Thank you for your kind words in your last letter. It truly is a shame that master Gu Xuanyi had to be replaced, but know that I, as well as our mutual friend in Qin, both pray that the new master Qi Guiyang will smoothly assume his new position in office. It sounds as though your warren is blossoming considerably, my dear friend. I am overjoyed that such is the case, and am honoured that you once again come to me for advice.
I must admit, however, I began to worry when you mentioned in your last letter than your brothers and cousins have begun to urge you to declare war against the state of Wei. I am glad you entrust me with such information, and I would double your courier’s wages if this is a tonesetter for future conversations, but I must with all my heart and soul advice against it. I understand your family’s perspective - Wei is doing quite poorly right now and you would surely win - but I implore you to look inwards to your warren instead. Your victory last month against the skirmishers of the north, as well as your successes against the encroaching Shu and Han are encouraging, certainly, but your people are no doubt weary of war and battle. Allow this old hare to once more offer some wisdom from an old story - this one is actually not that old, in fact, and its characters were both quite real in their time. This is the story of when the scholar-gentleman Li Ke was invited to counsel the venerable duke Wen of the Wei warrens.
In days past, the venerable duke Wen of the Wei warrens asked the wise scholar-gentleman Li Ke: “What led to the downfall of the warrens of Wu?” The scholar-gentleman Li Ke answered, “Many wars and many victories.” At this, the duke scoffed, “Many wars and many victories? Why, these are the sources of fortune and prosperity for warrens! Tell me again, what led to the downfall of Wu?” The patient scholar-gentleman explained, “Many wars make the people exhausted; many victories make the lords hubristic. When arrogant lords governed a weary people, this eventually led to their downfall.”
For you see, my friend, among the kings and dukes who have enjoyed war and spent their men through the ages, there have yet to be a single one who has not fallen. I therefore encourage you again to dissuade your brethren from this battle - allow your warriors to return to their families, to sprint about in the garden fields, to reap the fruits of the seeds they sowed before your great campaigns. Do this regularly, and the Song warrens will remain long after both you and I have joined our ancestors.
As always, I am honoured to be considered a trusted colleague and advisor to one as venerable and exalted as yourself. I pray your endeavours all go as planned and wish you great fortune and safety in the days to come.
With great respect,
Duke Kong Rui of Zhou.
Bunny Kong tells Song Bun about the folly of arrogance.
It was late in the afternoon - the sun was beginning to set on the horizon, warm reds inking the clouds dim shades of pink. The day’s laborious tasks were over for the Dûnan peasantry, and most gathered around the mealhouses on the outskirts of town - large longhouses made for hosting up to twenty people each. In total, there were two of these around Ha-Dûna, placed strategically where the terrain grew too harsh and cumbersome for exhausted farmers to make their way all the way back to town. The northernmost establishment, the one also furthest away from the town proper, had acquired an air of age and usage, musty smells of old thatch and smoked wood filling its insides. Its patrons were, however, still as eager customers as ever, filling every bench flanking the three hearths lining the centre at three points and exchanging jokes and stories over bowls of stew and brown bread. A roaring chorus of laughter came from the benches closest to the door.
“You’re talking piss, Gondar!”
“No, no, no!” Gondar snorted the teary snot back inside his nose. “When Macgram came back, she not only found Fionn hip-deep in his daughter, but the herd he was supposed to watch had skipped to the hills over Blikkenberg!” The chorus resumed, intermittently interrupted by wheezes and coughing. “And!” sniffed Gondar, “and it took ‘em three days to get ‘em back!”
After everyone’s sides were properly stinging, an older man tugged thoughtfully at his bushy mustache. “Kids these days, I swear… Macgram oughta take that lad’s hand for laying it on his daughter - especially since it nearly cost him his whole herd.”
“Always one for the harsher punishments, aren’t you?” mused Gondar.
“Classic Arald, that,” rumbled another.
“It’s what the old gaardskarls did back in Jarnstad - it worked wonder, y’know,” protested the mustached man.
“The old gaardskarls are just that - old! Ha-Dûna has different laws, Arald - thought you’d know that after three years.”
“Can’t teach an old sage knew wisdom,” mused Gondar again and chuckled into his clay cup. The mustached man growled quietly. Gondar sucked on a tooth and wriggled his nose. “No, no… I reckon he and Macgram’s daughter’ll both get a stern talking to by Kaer Pinya before the druids’ll make ‘em marry and go at it under the grace of Reiya and Taeg Eit. ‘S how it usually goes.”
“Ain’t right,” Arald rumbled. “Why should they get to decide that?”
“They don’t - the gods do, old fool,” snapped one of the others and Arald glared back.
“What was that?! Got something you wanna say?!”
Gondar stood up and waved for them to calm down. “Hey, hey! Lads, we’re having a good time, alright? Let’s not ruin it with squalor. Vlanders, be respectful. Arald raises a good question… It ain’t always right that the druids can overrule the plans parents have for their children, but… At the same time, cuttin’ of the hands of a somewhat touchy lad - is that right? Taeg Eit will be happy as long as they marry.”
“It’s the old way.”
“For the gaardskarls, it is. Rest of us, the ciennon fen, the herjegallings and the rest - for us, that ain’t the old way.”
The mustached man finished his cup of drink and growled. “I’m heading home.”
“Oh, Arald, come oooon… We were having such a great time!” The man didn’t reply, instead pushing the animal skin door curtain aside and stepping out into the autumn afternoon. The three other lads on the bench sighed - a different bench had taken on the responsibility of keeping the mood light and bubbly.
“So… What now, Gondar?”
The man hummed to himself. “How about another story - this one from outside the Dûnlands.”
“Which one’s that?”
“The Reaper of Ramhome.”
The room went silent. All eyes turned to Gondar, who accepted the stares with defiant confidence. “I’m serious.”
“Gondar, we-... Is this a good time? We ain’t exactly out camping.”
“C’mon, horror stories are perfect for this kind’a mood. Besides, it’s along the same lines as our earlier conversation. You, come join us.” Their own conversation having wilted away, the other benches were pulled closer by their occupants until a halfmoon had formed in front of the man. Gondar received another cup of kefir and leaned in so the flickering shadow of the hearth danced across his dirt-shaded face. “Long, long ago, there was a beautiful young lady named Robin, and she was beloved by her whole village. She had yet to marry, waiting so eagerly for her sweetheart to one day arrive. Then, one day, her sweetheart did arrive - a tall, strong man came to their village in the night, tired and weary of the road. It was love at first sight. In their lust, they snuck out into the woods and had their way. Taeg Eit saw this and was furious - the agreement of marriage had yet to be made, and no druids were there back then to right their wrongs in the eyes of the gods. So she sent a tremorous troll and seven swathes of reaving raiders at the village, until all that remained within the fortnight was Robin, kneeling in its ashes. She begged, begged for forgiveness and for someone to take her sorrows away - she had lost everything: home, friends, love. From on high, Naya cursed her arrogance - sorrow is for us to keep, see - and took away her beauty and her love for others, forcing her to wander the world for eternity until she would realise the true meaning of sorrow.” He paused and eyed the crowd. “... No one saw her for ages… Until there once came a cloaked figure to the town of Ramhome. None of them knew her story, and none had time to learn it. She went from door to door, slaying everyone in the village with her terrible spear. Did she do this to learn what sorrow is? Maybe she thought that, to learn what sorrow is, one must see others suffer?” He shrugged. “None by the gods know what she truly thought, for none lived to tell the tale of Ramhome…” The crowd exchanged uncomfortable frowns, and Gondar smirked. “And some say… She’s still roaming the highlands to this day.”
The room was silent, only the gingerly slurps of water or goat milk being heard in the background. Eventually, Vlanders slapped him on the back. “Way to bring down the mood, goatbrains! Tell ye what - I have another story! Story of our favourite hero, ladies and gentlemen!” The crowd turned to the man, who at this point had risen up, found his pipe and was patting the bowl full of pipeweed. “Yes! The song of Gaard Goldhair!” The crowds cheered and started clapping along. Gondar rolled his eyes and snickered into his cup. The song rumbled in the walls until the curfew set in, and laughter and cheers followed every verse:
Ooooooooo! In ‘Trefan lands of slaves and shit, Our people were so deep in it! Then outta nowhere came our laird The handsome Gaard with golden hair!
Alas, the tale of Gaard did end: When he his people did defend, The Ketties slayed him, that is truuuuuuuuueee… *Tap* *Tap* *Tap* *Tap* BUT IT TOOK A HUNDRED MEN TO DO!
Dûnan farmers are chilling in a mealhouse (basically a tavern worked by the community) and telling stories. The first story is about a boy hip-deep in a girl he ain’t married to, and hints are dropped that marriage is hecka important to the Dûnans. Some intertribal lore is also dropped.
Second story is about the Dûnan version of a scorned woman. Third is a song about the Chad of Chads, Gaard Goldhair.
It had been weeks since they had last heard from Cinna. Termurick knew it was only the start and that he would never see his brother again. Part of him was grateful, spitefully so. Cinna had been a demon of a child and a monster of a brother, always pulling him into all kinds of trouble, hurting him, insulting him…
And yet… Bonds of blood do not break so easily. He looked up. His lap balanced an untouched ceramic plate with his breakfast on it: kheft, xoag and chuam, respectively a mash of basil, salt and durum flour; a lukewarm salad containing chopped raisins, spinach, mushrooms and okra, all heavily seasoned with rose pepper, salt and rosemary; and a pemmican-like pudding of bison meat, fat and whatever else one could find in a bison, seasoned with salt, pepper and cinnamon. It smelled heavenly, but Turmerick couldn’t find the appetite to taste it. The atmosphere in the small dining room of the King’s half-hut, half-cave felt oppressive: every hair on the shadowtiger fur upon which he sat felt like a barb; the hunting and war trophies lining the cave walls were screaming at him as though they still lived; the friendly moonlight peeking at him through the openings in the roof awnings felt cold.
Worst of all, perhaps, were the two hard eyes glaring down at him across the room. “Son. You aren’t eating,” came the harsh whisper and clicks of King Safron. Turmerick flinched.
“I’m, I’m not hungry, father.”
“A growing prince must eat his every meal, lest he’ll become a weak king,” the king responded and pinched a piece of chuam between two trunks that could barely be described as fingers. “Clove, you, too. A princess must also eat the food she’s given, lest her--”
“‘Lest her husband’s mother will despise her.’ Forgive me, father. I will eat faster.” There were four of them now - their father sat in the innermost part of the circular room, the majority of his surroundings being cave walls carved handsomely with the story of his reign; on his right sat their mother, Queen Clove I, a beautiful woman of 154 years with skin as dark as blackberries and hair as black as the abyss. Only her white eyes, ashen body paint and quartz-jeweled, alabaster dress were visible in the shadow of the night - there was no woman more beautiful in all of Fragrance; opposite of her, on the king’s left, sat Princess Clove II, who to the king’s chagrin had only inherited her mother’s hair, but her father’s light plum skin. Efforts were made to bring out her assets, such as charcoal paint around her eyes and milky paints paler than her mother’s for her markings, but the whole town knew that she would never live up to her mother’s beauty. Finally, opposite of the king, sat Prince Turmerick II, pale plum skin made paler by quivering nerves in the oppressive shadow of his father. Reluctantly, he took a pinch of kheft and licked it off his fingers. It was delicious - some commoners would likely have killed for this sort of food - and Turmerick couldn’t bare to swallow it. The family returned to silence, the subtle slicks and licks of tongues and chewing teeth making up the only sounds in the room.
Then the queen let out a sigh evidently conditioned to be as soft as dow. “Once again, my most sincere compliments to the cook. Old Erbal has certain outdone himself this time. Where did he even get this basil?”
King Safron raised a blue brow. “I could ask him for you, my moon.”
The queen tittered softly. “Oh, no, that won’t be necessary, my stars. I would like to acquire some apples from him, as well, so I can ask him while I visit the kitchens.”
“Very well, then.” Silence ruled again - while normally a good thing, the atmosphere weighed it down to a suffocating level, and Turmerick could see his sister feel it, too. After the energy of the food filled him with enough bravery, he channeled it all into opening his mouth while facing his father.
“Father - I have a request.”
King Safron stopped mid-bite, milky eyes shifting from the juicy pinch of xoag to his son across the small room. He put the food back down on his plate and wiped his finger on a linen napkin. “What would that be?”
Turmerick swallowed. “I… I wish that you would show me our lands.”
The three of them all blinked at the prince. “Where’s this coming from?” asked the king, his voice carrying a parasitic infestation of surprise.
“Ci-... Cinna is gone. That means I am next in line to become king.” The prince sucked in a breath. “I… I want to see the lands I am to rule.” Silence briefly reconquered the room. The king offered an amused scoff and clicked his tongue approvingly. He slapped his palms on his thighs one time in applause and stood up, crossing the room to stand before the miniscule prince. He knelt down and squeezed his shoulder.
“I never thought you would ask, my dear boy. Eat up and meet me outside as fast as you can. I will have Nut ready our baqualos.” With that, the king hurried out with almost giddy steps. The prince followed his step with an almost uncomfortable stare and turned back to his mother and sister, who both clicked their tongues approvingly.
“Thank you, my sweet, little boy. I’ve not seen him this happy in at least seventy years,” praised the queen and collected her husband’s plate. The princess shuffled over and touched her brother’s shoulder, Turmerick almost cracked a smile upon seeing his sister’s white-toothed grin, speckles of food dotting the slits between the dents.
“Already doing better than Cinna,” she whispered with a wink before she crawled back to help her mother clean. The compliment was genuine, but it didn’t feel like a compliment. A clump of guilt buried itself in his chest, one that seemed to develop needles the longer he dwelled on it. He finished his food in a hurry and sped on after his father.
Outside waited the king, dressed in in his skin tunic padded with buffalo fur, leather pants and a long shadowtiger cloak. Upon his head, he wore a circlet fashioned from the many branches of the Tree of Fragrance, their most holy site on the outskirts of town. He clicked for Turmerick to hurry up, and the prince quickly tossed on the lesser cape their servant Nut gave to him as he mounted his baqualo. The buffalo-like beast shook its mighty mane, sending tremors through the considerable smaller prince. The king mounted his own beast, sitting himself comfortably upon the linen blanket laid over its back. He looked at Turmerick and snapped his fingers for attention. “Are you ready?”
Steadying himself, the prince clicked a yes. He felt like he could never get used to having such an enormous, powerful creature between his legs, but he would have to try if he were to become king. The king breathed out in acknowledgement and gently dug his heels into the baqualo’s sides, pulling a rope that was bound around its muzzle to the left. The beast shook its head and clopped leftwards with a slow, quiet pace. The prince followed suit and his beast did, as well. The rustling and hustle of the town around them made it difficult to ask the king about the surroundings. The king’s hut stood atop a slop, halfway built into the mountainside where the ancient caves of the first Night Elves who settled the lands of Fragrance had been. The hut was fashioned from mud over a wooden skeleton, roofed with linen awnings where the walls extended out of the mountain. It was wrong to call it a hut - only the exterior resembled anything like that. In truth, the vast network of caves and halls inside made it the largest refuge from the sun in all of Fragrance. Immediately after leaving the king’s home, however, the townscape became visible: the Fragrancians preferred caves, like any sane nelf, but for those who wouldn’t afford a good plot of land by the cliffside had to settle for single or two-floored, cylindrical houses built of mud plastered over a wooden skeleton. As became evident when they reached the lower town by the water, those that couldn’t work with mud settled for wood.
The first crescent of buildings forming a perimetre outwards from the king’s hut and the cliffside, were the homes of the aristocracy and highborne. These were plantation owners, royal family and merchants, constantly travelling between their homes here and their lands across the river or closer to the sea. Their houses were large - larger than the king’s hut - and fashioned from wood and mud. Some were even two-floored, and each one was surrounded by a thin, shoulder high wall of wicker. The richest had built huts into the cliffside like the king - these looked almost like gates into mysterious mountain halls. Turmerick had visited several of them before, and while they were not as large as the king’s, a few of them certainly looked wealthier on the inside.
There came a trickle of water, followed by quiet chuckles. From the back of his baqualo, Turmerick could see into someone’s yard as they passed by. A large bath had been filled with water, evidently scented with mint and vanilla. It smelled beyond heavenly. Three nelves sat chatting in the bath - two girls and one boy. Turmerick caught one of the girls’ eye and she smacked her lips invitingly. The prince felt himself blush.
“Do you know who’s house that was?” came a sudden question from his father. The prince quickly recovered his focus as they turned the dirt road corner where the houses began to swing rightwards down the slope.
“Y-yes! That was the manor of rach and rachfi Nilla!”
The king clicked agreeingly. “Correct. Do you know what they do?”
“Rach and rachfi Nilla own the town’s largest vanilla plantation. F-four acres, with another six reserved for other spices.”
“Correct again. Do you know why they are rich?”
This stumped Turmerick’s train of thought. “... Because… Because people like vanilla?”
The king nodded. “Vanilla is a labour-intensive plant to grow - rachfi Nilla’s father was the one to acquire the land first. He maintained an acre all on his own, allowing for vanilla to be produced and enter the perfume and spice market in sizeable quantities for the first time. He died very young due to exhaustion from all the work, but his wife used their accumulated wealth to hire a workforce and acquire more land.”
“How could they pay for all that?” The king chuckled and reached into a pouch on his belt. He pulled it a long, black stick - except that it wasn’t a stick, but a bean pod. Turmerick furrowed his brow. “Vanilla…”
The king pocketed the bean. “That’s right. With the items they had bartered for through the years, as well as the promise to pay their workers a wage of one vanilla pod per harvest, they acquired all the land and wealth they own today. As a king, you must understand the powers at work in your kingdom - they are your mightiest tools in your possession, and the worst of enemies if they oppose you.”
They reached the second ring of the town - the centre of the olfactoriums, cookhouses, perfumaries, incensaries and herbal tents, all scattered between market stalls, wooden and mud houses meant for commoners, and public bath houses. These were really just wicker fences surrounding communal tubs overflowing with hot water scented with herbs and flowers to hide the fact that they didn’t switch the bath water too often. The sizzles of hot cooking oil, bubbles of stews, a million perfumes and a thick blanket of incense in the air - all waged a grand and beautiful war for the attention of the prince’s senses. Joining the battle came the gentle tones of street performers barely touching the strings and surfaces of their instruments, all while whispering and humming their sweet songs. The commoners greeted their king and prince with clicking tongues and smacking lips, and the king greeted them back by laying his palm on the heads he could reach. The prince did not follow along - he knew he had no mandate to do so yet.
“Great son of the moon,” whispered a florist poetically as she offered the king a bouquet of sweetpeas. “Please, accept this little gesture from your admirer Cacaoa.”
The king exhaled in amusement and spoke, “Forgive my curt and soulless words - My heart’s in glee like summer birds, For this, for sure, I did not see - Alas, at home, she waits for me.”
Turmerick barely had time to even attempt to understand what had just happened before the florist retracted her flowers and bowed. “Understood, great son of the moon. I pray your wife is still well and beautiful.”
The king clicked his thanks and the pair moved on. Turmerick tried to ride a little closer. “Father, what was that?”
“Hmm… No, I agree. Not my best verse.”
“What? No, I mean, why verse at all? What just happened?”
The king turned sideways and glanced curiously at him. “You mean your brother never told you?”
The prince hung his head. “Cinna didn’t tell me much of anything, really.”
The king sighed. “... I should have expected as much. It irks me that I didn’t think of training you sooner. I was just afraid that it would widen the already great rift between the two of you - between him and his family.” He closed his eyes. “Either way, allow me to explain what just happened…” He brought his baqualo to a halt and turned to point an intentionally shaky hand back towards the florist. “You see, when a commoner of the opposite sex offers you something of value to them, you can either accept or decline the gift. However, if you wish to decline, you must do so in verse.”
Turmerick frowned. “But why?”
“Always been,” mumbled the king with a shrug. “The seer Laurel suggested once that it’s an ancient tradition put in place by Mag’tsaal himself.”
“The singing god?”
“The very same. Now, keep in mind, if you were to accept the gift, that means you owe the commoner in question a favour. In accordance with a king’s need to be generous, this favour must always give back more than the king received.”
The prince’s frown deeped. “But why did you decline by saying ‘she waits for me back home’?”
The king gave his chin a gingerly scratch. “I… I will tell you that when you’re older.”
They continued past an olfactorium, bright, flickering light blinking at them from inside the workshop. The king pointed his intentionally quivering hand at the light and asked, “Do you know what that is?” The prince clicked negative. “That’s fire, fire used to heat a large clay kiln.” He held his right arm in front of him horizontally and ran his left hand over it. “The top is flat, and lined with lots and lots of small copper pots filled with almond oil. They then add sweatpeas, vanilla, sweet alyssum, wisteria or other plants while the oil is warm, but not boiling, and allow them to steep. This infuses the oil with the flowers’ scents, but doesn’t cook it. Only the best olfactorics manage to preserve that perfect balance between where the oil is too hot and not hot enough to extract the most scent.”
Turmerick brought his mount closer in hopes that he could spy inside, but there was no such luck. The smell was amazing, though - like a blooming garden. However, a ruckus of clanking metal and snapping fires roared from the inside, and the prince retreated.
“By--...! Petuni, I will have you whipped through the streets if you spill my oil like that again, do you hear me?!” came a furious whisper from the inside, immediately followed by tearful apologies in the whispers likely belong to Petuni. The king sucked in a breath through his teeth.
“Let’s move on. We generally keep these markeds and workshops away from the higher town on account of sudden noises like that.” The pair continued to the third ring, which was hardly a ring and more of a collection of huts, gardens, fields and sheds. The smell here was wholly different from the upper city, hardly floral and much more animalistic. The prince could’ve sworn shadows turned to hide in the alleys between houses as they approached, and in those same alleys, he could barely make out squatting figures composed of hardly more than skin and bone. He decided not to inquire, but instead probe the soundscape of the area. Many of the huts were workshops that produced terrorisingly loud, gnawing sounds.
The prince grit his teeth together at the hazardous noise and asked, “What is that ruckus?”
“Those are querns, my son. This is the part of the city where much of the loudwork happens.” The king opened a pouch and stopped his baqualo. From the pouch, he pinched two nips of raw cotton, leaned over and offered them to Turmerick. He put them in his ears and watch his father do the same. “Yes, loudwork’s gruesome, but necessary. This is where we allow the workshops that almost break the Great Peace, but remain within the legal range. Still, it’s far from acceptable, so we banish them here, near the water where the area is more open and sound isn’t as loud.” He pointed at various huts and sheds. “Querns, woodworkers, oil pressers, potters, those sorts of businesses.”
Turmerick frowned. “Wait, oil pressers and potters aren’t that loud. Why are they here?”
The king pointed back the way they came. “It’s not just an issue of sound - oil presses in particular require space for storage and space becomes an issue in the second ring. Also, considering the oil is made from almonds, a good deal of nuts have to be cracked.”
Crack! came a sound from inside one of the shops, followed by many more, as drupes were crushed and ground into a flour.
Turmerick flinched. “What happens to the nuts after they’re crushed?”
The king hummed. “I believe they are heated over very low heat to extract the oil, which is then potted and sold up the street. Speaking of pots, they are down here for the simple reason that they occasionally tend to break and make a ruckus.” With that, the pair of them continued on towards the town gates, a wooden palisade wall with twin doors that hadn’t been closed for decades. A long train of farmers ventured in and out carrying full or empty baskets, clicking their greetings to the king. Flanking the gateway were two guards on each side, clack in fur and padded hide tunics and armed with obsidian pi-xxois, a long javelin. They bowed as the king passed by.
“Past the gates here, my son, we exit X’ao-Hwah and reach the Keh-Hwah . Here, the sun shines too brightly during the day for any nightkin to walk about.” The canyon opened up into a river delta running into the Sao-kweh, The river delta was flanked on each side by acres of grains, fruit trees, spice plants, flower fields, herbs, vegetables and much more. The whole of the shore and the hills up towards the drylands above the canyons had been turned entirely to farmland, checkered with irrigation canals in the lowlands. The highlands were mostly fruit and spice trees. Shattered between the fields were small collections of huts and houses belonging to the workers. Everywhere, farmers zoomed back and forth in their work, the slap and hack of tools striking soil and cutting stems louder than much of what had been happening in town. By the very shore, the prince could make out what he knew to be fishing boats. The king continued forward and it took Turmerick a second to react and follow along.
“Do any of these lands belong to rach and rachfi Nilla?”
“No. These fields belong entirely to the peasantry. Their plantations are further south. Would you like to see them?”
“I would, actually,” the prince agreed. King Safron nodded and summoned one of the guards by smacking his lips at him.
“Bring us a raft to ferry me and my son across the delta, and fetch us an escort of six strong.” The guard clicked in acknowledgement and jogged off. Turmerick frowned.
“Why an escort, father?”
The king’s brow darkened. “Truth be told, the lands south of us, including the lands belong to rach and rachfi Nilla, are contested territories. Do you know what tribe lives to the south of us?”
The prince scrunched his nose. “The Hui-Prra?”
“Correct. Fragrance and the Hui-Prra haven’t had the most peaceful history - they envy our access to the Tree of Fragrance and the Moonwell, as well as our defensible lands; on the other hand, we long for their fertile flatlands and bountiful timber. Our wealth is greater than theirs ten times over, but our people cannot survive on spices and herbs. We need wheat, yams, okra, beans and roots; we need hay for our animals during draughts and wood for our buildings after fires and rockslides; we need acres to grow our cotton and flax… You get the point.”
“W-well, couldn’t we just…”
“Take their land?” The prince quieted down and the king nodded. “Oh, yes, that -is- a possibility. While their lands are richer, our warbands are greater, better equipped, better trained; however, it wouldn’t be enough. Our losses would be too heavy to sustain, and Fragrance would be left almost as weak as the remnants of the Hui-Prra. No… While we may skirmish every now and then, all-out war is something neither I nor chief Tsarri want. When you one day become king, you will need to understand which fights to pick and which to avoid.”
Turmerick clicked half-heartedly. It seemed he would have to study his neighbours closely. After a time, their raft arrived, and they dismounted to ford the river. On the other side, new baqualos were provided for them and the pair continued southwards along the coast, quietly followed by a group of six warriors. Their journey brought them past smaller workshops that screamed loud blasts of air, flickered hot-white lights and unleashed mindgnawing ting-ting-tings at anyone unfortunate enough to be in their presence.
“Whitesmiths…” mumbled the prince. The king nodded.
“For those whose work is so loud that they disturb the Great Peace, we have no choice but to banish them here. We cannot outlaw them, of course - copper is almost as precious and important to us as saffron and roses; however, they are simply too loud to keep inside the city.” The workshop was in truth a kiln next to a roof suspended on wooden poles. The prince’s eyes met one of the workers’ and the commoner clicked and bowed his greeting. The king took note and clicked back. “While our people generally don’t associate them on account of their poor hearing and loud speech, their wares fetch enough of a price on the market that they actually live quite well out here. For the most part.” The prince considered what his father’s final sentence meant.
After a while, the number of larger huts diminished and gave way to shacks, tents and lay-tos almost built haphazardly around the fields. The fields themselves were neatly maintained and well-irrigated, and almost stood out among the otherwise poor surroundings. Working some of the fields were what Turmerick observed to be skinny, beaten nelves, wearing rags for clothing and giving off an unwashed stink that the prince could smell nearly fifty feet away. He shook his head disapprovingly and asked, “Father, what are those?”
“Slaves, my son. Criminals or prisoners of war and raids sent to work in the fields or, in this case, the pepper acres of rachfi Jasmine.” Turmerick blinked and looked closer. Indeed, a few paces away from the ragged nelves, he saw a mountain of a man wearing considerably nicer clothes of hide and leather, armed with a whip. He turned to his father again.
“Why do we force criminals and prisoners to do this sort of work under these conditions, father?” The king’s face seemed to revert back to its stern standard, and his eyes stared miles ahead into the southern jungles.
“Your brother got three men killed and nearly killed you, too. For his crimes, he was exiled. In truth, I treated him unfairly in the eyes of the law. He was my son - I couldn’t give him the punishment his crimes truly deserved.” He reached up and plucked a jasmine flower from a shrub they passed by. “... In truth, manslaughter is punishable by death.” The prince gasped quietly. “Yes… I was too weak to execute your brother, my own son, so I ignored the laws. For this, Haroses will surely punish me someday. The law is nothing to scoff at, my son; as a king, it is your greatest ally and your greatest enemy.”
“But if you’re king, can’t you decide what the law should be?” But to this, the king clicked his disagreement.
“No, my son. No matter how mighty the king, they will forever only be as powerful as the people who support them. A king who cannot follow his own laws, or makes too many changes to suit themselves, will be a short-lived king.”
Turmerick nodded slowly. “And who supports the king?”
The king smiled. “You’re catching on, my son. As a king, the more support you can get, the better.” They turned left towards the hills leading up to the arid wastes above the canyon. In the distance, Turmerick could hear yelling and collision of objects. He looked behind him and saw the guards put cotton into their ears. “However,” the king continued as he patted the dots already in his ears a little deeper, “some supporters are more powerful than others - rach and rachfi Nilla, for example, are important allies to our family; as is rachfi Jasmine and her family; rach and rachfi Rose, as well as their family in Scenta… Perhaps most important to a king, however, are his warriors.”
They arrived to see a vast dry waste, stretching longer than the eye could see. Turmerick realised now what the yelling earlier had been, for here it was much louder. In several small stone rings lining a central pathway stomped by sandaled feet, warriors dressed in only linen loincloths sparred with wooden sticks, the stink of sweat and blood oozing from the whole area. As they ventured further into the mustering grounds, a small group came to meet them. They were all clad in padded hide tunics with light kilts about their legs, while the two men in the lead were also cloaked with a large buffalo skin cloak each. They all bowed their greetings and clapped themselves on the chest. “Long live the son of the moon!” said the oldest among the two out loud.
“Long live!” sounded the group, as well as anyone around them who heard the call. The king clicked approvingly and dismounted, walking over and placing his hand on the shoulder of the one who had spoken.
“Warchief Gardenia and rach Rose, good night. May Kipo’s dark ever shield you from the Chien-Xorr. How goes the evening’s training?”
“Hail, great son of the moon, king Safron,” greeted the older nelf, who the king had identified as warchief Gardenia. “The desert is cold and the wind bites hard, but the elements only strengthen our men.”
The king nodded. “Good. Rach Rose, how many have we now?”
The nobleman, a middle-aged nelf in approaching his second century, offered a polite bow. “Great son of the moon, your latest reforms have much bolstered our potential for war. With the promise to pay their wages in incense, we have managed to recruit an additional twenty sons our forces. We have never been mightier!”
The king clicked. “Acceptable numbers. I want them bled as soon as you think them ready. You have no doubt heard the rumours from the Chi’oa-Hwah, I expected?”
The warchief and rach both smacked their lips in acknowledgement. “Indeed, we have, great son of the moon. News of his death have spread far and wide by now. We will squeeze this opportunity for all it’s worth,” the rach said proudly. The king nodded.
“Good. However, I want the skirmish to be of the lowest possible risk. His death is mysterious enough as is - if it’s xweh-bach, our losses may be immense. Have the seer paint the warriors with sun ink before you leave.”
“Of course, great son of the moon. Your wisdom is unquestionable,” offered the rach with another bow.
“They won’t enjoy that one bit,” mumbled the warchief. The king scoffed.
“They will endure it is they want to live. You said it yourself - the elements strengthen our men.” The warchief was quiet. The king then reached out and patted his son on the shoulder. “You better take some time to get to know these two over the next decades, my boy - you will be joining them in a decade or so.”
The prince grimaced and met the eyes of the two officers, who both offered polite bows back. “My, is that the young prince? Why, I haven’t seen him since he was the smallest, little nelfling, barely past his first decade. Prince Turmerick, we would be honoured to have you apprentice under us when the time comes.”
“Most honoured,” echoed the rach. “Forgive me for asking, but how old are you now?”
“I’m twenty-five,” mumbled the young prince to the nods of the officers.
“My, then there’s not even a decade left.” The prince swallowed to the sound of chuckles. “But worry not, young prince - ‘tis the duty of a king to soldier.”
His father clapped him supportively on the back. “Well said! Well, we must be going. The future king has much to see, still, and dawn will rise eventually.”
The warriors all stepped aside and stomped their salute. “Of course, great son of the moon. Have a safe journey.” The pair continued on, followed by their escort. They rode deeper into the wastelands, shrubberies and dry grasses disappearing before an evergrowing onslaught of sand, dust and rock. While it would likely have been deathly scorching out here in the day, Turmerick felt his fingers stiffening from the cold of night. All he had learned today was wrestling over his attention, but one thing stood out in particular.
“Father? What happened deeper into the valley?”
The king growled. “... Rumour has it that the king of Monsax has been slain. However, no rumours of an actual attack on the town have reached us so far. The options are therefore either assassination or, as I fear may be the case, cold-blooded murder.” The wind picked up for a moment, tossing a small wirl of sand around them. “... It has never been a secret that the prince of Monsax, Amon, has been envious of his father’s position. If he indeed has usurped the throne, he may have caught xweh-bach...”
The prince hung his head uncertainly. “In either case, why would we want to risk our own people to take a town such as that? One potentially infested with a demon?”
The king looked to the stars. “Do you know the plight of nelvenkind?”
The prince followed his gaze. “You mean our disadvantage in the sun?”
The king’s face grew grim. “No, this goes deeper than so. Nelves age slowly, very slowly.”
“Well, everyone knows that, don’t they? The source of our long lives!”
“Indeed. However, as you may have noticed if you have ever met a pronn-ai-ai, they can birth nearly eight generations in the time it takes one of our own nelflings to reach maturity. A single nelven life is the culmination of decades upon decades of training, learning, love and hardships. To suffer even a single loss robs the tribe of emotions, experiences and opportunities that will take half a century to recover, if they even can be recovered.” He paused and raised his hand towards the sky. “If we can get the people of Monsax to swear allegiance to Fragrance - have them join us instead - this will give us a population boost to be reckoned with. It may finally tip the scales and allow us to take the south - perhaps they will even surrender upon seeing how many we are?”
“But what if they don’t?”
“Chief Tsarri and his people suffer from exactly the same plight as we do, my son. If he knows defeat is certain, he will not risk it. Of that, I’m certain.” Up ahead, the familiar sound of hard materials colliding brought back memories of the whitesmith. However, as they approached, the source of the sound was revealed to be coming from a large pit up ahead, within which dark shades contrasted with the yellow sand of the desert. A pair clad in thick clothes ascended from the pit with a baqualo in tow, clicked their greeting at the king and prince and moved on, baskets on the beast’s back full of white crystals. The prince reached out at took one of the smaller crystals out from the bypassing basket. The texture felt very familiar. He wondered if it was…
He gave it gingerly lick. “Salt?”
“Correct. Fragrancian salt from Xorsha is worth its weight in pepper. We found this vein just last year - the people are loving it. We hope to use it to form relations with the inner canyon tribes. Although, we are still uncertain of how common it is as a commodity. Scentia reportedly has found nothing like it, but they do not have the easier access to the plateaus like we go.” He offered the prince a nod. “When you are king, you will need to keep in mind what resources are at your disposal and how badly your people demand them.” The prince nodded. The king looked around and drew a deep breath. “I think that’s enough for today. Let’s head back.”
“Father?”
“Yes, my son?”
The prince reached out and squeezed his father’s hand. “Thank you. I look forward to my following lessons.”
The king clicked approvingly and squeezed back. “So do I.”
Boy, this was a long one! So, seeing as he’s the new heir to Fragrance, Turmerick asks daddy Safron to show him around. Safron’s like, “Shiet, nightboi, that’s all you had to say,” and they go for a stroll around the lands of Fragrance. Summarised, it went like this:
Town proper:
The town is structured like a halved onion, where the king’s hut is the centre, built right up against the cliff wall of the canyon they live in. The king’s hut is small, but the hut itself is more an entrance into a great network of caves and halls dug out over generations that form the “palace”. The king’s room in which they start actually serves as his and his spouse’s personal bedroom, the family’s dining room and the king’s eventual tomb.
The innermost ring after the king’s hut is inhabited by the aristocracy and highborne merchants and plantation owners. The wealthiest of these also live in caves dug into the cliffside, and the rest live in manors and villas with personal baths, harp players and incense burners.
The second circle contains most of the city dwellers, and is home to incense makers, perfume makers, scented oil makers, cookhouses - okay, what isn’t here? There are also public baths because nelves care about that body smell. Here the king is offered a bouquet of flowers and declines it in verse. He explains to his son that all gifts given to the king must be declined in verse, because if they’re accepted, the king owes the gifter a bigger favour. They pass by a olfactorium, which is a place where they make scented oils.
The third circle is home to the kinds of workshops that almost break the law of the Great Peace, like oil presses, pottery shops, woodshops and other sorta noisy things. Here also live the poor in the city. It’s shown here that Fragrance produces almond oil. There runs a river past this circle, which runs out in the Mydian Sea to the southwest.
Outside the town walls:
The town wall itself is wooden palisade. The guards are clad in mainly buffalo fur and wield javelins tipped with stone or obsidian. Past the gates are open fields where most of the Fragrancians live. Here’s produced virtually every spice, herb, flavouring and flower between the earth and sky. Carbs, fruits and vegetables are almost in shortage, meanwhile, because of the huge focus on nice smelling things.
Further south are slave-manned plantations owned by the aristocracy. Around here, we also find the whitesmithes, stoneworkers and other super loud jobs that are necessary, but too loud to be around other nelves.
We also learn that even further south, there lives a tribe named the White Tigers, who are enemies of Fragrance. Additionally (shoulda mentioned this above) there are also other Nelven settlements deeper in the canyon.
Wasteland territories:
Contains the training grounds for the Fragrancian forces - they aren’t many, and the king explains here that elves take so long to mature that even losing a single warrior costs them nearly 50 years of resources and training invested. It’s also revealed that a town named Monsax deeper into the canyon has just experienced a royal assassination, but it might be a vampire case. The Fragrancians will go to save the people of that town to recruit them to their own. Nelves know much about vampires as living during the night lets one study them better.
Finally, they have a salt mine, too, though this one is on the very fringes of their wasteland territories and only recently discovered.
Volv Eaoir hadn’t exaggerated - their lessons had started the very next day. To begin with, the eight initiates had been divided into four groups of two and been subsequently given to four different mentors: Gion and Chass had been given to Cer Bron, a gruff-looking man with a scar over his blind left eye; Tolk and Fina had been given to Cer Cayn, the Night Elven druid who had gathered the nelfling apprentices; Logo and Iro had been given to Cer Voin, a giddy Night elven woman with bright tattoos all over her body and a blindfold over her eyes; and Pia and Call had been given to Cer Tess, who seemed rather satisfied with the arrangement.
The first lessons focused almost entirely on intercultural exchange - the humans would learn of Night Elven culture, and the nelflings would study human culture. Additionally, they would spend the first four years of their education learning each others’ languages fluently. To begin with, though, the mentors functioned as translators.
The first day, the children and nelflings learned to greet each other properly. As such, the nelflings were given ample amounts of moss to put in their ears so they could practice their voiced speaking, while the humans were given exercises and tongue twisters to be performed while whispering. From dawn until midday, all the children who had human mentors did was practice their pronunciation; the nelflings who had human mentors had joined them, many-layered blindfolds around their eyes to make the experience less unpleasant. For the children under the guidance of a Night Elf, they sat blindly in the night practicing alongside their nightkin peers until midnight. When the apprentices had each practiced until midday or midnight, the time came to learn the respective greetings.
Pia stared intently at Call, whose sweaty brow and flat mouth indicated obvious discomfort with the time of day (or the fact that it was day at all). Even through the thick blindfold, Pia could see pained, quivering eyelids trying to block out the powerful midday sun. Cer Tess offered his shoulder a supportive pat.
“Shoch’ak’. Pia-hsa ta-cha-k’ok’,” she whispered calmly to him. Pia frowned with confusion while Call looked down at his knees in embarrassment.
“‘Eh… ‘Elloh,” he squeaked. Pia couldn’t help but snicker and Call grit his teeth shamefully. Cer Tess shot Pia a strict glare and the girl piped down. She then squeezed Call’s shoulder again, softer this time. “Ee-ok’ shoch’ak’.” Call tried again.
“‘Eh… ‘Elloh. Ma-ee na-eem--”
“Name,” Cer Tess corrected.
“Nee--... Nah-eem…”
“Name - neh, neh.”
Call’s frown hardened even through the cloth. “Nah, nah.” Cer Tess sighed.
“Hso pok’-see-toch. ‘Nah’ ak’-loch. ‘Neh’ loch.”
Call snarled and hammered at the ground, causing Pia to flinch. “Tseet’ loch!” he whispered sharply. Cer Tess nodded understandingly.
“Tseet’ loch’ee-oh. Seek’ k’ee-ar’fach’ee-oh. Hso tro-eet’ paa’loch’ee-oh,” she said with a small smile. Call looked away
“Hso rak’ kaam’ak’.” She then looked at Pia. “You give it a go.”
Pia snapped into focus again. “Wh-wha?”
“I said, give it a go.”
Pia frowned. “B-but he hasn’t finished yet!”
“He said he’s tired and needs a break. Maybe he’ll feel more at ease if he hears that his companion has been practicing as diligently as he has.”
“He probably just wants to hear me fail like he did…”
“That can also help him feel more at ease,” said Cer Tess with a snicker. Pia’s cheeks flushed and she offered Call a quick look. She could tell he was staring back. She drew a nervous breath and sighed.
“Ch-... Chao’shee--!” she said slowly and loudly as though speaking to someone hard of hearing. Call instantly covered his ears and groaned. Cer Tess took Pia by the shoulder and pulled her in close.
“Quieter, Pia - so quiet you can barely hear it yourself.”
“I-I’m trying, but--!”
“Calm down. Give it another try - and remember: So quiet you can barely hear yourself talk. Also, it’s ‘tsao’hsee’, not ‘chao’shee’.”
“I-I know that!” Pia’s frown darkened. “Why do they have to whisper all the time?! It’s so… Stupid!” She hear Call groan again and looked up to see him cover his ears defensively, his brow revealing the irritated glare aimed back at her.
“Hsa tsa-ee paaok’ loch!” he whispered sharply at Cer Tess, who hissed back through her teeth. Call instantly backed down. The druid grabbed Pia firmly by the arm.
“L-let go!” struggled Pia.
“Pia, listen. What Volv Eaoir said yesterday wasn’t a joke, you understand? You are here now, and this is your new life. I know - I know how -awful- this training is in the beginning, but I promise you that you’ll come to like it eventually.”
“N-nooo! I wanna go home!” Cer Tess pulled her into a hug, which Pia desperately tried to get out of like some trapped beast. “Stop!”
“If you need to take your rage out on someone, take it out on me,” whispered the druid soothingly into her ear. Pia pummeled and bit at one of the arms holding her trapped. Cer Tess whimpered a little, but held on. “You hate it here, I know. You miss your parents, your brother-- agh! You hate Volv Eaoir, you hate Call, you hate me - you hate everything and everyone you’ve seen and met over the past night and day.” Pia’s strikes were growing weak with weariness and the girl unleashed challenging screams and shouts as she pulled and tore at Cer Tess’ now-bleeding arm. Call wrapped his arms over his head to block out all the sound. “But we don’t hate you,” Cer Tess continued. “You’re unique - there’s only one Pia, and none of us would trade you away for anything or anyone. You’re one of us now.”
Pia’s sloppy strikes reached their limit and the girl slumped down into Cer Tess’ arms. The druid offered her a small smile and caressed her cheek. “You’re one of us.”
“... You don’t even know me…”
“Well… It’s not like we won’t have time to get to know one another, right?”
Pia looked away with a scoff. She then pushed herself out of the now-weakened grasp and sat down across from Call again. Looking down on the ground again, she mumbled under her breath: “... Ch-chao’shee--...”
“Tsao’hsee,” corrected Cer Tess as she pulled strips of cotton off the hem of her robe to wrap around the bleeding bite marks on her arm. Pia scoffed at her and looked back at Call, who was wearing a somewhat pitiful expression.
“Ts-how’see…” Pia scowled over her shoulder. Cer Tess sighed, but nodded for her to continue. “... See-... See Pia choh-loch.”
Call’s frown hardened and his lips pursed. “Hso sok toch?”
Pia blinked and looked helplessly at Cer Tess. “What’s he saying now?!”
“Quieter, Pia. He didn’t quite understand you. Here, do this with your tongue…”
The rest of the afternoon was spent reviewing the tongue twister and voice exercises from earlier and trying to perfect the pronunciations. Many more outbreaks of anger took place from both Call and Pia, and by the time the sun was setting, Cer Tess’ arms were full of cuts, bite marks and bruises. Pia had acquired a black eye from her and Call fighting at one point, and she had retaliated by biting a bloody mark into his lower right arm. The knives they were glaring at one another could’ve cut someone at range. Cer Tess had promised them - one proper greeting. One proper greeting, and they could call it a day. Pia had been close - she just couldn’t manage that soft palatalisation. It was Call’s turn now - their battle could potentially be settled any minute. The nelfling opened his mouth:
“‘Ello. Ma-ee nah--... Ne’-eem is… Call. Na-ees tee-- too! Meet’ yee-- yu!” The two of them looked at Cer Tess expectantly. The druid scrunched her nose.
“Hsok’ hso dar mak’ ro-faal ma-ee loch.” Call drew a hopeful breath as Cer Tess wagged her head pensively from side to side. “Cho-faal’ee-oh. Hso kaam rach’ak’.” Victoriously, Call threw his hands into the air, got up and ran to the hut they had been sleeping in the night before. Pia looked at Cer Tess as though she had stabbed her in the back.
“You let him go for -that-?!”
“He’s been trying hard all day. You have too. He showed me his best, and it was good enough for his first day. Therefore I let him go to bed. If you do the same, I will let you go, too.”
Pia frowned, but managed not to let her anger and frustration surface for a change. She whispered quietly to herself to warm up before opening her mouth properly to say, “Ts’ao’see…” she opened and studied Cer Tess’ expression, who motioned for her to continue. “... See Pia choh--... chohl’loch.” She felt that familiar sting in the nose whenever the tear canals activate. She had failed again. Call had skipped off without issue and she had failed again.
Cer Tess sighed. “... We’ll continue tomorrow. Go get yourself some sleep.” Pia blinked.
“B-but that was worse than before!” Cer Tess shrugged.
“It may have been, but I doubt it’ll improve by you getting frustrated while battling those falling eyelids.” She got to her feel and eyed the darkened sky. “We’ll be starting early tomorrow, too. Get yourself some sleep.”
“B-but…!” However, Cer Tess walked away, leaving Pia alone on the plateau. The Nelven groups were beginning to prepare for their lessons. With a defeated bend in the neck, Pia retreated into her, Cer Tess’ and Call’s hut to sleep.
The weeks passed quickly this way, and while the constant exposure to the same faces over and over didn’t exactly lessen the brewing tensions between the apprentices, they eventually got so used to one another that they couldn’t even be angry at one another anymore. After the first week, all the groups would switch from day to night and night to day. This switched back and forth every week, and the apprentices felt it only served to tire them out even more. The weeks turned to months, and months turned to years. Their respective foreign vocabularies grew ever richer as their mentors introduced stories of the gods and sacred lore into their daily routine. The students learned the story of creation, how Or and Kii created the sun and moon; how Por created the ground and Laa, the sea; Chann, the woods and Ros, the sky; Finn, the mind, and Ma’k’, the heart. They learned of the cultures and customs of one another - humans learned to whisper properly and politely to their nelfling peers, and the nelflings learned to sing and talk using their voices. The children were schooled intensely in different kinds of flowers, their scents and textures, as well as medical and olfactory applications; the nelflings were taught about colours and how to paint, exploring the spheres of visual art. In their free time, Cer Tess took Pia and Call to study birds and animals in their habitat to learn more about nature’s balance.
“An’, an’ t’at? Vat iss t’at?” Call squeaked giddily and pointed at an enormous owl resting atop a tall tree. Pia, meanwhile, was dozing off on Cer Tess’ shoulder. The mentor grinned from ear to ear.
“That’s an owlix, Call,” she whispered back. “They are the children of Kii. Every new moon, they are born, and for a whole month until the moon is reborn, at which point they die and, too, are reborn.”
Call narrowed his white eyes. “Onlee a mons? Why sso sho’t?”
Cer Tess shrugged. “One of life’s great mysteries, I suppose.” Call narrowed his eyes.
“Sho’d not troo-et noch?” he whispered. Cer Tess snickered.
“It’s pronounced ‘druid’ and ‘know’, Call, and no, I don’t think we should. It’s important as druids to understand that the world, the way the gods made it, it’s not for us to understand in its entirety. We need only understand our godsgiven mission and carry it out to the best of our ability.”
Call remained unconvinced. ”Ch’ot loch…” Cer Tess sighed.
“Call, today we speak k’ee-cho-ag, not tsao-cho-ag...”
Call clicked his tongue through a frown. ”Tsao loch. Hsii tsao-cho-ag see-tach’ee-oh.”
Cer Tess closed her eyes. “One day, my son, you will encounter humans who need you aid in the middle of the night. By that time, you must’ve moved on from thoughts like that that only seek to divide daykin and nightkin.”
“We are your family now, Call.” She scooped up Pia into her arms and pulled Call in for a hug, though he seemed reluctant. ”Hsii tok’ hsamsa loch.” Call growled angrily, but didn’t fight it.
The second, third and fourth year were dedicated to fully understanding one another. The children were tasked to make scented oils and perfumes from plants and growths they could forage in the forest, and were schooled heavily in what they dubbed “whisperspeak”. They were taught to carve nelven wood glyphs and understand them with their palms. They were taught how to navigate the world in the dark of the night and the deep caves and caverns around Godlach’s area, as well as the importance of both oral and bodily hygiene. They had also been practicing gestures and sounds for a while, and Pia and Call sat facing one another one day. Call was wearing his sweat-yellowed linen blindfold. Pia was nervous - she had been practicing her gestures for the last four weeks; today, she had to show her skill.
They weren’t overseen by Cer Tess this time - she was busy evaluating Gion and Chass across the plateau. No, instead Cer Voyn kept a close eye on them, her bright tattoos beaming just as much as her smile. The mentor clapped her hands and glanced at the two of them through her blindfolds.
”Tah, ar-hsoe. T’ompi k’ho?”
”Hsee, jah, k’o-tii loch.” Pia replied. Call nodded in agreement.
Pia sighed in relief. This one was easy. She opened one half mouth and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth twice. To her panic, though, both Cer Voyn and Call shook their heads.
”Pok’-see-tach. Hsok’ ro aa-ee ar fak’hsia-ee-oh. Ee-ok’ shock’ak’.”
Pia calmed her breathing and pursed her lips, placing her tongue behind her lower front teeth and clicking it against the roof of her mouth. Cer Voyn smiled.”Loch! Hsoa hsok’ hsil ar cha-ee-ee-oh - choo rrap: ppo; srrah lak’: wah! Loch k’ho?”
”L-loch.” Pia responded politely, readying herself for the next question. Cer Voyn noted her silence and continued:
Pia rose to her feet, then stopped. She still didn’t have all the pieces. ”Hsee hsa ro-faal-ro-pok’ rak’shii?”
Cer Voyn shrugged. ”Ppan loch. Jaaaah… Cheen-ppan loch!” Pia clicked her tongue sideways and walked around Call’s back, laying a flat palm on the lower end of his back muscles. Call swallowed - it was evident he was a little uncomfortable. Cer Voyn patted his shoulder.
La-shoch loch-ee-oh, tofi-hsee. Hso hsok’ cheen-aff oo-akk-la chamkii-loch.” Pia, meanwhile, sat back down opposite of Call and Cer Voyn clapped her hands together softly. ”Ro-faal, Pia! Tah, jann hsa-ee - hso cha-ee tso ak’toll-fach, seek’ Call chee mah hoh rafach loch, hsa chee ka’rak’ nak’ee choom rachon?”
”Ah, pang ro-faal! Pang saaf, fanfi-hsee! Tah, oo-an hoh-ee! Call hsok’ barr-parr-ee-oh k’ho?” She giggled and Call gulped. Pia nodded firmly. ”Tah… Hso Call tok’ aa-ee-mak’ loch, ka’rak’ nak’ee choom rachon?”
With that, Call rose up, his face a dark shade of plum, visible even underneath the old blindfold. He sniffed sheepishly and looked off to the side shyly as he spoke, ”Voyn-kar, hsii, hsii fach k’ho?”
Cer Voyn put her hand on her cheek and giggled. ”Lo, fach-ee-oh! Troo-et chee shaak’ loch!”
Call looked in the direction of Pia, who looked to be underestimating the gravity of the gesture that was about to be undertaken. Reluctantly, he sat back down on his knees, collecting his feet underneath his bottom and hanging his head. ”Choom’ak’...”
Pia frowned, but shrugged, crawled over and put her palm on Call’s belly. The nelfling whimpered in discomfort for the duration of the gesture, which he felt lasted ten times longer than necessary, and kept an elevated breath even after Pia had retreated. Cer Voyn clapped her hands again.
”Ro-faal! Ro’hak’ hsa nak’on choom, nah?”
”Tsao-mak’ totsi ma’kra’ loch ar hsiich, nak’on kanchoo-aa Ma’k’ chee hong moh tok’ paa’loch. Pia replied, feeling almost shocked that the gesture took that much out of her partner.
”Ro-faal, ro-faal! Chang-k’ong loch, fanfi-hsee! Pang ro-faal!” Cer Voyn shot a glance over at Call. ”Hsii kaam’ak. Hoh Call chee jann loch.”
While the children had been learning anything and everything regarding the Night Elves, the nelflings had been heavily schooled in the ways of daykin. They had been taught to use their voices to produce clearer and more distinct sounds, and were given lessons in painting with colours, singing and understanding stories presented with petroglyphs without touching them. They had also been trained to use their blindfolds as less of a blocking device and more of a light dampener, even though many complained that this was immensely painful on the eyes in the beginning. Most importantly, perhaps, were the hand gestures they had been taught. The break neared its end and Call and Pia once again sat down opposite of one another, Cer Voyn overseeing the two of them with a smile as bright as the sun.
“Okay, I think we’ll switch to k’ee-cho-ag this time. Would you be alright with that, Call?”
Call frowned, his hands halfway covering his ears. “Y-yeah…”
“Wonderful!” Cer Voyn cheered. “Did you bring your moss?”
Call sighed and pulled some moss out of the arm of his robe, stuffing a handful into each ear. Pia nodded at him and he nodded back. “Okay, Call, here’s your task. Pia has yelled something to you over a distance and you want to confirm that you heard her. How do you show this?”
Call frowned and looked down at his hands. Gingerly, he raised them above his head and presented two erect thumbs. Pia nodded, and as did Cer Voyn. “Very good! What else can this gesture symbolise?”
“Approval! Uhm… Cheerfulness? Support!”
Cer Voyn nodded. “Yes, all of those. Anything else?”
Call blinked behind his blindfold. Anything else? What else was there to show? He hesitated. “... Yes?”
Cer Voyn made a lopsided smirk. “Yes, there is.” She copied his gesture. “Sometimes, this may simply mean ‘upwards’.” Call made the kind of frown one makes when fresh fruit tastes unripe. Cer Voyn continued, “Particularly when humans build, the master builder will use this gesture to show that the workers should lift something higher. Likewise,” she inverted the gesture. “This can mean both ‘down’ and ‘bad’, ‘no’, ‘sadness’.” Call groaned and Cer Voyn giggled.
“Come now, that was only the first question. You did well, and there’re stlll three more.”
”Hso kan’pah-ee-oh,” whispered Pia with a weak smile. Call didn’t return much beyond a quiet scoff.
“Next task - demonstrate applause.”
Call flinched instinctively. “Do I have to?”
Cer Voyn nodded. “Indeed. Applause is a very important part of daykin cultures! If you feel like it’s uncomfortable, just put more moss in your ears.”
“I mean, it’s not just-...” He looked back at Pia, who still kept her small smile. The nelfling took a deep breath, sighed and breathed in again. He then started clapping his hands loudly, shouting, “WOO! WOO-HOO! Yes! Amazing! Bravo, bravo! Huzzaaah!” He didn’t look to be enjoying it one bit, but at least the sound was genuine. Cer Voyn joined in with a gleeful chuckle, and Pia couldn’t help but clap along, too. Call grimaced and eventually gave up, his sore hands clapping down on his kneecaps. Cer Voyn kept up hers for an additional few seconds.
“Very good, my son! Very good! Just… Next time, try to look like you’re enjoying it, too, alright? Nightkin might not see your face for its details, but the daywalkers will see your entire history on it.” She whooped one final time and then continued, “Okay, next task…” She turned to Pia and said, “Pia, your hair’s stupid.”
Pia turned and made a face. “Huh?”
Cer Voyn pointed at her while facing Call and said, “What expression is that?”
Through his own blindfold, Call observed. “A frown.”
Cer Voyn nodded. “How can you tell?”
“Furrowed brow, slight downwards nod as she pulled her head back. Mouth’s straight.”
Pia rolled her eyes and sighed. Cer Voyn pointed again. “Now what?”
“She’s pouting.”
“How can you tell?”
“Cheek’s propped up on her fist. Lips are loose or neutral. Brow’s still furrowed or flexed in some manner.”
“Yeah, yeah, keep staring - I’m just Pia with the stupid hair, la-dee-da…”
“Very good, my son! Now--” She poked Pia in the side and the girl squealed.
“Ow!” she whimpered and stroked the sore spot. “What was that for?”
“Call, how is she feeling?”
Call shifted to her in surprise. “Well, hurt, obviously!”
“W-well, not always, but often! It’s usually some kind of disapproval. Furthermore…” He ran his eyes over his partner again. “She’s rubbing the sore spot. Her eyes are glistening more than usual, indicating that she’s about to cry--”
“AM NOT!”
Both Cer Voyn and Call covered their ears. Pia shrunk together. “Sorry…” Cer Voyn shook her head.
“No, no, this is good. People who have been hurt are liable to act out, and whereas nightkin would usually turn to speaking, daykin will often turn to yelling. You have to be ready for that, Call, to make sure your ears don’t start bleeding the second you try to help someone wounded. What else do you see?”
“I see… She’s glancing away.”
“Why is she doing that, you think?”
Call grit his teeth. “I-... Is it embarrassment?”
“Yup!”
“I’m not embarrassed!”
Cer Voyn chuckled. “Okay, that’s enough for now, I think. You both did very well. You both pass!” Call and Pia exchanged looks, mixed joy and relief on both faces. Cer Voyn reached out and squeezed both their shoulders. “You’ve both deserved a break. I think. Get yourselves some grub and enjoy the day. Tomorrow, we’ll practice some more.”
Pia and Call both nodded, bowed as low as they could while sitting and chorused. “Thank you. Tok’ maak.” Then they turned to one of the huts and walked together.
“Y’know… Your accent’s almost gone,” Pia noted. Call clicked his tongue approvingly.
“I don’t know… Although…” She joined in his sigh. “... I wonder how my brother and parents are doing.”
Call stopped in his step and gave Pia a sympathetic frown. Pia stopped a few paces ahead, her eyes beginning to glisten. She immediately brought a finger to her right and wiped it thoroughly. “D-don’t look at me like that. I’ve accepted it, okay? I’m here now, and there’s no going back.” Call approached and put took her hand in his own. Pia sniffed. “... It’s weird, really. Among us, this is what boys and girls in love would do.”
Call recoiled. ”Hsoa tok’ droch k’ho?”
“No, no, no!” She held up their interconnected hands. “This. Handholding.”
Immediately, Call disconnected his hand and took a step back. Pia blinked, then giggled. “What, you didn’t know?”
Call looked down at his hand in disbelief. ”Hsee… Mak ‘hso aa-ee’ ak’toch, nah?”
“No-ho, nnno, you didn’t. And even if you did, by the way, I would’ve said no.”
He shook his head as though he had just seen flying pigs. ”Haho-kam aa-ee chee fal loch k’ho? Seek’, seek’ shan-hsa ta-cha-k’ ar hsa aa-ee shee ro’hak’?”
Pia waved and nodded upwards and Call rolled his eyes. ”Tah…”
“Yeah, it’s hard sometimes…” They had reached their hut. “Well, I’ll stay out for a bit longer. You’re going in to rest your eyes?”
”Loch, nah… Haho t’ong-ee-oh. Ro Cayn-kar chan, ar ka Call-hsee fafe t’al, faal-moll?”
“Yeah, sure! See ya tomorrow, Call.”
“See ya.” As Call ducked under the flapping pelt “door” of the hut, Pia ventured out across the grassgrown plateau in search of Cer Cayn’s delicious smelling pot of stew which he should be heating up around this time. Soon, the second part of their training would begin, and she was starting to feel eager to learn the practical duties of a druid.
Pia and Call’s adventures continue through the first four years of their studies. These are spent just learning everything about nelves and people, especially the language, as well as stories about the gods. The last year finishes with an exam which tests Call’s ability to appeal to and understand humans, and Pia’s ability to appeal to an understand Nelves. It’s pretty simple and they both pass. Read the post for deets about the tests. >:3
Inaziz janahi zurq - In the name of the All-Loving, we go into paradise.
Al Baqi is a desert sheikhdom under the rule of Sheikh Said IV Abd al-Aziz ibn Fawzi. Its thousand years of history along the four ancestral river valleys of Eastern Soiryndia carry the influence of war, politics and religious and cultural disputes that still impact the country to this day. Separated into four major clans, the human majority all live their lives in accordance with their cultural contexts, many of which have led to disagreements with their peers. While the nobles have recently grown more and more interested in Amrean technology, the majority of the country's population still live as they have for millennia, reaping the rich bounty of the four rivers to fuel an extensive caravan economy.
Type of Government: Absolute monarchy - the whole of Al Baqi is ruled by the sheikh and his family. Head of Government: Sheikh Said VI Abd al-Aziz ibn Fawzi, of the House of Baqi. Economy: (Main imports, exports, industries, technology level, etc.)
Imports: Cereals, silk, cotton, technology and industrial parts, modern weapons, raw materials (steel, timber, etc.)
Exports: Coffee, crude oil, olives, exotic fruits (dates, pomegranate, figs, citruses and melons), almonds, pine nuts, copper, tobacco, spices (cinnamon, saffron, turmeric, cumin, sumac, black pepper), perfumes (rose, lavender, lilac).
Industries: While Al Baqi is far from an industrialised nation, their capital of Amshadr has multiple mechanised canneries to preserve produce and coffee for export and storage.
Technology Level: While Al Baqi used to be a great centre of magic and science in earlier times, they have fallen far behind in the race to modernise, and have little to no modern industry to speak of for the majority of people; the sheikh and his family, however, have taken to wearing Amrean imperial clothing and have inbuilt electricity provided by the country’s only powerplant. In terms of factories, the country possesses a total of two canneries, mostly operated with man or animal power, as well as two crude oil refineries, one in Amshadr and another in the second largest city, Al Fawzi.
Sahra: 540 000. Desert and steppe-dwelling goatmen
Karaniü: 400 000. Minotaur steppe nomads.
Ahkrak: 200 000. Rhino-beetle-headed humanoids from the mountains.
Gnolls: 75 000
Amreans: 3 000.
Various other magical/non-magical creatures from surrounding nations and countries: 4000.
Religion plays an enormously large part in most citizens’ lives, and piety is seen as a must-have in terms of personal traits. Weekly visits to the mosques are seen as the norm, if not multiple times a week. This is regardless of social class.
Tribal identities still remain strong even after almost a century of Baqi dynasty rule. Baqis are, after all, only one tribe among four other major families: The Hadi, the Imam and the Jalal. This occasionally causes tension between certain groups, especially between Imams and Baqis. The Baqi hail from the heartlands between the Nahr and the Jabdal rivers. They typically have bronze skin and black hair, and are the most pious and, currently, most powerful tribe. They are the original believers in Aziz and hold onto that legacy with an iron grip. Baqi dress in very monocoloured and conservative attires that cover most of their bodies. Headdress for men include a simple white cap; for women, the whole face is covered save for the eyes. Jewelry and the ability to keep one’s clothes clean are the only true signs of class division among the Al Baqi. Their influence is strongest in their heartlands and around the capital Amshadr and the city of Al Fawzi. The Hadi is a tribe from around the Jabdal river delta, all the way to the Majraa in the north. They have a fierce pride in their great cultural heritage from the golden ages of Hadi kings and sheikhs, and are especially wary of their northern rivals, the Jalal. The Hadi support Baqi supremacy, but only as long as the Baqi sheikh remains fair and just to tribes beyond his own. The Hadi are faithful and pious, but also value greatly the sciences and philosophy of their heritage, defending their right to practice them at every turn. Appearance-wise, the Hadi are very similar to the Baqi, but dress more colourfully and flamboyantly than their southern allies. This makes it more evident who has the greater spending power within the tribe. Compared to the Baqi, they also employ their own regional dialect which, while not unintelligible, can be difficult for Baqis to understand at times. Their influence is the strongest in the north up to the Majraa river and especially around the university city of Khayrat. The Imam have long had a difficult relationship with the tribes to the north, being both a target of and perpetrator of raids and skirmishes against them. Their culture is vastly different from their neighbours north of the Tahtamil: Even compared to the Hadi, their clothing is bright, colourful and beautifully patterned. They have much darker skin than their northern compatriots, and worship a localised version of Aziz, as well as a pantheon of sages associated with Shallahist faith - in Shallahist canon, these sages are mentioned, but not worshipped; in Imamism, they often take centre-stage over Aziz themselves. The Imam dialect differs radically from both the Hadi and the Baqi dialects, so much so that it can be considered its own separate language entirely, being traceable all the way back to the language spoken during the Shaytan dynasty over 1200 years ago. The Imam are also fiercely proud of their cultural heritage, especially the golden age of Shadhad when their region was the country’s cultural centre. They earned a fierce hatred for the Baqi when their city was burnt to the ground, a hatred that lasts until this very day. The Jalal are the only sizable tribe in Al Baqi to not be descended from the progenitor civilisation to the other three tribes known as the Awall. The Jalal are actually a group of Tzücomen (Zikomel in Baqish) all the way from the northern steppes, who came to Al Baqi 677 years ago as raiders and bandits. Like the Imam, they speak an entirely different language, one which has its roots in Tzücomic, but over the centuries has been influenced heavily by Hadish and Baqish. Today, it neither communicates with its kin on the plains nor its neighbours in Al Baqi. The Jalal still live a largely pastoral lifestyle north of the river Majraa and are considered among the poorest tribes of Al Baqi. While bands will occasionally form and terrorise the countryside, modern weapons have made it nearly impossible for them to choose this as a lifestyle. Many have moved southwards to the farmlands or into the cities and integrated into Baqi and Hadi society.
Coffee, tobacco and spices form the cornerstone of Al Baqi popular culture, and are all consumed by the tons by both the wealthy and the poor. Alcohol is forbidden in accordance with Shallahist law, and tobacco thus takes the spot as the recreational drug of choice, being smoked in both wooden pipes and shishas.
Literature, architecture and calligraphy are much appreciated among the upper class and the lower class equally, though only the upper class truly has the means to dabble sufficiently.
The Baqi try to impress on the international scene with their musical and culinary cultures.
Shallahism: Shallahism is the main faith of the royal family, as well as the majority religion of the sheikhdom. It emphasises worship of the god Aziz through daily prayer and upstanding behaviour. Mosques to Aziz can be found in every village, town and city in Al Baqi. Imamism: A sect of Shallahism popular among the Imam tribe. Offers a much more liberal view of the sacred texts and also introduces a pantheon of sages of the faith that have existed throughout time and brought prosperity to the Imam and the whole of Al Baqi.
Oshori faiths: A shamanistic faith prevalent among the desert-dwelling Sahra. It emphasises the worship of water and the sun and moon as gates into the quintessential planes.
Kargyyraism: An animist faith prevalent in the north among the Karaniü, gnolls and northern Sahras. Emphasises connection to all natural elements through meditation, often accompanied by throat-singing or animalistic sounds.
Arthorisism: Arthorite missionaries from New Galia have converted some Karaniü and Sahra tribes to their faith.
The Golden Dawn: The faith of the Unbroken Host’s god-seer, too, has managed to gain some support, particularly among the periphery tribes of Karaniü, Sahra and nomadic tribes related to the Jalal.
Church of the Sun: A small minority have converted to worshipping the Sun God as a result of foreign missionaries arriving in the capital city.
The arid lands of South-western Soiryndia. The country has a total of three cities with populations over 100 000: Amshadr (450 000) on the Nahr river delta (second southernmost), Al Fawzi (193 000) on the Jabdal delta (second northernmost river) and Khayrat (110 000), also on the Jabdal delta. The rest of the population live in smaller towns and villages along the rivers. A recent acquisition of the northern steppe province of Samermek has almost doubled the country’s area, but the reality is that the Al Baqi presence in the northern half of the country is incredibly limited, in large part due to rowdy Jalal raiders at the desert border to the steppelands. 90% of the country is covered by scorching, nigh-uninhabitable deserts; the remaining 10% is lush, humid forests and farmlands around the four main rivers - the Nahr, the Jabdal, the Majraa and the Tahtamil. This is where 99% of the country’s population lives.
The military is poorly developed, any resemblance to a standing army limited only to levies armed with arquebuses or, if they’re lucky, proper modern rifles. While the army size that -can- be recruited can number up to a million, the majority of these are untrained, undisciplined peasants with no manner of military experience to speak on - and that’s not even mentioning the backlash the state would receive for recruiting so many. That being said, the royal family of the Sheikh has a personal company of royal guards known as the Alharas Almalakiu, or just the Alharas. These are provided with modern weaponry and equipment, and can clearly be told apart from the other armed forces by their flamboyant (and at times, cumbersome) uniforms. This company numbers roughly 100 individuals. The pride of the Al Baqi arsenal is likely the rifled musket, the base concept for which has been in use for over 100 years. It shoots far, but reloading techniques still lag behind, making it a slow weapon to this day. Bronze and, at times, iron cannons are featured as the main artillery in the Al Baqi army. While the weapons often are cumbersome, they are employed both in offense and defense to great effect. Al Baqi has a very limited navy outside of sloops modified to carry cannons, a max of two per boat. The Al Baqi navy can muster up to thirty gunboats like this in case of emergency. While they possess larger ships in their trading fleet, these are owned by private merchants and would have to be commandeered by the state to be utilised.
Magic Prevalence/Usage and Elemental Alignment: While magic has historically played a huge role in Al Baqi, especially as a weapon or tool of war, it has since fallen out of fashion outside of alchemy guilds and academic circles. Their primary type of magic is solid.
3500 years ago (AC -2866): A group of humans settle around the Nahr river and reap the bounty of the fertile soil. Theirs was a culture far different from that of modern day Al Baqi - they had no concept of Shallahism, nor did they build mosques and practice the calligraphic arts. These are known today as the Awall, the precursors to what much, much later would become the three of the four main human tribes.
3000-2920 years ago (AC -2286 to -2366): The Awall violently expand towards the Jabdal river to the north and the Tahtamil to the south. The ancient capital city of Quailat is founded as a frontier against the barbarians in the north.
2600 years ago (AC -1966): The empire ruled under Quailat experiences a series of droughts in the farmlands along the Jabdal, forcing a retreat southwards back to the Nahr. The bastion city of Shuklat is founded here and remains a powerful bastion for the next few centuries.
2170 years ago (AC -1536): The first written record, the Tablet of King Shuk III, outlines the great conquests of the Shuk dynasty, carried on the backs of able magicians using solid magic to manipulate the sand and stone of the desert.
1950 years ago (AC -1316): The Ziggurat of Shuk is constructed. The project, which according to further records took nearly 100 years to finish, subsequently bankrupted the Shuk empire, causing it to collapse merely 2 years after the completion of the Ziggurat.
1812 years ago (AC -1178): After what is estimated to be 134 years of civil war and no dominant power outside of local warlords, a merciless conqueror known as Shaytan unifies all four river valleys from Tahtamil in the south to Majraa in the north. Proceeds to form the Shaytan dynasty during which the old Shuk dynasty logographic script is replaced by an early version of the phonemic script known today as Baqish.
1789 years ago (AC -1155): Shaytan dies at the age of 67, leaving his sickly third-born to inherit the throne. The empire subsequently splits in two - the north which governs the Majraa and Jabdal, and the south which hold the Nahr and the Tahtamil. The south is governed by the sickly third-born, Shaytan II bin Aimsahr; the north is governed by his cousin, Khazm I bin Faosi. The south are pushed to the very bank of the Nahr, but Khazm’s forces never make it across. The stalemate persists for half a millennium.
1432 years ago (AC -798): Khazm VI bin Dobah moves the northern capital from Faosi further inland to Dobah, constructing the Dobah Academy of Magic and Alchemy in the process. The focus on magic and science further bolsters the military capabilities of the north compared to the south.
1234 years ago (AC -600): Yusuf II bin Dobah conscripts every magician in the north in an attempt to take the south; however, even with all the military supremacy of the northern forces, they only manage to take the Nahr - sustaining enormous losses in the process. By the time Yusuf II returns to Dobah, the kingdom is financial ruin and collapses soon thereafter. The Shaytan dynasty in the south, also heavily battered from the fighting, collapses, too. For centuries, a black, empty spot forms a dense void in the historical record.
872 years ago (AC -238): A new faith appears in the heartlands of the Nahr, known at the time as the “Word of the All-Loving”. Prophets of the All-Loving, or Aziz, spread far and wide into the desert and between the many tribes living between the ruins of ancient metropolises. The prophets come from many peoples, but most hail or have been taught their practices by a mighty tribe known as the Baqi, led by the chieftain Shayyid the Bread-Breaker. Many accept the faith with open arms and travel to Shayyid’s home village of Beirut; however, many also grow wary of the growing cult.
823 years ago (AC -189): Shayyid dies at the age of 63 - his son Afzal lacks much of the diplomatic skill of his father. The prophets of the All-Loving adopt more aggressive rhetoric, claiming Afzal and the Baqi tribe are destined to rekindle the flames of ancient civilisation and restore the empires of old. Many followers join them; many critics are silenced; many foes prepare for the coming storm.
811 years ago (AC -177): Afzal and the Baqi face off against increasingly frequent skirmishes from a southern tribe known as the Imam, lead by Danyal of the Blue Desert. The Baqi hunker down in Beirut, which in the time since the prophets of Aziz appeared, has grown into a bustling trade and religious hub. The Imam raid smaller satellite villages and the Baqi begin to lose support, especially in the south. Desperate, Afzal pleads with the northern tribes, particularly the Hadi, led by a warrior-poet named Hafiz. Hafiz agrees in exchange for free passage through Baqi lands for a century. This is granted.
762 years ago (AC -128): The Imam are eventually beaten back from the Nahr heartlands, but the 49 years of skirmishes and war have left the land scarred and the people in agony. The Baqi fade into the shadows; the Imam are nearly wiped out and won’t recover for another half millennium. The Hadi assume the role as the dominant power in the region and annex the Nahr heartlands from the Baqi. Hadi rule sees a renaissance in pre-Azizan arts and music - an academy similar to the one found in Dobah over 500 years ago opens in the Hadi capital Fawzi on the Jabdal river. Emphasis on living a poetic lifestyle and devoting one’s life to philosophising over the nature of reality, magic and God consumes the upper class, initiating a golden age of humanism and culture. Many of the greatest architectural and artistic feats of the Al Baqi culture today are from this period.
677 years ago (AC -43): A series of draughts and mass-starvation on the countryside bring an abrupt end to the golden age of the Hadi. While state-driven efforts to relieve the peasants’ plights were effective in certain areas, a new, previously unknown enemy from the north cause so much havoc in the countryside that the majority of these relief efforts failed. This group, known then as the Zikomel (Tzücomen in their native tongue), known now as the Jalal, later settled in the lands they had taken.
673 years ago (AC -39): The end to the Hadi hegemony once again spurs great skirmishes and battle between the tribes. With the Jalal functioning as a tie-breaker on the three-way balance between the Hadi, Imam and Baqi, previously established facts of alliances and war are thrown out the window, and everyone will cooperate with everyone as long as it leads to the fall of at least one of the four tribes.
659 years ago (AC -25): After 14 years of battle, the Baqi are pushed all the way into the western deserts by an alliance between the Imam and the Hadi. Here, the Baqi survivors are given asylum with the local goatmen, known as the Sahra. A bond of brotherhood forms between the Sahra and the Baqi and they set out to unite the Sahra tribes for a counterattack. Meanwhile, the Imam-Hadi alliance crumbles as the Imam lure the Hadi chieftain and his family into an ambush by the Jalal. The Hadi disappear into the shadows thereafter, thought eliminated for good. The Jalal and Imam, now without anyone to fight, begin fighting one another.
634 years ago (AC 0): After 25 years in the deserts, the Baqi return to the heartlands with an army of Sahra behind them to find that the Imam and Jalal both have exhausted each others’ forces and cannot even hope to stand against this new force. The Baqi easily seize control of the four river valleys and establish the Amashadar dynasty after their chieftain-crowned-king, Amashadar ibn Baqi, in the city of Amshadar, later Amshadr, on the Nahr delta. Resources are poured into rebuilding the ravaged land, with government aid granted to peasants and merchant caravans, many of which are sent northwards to Zihomal (Tzücomen, later Miranid territory) and westwards to Al Rawiya (Amrea). This year also marks the founding of the Amshadar Calendar (AC), which is still in use today.
461 years ago (AC 173): The first 200 years or so of the Amshadar dynasty are referred to as the “Age of Gold and Spices”, characterised as a time when the Baqi enjoy unprecedented wealth and prosperity, greater even than the Hadi golden age. New farming technologies such as rotational cropping and magical manipulation and refinement of fertiliser bring an influx of food into the cities, which swell like balloons into regional superpowers. These cities initiate huge construction projects to the Baqi religion of Aziz, now names Shallahism. These temples are known as mosques and soon dot several sections of every city in Baqi lands. A wish for the revival of Hadi golden age art and philosophy among the upper class is shut down by the Baqi kings, who instead emphasise focus on religious art and literature in honour of Aziz. Heavy censorship of philosophical texts and works of art stifle the creative class, leading to stagnation in the cultural development of the Amshadar dynasty. Growing corruption and cronyism among the upper class eventually sap power from the Baqi kings and into the hands of the royal guards, the Alharas Almalakiu, who form a de facto government with a puppet king 461 years ago in Al Fawzi on the Jabdal delta.
432 years ago (AC 202): A failed coup d’état against the Alharas government causes mass purges of the upper class and the establishment of a secret police known as the Shursiri. Censorship grows ever stricter and the prosperity of the Baqi hegemony falls as many among the nobility seek asylum in Al Rawiya (Amrea). Imported matchlocks from Al Rawiya are hoarded by the Alharas Almalakiu and replace the standard bow and arrow employed for millennia.
428 years ago (AC 206): The censorship as well as rampant oppression and enslavement of non-Baqi groups by the Alharas government lead to insurgencies in the countryside, large scale uprisings lead primarily by a coalition of Imam, Sahras and Hadi, equipped with primitive weapons for the most part. These fare poorly against the Alharas matchlocks, and the rebels suffer heavy losses.
426 years ago (AC 208): The Alharas forces suffer their first true defeat at the Battle of Sunbaked Sands, when, unbeknownst to the Alharas commanders, the supply chains reaching for the Nahr heartlands all the way into the western deserts where the armies fought the rebels, was being raided ceaselessly by Jabal bandits. The matchlock-equipped army, starved and tired, is butchered by hillfolk with crescent daggers, spears and wicker shields. The Alharas manage to sound a retreat in time so as to not lose all their forces, but the rebels have gained too much ground by the time the army can properly regroup. The exiled nobility provides funding for more weapons, armour and mercenaries from Al Rawiya (Amrea), hammering the final nail in the coffin for the Alharas. The Alharas government falls that same year and the whole royal guard is executed and replaced with new recruits. A coalition of the three rebel factions, as well as returning Baqi nobility, form the Council of Wisemen to steer the country into the future.
396 years ago (AC 238): The Imam break out of the Council of Wisemen due to disagreements over the censorship rules which were passed down from the Alharas government - whereas the Imam advocate for full removal of all censorship, the rest of the council agree that the clause forbidding satirisation, criticism and/or ridicule of Aziz or Shallahism should persist. The Imam return to their ancestral lands in the south to establish the free artist enclave of Shadhad. A number of the artists that were exiled under the Alharas move to Shadhad and soon, Shadhad becomes a centre of the written word, producing fantastic works of literature full of allegories for philosophical concepts such as the importance of God and the human condition, ambition and motivation. Many of these works never reach the peasantry, but the nobility in the capital Amhadr, the academic centre Al Fawzi and the trading port city Khayrat all gain access to this literature in secret.
386 years ago (AC 248): After ten years of hailing criticism from nobles in every corner of the empire, the Council of Wisemen finally give in and remove the restrictions on literature and artworks critical of Aziz and Shallahism. This causes great dissatisfaction within the Shallahist priesthood, which proceeds to forward a counter-proposal to make criticism punishable by death and for Shadhad to be declared a sacreligious city of sin. This counter-proposal causes further division within the Council, especially coming from the Sahra, whose religion is vastly different from Shallahism altogether, being a shamanistic faith of completely different roots. The Sahra’s relinquish their support the following year.
380 years ago (AC 254): After six years of rule by only two of the original four members of the Council, it becomes clear that they no longer have popular support, especially not in the south, where Shadhad’s presence has brought growth and prosperity to the region, making the area once more a threat to the central-northern hegemony.
373 years ago (AC 261): Seven years of paranoia and pressure from the Shallahist priesthood finally culminate in the Fatwah, the order to invade the southern lands and level Shadhad with the ground in the name of Aziz. By the following year, the entire army mobilises southward. On the way, it becomes very clear that the Imam have been preparing thoroughly for this outcome, and as in ancient times, the north just cannot seem to push further south than the river Tahtamil; furthermore, the Imam have been experimenting with Al Rawiyan technology and acquired grenades, which would sink every boat trying to ford the river and break every bridge formed by magic. These grenades, coupled with matchlocks and midnight raids on the army camps, lead to losses so great that the Council army is forced to fall back.
371 years ago (AC 263): Unfortunately for the Imam and Shadhad city, the alchemists at the academy in Al Fawzi use solid magic to shape molten metal into long cylinders with one closed end, which are then filled with black powder and balls of lead or round stones. This newly invented cannon is not as reliant on the need to cross the river to do damage, but can shell the Imam forces from a distance. With this form of artillery, the northern forces level Shadhad with the ground. The crops around it are burned and salted, and whatever Imam cannot escape are enslaved and brought back to Amhadr.
351 years ago (AC 283): The cannons are once again employed to great effect in taking down a Jalal horde uprising. The effectiveness of the artillery against the mounted riders inspires further innovation within ballistics and firearms technology. Rifling becomes standard in all firearms produced.
285 years ago (AC 349): The powerful military sector which has been supporting the Council for nearly 150 years grows immensely powerful as greater and greater shares of the state coffers are funneled into research and development - and into the pockets of the senior staff. When another series of draughts affects the Jabdal and Nahr deltas, the army stages a coup d’état and puts an end to the rule of the Council of the Wisemen. It is also around this time that expeditions into the desert in search of metals for weapons production cause explorers to stumble upon a black, sticky goo which reacts violently to fire. They name this substance nft or “oil”. Extraction of this substance starts immediately and it replaces wood and wax as the primary energy source for lighting.
283 years ago (AC 351): In order to further prove their legitimacy, the military government elect a leader known as a sheikh, as a nod to the ancient tribal chieftains. The first sheikh is Sharif ibn Khayrat, a powerful Baqi general with a number of cronies in high places, particularly in the priesthood. Under the leadership of Sharif, Shallahism fully takes over what had previously been a largely privatised system of education within the now-sheikhdom. Previously secular universities and academies now double as monasteries and mosques, and the censorship on anti-religious art and literature is further reinforced. By now, after centuries of oppression of the free arts, the last of the opposition begins to fade away.
193 years ago (AC 441): Religious imagery has almost entirely drowned out the artworks of old - known ancient treasures have been set aside - or worse, defaced and destroyed - in favour of artifacts praising Aziz and the teachings of Shallahism. The sheikh’s grandson, Sultan II ibn Fawzi, has managed to garner so much power than he almost holds single-handed rulership over the whole country.
174 years ago (AC 460): Sultan II suffers what is most likely a heart attack caused by his lavish lifestyle; however, his cronies blame the sheikh’s untimely death on assassins sent by opposing cliques at court. A great purge of the nobility is conducted by the military, headed by Sultan II’s brother, Tahir ibn Dushar. Tahir’s nephew, Sultan III ibn Fawzi, is elected sheikh after the purges, even though he is only 11 years of age. Tahir serves as his advisor and makes certain to garner as much power to himself and his cronies as possible.
170 years ago (AC 464): A majority of the opposing cliques that had been purged four years earlier belonged to the Hadi tribe, and the remaining nobility from that tribe plot Tahir’s assassination as retaliation for what they see as treachery. Later that year, Tahir is shot during a public ceremony in the Mosque of Amashadar, the largest mosque in the kingdom. The event is condemned publically by nobles all over the kingdom, and the young sheikh reinstates the secret police to find the culprit. This causes a thirty year reign of terror known only as Alkawf Alkabr, or the Great Fear, in which everyone from the highest tower to the lowest pit are thoroughly investigated and punished on the smallest flaw. As many as 300 000 people are executed, roughly a tenth of the population at the time, and millions more are beaten and shamed. The true culprit is never caught.
139 years ago (AC 495): Sheikh Sultan III ibn Fawzi dies from choking on his food, later thought to have been poisoned. The Alkawf Alkabr comes to an end shortly thereafter. A Hadi sheikh by the name of Talib I ibn Haswah is elected instead of Sultan III’s son, Sultan IV. Talib and his followers belonged to a smaller clique at court, one which had secretly worked to overthrow Sultan III for years. Talib immediately set out to reduce the influence the military had on the sheikh’s decisions, as well as the presence of Shallahism in education and the public sector. While this made him a target, Talib managed to push through enough reforms to increase his popularity beyond what had been thought possible in the context of the Great Fear’s aftermath. The reforms revitalised the aid programs aimed at the peasantry, which brought a booming growth to the agricultural sector; they opened for greater freedom of expression, which brought a renaissance in the cultural class; they removed mandatory conscription, which both weakened the strength of the army considerably while also gaining Talib the support of the young men now free to work instead of slaving in the army for five years. Since Talib now was untouchable, neither the military nor the priesthood could remove him from office.
110 years ago (AC 524): However, merely 29 years after Talib took office, a plague swept the country, taking him with it. While the plague passed within the year, it left open a power vacuum that couldn’t simply be filled by the army or the clergy: Talib had added too many failsafes. Instead, the army and priesthood insert Talib’s cousin, one Omar I ibn Khayrat, ignoring Talib’s son, Hamed I’s, claim to the throne. Omar manages to be the exact opposite of Talib - uncharismatic, slow-witted and rash. It takes five years for the sheikhdom to once again lose all support with the nobility, and within five more, the peasantry stops caring for him, too. Omar accepts a role as puppet for his only remaining supporters - the military and the clergy.
98 years ago (AC 536): The military and clergy grow tired of Omar’s incompetence and replace him with sheikh Said I ibn Fawzi of the Baqi. Said I, while supported by the military and clergy, realises he needs the nobility and the peasantry on his side, and thus spends his life trying to mediate a deal between the four actors which satisfy all of them. He never gets to see the outcome, passing away at the age of 74.
54 years ago (AC 580): Said I’s son, Said II ibn Fawzi, tries to continue his father’s work; however, he is drawn too far away from the peasantry in his effort to appease the upper classes, causing a great peasant uprisings at the bazaar in Amhadr, known as the Day the Gutters Ran Red. Between five hundred and a thousand civilians are killed, the fault of which is laid on the sheikh. Criticism of the sheikh’s inability to appease the masses eventually drives the sheikh mad with stress, and causes him to suffer a heart attack shortly thereafter. The sheikh’s son, Said III ibn Fawzi inherits the throne.
35 years ago (AC 599): The first 19 years of Said III’s rule are largely uneventful - he manages to leave all four factions, the peasants, priests, nobles and army men, neither happy nor angry. However, the 19th year saw large-scale economic collapse across several trade networks as the Rebellion of the Five Provinces broke out in Al Rawiya (Amrea). Widespread unrest and riots broke out in the streets of the cities and the countryside as shops had to close and left thousands without work. The uprisings threatened another countrywide collapse, but a series of well-timed relief programs enacted by the central state kept the population just shy of outright rebellious. These relief efforts nearly bankrupted the state, however, and the sheikh had to expropriate heaps of funds from the nobility, leading to a deep-seeded hatred from the upper class that lasted throughout Said III’s remaining rule.
23 years ago (AC 611): As an attempt to regain respect among the upper class, Said III ushers forth a revitalisation campaign for the army and sends them to invade the northern steppes (now named Samermek) that had previously been under the rulership of roving clans and tribes. The army meet little to no resistance - in fact, they meet so little resistance that the project backfires - it did not at all manage to boost morale as planned and cost the state coffers a fortune. Instead, the sheikhdom conquers an area of land over half the size of their ancestral province with no resources to hold it. They set up a stronghold in a large village in the west called Shoog, but the province only belongs to Al Baqi in name. In the sheikh’s final years, news reach him and his court about a new project drawing a great deal of attention over in Al Rawiya.
Today (AC 634): It has been two weeks since sheikh Said III ibn Fawzi passed, and now the young Said IV, titled Abd-al-Aziz for his devotion to Aziz and the Word of the All-Loving, sits on the throne. While he is green in the role, he and his advisors all observe the ongoings in Al Rawiya and agree on one thing: Al Baqi must modernise.
It had always seemed as though the Vo forever had declared Juraantoxagrul to the be tyrant of Truulnax, the reef of the southern current. Whenever the thunderous rumbles of the Deepspeak would send tremors through his little reef, all vrool who heard him would hear of his triumphs in a thousand battles, of the authority his reign had garnered him, and of his splendid, unmatched cave - its walls polished to the point of pearl-like sheen, its floor stacked high with tributes of flesh and stone. Every sunrise and sundown, his many lackeys would announce the cosmic scope of Juraantoxagrul’s feats for all the vrool of Truulnax to hear, and for anyone beyond the southern currents to grit their beaks at. Every vrool in Truulnax could only dream of a fortress like the one Juraan possessed - the home of his great clutch. Not even his lackeys were given proper caves, but naught was more hungered for than a cave like Juraan’s.
Truulnax was, however, not particularly large, and physical space became an issue when wanting to dig out a hall like the one belonging to Juraan - for if one were to accidentally bore holes into his cave as a result, one would most certainly become his afternoon snack, and as more and more vrool subjugated themselves under Juraan’s uncontested rule, the reef began to grow too populous.
Yoraxinatruul was a lesser vrool, barely even considered a rookie among Juraan’s lackeys. Hers was a position below sandgrains, tasked with tending to the filter-feeding mammoth mussels whose only purpose for existence was to provide soft, gooey meat for the titan crabs - she was tending to the food of the food. A lower rank in their society was downright unachievable. What did she even do? Flick parasites off the mussels? Scrape off barnacles and kelp growth? What proud, mighty vrool would settle for a position as base and unfulfilling as that of a musselsitter?
No. She couldn’t just accept a life like this - not anymore. She had already toiled and worked these mussel fields for more full moons and tidal floods than she could even recall. She hadn’t even been deemed worthy enough to fight in Juraantoxagrul’s skirmishes. She was far from hardened by battle, and her slimy hide was unscarred and weak as a result. Today, that would all change.
Yora smelled her surroundings and laid her gum-like body flat inside a crevice in the reef. Any minute now, one of her superiors, a slim, but cunning one known as Ulaaxinagrul, would be making his rounds to ensure everything went along with Juraan’s wishes. Ulaax was only marginally larger than her - perhaps this was the time for her promotion. As predicted, Ulaax came floating by a minute or so later, his three eyes scanning thoroughly for any trace of the mussel-watcher.
“Where did that subpiscine, little water nymph swim off to?” Ulaax bubbled sourly to himself. He stopped for a moment, eyes following what seemed to be a trail. Yora remained as still as she could, appearing almost one with the stone. However, Ulaax would not be so easily tricked. He rolled up his tentacles into a great mantle of arms ready to defend himself and spoke, “You utter cretin, subplankton parasite! What manner of loitering is this supposed to be?” Keeping a distance, he began to circle around her hiding spot. Yora looked desperately for a way out. While she was preoccupied with that, though, Ulaax managed to come close enough to reach out and grab one of her limbs. Yora struggled, but Ulaax was stronger in the end. “If you refuse to work, your useless cadaver will be fed to the titan crabs - would not that be a step up for the likes of you?” With a mighty tug, she was ripped out of the crevice. She couldn’t even regain her bearings before another set of tentacles grabbed hers tightly and began to pull and tear. Yora wriggled and twisted as she felt her tentacles give out. Desperately, she tried to peck and bite at the parts of Ulaax she could reach; however, the measly spots she could nibble at were, at best, the surface of some small limb - in contrast, Ulaax could chew directly into her torso, and he did. Black blood clouded the water. Yora ripped and twisted, but couldn’t seem to break loose from Ulaax’ grasp.
They bumped against the reef floor, and Yora felt something sharp brush against the back of her head. It left a cut, but it was clear what it was. In a lightning motion, she flicked one of her arms behind her back and pulled it out of the sand, bringing it up to saw straight through one of Ulaax’ arms - her weapon was a blade-like fragment of a mammoth mussel. Ulaax’ growled, black blood spilling out into the water. That cloud was just the distraction she needed - she burst forth with aching tentacles, arriving in Ulaax’ face before he could react. She swung, the sharp blade cutting the water as well as skin, right across two of Ulaax’ three eyes. He staggered again, and Yora went for the killing blow, biting out his last eye and just continuing to eat, gnaw and stab at the larger vrool’s body until resistance grew dull and weak. As they sank to the surface of the reef again, Yora rolled off of the carcass of her former superior, inspecting her rended, ravaged tentacles and skin. She would be scarred from this… Scarred for life.
She snickered to herself and started swimming towards the Tyrant’s cave.
Finally.
Juraantoxagrul is the coolest vrool on the reef Truulnax (a tiny reef off the south coast of Korero), and Yoraxinatruul, a mussel keeper, is jelly af. She wants to get stronger, so she kills her superior, Ulaaxinagrul. She then drags his carcass towards the Tyrant’s cave.
Thankfully for the duo, King Safron’s threat of casting them into the Sun Wastes was only really true if one were to follow the canyon mouth northward, which would lead you to the Bone-Ridden Pass and, subsequently, to months, maybe even years, in endless, waterless deserts which only salt crabs could hope to survive. This was known to both Cinna and Gale, so they had chosen the less threatening route and headed due east, where the vegetation was deceptively scarce to start off with, but would slowly grow denser and denser as the moist southern gusts brought rain and relief to the island’s southern half. While water and food were issues in the beginning, the jungle was quick to offer them both in the form of fruits and dewy leaves. After days of travel, they eventually reached their first destination.
The Fennel Glen was as promised, a glen filled with fennel plants circled by mighty trees easily hundreds of years old. Flitterlings clouded the canopies while Thumblings worked on the ground and in the stumps that were hollowed out into homes. Gale had left Cinna alone with the only night elf resident of the glen, a young woman named Butter. The two had found a spot by a surprisingly regular sized stone well, their backs pressed against the cool stones -- with the princling soaking in the surroundings and the otherwise disinterested Butter toying with a stick she had found lying nearby.
“So, remind me again - why do you live with these, these…” Cinna, sweaty and just barely rehydrated after days of walking, struggled to find a good synonym for vermin. “... Pests anyway?”
Butter looked up from where she was digging her twig into the dirt. Her wide eyes narrowed and she frowned, “Pests?”
“Isn’t that what they are? If we see any, they’re usually pilfering through our biscuit crates or, or stealing the shroomer’s harvest!” He made hard eyes at a bypassing thumbling farmer. “... I call such things ‘pests’.”
Butter eye'd the same Thumbling and sat up a bit more straight before whispering harshly, "That's my Dad; could you not be such a prick? It's embarassing sitting with you enough as it is."
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve been taught to call an adze for an adze, so that’s what I do. Forgive me if I’m a being a bit of a ‘prick’, but I just lost my heritage, family and home, so leave me alone. It’s not like I -want- to be here, either.” The boy slid down the rugged well wall until only his head was propped up against it, the rest of his body resting spitefully on the dry, earthy ground.
Butter took the opportunity to prod him with the stick, "Then why are you here?"
Cinna’s cheeks flushed a dark purple and he rolled over to face away from Butter. “W-well, because I have nowhere else to go! This is just the lesser evil compared to the Bone-Ridden Pass or the Sun Wastes…” He waved his hand clumsily after the stick poking at his back. “Also, stop that!”
"Are you going to stop being a prick?" Butter said in a rather indignant tone, the stick poking into Cinna's shoulder.
“Owowowowow, stop it!” He twisted back over to face her and tried to snatch the stick from her hands but she quickly held it out of his reach and tilted up her chin, waiting. “Tch… Fine, if it stops you being so annoying.” He rolled back over, propping his head up on a fist instead.
"Say the whole thing," She held the stick menacingly.
"Cinna," Gale's voice called out. The Thumblings was walking up to the pair, a rather portly flitterling by her side.
“Wha-what?” replied Cinna, arms held high to block an incoming strike.
"Jasper here has a job for us." Gale said with a glance towards the Flitterling. Jasper rolled his eyes and mouthed something.
Cinna dug a pinky into both his large ears. “Sorry, what was that? Did you say something?”
“I said Jasper has a job,” Gale reiterated, “We do it and you can stay in the glen, isn’t that great?” It was Butter’s turn to roll her eyes.
“Yes, you, you said something like that… What sort of job is it?”
“We just got to pick up something,” Gale said excitedly, her voice hushing just a little as she continued, “Back in the desert we just crossed.”
Cinna blinked. “You know those’re Sun Wastes, right? Nobody - and I do mean nobody - survive the Sun Wastes.”
Jasper seemed about to say something before Gale spoke up, "Pbbt, none but the best." Butter seemed to scoff at 'best' but Gale continued, "...Us. It'll be real quick and simple."
“What kind of job -is- this? There’s nothing out there but snakes, buffalo and those copper mines my father always keep sending guards to…”
"We are just picking something up," Gale reiterated, "Very simple. Remember hands?"
“Of course, I--!” The young prince growled. “And I take it -I- don’t get to know what this ‘something’ is, do I?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Gale promised behind a viper’s grin, “The details aren’t that important.”
“Speaking of details,” Jasper finally spoke, “I want you to take Butter.”
“What!?” Gale and Butter said at the same time.
“Consider it buyers insurance,” Jasper folded his hands behind his back, “No negotiations... Gale.”
“Wait, we’re bringing her?” Cinna sneered. “Why?”
“Yeah!? Why!?” Butter all but whined.
Jasper just gave the two a hard look, “I’m not taking questions from a couple of blueberries.” With that he plucked a pipe between his lips and nodded at Gale, “Get to it.”
“Couple of--!” The prince breathed in sharply. He lifted a tight fist, holding it quiveringly as his expression twisted and turned. He eventually lowered his fist again upon seeing the rest of the glen turning to stare. Jasper shook his head and began to walk away, his useless wings twitching as he left.
“It’s not worth the debate,” Gale patted his ankle, “Let’s just do this; in and out, then the world is our oyster. You ever seen an oyster?”
“You mean those shellfish that the Akua usually sell?”
“Yeah sure, kid,” Gale smiled and tapped her foot on the mossy carpet below, “Give a lady a lift?” The former prince’s sneer intensified and he reluctantly lowered an open palm to the ground. Gale hopped on, and by time Cinna looked back up, all he saw was Butter’s scowling face.
“I’m impressed Cinna,” Gale settled on the former prince’s shoulder, “You have a knack for making friends, don’t you?” The prince didn’t respond beyond a low growl.
“Let’s just make this quick,” Butter turned away.
Gale and Cinna reach Fennel Glen, stay there for a while and Cinna meets Butter, a nelf raised by thumblings. They hang out with shared contempt for one another before Gale returns and says they have a job to do. Tbc in the next Princes of Fragrance: Kai.
Gibbou had fun watching Twilight flop around in the water on his third day of swimming. There was something satisfying about watching that little dumby try out some repentance for once. Truth be told, though, she had no idea what to make him do once he actually reached Kubrajzar. She had brainstormed some punishments, sure, like counting the number of sand grains on the beach he’d make landfall on, or by writing “I hate Neiya” one hundred times in that same sand. Perhaps she’d make him do both.
She poured herself a drink - thinking up punishments for that two-faced scoundrel was thirsty work. Her environment didn’t help much either - there are many ways to describe the surface of her moon, and ‘humid’ isn’t one of them. She sat in a somewhat cold and stiff armchair facing the planet below, feet resting upon a frozen cushion. There, she sipped on her magical cup which kept the liquid inside it cool, yet fluid, despite the much cooler and non-fluid objects outside of it. This cup was at least in the top five of the most convenient things she’d ever made. Granted, in terms of convenience, it was unclear whether things she had made could even number more than five, or five at all. It was a sad thought, and one she tried intently to dismiss as soon as it popped into her head. As is the case with thoughts one wants to disappear, however, thinking about it only made it stronger and stronger until she plopped her face into her hands, shooting a hopeless groan through the blue straw sticking into her glass. She knew she had talked to Oraelia about her feelings of uselessness, and sure, it’d been nice - really, really nice - to have someone to just talk to about them.
However…
”Why am I such a useless goddess?!” she shouted into the void. A void response was all she received in return. She groaned again and emptied her cup. She would have to regain her honour as a goddess… She needed to stop making all these no-good, hopeless species and artifacts that were either so specific that they could never be used, or so broad that there would be no way to control them!
She conjured for herself another drink and gave it a stern sip. Something truly awesome would be her next project… It’d need to be bigger an better than anything she had made before. She took another sip. Yes, bigger, better - something to show mortality just what she’s all about - a peaceful night’s sleep! Yeah! That would surely fix up her image, and maybe even do some good for her own psyche, too! She’d just make enough helpful stuff for people to forget all about the trolls and the vampires and the sword and…
The train of thought made her finish her drink and conjure forth a new one. She eyed her cup, noticing that it has been joined by a twin just like it, oddly enough held by her second left hand. She noticed her skin feeling hotter than usual, and her face feeling oddly itchy.
Eh, it would probably pass any minute. She’d talked to Oraelia now and was a responsible goddess now! She wouldn’t repeat that one time - no way!
”Aaaan’... Baaazoooooom!” shouted Gibbou with a cackle. Down on Galbar, specifically in the jungles of Kubrajzar, there popped into existence a blue, snake-like dragon with a great, blue mane that waved in the air like a drunken fire. On its face, it wore a mask, on its head grew black antlers, and its hands were soft, fluffy paws. It was soon joined by more like it, with little hatchlings rolling around on the forest floor. Nearby, an Itztli huntress dropped their spear in fright and slowly backed away. One of the adult dragons caught sight of her, eyeing her hungrily. The huntress spun around and tried to run, but the dragon soared off after her, floating just above the ground like some sort of ghost. The Itztli tripped over a root in her panic and crashed into the ground. With the dragon fast approaching, she screamed for help and her life passed before her eyes - her family, friends, lovers, enemies - all of them filled her mind in her last moments before the dragon caught her.
… Except it wouldn’t be her last moments. In fact, the huntress found herself very much alive and, surprisingly enough, growing increasingly calm. There was an odd sensation around her torso, as though she was bound by some sort of thick rope. She dared open her eyes to investigate, only to stare the masked dragon in the face. She would have gasped, but her body just didn’t seem to find the whole ordeal stressful at all. The dragon titled its head to the side and the Itztli looked down to further survey her situation. The dragon was hugging her, and that in a very sweet, friendly way. It was the sort of hug that is perfect no matter the situation - it just made her feel safe and at peace. The dragon’s skin was warm and soft; it wasn’t covered in reptilian scales, but dow-like fur; it purred softly like a cat, too, which only made her drowsier. It didn’t take long for her lids to grow heavy and for her to realise just how intense today’s hunt had been. As her body grew heavier with exhaustion, the dragon gently laid itself under her and curled up around her. There, the Itztli slept soundly, all the stress and worry in her body seeping out and feeding the dragon underneath her.
When the Itztli woke again the following morning, she had been left on the forest floor, a thin nest of blue hair forming a mattress underneath her. She touched her head - that night’s sleep had been almost too good. She looked around for the beast that had, uh, attacked her the night before. However, they were all completely gone. She plucked at some of the fur and gave it a smell, comparing its scent to that of the surroundings. After searching for them for an hour or so, she shook her head in sadness.
Those would’ve been amazing to keep around after a hard day’s work.
”Boohee,” giggled the moon goddess with a snort. ”Issha sho kyoooooot! Oh-boo-boo-boooo!” She reached out to pat it, only to realise she was staring at a projection of the dragon.This bummed her out, so she mixed herself another drink, right before realising she could conjure forth one just like it in her realm. So she did (making certain, of course, to give it the necessary traits to survive the vacuum and temperature of space), and it immediately proceeded to pack the goddess tightly into its coiling body, its soundless purring reverberating through Gibbou’s body as opposed to the air. GIbbou was far from done, however.
”Yesh! More! More kyootsie fhungsss!” She waved her hand just as her forehead crashed into the Dormiron’s furry tail with a ‘puh’.
In the deep jungles of the Mydian island of Whakarongo, along the coast where the lands grew humid and warm, an odd, fluffy flower popped out of the sand. Its bloom was a grayish black, fuzzy nob connected to a thick, dark green step which also sported a circular crown of green leaves which seemed to redden at the tip. A nearby Akua couple were walking along the beach picking empty seashells. They exchanged flirty jokes and giggles at one another there in the warm, beautiful sunset.
“... Oh, Tonga, you can’t say those things!” giggled Moana. Tonga smirked back and picked up a shell which had flushed in all the way to the tree line, not too far away from the flower. His smirk became a wide smile and he waved with playful dismissiveness at her comment.
“Well, it’s true! You know his mother is...” His voice faded as he was talking, and he hadn’t quite noticed it himself before he saw Moana’s eye-roll and smirk.
“Oh, so now you can’t say it?”
Say what? was what Tonga tried to say, but while his lips moved and his vocal cords vibrated, nothing came out. He grabbed his own throat and he saw Moana was starting to frown.
“Tonga, are you alri...?” she approached, arm outstreched. Tonga pointed at her and tried to shout something, but nothing came out. Moana froze in fear - Tonga’s every movement and body signal had indicated that his words would’ve been loud enough to give a Night Elf tinnitus, but what actually came out had been completely void of sound - to the point where she doubted even a Night Elf with celestial blessings could hear it. She tried to respond, both she, too, was silent. Terrified, the two of them ran back homewards, but after running for about fifteen paces, they realised they could hear each other panting. They embraced one another in relief and stared back at the forest in horror.
“What was that?! Some kind of spell?” whimpered Moana.
“I don’t know…”
Meanwhile, the little, black flower licked its metaphorical lips. It had been fed ample amounts of sound, and was now ready to spread out across the forest!
What shall we do with the drunken Gibbou? What shall we do with the drunken Gibbou? What shall we do with the drunken Gibbou Earlay in tha’ evenin’!”
The moon goddess whooped and grabbed a salted peanut from a pile she had conjured forth on the lunar surface next to her. She flicked it up into the air and tried to catch it with her mouth. She failed miserably and it landed in her open eye. She scream and waved around clumsily with enough intensity to wave up the Dormiron she was sleeping on. In her flurry, she cast a bolt out of her hands, which soared down to the surface of Galbar. She stopped and eyed its destination - it was in the middle of the Anchor Mountains. With a ‘prrt!’ of the lips, she snickered.
No harm done.
High up in the World Anchor, in the great halls of Thunder the Mountain King, sat that ancient monster whose attack on humanity had been the first, flanked on each side by his two favourite spawn: Quake and Crush, both equally skilled in manhunting, and worthy successors of the Cragking Crown. In total, he had spawned perhaps six spawn, but two had been lost to the Eye of Death, one had gone for a trip up north and never come back, and another had gone south… And never come back. Truly, there was no respect in being a father.
The whole cave quaked for a moment, and all three of them wondered for a moment if it was -that- time again. However, the quakes stopped as suddenly as they had come, and they all looked up to see that something had broken through their stone-sealed door. It was a pair of glasses, glass black as night. However, they were trapped in the middle of a deadly solar ray beaming in through their doorway. Thunder had an age-old rivalry with the sun - he was not about to lose now. He clapped his favouritest spawn, Quake, on the shoulder. The smaller dovregubbe, barely a millennium old and just having regrown his shoulder forest after it was shed off to make some spawn of his own, flashed a frown of reluctance at his father. However, all dovregubbes knew that, when it came to their hierarchy, none could defy the Mountain King - that was just a rule of nature.
With quivering legs that hadn’t moved for months, Quake rose up to his full sixteen metres, stretching out for a moment. Then, with rabbit steps, he snuck over to the glasses in the light. With deft patience honed for a millennium, he waited for the sun to be blocked out by a cloud. He waited and waited, and waited some more.
There! While the sun dipped behind a cloud, he knelt down to pick up the object. However! Just as he did, the sun peeked back out. Instinctively, he brought his hands to his eyes, putting the glasses on his nose.
Crush rocketed to his feet in shock, and Thunder, who hadn’t risen for two hundred years, felt age old eyelids that had barely moved since he last moved, part in sheer disbelief. There, his spawn Quake, stood in full sunlight, wearing a pair of black-glassed glasses. Quake’s lip quivered - he hadn’t died. He hurried back into the safety of the dark and the three trolls inspected this artifact closely, and tested it out more in the following days. Indeed, it made it almost as though whatever reality was, their bodies experienced the world as night.
The three trolls exchanged wicked smirks. Maybe it was about time to extend the reach of the Cragking Crown?
Gibbou squinted her blurred vision down at the mountains. ”Waaait a minuzz… Ain’t that wher…” A hiccup made her forget her train of thought. ”Dunmatta, mo’ stuffz!” The Dormiron was beginning to feel uncomfortably full - the goddess just seemed to ooze out more and more excitement. She bounced up and down in her soft seat and ‘thought’ about what to make next. She made narrow eyes at Ha-Dûna, that most amiable of villages.
”Bet bein’ mortal muzz be hard, huh, misser dargon.” The Dormiron gave her what could be approximated to be a frown. Gibbou cracked up her fingers and snapped her fingers. ”Lez dere be PEEEEEEEAAAACE!”
Down in Ha-Dûna, a number of peasants and druids suddenly got the strangest idea to head out into the meadow in search of a very specific weed. This weed was collected, sampled and replanted, with a small portion being sent off to dry. Plants and logs of wood were turned into pipes of various shapes and sizes, and the whole town started smelling faintly of burnt weed as its citizens breathes deep in the plant’s calming smokes. The pipeweed was immediately made into a pastime for the peasants in between shifts at the farm, as they would meet up with their neighbours to crack a joke, drink some milk and have a smoke. The druid apprentices became ample users, the curriculum of their education much too stressful to study without at least something for the nerves. The druids and archdruids eventually just joined in because everyone else was doing it. The druids brought this culture around wherever they went, as well as a little extra to barter for food and shelter whenever the local chiefs were a little harder to negotiate with. With that, Ha-Dûna enjoyed the sensation that would be known as the peace pipe.
”PHEW!” whooped Gibbou and flung her hands victoriously in the air as she fell back on her dragon cushion. She had done it. She had made the world a better place. She should drink like this more often - it made her such a great goddess! The fatigue of the dragon’s meal, the alcohol and the power spent began to sink in, and Gibbou nearly fell asleep. However, in the last minute, she jumped out of the dragon’s grasp and made herself another drink.
”No, no, party ain’t over yeeeet!” She threw her arms in the air and screamed. ”GO HARD OR GO HOME!”
And hard, she went.
Gibbou gets wasted and makes dragons that eat stress by hugging people, flowers that eat sound, one pair of shades that allow trolls to walk out during the day, and teaches Ha-Dûnans, and probably the rest of Western Toraan, to grow and smoke weed.
Gibbou 5MP/5DP
3DP: Create Dormirons, an extraordinary species of nocturnal dragon that feed upon people’s stress, unrest and terror, leaving only peace and calm behind. They feed by trapping their victims in an inescapable hug (inescapable due to its extreme comfort) and sap away the unpeaceful and rowdy emotions the prey carries at the moment. If allowed to feed for long enough, the prey will eventually fall asleep, at which point the Dormiron will make them a mattress out of some of their fur to keep them comfortable as they retreat from the dawn. This species is incredibly rare and migratorial across the world, so to see one is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. ⅗ for Peace port.
1MP: Create Voidwillies, a small, black-bloomed flower that consumes the sound produced around it in order to grow and reproduce. Whatever produces the sound within a certain range will find itself acting as though the sound was made, only to find that nothing comes out. ⅘ for Peace port.
2DP: Create artifact - The Shades of Eternal Night: Nightworld II: The user of this artifact, no matter the place or time of day, will experience the world around them as though it was night as long as the artifact is in use.
1MP: Teach the people of Ha-Dûna to grow, harvest and consume calming pipeweed that helps them calm their nerves. 5/5 for Peace port.
3MP: Snatch Peace port - Peace: Gibbou achieves mastery of peace and quiet, granting her the ability to dampen sound, light and conflict more easily. While she cannot use this power to annihilate these things completely, she can turn screams into whispers, make brightness into dimness, and tranquilise bloodthirsty mortals and beasts. In essence, this power allows her to bring something from an energetic and unruly state to a calmer and peaceful one. None of these situations are necessarily permanent, but all can be made into a moment of peace.
Letters from the Duke of Zhou 2 - The Fisherman from Qi
To the respected duke of the Song warrens,
It is a grand pleasure to write to you once again, fellow duke - it brings me great joy to hear that all is once again well and harmonious in the warrens of Song. It is my most humble wish to be of service to our next generation of leaders, and to hear about your successful attempt to quell the unrest among your lightfurs is truly music to these long, graying ears.
Now, that being said, you mentioned in your previous letter that you have had some trouble with a certain scholar-gentleman in your employ - one named Master Gu Xuanyi, if I am not mistaken. According to your description, you sent him to oversee the corn harvest; as of now, he has yet to put the peasants under his command to work on weeding the corn, stating that he did not weed his crops last year, and the harvest was ten times that of usual - no matter your threats or bribes, he refuses to budge.
If you would allow me, I wish to draw upon another story that describes a situation similar to this one. You may have heard it; it is a known tale: There once was a fisherman from the warren of Qi. One day, the fisherman was out by the river near the warren, rod in hand, hoping to reap the water’s bounty as usual. Then, as suddenly as lightning from clear sky, a large, fat salmon skipped out of the water and collided with a nearby stone, knocking itself adaze and quickly suffocating as a result. The fisherman saw this and broke his rod over his knee, deciding that he would instead watch the water in hopes that more fish would follow the salmon’s clumsy example. However, no such event occurred again, and the fisherman was laughed out of the warren of Qi.
If I may offer my opinion, it seems that Master Gu Xuanyi and the fisherman of Qi are of one mind - having witnessed a miraculous event, they are confident that it will repeat itself, despite the astronomically small odds that it will. Of course, the chance is there, but stories like this one help us realise miracles beyond the norm are just that - miracles. Master Gu may have seen one grand harvest despite his dislike for weeding, but it is indeed a much-too-commonly observed fact that weeds among your corn generally outcompete the corn and lead to a poor harvest.
My advice to you, my esteemed friend, is to share this tale with Master Gu. Give him a chance to redeem himself in light of reflecting upon its message - I trust that a scholar-gentleman such as him is in your employ for a reason; however, should he fail to realign his path, I recommend you replace him with someone more capable. The warren’s corn crops and the welfare of its light- and darkfurs must come before the social standing of a stubborn man, after all.
I once again wish you great luck in all your endeavours, and pray my advice was helpful and satisfactory. May the gods forever grant you fortune.
With great respect,
Duke Kong Rui of Zhou.
Bunny Duke educates other bunny duke on how to handle stubborn bureaucrats,
The gates to Antiquity in the Hall of a Thousand Mirrors were, briefly, opened. A mysterious sheen returned to that dulled glass, liquid aurum spilling from its depths and pooling just beneath its surface--and from that glow came forth the physical form of the God of Truth, stepping outside its realm and into that communal space wherein the Gods could engage in acts of community and conversation. It rarely had a specific purpose for entering that realm--much of what it was required to do demanded its presence within its realm where it could coordinate and navigate the great morass of mortal perception--but, occasionally, it had cause to visit its divine kith and kin. Today was one such occasion: the God of Truth desired to speak with the Mother of the Moon, to rectify its past errors and to put into practice the newly found emotional context it had obtained from such a recent merging with its twin.
So, it stepped into that great ring of stone and directed its senses outwards, soon finding purchase upon Gibbou, apparently leaving Oraelia’s portal. It cast wordless intend towards her, beckoning her forth:
“Hail, Mother of the Moon. Might we speak privately? There is much I wish to discuss with you. There are errors I wish to correct.”
The moon goddess shot him a horrified stare and then kept moving as though she hadn’t seen him - or rather, as though she -had- seen him and was running away.
In that communal space Firinn did not have the full extent of its deific powers available to it, and was unable to simply arrest Gibbou to prevent her from feeling--and then, it thought, that even if it could do such a thing it would perhaps send the wrong message. Deciding for a more conservative approach, it attempted diplomacy once more:
”I wish to apologise. Our last interaction was coloured by an insensitivity that is native to my condition while alone--without the emotional context of my twin, I am incapable of understanding mortal feelings, never mind divine ones. If you do not wish to talk I will not force you.”
Though it did not speak, the knowledge of its words--and its sincere regret at how their previous interaction had ended--would simply be something Gibbou could feel, as if through waves in the air.
Gibbou stopped, eyes downcast and fists curled tight. While she didn’t face him, she offered words like an olive branch. ”Do you understand this context better now? After two thousand years?”
”Without being directly linked to Aicheil, it is difficult--but our realms are linked, and so therein I have an easier time of it. It is not in my nature to feel, but two thousand years have provided… context, yes.” The words were challenging for it to communicate--as if there were some inborn resistance to the condition of feeling--but it pushed through that feeling regardless, motivated by the newly contextualised remorse and compassion from its most recent interaction with its twin.
Warily, Gibbou turned around to face the Truth God, though her eyes refused to meet with wherever theirs would have been. ”Truth be told, I did realise that you were only trying to help me back then. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. I’m sorry.” She sucked sheepishly on a tooth. ”So… Privately, was it?”
”It would appear, then, that we may both obtain closure after so long. Please, follow.”
With that said, Firinn turned and disappeared once again through the mirror that represented the portal to its realm, vanishing through the glass as if it had never existed within Antiquity at all. Spread out before that entrance there would be a seemingly endless corridor of mirrors on all sides, each containing a memory or a feeling from the many, many mortal lives that had been lived in the gods’ long absence from Galbar. They were currently scattered, unorganized, random tidbits of information that Firinn had sorted--but as soon as Gibbou walked through that portal they would reflect her, and mortal memories of interactions with her. The draug, Twilight, the Druids of the Long Stride--each would have memories and feelings playing themselves out behind an infinite sheet of glass. Firinn would manifest on the floor, beneath her feet--taking the place of her reflection within this hallowed realm.
”I have only ever sought to help, but I did so in a way that would help me--not a way that would help you. I wish to rectify that mistake, if you still require assistance, now and at any point--I wish only for us to be… friends, I think the term is?”
Gibbou was absorbed by an image of Twilight, regret and discomfort clouding her expression. ”Yeah…” she mumbled absent-mindedly. ”Yeah, friends is right.” She finished looking at the mirage. ”Did you and your brother discuss these feelings? Do you feel like you understand now? What a friend is?” She followed deeper into the tunnel.
”Hm. I… have seen every interaction of every mortal since my birth. Each time one of our precious charges has called another friend I have seen that interaction, understood the context, made sense of what is. To understand and to feel are not alike--but in this moment, replete with the grace of the Two-as-One, I know what it means to feel that kinship. I have never seen you interact, but I imagine it must be as you and your own twin feel?”
As the echoes of its intent reverberated throughout the halls the images on the mirrors changed, shifting from those that knew the name Gibbou to those that declared their friendship for one another--friends becoming lovers, friends standing up for one another, friends comforting one another through loss. The totality of that mortal experience splayed itself upon those panes of crystal-glass, echoing within and around one another like the threads of a great tapestry.
”What I had meant to say before, the meaning I had intended to give you… It is that mistakes do not and cannot define you. Cruelty, it seems, is a necessary consequence of freedom--of life. That some of your creatures act cruelly is not a mistake, but a consequence of their Truth--of the collective Truth. It… is not your fault. It cannot be your fault, for you sought only to create and not to control. Does that… make sense?”
”It does, it does,” mumbled the moon goddess back as she squatted down to look at one particular reflection of two childhood friends confessing their feelings to one another. ”I know it’s not my fault -personally- that dovregubbes ravage the countryside a few times a year, or that askeladds keep hexing chickens to lay stone eggs. I do not -make- vampires drink the blood of innocents. I did have a considerable hand in making them as they are, though, and -that’s- what brings me guilt.” She gestured to an image of a friend comforting another. ”Even mortals will blame themselves for something they haven’t necessarily done themselves - and it takes time to realise that it both was and wasn’t your decisions’ fault that what happened, happened.” She stood up and shrugged. ”Took me two thousand years anyway - I’m not even over it, to be fair. Talking to Orey helps, but emotions like these are hard to get rid of. That’s why I reacted the way I did back then.”
”We… are not them. They are, as I understand it, all burdened by a shard of sadness. Each of them knows that it must all end one day, and that each day lived is a day they can never get back. We Divines are eternal, and cannot rightly conceive of our own endings--when you endowed your avatar with a shard of your soul, you replaced that burden of sadness. Now, little Twilight lives freely and without that fear of death--but a mortal mind is not meant to comprehend eternity. He will soon realise how much you mean to him, and how much what he may do will mean to those around him.”
Firinn took a moment to pause, no longer walking beneath Gibbou as her reflection, and manifesting itself within the Hall of a Thousand Mirrors physically. Its mantle-claws wove themselves into hands, and its body shimmered with an aureate lustre for a moment before rippling out and shifting until only the appearance of Gibbou remained.
”It is my nature to reflect. As I am now, connected to you and my Twin both, I can feel the echoes of what you felt. It is not the same, but… it is hard. I am sorry that I did not understand. I am sorry that I burdened you with something you did not deserve. Let us think upon the fact that it brought us together, here, in this moment--let us be thankful that it paved the way for things to be as they are now, and not dwell upon the pain that they caused.”
It reached out its two hands, opening itself wide, as if to offer the Mother of the Moon a hug. Gibbou immediately backed away with her palms presented. ”Woah, okay! Okay. Don’t, don’t rush on ahead, Fìrinn - hugs are between friends.”
It paused, as if dwelling on the thoughts and the refusal to reconcile with that most intimate and connective of gestures, and looked around. It turned its head towards an image of Twilight upon re-entering Galbar and the great weave, and reached a hand out to touch that mirror gently, as if in thought. After a moment it recoiled, as if remembering an echo of that interaction, and turned back to Gibbou, looking her in the eyes from within an illusion of her own form.
”... forgive me. You are so like them, and yet so… not. It is hard to know where one ends and another begins--it is hard to capture the nuance of that fragility between panes of glass and stolen images, and yet that is all I have. I will make mistakes… we will make mistakes.”
Gibbou cast a sideways glance back at the entrance. She drew a short breath through the nose and spoke, ”Your brother tried the exact same thing, y’know - hugging. It’s not, it’s not that I don’t like it, don’t get me wrong. When I said…” She sighed. ”’Hugs are between friends’... I’m sorry, that came out wrong. Hugs are, well, hugs are for friends who know each other well - like me and my sister, for example! The two of us, weee…” Her fingers exchanged between pointing at herself and at the reflection of herself. ”... We are still getting there, y’know?”
”Hm. I understand--it is… Mortalkind has a linear understanding of time. Events happen in concurrence, one after the other, like footsteps in the sand.” Firinn gesticulated to illustrate its point, the mirrors around it showing the timeline of a single human’s birth, right up until their death. It stretched on and on around them, a great circle, each window arrayed in perfect order.
”Yet we gods are not limited to such a perspective. I see all at once--catching up with what was, processing what is, and gazing into the Worldweave above to determine what will be. I do not think… no, we do not perceive time in the same manner at all. You, by choice or design, perceive it as they do--perhaps to better fulfil your purpose as a protector. I, to fulfil mine, see so much at once--it is an infinite series of circles, spilling out from one another and into one another all at once. It has been two thousand years since we last spoke for you, but in my understanding of time, it…”
Firinn cut itself off, trying to find the feelings and thoughts to express what it meant without forcing an unwelcome perspective upon Gibbou. It stood there, motionless, for seconds stretching on towards infinity, the lights around it sparking and flaring as if to signify the deep contemplation it was in. After an indeterminable amount of time it spoke again:
”is like living through the entirety of every mortal’s life all at once, seeing the infinite realities of what they could do, what they could be, what they hope and imagine and dream. That is the influence of Aicheil, and it is like being so full of sensation that the self peels away, cast to the wind. It could have been mere moments ago that we spoke, or uncountable eternities--I can never know what it feels like to you, even now.”
”I don’t envy you, Fìrinn…” sighed Gibbou. ”I don’t envy you one bit. You and your brother received tasks that I can’t even begin to wrap my head around.” One of the mirrors showed her moon and she walked over and gestured to it. ”My moon’s simple, yet so sweet and beautiful in its own right. It exists, and there’s no doubt about it. The night’s the same - absence of my sister’s sun, the planet’s own shadow cast upon itself - it’s simple and beautiful. Now truth? Dreams? No… Whether by design or choice - I’m not sure either, honestly - I can’t even begin to wrap my head around it.”
Firinn nodded along as Gibbou expressed her thoughts, mirroring her actions and feelings with its own. It, too, walked up to a mirror as she did--but beckoned forth a different scene: druids resting peacefully beneath the silvery opalescence of that great orb in the sky, safeguarded from harm and worry.
”Mortal life, in its entirety, is so precious… So valuable. It is all that matters, and it is just a single thread in the great weave of creation. I do all that I do, endure all that I must, for their sake: that their lives might continue to play out. That their every action might never be forgotten--that there will be one, in the end, who witnessed and remembered it all. It is what I was made to do. There can be no sadness in the realisation and fulfillment of my purpose. I… failed to give you that same serenity. I shall never forget that. But now, perhaps, I might make amends.”
Its hands unwove themselves from the gossamer blanket of that reflected image, becoming the claw-tips that they were meant to be. They punctured a single pane of glass, creating a ripple within, and held it tightly until it glowed a beautiful gold--and then released that ripple along all of the mirrors within that great hall, flooding the space with visions of shimmering light and colour.
”I have watched with keen interest the comings and goings of your vampires. The nature of your punishment, the effects it has had upon Truth.” Firinn began, moving forwards and stepping out from the refracted shell of Gibbou’s appearance, letting it fade away into the background as it took back its own true form.
”Such justice is not a concept I preside over, but those Vampires who exist have all, each in their own way, committed an egregious crime against the nature of Truth: they despoil too much, rend the weave around them in vast and irreparable cuts. To bring them back in line with Truth, to contain their wanton bloodlust and set the greater Truth to rights, I offer thee this: Each night, as the hunger sets in, each of the accursed shall remember vividly the final moments of those they slaked their thirst ‘pon. They shall remember those whose lives they have taken from the deceased’s perspective and shall consider what their ambition has wrought. Does this sound agreeable to thee, Mother of the Moon?”
Gibbou blinked. ”You mean, they’d have to relive all the terrible things they’ve done every time they get hungry?”
”Just so. They shall consider their power, and realise that its price can only be measured in equal suffering to that which they have caused.”
”Hmm… Nnng… See, on one hand, I’m not all about having people relive their trauma over and over again. That’s really harsh on the head, after all. Though on the other haaand... Her eyes narrowed. ”... It would serve them right for what they’ve done. I say you can go on ahead with that! Sounds pretty much just like an extension of what I had planned for them, honestly,” she added with a smirk.
”I cannot say that I would have created such creatures, but… they have deterred many a mortal from fratricide or worse. Cruelty and pain are simply facts of the world--and though these vampires are born from those lamentable traits, this curse has prevented more harm than it has caused. I have collected many thoughts of ambitious murder, and even more so of the price that such an action incurs--though it may not seem so without proper scrutiny, mortalkind is safer for your and Fe’ris’ efforts. I thank you both for your service, and am only happy to assist.”
Firinn beckoned forth an image of a vampire to one of the many mirrors, and then into that scene illuminated the moon with a potent silver light. It placed its true hand upon that moon, shifting its hues from silver to red to gold, and then withdrew. The image faded away into nothingness, as did all of the others--before returning to the great panoply of mortal lives being lived and catalogued.
”It is done. Is there aught else I might assist you with, Mother of the Moon? I am happy to do my part for those I would call friend--even if that does not extend to the closeness so associated with these ‘hugs’.”
Gibbou looked through a reflection, where one vampire was kneeling and screaming its sorrow to the moonlit heavens. While she knew she shouldn’t feel that way, there was something perversely satisfying about seeing it. ”Yes, this is good. Hopefully, even the most degenerate of vampires will now realise the horror of their actions.” She offered Fìrinn a smile. ”Hey… Thanks. I’ll be honest, I--... When you invited me in for a chat, I was… Skeptical. However, I see now that you really have changed.” She extended an open palm forward. ”I think that’s enough for me to consider you an, uh, a good acquaintance!”
”I…” the God of Truth started, before mirroring Gibbou’s action and pressing its mantle-claw, now an open palm, forward--though stopping short of any actual contact between them. ”I knew, then, that change was coming. I… made the mistake of believing that I could in some way, resist change--that if I ensured my purpose could continue in my absence I might be spared that unforeseen calamity. Naive, I suppose, in hindsight--but only through that failing did I become a more realised and truthful version of myself. There is much to lament about how those events unfolded, how our truths intersected… what I am trying to say is that no matter how much the events of the past sucked, they brought us to where we are now. That is something to be thankful for.”
Firinn wants to make amends with Gib. Gib is reluctant, but Firinn says he changed. They hang out, Firinn tries to hug her, she says no - 2000 year old wounds heal slow. They talk about the nature of friendship and relationships and what gods can and can’t feel in terms of emotions. Firinn offers to make vampires remember everyone they’ve killed when they get hungry, which makes Gibs insta-forgive him for that stuff 2k years ago.
Gibs: 0MP/5DP None spent.
Fìrinn: 0MP/5DP -2DP: Curse Vampires: Every time vampires get hungry and need to feed, they’ll remember everyone they’ve killed for their ambitions. End: 0MP/3DP
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