Stories of the Hound and the Tiger: Historical RP from Kayah Tanah

[Havenshire]

OOC: I haven't really got any specific plan in mind for these RPs, they will most likely be disconnected Stories from the History me and Warre are crafting. I invite Warre/Bantyr/Oikawa/others to write their own Historical stories that occur in and around Kayah Tanah during the times that most interest them. Obviously, don't make up Historical stuff without consulting me first, and I encourage you to read whats already been written for ideas.

What follows is just a mad desire to get this creative stuff out, somewhere.

IC:
12th MAY 1581, Battle of Gelanggangtua, Five Miles outside Bandar Emas

The rains had stopped. Tee-kue Tay, Lord of the Seven Trees Domain, gazed up into the cloud covered heavens, and felt, for one all too brief moment, a perfect moment of Zen.

"My Lord? Supreme Warlord Badan Vasu sends his regards. The Left flank are to move forwards." Tee-kue was startled from his reverie by the words of the Herald, whose bright purple armour and tao-shaped Dan indicated he was a messenger of the United Principalities's elected warleader, the Supreme Warlord.
"Indicate to your master that the Seven Trees will advance as commanded, but that the field is poor if he intends us to win the day alone." He allowed a small smile at such a confident jest.

The Herald did not smile. "The mud favours us. You will not fight- or recieve glory- alone, Lord." Tee-kue merely grunted. He knew that this Alliance was one founded on convenience, and that they would- once the Warreic scum had been crushed and driven from the Islands- most likely go back to the Game of Houses. The only game they ever played, or had ever played, for centuries. Many intrigues had been played out over the last few years for who would command the glory of defeating the upstart barbarians. It had been something that had frustrated victory, and was not looked upon with good will by Badan Vasu, who had secured his victories by ensuring such compulsive intriguers were the first to meet the Warathan advance.

Tee-kue raised his battle-fan, and signalled to the massed ranks of Pike and sword that made up his army. the Seven Trees had been a proud faction, but not a wealthy one, trusting to its pike blocks and archers to maintain independence. Vasu had surrounded himself with plate-knights and arquebusiers. Bandar Emas, the wealthiest and most powerful of the surviving Principalities, was bankrupting itself to fund this battle. And no wonder, with the Warreic but five miles from their walls, and their warships blockading the harbours.


Today, Tee-kue knew, would decide everything. All of the remaining independent forces of Kayathna had sent representatives here, to fight for Kayah Tanah. If they were defeated, and Bandar Emas fell, there was nothing to stop the tide of Warreic.

Gently touching off his horse with his booted feet- they had no spurs, a decadent thing from the East*- he led the advancing wall of his men into the tall, muddy bamboo fields that made up the left flank of the Kayathan army. It was difficult terrain for Pike, so he ordered them to leave their pikes behind, and switch to short sword and bronze buckler. They did so with reluctance, and they advanced into the murk.
At first they maintained good order, advancing a good 100 yards in a slow arc. But the mud quickly gave way to water, and the men soon became sodden, their colourful sleeves sodden and dragging at them, along with the weight of their beaten iron cuirasses.

Tee-kue soon found his own horse was struggling in the mud. Why had the Supreme Warlord sent them into such foul muck?

Signalling a halt to the advance, he watched with growing alarm as he realised his men were exposed and spread out. Somewhere in the deeper tangle, and somewhere beyond, were the Warathans, waiting. Over to Tee-kue's right, there were ridges and rice fields where the main bulk of the Kayathna army were. He could hear now the boom of culverin- both Kayathna and Warreic. The Warreic, though, had far more cannon, and were far better at operating them. But they outnumbered the White Demons nearly four to one. They would win this day, Tee-kue knew. They had to.

Getting off his horse, and sinking almost immediately up to his waist, he decided to wade forward and see for himself the conditions for his men. He knew this was most unorthodox, but he had always led from the front, unlike that cold fish, Vasu. With a tightening of the eyes, Tee-kue wondered if he was being used as bait for the Warreic. Vasu had a worrying reputation for that sort of trick.

Peering into the almost swampy murk, the Lord of the Seven Trees found that his men were hacking at long bamboo stakes, with slow, even chops with their machetes.
"What is this?"
"Farmer's Wall, My Lord. Nothing to be concerned about. In the way." said one of the Soldiers, whose horse-plume helmet marked him as a Strike Leader.
"Strike Leader, this is no Farmer's Wall! Its an anti-cavalry Palisade!" Tee-kue said with alarm. He had seen such clever tricks employed by the Warreic at the Battle of Angin Tinggi, the previous autumn, where they had repelled a mass cavalry assault by Rouran Mercenaries hired by the Kayathna. Far form home, the Rouran had been intended to match the savagery of the Warreic. But these horse-riders had evidently not matched their cunning.

With sudden clarity, Tee-kue realised their predicament.
"Its a Trap! That cursed fool! He's hung us out to dry! Withdraw! Withdraw!" he yelled, waving his battle-fan madly. Soggy Banners were raised, and soldiers tried to back out of the mud. Suddenly, there was a loud crack, like a large tree falling. Spinning round, Tee-kue realised that was exactly what it was. A massive Ngong Tree had come crashing down, blocking off their path. More cracks could be heard, as taught, unnoticed vine-ropes were cut, and the Trees fell, crushing some men as they fled.
"It's an Ambush!" he cried.

Suddenly, from amongst the vegetation, there was another, more fearsome noise. It was the Warreic Battle cry, and it chilled him to the bones.
Screaming, they emerged from the Jungle, hand-axes and pistols at the ready. They fired into the mass of Seven Trees swordsmen, throwing their pistols away rather than bother to reload, and hit them with force. Lightly armoured, the Warreic clearly knew more about "swamp" fighting than the Seven Trees men, who found themselves struggling to lift their heavy curved blades. Rather than making great sweeping arcs, the Woad-raiders darted in amongst them like hornets, making small cuts and chops here and there, killing men as they went.

Blood splattered Tee-kue's face as a man next to him was savagely hacked. Raising his own double-edged wave-blade, he blocked an incoming strike. He stared into the bloodshot eyes of the raider, and saw through the blue paint and pale skin, and saw the heart of a truly mad man.
Screaming his defiance, Tee-kue utilised his mastery of the Heron Style, and dipped under the clumsy blow, before effortlessly and elegantly sliding up within the man's guard, driving his sword deep into the barbarian's chest. "Never bring an axe to a fight with a Swordmaster." he said, knowing the barbarian could not understand him.

Very quickly there was chaos everywhere, shouts, screams, the groans of the dying. From outside the mess, Tee-kue could see a thin circle of Warreic shortbow men. Knowing their guns would be useless in these conditions, they had reverted to using recurves. They loosed into the mass of struggling, brawling men. More Kayathna than Warreic went down. They loosed again. The mud and water around Tee-kue's feet were swiftly turning to a blood-red colour.

"Savages! Come fight me like Men!" he screamed, trying to charge at them, but his heavy lamellar armour dragging him down. he swung his blade, decapitating another careless woad-raider. He tried to rally his men, but they were being coralled, pinned, shot, hacked at form all sides. Tee-kue could see that his reserves were rushing to come to his aid, but the trees hemmed them in.

"My Lord! You must retreat! We will cov-" arrows silenced his retainers, as they rushed to his aid. He didn't care. He had seen these Demons fight every way but honestly since this Invasion had begun. He would make them fight him with honour, here, now. "I challenge your Chief to a Blood Duel! Honour me in this!" he screamed in broken Gaelic. A heavy-set man, some seven foot tall and covoured in tattoos, broke off from the archers, carrying with him a heavy Claymore.

"I hear your challenge, and accept." he replied, in equally poor Kayathna. Though the battle still raged around them, the Chieftan lumbered towards the mired Lord.
Tee-kue readied himself, trying to find firm footing, but the mud kept slipping underneath, making a true fighting stance difficult. He decided to use the Drunken Master style instead, and hoped it would work.

Without formalities, the Chief swung at him with astonishing speed and strength, his claymore cutting through the air with a heavy sound. The blade thunked into the ground, as Tee-kue haphazardly, and seemingly without rythym, twitched and jerked out of the way, trying to seem random and unfocused. The Chief's eyes narrowed, though his watching archers laughed and said something crude.

Ditching the Claymore, the Chief swiftly switched to two short stabbing blades, and launched a frenzied attack on Tee-kue. Parrying the attacks, he realised that this Demon was a worthy opponent indeed. He felt the blades whistle around him, a perfect melee. He smiled, feeling the perfect zen. He lashed out, instinctively, aiming for the throat. The Chief, with speed and agility belying his size, managed to twist out of the way.
"We have our own Ways, Jungle monkey." the Chief said, with a bared grin, in Kayathna, emphasising the Ways.
Tee-kue frowned. A Barbarian Swordsmaster? Impossible.
"You will be buried by our ways, White Invader." he snarled.

He launched his own attack, barely conscious of the melee around him anymore, furiously making lunges, feints, and concerntrated strikes at his opponent. All of which were deftly avoided or parried. This Chief was good.

"Now its my turn again." the Barbarian said, and pirouetted, impossibly, kicking out with a heavy leg into the lamellar armour, knocking the wind out of Tee-kue.
Leaping back with a heavy thud, he brought both blades around in a sycthing motion, cutting Tee-kue's head off the way a Mantis slices its prey.

"Mogok Belalang . The Mantis Strike. Your own people taught us that one." he grinned at the fallen corpse. "Alright lads, finish them off, and don't get fancy."

It was barely ten hours of the morning. It was going to be a Long Day.

==============================================================

 

[Havenshire]

JULY 18TH, 1968: CARRICKTHERRAN, SLAINTE SQUARE

It was an achingly hot day in the Dry Season. Also sometimes known as Fly Season. The heavy rains of Spring were but a distant memory, and anybody sensible would be inside, fanning themselves, or having someone else fan them too. Only the obscenely rich could afford Fridges or air conditioners.

It was different for Heng-suan Youh. He sat in the shade of a parasol, by some shabby Nasi Dagang Cafe, which sold cheap and cheerful beef'n'rice meals for the workers. Despite that, it was well off enough to have an outside section, complete with parasol covered tables. There was something disgustingly bourgeoise about it all that Youh found repellant. Which was precisely why it made such a good place to wait.

That, and they served the most delicious homemade lemonade schnapps.

Sipping from the cool, tall glass, It was hard not to be reminded of why so many, here in the coastal south of the country, were so seduced by Capitalism. He watched the hustle and bustle of people on the dusty tarmac roads. Vespas, rickshaws, battered old Warreic taxis and trucks, all viciously honking, tooting, and jostling for space. Road safety was an abstract concept in Kayah Tanah.

Shading his eyes against the yellow sun, he peered out of the shade and into the distance. His face itched with sweat, and the fake beard he had worn for the occasion. He also had had worn extra padding to appear fatter, and an expert had applied lines to his eyes to make him appear older and worn out. You could never be too careful in these grim days.

He saw a man looking furtive, and sighed at the obviousness of it. If this man turned out to be his contact, he was going to leave CarrickTherran immediately. He was taking a big enough risk just being here.

The man came across the road. He was short, light-skinned, clearly Kayathan. He wore the shabby overalls of a worker, and had sweat and dirt caked around his face. But this man was no machinist- his hands, Youh noted, were too clean.

Reaching under the table with his spare hand, Heng-suan nonchatantly reached for his pistol. He wasn't alone, of course. His bodyguards were discreetly placed around the street, hopefully alert for danger.

The man, to his credit, sat at a table at the other end of the cafe from Youh. He ordered a bitter coffee- all coffee was bitter in Kayah Tanah- and seemed to make an effort to look preoccupied and uninterested in his surroundings. Youh did a far better job of seeming to scan the crowd idly. In truth he was looking for more Kayathans. They were always a favourite of the Special Police, who could exploit their divided loyalties more effectively.

Unable to pretend for very long, the man finished his coffee when it came, and left a folded up newspaper as he dashed away awkwardly, Looking back urgently.

Sighing at the unprofessionalism of it, Youh ignored the newspaper, and ordered another lemonade schnapps. After that one was half-done, and confident that his agents had followed the man and made sure there were no SP in the area, he reached over and picked it up, seeming to read it idly. Inside was a thin package, as he suspected. He discreetly and deftly slipped it into his jacket pocket. He wore a bomber jacket with many pockets, both obvious and discreet, for just this purpose.

When, half an hour later, he got into a "random taxi", He could barely contain his own sense of excitement as he ripped open the package, nodding at the agent who had commandeered this tuk-tuk for his own personal use.
"What does it say, comrade?"
Youh scowled at the question. "Do not address me as that whilst we are in enemy territory. You should know better." Chastened, the agent concerntrated on weaving his way through the busy afternoon traffic. It was very bumpy, rattling Youh considerably, but he read the letter with dimming hope. So. It was as he had suspected.

Breathing in, he resisted the urge to tell the agent to step on it. No need to Panic. Nothing had happened at the drop. No one was tailing them. Yet he felt the prickling of the hairs on the back of his head. Something, somewhere, had clearly gone horribly wrong.

The Letter contained only a few sentences, on otherwise blank red silk paper.

"O Love! They would clasp you, and crush you and kill you,
In the insurrection of uncontrol.
Across the miles, does this wild war thrill you
That is raging in my soul?"

It was a quotation, from a famous Communist poet. And it was just about the worst code phrase he could have recieved. It indicated what he had feared after recieving no messages form anyone in the Dominion Communist Party for two weeks. That, somehow, on a truly massive scale, the Special Police had simply...disappeared, everyone or near enough everyone who connected the mainstream DCP with the PLF. It was breathtaking in its boldness and scale. And it was clear that the cities were no longer safe.

Suddenly the tuk-tuk was rammed from the side. He turned, as did his agent, to yell at this latest offront in the jostle of traffic, when his eyes widened. Two men in brown overcoats were driving it, and one was pointing a machine-pistol at them.
Youh flung himself as flat as possible, as bullets shredded the cheap glass and metal, tearing through his driver.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The tuk-tuk careened out of control, smashing a vespa and flattening a screaming hapless passer-by, before slamming into a fruit-stall. Youh quickly opened the door, bloodied, dazed, his ears ringing, his vision blurred. But he had to act, and act quickly. He could not be taken, not here, not like this.

Scrambling through the slick of squashed fruit, He turned around to see that the van with the browncoats had managed to pull up half a block down the street, as traffic continued its chaotic tangle away from the crash.

He sweighed, blinking, and managed to draw his pistol shakily. He knew his only chance was speed. He ran, haphazardly, down the winding alleyways of CarrickTherran's Poor Quarter.

The men in brown followed.

Shedding his bomber jacket and discarding the useless message, he stripped down to just a plain grey cotton shirt and thick leather trousers, like every other working stiff who lived in this slumhole. Youh knew how to blend with the working classes. It was even one of his famous sayings- The True Guerilla must move amongst the people as a fish swims in the sea.

Swaying, taking turns where possible, he found himself wandering in a daze through dirty, ever narrowing alleys, past baskets full of clucking chickens and exotic birds. Mangy dogs panted amongst piles of refuse. The place stank of decades of working toil. It was nothing like Hyboreas, where Youh had studied as a young man.

He realised that he had to get off the streets. Yet he knew noone in this area. Could he trust any of these families to hide him? He would have to take a risk.

He stumbled, panting, into a cellar-apartment, practically falling into rotting bags of rubbish. Coughing and choking, the foul stench and presence of flies almost making him gag, he knocked on the heavy iron-barred wooden door of this sub-street home.

"Go away!" a voice shouted.
"Open up! Special Police!" he yelled, hating to decieve these people, but needing refuge desperately.
The door opened reluctantly.
"You don't look like Speci-"
He slammed his foot in the door and forced his way in, ducking under the chain, causing the young man who had opened the door to cry in alarm and anger. He quickly grabbed a large hurling stick, and began whacking at Youh.
"Fuck! Stop that now!" He swung his gun round, and pointed it at the young man. "Drop that stick!"
The young man reluctantly complied, backing away. "The Real Police will gut you!"
Youh winced. "You have a lot of fire. Where is your father?"
The young man flinched. "He's...at work, with his friends, down at the Factory. When he gets back, he'll fuck you up." The young man was clearly lying.
As Youh's eyes adjusted to the gloom of the basement, he realised what a hovel this tenament really was. A Beat up coal boiler, a table, some creaky old chairs, and one heavy curtain obstructing a corner of the room made up almost everything present. The place smelt faintly of sweat and urine.
Advancing steadily into the room, he made to sit at the table. The door slammed closed behind him. "Alright, here's whats going to happen. I'm going to wait here for a few hours, maybe till midnight, and then I am going to leave you people alone. No one will be hurt, I promise on my word of honour." Youh sincerely meant it, but he knew that the young man couldn't trust him on that. Kayah Tanah was full of liars these days.

The Young man scowled. "Whatever." They stared at each other in silence for a while, when there was the sound of muffled sobbing.
"What was that?"
"Nothing."
"I know your not alone here." Youh said, staring deep into the youth's eyes. Heng-suan already had a good idea what this boy's story was. Deadbeat Father. Mother dead from the syph' or the opium. A gaggle of younger siblings to take care of. It was almost a cliche, pathetically replayed in a hundred slums across the Archipelagos.

The curtains parted, revealing three young girls, the eldest being no more than about twelve. She was clutching the other, younger girls in a long shawl, comforting them as best she could. They had one large, weathered mattress between them. It was clear that they had been living on the fringe. He wondered how long it would have been- or will be- untill the eldest girl went onto the street to supplement the youth's meager earnings. It was tragic in its predictability.

"I will not harm any of you." He said, with serene calmness. Looking at each of them carefully, but keeping his gun as level as possible, aimed at the youth, and noone else.
Slowly, he lowered the gun to the table, but kept it in his hand.
"I need safety. Sanctuary. They-"
There was hammering at the door again.
"Special Police. open up." The voice was thick, and very Gaelic in accent.

Youh raised his gun swiftly and silently, aiming it at the door.
"You. boy. Go. Tell them everything is ok."

The youth rose slowly.
"My name is Sheann. Sheann Khoo."
"Whatever. Do it now."

He went to the Door.

===================================================

 

[Havenshire]

Sheann Khoo opened the door ajar, being more careful this time, feeling the sweat running down his back. A mad man was pointing a gun at his back, and the Special Police were at his front. He'd had a hard life, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

Two agents in brown trenchcoats greeted him. They did not look happy, and had their holstered guns very prominent around their waists. They presented genuine ID, indicating their role as Commonwealth Officers of Criminal and Counter-Agitation Investigations, also known as the Special Police.

"Good Afternoon. My name is Agent Chew and this is Agent Eng. We are currently engaged in an Investigation, and we are looking for a specific man. Have you seen or heard anything suspicious?" The Agent said coldly, handing him a black and white photo that matched the Mad man in his backroom, only looking decidely less dishevelled.
"No. I have not seen this man before. I don't want any trouble. My father will be home soon from work. Good man. Votes Unionist. We love the Union." he said fawningly, knowing that with people like this you had to keep your head down, pretend to be simple, and assert your loyalty.

"I see." The Agent's eyes narrowed. "It seems that we have come to a dead end. May we come in? My friend and I would like to rest ourselves from a long chase, the fugitive is doubtless far away by now."

Khoo breathed in, feeling his heartbeat racing. These men were clever. He had to think fast. "No. My younger sister is sick. She may be contagious. I think it might be the Fever." He said.

The Agent arched an eyebrow. "The Fever? That is very serious. I am a trained field medic, and I may be able to assist you in getting medicine. May I see her?" This Agent was smooth.

He was about to try another delaying lie when there was the noise of racking coughing behind him. He turned, and his younger sister, Mahsuri, came out. She was pale, and acting for all her worth. "Sheann? I am cold. Please come back inside."
The Agent seemed to soften.
"I apologise for disturbing you. It does seem serious. We will be on our way now. I suggest you take her to a doctor."
"But-"
"No buts, Eng. We are going."
The agents left at a suprisingly quick pace. It seemed fear of the Pale Fever was still strong, even in this day and age. Once it had killed large swathes of the Kayathna populace, feared to be brought by the Warreic. Now it only had outbreaks in the crowded poor slums, like this one.

Sheann waited untill they were gone, and then turned. The Madman smiled. "Thank you, Sheann. You have helped me and your people in ways you cannot know." He winced. "Let me stay one night in your home, and i will give you this." The Madman pulled a thick wad of notes out of his pocket. Khoo's eyes widened. It must be at least 100,000 ringgit. Enough to sustain them for a year, or more.

Sheann forced himself to be hard. "Why should I help you? You put my whole family at risk! If they come back..."
He looked down at Mahsuri, who was wiping the flour she had applied to her face with a cloth. "I am sorry to waste flour, big brother, I know you were saving it, but I wanted to help. You always say not to trust the brown hats." She looked up at him with her wide trusting eyes. He looked down at her and saw the Hope that had kept him going.
"Alright." He relented. "I will help you."

The Stranger smiled again. "I am sorry to inconvenience you. It was my fault to run off like this. I will rest and then be on my way. My name...is Heng-suan Youh."

=====================================================
EPILOGUE

BANDAR EMAS, 3RD FEBRUARY, 2002

It was just after 1am that KPN called it. The votes from Kuala Coklat and Bakau Island had been the last to be calculated, and it had been close. No landslide victory this time. But the words caused an uproar of joy in the room anyway. "UNIONIST PARTY...6,751,454 votes. LIBERAL PARTY....4,800..." The rest of the announcement was drowned out with cheers. They had done it. They had won office, after 15 gruelling years of Liberal rule. Sheann Khoo looked dazed amongst his revelling staff. He couldn't believe it. He was barely into his 40s and he'd won the Presidency of Kayah Tanah. The youngest Unionist candidate ever, even his nomination had taken him by suprise.

"We did it! I knew you would win them over, Sheann." His wife,Kaitlin. She was Warathan, and the image of the young, smiling Kayathan next to his beautiful mostly-white wife had been pure photogenic gold. For the first time in ever, they had managed to sell the Unionist Party as the party of the working man, aswell as the party of the middle and upper classes. It was all down to Sheann.

He kissed his wife. "Join me in the...presidential suite for celebration?" he said teasingly. She giggled. "See you there in fifteen minutes, Mr.President."

He laughed, as she sauntered off. He was suprised to see his younger sister there. She had never approved of his politics, or his relentless ambition. But despite the distance of years, he could still see her as a young girl, that smiling cherub who once played sick to fool the Special Police.

"Mahsuri! What a suprise. I would have thought you'd be over at the New Dominion Communist Party's place." He said lightly.

She forced a wan smile. "They won 2 seats. 1 more than last time." Mahsuri was a brilliant folk musician, and occasionally fund raised for the NDCP. "But I'm here to congratulate you, brother. You got what you always wanted." She said this without bitterness.

"Thank you, sister." he truly meant it. It was always thoughts of his family that had kept him going so long, and to know that she approved of him meant alot. His other siblings had led relatively normal lives, after that fateful day. "I wonder if he's still alive."
She nodded, knowing who he meant. They had never spoken about that strange experience, except in the vaguest terms. Where had they got the money to escape poverty? But it had been mere days before CarrickTherran had been attacked by lightning guerilla raids of the PLF, burning the Secret Police Headquarters and killing many of their agents. No one but they knew the truth. And him. If he was still out there.

"I will see you tomorrow, Mahsuri. Please do not be a stranger to me. I will try to work with you and your friends in government." He smiled, knowing it was apromise unlikely to come true. "Thank you, Sheann. Your people deserve that much." She reminded him that he was from the Streets, and he adored her for it. It kept him grounded.

Leaving the partying campaign staff, he wandered through the Empyrean Hotel, before coming to the balcony cafe, which looked out on Bandar Emas, the terraced city that had become the nation's obvious Capital after the Street War in CarrickTherran. He shuddered at this memories. In '72 the PLF had overrun the city in three days and nights of terror. He had hidden the family well, and managed to avoid the Draft that summer. 73, He had been caught, and he was assigned to the front lines around 'Serang. from 74 to 77, he had fought a gruelling war as an Artilleryman. After that...well, he had made good friends in the Army, mostly all Unionists, and he used that to get himself and his family out of the slums of 'Therran and on the road to middle-classdom and success.

And now here he was.

He looked out over the brightly lit metropolitan city, hearing the hooting of car horns even from here. No sleep in Bandar Emas.

He looked to the southeast, wondering what Youh might be thinking, in his remote Jungle village deep in the Armistice Zone, surrounded by guerillas.

He fished in his pocket, and found a laminated 10 ringgit-note. Circa 1968. The last one he hadn't spent. A memento to always remind him. The Monster who had destroyed his country had also elevated him to become its saviour. How History turns.

"Mr.Kh-I mean, Mr.President? Your wife said to remind you she is waiting."

He smiled. "I'll be right there."