Cataphracts
Tsaltalloy is a truly remarkable metal - stronger, lighter and more ductile than steel. Heat it captures is radiated away with tremendous efficiency through any outwardly curving surfaces in its structure - thus, armour made from shaped plates of it will drain away the bodyheat of its wearer, dissipating it rapidly into its surroundings. Under a desert sun, this leaves a warrior armoured entirely in the metal both cool, and wreathed in a wraith-like shroud of shimmering air.
Fossil tsalts are difficult to process out of the ancient limestone sediment of Korashi rockfaces, where strange, stone-turned organisms from a long-forgotten sea peer with frozen curiosity into the deserts of their future. But it is worth it for the few tribes able to do so - the substance has uses ranging from the agricultural to the alchemical. Though, as far as is known, Thousand Spears are the only tribe to possess the secrets of tsaltalloy production, which they forge under guarded scrutiny in their fortress-foundries to the northeast.
The warrior's mask, worn by every adult of the tribe, is made from the metal. As is the curved dagger the young are given on completion of their gruelling martial training. But Cataphracts are the only tribekin who may ride into battle encased from head to toe in tsaltalloy armour.
Competition to join their honoured ranks is fierce: a Lancer must prove themselves a warrior amongst warriors, and a rider of infallible skill. Many young lives are lost in heated proving-duels, where glory-mad, wild-eyed youths throw themselves headlong into destiny's open jaws, as dispassioned elders watch on in silent judgement. But the prize is so sweet.
Every Lancer has had the Cataphract dream. In their sleep, their unit rides resplendent upon ferocious haltza - foul-tempered cousins of the hadrassa riding beasts, few of which are ever yolked and reined. But the one beneath them is loyal, and broken unto them. Their body - not just their masked face - is a skin of invulnerable metal, shining like a golden mirror beneath the blazing sun.
They are charging. The shots of unseen jezails shriek by. Finally, one connects: only to burst against them like a hailstone against a mountain. Bullets like rain patter their body, but the drops are insignificant. They are unstoppable. A cold glee rises - they can sense now that dawn of realisation in their enemy: a mounting fear that this glorious charge cannot be stopped. Of the carnage to come.
And then, six lances couching as one, they crash headlong into that terrified foe.
Original lineart by Ellen, colouration by Eskalat, background is Creative Commons media
Thousand Spears
Fossil tsalts are difficult to process out of the ancient limestone sediment of Korashi rockfaces, where strange, stone-turned organisms from a long-forgotten sea peer with frozen curiosity into the deserts of their future. But it is worth it for the few tribes able to do so - the substance has uses ranging from the agricultural to the alchemical. Though, as far as is known, Thousand Spears are the only tribe to possess the secrets of tsaltalloy production, which they forge under guarded scrutiny in their fortress-foundries to the northeast.
The warrior's mask, worn by every adult of the tribe, is made from the metal. As is the curved dagger the young are given on completion of their gruelling martial training. But Cataphracts are the only tribekin who may ride into battle encased from head to toe in tsaltalloy armour.
Competition to join their honoured ranks is fierce: a Lancer must prove themselves a warrior amongst warriors, and a rider of infallible skill. Many young lives are lost in heated proving-duels, where glory-mad, wild-eyed youths throw themselves headlong into destiny's open jaws, as dispassioned elders watch on in silent judgement. But the prize is so sweet.
Every Lancer has had the Cataphract dream. In their sleep, their unit rides resplendent upon ferocious haltza - foul-tempered cousins of the hadrassa riding beasts, few of which are ever yolked and reined. But the one beneath them is loyal, and broken unto them. Their body - not just their masked face - is a skin of invulnerable metal, shining like a golden mirror beneath the blazing sun.
They are charging. The shots of unseen jezails shriek by. Finally, one connects: only to burst against them like a hailstone against a mountain. Bullets like rain patter their body, but the drops are insignificant. They are unstoppable. A cold glee rises - they can sense now that dawn of realisation in their enemy: a mounting fear that this glorious charge cannot be stopped. Of the carnage to come.
And then, six lances couching as one, they crash headlong into that terrified foe.
Thousand Spears
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