- Job Info:
- Job Name: Fit For a King
Job Rank: B Tier
Job Location: Parthevia | Lamet
Job Reward: 30,000 huang
Job Prerequisites: Be Zubaidah, finish the plot for [Where Fashion Reigns] and [the Sandstone Shah]
Job Overview: With the Shah Kosrow put to rest, Zubaidah has gathered important figures from the Parthevian sphere to attend a state funeral for Parthevia’s founder. She has ulterior motives in gathering them together, however, realising that the lack of central power-structures in the Parthevian peninsula has made them more vulnerable to external threats and more susceptible to arduous rebuilding programmes. Without a unified Parthevian super-structure, whether political or economic, the next disaster could cause the four Parthevian regions to crumble once more - but this time without the capacity to claw their way back. Addressing the attendees of Kosrow’s funeral, both personally and publicly, Zubaidah must persuade the other Hashashin head-mentors and major Parthevian groups, such as the Shars and Toads, that they should pool their resources and aim towards a better Parthevia for all. When attendees begin dropping unconscious, however, it soon becomes apparent that someone disagrees with this intention… So begins the locked-room mystery within Kosrow’s tomb - and the start of Parthevia’s unification.- Gawhur’s Hashashin:
Enemy Name: Fadahl and Nazairi
Enemy Tier: A Tier each
Damage Required to Defeat: A Tier each
Description: Two rival assassins from feuding families, Fadahl and Nazairi once challenged Zubaidah and Casrare for the title of Grand Hashashin. With a year having passed, their feelings of shame at losing have fermented into hatred towards the Amakh branch, causing them to join Gawhur’s in her crusade against the non-Isadora branches of the Hashashin order. Having learnt how to fight better with each other, and having upgraded their magic tools at the Grand Auction in Magnostadt, it will require Zubaidah to work with Darius in order to defeat them again.
Abilities:- Mountain Dew: One bounds forward five metres and strikes a target in their vitals for A tier damage.
- Monsoon Rains: One lunges forwards and rips into the target with their sword for B Tier damage. The other responds by throwing a poison bomb of one metre radius to paralyse one limb of the target for three posts as they react.
- Desert Winds: Springing forwards, one kicks a target’s weapon away and disarms them before the other comes in and uses a magic bottle to create a smoke blade from behind to slash for B tier damage.
- Twin-Peak Slash: One lunges forwards and, with two slick motions, slices into the opponent twice with their sword. The first will paralyse a limb and the second will deal C-tier damage on that same limb.
- Lone-Peak Slash: Throwing a smoke bomb produced from a magic lamp towards a target, blinding them for three posts, one launches themselves towards a target within ten metres and deals B tier damage on the way with their sword.
- Mountain Dew: One bounds forward five metres and strikes a target in their vitals for A tier damage.
▲
The golden sun glanced down upon Zubaidah, alone on the Parthevian sands. She had left her retinue from the Ash Company earlier, needing some time by herself before she put the Shah Kosrow back to rest in Lamet. Their plan for burial there was simple: associate Kosrow with the later Parthevian dynasties and rehabilitate them both in some grand historic identity. Was it wrong? She was unsure, so she needed time to think it over. Well, time to consider why it was right.
And so, on her way to the tombs of the dynastic Shahs, Zubaidah would make pilgrimage to the temple of Kurna, situated in southern Amakh. It loomed over the dusty road as a lonely cenotaph with a sand-coloured façade, massive and silent, its heaps of fallen stone degraded, its wide doorway thick and rough from the desert storms. There was no longer very much to see, but from there Zubaidah had a fine view of other Parthevian temples - of the Rostatim, shining bone-white like some grand skeleton; of Atasha Behram, distant and pale gold in the morning sunlight; of little Hamedan, the pretty child of Shah Rahman, with the heads of seven cranes adorning its roof to greet the morning sun.
As she passed them all, Zubaidah wondered whether she would be remembered with such rich displays - or if she would be forgotten, as the dead often are. She stared across them and watched the golden sunlight pour through the temples’ columns, hemmed in by the brilliant colours which painted their walls. As she watched, Zubaidah thought to herself that nearly all - perhaps simply just all - of these colours could be found in the funeral pyre. Every shade of yellow was there; lemon yellow, saffron yellow, the yellow of amber, the yellow of gold, the yellow of the sunset in Lamet, sulphur colour, sand colour, sun colour. Could these yellows not all be found in a fire? And there were reds as well; brick red, blood red, rust red, pink of the carnation, pink of the coral, the red of that little rose which grows in Tisifun. Even the pale blue-turquoise which comes from the blacksmith’s hammer was painted upon these walls.
Yet all these colours were mingled in artistic unity, without taking away from one another, baked into an exquisite palette. Like a flood, they seemed to flow from blue to yellow to red without stopping, seeming to mirror the river as it rushed between the Amakh and Kavir sands; no, mirroring all of Parthevia. She was taken from deepest Isadora to furthest Saffat, as if the entire Parthevian peninsula was laid bare in this one valley. And then it all came back to one point.
And so, on her way to the tombs of the dynastic Shahs, Zubaidah would make pilgrimage to the temple of Kurna, situated in southern Amakh. It loomed over the dusty road as a lonely cenotaph with a sand-coloured façade, massive and silent, its heaps of fallen stone degraded, its wide doorway thick and rough from the desert storms. There was no longer very much to see, but from there Zubaidah had a fine view of other Parthevian temples - of the Rostatim, shining bone-white like some grand skeleton; of Atasha Behram, distant and pale gold in the morning sunlight; of little Hamedan, the pretty child of Shah Rahman, with the heads of seven cranes adorning its roof to greet the morning sun.
As she passed them all, Zubaidah wondered whether she would be remembered with such rich displays - or if she would be forgotten, as the dead often are. She stared across them and watched the golden sunlight pour through the temples’ columns, hemmed in by the brilliant colours which painted their walls. As she watched, Zubaidah thought to herself that nearly all - perhaps simply just all - of these colours could be found in the funeral pyre. Every shade of yellow was there; lemon yellow, saffron yellow, the yellow of amber, the yellow of gold, the yellow of the sunset in Lamet, sulphur colour, sand colour, sun colour. Could these yellows not all be found in a fire? And there were reds as well; brick red, blood red, rust red, pink of the carnation, pink of the coral, the red of that little rose which grows in Tisifun. Even the pale blue-turquoise which comes from the blacksmith’s hammer was painted upon these walls.
Yet all these colours were mingled in artistic unity, without taking away from one another, baked into an exquisite palette. Like a flood, they seemed to flow from blue to yellow to red without stopping, seeming to mirror the river as it rushed between the Amakh and Kavir sands; no, mirroring all of Parthevia. She was taken from deepest Isadora to furthest Saffat, as if the entire Parthevian peninsula was laid bare in this one valley. And then it all came back to one point.
A tomb.
mag: 340/340 | word: 454 | stam: 390/390
VEL OF PIXEL PERFECT