The golden Nine-Dragon War Chariot of the Golden Sun Empire was a masterpiece of royal craftsmanship.
Forged from sky brass and inlaid with polished yellow amber, its heavy axles were blessed by three ages of royal high court geomancers. Nine carved dragon heads extended from its soaring prow, their jade eyes designed to strike terror into barbarian hordes across thousand-league borders. Under normal circumstances, this chariot was the majestic pulpit from which the sovereign willed entire provinces into dust. It was surrounded by six thousand armored cataphracts and an iron-hard hedge of golden royal axe-spears. It was an altar of divine dynastic power, built so that every vassal and peasant would look up from the dirt and understand their utter insignificance.
Today, however, the chariot looked absurdly lonely.
It sat fully stranded atop a slight rise in the center of the Great Marsh Plain. It was surrounded by a rolling sea of emerald clover and thousands of discarded iron weapons. Every single one of the six thousand elite royal guards who had formed the prince’s personal escort had abandoned their posts. Their golden-filigree shields lay abandoned in the turf. Their tasselled spears were stacked neatly against wagon wheels. And the guards themselves were currently sitting cross-legged eighty paces away, enthusiastically sharing large steaming bowls of mutton noodles with mountain beastfolk.
