VANDALIA: A Barbarian Barbary
By Errnge
Introduction:
Welcome to Vandalia
Faban gawked as he followed the clearly scripted tour-guide through the grand city of Iporeguia. It reminded him of Konstantinopolis, only… only weirder (for lack of a better word). The city had all the ancient majesty of Konstantinopolis, but the way the building stood like giant drip-castles capped in gold, the way the stone-paved streets shone a dazzling white when the sun hit them the right way… What the travel books said were true; No place was quite like the capital of Vandalia.
“The Kingdom of Vandalia is one of the oldest nation-states in existence. The Kingdom has claims ancient origins, dating back to the days of King Gaiseric, an age of fire and blood with the last gasping breaths of the Western Roman Empire,” The tour guide said in accented Seaxinsk as she led Faban through what was called “The Old City” called so because it was the ancient district of the city, where tearing down and building structures had been forbidden. “However the modern Kingdom of Vandalia does not hold direct line from this ancient kingdom, but was instead founded in 798 A.D.”
Faban felt like an ant in the crowds. There were so many people walking the streets, probably for much the same reason as he: tourism. He hated that he was just another one of them, but he felt it was an easy price to pay to walk through this ancient city. It was evening, and the day was finally cooling, making it the best time to walk through the city.
“Vandalia, or Bhandulia as it is called Vandalian, is a land whose history is written in ancient blood and constant warfare. The many cultures, religions, and ethnic groups of North Africa, like the innumerable strings in a marvelous tapestry, wound together in almost constant conflict to forge the long and intense history of this nation.”
“I wonder how long it took her to memorize all this,” Faban muttered. He heard a soft giggle next to him. Drawn momentarily from his awstrickenness, Faban found himself gawking once more at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen walking next to him. He long black hair fell like night down to her back, and her eyes, an uncannily striking green, contrasted perfectly with her brown skin.
“I imagine it took her quite a long time,” she said with a silky Persian accent. “She doesn’t sound like she actually knows what she is saying, but is just repeating noises like a parrot.”
Faban smiled, and took a deep gulp. The warm wind blew her hair into his face, and for a moment, he felt like he had fallen under a spell. Her smell was intoxicating.
“Modern Vandalian, or Bhandulaza, is perhaps one of the most unique of the Romance languages, with influence from Mauritanian and Numidian, ancient Punic, ancient Vandalic and Alanic all thrown over the Latin base, like exotic spices cast upon a meal.” The tour guide continued to prattle.
“My name is Arezoo,” she said.
“Desire,” Faban whispered.
“Pardon?” Arezoo laughed a laugh that sounded like dark red whine.
“Your name,” Faban said, flustered. “It means desire in Seaxinsk. I’m Faban Beogar.”
“Well, I am pleased to meet you, Faban,” Arezoo said as they shook hands.
“Are you here studying?”
“Yes, I am,” Arezoo said, “And you?”
“I am too,” Faban felt his heart pounding like a hammer in his chest. “On an exchange program.”
“The Vandalian capital of Iporeguia is one of the largest cities in the continent of Africa.”
“Well hopefully—ah!” Arezoo tripped on a rock, falling like a night-hawk toward the earth. Faban caught her, but tripped himself in the process. Faban hit the ground, but managed to break Arezoo’s fall. The crowd quickly parted for them, and made movement to help them. With Arezoo laying on top of him, she said, “Well hopefully we will be seeing much of each other.”
By Errnge
Introduction:
Welcome to Vandalia
Faban gawked as he followed the clearly scripted tour-guide through the grand city of Iporeguia. It reminded him of Konstantinopolis, only… only weirder (for lack of a better word). The city had all the ancient majesty of Konstantinopolis, but the way the building stood like giant drip-castles capped in gold, the way the stone-paved streets shone a dazzling white when the sun hit them the right way… What the travel books said were true; No place was quite like the capital of Vandalia.
“The Kingdom of Vandalia is one of the oldest nation-states in existence. The Kingdom has claims ancient origins, dating back to the days of King Gaiseric, an age of fire and blood with the last gasping breaths of the Western Roman Empire,” The tour guide said in accented Seaxinsk as she led Faban through what was called “The Old City” called so because it was the ancient district of the city, where tearing down and building structures had been forbidden. “However the modern Kingdom of Vandalia does not hold direct line from this ancient kingdom, but was instead founded in 798 A.D.”
Faban felt like an ant in the crowds. There were so many people walking the streets, probably for much the same reason as he: tourism. He hated that he was just another one of them, but he felt it was an easy price to pay to walk through this ancient city. It was evening, and the day was finally cooling, making it the best time to walk through the city.
“Vandalia, or Bhandulia as it is called Vandalian, is a land whose history is written in ancient blood and constant warfare. The many cultures, religions, and ethnic groups of North Africa, like the innumerable strings in a marvelous tapestry, wound together in almost constant conflict to forge the long and intense history of this nation.”
“I wonder how long it took her to memorize all this,” Faban muttered. He heard a soft giggle next to him. Drawn momentarily from his awstrickenness, Faban found himself gawking once more at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen walking next to him. He long black hair fell like night down to her back, and her eyes, an uncannily striking green, contrasted perfectly with her brown skin.
“I imagine it took her quite a long time,” she said with a silky Persian accent. “She doesn’t sound like she actually knows what she is saying, but is just repeating noises like a parrot.”
Faban smiled, and took a deep gulp. The warm wind blew her hair into his face, and for a moment, he felt like he had fallen under a spell. Her smell was intoxicating.
“Modern Vandalian, or Bhandulaza, is perhaps one of the most unique of the Romance languages, with influence from Mauritanian and Numidian, ancient Punic, ancient Vandalic and Alanic all thrown over the Latin base, like exotic spices cast upon a meal.” The tour guide continued to prattle.
“My name is Arezoo,” she said.
“Desire,” Faban whispered.
“Pardon?” Arezoo laughed a laugh that sounded like dark red whine.
“Your name,” Faban said, flustered. “It means desire in Seaxinsk. I’m Faban Beogar.”
“Well, I am pleased to meet you, Faban,” Arezoo said as they shook hands.
“Are you here studying?”
“Yes, I am,” Arezoo said, “And you?”
“I am too,” Faban felt his heart pounding like a hammer in his chest. “On an exchange program.”
“The Vandalian capital of Iporeguia is one of the largest cities in the continent of Africa.”
“Well hopefully—ah!” Arezoo tripped on a rock, falling like a night-hawk toward the earth. Faban caught her, but tripped himself in the process. Faban hit the ground, but managed to break Arezoo’s fall. The crowd quickly parted for them, and made movement to help them. With Arezoo laying on top of him, she said, “Well hopefully we will be seeing much of each other.”
