Summoning Our Country - NHS Kai

Chapter 4.5: Only Time Will Tell

Note: This is rose. Sorry for the absent week. For this chapter, there's no NSFW material but there are sensitive topics and even some racism, the presence of which does not represent the views of anyone in the team. Tread through this chapter knowing you have been warned. 

As of April 22, 2022, this chapter has been rewritten

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Cent. Calendar 25/04/1639, Barrat, Kingdom of Quila, 10:00

"Hmm..."

A silent groan was the only thing that echoed within the dusty interior created by the four earthen, mud-brick walls. There were no windows, but there was one big, rectangular opening in the ceiling, covered by a holed wooden board that let in thin streaks of sunlight. Behind an earthen slab that functioned as a desk was a man with a dark complexion leaning back on his stiff, wooden chair. Despite his shorter-than-life stature, he was an adult in his middle ages, as apparent in his thick, graying beard and bald temple. His stubbiness is but a natural form for him, for he was a dwarf.

"What is going on here..."

Scratching his scalp that was devoid of hair, Metzal, foreign affairs consultant to the kingdom of Quila, was brooding over something. In an effort to make sense of it all, he went through the events that transpired yesterday.

- - -

Arriving at his work quarters early in the morning, a Metzal buried in a thin film of coarse, irritating sand entered through the entranceway. After using a sizable stone slab to cover the entranceway, he patted his entire person, from his stubby shoulders to the lower parts of his maroon robes, to clear them of pesky dust.

"Damned sandstorm!"

Outside, a blistering sandstorm continued to ravage the modest settlement that was Barrat, the capital of the kingdom of Quila. Laying claim over the barren wastelands that formed the great southeastern aridness of the Rodenius continent, Quila always had little to offer to the greater nations that lay outside of it, and as such it has seen little in the way of economic prosperity, let alone development. In spite of its tragic, unproductive lands, the primary source of pride that the kingdom was known for was its hardy people, a conglomerate of beastmen, humans, and dwarves who've built up extreme tolerance to unforgiving circumstances. Driven by the economic wallows in their pitiful homeland, they're forced to employ themselves in difficult jobs abroad, especially as mercenaries. The sandstorms that constantly plague the Quilan wastelands gave birth to a people with unmatched resolve, but that doesn't necessarily mean everyone likes it.

"Ugh..."

Metzal tried to breathe through his nose but they were clogged, presumably from the tingly dust particles that made their way through his nostrils.

"Manners, dear friend of mine. Here."

The voice of another person in his work quarters reached him from behind, mildly startling Metzal. He recognized the elegance of the voice's tone, but he still turned around to visually confirm it for himself.

"Folen..."

Sitting on one of the earthen slabs that served as a couch was the green-clothed figure of an elven man. Called Folen by Metzal, his clean and refined appearance reflected the fact that he was from the better off principality to the north: Qua-Toyne. The elf's hand was extended out towards him with a clean, white cloth in the middle of his palm.

"I've no need for your baby wipes, Folen."

"You're doing a bad job of acting like an adult, Metzal. With that stubby, baby height of yours, the only redeeming, adult-like feature is your bald head."