Chronicles of Karameikos

Daeros smoked his cigarette calmly in the night. His breath was slow and silent. His Hachess-54 rifle leaned against the muddy wooden covered wall of the trench, just a grip away from him. Instead, he held firmly on the grip of his old trusty sword. His ever alert black eyes searched across the darkened landscape, as if looking for something, everytime he heard something. It's been a while since he actually heard something. "I hope them buggers all drowned in the rain", he thought to himself, grinning at the thought of his enemies swept away by the force of nature.


It was cold. The rain had stopped, for now, leaving the entire battalion in soaked trenches. It was just a matter of minutes until the next drops reached the earth and the rain started pouring again. Daeros cursed in his native dialect and checked the landscape once again. He could see some lights far away in the distance, on the other side of the battlefield. Distant voices seemed to sing a sad and mellow song. Those were the enemy, and like anyother here, they also longed for home, warmth and peace. Yet, they were stuck in this hell. The song remembered Daeros of Ragusa, his hometown.


"Feeling lonely?", a sour voice said, while Daeros heard the steps approaching. It was Uran Perov, a young sergeant and one of the nicer fellows in the battalion. "Nay, just checking them buggers sing", grunted Daeros, trying to hide his homesickness and the regret of ever leaving home. He reached for his rifle and checked the ammunition inside. "How did you end up here?", he asked. Perov took out a tiny metal box from his wheather-battered coat and opened it, revealing its content: cigarettes. He handed one to Daeros and put one in his mouth. While struggling to lit it with a tinkerbox, he answered in a muffled voice: "Well, my older brothers all went to the army and died there. I'm the only living male of my generation. My two sisters serve as nurses at the Healers' House in Luln", he paused for a few seconds, lighting his cigarette at last. Then, he continued: "My dad was a cannonneer during the Thyatian campaigns and after the war, the king granted him a nice chunk of land. Since then our family has had a reputation for having good warriors."


"And do you?", Daeros asked. Perov seemed a bit offended by the question: "Damn my eyes if we don't! All my brothers were Silver Shields and up". Silver Shield is the name of a very prestigious medal awarded for exceptional acts of heroism. It can be awarded several times, but very few living soldiers can boast of having won a Silver Shield.


"That's good. What about you?", Daeros asked. The first drops of rain started to fall upon the soaked earth, anouncing the end of the brief rainless break. Perov quickly wrapped himself in a leather overall he got from a dead Darokinian officer: "Just a Cross of Bravery. But then again, I've been here for just a couple of months", he minimized.


Staying alive in this hell for a couple of months itself should be the subject of a medal, Daeros thought. The average life expectancy in this part of the front was just about a week. Many a farmboy or over-enthousiast officer killed on their very first day at the frontlines. Daeros survived his first two weeks somehow, despite several assaults made by both sides of the trenches. All of a sudden, his thoughts were interrupted by heavy rain. Perov gave him a tap on his back and quickly left for the nearest shelter. Daeros, who was on sentry duty, stayed. He was wearing two thick leather coats and a wool scarf, but somehow the cold still got him all the way to the bones. He cursed again and covered his rifle with a dirty blanket.


It was on such a rainy night of Autumn that Daeros fled home and joined the migration caravan to Mirros with high hopes of fortune and glory. But he never got to the City of Gold, as many call the capital of Karameikos. He could still remember every detail of that fateful night. Daeros had always been the black sheep of the family: the eldest son of a leather artisan, his future was to become a leather artisan and join the local guild, marry before his 20th birthday and inherit his father's business. A future not so bad, especially in the city-island of Ragusa, where most people end up being fishermen or sailors - much more dangerous and stinky professions. But Daeros was an adventurer by nature. He was always looking for something different. And so he became acquainted with another young daredevil, Marek, the only son of an army officer, who quickly became his best friend and adventure companion. The two were often seen running the downtown, teasing old ladies, throwing cats at guards or mixing up price tags in the market.


On one rainy day, however, Marek invited Daeros into his house. It was then when he met Lerissa, Marek's younger sister, and immediately fell in love with her. For the next couple of months he would look for any excuse to go to Marek's house. Lerissa also fell in love with the kid from the artisans' guild and the two started seeing each other in secrecy. That is, until Marek found out about it. He immediately told his father, who prohibited Lerissa of leaving her bedroom and Daeros of ever coming again to his house.


Daeros' own father didn't like the idea of his son with the daughter of anyone who did not belong to one of the Five Guilds of Ragusa. That could only mean trouble for him. The day he came to know about his son's escapades, he was so outraged that he beat him until he couldn't lift his arm anymore. Feeling that his family had abandoned him, Daeros left home the next night. He was hoping to go to the capital of the kingdom, Mirros, and see what glorious future Halav had reserved for him. And so he joined the Migration Caravan, a ship that would take him - along with hundreds of miserable people seeking a brighter future - to the promised land of Mirros. Its first stop after Ragusa was Halag, the capital of the duchy of same name, notorious for being ruled by a militaristic cast of lords and nobles. Halag, as many said, was the crushing hammer of Karameikos, for most of its best soldiers came from these lands. Daeros' hometown, Ragusa, was officially part of the Duchy of Halag, and most of Halag's navy was built and maintained there. But Daeros' family never had any connection with the sea, so he was largely ignorant to all military activities in his hometown or within the kingdom.


As soon as the ship docked in Halag, guards entered it and started asking for documents. It was a measure alledgelly taken against spionnage, but it also happened to be the perfect way of having a plausible reason to arrest runaways, beggars and other undesired travelers. Once arrested, they were given two choices: enlist in the army or rot to death in the coal mines doing forced labour. Daeros was caught paperless on that rainy night, along with at least three dozens of other unfortunate young men from Ragusa. Arrested and enjailed, their fate was sealed on that night...


After two months of hard training, Daeros was unlucky enough to be posted to the 63th Cruthian Storm Battalion. Since his hometown had no land army (except for a small garrison), he was posted to a Cruthian one. There, many of the boys spoke in a funny sounding and completely incomprehensive dialect, called Traladaran. Because of that, Daeros had a hard time fitting in, but quickly learned the strange language and was afterwards widely accepted by the members of the battalion, who nevertheless called him "Ragusan", in allusion to his origins.


As he knew, there was a war going on. What he didn't know was that Karameikos had turned on its old ally, Minrothad, for the control of some islands to the south. This triggered other nations to join the conflict, for different reasons. Darokin, the richest and most powerful nation in the known world, was the first to step up against Karameikos. Both nations had been rivals for centuries, and have been fighting each other on a regular basis over the past 250 years. Karameikos, while not the richest nor the largest nation, has developed a strong military system over the past 400 years, cumulating in one of the most efficient and vicious war machines of the known world.



At first, Karameikos had to deal with a massive invasion by Darokin (from the north and the west) and Minrothad (on the south). The halflings from the Five Shires firstly gave free passage to the Darokinians so they could attack from the west, but later on joined them actively with supplies and massive volunteering. After two years of brutal fighting, the Darokinians retreated back and closed the western front, leaving only a handful of regiments in the Five Shires. The Five Shires tried to pick up the fighting, but were defeated in Achellos (after their ultimate massive invasion plan to take Halag had failed) and forced to capitulate.



On the southern front, Minrothad had managed to land with 65 thousand men. Supported by their mighty navy, they were able to push as far as Marilenev in two years, and only Karameikan pride, stubbornness and vicious nightfighting tactics kept them from taking the historical bastion. After Darokin pulled back from the western border, Minrothad - predicting a massive dispatch of troops from that front - soon followed and retreated (not before leaving Sulescu and Vandevicsny in a pile of rubble and ashes).



Which leaves us to the northern front: The King's Pass. Not as bloody as the western front (where soldiers were notorious for their barbaric behaviour), but damn the soldiers hated carrying all that equipment uphill all the time! The King's Pass is a narrow hilly valley surrounded by huge rocky mountains. To make things worse, a river (the Highforge river) and its hundreds of branches cut the entire landscape into small islands, troop movements extremely predictable, especially if there is a bridge to fight for. Since the end of the Summer, it has been raining a lot, so military activities have come to a halt until further notice. So, basically, the King's Pass is a flooded, hilly, narrow corridor of death where troops have nowhere to run and nowhere to hide but their muddy, rat-infested trenches. Daeros couldn't think of a worse place to die.

O Pigmaleão

No meio da corrida, Pigmaleão, caiu. A turba endiabrada que o perseguia, não dando pela sua queda, passou-lhe por cima. Os restos do Pigmaleão amassado, lá se recompuseram e se levantaram por partes. Primeiro foi a cabeça, levantou-se apoiada pelo ouvido, depois levantou-se o cotovelo que puxou o braço e apoiou-se nas mãos, de modo que Pigmaleão visto onde se via, parecia fazer marinheiro. E eis que entra na história nosso marinheiro Pigmeu. Nascido de pai Malí e mãe marrom, possuía espírito macurreiro, ou seja, uma mistura de macumbeiro e guerreiro; que é o mesmo que dizer que ele contava com a coragem dos guerreiros Malí e a sorte das feitiçarias dos marrons.

Enfim, nosso marinheiro entrou pela primeira vez neste história por força do nosso Pigmaleão, de quem ele também tinha alguns traços, sendo o mais característico, diga-se, o não possuir língua. O marinheiro Pigmeu, assim ele gostava de ser chamado, falava todas as línguas existentes, por isso falava com todas as coisas do universo e se dava muito bem assim. Tanto é verdade que quando pela primeira vez entrou no navio em que servia como Encarregado de Carregar no Botão do Focalizador de Memória Eterna, nosso Marinheiro de Primeira Viagem, Pigmeu Marine, para os íntimos, não teve dificuldades nenhumas. Desempenhou todo seu trabalho com o profissionalismo de um verdadeiro Comandante de Botões Memorizadores de Memórias Eternas. Chegando mesmo a ser condecorado com um dia de trabalho a base de fome. Coisa só destinada à mais alta linha da marinha medisatânica.
Porem, e ninguém até hoje sabe bem porque, nosso marinheirinho, de quepi branco e roupa limpinha, branco como um pombo rei, lentamente abusou-se do barquinho que tripulava. Na sua cabecinha algo se passava. Mas isso ele não deixava ninguém entrever. Nem mesmo as menininhas que à noitinha dormia ali bem pertinho de suas orelhas podiam imaginar que dentro daquela cachalota as nuvens mais claras combatiam com as borrosas nuvens cinzas das características paisagens antuerpenhas. Elas, as doces menininhas de cruzeiros, criaturas tão dóceis e frágeis, tão voláteis e passageiras, companheiras de espaços vagos de tempo, para nosso marinheiro, eram ilhas de fina areia clara, ilhas de descanso e desleixo, e por isso não se preocupava ele com elas. Deixava-as à vontade no meio da imensidão do mar, mal o vento mudava,e ele sentia que podia levantar vela. Por isso nunca lhes disse nada do que lhe ia pela cabeça. Contar a quem quer que fosse, as formas vagas que compunham seus miolos, era lançar ancora sobre solo frágil, era fundear sobre enseada de corais. Por outras palavras, partilhar de seus planos, era por nos planos esse alguém. Mas Pigmeu Marine, não se sentia pronto para por ninguém nos planos, não sabia bem nem como haveria de desempenha-los. Por isso quebrava a cabeça com essas formas vagas de ondas, com esse rumorejar de ideias, por isso se impacientava com o navio, e por isso também decidiu abandonar o barco.
- Almirante do Botão Vermelho, disse nosso marinheiro de primeira viagem num belo dia de sol mediterrabundo, faço o favor de lançar ao mar um bote que aqui desço.
- Caro marinheirinho de primeira viagem, aqui não podes descer. Essa ordem só posso dar quando chegarmos ao porto de Viela.
O Marinheiro Pigmeu ficou muito triste com essa notícia, e com muito esforço voltou para os clickes do seu trabalho. Na cabeça os flashes dos seus sonhos eram constantes e contrastavam com os flashes dos dos Flashes. Isso tudo só aumentava seu tédio, porque o que queria de verdade era poder virar para o céu sua maquinazinha rugosa, sua cabecinha de vento, sua objetiva angular esférico reflexiva que na retina guardava as coisinhas que lhe eram mais queridas. Como por exemplo, e isso nem todos podem saber, apesar de ser do conhecimento geral, a imagem da trapezista.
Oh como parecia casando nosso marinheiro. Balançando na lata do barco, como uma sardinha de um lado para o outro imersa no azeite de oliva, nova modalidade de conserva nesse velho continente. Nosso grande Pigmeu, também imerso no óleo do trabalho, nas secreções do corpo, sem poder tomar aquele velho banho, aquele verdadeiro duche, com os dois pés bem cravados na areia, feito uma raiz de aroeira, ia lá pensando com seus botões, tentando superar os limites do aço, sonhando já com suas prórpias ideias.
Os dias foram passando, passando, as ideias foram se juntado no alto firmamento do cocuruto, e Pigmeu, aos poucos, muito lentamente, ia dando cores e traços aos seus objectivos. Nada que sua maquininha pudesse captar, ainda, dizia de si para si. Mas em breve, com a nova maquina que terei, sob o custo e o peso de um verão quase artico para mim que há anos não passo da linhas dos trópicos, com ela, poderei congelar a imagem dos meus sonhos. Então, então serei um verdadeiro Pigmaleão.

E aqui voltamos ao velho Pigmaleão do começo de nossa historietita. Pigmaleão levantou depois o tronco, depois nos joelhos ficou levantado, e apoiou-se num pé, e depois no outro, até que pode ver o mundo do alto. Na sua frente as costas da multidão que ainda o perseguia, e às suas costas o caminho para casa. Mas Pigmaleão tinha terminado seu trabalho aqui na terra, havia, por fim, encontrado a mulher navio, aquela que nós leva passageiro nela, e ai arriou ancora.

Eis outra característica em comum com o nosso Pigmeu Marinheiro. Em breve ele há de encontrar uma mulher navio, tão grande e tão vasta como o imenso oceano. Então haverá de gostar de ser sardinha.

23-10-08

Para o velho Manilo, do seu displicente irmão, Bruno.