Iron Twilight: The Genji and the Gaijin

The second piece.

-----

[ November 14, 108 RIY ]
[ Warjilis Trade City, Lionel ]

Dawn. The sun had finally crested above the ridgeline of the mountains to the east of Warjilis Trade City, a port city that had been built by both Ronkan and Colianthic hands. The city was a symbol of their friendship, the only place in the world where east and west truly mingled. Nearly every merchant from either nation who did business with the other came through this magnificent city, a blended mix of two seemingly-opposite cultures.

A clavat samurai by the name of Lore Genji-Ryoku awoke in her rented room above one of the many Colianthic shops. She was not yet acclimated to the late hour of sunrise, having only been in Warjilis for two weeks; however, as a samurai, she was mentally focused enough to adapt at least physically. She stretched, performed a few rapid exercises, then seated herself, preparing for her hour-long meditation.

As she closed her eyes, however, there was a rough knock at the door.

Quick as a flash, her katana was in her hands, before her mind had time to react. She breathed deep, then exhaled slowly, putting the katana down. No one would be foolish enough to attack a Genji, even in Warjilis.

She walked to the door, her careful movements graceful and quiet. "Who is it?" She asked in Tipan, her native tongue.

"Balthier." Came the response.

Ah, Balthier. Lore had been selected as one of only a few Genji to visit the Ronkan Empire; their time in the Empire was meant to serve as a learning experience, to find out as much as they could of Ronkan culture and society. Understanding in all things, as it was said; and it would take many lifetimes to fully understand these strange people.

Lore opened the door, and Balthier bowed slightly as she did. "Shall we walk?" He asked in her language, though his words were stilted. It was clear that he yet had much to learn.

Lore nodded. "One moment." She replied simply, and shut the door.

She went to the armor stand in the corner of the room, the only furnishing aside from the simple bed, upon which her armor rested. While the Genji had once only numbered seven, their families had grown large since those ancient times, and now there were dozens, if not hundreds, of their descendants. Not all who bore the family name of Genji chose that path, of course, but many did. The armor and daisho they were gifted with at the end of their training were wellcrafted facsimiles of Ishikaru's equipment, but they were still facsimiles. Lore's set was white and purple: white, to reflect that she was descended from the sixth clavat taught by Ishikaru, and purple, the color she had chosen to reflect herself. The wrappings of her daisho reflected these color choices, as well.

She donned the armor quickly, but without haste. Patience was a virtue amongst the clavat people, and this situation did not call for hurry. She tied her wakizashi to her belt and sheathed her katana on her back. Checking herself, she closed her eyes but for a moment, at an attempt to attain some amount of inner peace, then walked to the door and opened it.

"About time you decided to come out." Balthier observed, this time in Ronkan. Lore had some difficulty following the language, but did not let on that she understood most of it; most spoke more freely around her when they assumed she could not speak their language. She learned a good many things in that manner, that she could not have otherwise.

He smiled. "Shall we?" He asked, in her native Tipan.

Lore nodded, and gestured for the gunslinger to lead the way.

As they walked, Lore recalled the gist of what she had learned, both as a mental exercise and to ensure that she would ask new and relevant questions on this day. Balthier was a human, a people taller than clavats, but that shared many similar qualities; Balthier had said that the Xianese were human, though they looked almost nothing like the Ronkans. He was a gunslinger, as he had been in the Ronkan military for some time and trained in the ways of gunnery; he was apparently a noble of some kind, and said he hailed from Fovoham, one of the regions of the Empire.

"Perhaps today," Balthier said slowly in Tipan, as they ended their descent and reached the street, "You could tell me more of your people."

Lore was surprised by this - she did not expect a Ronkan to have an interest in her own culture. "What of them?"

"This city," He gestured with his arms, "This isn't Ronkan, but it's not Colianthic, either. It's a blend. I've taught you a good deal about Ronkan society in the past weeks. Surely you could teach me something of your culture?"

Lore considered this for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. We can discuss this, if you wish. What would you like to know?"

Balthier pondered, rubbing his chin as they walked. "Why don't we start with you. Your name, for instance. What does it mean?"

Lore nodded. "My full name is Lore Genji-Ryoku. It means that I am a descendant of the sixth Genji, student of Ishikaru, and that I have the birthright to be trained in the Halls of the Genji, a birthright which I acknowledged and accepted."

"What is a Genji?" Balthier asked. "And what significance is it that you are descended from the sixth? Who is Ishikaru?"

"Patience, Ronkan." Lore said, smiling slightly. "One question at a time.

"Ishikaru was the savior of the clavat people. Ages ago, we warred against each other, much as your people did against the elves?" She looked to him, and Balthier nodded. "Konoe Ishikaru was a master swordsman, a skilled warrior whose strength and focus was without equal. He sought a blacksmith to forge him armor and a sword befitting his skill, but could find none; instead, he forged his own. With darksteel katana and armor, he rode against entire armies of clavat singly, and won.

"He was not a violent man, Ishikaru. He desired peace more than anything, but knew that - at this time in our history - the only path to peace was through war. And so he fought each army in turn, defeating each in turn. When it was done, he gathered the leaders of the clavat people, and brought them together under his tutelage. These became the Genji, the Perfect Warriors, trained in the ways of iaijitsu and bushido, forbidden by Ishikaru to teach their more secret techniques to those not of the Genji lines. Ishikaru himself then disappeared into the mists, but since those times, the training halls of the Genji have stood. Where once there were but seven Genji, there are now many, each descended from one of the first."

Balthier nodded. "So you are descended from the sixth?"

Lore nodded. "Yes. The sixth Genji was Lorist Yoshiko, a woman. She had led a dishonorable life and people, but as their leader, Ishikaru knew that to reform them, he must reform her. And so he taught her the ways of bushido and iaijitsu, and Yoshiko saw the light of honor. She cast away her taint, and arose as a Genji; she led her people to the same reformation. Her colors are orange and white: orange to reflect the flames of rebirth, and white to reflect the honor she has found in the ways of the Genji."

Balthier rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I see."

"This rebirth affected all clavats across Distarin. It was after this that the clavats became as you know them: friendly, helpful, always willing to lend a hand, to forgive and forget. We are not a vengeful people, as the teachings of Ishikaru - passed on through the Genji - have shown us the Way. It was after we defeated our own demons that we reached out to the mogri - moogles, as you call them - and to the Xianese, and joined our three peoples into one nation. Since then, our peoples have known peace."

"When you say 'the Way,'" Balthier mused, "You seem to put some emphasis on that. What is the way?"

"The Way is a philosophy, an approach to life." Lore replied. "It is similar in some ways, I think, to your religion, the Glabados?"

Balthier nodded. "In our religion, we have God, and the Saint Iocus, who came to us at the beginnings of the Ronkan Empire as a sign of His will that we were His chosen people, destined to rule over Sarteri."

Lore frowned at this. "Which is something that I do not understand, this god. Why he would desire the destruction of an entire race and way of life seems strange to me."

"I think you've forgotten our history." Balthier said with a smile. "The elves were an abomination. They treated not just humans, but all of the shorter-lived races with such contempt. When we made mistakes, they took away whatever freedom we had used to make them. They were of the mind that since we lived such short lives, we couldn't possibly learn from our mistakes."

Lore pondered, then nodded slowly. "I can see how they would come to that conclusion. It took the people of Colianth many years to recover from the devastation that led Ishikaru to rise up against his people. But he did not claim a divine mandate in doing so."

Balthier shrugged. "Perhaps he was a divine agent, and you simply choose to not acknowledge it. God works in mysterious ways, as they say."

Lore shook her head. "I am sorry, Balthier, but I do not believe this, and have no interest in discussing it, as you know. You are Glabadosian, and I am Taoist, a follower of the Way; let us leave it at that."

Balthier nodded, and bowed his head slightly. "My apologies for upsetting you, Lore."

Lore returned the bow. "Your apology is accepted, as always, Balthier." She sighed. "The Way is not easily understood, and so your confusion is expected. I should have recalled what you have said of the Glabados. We have no priests, as you do; we have no rituals, as you do. The Way is something that affects your entire life. It is not something that can be easily grasped in a morning walk."

Balthier nodded. "Fair enough."

They walked further in silence, taking in the sights and sounds of Warjilis. Lore pondered the world of the Ronkan Empire, a world filled with people like Balthier who believed in a deity, that their near-annihilation of another race was somehow justified because of their religion. She shook her head; how she could live in the same world as these people was beyond her. Prejudice of that sort was something totally alien to her mindset: the mogri and the Xianese had been far different from the clavats, and yet the three races had managed to find some common ground, and build up off of that. Surely the humans could have done the same, with the elves? She could not fathom them, a race that lived for hundreds of years. The knowledge and wisdom they must have held!

But such was the past; the elves, she understood, had fled the continent for lands unknown. She must look to the present, to understand these people and find a way that some reconciliation could be reached. While her people were often left to their own devices in the Empire, she had heard that some clavats had been branded as "heretics" elsewhere, deeper into the Empire's lands, and burned at the stake for their beliefs. It was difficult to believe that such barbarity could exist among the same people who had invented such mechanical wonders! Such rumors led to concern amongst her people: if they were willing to slay single clavats with impunity, surely they would - some day - come across the Lerner Ocean with their terrible machines, and attempt to subjugate Colianth, to spread their religion to all corners of the known world. If they could not tolerate the elves, perhaps they would come to be intolerable of the clavats, as well...

Lore sighed. That would not happen today, nor tomorrow. And perhaps with the teachings of Ishikaru, she could teach people like Balthier of her people, and prevent such a catastrophe from coming to pass.

Iron Twilight: Contemplating the Thalassian

I will shortly be running a new campaign. I've deemed this new campaign "Iron Twilight: The Fall of the Ronkan Empire," and will detail that particular part of my setting's history.

However, the group I will be running for has no experience with Trinity. In an attempt to introduce them to the setting, I'll be writing a variety of preview pieces that will attempt to convey various aspects of Ronkan life, at the height of their Empire.

This is the first such piece.

-----

[ November 13, 108 RIY ]
[ Arcadia Noble City, Gallione ]

The technologists and "greasemonkies," as they called themselves, had been hard at work on the Thalassian, a 'walker of epic proportions, for the past two years. Standing at fifty feet tall, as wide as a building, limbs as thick as tree-trunks, the Thalassian would be the first 'walker of its size. Unlike other 'walkers, however, the Thalassian had no visible armaments: no guns, no harpoons, no swords. Instead, carabini - arcanically-treated orichalcum - had been inlaid into the plating of the 'walker, which would allow it to invoke magical energies, just as wizards and sorcerers did. The 'walker had no need for conventional weaponry when it could blast the foes of the Empire with fire and lightning; and while the Woodland League had been vanquished over a century ago, the Empire most certainly still had foes, be it monstrosities from the wastes of the Lost or the guerrila movement of the remaining druids hidden within the forests.

Dusk fell, and the various workers - now primarily consisting of mechanics, to put the finishing touches on the enormous construct's movement apparatus, and artificers, who worked tirelessly to imbue their power into the carabini - went to their barracks, save for one: Cidolfus Orlandu, the director of the project. The Thalassian was his vision, his dream; he had presented the plans to the Emperor in Lesalia, and had been granted the funding to proceed; the two years since then, however, had not been so easy, but he and his crew had prevailed. He now walked upon the top of the scaffolding near the Thalassian, and as dusk turned into night over the massive workyard, he contemplated his work, light from the world's twin moons casting an eerie pale upon the metal skin of the machine.

The work had been long and tedious. The dwarves of Zharrae Modan had begun to distance themselves from the rest of the world, and it required much diplomacy on the part of Cidolfus to convince them to part with the vast amounts of orichalcum required. The construction crews were eager enough, but much delicacy was required in the core of the 'walker, in which rested a complex orrery made of charged carabini. Turning the orichalcum into carabini had itself taken months; the artificers had worked day and night for six weeks, each day producing only a small amount of carabini. Working the metal also had its dangers: carabini was absurdly reactive when exposed to machinery, requiring the carabini to be worked by hand. Only three dwarves on Cidolfus' construction crew were able to do the work, and it took them another four weeks to mold the metal into the orrery and the inlays required.

But now, here he was: standing before the almost-complete Thalassian. It was an achievement indicative of the progress of the Ronkan Empire: the ways of the old and the new, of magic and technology, combined into a single entity. Wherever the elves were now, surely they knew that this was to be the result of progress; perhaps it was why they fled.

Tomorrow, the artificers would come in and begin imbuing the carabini with their infusions that would enable the 'walker to invoke the power of magic. They would hold off on placing the final, most powerful infusion, which would wait until the celebration on the 21st, when the Thalassian would be unveiled to the peoples of the Empire. The Emperor and the various Lords of the many City-States would be there: Marquis Elmdor of Limberry; Duke Larg of Gallione; Cardinal Delacroix of Lionel; Duke Goltanna of Zeltennia; Grand Duke Barrington of Fovoham; and Marquise Lorne of Wayverith. No word had come from Zharrae Modan or the Blue Hills, but it would be likely that they would send some dignitary or other to oversee the proceedings.

Cidolfus sighed. He was a descendant of Roywyn Forder, the human inventor who had produced the first schematics for 'walkers. It was her ingenuity that had allowed the Ronkan Empire to overcome the Woodland League, and to show the elves that the human people were not to be subjugated. That was over a hundred years ago; the elves and most of the druids had long since fled the continent, to lands unknown. Since then, the peoples of Distarin had come from across the Lerner Ocean, bringing with them their strange philosophies and foreign customs. Now, here he stood, the great-grandson of Forder, following in her stead, improving upon her designs - and implementing magic into the construction, no less! Magic that had been lost for hundreds of years, its use forbade by the elves.

Certainly there were those humans who continued its use, either with the required druidic sponsor, or somewhere in the vast expanse of the Lost. But only in the past fifty years had the human race begun to use magic extensively once again. Cidolfus shook his head in amazement - the rapidity with which humanity adapted astounded him. It was surely why humanity was Saint Iocus' favored people; the elves had done nothing but stagnate, and the various other peoples of Sarteri were trapped in their ancient ways and customs. The gnomes and moogles seemed adaptable, true enough, but their people seemed to lack the vitality of the human spirit: only humans, it seemed, were able to answer any profession that called upon them; only humans had risen up against oppression and fought against inequity. This was a human land, and these were human times.

But he was worried, as well. The gnomes - the blue gnomes, specifically - had warned in the early months of the project that some things were not meant to be trifled with, that magic and technology were separate for a reason. There was a reason that the two had never been combined before, in the history of the known world, or so they said: when pressed, the gnomes were unable to give these reasons, if there even were any. Nonetheless, as he watched the red and silver sparks that fell every few moments, for seemingly no reason, from the inlays on the limbs of the Thalassian, Cidolfus had to wonder...

"What have we wrought?"

Thranos and Grakyl, Part III

The Intrepid was a well-crafted ship, despite having been a salvage job. Thranos had done the best he could with the parts available, and it was in the ship's reconstruction that he had met Grakyl. Together, the two cobbled the ship together, and set out into the world. Their first job was a rather menial one, but after that, they were unfortunate enough to be drafted - along with their ship - into the Analytical War, fighting on the side of the analytics. Grakyl managed to engineer an escape, however, and the two successfully fled, along with sufficient supplies to make the Intrepid a fully-functional ship.

It was during their time in the war that Thranos had devised his flight mechanism, which he did not share even with the gremlin. He had installed it himself, when they had time, and the gremlin often referred to it as the "blood box," as Thranos had covered the entire mechanism in a thin sheet of an orichalcum alloy, a red-gold metal. It was the one part of the ship that the gremlin had been expressly forbidden to touch; while Thranos trusted the gremlin with his life, the secrets of its maneuverability were something he did not trust him with.

"Um, Thran?" The gremlin's voice echoed out of the box on Thranos' left. "Th' LeyBrossian's shakin'..."

"I thought ye said she was shiftin' 'fore we took off?" Thranos replied gruffly.

"Yeah, but..." The gremlin seemed uncertain.

Thranos decided to ask the difficult question. "Will she hold tagether?"

The machine was silent for a moment, though Thranos thought he heard a low clicking sound ("Is tha' th' gremlin, or th' ship?" He mused to himself). "Yeah, she'll hold."

"Good." Thranos replied. "I'll set 'er on an easy course. No jerkin' aroun', so she should hold tagether." He mused for a moment, stroking his beard. "What about th' steerin'?"

"Yer blood box?" Grakyl asked, and Thranos thought the gremlin sounded somewhat amused. "Ya don't let me near it, so I dunno."

Thranos rolled his eyes. "Git nex' tae it an' lemme listen, ya li'l bastard."

The machine grew silent for a few moments, then Thranos heard an audible humming, with an occassional click. ("Click... click... click..." Thranos counted the clicks to himself.) "Shif' th' LeyBrossian up a gear." He said, after a few moments.

"She won't go any higher!" The gremlin exclaimed. "I said she was shiftin', an' I meant it!"

Thranos grimaced. ("If th' LeyBrossian can't go up a gear... maybe th' Folkorian 'ssembly?" Thranos was stymied.) "Set th' angular torque on th' Folkorian down ta three an' three quarters on th' main prop, wi' two an' a half on th' secondary."

"Ya want me to shift th' Folkorian down in flight?" Grakyl asked, his voice expressing surprise.

"Ya can shift 'er down by twistin' th' angle bracket on th' steerin' assembly. Twis' ta th' left."

"...I guess I dunno what's wrong." Came a confused and desperate reply. "If ya could tell me, I could get workin' on a solution..."

"Main gear in th' blood box is goin' too fast, by 'bout two rotes a minit." Thranos replied. "Angular torque on th' props is too high."

"But if we lower the torque, th' LeyBrossian's gonna shift up!" The gremlin exclaimed.

"How th' hell did ya rig th' damn thing?" Thranos bellowed. "Ya li'l bastard, did ya rig th' LeyBrossian ta th' angle brackets, or ta th' Folkorian?"

"Both!"

Thranos paused, amazed. ("How th' hell did 'e manage that?" He thought to himself.) "I'd ask ya why ya did tha', but we'll leave 'er be. Steerin' seems ta be fine, so long as we don't havta do anythin' too risky. But when we get th' chance, ye're fixin' this."

A sigh came from the other side of the box. "Fine, fine, whatever ya say, Thran..."

Thranos narrowed his eyes. He was not terribly concerned with how the gremlin performed maintenance on the ship, but if his rigged repairs were extending across the entire ship, that could cause problems if they were in a situation in which they needed to maximize the ship's performance. While he understood that the gremlin did what he could, they needed some hard coin to buy more supplies.

-----

Three hours later, the port city of Cara'nor was visible in the horizon. One of the few seaports of Kahasal, it had a bustling economy, a major center of trade and commerce for the psionic peoples that inhabited the continent of Lotharien. Crytalline buildings bit into the sky near the center of town, amongst which a shoddily-built airdock rested.

The dwarf began to speak the human's name, but Tetra was already on-deck. "I know, Thranos Bluebeard. We will be arriving shortly."

Thranos nodded grimly. "We'll be droppin' ya off 'ere in Cara'nor. We'd take ya ta where ya need ta go, but ye haven't said, an' we've got other plans ta deal wi'."

Tetra nodded. "I'm aware, and I understand. Cara'nor will be sufficient."

"Well, ye best be gittin' down, then. Landin's a bit rough." The dwarf grimaced.

Tetra nodded once more, and headed belowdecks.

"Grakyl!" Thranos yelled into the box. "Git 'er ready fer th' landin'!"

"Um... alright. You think she can take it?" Grakyl's voice was uncertain.

Thranos mused for a bit. The landing pad on the airdock was visible now; the ship was fortunately capable of vertical landing, so the short runway wasn't an issue. ("But if our steerin' goes, we won't be able tae make a good landin'..." The dwarf thought.)

The dwarf sighed. "If th' LeyBrossian starts strippin', jus' let 'er go."

"What!" The gremlin exclaimed. "Ya want me ta le-"

"Jus' do it!" The dwarf roared back. "Ya're not tae blame fer it, since I told ya tae do it. But we gotta make this landin' nice an' neat, an' nice an' neat this dwarf ain't, so we may havta shif' th' steerin' column..." ("Th' steerin' column! A course!") "Th' sixteen-gauge is what's causin' th' problems!"

"Mebbe?" The gremlin's response came slowly.

"Nae, lad, it's got tae be. We kin do this, but ye got ta git ready. Ye're goin' ta havta be quick on yer feet." He paused. "We clear fer landin'?"

The box suddenly erupted in static. "Intrepid, we hear and see you loud and clear. Landing pad two is open. Sending landing parameters now..." The device erupted into a sequence of chirps. ("Damn engine-men, always thinkin' everybody's runnin' wi' their machines...")

"We ain't got a box, so quit yer yappin'!" Thranos bellowed.

The chirping continued, unabated.

"Grakyl!" The dwarf bellowed into the box. "Change th' channel!"

There was a response of some sort, though the dwarf couldn't make it out, and the chirping stopped.

"Arrival time?" The gremlin's voice asked, sounding slightly more distant.

Thranos took a quick glance at the landing pad ahead. They were just about over the shore, now; the sun shone brightly off of the water, and reflected brilliantly off of the crystalline towers in the distance. "I'd say 'bout five minutes, give er take. Takin' 'er slow."

"Righ'." The gremlin replied. "So... how do ya wan' me ta do this?"

The dwarf thought for a long moment, as the ground beneath them continued to pass them by. "We're not usin' th' eighteen-gauge in the LeyBrossian, aye?"

"Yep." The gremlin responded. "We can't go inta fourth gear, so it's not bein' used."

"I want ya ta rip it ou', an' replace th' steerin' column wi' it." Thranos said slowly, to ensure he was understood.

"You want me to what?" The gremlin answered, his voice incredulous.

"Ya heard me." Thranos said. "Replace th' steerin' column."

"Th' LeyBrossian's shakin' already, an' ya want me ta replace th' steerin' column in flight?" Grakyl asked, his pitch raising higher and higher.

The dwarf drew in a deep breath. "If I don' touch th' wheel, she should be good tae go."

"No, no!" The gremlin yelled. "If I take out th' steerin' column, the wheel's gonna fall! Ya gotta hold it in place, perfect-like!"

Thranos smiled. "But ya kin do it, if we were tae do th' repair like that?" His heart began pumping faster.

"Takin' th' eighteen-gauge outta th' LeyBrossian... I dunno, mebbe?" Grakyl replied cautiously. "It might be an angle bracket, an' then we're out a LeyBrossian - cause it's gonna shake itself apart, if we do this - an' then th' blood box'll go, 'cause it's geared ta th' LeyBrossian, an' we ain't got a steerin' column that'll fit... not ta mention th' Folkorian's gonna go..."

"Kin. Ya. Do it." Thranos asked, giving firm voice to each syllable.

There was a high-pitched sigh on the other side of the speaker. "...aye, we kin do it."

Thranos smiled. "Then do it. On th' count a three, I'm gonna grip th' wheel an' hold 'er perfec'ly steady, an' yer gonna take th' eighteen-gauge outta th' LeyBrossian, an' replace th' steerin' column wi' it."

"She's gonna be rough." Grakyl replied, somewhat more calm than before.

"Oh, aye, I ken." Thranos answered, still smiling widely. "This is th' sorta thing I live for. Ready?"

"Aye, ready."

"One."

Pause.

"Two."

Pause.

"Three."