TNES VI - The Mythopoeia

[Jehoshua]

The Genesis of the Horned Ones

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The forest stilled and was silent.

A man, his wife, and companions bearing weapons of burnished bronze and an apprehensive aspect in their harried eyes walked under boughs of ancient trees in a place no mortal man had trod before. They were accompanied as ever by a wheel of leaves, invisible to mortal eyes but clear to the third eye of the spirit, dancing overhead, flickering hither and yon between the fruits and leaves and flowers of this hallowed and forbidden place, heedless yet not un-heedless of the power that dwelt therein and the nameless spirits watching from above. Truly, in this place the gods of fire and sword and eldritch nightmare held no sway, for here was not the realm of men or men's ill-begotten gods, brooding as is their want in high temples and atop the pillars of the firmament. Neither eternal children unmarked by time nor shadow-thing wrought by an ill-begotten guest tarried in this glade, their malicious yet innocent whimsy that led men to slaughter and caused rivers to run dry was for another place and another time.

No, here was the realm of the sprouting shoot and the ancient oak, the rising and the falling of the sun, the smell of decay and the wetness of the dew, the budding of flowers and the singing of birds, the baying of great wolves and the quiet scurrying of the door-mouse hidden under the shade of rustling leaves and above all of deep and abiding stillness. Here was death and here was life renewed and grown old and strong before it too died and was born again. Here the wild ones and watchers of the grove without name and needing none found their sanctuary from axe and fire and plough. Needless to be said the forest itself lived and watched and dreamt strange dreams, for here was the realm of the Sleeping God and all that trod the living earth in His domain cannot hope to remain untouched.

A wind rustled through the leaves and died away.

And a cry rang out, plaintive and desperate in the midst of silence. It cut through the forest like a knife and echoed through the watching trees like the call of some southron slave wracked by a Marid's fiery whip to the mocking indifference of the world. The wild ones looked on with baleful eyes and smirking condescension as water trickled through a nearby brook heedless of the woman's cries. She fell down unto the earth, her body wracked with pain and hidden fire as twigs cracked under her knees and insects scurried from her wake, uprooted from the decaying forest floor by her descent. Blood poured out onto the earth, mingled with water, and seeped into the ground as she was struck low. Her guards hastened to her side, frantic at the sudden rapture, as precious was her cargo and great was the menace that bore them hence. Her husband, victim and saviour to his people, both prophet and sinner, cried out and fumbled at his knapsack of many pouches that he might apply healing herbs, bestowed by divine inspiration and human wisdom to heal his wife's growing discontent... and save the life of a child not yet born, innocent and untouched as yet by the sweetness of life's sorrows.

A toll was paid and soaked into the earth.

From life, death, so it was and so shall it always be as the song of the season resounds in notes of snow and reborn spring. It is the way of nature that the young die tragically before their appointed time at some caprice of fate and that the old wither away long after they desire to rest from the sufferings of mortal life, as time finally and inexorably demands its toll. So too does the sleeping and ageless god, the master of the wood and dreamer who turns the wheel of natures time and who is himself moved demand [if a dreams discontent could be called as such] a price for mankind's transgression in the forest [the manner of which time would unveil for all to see] and a payment in return for a man's sacrilege in his sacred sanctuary. Thus as rotting wood returns to the soil from which it was taken in the day of its first planting, so too does life return to its origin that it might beget in death more life eternally unto the end of all ages until the consummation of the world and to the fulfilment in due time of a promise made in the unremembered past. So was it also recompense for a single human sin and the sin of those who would be drawn hither by the sinners coming.

A vision laid itself upon the man as he reached into a box and retrieved a magic leaf hallowed by a strange and yet familiar god, that he might best salve the fever that wracked his wife's pallid brow. Her sweat trickled down her face like summer rain, hot and languid as fever rose within her burning flesh. At one moment as he untangled some leather thong, he beheld with inner sight a loathsome star falling from the dark and empty heavens and with its passing the trembling of a thousand spirits seized with wordless agony before being plunged into sudden silence. In the next he wept as he looked into the face for but an instant, of a maiden fair as light with flowers blooming at her feet and vines woven in her golden hair as songbirds fluttered around her shining countenance and bewitching smile. As his wife screamed out to the heavens and beseeched her god for succour, her hands grasping at the soil in anguish and broken ecstasy, so flashed before his eyes a thousand thousand visions of men and beasts and creatures of fire and smoke and burnished copper and yet others of stone and water, of water creatures with oily fur cradling their young and bearing offerings of urchin and polished stones deep into The Past amidst the swaying kelp. He saw with inner eyes, again for but a moment, a dreaming child with strange and mismatched eyes offering oblation to the woods and of an old man with crooked thorns snared about his heart. He saw too great beings with heads raised heavenwards upon god-trod mountains speaking oracles not for mortal men to know in whispers on the wind and of a stag struck by three falling stars filled with a terrible, terrible, silence.

At last he cried out in unknown revelation and saw a great tree alight with the sun as if aflame. In that moment time stood still for what seemed like an eternity, as leaves held aloft on an unseen wind stood still in motion, while blood trickled down the hallowed oaks aged trunk and seeped into the ground, watering the roots of the tree such that the man could almost taste its tangy flavour on his tongue. His eyes, slowly, sorrowfully, looked upward through a haze of tears to the branches, and with their ascent he stopped still with religious ecstasy as his heart leapt in unknowing grief and longing. There he saw it, saw her, a woman, the same as that he saw before in fleeting glance, yet bereft of splendour for she was dead, slain with a sword of fire and smoke thrust deep into her breast as her eyes stared outward blank and bereft of light into the emptiness of the void. He cried out in despair and tragic knowledge, remembering what was in the deepest deeps of his soul, beholding in his heart of hearts a truth near at hand yet not yet understood. For her face was the face of his wife and of his mother and of all the mothers and wives and maidens of the world who were and are and are yet to come... and she was dead. Thus as eternity passed into an instant and the tree withered along with all its company into ash and was washed away into the great ocean by rushing waters and down deep into the depths, so did the woman slain pass into the past and become but a memory, and as she vanished so too did life ebb away and fade.

The wheel of leaves withered.

Time moves ever forward. Death comes in its time and with it mourning and bitter tears. The god watched and yet did not watch behind the veil of sleep, wakeful yet dreaming, cognisant yet not aware [not yet] and so it was that the earth trembled at his touch as he stirred in fitful slumber, the wind whispering through the trees unheeded in the midst of silence. For the mortals dared not tarry in that place of mourning, lost in that holy wood amid the eddies of the cosmos and the vicissitudes of the dreaming. For such was their grief that they could not bear to remain in that place where blood and water had fallen to the earth and where mortal flesh taken before its allotted time had become food for worms and nourishment for the trees, buried as it was under a mound of earth bedecked with upright stones. A price was paid for their trespass into the forest of the gods, where they hoped in foolish hope for sanctuary in a place where burning eyes saw not, and it was steep. That said, the truth of their loss was yet unknown to them [though the man knew deep within his soul of what would come] and likewise was the consolation of the lord who gives as well as takes away hidden from their gaze. Time passed again, and as men died the little death, their tears and sufferings being wiped away by falling rain to be renewed at dawns orange light, their feet having long departed from the banquet of the slain and wandered, as mans feet and minds are given to wander, into the realm of dreams [or nightmares be it as it may], the waking dream turned again unto that which had fallen into the soil and to the soul of that which was taken which lay entombed within.

The wheel sprouted anew

The earth quivered and a wind rustled the leaves once more as the moons light lit the forests depths through a gap made therein in that moment of times passing. And in that very moment the world of spirits shook and the wild ones and watchers of the ways stood still with silent awe as many souls rose like new lit flames [or perhaps more aptly like seeds falling from a single tree] from one soul sacrificed, moved and brought into being by the power of a god and the humanity of that which was taken. With their rising the dust and leaves, the wood of ancient trees and forlorn flesh taken before its time came together knitting sinew to sinew and flesh to flesh from dust and wood and stone, with many parts forming a single whole as the sleeper dreamed strange dreams of what was and is and what would be again.

In the union of earth and spirit and man did a beast appear, fashioned together in the midst of the aetheric winds. It stood firm upon the empty grave with serene and silent majesty... and it was great and terrible to behold. Yet it was also of serene and kindly countenance for such is the way of the world that burning flame is tempered with soothing water. Its head was crowned with a mantle of horns like polished stone or perhaps burnished bronze, branched and sharp, in appearance akin yet not alike in nature to that of a stag. It bore a coat of shaggy hair that seemed to mortal eyes to be laden with moss and bark and its face was uncannily like unto the countenance of a man and yet not a man. It breathed deep, and the leaves rustled.

The first breath.

And lo did the beast become changed into the form of a child of thirteen summers with horns upon his brow and hooves for feet, its pointed ears twitched like a deer's and as it looked up from the dust from which it was taken its moonlit face was like unto the man's but wild as was the nature of its true father. Its eyes looked out, blinking with befuddlement and wonder at the world about it, and those eyes were strange for they bore the mark of the forest with their emerald hue, but they were not wholly alien to the eyes of mortal men. So it was that yet more children and men and women, old sages and hardy youths, gentle maids and mighty huntsmen alike came forth in similitude to the first, bearing leaves in their hair and tangled around their horns as ferns and flowers and shoots of green grew unbidden at their feet and shattered the upright stones laid upon the broken tomb. With their coming, magic pure and ancient, yet new to a world that remembered not its past and the time before fire scoured the realms of men, rose at their behest, as unsteady hands formed in but moments from god-hallowed dust, mortal flesh and a miracle of the gods were lifted up to the moon and to that god which brought them forth from death to life.

Radiant and innocent were their faces as they raised voices in exaltation and joyous sorrow for life given and life taken away. The sound of their chorus was borne aloft to the vault of heaven as the sound of silence was rent asunder by the rising of the sun. For as the sun rose far across the great ocean [and the mysteries buried within its depths] and ascended through the sea of stars it illuminated with mornings rays the past and the future also. Thus with its rising a thousand birds awoke and joined with the cry of the Horned Ones in that sacred forest, that holy and forbidden place of life and death and hidden wisdom. Their singing echoed through all the woods of the east, for in that new day was born from sacrifice and an unheralded dream the servants of the forest, they who are the strange brothers of the Gahadi and the Children of the Sleeping God.

--

Spoiler :

3 Magic Points to the creation of the Horned Ones [aka as the Sylvae to the Sommoi, Children of the Forest God, Horned Watchers and many other names] together with the 1 magic point of a child sacrificed before its time [as you shall see]. Detail regarding the unique characteristics of this magical race will proceed later.

 

[TheMeanestGuest]

In Hunger's Grasp

There was no resistance, no hesitation. There was only SHADUR. His master beckoned, and he was pulled as if by strings. The door closed behind him, and again Hyric stood upon that cold grey plain, and again he gazed upon the twisted faces of the monolith. Clouds of finest snow - wind-whipped - danced their lashing dance, devils cavorting in the distance. His master spoke and he could do naught but listen; he crumpled to the ground beneath the weight of its command.

The dyryg’s defiance cannot be borne, so go, huntsman, and snuff out the life of that pernicious beast. Eat of its liver, that I should know my will is done.

The horizon came forward to meet Shadur, and Hyric felt himself drawn backwards and away. The wraith lay where he’d fallen, a drift building up beside. The light faded, night slowly falling. Arisen, he drew a hand over his face and brought forth a mask of hunger. He could sense the winds about him, their eddies and their currents twisting clearly in his mind’s eye. Reaching out he called a cloud down from the sky, and atop it he rode south and west. Things hadn’t always been as they were, he knew. He remembered his life so long ago. He had been other than this bleak thing that bore his name. It was as if there had been something there, once, where now was emptiness inside. What that might have been he no longer knew, no longer cared. Could not, it seemed, no matter how he tried. What his master made of these wandering thoughts it did not say, but it did not do to dwell on things left behind and buried. With Shadur he has moved beyond them.

A lonely cloud scudding across the darkling sky. Wood and water speeding by below, the scattered thoughts of zemmi intruding on his solitude in their passing. They cowered low in the woods to hide themselves from naioune eyes, knowing that they could be snatched up at any moment and put to purpose. Hyric had no use for them this night, and so he bade them to a dreamless slumber. He would do this alone.

He stepped from his cloud amidst a copse of birches, their yellowing leaves already spilling to the ground. He’d caught the creature’s scent high upon the winds, and here it had led, to the broad-leafed stands of Orthier. He recalled that his mother had told him tales of Orthier to frighten him as a boy. Stories of disobedient and stubborn children rising to wake not in their sleeping slings, but beneath these hungry trees, never to come home again. Strange, how that dead man’s memories came back to him, how for a moment he could almost feel as if he was someone else. Hyric drew his long flinten knife from its sheathe at his waist. By old instinct he ran his thumb along the blade to test its edge, by new across the runes he’d etched with lion’s blood for a keen and wicked sharpness, for a clever abiding strength. He peered through the gloom between the trees, moon’s light revealing all to him as clear as summer’s day. A trail near imperceptible espied, barest blackened edges on littered leaf. He set to follow it, a long grey spear of sturdy amning pine held close, arm ready for the throw. Each stride carried him longer than it should, and he flickered quiet through the wood, his step leaving no sign of passage.

An ashen glade, new growth shooting up through the fire’s leavings even this late in the season. He stood stock still, tasting at the air. A faint heat wafting, but far or near? His hunger grew inside him, a ravenous hunter’s urge. The mask he bore saved him then with stomach’s sudden pang. He lept clear as a gout of flame tore through the burnt-out meadow, tender shoots in an instant turned back to ash and glowing ember. He crouched in tall branches, a cloak of shadows drawn about him. Guttering brush fires bathed the clearing in harsh orange light, and a twisting plume of smoke drifted from the treeline. Idiot creature, to think it could best his skill, to think that it could resist Shadur. An arrogance of long centuries that he would soon correct. He sat still and quiet.

A chortle, rising to a dry wheezing laugh, the dyryg lumbering out into view. Beady eyes sunk into a goaty face, it’s bloated toad’s body held up on hooven legs, a mirage of heat wafting from its bulk. With a crack like thunder he hurled his spear deadly true, but the dyryg’s long tongue snapped out, arresting it mid-flight. Hyric dropped to land neatly on his feet as his perch was engulfed in a roar, trunk bursting with a crack so sudden was it ablaze. He fell to all fours and tore towards the dyryg, faster than ever he’d been before, exulting in the thrill, his mouth watering in anticipation. It’s steaming tongue lashed out again, setting him a tumble as it knocked his feet from under him. A hoof came down, striking the ground with an echoing boom where he’d fallen the barest second before. With a flick of his fingers the dyryg was caught on it’s flank by a flensing burst of wind, skin and slime evaporating to reveal blood and bone beneath. It screamed, weak red fire oozing from its mouth. He was on the beast, hacking and stabbing with cruel stone blade, cutting it apart. It shook itself and swatted him with its tongue, but hunger was in his bones and fury coursed through his veins. It groaned and fell to the ground with a crash, and it spoke to him as he dug into and through its innards, tossing them aside.

“I have endured the passing of many summers and many winters, eating as I pleased” the dyryg wheezed, it’s lungs heaving with the effort “I have seen many fell things come here to the north, and each one now lies forgotten. Your master, slave, is merely one more.”

“And yet here you lie, bloody and torn, dying. Is that not something new? Even now you have no understanding,” Hyric sighed in reply, his arms still buried in the beast, questing.

“These vicious whispers will not save you. The savageries of death will find you too” it rasped.

“They already have,” he said absentmindedly as he grasped his prize, cutting it free. The dyryg seemed to deflate then as it died, as its essence fled its ruined shell. Hyric held the liver before him, his hair matted in tangles, his deerskins all run through with blood. He bit into it, a smile of delight spreading across his face. He was seized by ecstacy as Shadur’s embrace enfolded him.

 

[Jehoshua]

Journal of Varrosulis of Sommos

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On the eve of the feast of sacred Enamon, our lookout in the crow's nest sighted land. Here at last was our destination, fabled Gahad the Great, City of Flowers. We had been at sea for twenty seven days and the men were getting restless. For scarce a week had passed since the water people, the Udyn had seen fit to unleash their water magic on our ship for trespassing near to their isle, a harrowing prospect for all save the antlered fleet. Now however that our destination was near at hand everybody cheered and the prospect of fresh water, food and women, with all thought of the harrowing trip through the Isles of Udynia banished from our minds. Thus we anchored offshore and prepared to land the next day.

The next day we disembarked on the docks. and while them men headed of to their various destinations I headed to the market and from there to the Temple of the Green Spirit. For my task was twofold, to study the Gahadi and record their primitive customs for posterity in the records of fair Sommos, and request an audience with the green priests in the hopes of obtaining a way to observe the mysterious Horned Ones, or Sylvae as the recently appointed council in the mother of civilisation had dubbed them, who rumour says associate only with the Gahadi amongst the nations of humankind. My guide was a young Gahadi man by the name Halfdan, who was most eager to show me the abundance of Gahad and the blessings bestowed by their prophet pointing out the flowers and trees of his city with obvious pride in his eyes even as he turned apprehensive when we passed the stone engraved with the manifesto of Anis-Natar's high priest. At midday I was sketching the façade of the temple of the green spirit after the green priests refused to provide an introduction to the Sylvae [although they took the gifts of meteoric iron, said to be much prized by the creatures nonetheless with some vague promises to pass it on] when they appeared. There were seven of them in total, horned beings in appearance much the same as a man albeit with a disturbing beauty, for their ears were pointed like leaves and their countenance was wild. Their lower legs however were furred and hoofed like a stags and they stood a little taller than the common Gahadi man. Six of them had smallish horns, not particularly noticeable amidst their tangled hair, and carried great bows over their backs slung over capes made out of woven leaves. Their leader however was a magnificent fellow, a full head taller than his fellows with his brow being decorated by an impressive rack of pronged horns. He bore a staff of living wood in his right hand and smiled as he talked animatedly with the chief priest of the temple, a furtive little man who had to look up to meet the horned beings gaze. As I watched with interest Halfdan whispered to me that the size of their horns reflected the magical power of the bearer and that even the weakest of them could pass unseen in the woods by magic and understand the speech of trees and the whispers on the wind and thus know all the tidings of the forest. If what he says is true than the one I saw before me must be a mighty individual indeed! We watched the stags conversation, with his guards looking furtively around obviously ill at ease in the city, before they departed back into the crowd from whence they came.

-

The next day one of the green priests came to my quarters and intoned that my presents had been well received by the Sylvae or Aerenath as I was informed they call themselves, so I decided to risk going to a nearby grove outside the walls of Gahad where the seven Sylvae I saw yesterday were encamped. We took only our daggers and swords in case we had to defend ourselves, not wanting to make a bad impression by coming too heavily armed. Leaving a few men along with the ships crew in Gahad to sell their wares [weapons mostly, for the tavernkeepers in Sommos had said war between Gahad and Anis-Natar was inevitable] I led the rest of the party into the grove. Amidst the trees we came upon a copse of oaks around a pile of stones. On top of this were arrayed the group of Sylvae sitting at ease and watching us curiously. Sitting in front of them was their leader pipe in hand playing a strange tune similar to the songs of the forest birds. Turning in my direction the Sylvae nearest to the leader spoke. To my surprise I was being welcomed in — of all things — fluent Gahadian!

Fortunately I knew Gahadian quite well. although it was very difficult to understand the Sylvae interpreters rustic accent! First of all he informed me that the offerings had been most acceptable to their Lord Aahur and that the trees had told him I was coming. I replied that I was Varrosulis of Sommos, and that I was a scholar who had come in peace and friendship to trade and to observe the ways of the Sylvae. The interpreter turned to his Lord. The inscrutable expression of his masters face was entirely unperturbed. Then Aahur uttered a single word in a strange tongue. The Sylvae nodded and replied "We do not need to trade!" This I did not expect, and thinking quickly I noted that the bronze weapons of Sommos would be of great help in defending their forests, particularly should the legions of Anis-Natar come north. Aahur said another strange word and his expression grew fierce, as the speaker noted, simply, "No!"

Being hustled out of the grove by the green priests who came with us I was later informed that the Sylvae have a taboo regarding forged metal. For as I was advised in a stern lecture by the priests, the Sylvae do not mine or smelt ore, do not sow the earth, do not cut down living trees or make use of any fire save by that brought forth by friction. My suggestion, it seemed, that they make use of Sommosi bronze was a great insult, for it would entail they circumvent their law by trade with us and that regardless making use of metal forged through the killing of trees and the melting of stones was abhorrent to them. Wagging his finger like a schoolmaster, the chief priest noted that it was only because the Sylvae did not wish to make the Gahadi lose face that we were still alive, and that I was lucky I was not made to wander the woods eternally by magic or shot by an unseen arrow for my insult. As he went on I noted that It would seem it would be a long time before I could observe the Sylvae in their natural habitat!

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Race Description

Spoiler :

Horned Ones

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Appearance:

The Horned Ones [s. Aerenoth/pl. Aerenath] appear very much akin to a man with brownish skin that blends into the forest. Their distinguishing features are their lower legs which are furred and in form like those of a stag [digitigrate with hooves for feet], as well as their leaf shaped elf-like ears and horns [which are pronged like a deer but true horns, and tend to be larger and more impressive in those with greater magical power]. Their facial features also tend towards ruggedness with their appearance having a feral overtone, although they do not appear animalistic in this regard. Interestingly the Horned Ones live quite some time longer than humans on average [although they are still mortal and die from old age] although due to their recent genesis no one is certain what their life expectancy actually is. They are also physically more powerful than humans due both to their lifestyle and their innate characteristics.

Society

The Horned Ones are hunter-gatherers [albeit with some tending of the forest] divided into clans and kinship moieties amongst their kind [breeding within the same moiety is taboo]. These clans tend to be small with a few hundred individuals at most usually related to each-other and led by the most mystically powerful [indicated by the size of their horns] shaman [Aemak] of the clan [although all Horned Ones are magically adept]. These clans tend to group in tribes [although there are a few independent clans] led by a Lord [who is responsible for the safeguarding of a sacred grove]. All tribes and clans answer, nominally, to the first horned one, the fabled Horned King. The Aerenath tend to live in caves, or alternatively in burrows under the roots of ancient trees or hidden villages fashioned in hidden recesses of the forest of magically shaped living wood or woven of leaves and grass, although many are also nomadic or partially so living in tents of treated hides and leaves. With regards to relations with other races, they have good relations with the Gahadi and the circle as a consequence of their origins and the Gahadi respect for nature, while also having fairly good relations with the Udyn due to the fact their lifestyles do not conflict, and with nature spirits. The Horned Ones tend to avoid relations with all other humans as their urban and agricultural lifestyle is utterly alien to their nature.

Culture:

The culture of the Horned Ones reflects their own inhuman psychology, various taboos and the influence of their origins in the Gahadi. For instance the language of the Horned Ones follows Gahadi grammar and structure and shares many of its words [while using others of their own for concepts unique to the Horned Ones]. They also share the Gahadi moiety system with a number of internal moieties within their society functioning the same way as those of Gahad [although the Gahadi presumably consider them to be one moiety]. Whether these moieties have separate origins from the original scions of Haadulf is not known to the races of men. Additionally many of their cultural artifacts follow Gahadi models although with their own unique twists in decoration and design [for instance they use bone, native metal particularly meteoric iron, and flint for arrowheads and blades, rather than forged metal].

In terms of psychology the Horned Ones do not view time and the world in the same way as humans [linearly with action and consequence]. They see the world in terms of cyclical living time [reflected in the cycles of growth and decay and the seasons] and mythic time, the preordained cosmic order which imposes itself in the world eternally [in this way action and consequence are minimised or erased, everything happens as a consequence of the psychocosmic drama of divine and spiritual forces enacting an ever-repeating story through the ages in accordance to an eternal truth]. Likewise they believe in the connection of all things with a holistic view being reflective of their understanding of the forest ecosystem, their relationship with their god Elaadi and their part in the world.They also believe in essence and eternity, that is to say that things have an inherent nature, and with regards to themselves that their essence [the soul] returns to the keeping of the forest god [Elaadi] when they die and endures within the godhead. Needless to be said the Horned Ones have a keen understanding of nature and their environment and as such their lifestyle endeavours to maintain harmony with nature and the land.

All these things are reflected in various taboos amongst the Horned Ones. In particular, taboos regarding mining, fire and forged metal reflect the mythic drama of the gods in particular the gods [although no human yet knows this] Azzatar and Afrakt. The taboos regarding stones, metal and the use of fire [friction only] aim to spiritually prevent empowering these forces, while also avoiding offending them. Additional taboos regarding farming, cutting down trees, when one can enter sacred groves and their general interaction with the environment attempt to maintain harmony with, and the favour of, the sleeping god and the nature spirits, although many of these taboo things [mining, farming, etc] are simply aversions to things fundamentally alien to their nature and their deep connection with the forest and everything in it.

Power

The Horned Ones are a magical race, and thus they all bear the mark of magic in their lives. In particular all horned ones can understand the whispers of the leaves and the trees, commune with spirits, and hear tidings far beyond the hearing of men. Likewise all can seemingly meld at will into the forest [partly by magic partly by woodcraft] hidden from the sight of men [much to the distress of interlopers faced with their poison arrows], tame forest beasts, construct magic wardings and make use of basic nature magic such as wood-shaping and rain-calling to tend to the forest and fashion tools and shelters from the living forest. Likewise they have learnt from the Gahadi magics of growth and renewal and use these to tend to the forests.

More powerful individuals [which are not uncommon] can cause dead wood to shoot and devour their unwitting wielders, cause men to become lost forever in the forest, take the shape of beasts, see through the eyes of birds and wake the trees to attack those who would dare defile their land with entangling roots and crushing branches. The mightiest and rarest can cause ancient groves to grow from seed overnight, hear everything in a given forest, guide their people to traverse great distances between the sacred groves in an instant, and banish unclean spirits among other obscure powers. Fortunately for their enemies their relative lack of numbers, lack of artifice and city-building and the fact that their power is somewhat diminished outside of their habitat in the forests ensures that they have nought to fear from the forest people so long as they do not disturb their sacred land or enter unwittingly into the woods without their leave.

Distribution

Horned Ones have been sighted and known to range in the shaded areas of the below map. In particular the main centre of their population is in the forests north and east of the Circle of Gahad, with Aerenath hunters being sited to the south of Gahad as well as in the immediate proximity of sacred forests further afield on the Isle of Enedrion [naming that big island now] and north-east of Carn. Of the human realms they only visit Gahad freely on occasion, preferring to keep their distance from human civilisation and the defilement of their cities and towns.

OOC Notes:

Spoiler :

1: Final territory under control of the Horned Ones as of the end of the coming turn is naturally up to GM discretion, but I made the draft "fairly" extensive compared to initial empires as of last turn, noting that they are hunter-gatherers which would require sufficient land to range.
2: The intention regarding the high magical ability of the Horned Ones and their great strength in a verdant setting, is that it is counterbalanced by the limitations of their lifestyle and their relative weakness elsewhere [nature magic is of little use in the fire-blasted desert for instance]. Fundamentally they are fae conservators crossed with native tribesmen in character. Again the precise level is up to the GM, but do note it is not the intention to have the average horned one be equal to say a Marid.
3: That's not to say that their civilisation can't develop in an interesting direction within those parameters, although ideally that should have a higher magic point and lower civilisation point starting value than a standard "empire" if they get independent stats.
4: Just so its extra clear, Aerenoth is the singular while Aerenath is the plural. Aemak the Aerenathi term for shaman/clan leader is derived from umak via Gahadi, with its meaning altered in response to their circumstances and naturally close connection with nature and the spirits

 

[Thlayli]

All good, Jeho, with the caveat that I will probably have Enedrion be the Somnian/Terres name for the far eastern lands rather than the native one, because their cultures (Iphu, Jurou) are a lot less Greco-Roman sounding.

Yes yes indeed, it would be very unlikely for the horned ones to be the equal of a marid...but then again, there are only Seventeen of them.

 

[Thlayli]

Once upon a time,

A storyteller was arrested for telling tall tales about the king. The guards were regretful; they themselves had laughed or wept at the tavern board at his stories on certain nights. But they had families to feed, so they did their solemn duty. The storyteller was dragged by the guards to the block to die. And he cried and pleaded as condemned men oft do. But what is curious is his plea: “No. No! You can not kill me! I have so many stories left to tell!”

This is a cautionary tale, readers. You have this day, and three more, to tell your stories. Or the condemned storyteller will be you.

 

[Jehoshua]

With regards of the name of the big island. Enedrion for the Somnians is fine, but make it derived from a local name [Enedriu or Anephru {A morphing to E, ph becoming d with a somnian location marker on the end} perhaps]

 

[Thlayli]

Ultimately, as the players for that region I think I will be leaving that decision up to azale and Thomas.

But it’s funny, it might end up being a less relevant discussion than one might think...

 

[Shadowbound]

The history books will be written in Carnish anyway.

 

[Shadowbound]

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

MORVAN ap ARTHMAEL - Son of Maelis, bearer of Death, nominal Protagonist

JORD ap EVEN - A thief and a reaver, leading a band of the same

DEVI - A thief and a reaver, among a band of the same

ZAIG - A thief and a reaver, among a band of the same

TELO - A thief among thieves condemned to death

ENTER JORD, DEVI, ZAIG, TELO

JORD - Ho Ho! Despite the fierce storm that plagued us dear,
We have made safe landfall here in this cove.
A blessing upon the local spirits
Whom sure will appreciate this sacrifice.

TELO - No! I beg thee, my captain and brother,
I much repent the wrong I have done thee.
How was it not the curse of greed that first
drove me to join our merry company?

Have mercy!

DEVI - Alas, for you are my dear friend, and much loved,
But thou hast broken our sacred compact.
All booty and plunder must be shared and
Divided equally among the shipmates.

JORD - Our law is harsh but so is the ocean
Upon which we make our bloody living.
Though I am your captain and commander
I too only take one part and no more.

ZAIG - Aye, Captain, I am filled with much sorrow.
For six long years I have sailed with Telo
And twice has he plucked me from death’s cold grip.
Is there mercy to be found in our code?

JORD - None! Even if consensus among us
Allowed the sparing of brother Telo
To survive the rude storm that followed us
We pledged his life to any god that heard.

Did you not see another lost ship founder
And sink beneath the waves, in the distance,
Lit by the flash of lightning that struck sail?
Only divine intervention spared us.

TELO - Pfah! Then let it be the hand of a god
That claims my life, not that of mine brothers.
Release these bonds and I will take challenge
For my soul from any lightning thrower here.

JORD - Oh, if only! If gods collected themselves
Their own bloody offerings, then I think,
There would be many fewer gods on earth.

DEVI - Listen and be silent! Another comes.

JORD - Perhaps your bold challenge is accepted.

ENTER MORVAN

MORVAN - Blessing upon you lot, as it is me.
For I have gained my life and my freedom,
In a single, grave, terrifying night.

JORD - A story and a name you have to tell,
Share swiftly, for we have our own bus’ness.

MORVAN - Mathilin I am named and for two years
I have served as a slave and a rower
Among the crew of a dread pirate ship.

JORD - Indeed, for you have arms like small trees,
And scarred back like a southern tapestry.
Who was captain of this ship? What flag flew?

MORVAN - Loeiz was the captain, a surly man
Made much worse by drink and some past cruelty.
But he drinks now only seawater, I alone
escaped his sinking ship amid the storm.

JORD - I don’t know him.

ZAIG - He sailed for Argantix, or he once did.

JORD - Is that true? Well, I will not mourn him long.
We sail for Tancuyix, his brother, and
there is but little love left between them.
Were it not for great Judocix’s strong hand
I dread what come of our confed’racy.

TELO - Captain! I see in this castaway
Some fearful symmetry. All but he dead,
While all of our ship but I am to live.
My challenge is sent by some mirthful god.

MORVAN - I don’t follow, why is that man tightly bound?

JORD - It’s complicated, but I will be brief:
We are here now to sacrifice this man.
He wants you to take his place on altar
And would thus fight you for his very life.

MORVAN - Who is he?

JORD - One of us, reaver on a horned ship.

MORVAN - Well, then, if he wants me to take his place,
Is it not right that I should take his place?
I am a Carn, by blood and salt, fit for
Sail and oar and battle and great glory.

DEVI - Aye, sounds fair.

ZAIG - It’s like his father was some oracle-giant.
How would it thus be fair to our brother?

JORD - Better a giant than a god, I say,
And better final struggle than cut throat.
I accept your offer, free bound Telo.

TELO - Ah! If today is my last day then I
Will not go quiet into peaceful rest.
Any last words from you, giant castaway?

MORVAN - No.

THEY FIGHT

TELO - Grah! It is not by strength that you best me
But by speed! How can a man so large and
So hulking move with such great swiftness?

JORD - It is done then. Take my blade and end it.
He needs a quicker death than fist can give.

MORVAN - So it be.

MORVAN KILLS TELO

ZAIG - I will sing songs for you, brother Telo,
And I’ll tell the next woman I lay with
That I am you, so your name shall live on.

DEVI - We should find ourselves the local god
so that our new friend can have a decent fight.

JORD - Mathilin, is it? Come away with me.
I must tell you the rules of our warband.
So that we do not repeat this ill scene.

EXEUNT ALL

 

[Lord_Iggy]

We have lost our child.

I can barely bring myself to rise from the earth, except to show that I am not broken for Halid, for little Halogund. He has scarcely lived a year, and cannot understand what has happened.

It was so small. It was a boy, tiny and bloody. We held it, we wept. Our guardians prepared a grave, and our stillborn son rests eternal in this strange eastern grove.

I have spent little waking time away from Halid. She weeps, she believes she was weak, or that she failed somehow. I am agonized by my inability to assuage her pain. I can only speak tenderly, and hold her, and keep Halogund close.

At night, the spirits are more present, more dominant and vivid than I have ever experienced before. It feels clear to me that this forest is a narrowing between their world and that which I was born to. What I had once seen only through a narrow opening at great distance, I now see as if I am upon it. The wheel of leaves is here, but there is more. I try to discern it, but I cannot clearly, they all flow together, like leaves in a breeze, like mud in a swirling river. There are the thousand voices speaking secret tongues, the swirling flurry of leaves and living things, growing and dying and growing once more, the stupendous earthy weight of time, all echoing across and through one another.

I cannot speak to them, through I try. These spirits, their minds so different from my own, can speak to me no more than I can speak to a fly. But I can learn, nonetheless.

The wheel does not dry my eyes, the motion of life and time, and its myriad incarnations, make no effort to console us of our loss. Perhaps they do not feel pity, perhaps they cannot conceive of how something so tiny could cause so much pain. Yet in their grandeur and otherness, there is solace. I can catch glimpses, steadily clearer as I learn to parse the chaos, of the magnitude of joy and suffering, of life and death. The wheel, the balance, the circle of all things. The mother doe feels grief for the loss of her fawn, just as Halid and I feel grief for the loss of the boy who would have been the first of my bloodline.

And there, in the chaos of vision, the whirlpool of raw existence and idea, I gain the faintest inkling of what may have happened.

I am awakened from my dream, feeling feverish. I am in a burning sweat yet feel deathly cold. Have I done this? Have I brought my own child here? To be a sacrifice? I stagger away from our camp, reeling in horror. I can barely stand, and my innards roil. I fall to my knees and throw up, a short distance away from the camp, and run further into this terrible nightmare, away from this terrible nightmare. I cannot escape.

I wish to scream, but I do not want to awaken the others. I run further away until I my feet ache and my muscles burn, and collapse on the ground. My knees sink into moss, my head rests heavily on a root. Tears squeeze out of my eyes and I stuff the side of my hand into my mouth to muffle the anguished cry that I am no longer containing. The earth eats my grief, implacable.

Eventually, my throat is rendered raw and I can scream no more. I roll over onto my back and stare through the thick canopy, at the black, cloud-obscured nighttime sky.

How could I have known? I could sacrifice myself, there were others who would have volunteered to die for me, though I never wanted it. There were men dying because of me in a war far away, of which I knew nothing. But I could have never sacrificed my son. Not for anything.

O spirits! Let this terrible thought be erased from my mind!

They disregard me, of course, but I have wept and screamed until I am rendered numb, and now float like a corpse in the water of my blanched thoughts. Traveling while pregnant had always been a danger, but Halid had insisted. We did not know what would happen. I still don't know why I followed the call here. Maybe there was no cause for this tragedy. Maybe it's utterly unrelated. But still the fear lingers.

I return, sober. I am now cold, and thinking more clearly, full of questions. Is there meaning to all of this, or are these spirits implacable and alien, are my struggles meaningless to them? I knew... I believed that I had to go east. But now I do not know why. Is there any reason?

Maybe I am the fly, trying futilely to understand the mind of a human. Or maybe I am a human, trying to find a mind where there is none. Yet... was that not what I had been taught to do? To know the soul of the plant, to understand their wishes, their desires, their secrets? Why now, do I fail? Must I fail?

I return to our encampment. Halogund is awake, but still. I kiss him on the forehead and bid him to sleep again,then lie down next to Halid. She mumbles some imagined word in her own dream, and shifts as I lie down next to her. Exhaustion washes over for me and I surrender to sleep once more.

In dreams, my thoughts are jumbled, but my late night sojourn has brought form to them. What dies is born anew, though seldom in common form. So might the man feed the maggot, the leaf feed the deer, the lizard feed the shrike. In this dream, amidst this wheel of death, I saw Halid, my mother, my unborn daughters, and knew all were one.

I had seen this vision before, in the first moment of our second child's loss. I had seen her death, and her birth, and all of her at once, one single changing facet of some cosmic femininity. And now, as I stepped back, I realized there was more. I saw my father, my guardians, Halogund, all blending together into a single face. I saw the two moieties, a great twisting knot, curling throughout all and uniting them. I felt vertigo as I fell backwards seeing more and more, as the whole of the human race grew small in my vision, yet never could it escape the great wheel. The thousand voices grew louder and clearer, though I could still understand nothing of them. I knew that what perished would someday return in new form. I had long understood this intellectually, but now I was struck with this on a deeply personal level.

I awoke in the morning with my emotions muted. Halid is bringing herself back together, but still cries often. I dry her eyes, but I don't know what to tell her. I am twisted internally with the guilty fear that I have killed our son, and feel ashamed that I feel the desire to keep a secret from her. It takes very little time for me to tell her of my latest visions, and my fears. She quickly scolds me for subjecting myself to such thoughts. She will not blame me, and I will endeavour to believe as she does.

It is time for us to leave. It is not right to rest among the recently dead. Halid is still week, so Mastin and I help her to walk. Gologind is carrying Halogund, as we make our way further in. There is a place I know that something new has been born, a place to which I will go. They are not my son. They are not my child reborn. I don't know if he died for them to live. I think he both did and didn't. Does one side of a wheel spinning down cause the other side to spin up?

I do not believe or know if the spirits need 'causes'.

The clouds of the past day and night remain, and now begin to rain gently upon us. The salt of my body is washed away, and the scent of earth fills the air. We are coming up to the place. I close my eyes for a moment, and listen as Gologind cries out that he has seen something. We halt, and move forward to investigate.

It is a child. Not newborn, but almost coming into its adulthood. It is like an animal shaped into the mold of a man, with shaggy legs and a tangled, wild mat of hair, thick with twigs and leaves. It had two small curved horns, with twitching ears and a face hauntingly close to that of a human. It called out to us in a voice that knew no words, and stared at us with wide-eyed, childish wonder.

This was but the first. There were more in the forest, and by nightfall dozens had gathered around us. Several times, Halid and I wept, and though they didn't understand, they cried in sympathy with us. We stayed with them for many months, and they gathered eagerly in our presence, bonding to us. Halid came to teach them our language. Gologind showed them the spear and the art of fighting, while Mastin taught archery and bowcraft. I led these horn-headed children of the forest through their home, teaching them how to speak with the flowers, riddle with the trees and understand the secrets of life hidden beneath the grass. In day, we would gather and hunt, while at night we all told stories. The children scattered in fear of the campfire at first, but they slowly learned to trust it, though they always remained wary of its power. We shared legends, tales of the Gahadi, the Mohabef, the Manahize, the Rotofar, and all the other tribes, and personal experiences. Gologind and Mastin told of our adventures and exploits, myself of the spirits and their world, and Halid of the lineages of our forebears. Even little Halogund created stories of his own imagination, and shared them with his new friends and playmates. Ultimately, we even shared the sad story of Halid's miscarriage, and of the terrible war that drew nigh. These forest children learned much from us, and I was happy to teach such eager pupils.

These were as happy times as one could hope for, knowing what dire times were drawing ever closer. The loss of our child was an unhealable wound, but the pain became more manageable as time passed, and we remained very busy teaching the horned children to live and survive. They grew cleverer by the day, and soon were making up new worlds to speak among themselves. Halid, myself and the adults of our party referred to them as aaruanef, a word they happily took for their own use. Halogund, meanwhile, formed a very tight kinship with the forest children- he alone kept up with their swift-changing slang and jargon.

In this peaceful place, Halid and I conceived our third child. The spirits, who had retreated for a time after the birth of the aaruanef, were growing more present in my dreams and visions once again. Terrible things were on the move, and I knew that our time here was drawing to a close. We would enjoy our remaining time here as best as we could.

 

[thomas.berubeg]

When they had reached the cliff above the village the previous night, it had been storming. The rain and wind beat a frozen rhythm against their waxed coats, stray drops sneaking through the fur and dripping like the fingers of dead things gently caressing their backs.

Thunder boomed, shaking the earth, and lightning followed close behind, splitting the sky asunder a thousand times over.

The Udyn Cliff-wardens had grumbled, not anxious to get into the driving sleet, but upon learning that Alai and Jemmi were Umaki, had carefully lowered them down the cliff in woven kelp baskets. The trip down had been harrowing, jerking, short drops interspersed by the cliff wall coming much to close for comfort. Though the trip must have only been a short one, it felt as if they had spent all night in the basket, being rocked by cold spray and colder wind.

It was with a sigh of relief that Jemmi and Alai felt the basket settle roughly at the base of the cliff on the isolated beach. The Udyn waiting huddled under what shelter they could find quickly shuffled the pair into a dry, warm cave, where a tired looking Udyn handed them steaming spirals of kelp tea, insistently chattering and gesturing for them to finish it.

“Thank you” Alai said to her, sipping the hot, slightly salty beverage. He’d gotten used to the drink, even grown to like it in his previous visits, deftly maneuvering the end of the hot spiral shell to his mouth.

It just shrugged and smiled at him in the Udyn way, sharp teeth exposed in what looked to most humans as a vicious snarl.

Jemmi, on the other hand, cursed as she spilled her own drink, fingertips burning. The Udyn chirped admonishingly, and poured her a second drink, and showed her how to hold the shell in the Udyn manner. Since her method required claws to insulate fingers from the heat, Jemmi cursed again, but managed to hold on the cup. She took a sip, and made a grimace which she forced into a nod and smile.

Satisfied, the Udyn pointed them to the pile of furs near the hearth, and bustled out, chattering to them all the while. Exhausted, Jemmi and Alai fell asleep with scarcely any words.

They dreamt.

They dreamt of a raging fire to the south, all consuming, hungry, blind. The flames licked at chains of Amethyst, questing, seeking, waiting for a moment of weakness.

They dreamt of a pillar of frozen black flame in the north, a pillar with a thousand screaming faces, and each of them was theirs.

A cold wind drove a horde of locusts from the west, devouring the forest, and in the east, the sea poured out of the world through the open door of a barrow.

The call came from the north, and the pillar was gone. In its place stood Alai. He glared at the dreamers with two eyes, black as the pillar had been, and beckoned to them. He was hollow. A shell, a mask.

In the south, children with two bodies but one face glared at each other with hatred... or love.

They shared this dream, as they had nearly every night for a year.

They dreamt of other things, too, but none so portentous.

When they woke, the dreams were gone.​

The sun shone hotly when they emerged, rubbing the sleepdust from their eyes. All the grime of the world had been lashed away by the storm the night before, and all the colors were brighter. The cliff towered high above them, a jagged grey wall that surrounded them almost entirely.

The udyn village was nestled in a narrow hollow in the cliff, a gravel beach leading from semi-submerged homes to a small network of caves. A small group of Udyn at the inlet’s mouth hauled a teeming net from the water, and children frolicked in the waves, splashing foam at each other. At the sight of Alai and Jemmi, the children froze, before diving beneath the waves and vanishing.

One of the adults approached the pair, timidly chattering at them to follow “This place. Here, here. Behind me.”

Poking and prodding at them, he pushed them towards the largest of the semi-submerged huts. They walked through waist deep water, ducking for a moment underwater to emerge within a smokey domed room made of woven kelp, driftwood, and whalebone. The room was deceptively large, and shadows made it difficult to make out the end. The darkness roiled at the edges, though it was not a hostile roiling.

“This is the lair of a god” Jemmie whispered.

“Udyn villages usually have a patron god,” Alai whispered back. “That’s one of the great secrets of their kind. Not many outsiders know, and they keep it that way.”

The darkness at the end of the room coalesced as droplets of water, each a wizened udyn, into a being that looked like one of the octopuses that lived in the tide-pools, only made of rushing water. Gently, it extended a tentacle, tapping both Alai and Jemmi on the forehead curiously, before turning to water and splashing to the ground before sinking through the cracks in the floor. Immediately, the room grew brighter, as the sun shone in beams through the woven roof.

“The Old One likes you.” The pair turned to see a grizzled old Udyn standing behind them. The end of his muzzle was grey, and a silver scar was visible through the fur around his right eye. “He’s usually quite shy.” The older Udyn gestured them over to a small nook, where a number of basket seats were clustered. The Udyn curled up in it, and peared at them trying to make themselves comfortable in seats designed for bodies not their own.

“Umnaka, eh? Been a while since one of your kind has come down to us. The Gods are getting unhappy.” His voice had none of the accent that Udyn usually had.

“Unhappy?” Jemmi asked

“Unhappy.” The Udyn confirmed.

“What do you mean by that?”

“The water runs cold even in summer.” The Udyn rolled around in the seat, before peering at them. “I was once like you. I was once Umnaka, and I travelled these islands and gave the gifts and spoke the words. And then I was taken in chains by the Ram-Men and I tended to the Ram-gods on their ships. They did not know what I was doing, but the ship I sailed upon was always the fasted, the strongest, and they made me one of their own. I won much acclaim in the fleets of the Ram-Men, and they still sing songs of me there. I am old, now, and I cannot tend to more than our own god.”

“Does this cold water come from the North?” Jemmi asked.

The Udyn looked at her flatly for a moment. “Is there somewhere else cold water comes from?”

“Something in the North stirs, and with it the darkness in men, udyn, and god.” Alai responded.

“I don’t know anything about that.” The Udyn answered. “What I do know is that almost a year ago our Palak swam north with many of our finest fishers, and has not been seen since.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what a Palak is?” Alai asked.

“Big colorful raft thing every clan has. It’s what we use for deep-sea fishing. In a way, it’s as much the heart of the clan as the Old One here is our soul. Ours swam off towards the North. Find it for us, please, and tell us what has happened to our clan.” The Udyn closed his eyes, and stilled, and Alai and Jemmi shuffled out, the audience clearly over.

“What do you think?” Alai asked. “It’d take us away from the hunt.”

“It’s worth looking into, I think. All we have is the name and the direction, not any thing about fighting it. Everything we look into can bring us closer to the answer. And we are Umaki. It is our duty.” She put a hand on his upper arm.

Alai nodded. “We’ll stay here for another night, rest, eat, and then head out.”

The next morning, a cold mist hung in the air, a frozen cloud above the sea, shining in the light of the rising sun. The wind nipped at the tip of their noses, and Jemmi shivered. As they walked north, though, the sun slowly warmed their bones, until the afternoon was hot.

The first day set the tone for the next few days. They walked north, along the edge of the cliff, camping in small caves, or under hollows of rocks. Along the way, wherever they noticed signs of gods, a small pile of stones, or an oddly shaped river, or a bent and bowed tree, they said the words and offered the gifts.

Barely two weeks after they left the Udyn village, the cliff levelled off to a gravel beach, a stream rushing over stone into the ocean. Razor thin pillars of stone pierced through the mist that clung heavily to the water. A faint splashing could be heard in the distance, waves against countless stones. A coldness that the sun was unable to burn away hung low, penetrating.

Jemmi nodded towards a smile pile of stones crudely painted with an effigy of an octopus. “We’re on the right track.” She turned to the ocean, and sighed “I imagine they went to sea from here. I’m not sure how we’ll track them out there.”

The soft splashing seemed to grew closer.

Jammi and Alai sat on the beach together, looking into the mist, contemplating their next move.

The splashing grew louder.

“Human Friends! You need guide, yes?” The voice echoed over the water, cutting through the mist. From the brume emerged a small craft, curving behind one of the pillars of stone. As it drew up towards the beach, they could see that it was being rowed by an udyn. His boat came up and scraped against the rock, and he awkwardly lifted himself out and onto the beach. He used an oar to maneuver himself properly, and Alai and Jemmi could see that, instead of a tail, he had a ragged, bandaged stump. The udyn smiled at them, a closed mouth smile that bared no teeth. “Need guide for Big Rocks, yes?” He repeated. “You give food, I take you.”

“Do you know where the udyn who left that went?” Jemmi asked.

The udyn looked at the shrine and smiled again, that same close lipped smile. “Human Friend no worry. Year old rocks. No udyn but me here.”

“Their clan’s Puhusha sent us to find them. They disappeared a year ago.”

There was a gleam in the Udyn’s eye as Alai spoke, and that fixed lipped smile never waved. “Oh! Different that. I guide to them, yes. In Boat, here, here.” He gestured towards his boat, pushing himself into it.

Jemmi and Alai glanced at each other, before pushing the boat out to the water and hoping in. Jemmi shifted to keep her knife at hand’s reach, but they slowly relaxed as the boat carefully wove through the rocks, the udyn chattering incessantly.

He pointed out a number of wrecks, from smaller fishing boats and dinghies to an impressive wreck of a war-galley with tattered purple and gold sails. Each time, the Udyn, who’s name was evidently Torka, would tut and say “Too bad Torka not there for help.”

Finally, Jemmi asked “Why do so many ships come through here?”

“Fastest way to big ocean, this!”

“But it seems so dangerous?”

“Not so dangerous, before. Village before Torka used to guide all through. All dead, now, and Torka guide alone.”

“What happened?” Alai asked.

“Year ago, make god angry. One at a time, they die, first children, then adult. Lots of sad. Now all Human gone. Even god gone. Only Torka left.” There was a pause. “We not far from village. I take you.” For the first time, Torka smiled with bared teeth, though only for a moment before the human-like smile returned.

Soon, the shore appeared, and in the mist, buildings and ships loomed.

“God first took children playing by water.” Torka said as she docked the boat. “Very dangerous water is for humans, human babies should know better. Pull them under waves, drown them.”

They climbed from the boat onto the wooden jetty. Alai sniffed the air, and smelled the faint odor of rotting meat. “You smell that?” He asked Jemmi quietly as they walked into the village.

“Yes. This is a village of the dead.”

“Dead for a long time, it seems.” He pointed to the skeleton of a well-dressed woman slumped against a building. Scraps of dried flesh clung to it tenuously.

“Yes, yes,

“No god-mark” Jemmi added. Alai looked closer, and couldn’t see anything that indicated a vicious or vengeful god had taken it’s due from the woman. Usually, when a god killed, it took great pleasure in letting others know it had done the deed.

Jammie and Alai continued into the village square, which was a hecatomb.

“God poison wine when village pray.” Torka said. Alai glanced at Jemmi, and she nodded slightly. “New god, village had. Maybe insult to old god. Maybe is why angry.”

“Look!” Jemmi pointed, and ran towards the tavern. Alai instantly saw why. The corpses of children, some as small as infants, were placed in an odd, almost spiraled pattern. “Is this the God-mark? Placed over the whole village?” She asked.

Alai kneeled, careful not to disturb the dead. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right. Torka, stay close. It might not be safe.”

There was no answer. Alai and Jammi looked around, but the udyn was nowhere to be seen. Alai frowned, and Jammi drew closer, drawing her bow.

“I don’t think a god did this.” She whispered.

“No.” Alai answered. He softly opened the door to the Tavern, and stepped inside. The only light filtered in from the windows, casting shadows over the dozen or so figures sitting motionless at the tables.

“Those don’t look Human” Jemmi said. She held her bow loosely, but Alai knew from experience that it’d be the matter of less than a moment for it be drawn tight.

Alai stepped forward, and as he did so, more light poured into the room, as a cloud that had been obscuring the sun moved away.

“Udyn.” Alai whispered. Indeed, the corpses of a dozen Udyn sat at the tables, dressed as if to celebrate. Half filled mugs sat in front of them, and plates with mouldering food sat untouched. As Alai stepped closer, he saw that the Udyn had been dismembered, and clumsily sewn back together with kelp.

“Yes, Humans now see Human Crimes. Human know they die, now.” Torka’s voice echoed from the rafters. Jemmi let loose an arrow, which thunked against the wooden roof of the Tavern.

“You said a god did this!” Alai shouted.

“Yes, yes. God did this. Me. I am god. Humans made god to kill them. Cut away everything. Cut away love. Cut away friends. Cut away tail. Cut away life. All that is left is god.”

“What happened here!?” Jemmi shouted into the rafters.

“We came, Yes, yes. We came here with gifts. Village was friends.” Torka laughed, a choked sound. "Welcome, we were. Welcome as always. Always we were Friends. FRIENDS.” Alai spun, trying to place the voice. “Led us here, to tavern. Sat with Tunkir. Loved him, yes, my mate he was.” Torka laughed again. “Priest killed him first. Gave us beer and we sleep, and when we wake, new priest for new god look at us. He kill one after other on black stone until blood deep in the streets. He took tails, first, then legs, then arms, then head. One after the other, all dead. Until me. Killed me last. Took tail, first, took legs, then arms, then head. Like all the others. Killed me like the others. Am god now, and I made them pay like their god made them. Took Children first, then fishermen, then poison all!”

“You’re from the village of the octopus.” Jemmi said.

“Tshah, was when alive. Cannot go home, never never never, no no NO NO!” Torka screamed, throwing herself, knifed parred at Alai. He dodged, and she scampered back into the shadows, an arrow skittering along the ground behind here. Alai drew his knife, standing at a ready back to back with Jammi.

“Humans wanted blood for blood god. So I punish. I am punishing god. I led boats to rocks, all humans die.”

“Shadur?” Jemmi jerked sharply as Alai spoke.

“You know it’s name! YOU. You pray to it!” Torka attacked again, a few blinding knife strokes that Alai parried with difficulty.

“Don't you?”

“NEVER NO no no NO NEVER. Never black god. NEVER.” Another knife thrust at Alai’s chest, as Jemmi moved around him, to strike at Torka. Alai parried again. Torka skittered backwards, balancing awkwardly on her feet, just out of reach. She panted heavily, eyes wild and teeth bared in a snarl.

Alai lowered his knife, raising the other hand. “Peace. We hunt the black thing. It killed my father, and countless others.”

“You... hunt? It?”

“Yes. Please, go home. You are missed, your people need you.”

“NO! NEVER GO HOME. I”m a GOD. I CAN”T.” She threw herself forward again, knife towards Alai. With a thwip, an arrow planted itself in her heart, and she fell to the side. She gasped as she hit the ground.

Alai kneeled down next to her, and she looked up at him, eyes wide as she bled out. It took scarcely a minute before she still. In the moments before her death, though, she looked at Alai, and Jemmi, with eyes clearer than they had ever been. She looked upon them with wonder and whispered “You are god. You will save us. All of us.”

 

[Danwar]

Excerpt from Noopomarramo's Histories. Specifically, the epilogue. Towards the end of the decade, when the renowned philosopher and writer published the last volume of his famous Histories. This conclusory volume dealt with events contemporary for his time and with a very controversial topic - religion. Despite his attempts to take what he percieved as neutral ground, this has made this volume by far the most controversial, especially for his time. Should one study the history of Sommos in this period using this volume as a source, one must remember the religious tensions in Sommos that effected the author as much as anyone else.
On the Sylviae and their divine Master
One must truly be ignorant if they do not know to some degree of the developments to the east. A new people has appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, unlike Men in most every way, but thinking like we can, speaking like we can, laughing and loving just as we do. My colleauge, Varrosulis, was dispatched by the Senate, and found a culture completely unlike any we have known of - revealing their simultaneous combination of weakness in their refusal to use mighty bronze, and their strength in their capacity for magic. The Senate has been flown into a debate ever since they first appeared, as if from nowhere - although I have read between the lines and heard the fanatical Gahadi preachers to draw upon a conclusion that I think we all know... they are the byproduct of a divine entity. This makes me feel both hopeful - and apprehensive.

The fact that a God - whose kin burn and enslave the peoples of the world - would instead take to creation, especially of life, could perhaps say something about this deity. A divine that builds, not destroys, has not been seen since - well, the ancient conflict between Spring and Azzatar. However, more than this I feel that the Sylviae should be treated with utmost caution. Tales have already begun to spring up of their ability to use magic to great effect, and they have demonstrated a powerful ability to kill. In addition, they hold nothing but contempt for our civilized ways, and their cultures go against everything our society strives for - they scoff at laws, are insulted by bronze and refute even the concept of city life, making them perhaps even worse than the barbarian tribes of makind. However, what I am far more worried about is not the Sylviae themselves, but their master's intentions. No one knows what their creator intends to use them for. I have my suspicions, most of them involving the renewed conflict between Spring and Azzatar, and all of them point to these new creatures being weapons, tools for their God - and if they can destroy an Anis-Natar army, what does that say of their effectiveness against our own troops?

Indeed, their culture might be a sign of worse things to come. This new divine might even try to conquer us, just as the Carns wish to do, and I worry that we will be unable to fight on two fronts at once. Plus, the Warlord has begun to grow averse to our Republic, and that will make three. I fear we may one day have to take a side in this conflict, but I hope sincerely we do not. Getting involved in the affairs of deities is always a gamble, and should we support the losing side? What would await us is a fate worse than death. I have never liked the Gods - the sentiment that they are all-powerful tyrants is not far from the truth, so it seems. Perhaps the Empire of Anis-Natar will try to conquer us and use us as a staging point should their first campaign on Gahad go south? Or the Carns will sneak in from behind and destroy our great city and all we have strived for? That fate would be horrible beyond compare.

Should any Councillor ever read this, I implore you - stay on your toes, for all around the heart of civilization there are foes who wish to snuff us out. Should this new player on the celestial stage be a kind entity, perhaps even cooperation could be arranged, should it come to that - but, more likely than not, that will only end in disaster for Sommos, for should the people set some champion, mortal or divine, over them and nurse it into greatness - that and no other is the root from which a tyrant springs; when he first appears he is a protector.

 

[Seon]

The Champion, Maxim, and Logos are the names of Emanon's closest servants, traditionally depicted as a warrior, herald, and statesman respectively.

In works depicting Emanon, who only speaks in words carved from dreams, the trio instead represents the God and his thoughts and actions.

The Champion shall speak. My eternal liege who rules the Boundaries, I implore you. Must we suffer the impertinence of men for eternity? Shall we forgive them their transgressions against us, even as they divide without loss across our sculpted lands?

The Maxim shall speak. Nay, we must not forgive the mortals. We must act, and act now. My liege, my eternal liege, I implore you. Listen to the cries of gulls. Doom approaches to the land of men, and we must carve fear into their hearts if they are ever to be ready and grateful.

Logos shall speak. We must be careful, for we tread on dangerous grounds. Mortals may be blessed by the boundaries that we have provided for their sake, but they too provide a valuable service for the eternal liege.

Cowardly Logos, how long must we endure these insults! Look upon the world! Mortals are like cancer--a growth, dividing without loss across the world. Yes! A cancer upon this world! That is the truth of mortals and their empires. They tempt so many souls with their promise of reason and softer world, and they multiply (this is spoken contemptuously) without end. They will never cease until all divisions are lost. They will never cease until every men, women, and child who lives upon our sculpted world believes in the same happiness, sheds the same blood, and utters the same words. This is the fate of men.

We must be there for them. The empires of men shall soon clash. Unless boundaries that are sacrosanct cannot be established, all divisions shall be lost! The cancerous growth that is mankind must be controlled. This world is a sculpted garden, created with the blade of our eternal liege. He must now swing the weapon of war once more, carving out the excess.

You misunderstand. I do not suggest inaction. I suggest merely that we need not hack off an entire limb to cure a tumor upon our sculpted world.

We are mere aspects of our lord's blade, the edge that divided our world. The world that He sculpted is perfection itself! We must not urge him to sully it without cause.

An incision. That is all it takes. We shall bleed these tumors upon the world dry. We shall carve gashes upon these growth. We shall cut apart these cancers, and they shall consume each other.

(In unison) This is the decision that our council of four have reached. My liege, all it requires is your assent, and thy will shall be done.

Spoiler The Doormaker :

Do they not know

That what is divided cannot be mended,

Only remade?

 

[inthesomeday]

Okay I’m gonna have one more thing out tomorrow I promise

 

[Thlayli]

Hello. Have you missed me? I wonder why you dwell on my words so. No matter, it is a better thing to be drunk on words than wine. And yet...the madness of the deprived is not so different. Do not go mad, it will come. This work slowly labors into existence. It will be a long labor, as many things must now be born which do not want to be. As such, stories posted in the next 30 hours will be included.

The twenty second is an excellent day to expect the update itself.

 

[Jehoshua]

Journal of Varrosulis of Sommos - Part II

-

Some days later, a contingent of Sylvae together with the green priest who had scolded me before approached our quarters in Gahad. I was summoned to follow them to a nearby forest where it seemed I was to be graced with an audience with their Lord Barandulf. It seemed Aahur was merely a lesser ranking chief in their hierarchy and that his clan was subordinate to a larger tribe of Horned Ones and that furthermore despite my previous faux-pas my gift was nonetheless well received. I was to go alone, but several Sylvae remained behind to demonstrate their peaceful intentions, and to reassure my men that I would be allowed to return. I left the quartermaster in charge of the men in my absence knowing full well he would not spare the lash should they break discipline and cause trouble in the middle of the city or with our strange guests!

They took me on route a that followed winding forest tracks and across several open glades flanked at intervals with carved stones encrusted with moss. After a long time we entered into a copse of ancient trees, at the feet of which was a number of tents made of leaves and hides. Interspersed in the midst of the tents were various sylvae engaged in sundry tasks, be it waving baskets of grass or to my astonishment shaping arrow shafts with sorcery! In the midst of the activity children played rambunctiously appearing and disappearing into the shadows of the forest like ghosts. Here it seemed that Barandulf's tribe had established itself during the time of their visit to Gahad (such visits the green priest told me were a custom of this tribe during the summer). As a stranger in their midst I aroused a great deal of interest as I was conveyed deeper into the grove towards a towering oak sitting like a forlorn sentinel atop a high hill.

At the top of the hill I beheld several impressive Sylvae warriors clad in boiled leather and cloaks of leaves and bearing spears of bone or sky iron. At the base of the old tree I dimly perceived an impressive creature languidly enthroned upon a tangle of roots. Below him were standing several Sylvae with impressive horns in attendance, undoubtedly given what I had heard about their kind they were mighty in the lore of the forest. I noted that the chief I saw before was amongst their number. As I was taken closer, I could see that Barandur's horns were even bigger than those of Aahur, even more so considering the lordly Sylvae appeared to be only around fifteen summers old with a smooth and handsome countenance.

It was obvious from the behaviour and attitudes of the Sylvae attendants that the young buck before me acted as high priest and ruler over his brethren. Thus as I came before him I knelt in accordance with civilised custom and he began to regard me with intense concentration, seemingly pondering some weighty matter as he tilted his head and shifted his gaze in mild bemusement. Again I introduced myself and offered the friendship of Sommos. I spoke fervently of my desire to know more of his peoples ways and forge good relations between their people and the Mother of Civilisation. In response Aahur spoke something to the lord before me. As they conversed, occasionally the Great One responded with a rather cursory statement in his own strange tongue or a dismissive wave of his hand. Then Aahur introduced us; "Lord Barandulf welcomes you". I replied that I was greatly honoured to be received by such a majestic and mighty prince and ruler of the ancient woods". This went down very well, indeed Barandulf seemed very pleased by such pleasantries!

Getting down to business, and learning from my previous mistakes, I dispensed with offers of trade or bronze and instead told the chief about the vile Carnish pirates and their savage folk in the hope that perhaps these horned ones might be persuaded to assist Sommos against the brutes. The Lord seemed entranced by the story of the pirates and his impression of me seemed to be greatly improving. When I brought the topic up of Sylvae aid against the barbarians however he just waved his hands and indicated he wanted to hear more tales his ears twitching in anticipation. After much such storytelling and no deal made Barandulf seemed to grow tired of tales of Carnish savagery waved to an attendant and bestowed a gift of fruits and amber on me for my troubles. While his outcome was far preferable to that of my first meeting with these strange creatures I could not help but think as I trudged back to Gahad that I was just as far from my goal as when I left Sommos.

 

[ork75]

The forest was a prison with green walls, Zaklei thought. On the plains, on a horse, you could see for miles. Hares ran as fast and far as they could, for fear of being trampled. The birds were never close: the air was their element, and that was where they stayed. But here… Riding was only a way to get caught in more thorns. Even in the saddle, you could barely see a hundred paces. The birds were all around, screaming their disapproval, living lives invisible in the deep green. The wind barely reached through the leaves, let alone the sunlight. He missed the sun.

The path below his mount was narrow and winding. Ancient trees, which could never have dreamed of an axe’s bite, hemmed the track to barely more than the horse’s width. Ahead, though, he could see a stream.

“Come on, Ota, just a little further. I’ll let you drink a while,” he told the horse. It had been walking all day, and between each step it gasped for air and water. More and more light filtered into the thinning trees as the pair approached a clearing at the banks. The darkness, the quiet, the alien sounds with sources unseen seemed to push them out onto the strand.

Zaklei had been sent out a full day before. He had been lost since. The Oshkum, however, had been lost far longer. The lodestones pointed them down one set of paths in the morning, but in the evening they would find that they’d rode the wrong way since sunrise. Backtracking, they would try again. The result would be the same. Even when they found a path, even when a week passed without an error, the sun would rise and they would find themselves at the same crossroads where they had started. At least the scouts returned to the group: if they were hopelessly lost, at least they walked the same aimless path.

He swung himself off Ota’s back, and let him drink. The horse sighed in what must have been relief. Zaklei, too, bent down to the water. It was cold, and sweet, and refreshing. But it was not his. The trees, the animals, the woman on the other bank all drew from it. The woman on the other bank… Zaklei’s hands shot for his knife, but the woman made no such move.

She was serene, he thought. Her hair was straight and dark, and spilled across the front of her cloak. Her expression was blank, her eyes sharp and harsh. The eyes of a huntress, he thought. The eyes of the forest itself. She could not have been Oshkum, could never have even pretended. In one hand, she held a horn. The other she offered to Zaklei.

He let go of the hilt of his blade, and reached across the brook in kind. Her eyes seemed to spark as they met over the water. He thought, for an instant, that she smiled, but the hint died as soon as it was born. She leaped across, the brook, never letting Zaklei go, and bid him to turn around. As he relished the dry cold of her skin, and the delicate warmth beneath, he thought he saw something deep in the woods on her side. Something massive, and something primeval. He felt it in his gut.

They now faced the path on which he had come. The strange woman looked up at Zaklei: perhaps with longing, perhaps with sadness, perhaps with the knowing gaze of an older sister who knows better than her silly toddler brother. With the girls, even Oshkum, he could never tell. Then she raised the horn to her lips (he saw now how they were beautiful: thin, cruel, and purposeful) and blew.

The sound was like nothing he had ever heard. It was so loud that he could hear nothing else: the babbling of the brook, Ota’s slowing breath, the rustle of leaves in the wind, or the stirring of the birds. His breath disappeared from his ears. He heard a single beat of his heart, and then nothing. It was as if, he thought idly, the horn was silent. Its call merely robbed the world of sound. Then she lowered it.

Zaklei looked back to the woman, and tried to ask her what she was doing. The words would not come. She looked at him once more, with that indescribable expression, and tied the horn to his neck with a small length of string. Then, smiling, she pointed in the direction Zaklei had come. He could still hear nothing.

The path was still there, as shadowed as it had been the first time. But then he saw it. He saw it move. Something, down the path. That thing he had half-glimpsed across the stream.

It had no more detail than a cloak in the wind, but he could see it was as strong and tall as the trees. It walked slowly, one step (did it really step?) after another, but a screen of saplings grew before his eyes to hide it once more. And then it stopped. He saw, now, that the treetops were no longer alone. The points, antler-points, pierced the canopy and stretched a hand beyond. They turned with what must have been the thing’s head, and stared directly at him.

A drumbeat, long and deep, broke the silence. Zaklei fell to his knees on the bank.

When he rose, the woman was gone. The path to the camp was clear. Ota was still drinking, peaceful, at the stream. The birds were once again harassed them from the treetops. The woman’s horn hung about his neck. But there was a new sound. A song, short and dark, was buried in his inner ear.

You are well-come, oh horseborn men,
From bygone West you’ve traveled.
But now on horse you walk our paths,
Beware, beware their perils.

An evil lurks beyond these woods,
To snowbound North it’s screaming,
There are yet gods to aid you here,
And so, to you, entreaty:

You will yet pass beyond these trees,
To Eastern plains awaiting,
You need not fear that black-heart call,
No zemmi your camps breaking.

And in the East, dear long-lost sons,
Your horses will all entice,
Traders rich from both far and near,
But in exchange: sacrifice.

Reserve ten pairs of mare and colt,
For all others, cut their necks,
Their blood shall stain the forest soil,
Your families this protects.

To a tree tie three thus-chosen pairs,
Take care they cannot away.
These belong to the forest, now,
The rest your property stay.

Your priests shall fashion, one and all,
Dark masks, well-oiled, of wood.
Wear these to practice your good rites,
Now you, for safety, thus should.

If any of your number die,
Do not their corpses carry.
Leave them be, to peacefully rest,
Though maybe, past, you buried.

Thus are the terms, and you must choose
To heed them or defy them.
The choice, in sum, is simple, though:
Life and wealth… or destruction.

And one last thing, you should now learn,
A final secret, silent.
The ruin of worlds comes North from West
But by many names and meanings "apocalypse."

Zaklei shivered as he mounted old Ota once more. He rode for the king.

OOC:

The deal the Oshkum are offered is simple. In exchange for passage through the North on swift and silent paths, sheltered from evil names on the wind and supplied by the bounty of the northern woods, as well as the growth of the strongest horses in their eventual home to the east, they must do the following:

They must select the ten best breeding pairs of their current stock, and tie three of these to a tree. They must slaughter every other horse with them.

They must resolve to leave their dead where they lie, and not burn or bury them.

Finally, their priests must fashion masks of oiled wood, and they must conduct religious rites wearing these.

If they do not accept, they shall have only the dark whispers of the black monolith, and they shall never walk a true path.

 

[thomas.berubeg]

A Curse Most Vile

Very fitting for a cruel and demanding god.

 

[Thlayli]

You will, most likely, find it of interest that this update is already well longer than the first one. I suppose that is because I tell a few more stories in this one. Nonetheless, much closer, it draws.

inthesomeday can have as much time as he needs to respond, though, since ork's story comes so close to the deadline. I'll work it into the update accordingly.

 

[inthesomeday]

I apologize for not completing something sooner, I’ve just had orientation at the new university I’m going into. Then of course this (very cool) game-changer (that I like very much) came from ork and I should have it up in a couple hours at most.