Tyleki: Oppression, Unrest, Spice, and Fisticuffs

One of the many variables that I’ve had to consider while working on Armageddon Reborn is how to breathe life into a new concept without diminishing any of the thematic aspects of the current game. After all, we wouldn’t be working on this project if we didn’t enjoy the present Armageddon. Harshness, gritty realism, danger, intrigue, murder, corruption, betrayal–these are the things that keep us coming back as players.

The thematic element I’ve been developing within Tyleki is one that all Armageddon players will find familiar: that of the common folk versus The Man. Political instability, oppression, and rebellion are integral parts of the Zalanthan experience. Arm Reborn will be a new game, but it’s the building team’s intent to retain the feel of the world we all know and love.

– Calavera

Year 425: Violence continually flares up in the aftermath of [censored], leading the militia to declare the public carrying of weapons unlawful. As time passes, Tyleki citizens adapt to their circumstances and a cultural trend toward brutal unarmed combat begins to develop.

Year 450: House Tranile enters a deal with the Adevari to mine their copper. Half of Tyleki’s militia is sent to the mining outpost to serve as guards. Tranile allows the other noble houses only a pittance of their copper profits. Miners are allowed the privilege of carrying weapons due to the dangerous nature of their job.

Year 451: The understaffed militia is officially dissolved, though the three ruling houses retain retinues of private guards. With the disbanding of the militia, citizens are now free to arm themselves once more, though a tradition of settling differences with public unarmed bouts remains.

Keffer’s Quarry was open all night long, like most joints in Tyleki. You never could guess exactly when the next crowd would come in off the mines, weary and dirty and looking for a place to score some relaxation. Things were sparse as Sharay swatted the tarp aside and ducked inside.

The place was cobbled together from various bits of stone–hence the name–that all seemed to have been cannibalised from other structures. A squat boy tended a cooking fire in the corner, passing out bowls of stew. Keffer himself stood behind the bar as usual. He was busy passing the time with a deck of cards that looked as old as he was.

Sharay scanned the crowd, didn’t see any unfamiliar faces. Good. Better yet, she didn’t see any familiar-but-unwelcome faces either.

“The usual, Kef?” She slid onto a stool with a lopsided stone seat.

When the bartender looked up, his face was the only clue she needed that something was wrong. Instinctively, she glanced over a shoulder.

“He was here again,” the old man said, setting his now-forgotten deck of cards on the bartop. “Vissk, of the Tranile Guard.”

The Overseer’s pet? Fuck. Sharay held her breath for a few seconds. She and House Tranile hadn’t been on the best of terms since a certain incident in the tunnels…

“Asked about me again, I take it.” Her voice came out calmer than she’d hoped. Keffer simply nodded.

“Just tell him I haven’t caused any trouble in months,” which wasn’t exactly true; she just hadn’t been caught, “and that I learned my lesson.”

The ambient chatter died down and a few pairs of eyes regarded her in somber silence. Most of the Quarry’s regulars could still remember her arrest–dragged kicking and spitting and screaming onto the Shelf, screeching epithets like it was going out of style. Like some sort of crazy. But hey, she had been crazy enough to pick an unwinnable fight with the powers that be.

She suddenly didn’t feel like drinking anymore.

“On second thought, Kef, save the ale,” she muttered, pushing up off her stool and moving immediately toward the exit.

She got there just as the black-clad man stepped through. They nearly collided. The Tranili Guardsman, Vissk, had been asking after her more and more frequently. Almost as though he knew what she was up to. Sharay took a step back and looked him over, head to toe. He was wearing House Tranile’s signature black armour and brightly-coloured sash. It looked like he hadn’t shaved for a couple days. Most alarmingly, his expression as he regarded her was unaffronted, almost pleasant.

She fixed him with a glare and made a shooing motion with one hand. Vissk made no move, but he looked a little affronted.

“Slag off, please.” She kept her voice low and even.

Sharay was expecting a fight. She was hoping for a fight. No fight came. He didn’t so much as lean toward her. The bar went silent. She was midway through trying to devise a strategy on how quickest and cleanest to get her boot-knife into his gut when he spoke:

“I’m tired of this. My masters are tired. Let’s settle things the sensible way.”

It was an offer even better than what she’d hoped for. Vissk offered a palm, and she snatched his hand for an eager shake.

“Dawn, then. Before it gets too hot outside.” She smiled a thin, taut smile. “Hope your sponsors can afford nice gloves.”

—

When the fight came, it was hard and fast and bloody. They were down in the Pit, an old granite quarry that was no longer in use. Rowdy spectators gathered at the rim, hollering their allegiances. Some were spiced, some were drunk, some just brayed crazily. Sharay knew most of them weren’t actually on her side so much as they just wanted to see a Tranile boy go down–a sentiment she couldn’t fault them for.

Vissk wore a pair of rather plain cestus gloves, tipped with what appeared to be small granite studs at the knuckles. Her gloves were rattier in comparison; half the shards of bone initially woven through the knuckles had long since broken away. But those details were the last thing on her mind as she rode the kemen high into combat.

They stood on opposite sides of the circle as the announcer did his job. Sharay Timar, no affiliation. Vissk Cambril, First Guard and representative of the Illustrious Satahe Tranile. As per tradition, they nodded to one another when announced.

Time didn’t quite stand still, but it slowed for a while. The pause before it all began seemed to take forever with all the kemen in her system. But she wouldn’t make the first move. She wouldn’t be overeager. That had been her mistake before, back when–

And suddenly, he was on her.

He was faster than she’d given him credit for, that was for sure. She just barely ducked her head back in time to avoid his initial strike. After that, it was all reflex. She bobbed and ducked and wove and struck and even if her brain could have kept up with her body, she still would have had a hard time making sense of their moves on a conscious level.

Sharay heard his elbow impact her side before she felt it. Something in her torso snapped. The kemen kept the pain far away for the time being, so she pushed on, paid the hit back with an elbow to his ribs and a tag to the jaw. He was good at keeping his face out of the way; she barely whiffed him.

The crowd overhead roared; they continued on, trading blocks but making little progress. Though he didn’t seem well-trained, Vissk had natural speed. He moved like a jhurr, hit like one too.

Vissk pulled back to re-stance and she lunged forward, driven by momentum. He took just a moment too long to deflect; her knuckles ripped into his cheek. She felt something give beneath her hand, but didn’t have long to relish the sensation. He slammed a knee straight into her diaphragm and she staggered back. When she tried to breathe, she couldn’t.

Sharay knew the fight was over in that instant, but her body didn’t want to believe it. She gasped, barely drawing breath, chest heaving, eyes bulging. One arm lifted in a weak block as Vissk came at her again. Grimacing, she held back one of his fists; the other smashed into her temple. White streaked across her vision, and this time she went down, whether the kemen thought she was finished or not.

Vissk drove a boot into her side to add insult to injury. Something else cracked. Or maybe it was the same thing cracking again. Pain began to seep in around the edges of her consciousness now, as far-off as the dull, distant noises of the crowd.

“One of these days,” said the Guardsman as he crouched over her, beginning to untie her gloves, “you’ll learn to stop stirring up trouble.”

Sharay said nothing, as it was hard enough to just keep breathing. Maybe it was just the kemen, but she didn’t feel ashamed. A vision danced before her half-closed eyes: a lunge, a twist, the hot red spray as she slammed her boot-knife into the fucker’s throat. But that could come later. Time was on her side. She could wait forever for a chance at revenge.

She was beaten, but still angry.