Beyond Chaos – A DiceRPG

“How can you do this?” Jirot asked, holding up a finger towards her babo. “You think because you are so handsome, you can bully my dahddy like this?”

“I am not bullying your father, I merely wish to spar with him,” Baztam replied, smiling politely towards the girl.

“You can speak so well?” Jirot threatened the old man, wagging her finger towards the old man, narrowing her eyes sharply, for she was her father’s aegis.

“It is the festival, there is a need for entertainment, and who better than I, and your father?”

“Babo Baztam, the Black Stohm, you think such a great name lets you bully my dahddy like this?”

“…” Baztam smiled wider, furrowing his brows gently. ‘To think she would use that name with me, when all know me as the Black Shark?’

“Brother, are you going to fight?” Lanarot asked, her eyes sparkling up towards the half elf, who winced from the weight of the expectations, the brightness of his sister’s adorable smile, and the foolishness within his heart which wished to refuse.

Jirot glanced aside towards her aunt, her finger deflating slightly, the girl glancing aside towards her father, who held her gaze for a moment. ‘Daddy…’

“If I fight then… I’ll be so injured, because babo is so strong, that I’ll have to spend the entire time resting in bed instead of spoiling you all.” Adam scratched his cheek meekly, the half elf also deflating.

Jirot gasped, snapping her head towards Baztam, the look of betrayal wounding Baztam greater than even Adam’s magical steel, the girl’s eyes glistening lightly as she stared up at the old man. “Babo…”

“Since your father has promised to spoil you, I will step back,” Baztam said, for though he could go against the likes of the vicious Mad Dog, how could he go against the likes of his even more ferocious greatdaughter that even the old Mad Dog could not defeat?

Adam lifted his daughter up, kissing her cheek, running his fingers through her curly hair to calm her heart. “Thank you, my lovely.”

“Of coas, dahddy,” the girl replied, holding her father’s neck, kissing his cheek in return. As Adam picked up little Jarot, Jirot turned to Baztam, who smiled. “Babo! We will find you someone to play with!”

“Ah? That would be lovely, my dear.”

“Yes!” Jirot turned to look towards her greatfather, opening her mouth, but though her greatfather was the strongest, he would be hurt too, so he wouldn’t walk and carry her and her brother. The girl then looked towards her greatmother, who raised her brow, and how could she ask her greatmother to fight, since she needed to carry her and her brother too. She turned to her other greatmother, but how could she fight? She turned her head away towards Rajin.

Mulrot winced slightly, the pain of her greatdaughter’s eyes passing over so quickly, but what could she expect?

“Babo, ock, you cannot fight,” Jirot called out, first holding out a hand to Rajin, then palming her face. “If you go, babo, who will make such delicious drinks?”

Rajin’s eyes fell to Baztam for a moment, for it would have been quite the fight, though since Jirot did not wish for him to fight, he would not fight.

Little Jarot’s eyes beamed towards his greatfather, who plucked the boy from his father’s arms, followed quickly by her annoyed elder sister, who wrapped her arms around the old man’s neck.

“I know!” Jirot gasped, struck by a bout of genius.

“Why do you not ask your greatfather?” the Iyrman asked, adorned in his full plate, a long blade at his side, a shield upon his back.

“Babo might get hurt and then he will not play with us during the festival,” Jirot said, holding her greatfather’s head, rubbing her cheek against his, causing the old Mad Dog to let out a satisfied sigh, and a smirk towards the rest, who coveted his adorable greatchildren.

Dogek’s heart panged, though what could he do? Since he had refused them for so long, the children would not care for him as they cared for their greatfather, who had spoiled them since before the girl could speak.

Dogek and Baztam exchanged a glance, the two Iyrmen glaring deep into one another’s eyes, for they were among the strongest of the Iyrmen, Paragons, both a rival to Chief Iromin in their own way.

“Ock! Xarot, you are yawning so much!” Jirot said, reaching out a hand for her younger brother, who smiled, retreating further into his mother’s bosom. “It is time to sleep.”

“Amalrot, you are tired too?” Lanarot asked, glancing up towards the chonky girl, who half lay within their mother’s arms. “Come! We must go!”

Sonarot did not make the same mistake, holding onto Amalrot, the group taking the children away to sleep, for their wise elder sisters had taken after a particular fool.

Dogek and Baztam stood there, in the corner of the Front Iyr, where Dogek had been patrolling, the distant drumming keeping them company.

“…”

Rowan let out a soft sigh, relaxing in another corner of the Iyr, the gentle music keeping him company, while his wife picked apart the desserts to see what the Iyr had made them from.

‘I have done nothing at all, yet I’m meant to spend an entire week doing even less?’ Rowan thought, the fellow sipping away at the grainwine of the Iyr, mixed with a shot of concentrated fruit juice. ‘What kind of cult are they running in this place?’

Jasmine remained within a particular estate, adorned within the clothing of the Iyrmen, who had welcomed her eagerly. She sipped at the wine lightly, holding up the last to offer it to Siten, who stared down at it, though did not reach for it, allowing the young woman to finish it. She let out a soft sigh, watching her warm breath dissipate into the air. Her cheeks remained flushed with the warmth of alcohol, slowly leaning to the side, pressing her head against the wall of iron that was Siten.

‘How cold,’ Bael thought, feeling the chill of duskval, even as he drank bottle of wine after bottle of wine, shooting lightning bolts out of his fingers to shatter them once he was done. An emptiness remained within him, for he had spent too much of his power, and had burned away too much of his life force to complete his tasks for that year. He yawned, stretching out his shoulders and back, about to get up, but he felt the force of nature known as exhaustion upon his body, and so melted against the top of the wall, closing his eyes, allowing slumber to overwhelm him, within this place so full of blood, steel, and death.

Ivy, adorned in simple attire, a large cloak over her shoulders, hiding her pale face and her dyed hair from the world, shuffled beside Charley, who accepted the food from the stalls of the Iyr, offering the first bite to Ivy, before finishing the rest of the food.

‘The Divine bless the Iyr, from those of the Major Divine, to those of the Minor Divine, to all the Divine I do not know,’ Charley thought, eagerly eating more and more, allowing Ivy to take two bites of the desserts.

Mork remained to one side, isolated from most of the world, though sat within the temple, before the shrine the Iyr had made for his Lady. He remained within prayer for the day, for it was quite the blessed day, though his mind wandered often.

‘I should return to see pa soon and bring a nice lass so he won’t have to worry…’ Mork considered the Iyrwomen, some of whom held unearthly beauty, some meeker, but all hungry for blood. He then thought about his brother, who should probably bring his own lass, since his father would be worried about him most.

It was difficult being the elder brother.

“It is difficult being the elder brother,” Tork grumbled to a nearby Iyrman, the pair sharing drinks. They were both greyskinned, and though the Iyrman was not a horc, he understood the pains Tork went through across the land, but also being an elder brother. “I worry for my younger brother, who thinks he understands the world with his wisdom, but has yet to understand his own heart.”

‘Where did his accent disappear to?’ the Iyrman thought, though he kept Tork company for the entire evening.

Jane glanced aside to Brittany, who had gone ahead to Aswadasad, while Kitool had asked her to remain behind, apparently all but forgotten by the half elf. The purple sky welcomed her awkward heart, the young woman closing her eyes, allowing the alcohol to take her to slumberland.

The festival of the Iyr continued, with Amira and Dunes sharing desserts, Adam sometimes slipping away with Vonda, Rick listening to the clack of the needles from his wife, who was finishing the scarf for one of their children. The worries within her heart seemed to have disappeared, accepting the business for what it was.

“Do you think the Executive would accept a scarf from me?” Harriet asked.

“I’m sure he would,” Rick replied.