Chapter 1 & Intro

Forward

During my extensive travels throughout the layers of hell, the celestial heavens, and the various mortal planes I have seen few civilizations more fascinating than the Empire of Rienbect, the militaristic empire dominated on battlefields across the planet of Kaylist for several centuries. Moreover, Rienbect provided its subjects with social programs unparalleled by any other civilization. Yet the empire collapsed all the same. Despite the efforts of my fellow historians, to date no one truly understands why the great empire fell into civil war and eventually into ruin.

Welcome to History 274: The Fall of Rienbect. In this course I will unveil the catalyst that propelled the Rien Empire into civil war and imperial extinction. We shall evaluate missives preserved from the era, such as clippings from various periodicals, journal entries, and Imperial documents from the vast bureaucracy that made up the Empire. In addition to printed missives from the era, this textbook contains transcripts from interviews with people who were alive during the fall of the Empire. During the course of my research I found it necessary to interview summoned demons. These demon interviews offer my students extensive knowledge on topics that would otherwise be impossible to ascertain. Rather than simply state my theory or present you with a narrative, I have chosen this singular format so that you may draw your own conclusions from the events that transpired. History oft proves to be a political science rather than a factual analysis of the past. It is my hope, however unpopular, that actual evidence will offer that ever-elusive entity—the truth.
The syllabus for the course is listed in the Appendix of the text. It is expected that you read the syllabus in its entirety and be prepared for class. During the course of this text you will see the Appendix referenced. It is not necessary that you stop immediately and flip to the back. As students of the Arcane Academy I expect your knowledge to be vast, yet during the course of the last century and a half many things have changed. It may be that you will want to read about what demon summoning was like a century ago. Moreover, you may find that it has been a while since you last studied the history of Oceansend. The Appendix exists as a tool to help you progress through the text. Take from it what you will and leave the rest. I look forward to challenging your capacity to learn. This is not an easy class, but it is most certainly singular.

Keegan Volx

Archmage, Dean of Students, Protector of the Kilborn Library, Former Uberous of Rienbect, Prince Consort of Celestia Roul, Master Plane Walker


Chapter 1

As you may well have read in the forward of this textbook, I am an unapologetic demon summoner. Throughout the course of this text I will mention my preference to demon summoning as a reliable source of divination. I’ll not bombard you right off the bat with a technical analysis concerning demons. You may well know they are the ultimate voyeurs. I will at the very least take a moment to explain that demons can literally smell emotions and thoughts. Moreover, they are obsessed with mortals and live vicariously through their emotional scents. Anthropologists who discover a demon who has spent a significant amount of time on a subject need only make a deal with the devil, so to speak, to gain a first-hand look into the past.

Ravoolii the Soul Syphon may indeed be one of the foulest demons I have ever summoned. There can be no doubt that I have seen demons of a more diabolical nature as well as demons with the capacity for more brutality. Yet the Soul Syphon is by far the foulest. I’ll spare you the details of his more heinous crimes, but know that they oft include little girls, the crippled, and those lacking self-esteem. Ravoolii has sold out family members for money and would not hesitate to crush the soul of innocence if his actions reaped even the smallest morsel of gluttony—or lust.

While Ravoolii walks through the halls of his palace in the outer layers of the hell his naked servants hold crystal balls up for him so that he may watch the lives of mortals as he walks. When he fornicates his bed is surrounded by clear pools of water that project the lives of mortals constantly. When he relieves himself or sustains himself there is indeed always a projection of the mortals he spies on playing in the background, a foul habit indeed, but one I have found to be a blessing.

Throughout this text on the fall of Rienbect you will witness a series of interviews with Ravoolii concerning the baron Von Crème, a man Ravoolii watched from the moment he emerged into the realm of mortals to the moment he died. As you will see through reading the transcripts of these interviews, demons can see emotion; they can smell thoughts; they have an omnipotent sense about the mortals they are viewing. So much so that a demon can actually say with one hundred percent accuracy what a subject is feeling or thinking. Emotion is why they watch. If you aren’t a demon this phenomenon may be difficult to understand. I encourage you to reference the memoir in the Appendix on demon summoning and voyeurism.

Keegan: How many hours have you watched the baron Von Crème?

Ravoollii: Four hundred and ninety-thousand five hundred and sixty-four hours.

Keegan: Why the baron Von Crème?

Ravoollii: Very seldom does a mortal come around who is elegant, yet brutal, who appreciates finery as well as poverty. Did you know he was worth over eighty billion stocks when he died? He excelled at everything he did and yet was an animal. He killed and loved it. He raped and loved it. Oh, on the surface he thought he was sorry and was susceptible to depression, but when the heat of battle took him he was alive.

Keegan: So it was the baron’s primal nature that attracted you too him? His lust for blood and sin?

Ravoollii: Oh no! That was a factor no doubt, but those aspects to his life were mere steps in a dance. Have you ever watched The Wicked Waltz?

Keegan: Gods no! It is a foul dance where the women who participate are tortured and murdered.

Ravoollii: No, no! You miss the point of it. The floor illuminates where the dancers are to put their feet. If they miss a step they are shocked. As the tempo of the music increases, the speed with which they step must also increase. So too does the power of the shock the ladies receive when they misstep. Mortals would look at only those who fail and say the losers are punished with death. The immortal sees that the winners are rewarded with life. They thrive. They move with grace and beauty as their bodies fill with adrenaline, knowing that if they were to misstep they would die. So they live. They live more in those ten minutes than most mortals live in their short, pathetic lives.

Keegan: What does this have to do with the baron?

Ravoollii: Ah! The baron did everything better than everyone else. His life was the The Wicked Waltz. He lived more in his fifty-six years than some gods have lived in centuries. When the baron Von Crème died, a mad fever of depression took me. I killed every servant in my house and clawed my eyes out. Of course my eyes regenerated, but I clawed them out every day for nearly a year. The only thing that saved my life was a novice elven wizard summoned me in the fit of my depression and tried to bind me. He proved to be the lesser man, and I broke free of his summoning circle. I killed all the men in his village and pillaged on the mortal plane for nearly fifty years.

Kegan: Yes, I remember tracking you down and banishing you back to hell.

Ravoollii: Such was my madness when the baron died.

Kegan: So if not the primal nature, what? How did this dance the baron made of his life play out?

Ravoollii: If you had a hundred years I could tell you a story composed of every instant the baron lived. Yet, seeing as though you insist on binding me in this summoning circle, I will not reward you with that tale. Instead, I will select a few that stand out amongst the many. Seeing as though your research centers around the fall of the Empire of Rienbect, I will try and keep my tales to that period of his life. A pouch of smoke and some spirits may help to jog my memory.

Kegan: Easily done.

Ravoollii: An adolescent elven boy or girl?

Kegan: You are a foul creature, and so long as I live you will never be allowed back on the mortal plane.

Ravoollii: You don’t know unless you ask. Now let me see… Edvard Von Crème…

Keegan: I’ve heard tale from several reliable sources that the baron became increasingly paranoid in the months leading up to the Night of Chaos. Why?

Ravooli: There were no less than fifteen assassination attempts on the baron in the months leading up to the Night of Chaos. The baron stood his ground against organizations other barons bent the knee to. Shadow Corps, The Water Union, The Council of Magi, and his peers in the Senate compose a short list of capable foes. Indeed most were powerful enough to wage war on many of the world’s smaller nations. These assassination attempts came from nowhere and were often disguised to look as though they came from allies or innocent parties.

Keegan: Is there one particular attempt that unnerved him more than the others?

Ravooli: The night of the Walking Dead. The Baron celebrated the holiday with a small, select group of friends and guests: a new ambassador from Loyang, a representative from the office of the Uberous, a select group of his house staff, and a paprika dealer from Glint. A rather elite group of guests, but so far as dinners at the baron’s house goes, nothing unusual. Now that you understand the setting, allow me to describe the events that transpired from the baron’s perspective.

The servants set down the third course and Edvard anxiously awaited for them to remove the silver cover. The previous two courses of vegetables and greens did little to replenish what he had lost on the training grounds today. His new wizard could use magic to simulate wounds, and Edvard— with only one eye and a torn Achilles tendon—had spent the day fighting three men. Despite his bruises and sore limbs he had managed to dress  in the ridiculous seventeen-piece dinosaur skin suit Seliena had bought. If that were not bad enough, Selena had her fashion designer pin matching emeralds into the side of his face. The outfit could have fed a family for twenty years if its value were translated into coppers. Fortunately it would. Edvard had implemented a system of auctioning off his family’s cloths after each holiday. Although the Day of the Walking Dead hardly counted as a holiday, the Oceansend’s upper crest would still buy the hideous outfit, and all the proceeds would go towards the food banks. That softened the pain of having to wear skin-tight scale pants and a vest. Edvard hated vests.

Soup made of carrot with creamed Chimera cheese. Who in their right mind milks a chimera? Then who is stupid enough to let that milk curdle and decide it is edible? Edvard looked longingly at his soup and waited patiently as his poison sniffer examined his plate. The albino slijh ferret, Raggie, climbed down from his perch on Edvards shoulder and sniffed at the soup. He looked back up at the baron as though the meal were some sort of joke and confirmed the food to be free of poison. Raggie knew better than to talk during a formal social function, but his eyes said all that needed to be said. After sixteen years of living together Edvard knew the look of mockery from his ferret.

The baron took a polite spoonful while nodding his head in agreement with something his wife had just said to the ambassador.

“My Lord husband, how long did you stay in Loyang? You never tell us about it. I’m sure our guests would love to hear a tale.”

“Well, dear. There really isn’t much to tell. I was a student at a private academy called Fincholn. I learned of everything from sword play to Jingah, which is a dice game the local fishermen play. My education proved quite exhilarating, but I fear a boring story.” Edvard had to respect  his wife’s tenacity. She had spent the better part of their marriage trying to “heal” him and she considered his time in Loyang the root of the wound. “Pray tell us of the South, Olaphe. How fares Glint?”

Olaphe looked awkwardly at his spoon, pondering if he should quickly put the last bite of soup into his mouth or address the question. The people of his nation unknowingly thanked him as he set the spoon down. The man was incredible. Not only had he eaten nearly all of the pureed vegetable blah, he openly contemplated ignoring a question from the man who was considering purchasing thirty-thousand crates of paprika for the last spoon full. Moreover he clearly started eating before Seliena had taken a bite. Such an offense could be considered worthy of a duel. Either this man had no sense of etiquette or something was amiss.

“The South prospers, Baron.” As the man spoke, Grix, the House Von Crème’s weapon master, who stood watch in the room disguised as a guest, curled his index finger into his palm. Caution. The hand symbol clearly marked that Grix had picked up on the singular mannerisms of the merchant. The baron put two fingers on the stem of his wine glass and signaled back, Acknowledged. “We hope to expand our business with the North three fold in the upcoming year.”

The contract being proposed would do just that, except at a fraction of the traditional market price. The baron had sent a covey of druids to use their primal magics on the paprika crops to the South. The effort quadrupled the yield flooding the market and driving the price of the spice down. Commodity market manipulation was illegal in Rienbect, and if the farmers’ union got wind of the move they would be up in arms. Yet Glint was not a part of Rienbect and therefore not subject to the rules and regulations farmers in Rienbect had to abide by. The deal would make both parties rich, but the baron clearly had the better end of the deal.

“Incredible,” the Loyang ambassador exclaimed. “It is my longstanding wish that my nation find a reliable way to cross the coral maze that divides our two nations. The trade potential is amazing. Unfortunately the amount of magic needed to ward off the coral dragons is too expensive to be used for commerce.”

Such a trade of spices would violate so many customs the Loyang leader would be publicly whipped for even speaking the thought aloud in his homeland. Could that be the wine speaking, or did this man not know the customs of his land? A symphony of hand symbols from Grix caught the baron’s eye. One of the servants tripped, and a goblet of wine splashed into Seliena’s lap. The Baroness erupted out of her chair in a dainty yet vigorous manner. Her own dress, made from the transparent wing leather of baby dinosaurs, was ruined. The impoverished people of Oceansend had just lost what the baron imagined would have been a five-thousand gold stock deposit to the food bank, but his wife was being escorted to safety by guards dressed as servants—a suitable trade considering the queer etiquette on display.

“I had thought your people strictly forbid agricultural imports from other nations,” Leon said in his ice cold voice. The representative from the office of the Uberous seemed to have left his charisma with his dress clothes. His simple three-piece suit looked centuries old, and his lack of conversation all night spoke volumes about his desire to be there. Edvard found their bimonthly meetings refreshing. The man cared nothing for social events, liked to drink, and prided himself on being a tireless worker—exactly what men who worked for the Imperial Office of Espionage should be. As Leon spoke, his thumb bent awkwardly backwards on top of his index finger. Above? Why would Leon signal above, and how did he learn the family sign language? Edvard looked again at the man.

“Really? That is an old law! I’m surprised any still believe it to be in existence.” The ambassador looked flushed and stammered hard on his words. In his moment of uncertainty he looked across the table to the spice merchant for the smallest of instants. Leon kept his thumb cocked back, but now curled his index finger in signaling Caution Above. This time Grix seemed to pick up on the symbol, and his eyes slowly drifted towards the ceiling.

Servants entered with covered plates, and the aroma of seared meat filled the air. Finally some meat. Edvard wanted to look up at the ceiling above him but knew better. He would trust his life to Grix. He had hundreds of times before. Grix may not be blood but he was indeed a brother. The fumbled exchange between the two guests at the baron’s table prompted the merchant to act boldly. His partner had clearly stammered on a social slip, and the explanation only made the situation worse.

“I’d like to propose a toast.” The merchant stood and raised his glass. Such a blatant aggression against the customs of the land could only mean the merchant felt the pressure of his partner’s error. Many duels have been fought over improper toasts, and to offer a toast before the host could offer one to honor his guest was indeed duel worthy.

Smoothly, and without so much as a flinch, the baron stood and raised his glass. Everyone at the table scrambled to followed suit. The slightest twinkle of light caught the baron’s eye as from above a translucent drop of liquid dripped into his glass.

“Your glass was just poisoned” whispered Raggie from on his shoulder. “It is Dendrite Creeper. Very toxic” At the same time Grix flashed the sign for abort, and Leon flashed the sign for poison. Edvard controlled a smile. The office of the Uberous had just played its hand unnecessarily. Now that Edvard knew the Von Crème  family sign language had been compromised he would have to change it. Such concern from the Uberous could be construed as flattering or suffocating. No doubt ten of the former ninety of the later.

“Too bad my lovely wife is not here,” Edvard stated, with his poisoned glass held high in the air. “She so loved to hear about Loyang, and the Screechy Toast is one of my favorites. Surely you are a fan, Ambassador?”

“Ah, the Screechy. Of course Baron. We would be honored for you to lead us.” The ambassador kept a composed face even though the baron had just made up the Screechy Toast right then and there. There could be no doubt now that this ambassador had never lived in Loyang.

Edvard stepped sideways over to the spice merchant. “My friend, allow me. With the Screetchy we interlock arms and drink from our companions glass then solidify the bond by drinking from our own.”

The Baron leaned in towards the merchant offering his open arm to interlock with so that they might sip from each other’s glass. A single bead of sweat emerged from the brow of the merchant and ran down the side of his temple. His eyes darted from the glass, to the baron, to the ambassador. Grix stood next to the ambassador with his glass in hand, ready to embrace. The merchant lost his nerve for a second, but then regained himself with just the slightest show of effort. Edvard could read the play of thoughts on his face. If they both drank from the same glass the baron would still die. The merchant decided that his life for the baron’s would be a good trade. He leaned in and drank deep from the baron’s glass. This man was no hired assassin, he believed in his cause enough to forfeit his life.

“And now you, my Baron.” The words came out with just a hint of desperation. This man disgraced professional assassins everywhere. A martyr to be sure. The merchant looked on hungry for his moment of triumph. Yet before the baron got the glass half way to his lips a nerve-wracking cracking of bones stilled the room. The merchant’s eyes buggered as he watched his fellow assassin, the ambassador, slump dead to the floor. Edvard didn’t have to turn to see Grix standing over the now dead ambassador assassin. The distinct sound of a man’s neck snapping always reminded Edvard of Grix’s handy work.

“I think not,” Edvard said as he dumped his glass into the water pitcher on the table. The merchant stood motionless for an instant and then dropped to the floor. In a flash Grix grabbed the silverware from his place setting and sent each piece flying towards the ceiling. Edvard looked up to see a veiled assassin falling towards the floor behind him. Edvard marveled at the butter knife sticking out of the assassin’s eye socket. The steak knife to the throat had been the killing blow, but the butter knife was impressive. Apparently dropping poison and stealth were the assassin’s strong suits, and dodging dinnerware didn’t make the curriculum in assassin school.

“Heart attack,” Raggie whispered. “That poison takes days to kill its victims. You literally scared him to death.”

“This steak is really good.” Leon said between mouthfuls. Edvard expected nothing less from the spy. He sat with a sigh of relief. At least the Uberous wasn’t trying to kill him yet.