CARNIVAL WORLD CHAPTER 4

Copyright 2025 (TXu002497745)

Warrior’s Path, or so I have seen on a few old maps, follows down to where the north and south range of the Serpent Mountains cross into the great southern sea.

The northern way bends around near the northern edge of Serpent Mountains near the Dark Feathered Serpent Queen’s lair. It looks like it is not far, at least not probably more than a day or two on foot anyway, to her citadel, from the foot of the mountains. Crumbling castle walls is all you will find topside. She and her people live in the underground “neutral zones” of labyrinthine caves and tunnels that fill the ground beneath the mountains.

Thousands of years ago, before the time of the Dark Age, there were two groups of Naga or feathered serpents. One group had followed the ancient Snake gods. The other group, that lived at the foot of the mountains, and in the under-mountain grottoes, worshiped Creator.

Before the time of the Great Purge of the Dark Age, in the times of the grand children of the Nordic Elves, while not necessarily prone to evil, both the “Good” feathered serpent people and the Nordic Elves, prosperous and numerous humanoid beings, had grown soft and forgotten their forefather’s God, Creator and His Son. And it was not so much that Creator punished them, but they had foolishly walked out from under the shadow of his wings, and out from under His protection.

When the great purge came, Monster Men, genetically enhanced beast men, made for the Naga Queen by Atlanticean geneticists, had poured forth from the Badlands and from under holes in the ground to swarm the many people groups.

Great cities at the foot of the mountains and across the plains had been razed. Huge castles smashed or tunnels ripped upwards from below the ground, by the giants, trolls, and monsters. Monster Men and other beastly cryptids were made from combining genetic material from aurochs, wolves, bears, and saber-toothed cats, and the long extinct unicorns, both the equine and rhino varieties, with Barbarians, common humans and humanoids, Naga, Sabe and Dog Man people. Mighty Monster Men created from the Atlanticean type Crisper Tech, an advanced technology wizardry of great and careless evil, wrought chaotic havoc far and wide, on ancient Carnival World, a millennium past.

Many castles and large cities had been destroyed in that great war. Only the two huge walled cities of the Star Portals of the Atlanticeans had not been breached, but they had not been cities, merely holy portals, ports used to fast travel between the stars.
Meanwhile, as the Snake god Atlanticeans had declared war on the “good” Atlanticeans, the snake god Queen of the Black Naga, Zzzindarzzzii, had declared war on the rest of the world. A thousand years have passed since then.

The Warriors Path circles the western side of The Borderlands along the foot of the Smoky Mountains, bends down near the White Dwarf Mountains, travels south along the western sea, then comes back near the southern sea, then back up to Ayengard, north to the White Naga Ruins, to follow along the edge of the Smoky Blue Mountains, and back to the Carnival City area.
There is also the Trader’s Path that follows a winding route through the mountains from the White Dwarf Mountains of the West Coast to the Mountains of Exile where the north south range of the Feathered Serpent Mountains meets the east and west range of the Smoky Blue Mountains. The Southern Trade route, when used, just follows the south central Warrior’s Path across the White Naga Ruins and down passed Zandar’s Castle, Ayengard City, to the Red Dwarf Mountains above the Southern Sea.

CARNIVAL WORLD CHAPTER 5

Zandar was merely a teenager, the youngest son, born late, of many brothers and sisters. His father’s child, the daughter of a maiden of the royal guard who had caught the king’s eye, in the last decades of his life. Zandar survived the Dark Purge, a massive, cloned army of Monster Men, built by Atlanticean scientists and the Dark Naga Assassins guild, because he had been exploring the underground ruins of the ancient “Good Naga” city.

He also remembered and daily brooded, even in his old age, on the fact that rather than help them fight the Beast Men super soldiers, the Black and Red Dwarven allies, had hidden cowardly and heartless, in their under-mountain holes, and refused to come to their aid, at the start of the quick and terrible war of the Monster Men. Zandar, later in life had lamented, “Only one useless White Dwarf, full of hot fetid wind and flatulence, offered support. A self-righteous bearded midget, filled to overflowing with false prophecies, had offered aid to Royal Aydengard.

Worthless word salads of faith and wind pudding he offered to my people! Stale healing salts pressed, too late, into an old wound!”
No, Zandar did not forget the young dwarf cleric, from the White Dwarf Mountains, far to the west of the Borderlands, in the lofty cliffs that over looked the northwest swells of the Western Sea.
The Dwarf Cleric who had promised, that if they turned back, to serve Creator, as their grandda’s and grandmawmaw’s people had, that He would intervene on their behalf and give them victory. Or so the ballads say. Amongst the Dwarves, formally, or to be coldly polite, you called your father, Father. However, the intimate and fond greeting was Da, for father. Or Grand Da, or DaDa was their race’s name for grandfather. Maw for mother, was their term of endearment, but Mother was also an acceptable greeting either way. Although, by the third generation down, the common grandmother, grandfather, father and mother had become more the terms in use, for both the Dwarves and the High Elves.

Zandar, his face draining in pallor, wedge-pointed Elven chin drawn downward, muscles taught and hard, like a shark’s toothy frown, glowered down, from several inches over six feet, at the short compact little dwarf. Ayneegh did not rudely meet the prince’s fierce stare, but neither did he cower.

The elf prince stood proud and tall, like a bull moose in his prime, unfazed and arrogant, before the gathered courtiers. Zandar, his left hand on his belt, next to his royal dress sword, dressed elegantly in his royal finery, struck a fine pose like a famed orator. Amidst the cool grandeur of pompous Nordic Elven architecture he stood. Those surroundings made most visitors feel diminished and awe struck, lost in the ghostly mocking echoes of the chryselephantine marbled halls of the crowded royal courtroom. Zandar Aviel Knorn postured dramatically and pointed a long, strong finger at the Dwarf Cleric as he bellowed in his most stentorian voice:
“Who is this Creator of yours, Dwarf, that I should listen to Him? And who is His Son?
“You are a worthless Dwarf! A religious nut job! You are full of hot air and mystical visions!
“I am not some uncouth and unlearned common person!
“I am not a high minded Atlanticean scientist with his nose stuck in a book!
“I am not a grunting Barbarian and Sabe half-breed who runs naked in the mountains, spearing elk and fish!
“I am a royal son of the most powerful warriors, legends on this world and others!
“I have been trained by the best fighters and am a champion, in my own right! Trained by my mother and the royal guards in the most lethal and efficient martial disciplines – the honored and hallowed craft of elite bowmen and swordsmen!

“I don’t need you and I don’t need your God, Dwarf Holy Man! What kind of fool, do you take me for, Dwarf? You odiferous, addlepated, braid-bearded mountain midget! How dare you enter our royal halls, merely to insult my intelligence, with such insane religious malarkey and codswallop!

“I, for the life of me, don’t know why my father does not tar and feather you, White Dwarf, and throw you out of the castle, with a swift kick up your arse, to boot!”

“Enough, son. I am still your king!” thundered the Nordic Elf Sovereign.

Zandar’s hazel eyes blazed at his father. He was shocked and embarrassed before the royal court. His father had always pandered to his moods, overlooking his usual audacity, forever fond of his bright, handsome, articulate and talented youngest son, a miracle boy, born in the diminishing days of the jarl’s venerable age. Not today.

The king continued with dignity and firmness, “We will, Prince Zandar, let the dwarf speak and then send him away with food and drink for the road! We will conduct ourselves with common courtesy in my throne room! Or my royal guard will escort you, young Zandar, out of my royal court chambers!”

Zandar, according to the legends, had fumed outwardly, clenched his teeth, placed his hands behind his back, stuck out his chest, and bowed slightly before his father, but held his tongue.

The king listened to Ayneegh’s words politely. While he did not agree with Zandar’s behavior, his heart had not truly been stirred nor his pride softened to the point that he would call for a day of prayer and repentance for his people.

The King remembered the dwarf cleric’s words but decided only to meditate on them but not act.

Ayneegh said, gently but passionately, “If you do not take Creator up on his offer, Great Nordic King, even though you are indeed, grandsons and granddaughters of legendary cosmic warriors, your people will be on their own, when the dark days soon come.
“Rather than a great resounding victory, that will be spoken about with awe for a thousand years, instead your victory will come at great cost, both personally and for your kingdom.

“Because of promises Creator made to your grandfathers and grandmothers, Great King, it is His wish to bless you, but without His blessing, Great King, things will not go well.

Ayneegh added, “Great King, I also would request a boon of you. I ask that you rescue a young Feathered Serpent girl, who is imprisoned in the catacombs below the foot of the Naga Mountains. The upper city has been destroyed in a recent battle. Areas in the underground of the city, even though it is as deserted below the ground as above, is where you will find the young princess. She is a Feathered Serpent girl, and she is trapped there. That woman, when she is older, will be important to you and your kingdom. More than once, Great Nordic King, she will save the lives of your family. She will also be instrumental in guaranteeing that your family line does not end with Zandar.”

Zandar’s father had treated the dwarf cleric with dignity, and as he had promised, he had gifted the cleric with food and drink for his journey. The King had also promised to see that someone was sent to rescue the Naga girl. While he had been too proud to seek Creator, he had been wise enough to see the benefit of a famed White Feathered Serpent Healer and Sage to assist the royal family in the future. Even if the rescuing of the princess ended up being a false prophecy, the people would be proud of their effort and his family would benefit from their admiration. Also, it would be good training for his son, or so it has been recorded in the courtly journals, that the king had talked the issue over with his advisors before sending Zandar on the mission.

Zandar and his father had had words, terrible words, after that. Before the young prince had finally agreed to go on the quest, his place as the favored pampered son, was no more. The king’s son was not evil by nature, and well-liked by his friends and the people. He was, however, full of pride, and stubborn by nature. Zandar was a good warrior and naturally quick of mind, quick to strategize and a natural leader. The claim by the young dwarf priest that the rising enemy was so powerful, as to present a clear and present danger, had left him feeling insulted and enraged.
Later, when the words of the White Dwarf prophet had proven true, and their allies, the Black and Red Dwarves had not come to their aid, it had been bitter cheese to swallow. The memory had rankled the princeling for long bitter centuries, and the grudge festered long after Zandar had succeeded his father to the throne.
When at last, the young Prince Zandar, had agreed to put together a team, and perform the quest, he had left his father with these last words, “I will do your bidding as my king, Father, but do not expect to see much of me, after I am successful. I plan on traveling the world for a while. Think well of your son and comfort my mother while I am away.”

Zandar never saw his father or mother again. His mother died defending the castle from the Monster Men invasion. As did his uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters and cousins and only a small remnant of his people were left for his father to rule. Zandar left adventuring to rule at the castle after his father had died, old and alone, except for a few servants, in a broken ruin of a once great city. Today, Zandar is ending his reign, in the same manner as his father, alone except for his servants and guards. Whenever possible, the Atlanticean and Naga Assassins, through the centuries paid well for missions against Zandar’s friends and family.

The same cult that had been responsible for the Dark Purge of the Monster Men Super Soldiers, under a Dark Naga Queen who had imperiously commanded, “Build me an army! An army worthy of my royalty and power! A clone army of beast men, giants, and trolls!

Zandar had, however, avenged his people, but neither the Dark Queen’s daughter or the Assassins Guild forgot his exploits against them and their Monster Men army. Much of his early adventuring had been as a bounty hunter working with the newly appointed Mountain Reeves, mustered by an Atlanticean, the hero of the Dark Ages, who transformed an environmental monitoring space station into the Dark Lancer, with the blue lasers of legend that had decimated the Monster Men invasion.
Aydengard, now only a remnant of the once grand city, lies at the center of the north and south range of the Naga and Red Dwarf mountains. The once great city is nestled just above the foothills of the western side. Above Ayengard, a few hours climb, is a small sleepy village, Arlahi, where the rest of the High Elf nobility reside, cousins to the Royal Family of Zandar’s Castle.
While there are several fancy estates, more of the poorer commoners live amongst the ruins of the ancient city of High and Low Arlahi. Hundreds of once grand cities, lay in sun-kissed ruins, scattered, far and wide, on both sides of the Nordic Elf mountains, of the Misty Mountains, north south range.
Now the homes of forest birds and beasts, and hither and yon, a few Centaur and Cervidae forts and caves, are carved out of fallen castle walls and old cool storage vaults. Where once park-like vistas and happy manors, full of frolicking Nordic and High Elf families, peeked from the mountain strongholds, now the wilderness has swallowed what were once teeming cities and bold castles, with blankets of leafy trees and black armies of shrubby brushlands.

Directly east, up and over the snowy crest of mountain tops, then down again to the expansive flatlands, and far across are the grassy eastern plains. Two day’s journey by blimp, across the savannahs of the Eastern Borderlands, near the Eastern Sea, lies the Star Portal Cyclopean edifice of the Irish Pub Theme Park.
Both Star Portal Edifices that surrounded each theme park were composed of Rose Granite. Rose Granite is one of the densest substances on Carnival World next to Atlanticean Star Metal. The Cyclopean walls, designed with laser precision, of blocks too large to be maneuvered into position by contemporary earth building equipment. Like the pyramids of earth, the cracks of the Cyclopean walls and the Quartzite sandstone coverings, have seams so narrow that it is challenging to insert a credit card. They are works of stunning architectural achievement.
Quartzite sandstone coverings were covered, like chocolate sauce over ice cream, along the outer surfaces of the Cyclopean walls to insulate all electromagnetic fields.

Quartzite Carnival World sandstone is quite common in the seaside cliffs below the Red Dwarf Mountains and when softened by the correct audio frequency, melts and attaches to the Rose Granite, blending with it like new paint over an older coating of paint, then focuses the harmonically cultivated earth energy to produce a refocused electromagnetic field. That new field resonance diminishes negative energy and sound pollution. The energy field that flowed from the Cyclopean walls produced an energy field that, rather than draining your stamina, and clouding your mind, like stray voltage, made you feel alert, energized and healthy.

Some of the Castle walls of the royal elves and dwarves, also made of that Rose Granite and Quartzite sandstone, worked much the same way.

Here, in Ayengard, on the western side of the Misty Mountains, is where the last son of the Nordic Elves is slowly dying, in his family castle. Zandar, except for a few servants, and his granddaughter, who no longer lives there, are all that remain of that once great people.

The High Elf Princess thinks Zandar is her uncle, but he is her grandfather. Her father, Faerune, was, like Zandar, the result of a court dalliance, not with a commoner, but a distant cousin and adviser of noble blood. The lady ambassador, in the king’s old age, was not offered a royal marriage. Zandar did however, pay her well to be his consort and to raise Prince Faerune.

No, the mother of his child did not become the queen, but merely occupied a royal tower. She was, Zandar justified his decision, just the aftermath of a palace party where the old High Elf war hero of The Dark Purge, was too deep in his cups to care about propriety.

Zandar’s royal concubine was found garroted to death in her chambers one morning, less than a decade after giving the jarl an heir. Zandar pretended a cool and formal grief. Alone in his chambers with his doors locked, he had wept bitterly. Later, after the tears of his font had run dry, and the harsh invisible hand had softened under his throat and around his massive chest, Zandar vowed to be kinder to Faerune. He had also vowed that any family the son might bring into the royal household, would also be treated better. While Zandar was never the epitome of gentle kindness, in his own way, after his concubine’s murder, the jarl of Aydengard had been more open to spending time with and caring for the needs of his family.

Zandar was always his father’s son, just more stubborn, and prone to fiery outbursts of acidic bluntness. Faerune, not a great fighter, but possessing a polite and silver-tongued diplomat’s skill, was by personality more like his grandfather.

Faerune had married early. Latraya was from the High Elf nobility. A plain, eccentric woman, with a scholar’s mind, but supportive and compassionate. Latraya gave birth to only one child for the royal Knorn family line. But, back to the cultural geography lesson.