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Fantasy Ahrammaria: Lore

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Murdergurl

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  • In the distant East, across the Torric Ocean and over the Arion Mountains, the Kingdom of Ahrammaria rises out of the perpetual desert sands. The barren region is known as The Palm of Zalas. It is a land of shifting secrets and hidden enemies. Much like the Burning Sea, the great desert that stretches out eastward, the people are enigmatic and abstruse. Words are spoken with obscured meaning, and the culture is steeped in nuances. The land is foreboding, offering seductive whispers of wealth and power only to deliver swift death to the unwary. The Amir of the land, Hashad Zareb Ibn Taariq, rules over the arid kingdom from within his residence in the opulent city of Tamyr. The alabaster palace sits atop a hill at the edge of a savannah, and the views from its minaret-capped towers take in the great yawn of the territories from all around.

    In Ahrammaria, assassins lurk in shadowy corridors, thieves infest the pathways of bustling bazaars, and bandits lay in wait by popular roadways for unwary passersby. Even while legions of Ahrammari soldiers bolster the larger cities and outposts, warriors of various tribal affiliation are in locked in an incessant struggle over their age-old territorial disputes. For as sovereign as the land of Ahrammaria reigns on its bed of swirling sands, it is wrought in civil strife and sits on the precipice of upheaval.

    But the politics of rulership and governmental affairs are not the concern of this story. This is not a tale of sheiks and courts. This is not an account over the rival clans of the land and their turmoil. This is a story about lowly murderers and liars; marauders that ride as a plague upon the provinces and prey upon the weak and unwary. Coming from a variety of walks of life, their number is gathered from the native peoples as well as those having come to Ahrammaria from the outlands. They call themselves the Red Talons, and their reputation is nothing if not one of malefaction. Their late leader, Hadid Al-kaib, had prospered greatly in his wicked career as a desert bandit. He had ridden his lot of vicious raiders back and forth across the sands of Ahrammaria and into local legend. They had pillaged and raped and murdered to their black heart's content. But that era would inevitably come to a violent close.

    Hadid was dead. His corpse lay stiff and cold on a feast hall table, his head nowhere to be seen. Around the mauled cadaver, the remnant of the Red Talons cavorted and indulged in the carnal delights and hedonistic pleasures that only the city of Kaladaar could provide. And of all the service houses in Kaladaar, the ones run by the fat merchant Zosar were known to be the most epicurean in their ministrations. They attracted the most low-borne and sordid of characters. And thusly, they were common haunts for members of the Red Talons.

    A feast was being held in Hadid's "honor". Both allies and rivals of the dark-hearted man sang drunken songs of his misdeeds, often boasting of their own deplorable acts in the same breath. Whores and grog were both served up in great abundance at the den of debauchery, and the district was filled with their raucous cacophony. But the Red Talons were splintered with the Bandit King's death. Despite the festivities, the once well-organized mob had already started to break down into conspiring gaggles of the thugs. Many aspired to replace Hadid as leader of the Red Talons. But few had the capacity for it. And as word of Hadid's death spread across the land, other gangs would surely seek to fill the vacuum of power left by the infamous marauder. As the fire lights of Kaladaar burned and flickered in the warm night air, so too did the power-hungry eyes of ambitious villains.
 

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