Reader Disclaimer: all excerpts are based on interpretations of the original language. Due to the distinction of this language as well as deterioration, many words are translated based on the region's surviving languages and may not reflect direct translations.
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United African Archaeological Association
Kioni
"Jorri is my home. Jorri is my family. Jorri is my life. " - expert from Guard Kioni, salvaged 2/3/20 AD, found along the boarding river of the Zaherian Empire.
"KILL YOURSELF!" Someone screamed as hot liquid stinged the corners of my eyes. Hoards of men loomed over me as I tried walking to my post. Their robes caught onto my freshly sharpened sword, tearing away patterns their wives worked so hard to create. People normally gathered here a half an hour early. My hair and figure stook out like a sour thumb making it extremely easy for the public to find out my shift patterns. I always thought it was strange that so many men didn't have work at the height of the day, but after a while I learned to deal with it. Their spit slid down my armor as I hosted myself onto the lookout floor.
"There should be a week's worth of arrows up here. Keep a close eye on the southern border. Last shift reported Zahereian Rebels to the east." Okoyo commanded as he handed me widow blood darts. The widow's blood darts felt light in my hand. Much lighter than the ones we trained with. Their tips were drying from the desert sun, but their poison never decreased value. It was a guard tale as old as time, but its words were as pointiest as a widow's blood.
"How bad is this rebellion supposed to be?" I asked, carefully trying not to touch the tips of the darts as I put it in a case in the drawer.
"Nothing we can't handle," he said, his eyes lowered as he spoke. The usual crowd of curious bystanders doubled. They all leaned against the railing a few hundred feet below trying to catch a few words to twist into gnarly rumors.
"We'll talk about it later. Just… stay here and look busy." He whispered as he climbed down the ladder.
The view from the highest point of eastern Jorri was always breathtaking. It was a post I occupied at least once a week but the post was my favorite mostly because of the visibility. Clay buildings are reflected by the midday rays of the winter sun. Street vendors sold their homemade Zukias to labor workers returning from their morning shifts. A few guards walked on the streets talking about who knows what. Even far off in the distance, I could see glimpses of the last outpost within the Jorri borders. But those things got old after a while. What the other guards never paid attention to was the ginger smoke shimmering in and out of view a few city blocks beyond our borders; lingering among the treetops of the fallen nation of Zahere.