TNES VI - The Mythopoeia

[Thlayli]

Afrakt Ghul: He is the father of marids, and a dark, old, powerful thing. His frightening visage is seen in door-knockers across the Empire, and on the walls of the fire-domes of the orange cult, whose temples are only dwarfed by that of the purple in ludicrous grandeur. His descendants among the mortals are Anis-Natar's soldiers and warrior priests (although not its rulers, for the priests of the purple cult are always chosen from orphans and prisoners).

The Ghul, they say, is called that because he was once a god, but is now only a beast. But he is known by other names: Afrakt, and simply the Fire. It is known that he was a god, and yet claims to be one no longer. Yet the being that he is now is mighty enough, still, to be called god-like. His form is usually around eight-feet tall, with cloven hooves, and long, tall horns jutting backwards behind his head. And yet these are all but affectations, for the body of him, the hooves, the black 'fur' that sweeps across his form, the horns, are all made of roiling, black smoke. The illusion of skin ever-roils, slightly. The maw that opens, opens unto a blue furnace, and the eyes are two rents of bright orange heat in the roiling smoke of his skull. Unlike a marid, he is an unbound beast, loose and flowing. Still, though, he manages to wear clothing over his smokeform, typically an orange cloak and a red body wrap. But if he is angered, these affectations quickly burn away.

Afrakt's fire is linked to his rage. The angrier he becomes, the hotter the core of his body burns, the more the smokeform tears away. The fire at his heart is virtually boundless; people have reported it growing as large as a city, as a mountain, although perhaps these are simply tales. Only a few now live who have seen Afrakt's fire truly unbound. The orange cult says that Afrakt and Azzatar were the first gods to walk the earth, that joined, they were the molten flame before all things, and she was the land that eventually cooled from their conjoined body. The first era was his, the second hers. All the lesser beings of this world, they claim, are their children.

Regardless, Afrakt is very, very old, and remembers certain things that all but he and Azzatar have forgotten. As for why he simply acts as Azzatar's dog, her chief enforcer, well, there is a simple answer for that: He loves her, still. And what wouldn't you destroy for love?

Khed: There are some benefits to living in the Empire. Khed (or khedim, if there are multiple) are little foliots, glims or kimlings as they might call them in parts of the East. Tiny magical servants with primitive minds. In other parts of the world this would be an extravagance entitled only to magicians or shamans, but in Anis-Natar, magic has advanced highly, and the common people can easily afford such conveniences, mass-bound by lower-ranked priests and sold by the bucketful. The endless supply of magical fire allows even the weakest mage to create such things with borrowed power.

They have many forms, from little flames and clay dolls to jeweled scarabs. Usually they are made of fire or rock, but the gill-caste are known to employ salamanders. They can carry messages or small parcels, run errands, and larger groups can do cleaning or housework. In an empire where amethysts are more common than water, it is not uncommon to see a team of them, facets shining with bind-signs, working together to heave a matron's robe across a washboard in the jeweled Dakh.

 

[Danwar]

[They are lying]

OOC: I sense a Teutoberg analouge incoming

A Metaphorical Commandment to the Terres
/Accursed race of Terres, men who have forgotten what it means to fear the Gods/

/When thy plow thine field, do you not part the soil?/

/When thy cut thine bread, do you not divide its wheat-flesh?/

/When thy carve the continent with your maps, do you not invoke me?/

/And when thy conquer, do thy not violate the Boundaries that which is sacrosanct?/

///

/All conquest happens at thine edge./ The edge of thine blade, at the edges of thine maps, the teeth stained with blood./ All conquest happens, because I allow it./ Pay thine tribute!/ Fall to your knees in worship of the Gods once more, and we shall forgive thine transgressions./ You shall be rewarded with divisions/

OFFICIAL DOCUMENT WRITTEN BY THE COUNCIL OF SOMMOS - NO OTHER ENTITY MAY MODIFY, COPY, OR PLAGIARIZE THIS ON PAIN OF DEATH

The Council is neutral on matters of religion - so long as your cults do not harm the stability of Sommos, we will allow you to spread them into our republic. We are not the ones to be spoken to on matters of faith - talk to the people if you wish to convert them. If you wish to try to conquer our republic with your cultists, however, know our army is ready.

 

[Terrance888]

There is much to fear in the world.
Some, irrational. Others, exaggerated.
These people feared the Mountains.

They feared many things. Once, they feared the seas. Later, they feared their homes. Then they feared the newlands. Lands where the trees are much too young. Until they are too old. Where the sun is much too bright. Until it is too dim. Where it is much too silent. Until it became too loud. Where the people are much too friendly. Until they became too mean. Through all this, Atami lead them.

But above all, above all, above all, above it all, and above over all - they feared the Mountains.

For were no Mountains in their abandoned homeland, merely forest-choked hills, brought low by the graspings of the trees and earth and trod upon by men and beast alike. Hills that had no malevolence, not anymore.

The dread began many days before, when a dull shape appeared sitting on the horizon, its elbow silhouetted by the sun’s side. Its dusky weight spoke of the death of gods. The people whispered, fearing the giant will hear them. Yet they feared going back more, and so they went forward. Atami led them.

This peak grew and grew, until another appeared by its side. Then, another. Then another. One after another, stabbing through the earth and trees and cloud and sky. And they despaired. Their only solace was a traveling merchant, who explained that the mountains now sleep. But, they whispered after he left, that meant they could still be awakened. And then, they feared, the amythest hearts will show no mercy.

Atami lead them, sketching a ragged brush stroke along the unwanted lands between the sea and stone. They knew little of what laid behind, and even less of what laid ahead. Tales of Vyndra and Nathrum, of Mountains and Empires. They could only trust the bright eyed Atami of many tongues, who spoke with the locals of too easy smiles and claimed to lead the way towards lands less oppressed by the Mountains. Or Heros. Or Ram-Serpents. Even when their days are rich with worry, when Atami lead them, they found they could sleep easy.

What they didn’t know, is that Atami slept little.

Every night passed much the same. Meeting the locals. Learning new languages. Planning new routes. Praying to gods. Divines of every stripe and dot passed through his tongue, for he had gotten his taste of leadership, and found it bitter. And yet, all was silent except for the crackling of the fire and the soft snores of his people.

Or so it was said, later. For one night, he fell asleep, and truly woke.


For a moment, he felt as if he was trapped by a coarse weave cast upon his skin and his eyes. And a fear at once forgotten yet familiar wrapped its fingers around his heart. He wrestled, his flame burning low, nearly smothered. But his eyes are bright, and his will is strong, and he overthrew the weave that trapped him, and thus he looked upon the world.

But it was not a world that a mortal would see. A world of lines. Draped over every man… over Everything. Over the trees and across the land. Underneath the rivers and through the mountains themselves. He reached out and he touched one and he cut himself and he bled. And as his blood burned, he saw new lines come into view. Weaving. Wearing.

A world of meaning. Lines of two flavors. One sharp, at once impossibly thin, yet extending unto infinity. Another, broad and deep, yet extending inexplicable directions. And these lines wove and weared, cut and crossed, all across creation. But… there was something different. He can feel it.

He reached out more cautiously and touched a new line, then another, and another. He saw them carving paths through countless lives. The sun blazing trails across the sky, and suddenly he knew--all these lines grew from one. A single line, a single edge. A flame burning brighter than the sun.


He blinked, woke. He called his People to deliver a message unto them.

“A vision came to me, a destiny calls from the Mountains. We must answer.”

And the People were silent.

He spoke, “Omens lie heavy upon this world, and yet they will break upon this edge, the edge that brings the future. We must find it.”

And the People whispered, “No.”

He pleaded, “With our success, there will be no need for fear! Try, with me!”

And the People shouted, “Never!”


Thus, Atami left those who were once his People, and went alone into the Mountains. He climbed them, and he struck them, and they struck back. Even as his feet were cut by the stones, and his hands torn by the cliffsides, his heart bled for them as it rode upon the lines that threw thicker and thicker. Until he found the edge, held by a boy.

Spoiler Appendix :

1 Magic Point for a vision of the world unseen.

Atami has with him only four things. A tunic of woven plants. A cloak of fur. A blade of copper. And a necklace with a rough-hewn chunk of fool’s gold, which they all believed to be true.

Atami can promise many things, much of which are possible and yet not quite true. He can promise his worth as a guide or warrior. He can promise the service of his tribe - the men still have arms, and the women wombs. He can promise to share the wisdom of his visions. And finally, he can promise a path out of the Mountains.

The People currently are leaderless, and still wish to lie between the lines. How long can they avoid fate? Surprisingly long, it seems.

 

[Thlayli]

Also known as a cautionary tale to Atamite children about why you should never play with boundaries, kids.

Tfw you realize Atami in a Carnish accent is probably pretty close to Adam.

 

[Thlayli]

Since it seems we have a brief lull, I wanted to give a few of you guys some plaudits for your stories.

inthesomeday - Most improved! You handled my criticism quite well, totally reworked your submission in a way that both wove in with and added to the backstory. Very much looking forward to the future of the Oshkum.

Shadowbound - Most amusing. I’ve enjoyed the Shakespearean style quite a lot. Your worldbuilding is also very solid. Your ‘reward’ was Morvan becoming an edge-lord. “It’s not a phase, mom!”

Terrance - Most creative! You’ve pushed your writing boundaries a lot with these stories and I love what you’re doing. Your images of late are beautiful and really capture the mysticism of the world. Your reward is that you get no points because the Atamites would probably send them back.

TMG - Best individual story. The Hyric story still gives me chills. It sits in one’s stomach like a black egg, unhatched. Reward is you’ll be getting exactly what you want, isn’t that a shame.

All of you guys are doing well though, I just didn’t want to turn this into a participation trophy. Iggy, Jeho, Seon, Thomas, Danwar, jackal, ork, do I have any other players? Idk. I’m very lucky to have you as players and I look forward to seeing what you come up with in the future! And I’m looking forward to what Lucky and azale are working on.

The next update (which I’ve already started working on) will bring the NES into a decisive new phase. I call it...Phage of Empires. Jk, that’s utterly terrible. Although that would probably fly for like a B-list Asimov clone in the 70s.

 

[ork75]

Nastya knew all the sounds the forest wind carried: the pure singing of the valley brook in springtime, the golden-red roar of the dead leaves come autumn, cries of passion, of sadness, of pain and of joy from the low village up the valley’s southern side. It was from here that she traveled each day, down the rocky hillside, shadowed by branch and leaf. She crossed the brook at the old fallen log, and waited for the wind to rustle through the trunks, bringing the cry of a young deer for its mother, or of fowl rallying their flock. This was why she went across the brook, so far into the world, why she carried a bow, not a basket. Most girls gathered herbs and fruits, then a husband, and then the bones of some children and the happy shouts of others. Nastya had a hunter’s ears, so she gathered corpses, and flesh on which the village feasted.


This morning was a grey one. The smoke from the fires of home rose to meet the low clouds. The rapids, where the men shouted in spring as the alewife are trapped in the weir, hid themselves in a cloak of mist. She figured the deer would do the same. The end of the fallen log drew closer, and she leaped off with a light -- but there, up the slope! A bark, carried from deer to stream by the soft forest wind. A call, to the huntress, of food.


A deerpath, pounded flat by quiet hooves and human feet weighed by firewood, wound through the green-brown haze. Nastya padded, more wolf than woman, climbing the roots and rocks of the northern ridge. Again, a bark: sonorant, wild, but closer. The trail, confronted by a face of worn granite the height of a man, wound to the east. The bow-woman did no such thing. She leapt, her hands finding pocks in the age-worn stone, and pulled herself to the floor of the untamed forest.


Moss cushioned her footsteps. The ground stopped its upward climb, and flattened into the ridgetop. Her breath was the only sound. The deer barked once more, now so close that it did not come with the wind, blown through the trees on a current of air, but marched directly under bough and over bush to Nastya.


Her ears led across the rocks, past the balded top of the ridge, through to the old stand of red pines that watched the whole valley. Within, Nastya knew, was a clearing. Now her feet felt the soft spring of oranged needles, their greener cousins hanging over her head, and she passed into the shadowed grove. Her bow was in her hands, a flint-tipped arrow already nocked. She heard the deer again, a low, wheezing whine. A pair of crossed fallen trunks blocked her view of the animal. She cut a path around the edges of the grove, brushing aside the ferns in silence. Now from behind the scaly bark of a pine, she finally laid eyes on her prey. It lay on the forest floor, barely breathing. A cry seemed to attempt escape from its open mouth, but whatever call the dying animal attempted was cut off before it could enter the world.


The deer strained away from the soil one last time, but then fell back, defeated. A lone eye followed Nastya, then glazed over. The huntress stepped towards it now, her flint knife ready to taste the salted iron of viscera, but the forest stopped her. First, a sapling, an upstart oak which would someday tower over the valley and supplant the pine, shot from the ground. Nastya stumbled through it. The thrashing sounds of leaves disturbed did not break the morning’s peace. They never even reached her ears. Then the deer lay before her. A moment ago it had drawn breath. Now it was rotted. The eye was a black-scarred pit. Matted hair covered the sallow, sinking skin. A bubble of rot forced the mouth open, a dark, running mess of once-life, and Nastya tried to scream. But there was nothing to be heard. And then she saw it.


It was taller than the tallest man in the village by the length of an arm. A great green mantle the color of the first leaf of spring hid an enormous body, bulging with the fury of a blizzard. A hand, grand and hot as midsummer’s sun, shadowed the deer’s corpse. As Nastya stared, three new saplings shot up behind the thing. The deer’s stomach shrank. Shredded skin outlined its ribcage. Where once there had been a mouth, proud and serene, there was now just the stark white of bone. And then it turned.


Nastya had always wondered why the priests of the valley wore wooden masks. They were fearful things, which bore expressions of hate, or of woe. They shone in the firelight, beacons in the smoke of the holy huts. On the nights of the god-herb, they sang and warped with the strange and terrible tides of the sea of vision. But why the masks, and why the oiled wood? Nastya looked up, at the great thing looking down, and she understood.


It had no face. A gleaming sheet of carved hardwood rested on its brow, the only break from the gray-green hood which enveloped its head. The mask, the original mask, was more than angered or sorrowful. It bore the expression of a day in late fall, when the forest was alight with the red-yellow flames of the leaves, and the gray sky made all the earthly colors burn brighter. It was the expression of summer’s death, but of the warm hearth of winter, too. A visage of frost and of harvest. A statement of the cycles of the forest, of the deaths of winter growing the births of spring. But there was something else: a bemused smirk, perhaps. A hint of change.


And then it took a step towards her, and she tried to scream again. Sound rejected her pleas for aid. She felt her bow tug itself earthwards, the arrow unbinding and the shaft returning to soil. She looked up again into the wooden mask, and for the first time noticed the antlers which sprouted from the mask-thing’s hood. They were the finest she’d ever seen, broad and tall and sharp like bone or leafless bough.


As the saplings around the clearing grew to young trees, as the pines seemed to stagger with the weight of the new turn in the forest, as the bones of the deer revealed themselves and crumbled to dust, the stag-man reached forward a hand. Nastya knelt, and bowed her head, for the priests said mortals acted thus in the presence of a god. With a single finger, it touched her forehead. A single drumbeat broke the silence of the world, and for that beat Nastya knew all: the hidden paths of the forest, the growth of the oaks on the deathbed of the pines, all of the sounds of silence, the life that comes from death, the pain of the three arrows, the tune of that song that must be sung… and then it ended. And Nastya collapsed.


When she awoke, the clearing was as she knew it. The circle of trunks seemed shorter, smaller. The fallen pines lay intact across the orange needles. No saplings dared to reach for the sunlight. The deer, once again on its feet, hissed, turned, and ran. It would have been an easy shot, but the huntress did nothing. She knew only silence.

 

[Shadowbound]

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

TAREMASSU - Cadain Oracle

MAELIS ONCE-QUEEN - Wife of Arthmaelix, Mother of Morvan

ATAMI - Vanguard of the Atamites

ENTER MAELIS

MAELIS - Deceiver! Foul, evil thing, blind in thought
as well as in form! 'Twas your word that sent
me away from this camp to view the stars.

And now I return to find my son gone?
Why do you part mother from babe, part guard
from precious, sacred ward? What foul deed!

TAREMASSU - It was not I that claimed the edge that cuts.
It was not I that assumed its bold fate.
The power your son harnesses is not
wielded so much as ridden like a storm.

The savage god who made it formed it for
severing bonds and making division.
The first cut of the Edge is true manhood
whereby a youth leaves home to seek his fate.

To fight against this purpose, this decree,
would be to invite its nickname of Death.

MAELIS - Do you think I fear dying? Do you think,
after these long years, I worry for mine life?
Twenty and nine I am now, long enough
to live life and see how little worth
mine has compared to my son's preservation.

TAREMASSU - So old and so wise in such short a time!
I do marvel at how fast you mortals
claim to know ancient wisdom with bravo.
A longer life you deserve than claimed.

MAELIS - Mock me not, creature. I do not have decade
to waste in contemplation of the stars.
Two score years my kind can expect before
age hollows out mind and cripples body.

TAREMASSU - Oh, if only you could wait long enough.
The prescription for such a short life is,
ironically, some more patience,
though you do lack the needed centuries.

No, once-queen, you do not have time to waste.
But your destiny and your son's own
would fall to waste were you two together.
His path is his own, his kingship so claimed
by own hand, not given like newborn's milk.

MAELIS - Then I am done! A terrible burden
released to great sorrow with my son's leave.
Tell me, giant, did I do well? You who
can see tangled webs of the future.
Shall Morvanix be king, in his own time?

TAREMASSU - His success or failure is his, alone.
You have done what you could and did so well.
None with sense can find fault in his mother.
But you are not quite finished, far from it.

One burden is released and another gained,
with greater reward given at the end.

MAELIS - What reward could be greater, more joyous,
than to see noble son on father's throne?

TAREMASSU - Destiny makes me laugh, Maelis Twice-Queen.

ENTER ATAMI

Spoiler :

EMMANIX

Did you miss it over these millenia?
A sacrifice made in your divine name?

 

[Thlayli]

It traditionally takes three actors to play Taremassu, one to do the legs on stilts, a second for the hands and monstrous bulk, and a third to support the great cyclopean head. Better productions have an eye that opens (although only when directed away from other actors,) but usually it's shown permanently shut.

If the actors fall over it's a disaster of course, but a hilarious one, and the buffoonishness of the giant-oracle's gestures really depends on the tone they're going for this season.

 

[thomas.berubeg]

“Twenty shekems, no less.”

“You are joking! It’s barely worth five!” Jemmi dropped the sleeve of the coat in disgust. It dropped down, heavily, the waxed fabric keeping its shape as it fell.

“I’m an honest businessman. This is waxed cloth from the Carns, guaranteed to withstand the icy breath of the sea-fiends and the foam thrown up by their ram ships. You’ll find no finer, and you’ll find no one selling it for cheaper. Eighteen, and i’m practically giving it away.”

“I can see a merchant over the way with waxed cloth. The only reason I’m here and not there is the effort it’d take me to cross. Eight, no more.”

The merchant opened his mouth to retort, both he and Jemmi enjoying the game, enjoying the back and forth, but Alai stepped into the shop. He pushed aside the curtain that served as a door, the shadow cast by his muscular frame through the opening dim in the light of the setting sun.

“Jemmi! Father wants to be on the road before sunset. He doesn’t want to pay for another night in the inn.” Alai laughed. “This going to take long?”

Jemmi’s rolled her eyes. “It wouldn’t take long if this... peddler wasn’t trying to rob me blind! Eight, I said, and Eight, I’ll give.”

The merchant sighed “Eight? I may as well give you my beloved children, my wife, as slaves, as that’s the only way I’d be able to afford that. Seventeen.”

Alai stepped forward to stand next to Jemmi, hunched a bit under the low ceiling. “Seventeen for this?” He touched the wool, and looked closely at the merchant. “Eight is generosity itself, and you should count yourself lucky for that price. This is Upcountry wool, and you paid barely three shekem for it.”

The merchant sputtered, angry. “How dare you! I’ll have the magistrate called, I’m a fine...”

“Upstanding member of the community, I’m sure. But the thing is, how long would that reputation last if it was known how many of your goods are cheap stock, bought from smugglers? Would the magistrate appreciate knowing he didn’t get his cut? Would your wife still love you if your face was branded as a smuggler? Or would she perhaps turn to your neighbor’s arms for comfort... again? Eight is a gift, and one you’ll take.”

Alai’s black eye burned in the dark of the store, as the shadows seem to lean heavy in the silence.

“Eight will do.” The merchant spoke quickly, shortly. “Go. Get out. Go.”

Jemmi laughed as the pair ran out into the rapidly darkening marketplace. “All of that, was that true?”

“I... think so? He certainly acted like it was.”

“Well, this will be good. I got it for your Father. I think he’s starting to accept me.”

Alai softly punched Jemmi’s arm. “You’ve been travelling with us for a year. If he didn’t like you, he’d have dropped you off at the next village.”

“But he hasn’t taught me anything?”

“Really? He hasn’t? Didn’t you tie the bone-knot around that alder last week?”

“He asked me to do that, but he didn’t show me how.”

“Did you mix the ale and herbs and river water for the riverbend?”

‘Yes, but...”

“Did you pour it in?”

“Yes! But...”

“And did you see the river sparkle a bit brighter afterwards? Did you hear the laughter of the brooke over the stones?”

“Yes, I did! But, that’s all stuff I saw him do! He hasn’t taught me any of the deep secrets.”

“He has, though. The right herbs, the right knots, the right offerings, those aren’t all of it, but they’re a part.” Alai took a deep breath. “When we sit and watch the stars at night for hours, when we sit on a mountain top to feel the wind on our faces. That’s the attitude, that’s the deepest secret. We let the spirits and gods come to us, we calm them by being calm.”

“But why the offerings, then?”

Alai shrugged “it makes them happy, I think. Our presence shows the spirits that people mean them no harm. The offerings, that’s how we convince them that we shouldn’t be harmed. They’re not like you or me, or even like an animal. The way they think is... different. It’s hard to describe, and each kind is different. A River Ghast is very different from a Bubbling One, also very different, for example, from a Washerwoman or a King-fisher. Though,” Alai paused again, “One spirit to another of it’s kin is still as different as you are from your cousin, or your brother.”

“See? That’s the kind of thing your father’s never taught me! Names for all the spirits. I’ve seen a few, out of the corner of my eye, I think, but I wouldn’t be able to point them out, like I would one of the animals I hunt.”

“Oh, he’s never taught me those, either! It’s just the ones I’ve seen. They have names, and I know what to call them. I think that’s just part of being an Umaki. You know. You’ll pick it up, I think... especially if you can see them. Father always points out the results of a spirit’s passing, the rustled leaves, the foam on a riverstone, the change in the wind, never the god itself, even when they’re there. It’s part of respecting them, I think.”

The conversation had led the pair out of the city and towards where Father was waiting, tapping impatiently his stick on the ground.

“You’re late!” He addressed Alai.

Jemmi stepped forward “Thank you for teaching me.” She bowed her head, offering the coat she had bought. “You had complained about being wet, last rainfall, so I thought this’d help.”

“Hmmm.” He spoke as he put the coat on. “We want to be out under the stars before we bed down for the night.”

Jemmi looked disappointed, but Alai saw that Father’s face bore a smile as he felt the fabric of the waxed coat.

They walked in silence, the lights of the village fading into the darkness. Slowly, though, the darkness changed, became heavier. A chill wind fell upon them, and the trees that had stood tall reaching towards the stars seemed to lean in, to reach down towards them. The stars that had seemed warm now shone with a cold and jealous light. The moon hid behind a dark cloud, and, finally, in the shadow of an overhanging stone, Father commanded they stop and set up camp.

Soon enough, a fire burned, though the heat, the light, seemed to fade quickly in the shadows. Jemmi settled down to heat the stew she had saved from the previous night. She had brought down a stag, and thought most of it had been sold in the last village for coin, they had eaten well, and would eat well for days, still.

Father and Alai worked find water, anxious to get back to and from the darkness and out from the cold.

“Alai, my boy.” Father said, suddenly, as they returned from a little stream.

“Yes, Father?”

“I know I don’t say it much, but I’m proud of you. Ever since I’ve found you, you’ve been my son, the perfect son. You have learned from me, and I have learned from you.” He paused, tapping his stick against a rock “The girl, too. She’s a good find. She’ll be a great Umaki one day.”

“Thank you, Father. Are you feeling alright? This is... unlike you.”

Father laughed. “It’s this wind. Something foul is on the air, and, well, I realize I’ve never told you I appreciate you.”

“Come, Father.” Alai laughed, and turned away. “Let us sit and eat. Look, the camp is there, and Jemmi will have warmed the stew. The sun will come out tomorrow, and this fell mood will be burned away.”

Father didn’t answer immediately, but then spoke, a voice wet with blood and fear. “Alai... Run.”

Alai turned back, and Father’s body slumped to the ground. In his place stood something... something else.

Alai screamed, and turned to run, but his feet were tangled with vines. Alai fell, managing to turn himself over as the thing fell upon him. It’s arms, far too many arms, all of thorny corded vines scrabbled at Alai’s, and a snapping maw of fanged petals dripped sticky resin onto Alai’s face. He pushed back at it, hard, his right hand pressed against it’s wooden body, but it refused to move, instead using one vined limb to pin his hand to the side.

With a thwip and a scream of agony, an arrow lodged itself in the spinning flower maw. The creature leapt up, seeking refuge in the canopy, but the tentacle that had been pinning Alai’s hand now served as an anchor, as Alai pulled hard upon it. The thing fell to the ground awkwardly, before jumping up again. It screeched, and leapt forward, but another arrow threw it off balance, and Alai was able to grab another tentacle in his other hand.

Alai pulled hard, and it skittered to the ground at his feet. Still holding a tentacle, Alai brought one of his fists down on it’s heart. Wood cracked, and new tentacles burst forth, towards the canopy. They wrapped themselves around branches and the creature again tried to pull itself up.

It succeeded, and Alai found himself dragged into the air. He beat at the head, again, but found himself without proper leverage, until his feet found the trunk of a massive tree, and again, he pulled. There was a pop, and a ragged screech, and the vine in his hand fell limp to the ground.

For a moment the forest was quiet, and Alai fell to the ground lightly, landing on his feet. He ran towards the fire, towards where Jemmi was waiting, bow string taught and arrow unwavering.

“It’s not gone.” She said, without preamble. “It’s hurt, but it’s hunting us, and it’s got blooded.” Alai nodded, and pulled a burning brand from the fire.

“It’s made of wood” he said, “It’s a god, but not, at the same time. It’s wrong.”

Jemmie nodded, and the wind waited with bated breath. And then, with a scream, the thing threw father’s body at them from the canopy, and then itself at Jemmi. Immediately, she loosed the arrow, and it planted itself in the cracked wood at the thing’s head.

Alai saw it clearly, now, a Spider of wood and purple flowers with too many legs, even for a spider. It’s wooden skin was cracked and oozing black sap, and on it’s head, there was a dent that fit Alai’s fist. Alai leapt at it, shoving the brand into its face. It screeched in pain, again, and recoiled, but some of the sap had caught. It burned, lines of embers running up and down it’s body, but it seemed to do no more than cause superficial pain.

It pinned Alai against the ground, but Jemmi dropped her bow and pulled out a knife, hacking at its face, and it pulled back again, letting Alai up. No sooner was Alai on his feet that he threw himself at the beast, his fist striking it directly on the top of the head, in the dent he had already caused. It cracked again, and again, and again. Alai’s face was lashed by the thorned vines, once, twice, and again, but still he held on, beating at the thing as it tried to pull away

Soon enough, it’s movements faded, slowed to a twitch, and eventually to an unmistakable stillness.

But Alai did not stop. Not until all that remained of the creature’s body was splinters. The night warmed.

Alai’s eyes burned in the night, blue and black, black and blue.

Finally, with a panting, halting breath, Alai stopped. Looking around, he saw Father’s body, where it had fallen, thrown by the beast. Rushing over, he kneeled at his side, but it was far too late. Father was dead.

Alai sobbed, and Jemmi softly rubbed his back, comforting him.

There, they sat, for hours, and would have sat until the sun rose, but for a warm breeze carrying on it the smell of sap and rose and warm spices, and a voice of rustling leaves.

Let me share the warmth of your flame

Woe, Woe is upon me​

You have done me a great service

You have worked upon me a great sorrow​

Out of the darkness stepped a man, or something that wore the shape of a man. His skin was dark as nut wood, and his hair a tight curled brown. His eyes shone green in the light of the fire.

“Stay Right there!” Jemmi aimed her bow at him, and he raised his hands placatingly, but still took a seat on a log. He closed his eyes, looking at the corpse of the beast, which, while Alai and Jemmi had been sitting over Father, had faded into a loam tumulus, with a crown of soft white and violet flowers.

A fell wind blew once

My mate and I danced in the sun​

And took my love from me

For a thousand years we loved​

Twisted her shape and twisted her soul

We sang songs of spring​

She turned from me

We remembered the past​

She hunted and killed and devoured

We lived in the present​

In truth you killed what was long dead

And we looked to the future​

And the death fed SHADUR

Of which we were robbed by SHADUR​

A fell wind blew, and it's name was SHADUR​

 

[ork75]

Imagine: a young prince, an adventuring hero. He comes to the North for a challenge, to prove himself against the wilds of the world. Here you see him swimming to the halls of the fisher-king of the lake. He is prideful, arrogant. His youthful vigor has brought him here, it will bring him further.

Now see him with his arrows. They are three, tipped with silver that gleams like the stars. He prances like a buck as he walks the forest paths. He finds his quarry. He shoots it. He skins it, drains it, and takes the antlers for his own. It is easy for him, perhaps. Perhaps it is easy only in his mind. But look! He walks, but carelessly. He carries an antler to his side, and it snaps on a tree. A small break. The prince doesn’t notice, but the fragment is gone. Perhaps, later, he rubs his trophy in a great hall of his kingdom. He touches the break and wonders where the fine point went. But that is not what he does as he returns from the site of his act.

The chip of antler lies in the woods, its song cut off by separation and body-death. For years it stays where it breaks, its power too strong for mere wind or water to move it, too strong for earth to bury it.

But something happens. A distant memory of song is augmented by a now-memory of silence. The rain lifts the shard, and it begins a journey. It reaches a river, and the water surges. The power of a god carries it, after all. Villages throughout the land drink from this river. In each village the shard passes, the priests take to making well-oiled masks of hardwood. They wear these in their ceremonies. If you ask them why they do this, they cannot answer. It is simply holy this way. This is the way it must be done. The river leads to another, and another. And these rivers lead to the sea.

It is a weak green sea here, where the shard washes. The waves and the cold are choked and strangled by miles and miles of twisting coast. As a result of the sea’s weakness, humans flourish. The god-fragment is borne by the gentle tide to the sandy shore. And there it lays. It gleams in the harsh sunlight, divorced by an impossible distance from the dappled light of the forests and the mountains. Here on the coast, it is alien.

Imagine, if you will, that a certain woman finds it. She is a mother of two, one buried, the other slung around her breast in a coarse length of cloth. Her hair blows as she walks the strand. She sees the shard, a bone-colored glint of something greater, something distant. It speaks to her, and she hears its songs of growth. She does not know that she hears these songs. She does not know why she ties it to a string to wear around her neck. Perhaps her mind, that subtle ear tuned to the magic of the world, hopes it will bring yet more crops from the fields. That it will bring her children, many and happy, and a flourishing of life. But the mind’s ear is a fickle thing: she does not hear that it sings of death, too.

But these things do come. The fields of her village grow gold with wheat. The soil seems to give its all to the harvest. And she finds that she is again with child. She knows that it will live as well as she does.

Look at the Carnishman. He holds the prow of his high ship, as it cuts inviolable across the sea. What does he seek? Death, of course. And growth. And good living. That these will come at the expense of others should go without saying. A twist in the wind gives him the scent of woodsmoke, of flour stored deep, of the small good things of farm life. And so he points the bow that way, and clutches his spear.

See the orange, see the red. See the fires, and farmers dead. They lay scattered, like so many dying embers cast to the stone floor from a fading fire. Here again is the Carnishman. The woman lies below him, beaten and robbed. He has taken so much, but he he must have more. But the children will not stop their crying. So he smashes the young one, the just-born babe. Its cries cease, and it crumples in the dirt. He kicks the older child, who stands beside in shock, into the burning hut. And then he takes. He pierces the mother’s breast and gut with his spear. The blood from all the houses runs in a river. He hears a song of death, in the ear of his mind. And he takes its source, that bone-shard on her necklace, and slips it in a pouch.

He sails with it a year. He raids many coasts in that time, and it hums with the music of slaughter. It echoes that scrap of horn in his ship’s keel, and the one seems to goad the other on. The antlered bow cuts the waves even smoother than it had. But at that the end of that year, the Carnishman decides that the melody of the sea no longer catches his heart. And he sells the chip of antler (he never knows what he wears in that pouch) to a merchant, and settles. He dies peacefully, a happy, wealthy patriarch.

What, you wish for this to be a story of justice? You wish for those who do evil to get so-called just desserts? You misunderstand what kind of tale this is. The tales of the forest, of the great shadowed North, are not tales of justice. They aren’t even tales. No, the forest sings you a song. It is a song of secrets, of hidden things in dark corners, of flowers in full bloom, of beauty and horror under the harsh and radiant sun. If you decide this is a song of suffering, a chilling song of remorselessness and hurt, perhaps it is. If you decide it is one of beauty, of beginnings upon beginnings, a song of how there is no true end… Well, perhaps it is that, too. In the end, you are the listener. You choose what to hear. The song goes on without you. It is, after all, just a song.

But do remember its one lyric, the truth it will sing till the universe dies: there is life in death, there is death in life, and the only constant is change.

This merchant who buys the antler pays more than he should for such a simple charm. He knows this, but there is something greater in it. He does not regret what he gives the raider. Like the shard-seller, he takes the thing with him as he sails. And, like the shard-seller, his ship is faster for it. The horned bow of his craft graces many a port, and he makes and loses many fortunes. For a time, though, more treasures come in then go out. At home, in his hill-city on the edge of the sea, his wife and children grow fat and happy.

The merchant ships of this city bring many things to the land of the Carns: fabulous riches, exotic goods, bits and bobs of legend. And, sometimes, plague. This is what comes to the merchant’s family, one year. He spends furiously for a cure. First go his coffers, then his household treasures, then his ships. Then go his family. No healer could save them. The healers go too, for that matter. Much of the city perishes.

Life will go on, of course: many survive. But for the merchant, it cannot, for what is life without joy? He sets to join his family in the land beyond. He finds a smith, another man whom the sickness has wed to loneliness. He gives him the most valuable possession which remains: that godly shard, so long ago snapped on a tree. In exchange he asks for just a knife. The smith asks no questions.

He makes the weapon that night. He hammers by firelight, yet does not disturb the neighbors. There are no more neighbors. He hums as he hammers, a tune which he has never heard before. He knows it, though. He knows it with every bone in his body.

The knife he makes is more than a knife. It is the ideal of a knife. It is sharper, stronger, colder, deadlier than a knife. Needless to say, it is the best thing he has ever made thus far. It is the worst thing he will make from this day forward.

The merchant has no need for the ideal of a knife. It could have been any knife, and the result would have been the same: rammed under ribs, to puncture the heart. As the merchant hopes for a glimpse of his dead wife, his happy children, as his heart coughs heaving pulses of life-blood with each beat, the smith sleeps. His part of the transaction ends at the handoff. And besides, something else is happening.

See the antler? You don’t, now, but don’t be confused. Let me explain. We return to the previous night. The hammer beats reach the shard of horn, and it hums. It hums to the bones of the smith. The song of the forest fills his mind as he works, and it fills his work, too.

In the morning, he hands the knife to the merchant. He then goes to make a meal. As he gathers his grain for porridge, as the pot boils, the god’s antler crumbles. It becomes a dust. The smith casts it over his bowl, and eats. Don’t ask him why he knows to do this, for he knows not.

As the merchant sets off on his return to the soil, the smith goes to sleep. But this is no normal sleep. And the dreams… The smith dreams of the woods, of a song, of many songs that once were and again may be. He dreams of the work he must do. He dreams of change, of strange towers and fires, and of the song that must and will be sung from that mountaintop temple. He dreams of the work he will do, creating things of magic, of power, of glamour, for those who treat with him. He dreams himself bound by chains of song. And he dreams of memory, of its loss.

And after a full week, he wakes. He sings as he walks to his forge. So much will need to change, but change it will, he sings. He takes a lump of metal, and his hammer, and he swings in rhythm with his song as he begins to beat. He is nothing but his song, now. He is a part of destiny, a function of prophecy. He is bound by the chains of a song once ended. But it has begun again.

He is the smith, cries his pounding hammer. Hear him sing.

 

[Azale]

Ironwrought Prophecy​

 

[Azale]

a bigger followup story to come

 

[inthesomeday]

The River, As I Dreamt It: the First Three Months in the Forest​

Around us, afem, is decadence and weakness. Promise me you will never follow in my steps of subservience to tyranny.


Virageg spoke these words to his son years ago, when he could still be called afem, an affectionate nickname for a young boy. The prince had known nothing but his father’s disdain for their nation his entire life. Bitterness towards the Great Kings and their dignitaries; loathing for his neighbors who groveled before their feet; and impotence at his own inability to reject their authority. Yet now, with Virageg wearing his people’s crown, his son saw in his stead nothing but humility, statesmanship, and generosity.


There had been countless births since their journey began three and a half years ago, and countless burials too. There had been weddings, separations, adoptions and legitimizations. Drunken fights between drunken warriors, theft, murder in ill blood. The nomad’s life had not been easy for the Oshkum tribe, used to a semi-sedentary lifestyle. But perhaps it was only life as it normally was, and it was the journey itself that was so difficult. Through all of it, the Great King had persevered, wearing his people’s favor proudly.


And now their southward march had taken them into its most challenging throw yet. It had been three months since the front line of the Oshkum’s band first stepped past the tree line into the shadow just beyond, and in those months the natural flow of life did not stop or slow down for convenience. The people were the same—hungry, thirsty, wroth, and vengeful, there were still so many births, so many trials, so many desertions. The logistical crisis inherent to this sort of mass migration plagued the Great King while he slept and while he woke, and now his people had to struggle through a forest of thickness utterly alien to the steppefolk. Indeed, even their language stretched to fit their new life; the Oshkum took to calling the forest (and any other forests, if such things could exist in multiples) Fafüvtür, roughly translating to field of wooden grass.


Most of the time, the Oshkum could not see the sky. The Oshkum could always see the sky. The only sunlight they now had was skinny, forced through the tight clutches of the branches overhead. They could not see the moon at night; the petty astrologers of each tribe had no source of magic from which to divine the future, and this only added to the ever-present terror of uncertainty before them. The great bison and gazelles of the plains were replaced by horned beasts, fewer in pack number and sleeker in escape. And perhaps worst of all, the narrow passages and unseen thickets of the forest made riding impossible. The Oshkum had to trail their horses behind them.


Many times the Great King Virageg had sorrowful stories brought before his court in those darkest of months. A score of young, able-bodied boys found dead in a clearing, their hands and faces stained with the deep saccharine poison of forbidden bush berries. A stillbirth of lucky twins, the cord of one strangling the other like the twisted, yellow noose of a hangman. The inexplicable suicide of a prominent shaman, perhaps too estranged from the sky gods and the Wind Father under this cursed canopy for his own sanity. The Great King bore the weight of all with grace, but of course this was only the beginning.


As the Oshkum began to drive deeper into the forest, strange things started to happen. Young boys and girls, their minds most susceptible to magic, woke their parents with nightmares, many punctuated with either of two demons: a deep, guttural sound, whispering—beckoning, perhaps— or the piercing glow of two ominous red eyes in the blanketing darkness of the forest. As time went on, the seemingly unconnected disappearance of several of the Great Tribe’s mystics was solved one night when Virageg was awoken by a scream in the dark. He raced to meet it, finding a horrifying sight: a man well known to the Tribe, a father of three and a competent gatherer with a growing knowledge of forest herbology, was butchering his own wife against a tree. The last that was seen of him was his blood-drenched grin back at Virageg, before, silent and confident, he set off into the forest.


The next few weeks confirmed one hypothesis of Virageg’s court: some unseen force was beckoning people, ordinary fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, away from the Tribe, deep into the forest. The sturdy internal compass natural to the Oshkum had been damaged by the trek into the woods, but nonetheless they were able to discern a vague direction the travelers, distinguishable from ordinary deserters by their void stare and single-minded step. Each one, in his or her own way, walked north, and east.


And so the Oshkum bore on, further south into the forest, to escape what they were sure was the prophesied apocalypse at their backs. Each night brought a new challenge, and solutions arrived at a much thinner rate. The people began to lose hope as the weeks in the forest stretched out into months. But stronger than ever was their Great King Virageg, never tiring and never falling behind.


After some ninety long days and nights under the oppressive canopy of Fafüvtür, the Great King’s son woke in the dark. Their camp was silent. The prophet prince rose from his sleep to silhouette the rare slim beam of moonlight that penetrated his tent’s thin wall. He stepped out of its arch, looking up into the source of the light; then he walked to his father’s tent. He had a fear in him and he needed the reassurance of his new father, the stately King. He pulled back the flaps of the leather yurt and found an empty room.


The wind rushed hurriedly through the branches of the trees, carrying a slight and familiar scent: that of his father. The prophet-prince did not lose composure, as this would not be the first night Virageg had departed into the woods alone; instead, the prophet-prince followed the air from the trees. He stumbled a bit, caught on the occasional gnarled root that was there a second then gone, but managed to keep stable footing as the whistling wind and its scent grew nearer. Before clearing the last bunch of branches, he stumbled one last time and nearly fell, but was caught by the well-known, well-lined hand of the Great King of the Oshkum.


“My son,” whispered the King, his eyes certainly adjusted by now to the lack of light under the trees, “why do you come to me at this hour?”


“Father,” replied the young man in like, his own eyes seeing clearly rather quickly than he had expected, “I come to you for guidance in matters of the heart.”


There was a moment of silence before Virageg replied, as Oshkum men are not meant to speak too much, especially of their own emotions. In addition, the phrase ‘matters of the heart’ tended to be a euphemism among the gruff warrior race for matters of the nether regions, and Virageg certainly hoped his son would be able to navigate such matters on his own by the age of 16. Nonetheless, the King grunted an admission of audience, perhaps motivated by the same feeling of responsibility his crown imposed on his rulership; the prophet-prince thought perhaps he even saw some soft light reflected on his father’s face.


The son spoke on. “I fear my unconscious actions may have doomed our people. Though I do not recall the night of my prophecy I accept that it is my responsibility, as they were my lips which gave us this great and terrible mission. And yet, since the fires in the hills north of this odious forest, there has been no certain omen of apocalypse to assure our choice has been well-made. Those deserters could simply be deserters; this mad forest could simply be imparting its madness. Nonetheless, with each passing day we travel deeper into these woods without a glimmer of hope for a refuge in the south, or for a means to fight our supposed fate. People, children, have died in this forest, and I cannot help but imagine it is my own doing.”


The King was silent perhaps too long, before he replied: “I understand, my son”. His son saw fit to occupy the next silence, thus broken only by the same strange whistle of wind that had guided the prophet-prince’s steps through the trees.


“I awoke from a dream tonight. It felt as peculiar as my dreams before, of the harsh demons that haunt this forest, but not so sinister. I was floating, from my neck down, in a pool of water deeper than any pond of the steppe and wider than any stream. I could not feel my own weight, nor did I feel the weight that has shackled my mind since we began this journey. I stared straight south, and saw nothing but the darkness of the canopy we have come to know these last three months. And to my back, in the north, I felt a sweltering heat, and heard screams of pain and suffering. But in the water, flowing west to east, I felt safe. I fear this is an omen of death; I fear it means soon my mind will be taken by the demon from our children’s dreams.”


Once his son had finished speaking, Virageg was silent again. This time, however, it was his laugh that broke the silence; the booming laugh of a King, or perhaps of a warrior, triumphant in the face of some terrible foe. The young man knew not what to make of this laughter, and assumed it must be in mockery, until his father spoke.


“My son, your problem is not what you see. Your visions have guided us safely from the arms of inferno too long to worry there. It is in what you do not see. Look before you.”


And so he did, shocked by what confronted him: it was a stream of running water, hitherto escaping his notice, that ran from north to south. It was the first he had seen in the forest, and it was the origin of every dancing glimmer of light and whistling sound that distracted his mind that night.


“Tomorrow, at dawn,” spoke the kingly Virageg, “we shall assemble a group of my most trusted courtiers to accompany us as we search for the root of this stream. If I am not mistaken, its flow is oriented not completely from north to south, but bent slightly from west to east. I conclude, based on your dream, that it must meet a larger stream further south; one which runs, as you say, from true west to true east. And I imagine our people must follow it if we are to survive this scourge.”


That morning, Virageg and three riders he had fought alongside with in wars long forgotten set out to trace the stream to its destination. They were accompanied by a fifth, a new man, one who had gained his first name. A once anonymous prophet-prince, now called Golmorod: He Who Dreams of Rivers. Together, they found the greatest, largest, most powerful stream any Oshkum had ever lain eyes on, and their people began to follow it, hoping to find salvation where it led.

 

[Thlayli]

Boy oh boy, inthesomeday and thomas fighting for the crown of best long-form story arc. These are great, guys.

 

[Thlayli]

Iggy would be in the running, too, but...

 

[Shadowbound]

Shadur is the hip new thing that all the kids are talking about, it seems.

 

[Jehoshua]

I'm sure Iggy will get around to it.

 

[inthesomeday]

Manhood, Calmed by Moonlight: The First Year in the Forest​

They are not men who walk among us, afem. They are babes, overgrown by years of gluttony. I pray only that in your manhood there will be war to strengthen you, hardship to empower you, challenges to shape you. These years of king and court will bear no omen for our people but stagnation.


Golmorod watched his father carefully. The hulking, seven-foot figure of the Oshkum King tread as softly as one might expect a gazelle to. Golmorod watched as Virageg signaled back to him to hold—there must be game afoot. The father slowly, silently, bent his knee, lowering himself until he was almost underwater to his waist, and, without making a sound or breaking his stare, he pulled an arrow from his quill and notched it in his bow. The son looked on as the arrow flew free an instant later, sailing between trees into a darkness beyond Golmorod’s own vision, and was followed by a yelp in the forest.


Then, with the speed and agility of a lion, so sudden in the face of the silence that had preceded, Virageg leapt from the stream onto the bank and bounded into the forest towards his yet unseen prey. Golmorod followed. They came into a clearing in the trees and Virageg knelt to his prey: a deer with an arrow protruding from its haunch, still bleating weakly with its last breaths. He grasped the animal by its head, a hand on each side of its skull. It struggled briefly, lazily. In one swift motion, he twisted its neck. Silence followed in the clearing.


“Golmorod?” spoke Virageg expectantly, his hand reached back towards his son.


The young man regained himself while his mind caught up with the present, as it had been left swimming in the stream for some time, and he hurriedly fumbled the tool from his belt: a knife made of bone, crafted from the femur of one of their quarry’s cousins. Virageg took the knife in his hand and whispered a brief prayer before driving it into the animal’s skull. He worked quickly, carving the creature’s antlers from its head. It was equal parts tradition and utility: the separation of the horn was a sacred part of slaughter for the Oshkum, though its sanctity may have been an offshoot of the simple fact that it was easier to cleave through the bone at the skull while the marrow was warm. Evidence of the latter possibility was that the prayer was not uttered for Tangutar the Wind Father, but rather for some other, distant god, presumably a patron of sacrifice or butchery. Once both horns were removed, Virageg rose and piled the carcass onto his back.


“Tend to the antlers,” he commanded before setting back towards the stream.


The prophet-prince stood at just under 6 feet, and for this he always felt inadequate next to his father. Looking two heads up to meet his father’s eyes felt quite silly when he knew that Virageg had to look two heads down at his own father when he was 16. Golmorod was 17 now, and behind his father in so many ways. He had never tasted battle against the enemies of the king. He held but one name, though it was a very respected one among the Oshkum. He was inexperienced in tactics, in stewardship, and in hunting. And of course, he was inexperienced in other ways; ways his father must have been experienced in at the age of 17, proven by Golmorod’s own birth.


The men had reached the stream by the time either spoke again. They began following its flow to the riverbed where their people made camp this week, and Virageg seemed to read his son’s mind to bring up such a prudent topic.


“My son, you are nearing the height of your youthful virility. Have any young women among our tribe caught your eye?”


Golmorod almost dropped the antlers out of shock, even stumbling a bit in the water. His father laughed a deep, booming laugh that echoed through Golmorod’s skull.


The truth was, though the young man was indeed at the age when Oshkum men begin to take Oshkum women, none in his father’s tribe had yet caught his eye. There had been flings, puppy endeavors chasing and being chased by the young girls of many camps, but nothing of substance, and nothing since the Oshkum had entered the forest. Golmorod remembered years ago, when the southward march was young and so was he, there was a girl named Yasneka with whom he had shared a starlit night and a kiss atop a flower-strewn hill, but she had died of a sleeping sickness in the following winter, and had never inspired much in Golmorod besides a fancy of curiosity. There had been other childlike romances with girls in the north, but they seemed so distant from Golmorod’s memory and indeed his heart that they seemed too insignificant to even mention to his father.


“I…” began Golmorod, intending to spin some erotic tale from nothing, but before the uncomfortable conversation could continue the men were interrupted by a booming greeting from a muddy riverbed ahead.


It was one of Virageg’s advisors, and his comrade from forgotten wars, a man as brawny though not quite as tall as the King himself, whose name was Unasht (a short-form for “godly steed”). Golmorod trailed behind as his father approached Unasht and the two discussed the size of Virageg’s kill. The prophet-prince’s mind was on his future. He hoped that soon, he would be able to find a woman he loved, and wed her, and create grandchildren for his father that would secure the stability of his family for decades to come. He hoped. Eventually, he caught up with the two greater men, and Unasht greeted him.


“Hail, prince of the Oshkum. Did you help your father catch this beast?”


“No,” Golmorod answered truthfully, absentmindedly.


“…Ah,” Unasht replied, naturally taken aback. “Well, perhaps next time.”


Golmorod caught the slightest look of disappointment on his father’s face, and the three walked back to the main camp by the river, where dozens of Oshkum bustled about their daily lives.


It had been a year since the steppe tribe had entered the forest, and by now they found themselves in considerably better spirits than they were so many months ago. Though they were a people of the wind, trapped as they found themselves in the domain of the earth, the water of the river reminded them of their home, and the canopy did not obscure the sky over the river. They did their best to maintain their age-old traditions here; they made the same camps with the same people they had before, and stayed in a generally similar grouping of tribes along the river as they did on the steppe. Of course, because the new environment forced so much more cooperation, they lived much closer together in these tribes, weaving a more united culture, a developing Oshkum nation.


The new, open, easily navigable river allowed their traditional economy to regain its footing, too. There were potters again, tanners, butchers and artisans as there had been on the plains. There were horse breeders again, a very powerful and important class responsible for managing the crucial trade. Strong horses, fast horses, healthy horses, were essentially the most important symbol and source of social status in Oshkum society, and the people would be damned if they allowed this tradition to fall to the side just because they had no wide open plains to ride them. Of course, the bank of the river offered this in some small capacity, and those old crones responsible for raising their camp’s young took advantage of this opportunity to train riding alongside the shore.


The men could hunt as they had again, and the women could tend to goats and marriages as they had in the past. The stock of salt that the Oshkum had brought from the steppe was beginning to dwindle, but now that there was again a fresh bounty of game, it lost some of its importance. In all, things were beginning to return to a relative state of stability as they trekked along the river, following the dreams of their prophet-prince. Likely the biggest change to Oshkum economics was the loss of value of land deeds, which naturally became mostly useless as a truly nomadic way of life replaced the semi-sedentary one of the plains. This did have the social effect of removing one of the primary motivators for marriage, however, which forced other motivations into the spotlight, chief among them the compatible fertility of the bride and groom.


Once Golmorod, Virageg, and Unasht returned to their camp, the families they shared it with set about building a great spitfire to cook the deer. As it cooked, they reveled, and drank, and discussed the future, the present, and the past. Unasht told Virageg that there had been more reported sightings of strange people and beings on the south side of the river, a complaint Virageg heard often from frightened huntsmen and their wives. Apparently, while the King and the Prince were hunting, a young Oshkum boy claimed to have received a gift from one of these forest-people: his mother found him singing a foreign song, his feet dangling in the river, holding a strange flower, and he told her of a nimble young man who swam across the river to give it to him. Naturally, she panicked, assuming it was a sign that her son would be taken by Shadur soon.


Yes, by this time the Oshkum had discerned a name for the shape in their children’s nightmares from its whisperings, and as such a renewed sense of public terror saw fit to blame every little thing, not just disappearances, on this demonic shape. This was a trend that had already come and go, or so Virageg had hoped: every cough was a new plague come to wipe their people from the world, every new plant a forest poison that would kill their children, every new star sighted by the astrologers an omen of death. As the men talked, day turned to night, and Golmorod’s attention shrunk. His mind was on other things: the meaning of the young boy’s story, the fate of his romantic life, the sanctity of primal slaughter. Eventually, the camp gathered for their feast, and the light from fires further up the river showed many other camps doing the same.


Later still, once the last of the deer had been salted and stored for the future, and most everyone at the camp had retired for the night, Unasht and Virageg bid each other victorious dreams and parted to do the same. Golmorod found himself the last of his tribe awake, staring at the dying embers of the spitfire, wondering endlessly about the future. He felt a tap on his shoulder.


Oshkum women are named, unlike Oshkum men, from birth, with a feminization of their father’s name. For example, if Virageg had born any daughters, they might have been named Viragegya, or Viragela. For this reason, Unasht’s daughter, a young woman of 15, was named Unastoma. Golmorod turned to find her face staring into his, illuminated hazily by the last remnants of the fire in the pit, and by the moon. She was beautiful in her youth: sharing the hunter’s features of her father, her olive skin glowed in the light, and her sleek, black hair was pulled up in an elegant braid. She was well developed, with eyes that betrayed a valuable shrewdness and hips that portrayed a certain fertility. Golmorod knew she was attractive. She beckoned him into her tent, and he followed, the strangest feeling of tightness in his chest.


She closed the tent flap behind him and whispered that he should sit with her so they could discuss the future.


“My father wishes for us to be wed in a few months,” she stated, matter-of-fact, with an almost forced apathy. Golmorod didn’t answer, swallowing some deep anxiety he knew not how to identify. “He knows you will inherit the kingship from your father. He wishes to see his grandsons be princes, and he believes your father will accept his proposal. They are great friends.”


There was more silence from Golmorod. There was an anticipation in the air. An excitement which surely should have been palpable in Golmorod’s mind, but which was replaced by an anxiety he could not identify. It was as if his own unease, his own uncertainty, about everything—his father, his manhood, his guilt—all of it was wound up and wrapped around his shoulders. Unastoma continued.


“I think… I am ready. I find you striking in the right manner, and your regality magnifies my attraction. I believe we should… know each other. Even if just once. So we are not so frightened when the time comes to be each other’s.”


He still did not speak. She held his neck, and leaned in to kiss him. It felt strange. It felt cold. She pulled his arm to her side, and kissed him again, longer. He found that his eyes could not close, though hers were closed, and that his lips could not open, though hers were open. But he forced himself to contribute. He leaned in too, eyes open, mouth closed. She guided his hands: to her chest, her sides. She touched him, too: his chest, his stomach, and then—


He jerked away. It was instinct. Ugly, shameful instinct. He felt his heart beat desperately. He stood. She looked up at him.


“I…” he felt choked. “I… understand. I will marry you. But… tonight, I…”


She stared.


“Tonight I cannot.”


He left her there, sitting among the softest furs a warrior could afford his daughter. He did not look back as he ran through the shadows of the night, through the thickets of the forest. His thoughts were numb. His throat was closed. His chest felt like it was breaking, and his every limb felt like it would burst with lightning. He began to cry, hard and relentless, until he reached the stream where he had hunted hours ago. He sat in it, sobbing silently. He knew he did not hate Unastoma; he knew she was only trying to make sense of the future she knew she would face. The future they would face together. But he hated something. Surely it was himself.


The moonlight reflected so beautifully off the water that it seemed certainly impossible to feel hatred. He wove his fingers through the gentle stream of the estuary, watching great ripples break off of his hands where they made contact with the surface. Watching other ripples fly away from his teardrops. There was beauty here, and in Unastoma. Surely it was his fault he could not find it. Then, suddenly, there was warmth.


It felt like flesh, or perhaps it was wood, and it wove into his own fingers seamlessly. From the water emerged a hand, but Golmorod did not shy away, feeling some strange familiarity to it; it brushed his face, shooing away his tears too effectively. It retreated back into the stream and it left something in his hand: a flower, warm and bright. Alive, it seemed.


The prophet-prince looked, with shock, at the water. There was a shape, weaving itself between the boulders in the stream, hidden in the moonlight like a shadow. It emerged on the other side of the river, as a being: the form of a young man, carefree and slim, naked in the dark. But glowing slightly, attracting Golmorod’s eye. Golmorod saw him there, for the first time, and felt a calm he hadn’t felt since a dream long lost to the months. His tears stopped and he admired the shape. It was a wild boy, about Golmorod’s age, and native to the forest, surely. Lean and muscular yet sleek and beautiful. So beautiful. The prince looked on the first Naami to be seen by an Oshkum, and the Naami smiled; and the prince, despite himself, smiled back. Grinned, in fact, he could not help it. Then the Naami slid between the trees, into the darkest darkness, towards the clearing where Golmorod had played accomplice to a slaughter a lifetime ago. Out of sight, but quite thoroughly in mind. The prince’s smile faded, and a short eternity later, he broke his gaze with the trees, and he too stood, and walked home.


That night he slept deeply, and dreamed even deeper of colors, bright and vibrant, shapes he had never seen before. A race of men and women and folk of all kinds, who danced and sang and lived with the trees of this forest. The prince dreamt of flight, of wingless birds in the air—or were they birds at all? Perhaps they were men. Perhaps one was him.


That morning he woke to a half-packed camp, a harsh reality: the Oshkum would set off again down the river, to make camp somewhere in the future. Though Golmorod’s heart yearned to stay, and to explore the surrounding streams, his mind was lucid for the first time in a while, and it told him to move on with the others.


At the next campsite, the next spitfire, after the next brutal hunt and slaughter, Golmorod laid with Unastoma. It was peaceful this time; his everything was peaceful, and had been since he saw the boy. Deeper into that night he rose and journeyed south again, and cried into the stream, and with much less shock this time, he was visited again by a shape in the water. He knew, somehow, deep in his heart, that this would happen, and so he was not surprised. This time, however, he followed it across to the other bank, and into the thicket of trees. And that next morning, he brought the wild boy home with him, and they were followed by a band of elders who came to represent their tribe, the Naami. And they spoke with the King and his court, and broke bread, and although his father would surely have preferred to split their skulls with arrows, the kindness of the Naami made it seem impossible. A deal was struck: the Naami left that day with a young Oshkum warrior, the littlest son of a lowly woodchopper, and the Oshkum travelled on with a Naami boy of their own.


At the next camp, Golmorod was wed to Unastoma, and she found herself with child. But his love found somewhere else to live, somewhere far away from his duty: in the trees, hidden under the moonlight, gently caressed by wood and water. And so he was calm.

Spoiler :

Golmorod spends 1 point civilization for “diplomacy.” The Oshkum spend 1 point civilization for “enjoying life”.


This story feels incredibly long, and I’m sorry if it is. I’m also very sorry if it seems like I’m spamming the thread, but I know there’s way too much going on for the Oshkum in ten years for just a couple paragraphs, especially since they’re constantly on the move, and I don’t want to just go “They make it out of the forest. The end.” So if it starts to seem extra how much I’m writing just tell me and I’ll spoil it so as not to clog the thread.

Anyway this will be the last one to cover such a short period of time. I think I'm planning three more, and they'll each be a few years.

 

[Thlayli]

Of all the complaints I would ever level at my players, "you're writing too much" is definitely NOT one of them. I am greatly enjoying the tale of Golmorod.

 

[Lord_Iggy]

A choice between a terrible war, and enslavement. The elders had convened, and made clear their will- it was barely my choice. The southern flame-folk desired to place me within a cage- a pleasant cage, yes, but a cage nonetheless. And that I would have done- if my green dreams were so hateful or threatening to the flame-folk, that misfortune would be commensurate to the great fortune I had brought to those around me up to that point.

But the offer the southerners gave was unacceptable. I am a hero to the people of the forest- they would not accept my loss. And so the elder councils of all peoples have made clear their intention to fight. To fight for me, and for themselves. I hope very much it is for the latter- I do not wish to see people die, least of all for me.

All I had hoped for was to help, and now I fear that my actions have only led us towards the notice of terrible, powerful things, and the ruin of our nations. Perhaps nothing is given without something else being taken away. I dearly hope that is not the case.

So much has come to my people from the teachings of the ring of leaves. There are so many young children alive now who might have starved, there is so much richness and plenty, so many pains that can be eased. I had been back home, very near to where I was born, for only a few months. The village was larger than any I had seen before, a splendid, welcoming garden of multitudes. It was a fine place for our child to be born.

Little Halogund. My firstborn and a son, the first of Halid's bloodline. I wish that he would not be forced grow up in a land on the cusp of ruinous war and invasion. Ever have the forest kindreds warred, of course, but we have our laws and customs. Battles are fought in prescribed locations, hostages are taken and traded back in magnanimity. The outsiders will not wage war according to our customs.

That is what has occupied my time, for so many recent months. We will be waging a war against our own customs as well. The green spirit does not advise me in matters of war. I'd be amiss to believe that it held any feelings towards the coming conflict, for the ways of the spirits are uncanny and unknowable. Nonetheless, what I have learned from it in years past may now be used for our cause. There is a plant that grows in the hills in our north, humble, with five pointed petals, from whose pollen can be produced a powerful concoction of deep drowsiness. I have seen to it that it is prepared for use against the invaders. There are all manner of herbs which we have long understood bring death to those who touch or consume them- their sap shall tip the arrows of our warriors. My students across the realm have been instructed in how they might use their knowledge to defend our sacred land.

How cruel and ironic. I have never wanted to kill, and never found joy or pleasure in taking. And now I am turning all of the gifts that I have been given into instruments of cruelty and death. That is the last thing I would have wanted to do. Many of the direst poisons I had taught to no one, until this time of terrible need came. And what I teach can never be untaught.

It is my deepest hope that the long sleep that befalls our invaders shall be our most effective line of defense, such that none of these dread weapons need be brought to use.

In recent days, I have dreamed more frequently. In the months since Halogund's birth, the green wheel has kept its distance, but lately it has returned, ever more frequently. The wheel spins in a flurry, cutting and healing, growing and fading... but I realize now something lies behind it. Or within it, or through it. I struggle to focus on it, but cannot. It defies visualization, and it does not impart thoughts into my mind, as the wheel does. Instead, it is as a thousand indistinct murmurs, a faint taste of blue, an ineffable temperature and texture... all drawing me east.

The wheel spins, implacable.

I know, when the experience fades, that I must leave. The elders already wished for me to move east, they will not resist. I do not know what more I can provide for our defense.

I confide to Halid, who will come with me regardless of what I say, though she is already with child. Mastin and Gologind remain steadfastly sworn to our protection. On the eve of our departure, I go alone to meet with my father.

Oh! The years of my absence have shaped both of us. His face is just a little more crinkled, a little darker than before, and his black hair is speckled with grey. But he is still the man who taught me the trails of my childhood, the sharer of my moiety. I share with him my grief, my wish that none of this southern war had come to pass. I speak of my worries for Halid and our unborn child, my fear that our people might so quickly lose what we had gained. My father embraces me, and for a moment I am a child again. He is prepared to fight for the defense of the lands, as our forebears have done, back to the first people. He feels the same fear that shadows my heart, but gently chides me. There is no fear in death, only in submission and defeat. The wheel that speaks to me will continue to turn long after he, I, and the last of my descendants have passed, for it is the force indomitable, and its knowledge rests in the hands of the Gahadi Circle. My father, eyes glistening, tells me how proud I have made him, and made all peoples. How beautiful my infant son is, and how great and kind my gifts to the world have been. If the wheel bids me east, then east I ought to go, lest I stray from the path that has served so well for all of my life.

Buoyed by the wisdom and courage of my father, I am chastened. I will not doubt, and fear will not misdirect me. As the flames of war draw nigh, my quartet disappears into the uncharted east.