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Introduction

The evening fires of Hatun’s capital poached at the dark of a busy night, casting long shadows from the narrow streets packed with establishments that seemed to stay open perpetually. In the heart of Kalam, four travelers gathered in akin goals. The promise of discipline and knowledge honed by the relatively young and novel Kalam in the world stage allured curious fighters.

It was in a bar filled with the scent of tobacco smoke and the breath of chatty drinkers, beneath a tall roof that endured more winters than most of its residents, it was there that the four strangers first met around a circular counter where several employees were hogged with orders. One with olive skin, combed hair, the serious but drowsy looking man sat and drank a simple beer. He whispers to himself in contemplation. Adjacent to him was a rosy man in military attire. He drank the strongest liquor the patrons had to offer and barely winced as he gulped it down and asked for another. "Uchek!" He wasted another cup. The third contemplated a half empty glass of cannabis tea before his crossed hands. His robes would make him fit in if they weren't so flashy, but they were his own sense of casualness. And the last, a scholar of distant lands, spoke softly and asked for warm water, "to keep my cognitivity intact", he pronounced in a delicate tone. The bartender overcharges him.

Though mentally, they were worlds apart, they all followed the same lead. There were tales of an elder on the slopes of Mount Pacha, in a village where the clouds meet the mountains before daring to reach their peaks, lived Master Kohu. He was said to follow the traditions of a long, long bloodline of martial artists, to have tamed armies, and to have passed beyond the limits of flesh itself. These are exaggerations, but he was certainly very talented. They say few ever found him; they say fewer ever returned.

The Rossan thought maybe this foreign culture could offer him new insights, with their ancient wisdoms or whatever jibber-jabber he heard around town. The Utlian thought if he crossed old man Kohu off his list of achievements he could gain more fame at home.

The Deysachni thought if he could speak fist-to-fist to the leader of Kohu's disciple village he would have a good chance to enlighten the more rural areas of Kalam.

The T'vaqi was determined to document foreign traditions and make a name for himself as an anthropological intellectual, one of the first T'vaqi to do so.

Maybe 10 minutes or so come to pass and the four notice the other foreigners hithering next to them. The Utlian speaks up. "You three have been stuck like a claw on my ass all night, what's up!?" He slurs half-intelligebly, leaning to the people at his sides and scaring them away with his disgusting breath. "Nobody's following you, snowtop. Back off." The Rossan assures him. The T'vaqi shrinks into his shoulders. "Why do you think the Lord brought us together?" The Deysachni makes a point with an authoritative voice. "We're the only non-Kalami in this coastal town heading for Pacha, we're clearly looking for the same thing, so I suggest we acquaint ourselves soon." The Utlian nearly stumbles and falls backwards before realizing how silly he seems. He returns to his seat quietly. The T'vaqi was about to introduce himself but the patron interrupted by pointing a sword at the three men next to him. “Leave, you're banned.” The group of now self-aware barflies stumbles out of the bar and onto the dirt street outside. The T'vaqi clears his throat and creates plumes of vapor as he speaks into the cold dark air. “Excuse me, I'm Viso Vanaq. I too am interested in studying this Kohu, may I tag along?” The Deysachni is the one to reassure him. “It would be satisfactory. I am known as Hebr Wastitli Sjanw. Just Hebr will suffice.” The Utlian won't let himself be left behind, so he speaks unnecessarily loudly. “I am Temor Ostromet, big leagues’ Utlian boxing semi-finalist, I don't take autographs so keep the requests to yourself.” The group stands around in awkward silence again. The Rossan perks up. “You're bragging about almost winning a boxing league?” Temor almost lunges at him. “You—”, but the Rossan doesn't wait. “I am Elio Giordani. It's a pleasure to meet you, I'm a professional wrestler back home.” Temor decides to save the fighting for later, but he'll forget about his grudge overnight. Elio continues after a beat. “I suppose we should return to the ship before it leaves. We ought to meet at the deck in the morning.”

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 The evening fires of [[Hatun]]’s capital poached at the dark of a busy night, casting long shadows from the narrow streets packed with establishments that seemed to stay open perpetually. In the heart of [[Kalam]], four travelers gathered in akin goals. The promise of discipline and knowledge honed by the relatively young and novel Kalam in the world stage allured curious fighters.
-It was in a bar filled with the scent of tobacco smoke and the breath of chatty drinkers, beneath a tall roof that endured more winters than most of its residents, it was there that the four strangers first met around a circular counter where several employees were hogged with orders. One with olive skin, combed hair, the serious but drowsy looking man sat and drank a simple beer. He whispers to himself in contemplation. Adjacent to him was a rosy man in military attire. He drank the strongest liquor the patrons had to offer and barely winced as he gulped it down and asked for another. "[[Utyis|Uchek!]]" He wasted another cup. The third contemplated a half empty glass of cannabis tea before his crossed hands. His robes would make him fit in if they weren't so flashy, but they were his own sense of casualness. And the last, a scholar of distant lands, spoke softly and asked for warm water, "to keep my [[cognitive capacity|cognitivity]] intact", he pronounced in a delicate tone. The bartender overcharges him.
+It was in a bar filled with the scent of tobacco smoke and the breath of chatty drinkers, beneath a tall roof that endured more winters than most of its residents, it was there that the four strangers first met around a circular counter where several employees were hogged with orders. One with olive skin, combed hair, the serious but drowsy looking man sat and drank a simple beer. He whispers to himself in contemplation. Adjacent to him was a rosy man in military attire. He drank the strongest liquor the patrons had to offer and barely winced as he gulped it down and asked for another. "[[Utyis|Uchek!]]" He wasted another cup. The third contemplated a half empty glass of cannabis tea before his crossed hands. His robes would make him fit in if they weren't so flashy, but they were his own sense of casualness. And the last, a scholar of distant lands, spoke softly and asked for warm water, "to keep my [[cognitive Capacity Scale|cognitivity]] intact", he pronounced in a delicate tone. The bartender overcharges him.
 Though mentally, they were worlds apart, they all followed the same lead. There were tales of an elder on the slopes of Mount Pacha, in a village where the clouds meet the mountains before daring to reach their peaks, lived Master Kohu. He was said to follow the traditions of a long, long bloodline of martial artists, to have tamed armies, and to have passed beyond the limits of flesh itself. These are exaggerations, but he was certainly very talented. They say few ever found him; they say fewer ever returned.