+
Shop
1012
Views
Views
2
Favorites
Favorites
Category
Story / All
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 120 x 71
File Size 35.5 kB
Report this content
More from jodimest
Literature & backstory for the Realm of Sejhat
The White Jihad is widely considered to be the stopping point of humankind's and the Odem faith's steady expansion, having started some 180 years ago and continuing intermittently for 60.
For the Humans, it was a religious war started with the intention of expanding the faith and the Caliphate's political influence into the lands of the Beastfolk to the north. It was propelled by the success of mankind's other Jihads which had successfully unified a large part of the human population under a single faith and government. Though religiously motivated, it was not intended to be a war of genocide.
For the Beastfolk, it was an unprovoked invasion that forced their fractured and backwards society into the era of modern combat, forcing several races to combine arms to repel the Human invaders. Even more than a century after the formal termination of the Jihad, the Beastfolk still regard their victory against the Caliphate with great pride and as fundamental proof that a union of the races is possible.
For those involved in the actual fighting, however, it was a sporadic, hellish, and intense war that stole entire generations and cities away from the world.
To this day, the White Jihad and the aftermath continue to shape political and social affairs in Human and Beastfolk society.
Chronicles of the White Jihad
By Salih-I Celik, Ghazi, 88th Orta
A year ago, I decided to compile my experiences as a Ghazi soldier in the Sultan’s army. Though I have little doubt that my story is but one of many thousands, I have found through my many discussions that scarcely any man or beastfolk has taken it upon themselves to write an unvarnished truth about what has happened for the sake of the general public.
Speculation and hypothesis about events of the future is beyond the power of my correspondence. Grand strategy and political intrigue are also somewhat beyond my grasp as an author and individual, though I carry my speculations as anyone does, and occasionally share them. What you will see in the following pages is primarily a personal account from the standpoint of a lowly Ghazi, a warrior of the Lord and his servant, the Sultan.
It is a story written in camps, on mountain pathways, in damp caves, burning city streets, and for a brief time from within the confines of a cage. With it I simply wish to underscore the basic fellowship of all intelligent beings and to warn future generations against the seductive nature of war.
Starfall, Year 113 of the Third Era
An atmosphere of optimism and pageantry looms large over the army. I was once a mere man, a clerk-typesetter of no renown living with my father, stepmother, three brothers, and two sisters. I worked for a stamper of books and pamphlets. Now I am a uniformed soldier of a great host, an inspiring, living example of mankind’s devotion to the one true Lord. Ribbons flutter and fill the air, the pennants of a hundred Orta battle groups, each with 10,000 men beneath them. I have never seen so many people in my life, let alone such an assembly of firelocks, swords, spears, and horses. Colorful pavilions stretch outward in all directions. A thousand colors fill the countryside, spilling across the river into allied encampments that scramble over the hills and beyond. It is a sublime exhibition.
Yet, everyone secretly or discreetly wishes that they were home. Many have wives and families, but most are young like me, longing for the comfort of parents and siblings. No one openly makes mention of this, confiding in me only in private after much discussion. The Rahiplik promised us money, land, prosperity, and the expansion of our great faith into the lands of the morally destitute, but for most of us I believe our greatest motivation is the idea that we might somehow transcend our anonymity and become a generation of great heroes. The pride of our parents and of the children we are yet to bring into the world depends upon our swift and brave conduct in the following months.
We are nervous, uncertain, but not afraid for our lives. We are fundamentally good men, so mustn’t it be true that the good people among the beastfolk will see our common virtues and relinquish their arms? If we must fight, do we not fight against villainy and deceit, against treacherous warlords and monarchs hiding behind false idols? Such an enormous army united under the banner of common virtues can never be defeated. If some of us die, is that not proof that we lived for something greater than ourselves?
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
I saw strange creatures today. The Corbaci, our Orta’s commander, assures us that they have a name and that they can speak in our tongue. They are great lizards with a vague humanoid likeness and red skin the color of Iblis himself. For feet they have the talons of owls and eagles, their toes tipped not with nails but with enormous and sharp talons. I studied one, and it sent a cold spike through my spine when it studied me in return, regarding me with yellow serpent irises sitting on bubbles of molten red. They speak to only our officers and stay away from most of us soldiers, and I prefer it that way.
The Corbaci calls them Siparids. They have travelled a very long distance across the Outrene to join the army, yet I hear troubling rumors that most of them have not even accepted the faith! Are we in such desperate need of allies that we must unearth heathen devils from the far edge of the desert to aid us in our fight?
I couldn’t help but study them from a distance. They did not grumble, fidget, whoop in celebration, quarrel with each other, or even laugh. They were patient and incredibly still. They appeared obedient and disciplined, tirelessly occupying themselves with incredible sparring matches involving explosive flurries of swordplay. I have no doubt now that they would be great killers, but what else are they? If they are not motivated by faith, is this simply a matter of personal gain to them or is it some alien motivation I cannot comprehend as a man? I still call them creatures, for they neither behave nor dress like humans and are not any kind of beastfolk I have ever seen.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
We march.
The colors of the grand encampment are far behind us. Instead, our column now blesses the countryside with a dust cloud. I find myself wrapping my scarf over my mouth and nose like a Jinni elf so that I do not choke on the tempest kicked up by the Orta’s 20,000 shoes, but nothing can protect my eyes from becoming repositories of fine clay dust. This dust is transformed into pottery in miniature by the constant production of tears, and between the men we must have sufficient clay in our eyes to build a life-sized replica of the Sublime Porte on the spot.
As we march northwards and occasionally westwards, civilization as I know it gradually fades, giving way to strange curiosities and wild frontiers. Nearly abandoned settlements consumed by the edges of the Outrene dot the path of our march, places invaded by thorny vegetation or sand dunes and inhabited only by handfuls of elderly men and women, and sometimes Djinn drifters. The amber pastures and fields of the Sepet are long behind us, and I am reminded of just how fragile our civilization and species is before the might of nature. If the Lord willed it, he would only need to exhale in the right place to push the desert sands over the entire Caliphate, engulfing and drowning us in infernal dust.
Graciously, we will not need to linger so close to the Outrene for long. To the north, I can already see the snowcaps of the Batgandar Mountains, ragged fingers of stone reaching into the sky, battered and bent by constant gales from the desert interior. We will march northwest along its foothills and fertile pasturelands before our preparation for a much more arduous march along the coastal fringes of the Helmagh Desert into the lands of the tough and warlike Baziri people.
Kaba Zurna, Year 113 of the Third Era
It has been weeks since I last attended to this journal. Our march along the foothills of the Batgandar Mountains emptied us into the city of Zor, where we found the streets and taverns mostly empty and devoid of wealth. Only the elderly, the young, and many women walked the streets. It was a place that had stripped itself bare in the name of the Sultan, and it filled me with guilt that we had to ask for more, for volunteers, for provisions, or anything of value. An old man gave me a worn, ugly, but sturdy pair of rawhide shoes from his own feet. He made me promise that I would deliver them to his grandson, Halil Avci of the Second Orta. The manner in which he spoke with me, however, hinted at the sense of fatalism and ruin that had befallen the entire populace.
I inquired with our Bolukbashi, the leader of our company, regarding the Second Orta. He spun a tale about the first years of the White Jihad and how the people of the North had responded with such zeal, and suffered such heavy losses at the hands of the beastfolk. Even so, they had managed to carve out a series of strongholds north of the Helmagh Mountains from which our much greater, larger army would complete their legacy.
It’s clear to me now that the old man’s grandson, Halil, is likely dead somewhere in those lush foothills beyond the mountains and that the old man wished for me to pay my respects. Yet shoes seem a very peculiar means of venerating the dead. They are neither sacred nor tokens of respect, and in many places handling another’s shoes is a sign of uncleanliness or disrespect. Perhaps these shoes are the only offerings he can give, or hold some sentimental value to his missing grandson?
I write now as we leave the city. My pack is heavy with bladders of water and parcels of unleavened bread, the most basic necessities for our march across the coming wasteland. Of the few personal belongings I carry out of sentiment, I have decided to keep the old man’s heavy shoes and will try to find his lost son. Waging war in the name of the Lord can motivate human beings by the thousands, but to carry on the fight each of us needs a personal goal, a personal mission close to us. I am fortunate to have found one.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Evils now follow our steady march like flies and vermin, always just beyond an arm’s reach.
Temptations of the flesh seem to only become more intense when a man is given the power of a weapon. Courtesans follow our column, but some of the men’s wives do as well. There are also women among the ranks, fellow Ghazis who joined us to show their faith in battle, yet the bodies of courtesans, wives, and soldiers alike appear almost every morning, their bodies mutilated horribly. No one seems to be doing anything about it.
I would kill the person responsible for these murders. I spoke to an Imam about this, to which he warned me that vengeance and wrath are the property of the Lord and that the wicked would ultimately be punished. Even so, innocent women are dying day by day, yet the Lord does not see fit to intervene. We are beings of free will, and it is lowly and unfair to blame the Lord for the lack of justice in a human affair. The Lord did not deliver us into this predicament. Why must we wait for him to deliver us away from it?
Specious rumors abound that the Siparid auxiliaries are responsible and that these non-humans are involving our women in unspeakable heathen rituals in the dark of the night, yet in spite of my mistrust of the saurians I cannot bring myself to blame them. They may not be human, but that fact alone does not make them murderers. They live under strict orders not to intermingle with the human encampment and have universally obeyed the command. I have never once seen a Siparid set foot outside of their proscribed area, and it seems ridiculous to me that our night sentries would not be able to observe a large red lizard loping around our shelters and pavilions, let alone a group of them.
I wish that men would not distract themselves with speculation and sin, but ever since I took up the sword for our virtuous Lord I have gambled, smoked, taken in drink, and even sought female company outside of wedlock, albeit without success. Can I truly condemn what is happening, knowing that I am not so far away? Is that what I fear the most, that I too could become a murderer?
Questions. Always questions, and sensible answers are few. We will cross the desert soon, climb over the Helmagh Mountains, and cross swords with the enemy. I long for the sight of infidels, as I fear that on our current course we might simply destroy ourselves before even facing a foe in battle.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
The White Jihad is widely considered to be the stopping point of humankind's and the Odem faith's steady expansion, having started some 180 years ago and continuing intermittently for 60.
For the Humans, it was a religious war started with the intention of expanding the faith and the Caliphate's political influence into the lands of the Beastfolk to the north. It was propelled by the success of mankind's other Jihads which had successfully unified a large part of the human population under a single faith and government. Though religiously motivated, it was not intended to be a war of genocide.
For the Beastfolk, it was an unprovoked invasion that forced their fractured and backwards society into the era of modern combat, forcing several races to combine arms to repel the Human invaders. Even more than a century after the formal termination of the Jihad, the Beastfolk still regard their victory against the Caliphate with great pride and as fundamental proof that a union of the races is possible.
For those involved in the actual fighting, however, it was a sporadic, hellish, and intense war that stole entire generations and cities away from the world.
To this day, the White Jihad and the aftermath continue to shape political and social affairs in Human and Beastfolk society.
Chronicles of the White Jihad
By Salih-I Celik, Ghazi, 88th Orta
A year ago, I decided to compile my experiences as a Ghazi soldier in the Sultan’s army. Though I have little doubt that my story is but one of many thousands, I have found through my many discussions that scarcely any man or beastfolk has taken it upon themselves to write an unvarnished truth about what has happened for the sake of the general public.
Speculation and hypothesis about events of the future is beyond the power of my correspondence. Grand strategy and political intrigue are also somewhat beyond my grasp as an author and individual, though I carry my speculations as anyone does, and occasionally share them. What you will see in the following pages is primarily a personal account from the standpoint of a lowly Ghazi, a warrior of the Lord and his servant, the Sultan.
It is a story written in camps, on mountain pathways, in damp caves, burning city streets, and for a brief time from within the confines of a cage. With it I simply wish to underscore the basic fellowship of all intelligent beings and to warn future generations against the seductive nature of war.
Starfall, Year 113 of the Third Era
An atmosphere of optimism and pageantry looms large over the army. I was once a mere man, a clerk-typesetter of no renown living with my father, stepmother, three brothers, and two sisters. I worked for a stamper of books and pamphlets. Now I am a uniformed soldier of a great host, an inspiring, living example of mankind’s devotion to the one true Lord. Ribbons flutter and fill the air, the pennants of a hundred Orta battle groups, each with 10,000 men beneath them. I have never seen so many people in my life, let alone such an assembly of firelocks, swords, spears, and horses. Colorful pavilions stretch outward in all directions. A thousand colors fill the countryside, spilling across the river into allied encampments that scramble over the hills and beyond. It is a sublime exhibition.
Yet, everyone secretly or discreetly wishes that they were home. Many have wives and families, but most are young like me, longing for the comfort of parents and siblings. No one openly makes mention of this, confiding in me only in private after much discussion. The Rahiplik promised us money, land, prosperity, and the expansion of our great faith into the lands of the morally destitute, but for most of us I believe our greatest motivation is the idea that we might somehow transcend our anonymity and become a generation of great heroes. The pride of our parents and of the children we are yet to bring into the world depends upon our swift and brave conduct in the following months.
We are nervous, uncertain, but not afraid for our lives. We are fundamentally good men, so mustn’t it be true that the good people among the beastfolk will see our common virtues and relinquish their arms? If we must fight, do we not fight against villainy and deceit, against treacherous warlords and monarchs hiding behind false idols? Such an enormous army united under the banner of common virtues can never be defeated. If some of us die, is that not proof that we lived for something greater than ourselves?
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
I saw strange creatures today. The Corbaci, our Orta’s commander, assures us that they have a name and that they can speak in our tongue. They are great lizards with a vague humanoid likeness and red skin the color of Iblis himself. For feet they have the talons of owls and eagles, their toes tipped not with nails but with enormous and sharp talons. I studied one, and it sent a cold spike through my spine when it studied me in return, regarding me with yellow serpent irises sitting on bubbles of molten red. They speak to only our officers and stay away from most of us soldiers, and I prefer it that way.
The Corbaci calls them Siparids. They have travelled a very long distance across the Outrene to join the army, yet I hear troubling rumors that most of them have not even accepted the faith! Are we in such desperate need of allies that we must unearth heathen devils from the far edge of the desert to aid us in our fight?
I couldn’t help but study them from a distance. They did not grumble, fidget, whoop in celebration, quarrel with each other, or even laugh. They were patient and incredibly still. They appeared obedient and disciplined, tirelessly occupying themselves with incredible sparring matches involving explosive flurries of swordplay. I have no doubt now that they would be great killers, but what else are they? If they are not motivated by faith, is this simply a matter of personal gain to them or is it some alien motivation I cannot comprehend as a man? I still call them creatures, for they neither behave nor dress like humans and are not any kind of beastfolk I have ever seen.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
We march.
The colors of the grand encampment are far behind us. Instead, our column now blesses the countryside with a dust cloud. I find myself wrapping my scarf over my mouth and nose like a Jinni elf so that I do not choke on the tempest kicked up by the Orta’s 20,000 shoes, but nothing can protect my eyes from becoming repositories of fine clay dust. This dust is transformed into pottery in miniature by the constant production of tears, and between the men we must have sufficient clay in our eyes to build a life-sized replica of the Sublime Porte on the spot.
As we march northwards and occasionally westwards, civilization as I know it gradually fades, giving way to strange curiosities and wild frontiers. Nearly abandoned settlements consumed by the edges of the Outrene dot the path of our march, places invaded by thorny vegetation or sand dunes and inhabited only by handfuls of elderly men and women, and sometimes Djinn drifters. The amber pastures and fields of the Sepet are long behind us, and I am reminded of just how fragile our civilization and species is before the might of nature. If the Lord willed it, he would only need to exhale in the right place to push the desert sands over the entire Caliphate, engulfing and drowning us in infernal dust.
Graciously, we will not need to linger so close to the Outrene for long. To the north, I can already see the snowcaps of the Batgandar Mountains, ragged fingers of stone reaching into the sky, battered and bent by constant gales from the desert interior. We will march northwest along its foothills and fertile pasturelands before our preparation for a much more arduous march along the coastal fringes of the Helmagh Desert into the lands of the tough and warlike Baziri people.
Kaba Zurna, Year 113 of the Third Era
It has been weeks since I last attended to this journal. Our march along the foothills of the Batgandar Mountains emptied us into the city of Zor, where we found the streets and taverns mostly empty and devoid of wealth. Only the elderly, the young, and many women walked the streets. It was a place that had stripped itself bare in the name of the Sultan, and it filled me with guilt that we had to ask for more, for volunteers, for provisions, or anything of value. An old man gave me a worn, ugly, but sturdy pair of rawhide shoes from his own feet. He made me promise that I would deliver them to his grandson, Halil Avci of the Second Orta. The manner in which he spoke with me, however, hinted at the sense of fatalism and ruin that had befallen the entire populace.
I inquired with our Bolukbashi, the leader of our company, regarding the Second Orta. He spun a tale about the first years of the White Jihad and how the people of the North had responded with such zeal, and suffered such heavy losses at the hands of the beastfolk. Even so, they had managed to carve out a series of strongholds north of the Helmagh Mountains from which our much greater, larger army would complete their legacy.
It’s clear to me now that the old man’s grandson, Halil, is likely dead somewhere in those lush foothills beyond the mountains and that the old man wished for me to pay my respects. Yet shoes seem a very peculiar means of venerating the dead. They are neither sacred nor tokens of respect, and in many places handling another’s shoes is a sign of uncleanliness or disrespect. Perhaps these shoes are the only offerings he can give, or hold some sentimental value to his missing grandson?
I write now as we leave the city. My pack is heavy with bladders of water and parcels of unleavened bread, the most basic necessities for our march across the coming wasteland. Of the few personal belongings I carry out of sentiment, I have decided to keep the old man’s heavy shoes and will try to find his lost son. Waging war in the name of the Lord can motivate human beings by the thousands, but to carry on the fight each of us needs a personal goal, a personal mission close to us. I am fortunate to have found one.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Evils now follow our steady march like flies and vermin, always just beyond an arm’s reach.
Temptations of the flesh seem to only become more intense when a man is given the power of a weapon. Courtesans follow our column, but some of the men’s wives do as well. There are also women among the ranks, fellow Ghazis who joined us to show their faith in battle, yet the bodies of courtesans, wives, and soldiers alike appear almost every morning, their bodies mutilated horribly. No one seems to be doing anything about it.
I would kill the person responsible for these murders. I spoke to an Imam about this, to which he warned me that vengeance and wrath are the property of the Lord and that the wicked would ultimately be punished. Even so, innocent women are dying day by day, yet the Lord does not see fit to intervene. We are beings of free will, and it is lowly and unfair to blame the Lord for the lack of justice in a human affair. The Lord did not deliver us into this predicament. Why must we wait for him to deliver us away from it?
Specious rumors abound that the Siparid auxiliaries are responsible and that these non-humans are involving our women in unspeakable heathen rituals in the dark of the night, yet in spite of my mistrust of the saurians I cannot bring myself to blame them. They may not be human, but that fact alone does not make them murderers. They live under strict orders not to intermingle with the human encampment and have universally obeyed the command. I have never once seen a Siparid set foot outside of their proscribed area, and it seems ridiculous to me that our night sentries would not be able to observe a large red lizard loping around our shelters and pavilions, let alone a group of them.
I wish that men would not distract themselves with speculation and sin, but ever since I took up the sword for our virtuous Lord I have gambled, smoked, taken in drink, and even sought female company outside of wedlock, albeit without success. Can I truly condemn what is happening, knowing that I am not so far away? Is that what I fear the most, that I too could become a murderer?
Questions. Always questions, and sensible answers are few. We will cross the desert soon, climb over the Helmagh Mountains, and cross swords with the enemy. I long for the sight of infidels, as I fear that on our current course we might simply destroy ourselves before even facing a foe in battle.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Category Story / All
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 120 x 71px
File Size 35.5 kB
History has such a draw on me as it is, and the fact that you're giving the Realm so much of it is what captures me, I think. I also admire how you take time to bring out the aspects of the mirror era (Napoleonic Era of Europe) that people often dont think about or over look...such as life for the common soldier, the hardships of moving large armies and so on.
Comments