Danger In Stability

[Cúlanor]

Cúlanor


Conventional Long: Kingdom of Cúlanor
Conventional Short: Cúlanor
Demonym: Cúlanórean
Population: Approximately 32,000,000
Government: Absolute Monarchy
Capital: Minasselómë
Administrative Divisions (Provinces): Hradorn, Lunavyë, Nárgador, Rínwesë, Sínendë
Formation: 1236 C.E.
Culture: Cúlanórean
Driving Orientation: Left
Predominant Hand Orientation: Left
Head of Government: King/Queen
Provincial Heads: Duke/Duchess
Township Heads: Baron/Baroness


Geology: Rolling tundra with a dotting of trees is the defining landscape of Cúlanor. Coniferous forests dominate the southern expanse while the East, West, and North remain locked in a frigid tundra. The capital is located on a well defensible strait splitting two landlocked lakes with entrances facing north and south. Although not entirely unusual, the Cúlanórean’s lack any form of mountainous terrain.

Ecology: Various cold weather plants pockmark the country, particularly to the south. The black spruce especially common and dominates the Cúlanórean forests. Steppe deer make up a majority of the herbivorous population along with a plump bear population. There is a distinct lack of fishing in any coastal waters.

Notes: Due to its extreme northerly latitude, the nation suffers from an extremely cold climate. Permafrost coats the land throughout autumn (Yávië), winter (Hrívë), and spring (Tuilë) while briefly thawing during summer (Lairë).


PROLOGUE


Decades and centuries of continuous warfare have left the world in a state of near constant conflict and intrigue. The peaceful and pacifist nations are oases in a world scarred by war. Only those strong and determined enough to survive have prospered, constantly securing diplomatic deals through espionage and covert manipulation.

Cúlanor, a small feudal kingdom to the North, is a dark example of a lack of interest in anything non-martial. Left backward by its self-imposed isolation, the nation is rife with corruption and power-politics. Nobles constantly plot against one another in attempts to improve their own station and power. The King, Vremórdë Prilagórn is the only stable element in the kingdom, but even this requires almost bloodthirsty zeal and intolerance on his part.

Some driven by mad ambition may take the Cúlanórean intrigue a step further than any other and set in motion events that may threaten the feudalism that has survived since the kingdom’s very founding centuries ago.

 

[Cúlanor]

1


Elanar Mássilë pushed back his plate, not at all pleased with how the meat he’d prepared had turned out. His brother brought a meaty fist down on the table with a crash, a fork grasped between his thick fingers, belching loudly as he wiped the grease from his lips. “Do you always have to announce yourself so?” He asked, failing to hide his disgust at the outburst.

His brother shrugged. “Can’t help it if my stomach appreciates your cookin’.” He also pushed his plate back and started to rise from his seat. “Besides you’re the one that’s supposed to be mannerly and such.” He said pointing his finger accusingly at Elanar.

Elanar sighed. “Even so, you could at least try to be proper, Tamrir.” He didn’t like Tamrir’s lack of decency. Sometimes his brother knew exactly what to say to annoy him. It left him exasperated. Tamrir shrugged, “Our station doesn’t require us to be proper.”

“It’s not about station, it’s about being human.” He retorted. Tamrir gave him a disinterested look. Then he shrugged, “Whatever” he said rising, patting his growing belly. “Just don’t forget the way back to the world from fairytale land.” With that he left into his bedchambers before his younger brother could respond.

“Asshole…” he muttered then mentally punished himself for the offense. His brother would never understand. They were Mássilë and their family history demanded a proper accounting of one’s self, regardless of their financial situation or station in the world. Their past had to be respected.

He frowned. Tamrir would never understand. He was too lost in the ways of the commoner. He had molded to his surroundings and failed to retain any measure of his family’s dignity within himself.

Or maybe he was right. It had been decades since their family was considered of noble stature. Their father was the last to see them. Their family had once been very powerful, so he had claimed. Even if it had been it was centuries ago and held no meaningful significance today. He shook the thoughts out of his head. He got up and collected the plates, washed, then promptly went outside to escape the musty, stale air of their home.

 

[Cúlanor]

1


A blast of cold air struck him as he opened the door, washing away the the stale air that had settled into a fine coat on his clothes and skin. The touch of the cold wind felt good, almost therapeutic. The purity of the air, impervious to what little pollution there was, filled his lungs as he took a deep breath. The air here had this effect, it cleared the mind and brought one's thoughts back to the present. It was refreshing and Elanar wondered how people could enjoy their lives when even the air was unfit to breathe as he had heard on the 'televisions' as the English called them.

Behind him his squat and ugly home stood as though it had always been. His home was built of stone and dirt, an opelanda or "longhouse" as the English called them, or a turf home. The English have so many different names for everything it is hard to tell. The Norse call them langhúsr. 'Mole-hole' would be more appropriate for the small and ugly dirt mounds that they might as well be. They lacked the elegance of the wealthier homes. Much of the home lay below ground level to better insulate heat. Elanar's own home was dome shaped, barely reaching head level. Steps led down to the door which was nearly half a meter below a mans head. Splotches of green could be seen here and there on the home where grass struggled to grow. Much of it did resemble a giant mole mound. In front of him was a shanty-ville of dozens of other similarly ugly homes. A large dirt road over two meters wide ran through the middle of it all connecting it to the larger city and dozens of other neighborhoods that looked roughly similar.

If someone were to observe us through a plane, they'd see a tiny village with roads that snake out into seemingly empty countryside. Elanar thought bitterly as he looked across what looked like an uninhabited land towards the setting sun. He stretched out his arms and took another deep breath of fresh air and retreated back into his home, dreading the day of work that awaited him.



He looked over his shoulder for any would-be spectators. Even though he was in a friendly neighborhood, it was best not to take chances. Seeing no-one, he straightened himself once more and rapped his knuckles on the door. The door was no more than logs strapped and nailed together and so the sound was hardly audible to anyone not within a few meters of his position. The door opened revealing a grinning man wearing large shin-high boots, tundra green fatigues, and a black T-shirt.

"Heill Brynja. I almost mistook you for one of the Kúþarnir." the man said in Norse, his deep voice defeating any attempt of secrecy.

Brynja returned the grin, "If I had been it would not have been you who opened the door so much as your dead weight pulling it open, Hall." Brynja wore a similar outfit along with a fur coat that nearly reached his knees. He pushed past Hall and into the dwelling. As his eye's adjusted to the sparsely lit interior, he was as always taken aback by how large it seemed from the inside, easily accommodating over a dozen men or more. A large circular wooden table sat in the center of the room rimmed with half a dozen chairs. The room was sparse in decoration, even the chairs were of simple wood and absent cushioning. "Real men do not need comforts," He had once said. "nor do real women." he had added, they did not refuse women a place beside them on the battlefield.

"Ah Brynja, had you been a Kúþrinn you would have stood stone-still and starstruck!" Hall called after him. He merely grinned in reply and took a seat. Hall remained near the door but near enough to Brynja to speak without shouting.

"The rest will arrive soon enough." Hall added as an afterthought. Brynja nodded, they were showing proper independent spirit by arriving at whichever time they chose. "Any idea what security will be like?" he asked, not bothering to wait for the others.

"Security is always tight at these sort of things." Hall crossed his massive arms and leaned against one of the walls. Hall was nearly a head taller than he was and Brynja was at least two meters in height. Hall was easily the largest of them all.

"But it's nothing we can't handle," he added. "these royalists will run and hide once you kill two or three of them."

"There will be plenty to go around, there are no shortages of the Kúþarnir." Brynja said with a hint of anticipation in his voice. "But let us wait for the others before we start our council. And drink the meantime."