Hubris

The skies blanketed the landscape with an intense heat. Winds gently pushed around dust and debris underneath the people moving to and fro. Voices filled the air with phrases and mottos that would catch the attention of any passerby that would dare cross their miniature enclosures. Shops lined with produce, accessories, and a bustling cacophony that littered itself off onto the paved road. The sun felt as if it threatened to burst forth from the prison of stone buildings that contained its shimmering chaos, it was only overtaken by the sound of the road fighting the weight on its shoulders.

“By the Three! You nasty skies, wouldst a gentle shower from the heavens above speak sweetly to me on this rigid morning?!”

The cry parted the sea of patrons within the marketplace like a stone parting a river, the noise of the conflict within the cart of wood behind him was made far more apparent. The wool on his white toga steadily going gray from the sweat profusely covering him, his body lurches forward to increase the pace of his travels.

“Ah, they’re toiling that poor man again.”

“Be he a fighter or livestock? It’s getting harder to tell”

“Think his bowels will betray him with that scowl like that?”

Men and women alike would offer these passing observations at the sight before them. As he trots forward, they only earn a shake of his head. With a grit of his teeth, he attempts to steal back the momentum being whisked away by the commentary of the people around him.

“Cayo, you miscreant!”

A bearded man springs forth from the small crowd that made way for the man and his cart, his brown shawl fluttering as he stomps towards him. The former eyes on the young man turn away as they turn back to their own devices, seeking audience elsewhere.

“Truly a day of wonders, this.” the young man snarked under his breath.

“I’ve gone a fortnight without my vase from the north, I’ll see it collected now!” The merchant sneered as if he wanted to blow steam straight out of his nose. Cayo steadily plants the cart in front of him and lets out a deep sigh.

“Say!” He places his hands in front of him as if trying to make a wall between them. Perhaps also against his words if he could, “I know the roughness of this age, but this takes top priority since the command was last minute.”

“Oh, sure! March with that new army and die somewhere far away where my hands can’t reach you? I guess that’s also a suitable answer, aye?!”

He shoots a puzzled look at the indignant merchant, wondering about the thoughts that rattle in his head. Maybe it was the heat? An oncoming shortage, lack of imports, or perhaps unruly customers? Whatever it is, it was an all-too familiar sight to Cayo. His only recourse was an attempt at reason.

“Yes, Suni. You vex me so that my dying thoughts would be to stow your vase. Come now, what of my labor isn’t proof that this new cohort is practically scrambling to get everything together?”

Cayo pondered, on the swings of his mood.

Will he ere on the side of smart or stupid?

“A likely story! Next, you’ll tell me you don’t carry money in that cloth you’re wearing!”

Ah, stupid it is. Onward to dimmer pastures, then.

Cayo scratches at his curly, black hair while maintaining eye contact, his lips contracting as if to hold his words prisoner for a moment. If there’s one thing Cayo couldn’t abide

“We’ve danced this routine quite a few times, can you at least wait until the end of it before your questions ebb on my soul?”

“Enough prattle, that vase is needed to keep my spot! And I already promised the priors the rest of its collection at MY STAND!”

Cayo’s head rears back slightly, a look of surprise overtaking his face.

Usually they come within the setting of the sun at month’s end…it’s not even half eclipsed yet.

Just as he was about to manage another retort, a small force tugs on his toga from the side of him. He turns towards the source only to find a small child looking up at him, his hazel eyes gleaming slightly within the rays of the sun.

“What’s the matter?” Cayo remarked, his look unchanging from his previous exchange.

The child grabs his wrist and jams his fist into his open palm, a sound of rattling and a cold sensation filling the space. Before he could react, the child darted around the cart behind him and into the crowd reforming from his passing, breaking his line of sight.

He inspects his hand to see the yellow shimmer of coins. Cayo let out a small yelp as if he was struck by a weapon.

This is a week’s worth of food! He looked like a street rat, yeah? Why did he-?

A similar feeling of realization washed over him as he forcefully ceased his train of thought, it’d be a feat of madness to bring sense to it. Instead Cayo stuffed the newly acquired coin into the hands of the incredulous merchant who also bore witness to the scene.

Suni stammered, “This…this is the exact sum. What just-”

Cayo shrugged, gestured farewell and picked the handles of his cart up again.

“Neither question nor dwell this present and stay safe in the future, Suni.”

He continued down the path at a faster pace, determined to skirt by any other further distractions. Yet, there was a curious taste of chaos in the air, it captured his mind as it drew upon the frantic energy emanating from every corner of the market he walked across.

A woman carrying a vase stumbling as her pace grew ever swift with every space, a man spilling salt slightly carelessly out of his leather satchel, a cacophony of voices being louder than others as prices are shouted over others in a bid to earn the attention of the standing merchants.

First, Suni and the priors, then you got some that swear their bubbles are waiting to be popped if they stand still.

He fights his thoughts along with the weight of the cart, winding forward out of the market onto a straight of cobblestone that leads towards his destination. The cluster of people dispersed into a straight line of pedestrians making their way into the labyrinth of stalls in which he just escaped. With a deep breath, he attempts to pick up the pace to make up for the lost time.

Gonna get rightly gutted, but then again they aren’t helping me lug this thing. Tough.

“Didn’t know the conscripts doubled as oxen, nowadays.”

An old, familiarly surly tone rang out to Cayo that caught his attention and came from one of the nearby benches that littered the path before him. He was a pale man. His wrinkled skin gleamed against the partial sunlight beaming through the clouds that illuminated the lines of his face, one which belied the stone-like features that seem to chisel a permanent scowl. He sat still with a wooden stick to help with his balance in his hand, watching him intently with all of the motion of a statue. Most men about his age aren’t able to be so still with their movement, a fact that never escaped Cayo.

“As long as they don’t pay me in grain, I won’t hold a grudge.”

“I suppose it's a small price to pay for a little muscle training.”

“That’s what the prior training was for. Was it all just theatrics of playing soldier or does everyone need the strength to carry a piece of our country if we need to move?”

“Only your ass if you keep skipping around so lazily.”

Always a retort, you’d think he’s one of those thinkers. Then again, what else do old people do in excess?

Cayo replies in lieu of picking his pace up, trying his best to move out of earshot before another comment finds its way to him.

“Fortune favors the old or however that goes, otherwise I’d flip that bench over with you in it.”

A quick glance at the elder on the seat only revealed a slight smirk as he made his way back up the path again. A sigh of relief escapes the young man’s chest as he keeps a brisk pace to his destination.

Just as intense as back then. Wonder why he rides me all the time?

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Three’s Grace, help us.”

The muttering of a man seemed to echo across the encampment, bustling with activity to the horse trotting into formation, soldiers checking the inventory of their cargo of the beasts that were to carry their weapon and supplies, the oxen groaning as they pulled their burden forward around the entrance.

“Knock it off, lest it reaches the wrong one.”

“We’re the wrong ones for this, straight off the shelf and into whatever hell they want to chuck us into.”

“Well don’t bring that misfortune over here, I plan on living through this.”

“Aren’t we mostly scouting anyway? Most we should expect is some of those tree bastards.”

“Yeah, we’re just arming the entire company to make some maps. Get real.”

The conversation veered between ambivalent emotions brought on by an air of confusion the troops had talking among themselves. Their monotonous movements displayed their training as they checked for any loose fittings on their armor or missing items in their large leather backpacks.

“I’m just saying, overhearing that a company went missing for a month near the forest isn’t common, an-”

A loud thump completed the remark upside the iron of his helmet, it knocked him backwards towards the ground. The object hung in the air, spinning against the point of origin for a few seconds before impossibly returning to the hand of the offending culprit.

“A more honest display of your discipline, isn’t it?”

The man stood over his victim with an impending sneer, his oily hair shimmering in the light. A rugged face turned towards the other men around him, finding himself the center of attention.

Most soldiers wore the same uniform to show a sense of cohesion: an iron helmet that covered the head, an casted iron chestplate that hugged their torso with a chainskirt that allowed for ease of movement, complete with a crimson shroud that curled around their shoulders and fell towards their knees.

But his tattered cloak was a symbol of significance to every soldier. One similar to the red shroud they all wore, but it spelled out the world of difference between each other. It was the mark of beholding a power mysterious to all men alike.

Throughout the military of the Talon, they’re only known as “The Severed”.

And this Severance was of a curious nature: Whatever object he threw was able to be recalled back and returned to him.

“Right, no need to fight before we get to it, yeah?”

The group straightened themselves while carrying their gear towards the front gate, mumbling all the while.

“It’s mostly just seeing if there’s a threat to the east or not, what’s his deal?”

“I’m surprised he didn’t depart himself yet.”

“Let’s not press any more buttons than we should.”

As they made their way northward, the sound of a swinging gate caught their attention. A man with black, curly hair gleamed in the sun as he tugged the cart filled with food and water into the camp.

“Cayo!” one of the men said with a hint of relief. He was met with a gaze through half-shut eyes from the perspiration coming down his forehead. As they drew closer, he grinded to a halt to wipe his brow.

“Of course the rear guard would greet me first. Your bottom didn’t go numb yet, Herst?” he said snidely.

“Depends, how’s your legs?”

“Enough feeling to still run a few laps around your wheat ass. Parched?”

He unloads a large vase the size of his torso, about 2 feet tall with a ladle next to it.

“Are we almost ready to head out?” Cayo spoke between pouring the water in small cups and handing it out to the others

“Just about. Was waiting on your supplies.”

“Had us on standby for the longest, next time don’t talk to your superiors like your brethren.”

“Just want to get on with it already. Damn that hardass.”

“I won’t apologize for calling a horse a horse, that centuri’s a ballsack if I ever saw one.” Cayo exclaimed mouth agape between a pour of the ladle overhead into his mouth.

“Don’t drink from the ladle! Everyone gets water from that!.”

Herst exclaimed as Cayo poured more water down his throat.

“No lips, what problem?” he shrugged.

Herst snatched the ladle from him and tossed it back into the cart.

“I’m gonna see you at the other end of another cart, aren’t I?”

“Perhaps, it's a good workout.” Cayo flexed his arms as he puffed his chest out.

He always had an issue with authority in terms of the exchange of words. Thus the various consequences of being treated like livestock. Though after the 4th time of taking its role, even this could be considered its own form of training.

And even more so, the fourth time in this role from such conduct made him realize how little it was out of his control to speak his mind as a form of a quiet resignation, so all there was to glean from it was the muscle training it yielded.

“You’re late, Cayo” the gruff voice exclaimed from behind the group.

It was the same man with the tattered cloak who appeared, meeting Cayo with a glare as if he were trying to conjure fire around him.

“Well I’m here, are we heading out now or what?” his tone perked up with a hint of cheer.

The opposite effect was clear as day on his recipient, being met with a twitching eye and partial sneer.

“Never gotta worry about enemies with a face like this giving me orders.

“Yeah, no need to wait for another mule. This one will do just fine.”

“Hold on! Through a city and through a field are different beasts!”

“You have a knack for slaying them, what’s one more?”

Cayo hisses in frustration as he takes one of the small cups of water that he poured earlier and downs it greedily, slamming his hands back onto the handle of the cart and inches forward toward the gate in formation. The rhythmic creak of the wheels that began stopped once again when a voice shouted “WAIT!” in his direction once again, to his chagrin.

A man bearing the same uniform sans the chest armor. He bears the banner of their eagle at his back and ran as if he tried to outpace the wind blowing behind him. Even Cayo was put off by the speed at which he sprinted. The bustle of the troops drowned out by the sound of his multiple footsteps. Struggling to catch his breath, he holds a finger up. Gesturing to give him a moment.

In a swift motion, Cayo bends the water-filled vase over one of the cups in the cart and swings it to the same hand the man put up.

“Oh! Thanks!” he downs his drink and places it back.

“What end of the world were you running from?” Cayo started, inching forward to the cohort once again.

“Just wanted to inspect the supplies. We need to take a certain amount if we’re dragging a cohort along.”

He begins to look around at the items around the cart until he suddenly jerks his head into the direction of the one pulling it. Cayo’s red cloak and shroud are practically stained dark with his hazel skin of his face being illuminated by the beaming sun.

“You look like you fell into a river, you okay?”

“Nothing I’m not used to, don’t worry. Haven’t seen you around before— just recruited?”

“Ah, yeah. Can’t help but be nervous, I was told this was gonna be an important role for the empire!”

Cayo and Herst both exchanged a look of knowing concern to each other.

Praxa was no stranger to conflict. From the Idonians, to the Hactave, to the Sylvans and onward, many have had skirmishes with the empire with varying results. Though their victories have ensured a healthy intake of resources from their spoils of war, it was an experience to be gathered and used nonetheless.

One take away being that of the flag bearer— a signifer, was a potential beacon of hope for disillusioned soldiers in the heat of combat to rally behind. Even the lack of armor replaced as leather was a symbol of morale to drive home the representation of true courage that should be ingrained within every soldier.

So, naturally— while this effect has been instrumental in several battles; any warrior worth his salt from another tribe or army who encountered a Praxan signifer would easily draw the conclusion of killing them first.

And since signifiers tend to die first, most of the conscripted tend to be slaves trying to earn their freedom, or the young, idealistic, and the woefully naïve.

Herst maintained a stoic demeanor while storming ahead of them both towards the city gate, and all Cayo could muster was a near-monotone.

“Right… good luck with that.”

No point getting to know a dead man, but also coming clean about the risks he faces is its own battle to throw him in.

“Uh, by the way, what’s your name?”

FUCK’S SAKE

“Mine’s Hadan!” he asks while scribbling a parchment.

“Uhm… Cayo.”

Haden’s face, ever smiling, went looking into the various baskets and jugs in the cart. His hands seemed like they danced on the paper from the speed of the quill moving down the paper, his eyes betraying his action by beaming at the object of his attention instead. Before a thought could be formed his list was done.

“Hope we see each other again, then!” Hadan stows away his list in his cloth and rushes towards the formation with a light jog.

Every deployment of Cayo’s usually ended with them making an outpost or two alongside trade routes or potential raiding areas by the sylvans or perhaps other beasts that may lurk within the forest. Perhaps it would be needless to present these worries to a scenario that wouldn’t happen.

Times like this makes the air stale. Can’t take this shit.

The gates swing open as the crowd shouts in unison, pouring out into the wildlands that lie outside the security of their walls, the gatekeepers up top are seen waving to them all with words of goodwill. A familiar sight to Cayo, yet always with a weight of anxiety at his shoulders. As if giving it direction, he pours it into his toes and arms, dragging the cart into the unknown once again.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Within Praxa lies a motto that rings truer than anything within the world, that shines brighter than the sun and a thought more nourishing than the natural springs that flow around its island.

“No more Tyrants”

Tarth the Conqueror once brought together all of the tribes underneath one banner to unite them in what he would call ‘peace’. A fellow yurodyte, as they called themselves back then, that forcefully put an end to their differences and let them live amongst each other.

Many dissenting voices among the tribes, mainly the leaders of its defeated, noted the brutality Tarth was capable of. Two of the tribes known as the Hecata and the Basthimites, were utterly decimated down to their last adult with their children enslaved.

A piece of history that others were determined to avoid for their own at all costs.

Some may have fallen as an appeasement— to assuage his thirst for conquest, but it was a time honored folly of the strong to observe weakness as a byproduct of cowardice.

Within time, Tarth turned upon those in which he swore to defend. A belief in ideas that could not coexist with the world he’s fashioned. Lest his subjects be inspired by something even greater worth dying for than he ever was for the scattered tribes before him.

Friends became enemies, allies became rivals, wealth became threats, and the walls of security soon turned into a den of snakes that threatened to strike at any opportune moment.

In scenarios where one has the power to affect history, even they can lose control of the vision that they wished to create. To those who survived Tarth’s reign of terror, to know the strength of cohesion between those once seen as rivals. Those who would share each others’ sorrows and success.

They too came to learn the horror of tyranny.

Lo, did the civilization after it strive to take every precaution that could prevent the process of repeating ever again.

In the end, 12 clans and their leaders would swear that not a single voice would be silent again— here where everyone would be heard and felt as a presence that connected to a stronger purpose.

A free, equal and fair community that would combine all of its ideas, cultures, ethnicities and beliefs into a single entity. One that can stand against the chaos of the world, the tumultuous nature of life, and the threats of the beast and barbarians that roam outside of its borders.

Praxa would be born, a nation taking its first breath.

Composed of 300 members, each of them would hold the reins of the future of the Republic with enacting laws and decrees to maintain order and a semblance of peace. Their opinions potentially swaying the fate of the millions of people that occupied it.

Centralized within a small city designated to house these weekly gatherings, the atrium provides the space to air out the many grievances that weigh on their minds.

These marbled halls are the pride and integrity of what is known as The Senate Council.

“THAT’S PURE MULE END!!”

The voice echoed through its halls, carrying a commanding presence with it.

“You would deploy a cohort in these conditions? Just who in the hell do you think they are?!”

His glare casted downward within the dome from atop the fourth aisle onto the lone figure in the middle. He stood apart from a book that had signatures of those that approved of the decree that was announced before him. His weary eyes met with his, gathering only a sigh at the point of contention.

“It has been discussed at length already, a majority of this chamber has decided and the motion has passed. Save your bluster for the next Council, Carthis.”

“What of the information of the East? These mysterious ''beasts'' have been appearing all over the edges of our territory! And our only testimonies are from near-dead corpses! That’s not counting the hostile forces that lie within the Forests of Ghenna, and the lack of reports from Fort Tritea! Is this truly the time to be swinging at the wind?”

“So we just wait with an apple in our mouths for their leisure?”

“Nothing to be gained by just standing by— action must be taken.”

“What’s he on about? That’s why a cohort is being sent out, is age ruling him?”

Dissenting voices stuck out to the old man that felt as if he was slowly being surrounded, their togas draping from their respective shoulders swaying back and forth as they turned to each other in renewed discourse.

“We also could have sent a small centarii, a cohort seems excessive.”

“Nothing last forever, including our troops. Lives are not so easily replaced, soldiers even less so.”

“Can we even sustain any prolonged campaign in the East? The harvest hasn’t even happened yet, we should at least wait after that season.”

A loud thump rang out, the man at the podium gavel in hand, struck the marble surface as if he was striking down the noise of the room personally.

“Carthis, Your passion is always appreciated in these difficult times, a reminder of never losing our humanity through these decisions. Yet, this response was measured equally amongst all who stand here today, with heavy hands and weighted hearts. Do understand? This is to increase the chances that some will survive to be able to give more reliable information. After all, our greatest strength is our offense.”

“And yet, we’re trying to swing in the shadows instead of attempting to relieve Fort Tritea.”

“The soldiers there were all prepared for the risks, so is anyone willing to don the red shroud that would protect the citizens of this nation.”

“AND YET WE TREAT THEM SO CALLOUSLY, HOW COULD YO-”

Another thump rang out, washing silence over Carthis like a bucket of water.

“That is enough! Perhaps in the next council you can bring an alternative means of tackling this budding thorn, but until then I can at least ask of you to muse upon the merits of said decision. Regret is poison to the soul.”

Carthis strokes his graying beard and clears his throat as he sits down, his scowl resting firmly on his face.

“The 7th Cohort of the 4th Armada will be deployed to create a forward camp between the Alps and the Brittica Forest. After a week of surveillance, the information that will be acquired will be used to delegate the resources put forth to discovering the forces that threaten our borders in the south. Council Adjourned.”

They shuffle within a single file line down the stairs going towards the exit, the rhythmic taps of their sandals against the marble floor matching the murmurs of the audience.

Carthis barreled down the hallway in frustration around the other senators who didn’t match his pace, his hulking frame making him seem like a boulder careening down an alley. A hand suddenly grasped the side of his tunic, belonging to a pale figure with amber hair, his toga lightly drenched with his sweat.

“You really get going when you want to, don’t you?” he said between coughs. Carthis hands him a flask in leather satchel with the top freshly taken off.

“Put your lips on it and I'll feed them to my dog at home.” He stated plainly.

After he finished, he started back up again. “How is Domus anyway? Last I heard, she didn’t handle this heat well.”

“She’s been fine, Wife’s been looking after her. Or at least she must be from how she chased that squirrel around yesterday.”

“Good to hear, they deserve nothing but the best, lovely creatures.”

They walked outside towards the sprawling landscape before them, the two miniature gardens that outlined the sides of the entrance blowing gently in the wind that caressed the passerby as they stepped out into the courtyard. The busts that represented those that were unanimously favored by Praxa lined the sides of the far walls, always giving an air of regality, as if their spirits watched over the proceedings of the future that they gave everything to protect.

“Dessi’s hard to deal with as always, eh?” The man spoke, attempting to cut the tension brewing around Carthis.

“Can’t be helped, Caedus— he's the majority leader. Doesn’t make him any less insufferable though.”

The man took a deep breath, nearly tensing up as if he was ready to take a blow.

“Is it also about your son’s station?”

He immediately sighs. “As much as one would think so, he has taken the same oath as every legionnaire. I should know as much as anyone.”

“Doubt anyone here would be in a rush to wear your sandals.”

“Please, the elements would pass them around like appetizers.” A chuckle was shared between them, a pang of relief settling on Caedus. It wasn’t the first time he saw his colleague like this, yet he counted the blessing of being able to get him through it.

“It almost feels like a trap to go from the battlefield to this. They mean well, but I know what it looks like when one gets too good at convincing themselves that they’re right. Since that’s their only means of relating to a soldier— naïveté or bullshit is all they can do to bridge the gap.”

Caedus shrugs. “Wealth and influence pools in abundance here, may not be as curt as a weapon, but they wield them confidently. Perhaps faith in this decision is in order?”

“Were it so easy. The difference between 10 men and a cohort of 800 confronting a threat with incomplete information is either tragedy or a disaster. One of them will set us back far longer than the other.”

“But shouldn’t the Severed provide some peace of mind for you?” Carthis’s face becomes as rigid as a stone, prompting concern from his present company. “What’s wrong?”

“Strong as they are, they’re an unknown we hold close to our chest, no less dangerous than what must be confronted for this nation’s safety. Need I remind you of the report we sat through all those months ago?”

Caedus gulped as a cold sweat broke out over him. “Well, it isn’t a guarantee that would happen, right?”

“...That’s in their hands, I suppose. Let their spirits be stronger than ever this time.”

They make it to the outside of the courtyard, parting ways at the crossroads that spread out from the city.

It’s of no surprise that there’s periods of contention among the Council these days.

Carthis Sartigan Carcelleus would take issue with decisions of a military manner. Being promoted to a Council position based on his 10 years of servitude as an officer. Naturally, he should be brought to task in having a weightier hand in such deliberations. Yet, for all he would give to his nation— rumors and idealism would rule the minds of his peers. He traces his hand across his gray toga, steadily gripping it with a rising indignation swelling within his being.

The similarities between this position and a dog being given a treat is becoming more prevalent.

Tribunes are scarce— as are the interests of the commoners they speak for, apparently.

Especially in a nation embroiled in constant conflict. Yet even now, their voices are not only fewer and further in between, but the change that stood out to him most were the ones who voted for such an action.

Of the five tribunes that would stand to give an opposing viewpoint, Carthis stood alone. They would, or at least should know better based on the Servile Wars, the Great Departure, or even the Tyrrhenian gambit.

We have fared worse, but the world is a mistress of boundless mystery.

The walk home to his province was a silent one— filled with anxiety and twice as heavy.