The Kingdom of Gorsmurd sprawled beneath a two-toned sky, a realm where western canyons bled veins of gold and eastern mountains cradled forests with luscious bounty. Between the extremes lay a garden. Its ancient trees arched like cathedral pillars, branches sagging with fruit that glowed like lanterns.
Wildflowers carpeted the garden in rainbows, their sweet perfume lingering long after the sun had set and the wind fell still.
At the garden's core nestled a village of bamboo huts, their thatched roofs alive with colorful mushrooms and blossoms. It was simply a magical place; here, the descendants of M'tis knew every root and stone. Their sun-kissed hands coaxed life from the soil, humming and laughing—like children chasing fireflies—as they echoed the land's unspoken joy. Elders wove reeds into baskets, their voices weaving tales of old as children whistled with the wind that danced through the mulberry leaves.
This is Vinenase, Gorsmurd's breadbasket, and the villagers' pact with the crown is as old as the tales they could tell: Tend to my fields, and I will ensure your prosperity. A fair exchange. One they believed in. One that had brought them peace and abundance.
Yet each full moon revealed the covenant's thornier truth. As night fell, villagers draped themselves in dark funeral robes and iron collars. From dusk to dawn, they labored, then waited. They waited for the Ushers to come. They waited to give their offering—to buy another month of prosperity.
Only Hmu Hmo and his sister defied this ritual with misplaced blossom robes and carefree necks. Elders hissed at their recklessness, but the pair danced through the crowd, tossing persimmons to giggling children until the thunder of hooves brought silence.
Five beastkins arrived as they always do: snouts wrinkled in perpetual distaste, tusks glinting like scythes. Their leader, a brute with scarred jowls, grunted at the hunched elder who greeted them.
"Still breathing, Old Spine?" They never used names—only labels that bent back lower.
The inspection was swift and brutal. Calloused paws rifled through jute sacks of barley, scattering grains like fallen teeth. A separate cart—stocked with honeyed figs and smoked venison—disappeared into the bearskins' personal wagon. No thanks followed, only the crack of a whip as they hauled the village's monthly tithe into the tilting sun.
Relief pooled in the villagers' sweat as the carts vanished. Collars clattered to the dust, children resumed their play, and laughter filled the village once more.
But, as the beastkins trudged home, they encountered sigils catching the last bloody light of day. A legion of crusaders halted them on their way. Words snapped like crossbow bolts between the groups before the crusaders marched on, leaving the beastkins to stroke their tusks in silence.