Karazak, of late, was not what she used to be.
There was a time when saying that was a good thing; even though it tasted bittersweet, a long time ago what Karazak used to be was a world enslaved to itself.
However, there was a more recent time when the world used to be united, chains broken, freedom flowing like the petals of flowers, and while not all was peaceful and perfect it was better than it was today.
Karazakans were alive once, they would walk the streets day and night, and live. The horns of Harmonhal would sing to the sun in the morning. Come the evening, halls and restaurants would be filled, graves too. But not with a slave.
Mazeryl Xiron stared out the window on the highest office in the government headquarters that was Harmonhal. Beyond and beneath her rolled the waves of a sunlit sea, a bridge of colossal length jutting inward toward the capital city of Oregina. Wind Bridge, why is your wind so quiet?
The Governor of Karazak, most outsiders would call her, but upon the rock the Karazakans called their world leader their Lady Protector.
They slapped other titles behind it too.
Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces. Lady of Harmonhal. Head of House Xiron. Guardian of the Free.
Right now Maze just felt like Maze, felt like a lost little girl, one struggling to sing.
At her level she could see so much through the glass, peer through what the window might distort, burn through all those skyscrapers brushed in gold.
Her gaze swept over the jagged mountains rivaling them, studied her people moving to and fro on foot or in air.
Karazak…have you forgotten yourself? Have all of us?
Maze had to answer that question one way or the other. Trouble had been brewing at home and soon it might boil if the Lady Protector focused her attention toward the stars instead of her planet. Yet, she could not do so alone and she had learned that lesson, learned it hard.
Who else could relate to the pains of a person in her position? There were survivors of other homes who faced similar struggles in their history, and one of them was Ryssa Kalayli, a fellow member of the ISC and, perhaps more importantly, the Governor of Ryloth.
Ryssa would know a little of Karazak's recent troubles, the political quarreling and the more extreme notions of nationalism, that one governor needed assistance from another, but Ryssa may not yet know exactly how to. That's fine. We'll do it together.
She would be arriving any moment. Ready to receive her, Maze turned from the window toward her desk, pulling out a leather chair that was as black as the office painted wall to wall, floor to ceiling.
Maze sat in contrast, donning a black-sleeved shirt with a red sleeveless coat that fell past her knees.
One hand folded neatly on the desk, the other twirled a silver pen between fingers, eyes dead ahead, lips debating whether to smile or frown.
@Sicadorito
There was a time when saying that was a good thing; even though it tasted bittersweet, a long time ago what Karazak used to be was a world enslaved to itself.
However, there was a more recent time when the world used to be united, chains broken, freedom flowing like the petals of flowers, and while not all was peaceful and perfect it was better than it was today.
Karazakans were alive once, they would walk the streets day and night, and live. The horns of Harmonhal would sing to the sun in the morning. Come the evening, halls and restaurants would be filled, graves too. But not with a slave.
Mazeryl Xiron stared out the window on the highest office in the government headquarters that was Harmonhal. Beyond and beneath her rolled the waves of a sunlit sea, a bridge of colossal length jutting inward toward the capital city of Oregina. Wind Bridge, why is your wind so quiet?
The Governor of Karazak, most outsiders would call her, but upon the rock the Karazakans called their world leader their Lady Protector.
They slapped other titles behind it too.
Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces. Lady of Harmonhal. Head of House Xiron. Guardian of the Free.
Right now Maze just felt like Maze, felt like a lost little girl, one struggling to sing.
At her level she could see so much through the glass, peer through what the window might distort, burn through all those skyscrapers brushed in gold.
Her gaze swept over the jagged mountains rivaling them, studied her people moving to and fro on foot or in air.
Karazak…have you forgotten yourself? Have all of us?
Maze had to answer that question one way or the other. Trouble had been brewing at home and soon it might boil if the Lady Protector focused her attention toward the stars instead of her planet. Yet, she could not do so alone and she had learned that lesson, learned it hard.
Who else could relate to the pains of a person in her position? There were survivors of other homes who faced similar struggles in their history, and one of them was Ryssa Kalayli, a fellow member of the ISC and, perhaps more importantly, the Governor of Ryloth.
Ryssa would know a little of Karazak's recent troubles, the political quarreling and the more extreme notions of nationalism, that one governor needed assistance from another, but Ryssa may not yet know exactly how to. That's fine. We'll do it together.
She would be arriving any moment. Ready to receive her, Maze turned from the window toward her desk, pulling out a leather chair that was as black as the office painted wall to wall, floor to ceiling.
Maze sat in contrast, donning a black-sleeved shirt with a red sleeveless coat that fell past her knees.
One hand folded neatly on the desk, the other twirled a silver pen between fingers, eyes dead ahead, lips debating whether to smile or frown.
@Sicadorito