Beyond Chaos – A DiceRPG

The boy awoke.

He stared at the ceiling.

As he sat up, he glanced around, finding he was within a familiar room, bare.

He stood.

He rushed up towards the bane of adventurers, and upon staring at it he began to cry.

“Xarot, you just need to push and it will open,” the one who looked like his grandmother said, though her tattoos were different. The boy immediately stopped crying, sucking his thumb as she carried him through into the courtyard of the shared estate.

“Xawoh!” called a tiny girl, who rushed up towards her nana, and held out her arms.

Fonasen paused a moment, but as the girl called for her brother once more, she surrendered him.

“Xawoh!” Virot called, planting a firm kiss on her brother’s forehead. “You sleep good?”

“Kaka…” Xarot replied, closing his eyes as Virot nuzzled his nose, and brushed his hair.

“Xawoh! Good boy, Xawoh!” Virot hugged her brother tightly, within these arms of hers, in which the boy was not allowed to cry. “Come! Bath time!”

“Viroh is kaza’s daughter,” Mokan said, the boy glancing up towards his father, who slowly began to smile, causing Mokan to smirk.

A shadow loomed over the trio, as Mirot stared down at her little grandniece and grandnephews.

“Nana!” Virot half shouted. “Bath time!”

“I see,” Mirot replied, bowing her head, letting the girl lead the way to the baths. Her eyes fell to Damrot, who took Xarot’s free hand, the boy glancing his way for a moment, squealing with delight. ‘It seems you are only troublesome when your sister is about. Thankfully, you are still so confident, my little Virot.’

It was at that time, her sister, too, was confident.

“You! How incorrigible! You! You think I will not? You think I will not?” Jirot held out not just a finger, but her entire hand, and thus Bael’s neck fell upon the chopping block, the chopping block known as Jirot’s wrath.

“Many apologies.”

“You have gotten so cocky, huh, uncle Bael?”

“I apologise.”

“You really think I will not ask my babo to deal with you?”

“I am sorry.”

Jirot glared at the half dragon, and she turned towards her aunt, but paused, the fury suddenly filling her, the girl holding up a finger, which trembled with the need to kill, for she was her greatfather’s greatfather. “You! Stand and face the wall!”

“Yes.” Bael stepped up to face the wall, feeling the intense pressure upon his shoulders, doing his absolute best not to burst into laughter.

Lucy stared at his back, feeling slightly bad for him, but what did he expect? He really shouldn’t have committed an unforgivable sin.

Thankfully, the girl was within her niece’s arms, the chonky Amalrot sucking on her thumb as she was held by the tiny green girl.

“You think our Rot family is so cheap?” Jirot asked, planting a kiss on the girl’s forehead. “I will go and buy you a thousand blocks of cheese right now!”

Upon hearing the word, Amalrot sat up, blinking expectantly.

“Babo! We must go!”

“I see,” Jarot said, hoisting himself onto his two feet. “We must go if we must go.”

“Of coas!”

“Of course,” Jarot said.

“Of coas,” whispered many of the children.

“Of coh,” Amalrot stated firmly, for she was her niece’s aunt.

It was another place in which their mother was causing little trouble, while their father…

The auction brimmed with the wealthy, those adorned in fine silks, with servants and warriors at bay, and workers who carried their blades within their arms, for one could not wear their weaponry, but the workers could carry them, for this was the House on the Hill.

The Faro, and many other nobles, settled themselves within the various petals, though none seemed displeased with settling themselves among the various merchants and other famous individuals of Arisa. Various Nizas, Saibs, even a few Peysh, settled themselves among the merchants, the fine crafters of Arisa, the Priests, and various great warriors, some settled together, while very few sat alone, the most eccentric among them, all seemingly either great warriors or a famous crafter.

“So many Iyrmen,” a finely dressed merchant called, not quite the kind who could sit beside the likes of Azim or Mohammed, but still not someone who could be ignored, for while they dealt with paper, wine, and some dealt in a particular district, it was her family whom dealt in furs.

“It is difficult enough to face those with such wealth as yourself, but to face against Iyrmen too…” a particular Saib said, the middle aged man, adorned in cream, but his turban was bejewelled in a certain manner, and the faris at his side was considered a Master, having not been active for twenty or so years, but he did not lack the sharp steel of someone expected of him.

“It seems we will have to earn the ability to spend our coin,” another merchant joked, sipping his kafa, cutting into the dessert with a spoon. His eyes were lined in black, his forehead dabbed with a red dot, lined with gold, and his moustache was thick, reaching up to his ears, his beard short, but thick. One should have expected, for the steel his family dealt with was not the steel to cut skin, but to cut hair, and the lotions of his family made even the al-Yasin family envious.

Lanarot sat, silent as death. Her hands remained firmly upon her knees, her eyes narrowed, the keenness that was very Iyrmanly. As she stared ahead, ignoring the words she did not understand, she readied her heart.

Today.

For the sake of her sisters and brothers.

For the sake of her nieces and nephews.

For the sake of the name of Rot and the Iyr.

Today, of all days, this Lanarot must spend so much silver!

A small pair of groups settled themselves near the cabin, each carrying a different instrument, a pair who instead carried beauty, and as they began to play a gentle tune, the women letting out soft vocals of a siren song, the workers of the House on the Hill stepped out of the cabin. They carried a long case, well made, the wood formed of Arisian Red, Jurot thought, engraved with the Aswadic script which denoted strength, Adam noted, the worker’s hands rougher than one might have expected, Kitool saw.

The workers opened the case, revealing a blade forged seemingly almost purely of silver.

‘Oh?’ Adam thought. ‘They’re starting off with-,‘

“It is my pleasure to be conducting the auction today, and out of respect for our guests, I, Dina, shall conduct it in the Aldish tongue,” Dina said. She was, as any would expect, a beautiful woman, skin as dark as ebony, hair midnight, her eyes touched with silver, and perhaps many generations ago, one of her ancestors held fae blood. Cream covered her figure, a long cloak, seemingly formed of blood, draped over her shoulders. Her lips painted a deep maroon, her eyes dashed with scarlet, and she motioned her soft hand, her fingers moving as though instructing an orchestra, with finely pedicured nails sanguine, towards an older man.

His turban covered his head, but the hair which slipped over his ears like salt, his beard like salt, his sweat like salt, and though he was adorned in cream, his clothing was not quite as fine as the others within the auction, yet none held disregard for him, for he was Master Ali, not a Master with the blade, but a Master with a hammer.

“Our very own Master Ali has forged this fine blade of quicksilver, a Masterwork,” Dina said, allowing the man to accept the praise of the various nobles, merchants, and even the other crafter. A Masterwork, the kind of blade that could be considered at least Basic, though perhaps not magical. “We shall begin the bid at six thousand silver.”

“Darling?” Adam asked, glancing aside to his wife, who was currently nursing a cup of kafa between her hands. She peeked towards her husband, but shook her head, for what did she need of such a blade? “Then, I’ll gift it to the good ahm. Twenty thousand silver!”

Dina blinked as the half elf raised his hand and cut through the air with a sharp bid at twenty thousand, though the others were playing, raising the bid a few hundred at a time. To force the bid up to twenty thousand from ten thousand, the half elf disregarded the fun of the greatest forces in Arisa.

‘Did he not read the guide?’

The half elf’s lips formed a gentle smirk, his eyes narrowing slightly, feeling the various gazes of the nobles all around him. ‘Do you think you’re the only one who can look down at others?’

“It seems the Mo wishes for the blade,” Dina called, flashing a warm smile to force away the awkwardness within the air.

“As a smith, I can only show my respect to ahm Ali, whose blade is so beautiful, especially under Lord Noor’s sun, so I cannot help myself.”

Tamil turned towards the half elf, almost side eyeing him, while the half elf smiled innocently. ‘…’

At two thousand gold, almost double the price it would normally go for, the sword was taken away, but as swiftly as it disappeared, another case was brought out, this time revealing two boxes within. Dine unlatched the boxes slowly, though most had understood what must have been within the boxes, a pair of quillon daggers, one formed of firesteel, the other of icesteel, the crossguards curling upwards, the blades each two finger lengths long, tapering towards the edge.

“Master Ali has spoiled us, for these daggers are forged of such beautiful firesteel and icesteel, and are also assessed to be Masterworks.”

The bidding began at three thousand silver, for though they would easily clear seven thousand, she needed to begin at the absolute minimum price to make sure they showed an appropriate respect to the smith, but not so low the nobles would be unable to have their fun. The number reached five thousand silver swiftly.

“Ten thousands of silvers!” A confident shout pierced through the air, causing all to fall silent. It was that kind of silence, which could only be settled by the matters of blood and steel.

PATREON FOR 30+ CHAPTERS!

So it begins.