Happy Natopia Day
The Butter Bull says: Happy Natopia Day! :natopia: Please enjoy your juice of preference, and a buttered, toasted bagel too. Today, Natopia can drive. It is 16 years old, and in reaching that milestone, has now been in existence for 53% of its founder's lifetime. :pale:

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  • The War of Ingots

    Overconfident Bronze-Age alien dragons, libertarian semitopias, and food fights. You're welcome.

    Moderator: (Çeridgul) Harbingers of Cheese

    The War of Ingots

    Postby Shyriath » Tue Dec 04, 2018 12:13 am

    It had started with such small things.

    Everyone knew the Islanders were arrogant - closed to new ideas, other voices than their own. The concerns of the coasts had been shouted down at the Assembly. When at last Ajinkeliç had given in and formed its own Assembly, it had been out of exasperation, a last resort. A way to show the Islanders the gravity of their concerns. The coasts had expected a conciliation, a fair settlement.

    What had they gotten instead? Attacks. Raids.

    Deaths.

    Ured had hurt no one; he was just out to make a living. He'd been taking a small boat along the coast toward the human lands when the Coppers had happened upon him. He'd died with a neat slash across his throat. His family only heard the news weeks later. His wife had gone into mourning.

    His eldest son, Yekod, joined a raiding band bound for the northern coast of the Island.

    As their catamaran slid through the waves, the rising sun behind them, Yekod squinted at the fishing village in the distance, sandwiched between desert and sea. His brain was full of fire, and his paws cradled the weapon he'd traded everything he owned for, and - briefly - been trained to use: one of the human-made pellet-throwers. In its country of origin, it would've been classed as a rustic hunting rifle, but for Yekod, it was all the power he could've ever hoped to wield.

    He hesitated, that was true, as the fishing village came into focus. It looked like half the villages from the coast. But the hesitation dissolved when he saw people running around, gathering up clubs and blowguns, ready to respond to any threat the catamaran posed.

    Yekod decided to show them how much of a threat they were in for.

    With the sun behind the catamaran, the villagers could not make out the firearms the males carried, nor had they encountered any before now. All they saw was one of them raising something, far too far away for a blowdart to carry. Then, with a sharp crack, an older male, someone's father, jerked and fell backward, blood spurting from his neck.

    It hadn't been part of the plan. The others in the raiding party had agreed merely to threaten the villagers, to scare them into giving up food and valuables. Yekod had remained silent; as far as he was concerned, he hadn't agreed to anything.

    Before the others could pull the rifle away, he raised it again, and fired.
    Shyriath Bukolos, AKA Shyriath Farstrider, Count Bukolos of the Condo, Harbinger of Cheese
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