Twilight’s gold, silver and platinum-ringed hand left a red print on the right cheek of his servant’s ass, eliciting a hidden squeal from her. She bit her lip and poured herself a cup as well, the avatar smirking broadly. She wore the standard uniform of women in his court, and truth be told, there was not much to wear. They were in his personal chambers, a marble terrace overlooking the great Southern Sea, furnished to the brim with statues, tablets and monuments detailing his power, beauty and grace. It was midday, and as with every day, his room was rank with the stinks and scents of every luxury imaginable - a great bite of a debaucher’s paradise. As the woman joined him and the seven other women in various states of sobriety on the enormous silk bed, she licked her lips. “Anything for the beautiful…”
“Yes…”
“... The almighty…”
“Yeees…”
“... The all-knowing…”
“Yeeeees!”
“... Za’watem--” She stopped as she saw Twilight’s face turn to cold stone. She froze, catching the eyes of the other women, all of whom either rolled their eyes or snickered quietly at her. The avatar took a deep breath and rubbed his nose. He ran his tongue over his teeth in thought and gave a sniff, staring into the air. The woman started quivering, her quest for finding where she had taken a wrong step slowly dragging her into a state of panic. “Y-Your Awesomeness, d-d-did I say something wrong?”
The avatar’s face twisted with frustration and emotion. Slowly, he lifted up one finger and hovered it before her face. “You’re new here, right? She’s, she’s new here, right?” He turned to the other women, all of whom nodded in many different states of wakefulness. The woman in question whispered prayers to herself. The avatar took a deep breath. “Who am I, Tiffany?”
The woman looked around for this supposed character. The avatar repeated himself, still talking out into the air. “Answer my question. Who am I?”
The woman pointed at herself as though doing so would set off a bomb. “M-me, Your--”
“Yes, you! You’re Tiffany, right?”
“M-my name is Arene--” Before she could react, he grabbed her chin in his hand - the grip was soft, but all who looked on knew that Twilight’s breath alone could tip a tree. Her cocoa skin paled - her hyperventilation only competed with birdsong outside for the champion spot of loudest noise in the room.
“Listen, listen, listen…” said the avatar softly. “Whoever taught you how to treat me, girl - they missed some details, alright?” The other women looked knowingly at Arene, whose eyes met their with accusations of betrayal. “Your name is Tiffany - and Tiffany, you do -not- call me what you just called me, you got that?”
“Y-y-y-you mean Z-Z-Za’wa--mmph! MMPH!” With two fingers, he pinched closed her lips and sealed them with a magical zing!, leaving the woman to stagger backwards and claw at her mouth while tears and blood dripped from her face. The other women looked quietly away while the avatar let out a peaceful sigh.
“That is right, deary - calling me that implies I’m on the same level as the other zawhattems or whatever they’re called. No, Twilight’s not like them - Twilight is his own king; I am the Demigod of the Night, richest man in the whole world, and my own high priest.” He hooked his arms around the torsos of two of the women in his bed and pulled them in, the two of them politely giggling along while their eyes conveyed a desperate need to flee. “None are on my level.”
Arene had curled up on the ground, whimpering and holding her bleeding face in her hands. Twilight rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers. The mahogany doors to his bedroom swung open, ushering in a tide of heavily tattooed old men wearing nothing but loincloths and hats that each resembled the male genital. Adding further to their shame, their backs had been stripped entirely of the ink they had been blessed with as entrants into the caste of Za’wal, and instead been replaced with a number, which had taken the role of their name. Twilight pushed a route through the pile of womenfolk and climbed out of bed at the foot end, servants hurrying over to wrap him in his morning kimono. The men stood waiting, their heads bent forward in shame which allowed their flaccid headgear to hang low over their foreheads. Twilight gave his golden goblet a sip and pointed lazily at the crying Arene.
“Right, dickheads… Which one of you brought me this one, hmm? Was it you, Seventeen? Was it?”
The man with the number 17 tattooed onto his back caved to his knees and sobbed. “Your Fantasticness, I just--”
“App, app, app! None of that - none of that whining. Why’d you send her here, actually? Why her in particular? She’s not even that hot - just look at her face. It’s all scarred now.”
“Y-yes, Your Fantasticness, of course. H-how foolish of me, I-I-I see it clearly now! She’s ugly! So very ugly!”
“Woah, hey, don’t be an ass, Seventeen. She’s a lady, for gods’ sakes.” The avatar dragged a hand through his hair. Arene was slowly escorted out to be sent away. “Right, so… Why did you pick her exactly?”
“W-w-well.. It’s h-her family, Your Superiority. A-an alliance with her family could--”
Twilight groaned and turned back to his bed, walking over to caress some of her women under their chins as though they were dogs. “Ugh, again with the politics. I keep telling you to drop it - we will be fiiiiiiiine.”
“A-actually. about that--”
“... Have I not spent the last twenty years establishing myself as the top dog in this area? Whatever they throw at me, I’ll turn into, what...Puffed rice and coconut milk? We have -nothing- to worry about, people. Now if you’ll excuse me, I was in the middle of something...” He gave his goblet another slurp and started undressing again.
“B-but Your Awesomeness--”
“WHAT?! What is it, Seventeen?! What could -possibly- be so important that you are risking your very life just trying to tell me right now?”
The priest had long since passed the line between sobbing and bawling. His colleagues, too, were in tears at this point. Seventeen took a deep breath and wailed, “They’re heeeere!”
Twilight rolled his eyes. “Ugh, settle down, you big baby - who’s here?”
Twilight took a deep breath. “If it’s those wanna-be priests here for their taxes again, I’ll pay with their heads, I swear by the gods…” He shouldered his kimono back on and walked over an ornately carved sword display, whereupon was mounted his sword, Tsukigami-no-Kokoro. He looked outside into the sunny day and muttered. “... Or a very bad concussion - depends how long they’re willing to wait, I guess.”
“B-but Your Omnipotency, there’s more!”
“You know, every time you in particular open your mouth, Number Twelve, I just really feel like breaking a puppy’s neck. You just have one of those voices, you know?”
The man in question shrunk together like a drying mushroom, and another took his place. “Your Remarkably, please!”
“Now you, Number Four, you have a voice like satin, and I’m admittedly still at half mast after being interrupted for the tenth time now. You have ten seconds to get your point across, or I’ll have you’ll be joining us in bed afterwards.” He turned and looked over at the horrified priest, then grimaced. “Oh, ne-ver-mind, you are ancient. I keep forgetting that, sorry. Ugh, yikes, scratch that invitation. Actually, you can narrate the action when I get back to it. Oh, yeah, that’d be some sexy play, now that I think about it.” He unsheathed his sword and studied the way the sun bounced off the milky blade. He swore his breath as a hit to the wall left a dent rather than a cut and sighed. “Well, I’m waiting - tell me what’s up so I can get back to the ladies.”
“W-well, as Seventeen said, there are people here from Zuanwa--”
“It -is- the fucking tax collectors, isn’t?!” Twilight brandished his blade menacingly.
“NO! No! No, Your Magnificence, it’s… It’s your son.”
Twilight blinked, sheathing his sword again. He walked over to the footend of the bed and sat down, twiddling his thumbs in his lap. “Which one?”
“By wife or by age, Your Illustriousness?”
“By wife, please.”
“Then it’s the son of magnificent huntress of the Ta’zesh, Eronwe of--”
“Wait, who?”
The priest looked to be dying inside. “The huntress of Ta’zesh, Eron--”
“Speak clearly, man.”
“Crystal, Your Justice.”
“Oh! Crystal! Riiiiiiiiiight, right, right… The one with the, the…”
“The mammaries, Your Pride, yes.”
“Oh, gods bless those magnificent tits. I needed four hands just to hold them without them spilling all over… So I grew an extra pair. Ah, good times…” The avatar smirked reminiscently as the priests looked to be struggling with finding motivations to live.
“Yes, Your Handsomeness. Her son has come to see you.”
“Which one?”
“The oldest, Your Stellarity. The impeccable student of Za’wal, the zealous and brave Rusal of--”
“Uuuuugh…”
“... Twolight Number One, Your Supremacy.”
The avatar exploded into a snorting laughter, some of the women joining him on account of being high on way too many substances. Otherwise, the room was silent and cheerless as the grave. Wiping away some tears of joy, he sighed contently. “One of my better jokes, that...Come on, it’s super funny, isn’t it? It’s funny ‘cuz, ‘cuz… Ah, you understand it:”
“Yes, Your Hilarity. He is here to see you.”
“Welp.” The avatar stood back up again and tied the sheath of the sword to his belt. “Better go say hello to the little squirt. Play with sticks or whatever.” He turned around and beckoned over the women who were away. “Come on now, girls, don’t be shy. Kissy-kissy. Mwah! Mwah! Luv yoo. Don’t smoke all the weed while I’m gone.”
“We won’t, daddy!”
Twilight clicked his tongue and stood back up, turning to the doors and strolling lazily outside, his council of “dickheads” following out of a slave-like sense of servitude. The entourage travelled across the enormous garden of Twilight’s estate, marble towers and temples of gold and silver to himself intermittently scattered between thick forests of all kinds of wine fruits and narcotic plants, all protected inside a beautiful stone wall. All sorts of exotic carnivores roamed the forests, from shadowtigers to owlixes to leons - most importantly for Twilight, however, this garden was his primarily source of entertainment, as guests who were high off their genitals were set free in the woods to survive for days and nights as its inhabitants would hunt them down to feast. Currently, though, the animals had been caged, and the garden was home to groups of naked guests tasting its many drugging fruits. They immediately prostrated themselves upon seeing Twilight, who waved at them with all the grace of a king. When he arrived at the gates to his estate, which were both made of pure gold and were really testing the strength of their hinges, he pushed them open and stepped outside to see a crowd of hundreds, spearheaded by one familiar face. All of them were armed to the teeth for all that was worth, and Twilight’s divine hearing heard groaning bowstrings from many more places than ones in which he could see people. He looked over his shoulder and noticed that his priests had hurried down the hundred-step marble and gold staircase to join the army. The avatar ignored all of it, however, and opened his arms as he slowly walked down the stairs. “Junior! How nice of you to visit your old man!”
“Be where you are, tyrant! I, Rasul of the Za’wal, have come to--”
“Twolight, that’s not your name, come on. Give your dad a hug now, come up here.”
Rasul glared. “As I was saying, I have brought all the peoples and tribes you have wounded and tortured throughout your rule, and we will no longer--!”
“Pssh, let’s not talk about that right now. It’s been so long, son!” The avatar stopped halfway down the stairs when he saw his son take a combat stance and point his obsidian spear at him. “Now, now, you shouldn’t point sharp things at daddy. Remember what your mommy-...”
“YOU NEVER GAVE A SHIT ABOUT MY MOTHER! You didn’t care when she got the fever and died ten years ago. It was YOUR fault that she died, because you threw us out! And for what?! Because she said she wasn’t feeling it one night, is that it?!”
“Kinda her fault for not feeling it - I mean, come on.”
“Twilight of the Za’watem caste…”
The avatar’s gloating smirk disappeared in an instant. “What’s that, boy?”
“...You are hereby accused of multiple cases of heresy against the gods…”
Slowly,Twilight continued to descend the stairs. “You better stop right there, kid.Your old man has a few rules in the house that you’re dangerously close to breaking.”
“... Violence against your subjects and those of your caste…”
The chilling sound of steel sounded from Twilight’s sheathe. His son eyed the weapon with quiet acknowledgement and continued, “... Violence against our own family and both men and women of your own court… Lying, stealing, pretending to be of a different caste... Murder of hundreds of people.”
“If you don’t stop right there, I might add another to that list, kid.” Twilight was now only a few metres from his son, and the army hastened to surround him, a phalanx of spears closing in around him. “I might add many, many more.”
Rusal didn’t back down, but kept his glare as adamant as his father’s, perhaps even more so. “In the sight of the gods and representatives of every caste, father, you are hereby sentenced to death for your crimes against Zuanwa and her people. Now, attack!”
Instantly, the world around them went black; in a second, it had shifted from day to night, and the moon was out despite the fact that, in every sense of reality, it should be a little past midday. Immediately, the army panicked, squeals and screams sounding as fidgety militia accidentally stabbed their neighbours, which only led to greater panic and more accidents. Coming from almost everywhere at once, Twilight’s voice cackled. “Wow, -this- is what you had in store for me?! A fucking ambush?! Wow, you can’t be my son if you’re -this- slow, can you?”
“STAY CALM! He’s just testing us! Find him quickly and--” Rusal’s commands were cut short by the song of cold steel as it sliced through skin, bone and flesh as though it was air. A wet crunch sounded as his head and body dropped to the leafy jungle floor and the moonlight cast a beam upon the corpse for all to see.
“Guess we’ll add ‘murder of family’ to that, too.” More screams at the sight of the corpse further intensified the panic. Many tried to avenge their leader by searching for the avatar, but it was no use in the mosh pit of people running for their lives with weapons in hand. As the people dispersed and ran back home, the avatar stood pondering over his son’s corpse. His boy, who had been his firstborn - the son of his favourite wife - laid dead… And he felt nothing. If anything, Twilight felt relief that he had shut him up. The avatar let the day return again and observed the ruined fields before his estate. There laid roughly twenty to twenty-five corpses around, some stampeded to death and others still suffering the last of their feeble lives. Twilight made a lopsided frown, and after caving in the heads of those in suffering, he went inside, packed some lunch in a bag and tied it to his sheath. Now that one wave had come, he would no doubt get no respite from incessantly visiting children and lesser chiefs who would come to claim his head. He needed his peace - his peace and quiet and sexy women. Therefore, he journeyed out once more, looking for another place to settle anew and repeat the cycle all over.
It had been good, though. It had been really good. Maybe he could beat his record next time?
Twilight’s livin’ the dream in Zuanwa - he’s got a nice house, nice drink and nice ladies. Then one of the new girls accidentally implies he’s equal to the other za’watem and gets her lips sealed magically as a result. Twilight scolds her and calls in his councillors to explain why they elected her to be one of his many concubines. After scolding them, too, they tell him that his son has come to visit. After taking his sweet time remembering which son it is, he goes out to see him. Turns out Twilight hasn’t exactly been ruling ethically, so his son has shown up with an army to rebel. After insulting his Twilight with accusations that the avatar doesn’t quite agree with, Twilight turns day into night and slaughters his son. The rest of the army disperses in panic. After that, Twilight decides his tired of life in Zuanwa and moves on.
Giblight 5/5 1DP - Godly feat: Turn day into night over Zuanwa for a short duration. 5/4
“... And so, Cilantra bashed aside the shadowtiger, saving her brother from certain death!” The little girl on the bed clapped her hands together in excitement, so loud to the point where her mother had to grab them and clap them together a little more softly. The girl clicked in timid understanding.
“Mommy?” asked the little girl as her mother caressed her gently across the face.
“Hmm?”
“What happened to Cilantra and the Huntresses?”
The mother’s lavender face darkened further, and she was in the process of parting her lips to answer when another whisper deafened them both: “Woman! The baths - now!” The woman, none other than rachfi Nilla, drew a silenced, frustrated breath and stopped her hand on her daughter’s cheek.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow, okay?” she whispered and gave her daughter, who had seemingly shrunk at the sound of her father’s voice, a kiss on the forehead, then one on the belly. She then rose to her feet, tucked at and straightened her white dress and collected her hands in a fold under her bosom. She exited the room of their daughter, stepped swiftly through the main hall of the main hut, exiting into a vast, diversely sown garden under the moonlight, intermittently furnished with tables, sitting pillows, incense burners and beds under the open sky. Soft giggles sounded out from the baths by the edge of their walls, right by the road up to the former king’s hut, and the rachfi made her way over, taking position by the bamboo partitions separating the baths from the rest of the garden. An alluring ooze of mint and honey snaked its way to her nose, but the rachfi did not seem affected at all. “What is your bidding, my love?” she asked without an ounce of affection. The giggles continued. Taking a deep drag through the nose, she knocked softly on the partitions. The laughter stopped, and several trickles of water from behind the partitions hinted that her rach was with great company.
“Is that you, woman?” The rachfi had no time to answer before the rach continued. “Good. Bring a pot of chamomile tea and five cups--”
“And maokl! Lots of maokl!” came a deep voice followed by an excited splash and some laughter.
“Yes, and maokl. Anything else, brothers?”
“Do you have anything stronger, Nilla? Daybreak’s not too far off, after all.”
“Oh, splendid point, Sweetpea. Woman, bring us a bowl, no, two -deep- bowls of that kwut you bought, as well! And make it quick - these men are thirsty!”
“Waaaayy!” came at least five cheering voices, followed by more splashing. The rachfi closed her eyes and stood there with her fists tensely closed. She could feel that boiling discontent fill her belly - rage at the disrespectful manner of her husband’s speech. She grit her teeth to the point where it was nearly audible and--
“Hey, woman! Are you there?” came another shout. The rachfi gasped briefly for air to purge herself of the heat of fury.
“Yes, my love,” she responded cooly. “Would yourself and your brothers like anything else?”
“We’ve already told you what we want. Now run along,” came a sharp response. As the rachfi walked back towards the house, she heard sarcastic remarks about whether it was her time of the quarter. She stepped inside the main hut again and sucked in a deep breath. Then she grabbed her hair with both hands and let out a silent scream inside. She keeled forward, her mouth agape in suffering, but not a single sound escaping it. She knew she would be heard and, because of her disgusting husband and his friends, would be shunned as noisy and hysterical. It would be a social death sentence for a woman of her standard.
A woman of her standard…
What was her standard, anyway? Like a machine, she had entered the larder and produced a pot of kwut, and like a slave, she had without protest prepared their damn tea and their damn fruit pudding. She poured the wine into two deep bowls and took one in each hand, bringing them outside. Her feet danced quietly, trained for years in strict manners, across the firm paves planted in the dry grass. Yes, she had always been wealthy - from the day of her birth, her mother and father had showered her in riches. She had been dressed in silk, silver and sapphires, worn rings and necklaces, and even been a courtier under King Safron - she could have even been betrothed to him had it not been for those wicked Cloves from Scenta…
But what would it have mattered, anyway? She had had all that power, all that wealth, and then it had all been lost. No, lost wasn’t the correct word; she glared at the bamboo partitions ahead of her - stolen, was more like it. She stopped outside the partitions and whispered coldly, “My love, your kwut has arrived. I will leave it here and--”
“No, bring itinside. The water’s too nice to leave.” There came three or four other chuckles. Rachfi Nilla’s grip on the bowls could have shattered them.
“My love, I do not believe it is appropriate for a Rachfi to--”
“Woman, just bring the damn wine. The lads won’t mind, would they?”
There came a wet sniff. “Actually, Nilly, I can go get it. Wouldn’t want her presence souring the mood, would we?”
“Hawthorne, what I tell my woman to do is none of your business. If she comes in, she comes in. Now come in, woman.” While Rachfi Nilla begrudgingly stepped inside the partitions, a blindfold over her eyes, Hawthorne rolled his milky eyes and splashed his hands under water to cover himself up.
“Come on, Nilla, this is a breach of my dignity.”
“Hawthorne, you’re such a wimp, by the gods,” snickered Sweetpea and thanklessly took one of Rachfi Nilla’s bowls, slurping its pale content. “It’s just a woman, c’mon.”
“Well, -some- of us have the virtue to save ourselves for our boyfriends, okay? Ugh, thanks the gods she at least had the basic decency to put her blindfold on. You’ve trained her well, Nilly.” Rach Nilla took his own bowl and gave it a sip before passing it on.
“Would you believe me if I said she already came with those skills? Truly, she’s of proper breeding, this one.” He reached out a dripping-wet arm and hooked it around her waist, the reluctant rachfi being pulled in wordlessly. She was thankful the blindfold was on, for she could not for the life of her wipe away the hateful glare in her eyes. “Wouldn’t trade her for anything. She has bred me two wonderful sons, she has.”
“And a daughter,” she added quietly. The rach stopped himself before continuing the next sentence.
“What was that?”
The rachfi drew a quiet breath. “Nothing, my love.”
“No, say it. I don’t think the lads heard.”
The four other men in the tub leaned in like snickering hyenas surrounding a carcass. The rachfi closed her eyes behind the blindfold and sighed some hot air. “You have given me two wonderful sons and a daughter, my love. I could not be more thankful.”
“My, my, three children. Not bad, Nilly, for a fort year marriage - Chig’wach must’ve kissed you right on the belly, I bet.”
“So it seems, so it seems,” rach Nilla replied smugly. The rachfi discreetly tried to snake herself free, but the rach's grip tightened. One of the men named Bloom snickered wryly.
"She any pretty? Your daughter?"
The rach clicked thoughtfully. "She's no Queen Clove, but she's decent, I suppose." The rachfi felt gall fill her throat.
"Oh gods, Queen Clove… That midnight skin’s as fine as freshly spun silk, I'm telling ya," told Sweetpea. “Shame neither the prince nor the princess got it… My, had it been my seed inside her instead of the king’s, rest his soul…”
“Rest his soul, rest his soul,” the other men echoed.
“... Then my boys and girls would’a been black as fireglass, I tell you that!”
Bloom clicked with interest and made a sideways frown. “How much do you want for her?”
Rach Nilla swallowed his mouthful of kwut. “Want for who?”
“Your daughter, man. How much?” The rachfi lowered her gaze to behold her husband, at least visibly, seriously considering the offer. Bloom was a chihrk, one of two in all of Fragrance and Scenta. He commanded his very own warband, having gathered as much power over the military as he could after the death of the king. Now, he was the second most powerful man in Fragrance after Rach Rose, possibly the most powerful, if it had not been Rose who paid his wages. Rach Nilla bobbed his head ponderously from side to side.
“What can you offer?”
“She’s eighteen!” burst the rachfi suddenly. The bathtub quieted, only the slick of water sounding as shoulders and torsos moved to regard the wife. Rach Nilla’s grip about her waist tightened threateningly.
“The chihrk asked how much we are willing to give our daughter away for - it is a most valid question, woman.” He loosened his grip again and the rachfi felt her breath hasten with anxiety. The officer rolled his eyes at her and leaned in.
“So?”
The rach looked boorishly up at his wife and sighed. “But Bloom, my old friend, my dear old friend… You already have a wife, don’t you? The sages won’t look very kindly on someone who shirks their duty to their woman to lie with other women, after all.”
Bloom shook his head. “That useless slut has granted me nothing but daughters for a hundred years. I’m thinking about divorcing her - the sages will allow if our fourth child, too, becomes a daughter.”
“That’s terrible, brother,” whispered Sweetpea sympathetically and placed a palm on his shoulder, which Bloom took in his own hand softly. “I pray you’ll get yourself a beautiful son to carry on your legacy.”
“Oh, Sweetpea, thank you.” The officer leaned over and kissed the man on his plump, silver-pierced lips. Their passionate kiss elicited some musing whistles from the others, until Hawthorne splashed the two with some of the mint-scented bathwater to the sound of loudening chuckles.
“Oh, get a room, you two!”
Meanwhile, the rachfi remained in her husband’s grip, stone-faced and scornfully forcing herself to think of other matters, like what sort of texts she and her daughter would read tomorrow, or the trip to her sister in Xiang she had been telling herself to make. She couldn’t remain. She needed to breathe - now.
“My love?” she whispered as cordially as she could manage. Her husband afforded her an empty hum. “You must no doubt be getting hungry. How about I go back inside and fetch that maokl and tea you requested earlier?”
“Yes! The maokl! I’m going to starve to the bones at this rate,” declared Sweetpea and caressed Bloom’s cheek. With this, the rach agreed and let his wife go.
“Awfully thoughtful of you, my love. Go on, then - don’t take the whole night, though, you heard Sweetpea - the man’s starving, the fat bastard.”
“Get off my back, Nilly - I’m building muscle, you hear?” There came an offensive splash of water followed by laughter.
“Hey, don’t get water in the kwut, you idiot!”
To the harrowing cacophony of their mocking cackle, the rachfi left the partitions and stepped back into their house. There, she found the nearest wall and collapsed against it, letting herself lower to the ground as fury and frustration choked her up to the mouth. She would escape this place.
Some day.
Being the rachfi Nilla is suffering. While telling her daughter a story about the legendary warrior women of ancient Fragrance, she’s interrupted to go outside and serve her husband and his visiting pals. They’re all pretty gross, ngl, and have manly fun talking manly stuff. She is then held hostage by her husband there because she opened her mouth and has to listen to one of his friends offer to buy their daughter. After the rachfi protests, her husband points out that the buyer already has a wife, and he then complains that his wife has given him daughters alone and that he wants a new one to give him sons. Another friend sympathises and the two share a bromantic make-out. This gives the wife an opportunity to say she’ll get them some cake and then goes inside to cry.
“RRRRRRRRRAAAAAAH!” Tulipan’s muscles could come bursting out of his skin any moment. The fresh, fat palm trunk in his rough, hardworked hands weighed could be weighing almost twice as much as him for all they knew - and that was part of the fun. Its bark sported tiny needles which dug into his palms, so blood mixed with the sweat and dirt; Tulipan paid it no mind, though - he knew no pain. He was the man; he was a monster - a beast, the KING of beasts!
“TULIP! TULIP! TULIP!” the other men egged and clapped their hands, pounded their chests and slapped their thighs. Tulipan’s comically massive arms slowly brought the trunk up to chest level, his crooked back attempting to straighten out. His breathing was almost deafening, groans and growls booming in his ears to the rhythm of his heart. He was close now - just a few more inches and the trunk would reach his face. He would be the strongest - strong enough to challenge even Lavender!
Then a sound - a wicked snap that sent a cold cringe down everyone’s spine. The trunk hit the ground with a thunk and Tulipan descended to his knees, his jaws locked in a silent scream. Then, a wheeze, one which slowly caught hold in his vocal cords, producing a very quiet wail, like a child slowly realising it has been hurt immensely. He knelt unmoving, though, and the onlookers shifted between each other and his sorry state.
“H-hey, Tulip? You okay?”
“M-m-m-m-mah back…” he quivered in response and fell backwards, barely able to move a muscle.
“Is -that- what that snap was?!” came a gasp. Then silence.
“By the gods, that’s awful…”
“Yeah… Shit…”
“Yeah… So does that mean Dandelion wins the bet?”
“I think it does, actually.”
Tulipan gasped for more air. “Guys, it really, really hurts--”
“Alright! Dandelion? Where’d he go, damn it.” Tulipan rolled onto his belly. “Guys, I… I can’t move my arms very well… Nor my legs.”
“Pfft, yeah, yeah, walk it off, big guy. You won’t let a little muscle ache get you down, will ya?” The crowd had already dispersed, half returning to finish their daily workout at the training area, the other half going to get herbs to pay off their lost bet with. A smaller man named Syrin squatted down next to Tulipan and patted him comfortingly on his paining shoulder. “Hey, don’t look so down. You’ll be right back up in no time.”
Tulipan cringed and looked sorrily up at his colleague. “I… I don’t think this is a normal muscle ache, brother…”
“Oh, come on, when’d you become such a girl? What, you’re gonna tell me that you, Big Tulipan, got done in by a trunk?”
Tulip swallowed. “‘C-course not! Just… Would you get me a sage?”
“Oh, quiet down… Have some xoag and you’ll be right as night.”
“Syrin, I’m telling you, I think something is--” He gasped as he tried to move his arms again. “... I think something is very wrong.”
“What could -possibly- be wrong? Did you drop the trunk on your arm?”
Tulip forced himself onto his elbows, the pain straining his face to the point where veins began popping up. “By [abbr=Fragrancian god of Night and Might]Kippom[abbr], I wish this didn’t hurt so badly…”
’Kippom?’ Hm, that’s what you went with? A deep voice wondered from within his head. Tulipan swallowed.
“What was that?” he mumbled. Syrin clicked curiously.
“What was what?”
”Oh, hey, Cades! Got called, too, did ya?”
It would seem that way. ‘God of Night and Might’. Hm. Do they think we are the same?
Tulipan tried in futility to reach his ears. “What is going on?!”
“Hey, woah, Tulip, calm down, what’s up?” Syrin tried to restrain him gently. “Hey, look at me - are you okay?” A crowd started forming around them,
Pfft, heck if I know. Probably. Would make sense, kinda - from what I know of these, uh... There was a rush of paper pages. ... Fraygranzians… Is that they think the moon’s the soul of a big, mighty man. I suppose they’ve sorta just fused us together as a result. Funny how that happens, huh?
But there are two moons. What does the second one represent?
Hey, guy with the bad back, what does the purple moon represent?
“There are two voices in my head, Syrin! They’re talkin’ about the moons and shit! Am I going crazy?”
“Gods, man, you weren’t kidding! Hey, Cinnen, go fetch a sage! Well, I don’t know - anyone!”
There came a stunted sigh. I’unno, they won’t tell me. Probably his boyfriend or something, if I know these people right. I mean, it is purple, after all - these boys like purple.
Well I suppose they have a fine taste of colours, if nothing else. Anyhow. Young mortal, what seems to be the issue?
“Now it’s talking to -me-, man! It’s talkin’ to MEEE!” The muscled giant had been restrained by three others, all of whom were trying to calm him down. However, his arms were twisted onto his back, causing the grounded man to weep in agony. “ACH, MY BAAACK!”
Think he might’a done a lil’ snip-snap on that middle back, y’catch my drift?
Hm. Oh dear. Yes, this is quite grim. He may never fully recover…
“Wh-what?”
...I suppose I might as well fix that.
Then suddenly, a purple glow enveloped his body. The pain faded, as his abused muscles were mended. An ache still remained, but Tulip could once again move his arms and legs.
The man suddenly stopped squirming, then slowly pushed himself to his feet as the others climbed off of him, noticing his sudden change in behaviour. Tulipan flexed and unflexed his arms, squatted up and down a few times, then shot both hands into the air and whistled so the others had to cover their ears. “I’M CURED!” he whispered triumphantly and the others cheered with him.
“Then what the hell was that just now? Did you play with us all along, or?”
“No, no! It was in super bad pain, then all of a sudden, I get these two voices in my head. They start talking about the moons, and then one of them mentions my back, and boom! I’m healed!”
“That’s because you were talking to the gods, you bafoon!” came a sharp whisper from outside the crowd. Cinnen had returned with a silver-skirted man, his bare chest bejeweled with rare stones suspended on silver necklaces, piercings and nipple rings. His fingers were ringed with all kinds of stones and metals, and his black beard was braided in silk. The nelves parted the route between the sage and Tulipan, and the sage went over to slap the giant across the face. “Show some damned respect, you subnelven slug. Down on your knees and hands - all of you!” His command rang out despite never exceeding a whisper, and soon, all the nelves were on their knees. The sage drew a slow breath, sitting up and looking around to make sure everyone had assumed their proper positions of subjugation. Then, placing his palms together at the belly, fingers facing down, he whispered, “Great gods - I am the sage known as Crocus the Capable. I was summoned thinking there would be only one idiot to save today, but found many who have so foolishly forgotten their masters of the Night Realm.” He bowed forward into a kowtow again. “Forgive them, please.”
Oh, no harm done, the voice said dismissively, this time for all of them to hear. All of you, rise.
They did as told, waiting patiently for the next order under the eagle glare of the sage. Meanwhile, another voice made a soft hum.
Aight, cool. So you got this, you think?
I suppose I do. Why? Are you leaving?
I mean, I can hang around if you want. Not like I’m doing much. Only if you want, though - don’t wanna intrude or nothin’.
“Why are there two voices?”
“Sssh!” the sage snapped.
I am Cadien. God of Beauty, Strength, and War. The other voice is Gibbou. Goddess of Night, Moon, Protection, and um… have you picked up anything else lately?
Nah, it’s alright, you got it.
“K-Kaitian?” the sage mumbled. “Tulipan, who on Galbar did you summon?”
“I-I-I dunno! I called out to Kippom!”
“Yeah, he said Kippom, but are there two of them? Who else did you call for?”
Woof, how these folks have fallen… But they’re my creations, so... There came a defeated sigh.
“What was that?!” the sage gasped. “Have we wronged you somehow, great Kippom? Your voice sounds pitched with sadness.”
No, no… Gibbou said in a faked deep voice. No, just thinking on the past and, and being manly.
“Ah. Naturally. Great Kippom does as he does. But yes, back to this new great one, uh, Kaitian. We welcome you to Fragrance.”
Cadien, the voice corrected.
“Keytian, understood,” the sage replied respectfully. There came a gibbous giggle.
I do not understand how you have this job, ‘Keytian’ sighed. Anyhow. You. Tulipan, was it?
The nelves all scuttered away from Tulipan, leaving him alone in the centre of the crowd. He sat up slowly and pointed at his nose. “M-me, your greatness?”
Yes, you. I must say, as a God of Strength it is gratifying to see somebody commit themself to physical improvement with such vigour. But for one to nearly cripple themselves while doing so is counterproductive. Do your people understand the importance of stretches and warm-ups?
“You mean, like, jogging?” came a voice and a raised hand.
“No, idiot, he means like gwachwoi.”
“Ugh, I -hate- gwachwoi!”
Hate it or no, some preparation is necessary. If you dive into the heaviest exercises too early, you end up like this Tulip fellow here. It’s important to start out with light exercises, to get your muscles used to some amount of strain, so that they may endure even greater strain later on.
“But wait!” came a voice. “Tulipan’s the strongest of us all! Why shouldn’t he be able to lift what he wants right away?”
Because of what just happened. Are you not paying attention? All bodies, even the strongest, have limits. A true athlete must know how to reach those limits without breaking them. Tell me, what are the most common exercise methods among your people?
“Lift stones and sticks, then fight with sticks, gymnastics, running, dancing…”
“Dancing’s awesome!”
“Sure is, brother!” The sound of two clasping hands echoed across the otherwise silent area.
Hm. That is a start. I believe you could do with some more refined facilities, however. Find me a place in your city where I can build.
The sage suddenly piped up, “Great Keytian - may I offer some counsel regarding placement of what I assume is a training ground - thank you a thousand times for that, by the way.”
What is it?
“Put it not in the city, but outside - perhaps right here, even. Exercise is classified as loudwork, after all - it would be terrible for the citizens to have to hear the groan of lads and the hack of stone.”
Oh, that’s my bad. Shoulda mentioned that. Sorry, Cades.
Hm?
Oh, uh… Nothing, nothing. Nelves don’t like loud noises, is all. Shoulda… Probably… Mentioned that earlier or… Or something.
“Kippom speaks the truth. The great calamity is sourced from cacophony,” said the sage sagely.
How strange. Hm. Very well, then. It shall be built here.
And with those words, the ground began to shift, becoming flatter and firmer. Brush and debris were cleared away. Then, equipment seemed to materialize out of thin air. There were racks with weights of varying sizes, crafted from metal and stone, and nearby there were a series of benches with metal rods on which the largest of the weights could be fixed. There was an obstacle course, with various hurdles one was meant to leap over or dodge under. There was a raised fenced platform, clearly meant to be some sort of sparring or wrestling ring. There was a range, on which one could practice throwing javelins or heavy stone balls. There were raised metal bars, intended for pull-ups and chin-ups. Cadien had also crafted a series of what seemed to be soft mattresses, where one could perform exercises that required no equipment in a state of relative comfort.
Those were but a few of the apparatuses Cadien had created; there were many more, some of which were not immediately obvious in what they were meant to be used for. There was also a dirt track surrounding the space, and beyond that, a stone wall roughly equal to the height of a tall nelf, clearly intended for privacy or security purposes.
Sick.
“The gods have given us a blessing, men! As one now - bow and give your thanks!” The sage lead the rest into a kowtow once more and they all whispered as one.
“Thank you, great Keytian!” As soon as that was said, some on the fringe of the circle scuttled off to regard and test the equipment. “Woah, this is so convenient!”
“What is this substance? Is it bronze?” came a curious whisper followed by some metallic knocks of fingernails on the chin-up bars. The sage rose up in a jolt.
“Hey! Get back here and be thankful!” However, as he did so, the rest hurried to their feet and scurried over to the gym to join in. Gibbou’s cosmic laughter rang out and there came a quiet clap.
Not bad, not bad at all. Feel like I oughta add a little something, at least. Here.
The dry soil around the gymnasium lushed with dark blues as the wind blew across the midnight grass. In the midst of the conservative growth, there sprouted tall, straight shrubberies which leaves curved barely and firmly, much like the hair atop a pineapple’s head. The centre of the shrub revealed a dark-leafed flower with a centre of shiny, gelatinous seeds. The sage, having no more nelves to herd back into place, gracefully stepped over and dramatically picked a single seed, the substance bobbing elastically between his fingers. Placing the back of one palm on his forehead and leaning back, clicking his tongue and drumming his feet for attention. “Oh, Kippom, great Kippom - what is this berry Your Grace has given us?”
Gibbou tried to darken her voice even more, sounding as though she was imitating a toad. This, my child, is a Powerflower - eat just one seed of this here bloom, and your, uh, gains will surely be… Better, or something.
The sage eyed the seed closely. “What an honour - what a joy!” He popped it in his mouth and forced a smile through tears and cringing cheekbones. “Thishishthebesht.”
Uh, yeah, least I could do, uh, sage.
“Hey, what’s this?” came another voice and another hand grabbed a few seeds, shoving them into his mouth. Immediately, he fell to the ground vomiting. “UGH! BLEEEH! These are terrible!” The sage slapped him to the ground.
“You fool! This is a divine gift! Forgive him, great Kippom - he meant nothing by it!”
Clicks sounded from the cosmos. No problem, fam. Y’all just… Just be careful about eating too many, okay? Too much of a good thing and all that… So, Cades, you done?
One more thing, the God of Perfection said to the Night Elves. In one year’s time, I shall require you to assemble ten of the most physically fit and able among your number. A competition shall be held, and a champion will be chosen. And with those words, the gods’ presence departed.
The sage Crocus stood valiantly with moisture in his eyes. “Yes. Yes, great gods. The tournament will be LEGEND!”
Tulipan put down the barbell and gave his sweaty head a scratch. He clicked for Syrin’s attention, who was in the middle of stretching his back with some bent-over bows. The nelf held his pose, scalp pointing to the ground and clicked back to signal that Tulip had indeed captured his attention.
“Did you hear what Keytian just said?”
“He said anything?” replied Syrin and levered himself back up with a straight back.
“That’s what I’m not sure of… Hey, pass me the oil, would you? I gotta look good for this set.” Then they returned to their workout.
Y’ALL WANNA BUILD SOME MUSCLE?! The nelves sure do - so much, in fact, that during one of their lunk-offs, Tulipan the Überstrong snaps his back trying to lift a tree. No one believes that such a strong man could lift himself to crippleness, of course, so he’s ignored until he prays Cadien into the conversation. Everyone mistakes Cadien for Kippom, the Moon God of Power, and then it turns out that they were partially mistaken - they had summoned Kippom’s two aspects, so Gibbou is there, too. Cadien heals Tulip’s back, something the nelves had summoned a sage to do, and lectures the nelves about the importance of lifting with care, and then gives them a nice, open-air gym. Gibbou then gives them flowers with steroid seeds. Cadien drops that he’ll have a tournament in one year’s time, and pretty much only the sage paid attention.
Cadien Beginning MP: 5 Beginning DP: 5 -1DP (discounted to 0 via Strength portfolio) to mend a pulled muscle. -2MP to create a Holy Site with the title: “Restocking Equipment II.” This Holy Site contains a wide variety of exercise equipment. Equipment that is destroyed or removed from the Holy Site’s boundaries will disappear, then be remade and teleported back to their original position. -1DP (discounted to 0 via Glamour portfolio) to create the title: “Aesthetic Gains I.” Workouts here provide even more beautiful muscle development than elsewhere. Ending MP: 3 Ending DP: 5
Gibbou: 5/5 3MP - Snatch portfolio: Sentinels: Sentinels keep watch over their companions and communities, overseeing their surroundings to challenge any malicious attempts at attacks or ambushes. Since life first formed groups, they have always appointed watchers to keep themselves safe while the rest of the pack rests. With this power, Gibbou has keener sight over groups in danger of being attacked, and can more easily grant mortals and animals the ability to spot brigands and predators in hiding. The creation of artifacts and holy sites relating to these purposes also come easier. 2MP - Create extraordinary species: The Powerflower: A shrubbery that blooms at night. Its seeds are located inside its flower, and stimulate muscle growth. The seeds are incredibly bitter, however, so eating one is a bit of an ordeal; the bitterness actually comes from a slightly poisonous compound, and eating too many seeds can be lethal. End 0MP/5DP
“A-are you sure this is a good idea, Burud? Y-you know what they say about her, a-after all! Oh, there’s gotta be another way!”
“Shut up, Murtagh! The Dûnans are paying for what they’ve done to us - to this whole country. You know as well as I do that this is the only way.”
“B-but is it, though?” The two were, in truth, beyond lost deep inside a forest to the far east of Scawick, almost beyond the Tordentind Mountains. They had been travelling for a full two weeks to get here - three days ago, they had reached the border of the woods. At this point, they were certain some sort of terrible charm had been cast upon them to throw them off their trail. They were, after all, chasing a legend - a local myth said to be dwelling in the deepest, darkest middle of these ancient woods.
A witch.
Burud kicked away a snow-covered, rotting stock and stepped over a frozen root. Murtagh had never seen a man so determined - fueled by a need for vengeance, he was an unstoppable machine, trekking through these endless woods for days on end, when all energy should have been spent weeks ago. Murtagh could hardly keep up. Then, as Murtagh had to keel over to take a breather, he noticed one of the roots on the ground looking slightly more twisted than usual.
“Hey, Burud? This root’s a little weirder than usual.”
There came a wet spit from up ahead. “They’re all weird here - these are cursed woods, after all. Nothing’s normal here.”
Murtagh squinted at the root. “No, no, you don’t get it… It’s… It’s pointing somewhere.” He knelt down to inspect the root’s direction. Burud sighed up ahead.
“Alright, I’ll play your game… What’s it pointing at? The trunk?” Burud stepped over and shot the root a lopsided view; at that moment, he also noticed that it seemed to, quite literally, gesture in a certain direction. “Well, I’ll be damned…” The root pointed off the beaten path, in a direction that not even the local fauna had seemed to step in - there weren’t even signs of critters having ever made a path through the snow in that direction. “... Could this be it?”
“What were the directions?”
“‘Go into the woods and keep walking until the forest itself shows you the--... It was pretty obvious now that I think about it, actually,” Burud confessed. Murtagh scrunched his nose.
“Well… After you, chief.” With that, the pair placed the first pair of feet in the snow which had laid untouched all season. Almost immediately, the woods shifted, as though the scenic view they had been shown for three whole days had been just that - a view. The old trees grew eldritch and overgrown, and the bark grew wicked faces which seemed to glare or grin at them as they went by. The sounds of birdsong and wind in the branches had disappeared completely - the silence was deafening.
Murtagh jumped suddenly, scaring Burud into drawing his axe. “By the gods, Murtagh, what’s wrong with you?!”
“D-d-d-d-did you hear that?!”
Burud held his breath and looked around. Murtagh’s eyes darted in every direction. “Did I hear what, exactly?”
“Th-th-there was a laugh - a laugh on the wind. S-s-s-sounded like a ghost!”
Burud groaned. “Kid, there’s no such thing as ghosts! It’s your own mind playing tricks on you, I bet.”
Murtagh then jumped again, Burud grabbing his shoulders controllingly. “Murtagh. calm down!”
“THERE IT WAS AGAIN! Oh, Burud, I can’t do this. I can’t, I, I--” SMACK! The younger man shut up as Burud’s palm clapped him hard across the face, then he stiffened with obedience and fear as his superior grabbed him by the collar and pulled his face in close.
“Man yourself up, you squirt! We’ve come too far to piss off now! Listen to me - there is nothing out there. Now… Let’s--”
“B-b-b-but I hear it, Burud! As clearly as I’m hearing you, and, and, and-- OW! Stop hitting me!”
“Then stop fffffreaking me out, you shit!” Burud spat back. “Calm yourself down -right- now, or I’m gagging you with your own balls - do you understand?”
“B-but--”
“DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!”
Murtagh nodded carefully and Burud let go of his collar. The two shared a mutual stare for a few seconds before a sudden scent caught them both by surprise. It was smoke - smoke with a faint hint of herbs and meaty flavours. The two widened their eyes and one another and quickly set off into a sprint. The scent grew stronger and stronger as they ran, their nostrils filling with the scents of applewood cinders and venison stew. Jumping over one final stock and rounding a corner of thickly growing trees, they saw it - a hut, centered in a clearing that somehow was darker than the woods around them. Inside flickered a flame in the hearth, and the two quickly realised how dearly they longed for proper shelter. They scurried over to the wooden door and, after some back and forth about who got to knock, Burud gave the planks a gentle bang.
“Coming,” came a frail voice and Burud and Murtagh frowned at one another.
“She sounds ancient,” whispered Murtagh.
“Well, according to the stories, she’s been around for centuries - way before we came.”
“Three hundred and forty-eight years, just about - give or take a decade.” The wooden door slid open, revealing a face so twisted by age that neither Murtagh nor Burud could be certain of whether she was wrinkly or bark-skinned. Her eyes had long since passed the definition of what could be considered hollow - unless one squinted hard, it was hard to tell whether she had eyes at all. Her nose stabbed at the air like the beak of a long-dead crow, with warts popping up all over it like the forest floor in the mushroom season. What little hair she had left hung in strands that could better be described as webs, looking as though they had been holding onto her skull for many lifetimes. The smile she offered them didn’t have a single tooth, and the gums looked to be rotting away in her mouth. It would be accurate to describe her frail frame as more bone than both skin and flesh, and her dress was a collection of moth-eaten rags haphazardly wrapped together with stinking animal furs. The witch studied their expressions with quiet amusement before posing with surprising energy for her appearance. “I know - aren’t I just the pinnacle of beauty?”
“How in the gods’ names are you so--” Murtagh swallowed the rest of the sentence as Burud punched him in the throat.
“So ugly?” asked the witch with a shrug. Murtagh nodded through his gasps for air. Burud groaned from the depths of his lungs. The witch snickered. “No, no, no, I love it when people ask - they’re always so afraid that it’ll be, y’know, ‘offensive’ or something, but it’s actually a fun story! Come in, come in! I’ll tell ya.” She herded them inside and went over to the kitchen table, where a fresh wooden tray of oatcakes sat steaming. She gestured for the two to sit down on each their small tree trunk stool next to a small saloon table. She stepped over with uncanny agility and put down the tray, taking a biscuit for herself and sitting down on a stool opposite of the visitors. Burud looked at the tray with skepticism, but helped himself to a biscuit as well as the witch’s gestures grew too intense to ignore.
“You knew we were coming?”
The witch scoffed. “Of course, I knew. I’ve known you two were coming for the last three days. Truth be told, i thought you two would give up.”
Burud swallowed his cookie bite and frowned over at Murtagh, who had also helped himself to a biscuit. “We would have arrived sooner. You’re not an easy woman to find.”
“Pffft, come now - I think the trees were actually quite helpful in showing you where to go. Not their fault you two can’t take a hint.” She then burst into a cackle that neither Burud nor Murtagh felt they could participate in, not even politely so. The witch then immediately stopped laughing, her eye twitching slowly. She sat in silence for two seconds exactly, not enough to be awkward, but just enough to be uncomfortable. Then, as soon as she had frozen, she thawed, her toothless smile returning. “So, anyway, I had this rival, right?”
Burud put down his biscuit. “Look, lady, we don’t have all--”
“Shushushush, let me tell my story, alright? Basic courtesy, son.”
Burud groaned. “In all honestly, lady, we’re not here to--”
“And zip!” As the witch waved her hand, Burud suddenly began to scream in agony. Murtagh dropped his biscuit and looked on, white as a sheet, as Burud’s teeth became like plaster, twisting out of his mouth and digging themselves into the meat of his lips like thread on needles, sewing them shut as blood gushed into his mouth and down his throat. The man fell down on the floor and clawed at his mouth for the pain to stop, only worsening the damage as nails and fingers tore at flesh and skin that was never meant to be exposed to this sort of treatment. Murtagh’s breathing was as quick as his heartbeat, and the witch let out a soft “prrt” through her lips.
“Alright, while the whiddle bebby cries himself to sleep on the floor, do you wanna hear my story, my boy?”
Unable to do anything else, Murtagh nodded slowly. The witch clapped happily and grinned from halved ear to whole ear. “Great! That actually means a lot to me - I don’t get visitors very often, so it’s nice to talk to somebody, y’know. So anyway, I had this rival, right? Used to call her the Wicked Witch of the East, or between you and me - the Wicked Bitch with the Broad Side - heyooo!” She paused for applause that never came. “Anyway, we had a fight, because she was a bitch and I hate her, and we did some mean shit to one another - I mean really mean shit. Come on. Come on, ask me what kind of mean shit.”
“Wh-wh-wh-what kind of m-m-m-mean shit?” stuttered Murtagh as he constantly shifted over to the still-screaming Burud on the floor.
“Ho, boy! Strap in, ‘cuz that was a reeeeaal bad year everyone involved. Think we levelled, like, six villages and burnt down a whole forest or something. Oh, and she made me like this. Can you believe it? Around two hundred years ago, I was the most beautiful girl in all the land - now I look like something some deviant dug out of a grave to have a last little round with on a lonely night.” She shrugged. “Pretty crazy, right?”
Murtagh swallowed. “Wh-wh-what happened t-t-t-to the other witch?”
“The bitch, y’mean? Oh, I killed her.”
“K-killed her?”
“Killed her dead.”
“Killed her dead?”
“Dead, deadiddy, dead-dead. Made her tongue twist backwards, run down her throat and lick her lungs to shreds from the inside. That felt so good.” She offered the crying Burud a glance. “Okay, I’ve told my story - let’s hear yours.” She snapped her fingers, and in the flash of a second, Burud’s mouth went back to normal, his wounds healing as though they had never existed. Immediately, the warrior pulled out his axe and scrambled to his feet.
“What in the demons’ names are y--”
“And back you go!” sighed the witch with a roll of the eyes and waved her hand. Once again, the hut filled with Burud’s screams as his face pruned like drying meat, his eyes shrinking into mere raisins and his tongue turning into a stiff stick of jerky. After a while, one could only hear him wheeze.
“NO! You’ll kill him!” pleaded Murtagh as his mind finally snapped and he scurried down off his stool to help his comrade. An invisible force stopped him, however, and he was forced back onto his stool, trapped there by an unseeable chain. The witch shook her head slowly.
“Relaaaax, I’ve got him. This is my field of expertise - I make dying take time. If I wanted I could make him live like this for, oh, I dunno, years. He’d need help to eat and drink, of course, but you could give him anything as, y’know, he wouldn’t be able to taste much with a tongue like that.” She shrugged. “Or, y’know, you’d need to done none of that, and I’d just let him thirst and starve until I felt like he’d suffered enough - he wouldn’t die unless I said so, of course; he’d just thirst, and thirst, and thirst and starve, and starve and starve, until he could no longer remember what it’d be like to have a full belly or a wet throat.” She stood up from her stood, stepped over to Burud’s wheezing, dried up corpse of a body and squatted down. “Now, when I turn you back, will you be a good boy?”
Utterly defeated, Burud wheezed something that sounded affirming. The witch nodded.
“Good, because if you even think about doing something stupid again, I will have your skin peel off so slowly that you’ll be able to feel every fiber snap loose from the muscle beneath - and I don’t think I’ll remember how to reverse that spell.” With that, she snapped her fingers, and Burud’s body instantly returned to its normal state, though the man remained on the floor, eyes devoid of hope and fervour.
“B-Burud?” whimpered Murtagh, unable to look over due to the invisible force. “BURUD?!”
“Ugh, you two are so noisy!” complained the witch as she sat down down on her stool. “Come on, why do you think I served you cookies? Eat more, talk less.” She had another biscuit and offered Murtagh a lopsided frown as she chewed. “So, never asked, why are you actually here?”
Murtagh swallowed. “W-w-w-we need a curse.”
“Pfft, obviously.” She rolled her eyes as though Murtagh had just told her that water is, in fact, wet. “Well, come on, give me the details - who, what, when, where?”
“Ha-ha-ha-ha-Dûna.”
“Ha-Dûna where and who?” the witch asked impatiently.
“Ha-Dûna,” said Murtagh again. Upon seeing the witch’s confused squint, he elaborated, “L-l-like, all of it.”
“All of Ha-Dûna?”
“Y-yeah.”
“As in all the lands, the people, cows, pigs, chickens and grain?”
“All of it.”
The witch blinked skeptically to herself before raising both eyebrows and bobbing her head from side to side. “Phew. That’s a tall order, kid.”
“T-tall order?”
“Too tall. Much too tall for old Resla.” She shrugged. “You’d have better luck asking the gods for something like that. At best, I can give you an afternoon of raining frogs, but that’s about it… And even that would be an ordeal.”
“Th-then… A, a Dûnan village?”
“Better, but I gotta clarify for ya that curses, well, they’re stronger the fewer people they affect. So if you really want someone to pay, I’d recommend aiming for a certain family or even just one person. I could hex a village for you, of course - poison the wells, sterilise the men, give the children lead poisoning - no biggie. But that’s not exciting enough, is it? If you two came to me, then I think you have it out for a certain someone who’s done you a lot of wrong.”
“... Yes… There is one,” came Burud’s exhausted voice. Murtagh realised the force no longer was gripping him and rushed over to help him.
“Burud! Are you alright?”
“Alriiight! One person - now it’s getting hotter.”
“One family - if she goes, so will her family. Her ilk must be wiped off this world for good.”
Resla grinned her toothless grin again. “Oh, I like the sound of that. Give me a name and I’ll figure out the rest.”
Burud sat himself up weakly and looked the witch in the eyes. “Hilda. Hilda the Leoness.”
The witch pursed her lips and quietly tasted the name on her lips. “Hilda, Hilda, Hilda… Sounds familiar - can’t quite put my finger on it, but sounds familiar. Eh, I’m sure I’ll remember when I check up on her. Alright. How would you like her cursed?”
“Make it slow - as slow and as painful as you can.”
“Emotionally or physically painful? Or both, maybe? She sounds evil enough that we can include both, right?”
“Both. Both is good.”
Resla rubbed her bony hands. “Alright, I think I have some ideas. I’ll need a little something from you two, though, for the curse to become as potent as possible… And I’ll need some payment for the service.”
Burud sat up a little stronger, supported by Murtagh. “What do you need?”
“Well, for the curse itself, I’ll need a good sacrifice. Does this Hilda have a child, by chance?”
Murtagh looked uneasy, his eyes shifting over to Burud. Burud, on the other hand, looked dreadfully determined all of a sudden. “Yes. She has many, actually.”
“Oh, good! That’ll make things so much easier. Tell you what - if you could get your hands on one of them, we’ll just use that. Otherwise, I’ll have to ask you to head into the Prairie to fetch a leon or to bring me the head of a ranglefant or tongue of a drighina, and, well, out of those four options, a child is just so much easier to get, y’know.” She snickered to herself, ignoring the terrible weight of the conversation which seemed to be crushing Murtagh and, to a lesser extent, Burud.
“And what… What’s the fee?” asked Burud warily. The witch snapped her fingers.
“Oh yeah! Almost forgot - hand to remember stuff when you’re almost three fiddy, y’know.” She held up her hand and pointed at her ring finger. “One from each, please.”
“Ring fingers, specifically. A lot of power in exactly that one. Most people think it’s useless, but it’s actually that one finger that holds the most power in the whole hand, seeing as it’s just left to gather strength on its own, almost never being of use to anyone. Being cast out and seen as hopeless by others makes you powerful - self-reliant. Like me!” She giggled to herself before immediately shifting to a colder mask. “So yeah, that’s the price. Hand over your fingers and bring me the child - after that, I can guarantee you that Hilda will never be at peace ever again.”
Murtagh and Burud looked at each other again. Murtagh’s quivering lips told Burud everything he needed to know, and the senior took his companion weakly by the colour and brought his face closer to his. “Remember all the people she’s killed, Murtagh - how she’s spat on our people for decades. Our own flesh is a small price to pay for justice.”
“W-we’re talking about killing a child here, Burud… We’re talking about killing a child and giving up our limbs in the process.”
“One limb, Murtagh! One tiny finger in exchange for the juiciest vengeance we could ever have.”
“A child, Burud--”
“HER child, Murtagh!” The younger man grew quiet. Burud’s eyes have an intimidating darkness in them, one that no moralising speech could pierce no matter the gravity of this heinous act. “Her ilk is no better than herself. They will grow up to become slavers, raiders and rapers, butchering our people and allies throughout the realm for decades to come. Come on…” He placed a hand on his heart. “... Do it for Wenya.”
Murtagh’s eyes opened slowly and began to fill with tears. “Don’t you fucking mention her name to me. Not here. Not now.”
“They killed her, Murtagh. Those two Dûnans killed her and Hilda defended them like they had beaten some dog in the street as part of some sick game. I bet she took part in the murder herself.”
“Shut up…” wept Murtagh. Burud drew him closer.
“... This is our chance, lad. She will fucking pay.” A minute passed where the only sound was Murtagh’s silent sobbing, his tears dripping down onto Burud’s face. Eventually, he hulked a louder sob and bobbed his head up and down. Burud nodded back, taking his axe from his belt. Still weeping, Murtagh pulled off his right glove and put it between his teeth, laying his ring finger down on the tree trunk stool. Burud looked him in the eyes to see if he was ready, and upon receiving a nod, brought down his axe. The finger was lopped off in a single strike, and Murtagh rolled back, screaming into his glove through biting teeth. Burud took off his own glove and hesitated slightly as he held the axe over his own finger. He frequently looked back to the witch, who had by now placed her head neatly on the balls of both palms and left it to observe the situation with a toothless grin.
“Oh, don’t let me distract you. Go on,” she giggled. Burud closed his eyes and hefted his axe.
“Oh! Keep your eyes open - don’t wanna split your hand or anything,” added the witch quickly. Burud sucked in a breath through the nose and, opening his eyes in a split second, brought down the axe. The finger hopped right off, leaving a quickly growing pool of blood over the stood, with more running down his palm as he slowly lifted up his hand. His body pumped him so full of adrenaline that he could hardly feel it right away, but he was nonetheless compelled to groan painfully and gasp for air, clutching his hand to his chest. A slow clap brought his eyes back to the witch.
“Bra-vo~! Solid effort by the both of you!” She tossed them each a length of linen, ripped from her own rags. “You two are really desperate for revenge - I like that; nothing beats a good vengeance story, in my opinion.” With a giddy gait, the witch hopped off her stool and collected the two fingers. She then crossed the room and deposited them into a clay jar. “Alright. The pact is sealed. Bring me the child at your earliest convenience, and we can begin.”
Burud finished helping Murtagh wrap his hand and pushed himself to his feet with great effort, the shock of adrenaline almost paralysing him. “W-will we find you here as we have today?”
“Yup! But don’t worry - next time, I’ll let you waltz right in as soon as you arrive. Would you like anything for the road, by the way?”
The two Scawicks supported each other with grips around their shoulders and shook their heads in unison. The witch shrugged. “Alrighty! Then I wish you a safe journey home! Toodles!” With that, she snapped her fingers, and the two suddenly found themselves standing at the border of the woods, a mad cackle haunting them faintly on the wind. Murtagh could barely stand, and soon fell to his knees in exhaustion. He was about to cave forward into the snow, too, but Burud caught him.
“Murtagh. Murtagh! Stay with me!”
The young man gave Burud an exhausted glance. “What have we done, Burud?”
The elder was shaken, but tried to maintain his determined facade. He did his best to help Murtagh back to his feet again, and the two slowly started making their way back towards home. “What was necessary to get our justice, brother.”
Burud and Murtagh from Scawick wanna curse HD real bad, so they go see a witch. The witch lives deep in a dark forest and it takes them forever to find her. When they do find her, they see that she’s ugly as shit - like, even for being 348 years old. Resla invites them in for cookies and tries to tell her lifestory. Burud gets impatient and, as a result, Resla tortures the fuck out of him. Scared shitless, Murtagh listens to her ramble. Then, after she’s rambled, she asks them what they want. She restores Burud to normal, and he immediately tries to attack her. She tortures him some more and says he gotta act like a fucking guest if he wants any help. So he does, and says he wants HD cursed. Resla, the witch, says no can do - too much, and then explains that, while she could potentially curse something that big, it’d be like spreading butter over a huge piece of bread; however, if they were to spread that butter over a crump, then that’d be a whole lot of butter. So the Scawicks settle on one target: Hilda - specifically Hilda and her family, saying they want her and her ilk to suffer the most painful and drawn out agony there is. Resla agrees, and says they gotta get her one of Hilda’s children for the curse, as well as offer one ring finger each as payment for the service. They agree, and after some back and forth about the whole moral implications of all this, eventually offer her a finger each. Resla applauds them and sends them on their way to find the kid. The post ends there.
Gibbou: 5MP/5DP
1MP - Give Resla the following title: Queen of the Blackwoods I: This character may manipulate the perceptions of anyone who gets too close to her home deep in the Blackwood forest (location to be disclosed).
End: 4MP/5DP
Qael: 5MP/5DP 2DP - Give Resla the following title: Master of Curses II: This character specialises in curse-related magic, empowering spells that employ mana and sacrifices to cause chronic suffering onto others. End: 5MP/3DP
Hilda sat across from a colleague théin, one of younger, more slender and leaner build than her and of a mood a thousand times brighter than her own. Between them stood a small table reaching them to about the kneecaps; on top of the table was a smaller wooden square, painted with black lines in a criss-crossing pattern. A heap of small, uneven stones laid in one bowl for each, dark for Hilda and light for her opponent. The board has a number more of these stones, spread out like walls up against each other. Hilda stared a pair of daggers at the smug smirk on her opponent’s face and placed down a charcoal stone next to one of her white.
“That’s it for your line, Materix. I win,” announced the Leoness. Around them stood a small crowd, all of whom looked to disagree with the statement. The théin Materix shook her head patronisingly and sighed.
“Hilda, Hilda, Hilda… You’ve left yourself open.” With that, she picked up a stone and placed it on the opposite side of their line, where Hilda had unknowingly left an opening. With that, Materix’ stones had surrounded Hilda’s flank, and her line was compromised. Hilda blinked and squinted at the spot.
“You’ve removed one of my stones, haven’t you?” she snarled. Materix’ smug turned to a frown.
“That’s sorry loser talk. No, Hilda, I did not touch your stones. I won fair and square - that’s all.” A ring of metal quickly silenced her explanation, though, as she saw Hilda’s left hand had wrapped itself around the hilt of her long dagger.
“You’re undoing that move right now, missy, or I’ll send your axe-hand to your mother in a sack.”
Materix blinked back. “She’ll have you executed for that, you know.”
“Jailed and put to work in the temples, at worst,” Hilda spat back, putting on a lopsided smirk of her own. “That’s just the kind of spine she has nowadays, after all. Say, you think I’ll cut through the bone on my first try, or will I have to give it a second chop?” Instinctively, Materix pulled her hand to herself. That instant, the crowds next to them parted, and in came Boudicca, her sword unsheathed and ready in her right hand.
“Hilda, that’s enough. Leave my daughter alone.”
Hilda turned her head and raised a lazy brow at the sanndatr. Then, in a near-instantaneous move, she grabbed Materix by the neck of her tunic and pulled her in close, dagger resting at her throat. The crowd and Boudicca instinctively stepped in closer, and Boudicca managed to place her sword on the nape of Hilda’s neck. “Enough. You’ve had your fun.”
Hilda grit her teeth and drew a caged breath. “Who do you think is faster, hmm? Can you take my head before I coat this here table and floor in Mini-Boody-blood? Oh, I’m sorry - what I meant to ask was whether you’ll have time to find me a cozy bunk and some clean clothes in the Temple of the Moon?” She pulled the now whimpering Materix closer, the knife drawing a droplet of blood. “It seems I’ve been a -very- naughty girl.”
“Hilda, I’m warning you--”
“Oh, -now- comes the warning? Seems that we have plenty of time left, sweety,” snickered Hilda and gave Materix a kiss on the forehead. Boudicca growled and swung her sword arm back, but stopped as Hilda let Materix go and stepped back. The girl hurried over to her mother and was immediately surrounded by many more from the crowd coming to tend to her. Hilda shook her head slowly. “Back in the day, you would’ve taken my head without a second thought, woman. What happened to you?”
Boudicca snarled and sheathed the sword. Hilda rolled her eyes. “... And even as I stand here, you put down your weapon. Where’s the Boudicca that would kill a man for spitting in the wrong direction?”
“She never existed, Hilda,” answered Boudicca, “and if she ever did, she’s been long dead.”
Hilda sucked thoughtfully on a tooth and scrunched her nose. “Yeah… Yeah, suppose she has, huh. Shame.” She sheathed her dagger and turned around. “She was a good friend of mine.” Then she left, the crowd parting before her like grass blown down by a hurricane. When she was sure she had left, Boudicca spun around to her daughter, shoving her way through the thick wall of people to embrace her.
“Materix! Are you alright? Let me see the cut!”
Materix slapped her hand away and grit her teeth. “Mom, I’m fine!” Her breathing was ragged with anger. “Why did you let her do that to me? Just like that, without any repercussions!”
“Materix, I’ll think of something for her - some time in the--”
“In the dungeons? In temple service? You think that’ll do her some good? You’ll just be proving her right!” Materix pushed her away and Boudicca got a good look at the faces of the others around them: Their frowns seemed to suggest that Materix’ words made quite a bit of sense to them. Boudicca growled and grabbed her daughter by the hand, pulling her away from the rest. She fought, groaned and snarled, but could not outmatch the strength of her mother.
“L-let go of me! Answer for yourself, you stupid--!”
“One more word, Matty, and I’ll have Kaer Moyen beat you for childish behaviour!” The two rounded the corner out of sight of the rest.
“Oh! So -I- can be punished! For speaking, no less! Yeah, that seems fair! Hey, everyone, watch out! Ha-Dûna’s top criminal coming throu-ough!~!” They rounded another corner and Boudicca slammed her into a wall, nearly knocking the air out of her. “Ah! Ow, mom!” But before she could continue, the expression on her mother’s face sent terror running through her skin, bones and the wood in the wall behind her. It was the sort of face that every child, and anyone who’s ever been a child, fears more than anything - one that can outfrighten darkness, wolves and even death itself. The giant woman glared down at her daughter before lowering herself to her eye-level, which only seemed to make her more intimidating.
“You think I don’t want to kill Hilda? Even her threat to take your hand made me want to slice her up into pieces and bury them all over the Dûnlands. When she drew your blood, it took every inch of my body to not take her head, do you understand?”
Materix tried to remain defiant. “Well, then, why didn’t you? She’s obviously a thorn in your side - why not just get rid of her?”
“Thinking like that will make you a terrible théin, Mat. We can’t kill someone who hasn’t killed anyone else. Only murder warrants murder. If we succumb to our wrath and kill anyone we don’t like, society as a whole will crumble.” She brought a hand behind her daughter’s head and pulled her slowly in for a safeguarding hug. “... Tell you what - she laid her hands on a fellow théin and drew blood. I’d say that falls under the Dlíbók definition of violence against one’s own kin. That warrants fifty lashes, if I recall.”
Materix pulled away a bit, a smile forming on her lips. “Really?”
Boudicca frowned. “Yes, really, but wipe that smile off this instant. We do not take pleasure in punishing others, even if they’ve done you wrong.”
Materix frowned back. “Yes, -mom-.”
Later that same day, Boudicca had gone for a walk down to the shoreline beneath the city, walking along the rocky beach to the wish and wash of the winter ocean. Fishing boats braving the icy waters were making their way to shore with the day’s catch, and the gulls were circling their hungrily in hopes that they could catch whatever fell overboard. The ocean winds tested the warmth of her plaid and furs, but constant movement kept her warm enough to last. A particular rise in the stone ground invited her to climb it, and there she stood, scanning the horizon of the sea, as though expecting something to come. Nothing would, of course, and in truth, she mostly did this because it soothed her.
Within her realm, Celestine sat upon the throne that lay within her visitation chamber. It had been a short amount of time since her accidental visit to Cadien’s realm. She was currently receiving no visitors, and thus her eyes were closed as she focused her divine senses upon the surface of Galbar, studying the mortals that lived upon the surface in an attempt to learn more about them and the cultures that they had created. It wasn’t too long before something tugged her attention towards a particular conversation. An argument, followed by anger, and then a scolding. But there was something more there, restraint followed by honor and reason. The base foundations for what Celestine championed: Chivalry. Such actions came without any teaching and Boudicca, as Celestine learned she was called, seemed to be a perfect candidate to be the first to receive a boon from the newly born goddess.
Focusing in upon the particular mortal, Celestine studied her movements and saw an opportunity. Boudicca was alone enough that mass panic would not ensue. Perhaps it was time to extend her recognition of exemplary conduct. Focusing on the area nearby, Celestine extended a tiny fragment of herself outward to craft an illusion in her image, and began to project it down unto the surface of Galbar.
A small comet of silver light would impact behind Boudicca, and after the light faded she would see an illusion of Celestine rising from a kneeling stance. Her red and gold cloak flowing gently in the breeze, and revealing her lengthy silver hair that lay concealed beneath it. Opening her eyes slowly, Celestine took a moment to study Boudicca in more detail for a short time. After a moment of silence, the illusion would speak, a slight echo in her voice adding further evidence that this was merely an illusion and not a goddess manifesting upon Galbar. ”Greetings Boudicca. I am the goddess Celestine, and your actions have earned you a piece of my favor.”
While she initially had reached for her sword, the figure’s self-idenitification as a goddess stopped that hand rather quickly. The warrior dropped to one knee, needing to stabilise herself atop the rise on which she stood, and then bowed her head. “C-Celestine, great Celestine!” She paused. “F-forgive me, but… Our faith is small and, and ignorant. I fear I’ve…” She swallowed. “... I beg most humbly for your forgive when I say I don’t, don’t know of you. Please! Give me a chance to redeem this grave sin!”
Celestine’s illusion gave a slight smile at Boudicca’s rapid apology. Giving her head a slow shake, she spoke once more once her hair had settled once again. ”Be at ease, Boudicca. I am very recently coalesced and have virtually no distinct followers, you have done no wrong. But you have acted in accordance to several of my commandments, even though you do not know them. It is with those acts that I have chosen to bless you as the first of what will hopefully be many knights.”
It was now that Celestine’s illusion began to move. It raised its left hand and placed it upon the sword that hung upon its right hip. Drawing the weapon slowly, Celestine’s illusion would place the flat of the weapon upon Boudicca’s right shoulder, and then her left. With each tap Boudicca would suddenly realize the chivalric commandments that she had been unknowingly following fairly well. As this took place, Celestine’s illusion would speak softly. ”I dub thee with the title of Ser, and beyond that I grant you the knowledge of my chivalric commandments. May you continue to exemplify them as you have been, Boudicca.”
With that done the illusion of Celestine would slowly stow her sword, and made motion to pull something from the air. Though this motion ceased as the illusion took notice of the potent divine magic already residing within the sword that Boudicca possessed. Given her recent time in Cadien’s realm, Celestine was easily capable of recognizing the magic imbued within it. This gave pause to her actions, as she did not wish to gift a sword to someone who did not need one, nor did she wish to potentially insult Cadien by giving something so similar. Lowering her hand for the moment, the illusion of Celestine both thought aloud and posed a question. ”Typically I would bestow a sword to go with that title, but it would appear to me that you would have no need for something like that. As the first knight, I will offer you a choice: Do you wish for some other form of armor or weapon, or do you wish for a different kind of blessing altogether? I am not as mighty as some of the other gods, but I will do what I can with my limited ability. Perhaps in time, if you continue to shine as an example of chivalry, I may bestow more gifts when I am better able.”
With that said, the illusion of Celestine would fold her arms and wait for an answer.
“A… A blessing? Ser? Knight?” Boudicca snatched a second to rub her eyes. A certain twinkle in her eye hinted that she understood everything, but still had great difficulties grasping the basic concept - the title was awarded to her for virtuous behaviour, yes, but she hadn’t done anything - she had just done her duty and stood right by it. She swallowed and sighed. “Forgive me, this is a bit to take in. I wasn’t expeting all this on my Reiyasday walk, is all…” She paused briefly. “May I ask for, for a blessing to my people rather than myself?”
The illusion of Celestine smiled at Boudicca’s words. Even when given the choice of any gift she wished she thought of her people before herself. Celestine was confident in her choice for the first knight. Giving a nod, Celestine’s illusion spoke once more. ”Of course, Ser Boudicca. I will answer your request to the best of my ability. Name your wish.”
Confidence filled Boudicca’s frame, and the giant straightened herself up somewhat, as much as she could while kneeling respectfully still. “Unrest grips at my people’s minds - our rapid change from a warring state to a peaceful hegemony has left many of our seasoned veterans without anything to do; they thus take their anger out on their kin and comrades. I know not if this is too much to ask, but we have no place for these warriors to expel their energy in the form of combat, save street brawls and the like. Would you help us create a place where combat can be turned into a source of joy? Of accomplishment? Of, of chivalry?”
Celestine gave a few nods as Boudicca explained her predicament. Moving gently, Celestine’s illusion approached Boudicca’s kneeling form before pressing two fingers to her forehead and speaking once more. “I hear your wish, Ser Boudicca. Thus, I shall teach you of tournaments so that your warriors have a means to expend their energy and better themselves in organized and regulated combat.”
As Celestine’s illusion spoke, the point upon Boudicca’s head that she touched would glow with a white light momentarily, signaling the infusion of the promised knowledge into her mind. When that was finished, Celestine lowered her hand from Boudicca’s forehead and stepped back once more to speak again. ”Should there be doubt regarding my existence and where you learned of this information, you will merely need to invoke my name and I shall send a sign as I can. Rise, Ser Boudicca. Let your people know what you have learned.”
Boudicca did as told, standing up a little taller than before. Her head had been filled with suggestions of tournament organisation, optimal arena sizes, various activities and the like that they hadn’t given much thought to during, for example, Helgensblot or any of their other holidays. She gave a tooth a quiet suck. “I will. Do you have any other tasks for me, great one?”
Celestine gave her illusion’s head a shake before speaking for one last time. ”Nay. All I require for you to remain within my favor is to follow the chivalric code I have taught you, and do not stray. Fear not, for I am watchful. You have been chosen. Also, as a final gift before I depart: Know that I shall strive to grant reward in the afterlife to those who follow my chivalric code. Your faith shall not go unrewarded.”
With that, Boudicca would likely notice that the illusion of Celestine was fading. There was perhaps time for one final question before it was gone, but little more.
“I see. Thank you, then, great one. I’ll live up to your expectations to the best of my ability.” With that, she bent the knee again until the vision faded completely.
Within her realm Celestine opened her eyes as she pulled all of her senses back to one location and ceased actively observing Galbar. Rising from the throne, she took a moment to stretch before beginning to walk towards the doorway that led to Antiquity. She figured that it would be wise to seek out a method to secure Boudicca’s soul sooner rather than later, as from her memories in the lifeblood mortal wars could be unexpected and brutal. She didn’t want to make the promise of a reward and fail to deliver, after all.
Back in Ha-Dûna, Hilda had entered one of the smokehouses to have herself a pipefull to relax the nerves. Now she had done it. Not even this Boudicca, this utter parody of the great chieftess she had known for decades, would let such a blatant attack on her own daughter go so easily. Hilda had joked, challenged her to give her capital punishment, because she had been confident she wouldn’t do it; now that some time had passed, however, the eerie lack of reaction sent shivers down her spine. In truth, she had no deathwish - Hilda was very much content with living: Barring her right to plunder and raid as she had for decades, she had a husband, three kids, many friends, and even one or two very, very, very good friends. Her rank entitled her to her very own tún, and she and her family worked it so well that she herself could almost afford to train as a soldier all year.
She took a deep drag from her pipe, catching a shifty stare from another smoker across the room who immediately looked down in his lap. Yeah, she had everything: wealth, family, power and, most importantly, aura - her presence brought tremblings to her subordinates, and her spirit had invigorated every soldier who had ever fought beside her.
Exhaling a huge plume of smoke in a sigh, watching it join the greater fog cloud hanging under the ceiling, she frowned. She had a few lifelines left in this city, but they wouldn’t be on her side for long if she kept up this attitude. They had their own lifelines, after all, and at some point in the web, those lines all led back to Boudicca and the champions of their peacekeeping cause.
The curtain door was pulled aside, and the opening filled with a giant shadow that could only belong to a select few in this city, and Hilda recognised its contour well enough to know who it was. As the shadow stomped towards her, she pulled a defeated drag and sighed the smoke out. “Alright,” she began, “just make it quick, plea--”
SMACK!
A leathery wack clapped against her cheek with such force that it knocked the pipe out of her lips and hand. While she was far from concussed, it still took Hilda a good few seconds to even blink, much less grasp what had just happened. A wet whap came from the floor and Hilda looked down. She then knelt down and picked up the item. “A… A leather glove?”
“I challenge you to a duel, Hilda - may the best of us win.”
Hilda blinked at Boudicca’s stern expression, then shifted to the glove in her hand. “What?”
“In five days’ time, we will host a tournament - one with games, fights and challenges for all my théins and hildargeach. You’re coming to, and I’m going to grind you into the dirt for what you did to my daughter.” She leaned in. “I know you don’t like it very gentle, though, so I’ll be as mean as you’d like.”
Hilda blinked again. “What?”
“Don’t be late. Five days from now - our battle will commence at midday atop the hill beyond the south gate. Follow the crowds and you’ll find it. Prepare yourself however you wish - I want to fight you at your best.” With that, Boudicca spun on her heel and left again.
Hilda remained dumbfounded. The others in the smokehouse were equally out of it, though it was hard to tell if it was the situation or the pipeweed that had caused that. Finally, Hilda uttered yet again the only work she could think of:
“What?”
Hilda’s playing chess with Boudicca’s daughter, Materix, when Materix wins. Hilda’s pissed and threatens to kill Mat. When Boudicca steps in to ask her to stop, Hilda mocks the very fact that she had to ask her at all - the older Boudicca would’ve supposedly just killed her on the spot. Hilda’s then left to leave and Materix shames her mom for not having more balls. Boudicca tells her that killing people over threats isn’t okay.
Boudicca is later out for a walk by the shore. Then, all of a sudden, Celestine comes down from on high and tells her she’s a pretty cool chick, got all that honour and jazz. For that, she gives her a fancy title and teaches her how to tournament. Boudicca says that’s cool, dude, and they part ways on good terms, Celestine presumably heading off to be awesome and knight more people.
Boudicca then challenges Hilda to a duel by slapping her in the face with a glove.
Celestine has spent 1 DP to teach Boudicca about tournaments. 2 of 2 MP remaining. 2 of 3 Domain points remaining.
Celestine has also spent 1 DP to award Boudicca the title of “Ser” with the benefits of Chivalric Community. Chivalric Community: This character has been granted the power to easily identify other knights they can see. 2 of 2 MP remaining. 1 of 3 DP remaining.
Celestine also projected an illusion of herself, though due to only appearing before Boudicca the illusion cost 0 MP.
Boudicca held her chin up on her thumbs sticking out of her folded hands. She sat atop her bed, a number of animal skins criss-crossing a mattress of dry reeds, hay and grass, legs crossed and knees supporting her elbows. It was one thing to change a friend - another to change an enemy. The restructuring of the Dûnan identity as one of peace and diplomacy didn’t sit well with everyone - the théins like Hilda the Leoness had been furious, originally. Battle was her life, and to not be allowed to exercise it was a great dishonour to her and her men. Boudicca had to admit it, too - peace wouldn’t sit all too well with her personally, either.
Still, it was the preferable outcome, and after a long and arduous discussion between herself and the other théins, they had all come to the same conclusion: While war brought glory and revelry to the fighters, those swept up in the chaos suffered greatly - and there were always many, many more that didn’t fight than those that did. As the greatest power in the region, they had an obligation to rule it justly and peacefully. The théins who wished had been put in command of the professional soldiers, the hildargeach, and would spend their days drilling them in tactics and survival in the wilds. The warriors weren’t many, but in time, they would be good - very good.
The théins who hadn’t chosen military employment served as administrators in Ha-Dûna or were sent out to the various villages to function as chiefs. Valix had been among these, bringing with him migrants and supplies to the small mining town of Ha-Klan over Risenberg, earlier known as Gleann, the first village to fall in the conquests. They were often accompanied by one druid each to serve as spiritual guide. If the village already had a druid, then there was no need. This way, Ha-Dûna had once again begun to strengthen its foothold.
However, it hadn’t been easy to get them to accept a capital-sent chieftain. Some villages had shown signs of rebellion, which had had to be put down. Instead of killing the rebels, however, Boudicca had requested that they be given a choice: death, or to be taken prisoner instead, to be brought back to Ha-Dûna to serve as monks and nuns in the temples to the gods. This would be their new alternative punishment as part of their shift to diplomacy - the temple thralls.
Today, she was to speak before the people and give their thanks to the gods for their aid in the city’s recapture. She had written the speech in her head in its entirety, but in truth, it wouldn’t hurt to beseech the gods for courage before such a performance. She knew just the one. Rising out of bed, she made her way past the central hearth and out through the wolf skin curtain door, stepping into the snowy town core from what had once been the Hall of the Weary. She turned to the left, pulling her plaid and furs ever tighter around herself to ward off the cold. She received greeting bows from passersby going about their daily duties, and she greeted them back with a pound of the chest and a straight-armed, flat-palmed wave. As she pondered how much she regretted not wearing her cap to ward off the wind, she turned the corner of a longhouse and reached the ageing Circle of the Eight. Already, a number of druid apprentices had gathered there with their mentors, being evaluated on the sincerity and ability of their prayer. The mentors stood at the ready with birch branches, ready to whip those who took too lightly to their task. Occasionally, Boudicca would hear a smack! and a pained moan. She paid them no mind - though greeted them when they greeted her - and knelt down before the megalith statue to Macsal: a tall, rough stone triangle where the only triangular characteristics of the stone were that it had three tips. It bulged and caved in places, but the side facing forward had been chiseled and sanded flat through days and weeks of intense sculpting long ago, and now displayed a beautiful mural of a handsome, brown-haired and clean-shaven man, sitting in green and golden grass under a tree and singing for all the animals of the world. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
“Great Macsal, Holy Poet… Please hear my prayer… My heart is set, but my mind is clouding me. I have the will to lead my people, but I know not if I have the voice to charm them - to sway our former enemies to becoming our friends. Is there a way I can show them all the importance of peace? The keys of stability?”
The stone was silent, though, and still, and from across a distant hill, like sea waves crashing on the main, there came a wind gust, loud and shrill. It seemed to bellow through the air and twist and turn and toss with flair until it came upon the théin and died upon her auburn hair. The singer carved into the stone seemed to stir, perhaps to groan, and something in his rocky vein moved and spoke: you’re not alone. And in the stone a smile was formed and rippled till the air was warmed, and colours here and there now stained the rock until it was transformed.
Go stir your people up and speak Our tongue will speak with you Speak words that are not strong or meek And nothing you’ve prepared: The outward peace that you now seek Will not emerge if you’ve despaired That there is peace in you
Boudicca bowed her head ever lower, almost to a kowtow. She swallowed and took a deep breath. “I… I think I understand. But what if I say something wrong? What if I say something I will regret? What if… What if they misunderstand me?” The air rippled around thesanndatr, and from the inked and smiling stone rose a roiling shadow. From the shadow appendages crept, and with their emergence colour spread. The roiling inky mass formed up and took a more solid shape until there hung above the stone a feminine almost-human thing - only that its skin was a multitude of wondrous colours, very much like the heavens. And as the smiling woman above the stone looked upon thesanndatr, the colours left her skin and hair until a perfect human floated there. And although she appeared in all ways human, there was a certain swirling of colour in her eyes and luminous allure that danced about her. Without knowing how or why all those fears in Boudicca’s breast were swept away; and only an excitement and a desire and inspiration to speak beautifully remained.
For a few moments the strange magic hung between Boudicca and the creature, until she leapt lithely from the stone and looked around. It was not frantic - or did not seem to be -, and there was no worry or anxiety - or at least, Boudicca did not think there was. At last the creature stopped looking around and turned to Boudicca, shivering slightly in the crisp morning air (for her strange, low-cut dress was ill-suited to such cold climes and windy morns). ‘How strange, only now I was with the others and now…’ she laughed slightly - nervously? - and her brows furrowed (was it fear?) and she seemed to jump whenever a distant smack would sound.
The druids who had been praying at the other stones had already scurried over to behold the miracle. “It’s a gift - a gift from Macsal!” they praised. “Macsal has given Ha-Dûna a most beautiful young lady!” The shouts seemed at once to effect a change in the woman, and her variegated eyes seemed to twinkle and lips to dance.
“Hush, hush!” Boudicca cautioned and held out a flat palm. It was clear on her pale face that it took every ounce of her concentration not to join her peers in sheer awe at what had just occurred. With her other hand, she reached upwards to the lady on the stone, wetting her winter-dry lips as she thought of what to say, “A-are you alright?”
The woman looked from the commanding Boudicca to the druids gathered about her, then back to Boudicca again, their excitement playing in her eyes. ‘I am my lady,’ came the serenade of her voice, and she lowered her head, bowing ever so slightly in that universal and instinctive show of humility and respect. ‘I am Shaeylila, a lowly plier of songs and poesy, you honour me with so gracious a welcome,’ she fell silent for a few seconds, as though listening to something. Her eyes rose... and fell on those of Boudicca, ‘and I am told there is a strangled song that weeps within your breast, my lady. What hurts and woe have made it so?’
Boudicca instinctively laid a palm on her chest. “A, a song?”
“Have you doubts, good sanndatr?” came a voice from one of the druids behind her. “Macsal will often metaphorically use musical or poetic words to describe ailments of emotions and the like,” she declared proudly in a well-read manner. Some of her peers whooped quietly in awe at her encyclopedic knowledge. Boudicca frowned.
“Is that what you meant?”
Shaeylila bowed again, her eye lashes shimmering in thought before her head rose up again. ‘Yes, you seem to be sick at heart my lady... but I am a stranger here, and perhaps my hearing is- ahem, I mean, perhaps I am reading too much into too little.’ She glanced at the gathered druids for a long thoughtful moment, eyes seeming to wander off in thought, before they focused again and she smiled. ‘My but there are… so many of you here. And who is this Macsal you’ve made mention of again and again?’
“Why, Macsal is your creator, is he not? The great, the outstanding, the unbeatable poet of--”
“Kaer Guni, please, just--...” Boudicca raised a palm and took a breath. “Please, leave me to talk to her by myself.”
The druid blinked and the others, too, looked confused. “But sanndatr, this is a great holy event! We must log every single--”
“Later! Later, I promise. Now leave us be for a time.” The crowd slowly, very slowly began to disperse, disgruntled by their leader’s orders. Boudicca sighed in relief and looked back at the song. “Forgive them - they are eager, always eager, to meet any sort of creature the gods hold dear. I barely had room to think. They didn’t scare you, did they?”
Shaeylila watched them depart and turned back to Boudicca with a knowing smile. Taking the sanndatr by the hand, she drew her towards the stone and sat down against it, on the strange white snow. ‘Not at all! They are all… very sweet. But certain words , these matters of the heart, are sometimes best not heard by so many ears. Especially not the matters that plague a leader’s heart,’ she paused and tidied her dress, then gestured to the other woman. ‘Come come, sit. Speak to me. I don’t know about this Macsal, but I will listen.’
Boudicca nodded slowly and did as told, sitting down next to the stone of Macsal, as sitting on it would be blasphemous. She twiddled her thumbs slowly, trying her best to ignore the cold snow melting into her tartan plaid and checkered pants. Eventually, she drew a breath through her teeth and spoke, “I am troubled by some of my peers’ attitude to peace - we have been at war almost constantly for five years, and while most appreciate a good breather like the one we have now, I fear that we will need only one unruly troublemaker to break this fragile peace we have. I do not know what I can say to my people that will not fuel sentiment for these troublemakers - if I appeal to our pride as a unified people, this pride will be used to push down those that are not us; if I appeal to our strength as victorious conquerors, they will ask why we have stopped showing it; and if I mention neither, they will see me as meek and cowardly. I… I don’t know what to do, what to say.”
Shaeylila was silent for a while, brow bowing gently and lips creased. At last, however, she looked at Boudicca, lips chattering. ‘This white stuff… snow... I can’t feel my- oh me.’ She flushed red and leapt lithely to her feet, looking down at her wet and ruined dress of silk. She patted the remnants of quickly melting snow away and then considered Boudicca for a few moments, before she spoke through blue and shivering lips. ‘Maybe, my lady… rather than placating them with what you say you should instead put something on display. A story! Do you perhaps know the tale of Great-horn Brin’s battle against the Thrice-born Terror? There is a lesson there perhaps more eloquent than words.’
“Oh, gods, you must be freezing! Again, forgive me! You, trell! Fetch this lady furs and a plaid!”
The apprentice, seemingly picked at random from a crowd, immediately set off in a sprint towards a nearby hut. Boudicca sniffed the last of her sternness back inside and raised a brow at Shaeylila. “I have not heard this one, no. Would you tell it to me?”
Once the trell in question had brought the furs - at the song’s inviting glance helping her into them, and receiving whispers of delight and warmth before scurrying off again - Shaeylila turned back to Boudicca, hugging the cosy furs to her. ‘My, so this is what cold feels like. Brrrr.’ Her rosy cheeks were flushed with the cold and a delighted smile decorated the delicate features of her face. ‘But yes! The tale.’ She stood before thesanndatr and spread her hands so that little blobs of ink spiralled from her palms and formed up into a great dark mass of battling warriors. At the centre of the mass were two great figures, one with a prominent horn atop his head and the other boasting three heads, three sets of arms and feet. They danced about each other and Shaeylila’s voice seemed all at once to provide the shouts and cries of battle, the clanging of weapons and twanging of bowstrings, and the grunts of the two great figures as they leapt to and fro and clashed against each other.
On the fields of Falaro ‘Twixt the mountain and the sea Great-horn Brin took up the bow And the sword audaciously
Struck he once and struck he twice And his foe flew far away He was struck with blows that dice Grunted them off with a sway
And the god of victory Standing watch above the fray Praised the Terror endlessly And for Brin had naught to say
‘Oh you great god far on high ‘Have you no eyes for my deeds ‘With my blows my foe does fly ‘And his blows fly off like seeds!’
When the Terror was gone down And when Brin the victor stood The god looked upon his frown Who thought he was great and good
‘Lay your weapon down, oh Brin ‘Throw your bow upon the wind.’ As he did, where once had been Weapons which at death had grinned
There was now but dust and air! ‘Know: your weapons long ago ‘Fell before the Terror’s glare ‘And the strike of his arrow!
‘Only by the happy grace ‘Of my will and decreed fate ‘Were you spared a great disgrace ‘And a weak and slavish state!’
Oh then Brin fell on his face And near broke his horn in twain And he spoke a word of praise And he damned the haughty vein -
‘May they never prosper who Are too great in their own view!’ Then brave Brin went back off home Never more in pride to roam.
With the epical verses and inky performance complete, the dark figures melted back away into Shaeylila’s hands and returned to that rose-tinted beige at which the skin of people here seemed to hang. She looked at Boudicca expectantly, biting her lower lip ever so slightly and her eyes of whirling colour wide. ‘D- do you think a performance like that would set the scene for what you have to say, my lady?’ She paused for a few seconds, ‘because if not, there is also the tale of the Great Vile King - whose greed and hubris grew so great that he quaffed and gobbled up everything, even himself in the end!’
“That was…” Boudicca trapped her nose between her palms. “I am torn here, too - the story has a great moral, certainly, but pride in ourselves is…” She looked over her shoulder. No one was watching them intently from what she could see, so she shuffled a little closer. “... Pride in ourselves as the rightful sovereigns of this land is a large part of what keeps us going. The conviction that we are the chosen people is powerful - very powerful. Of course, I…” She paused and suckled thoughtfully on a breath. “... I supposed it could be framed as a return to moderation - a hope that we can still be proud of our role, status and deeds without believing ourselves superior to others… But will they listen to such a message? Will Hilda listen?”
Shaeylila pressed her lips together and brought a forefinger to her nose in thought. “Hmm, Oh! I know! Maybe what you need is something… tailor-made. In an attire that really speaks to your people. But for that, tell me more - who are you people? Why have you been at war so long? Who is this Hilda?’ She turned around and started walking off, ‘come! Let’s walk!’
“I should’ve led with this, really,” chuckled the sanndatr and followed her, eventually taking the lead on the tour through the city. The route took them out of the city core at first, taking a right towards the industrial district where the air grew thick with the fumes from molten glass and burning wood. Pottery lined the edges of the gravel road, and the pair had to dance between the currents of sleds and pulks pulling frozen clay and lumpy metal to their rightful places. “While Ha-Dûna has existed for merely one score and four six years, the people who would call themselves the ‘Dûnans’ after its founding have journeyed together for decades before that. In truth, we are not one people, but four - the gaardskarls, the clennon fen, the herjegalling and the brasforts - all of whom hail from various places to the southeast. At least, that’s what my mother told me.” She paused. “When we first came together, we stuck together - fighting off the Ketties and bandits and that sort of scum. ‘Course, fusing together four different tribes takes love, will and effort - our history isn’t without infighting; in fact, that’s been much of the reason why, ever since Ha-Dûna was founded, we’ve focused on becoming one people. Already here, we encounter issues: Too many of the théins are gaardskarl or brasfortsian, and not enough are druids; they have a fondness for battle and conflict, and I’ve never known a single gaardskarl who didn’t carry harsh sentiment against foreigners. Likewise, not enough clennon fen are théins - their ascetic roots keeps them from chasing any sort of leadership role that isn’t rooted in divinity. So I’m stuck with warmongering théins and peace-suing priests. Are you following so far?”
Shaeylila looked over at the sanndatr with scrunched up brows. ‘Yes my lady. Angry karlfortasians and gardmarks who don’t like outsiders…’ she pursed her lips and looked around with raised eyebrows, ‘so I, uh, better keep a low profile,’ she scratched her cheek and drew the plaid up so it covered her face to the eyes. ‘And peace-loving dravidian-priests and glennon vens wandering around not wanting leadership. Got it. So what happened next?’ Came her now-muffled serenade. Just as Boudicca started again, the serenade picked up once more. ‘Though I- uh.’ She sighed and her eyes grew dim and downcast, ‘I don’t know if a speech or a performance is going to fix all this, my lady. It already sounds so terrible and it’s only the beginning. I’ve never really… dealt with these kinds of things.’ She stopped walking and the plaid fell somewhat. ‘Seems like some cruel playwright perfectly set-up a tragedy.’
“Don’t say that, this is stressful enough already,” Boudicca confessed with uncharacteristic honesty. The smoke of industry thinned, and the pair soon exited the fumes into a livestock market, smells of sweat, fur and manure washing over them like a tidal wave. They had to compete with moos, bleats and grunts to be able to hear each other, and their promenade would come to a stop many times as traders herded cows, goats, sheep, elk and reindeer to and fro like they were irrigating the city with flesh. “On top of this, the last five years have been nothing -but- war, and I fear my officers have grown to like it, and our neighbours are beginning to get a taste for it. The loss of Ha-Gaard to our former allies at Kirin’s Rest only shows that we are increasingly alone in this land - our neighbours aren’t quick to forget what we did to them five years ago, and I’m already beginning to feel that the quest to become a cultural centre did not carry the appeal I thought just some months back…” She looked at Shaeylila and frowned at herself. “I’m sorry for overwhelming you with all this - it may have been fool’s hope that all of this should be solved with poetry.”
Shaeylila’s eyes seemed to harden with anger and she let out a frustrated sigh. ‘Yeah…’ she murmured sullenly. Looking towards the great town, now that they were at its outskirts, a small ripple of colour grew in her eyes until it was a great spark. She turned to Boudicca with a conspiratorial smile, biting her lip slightly. ‘Wh-what if…,’ she hesitated, ‘those people back there said... I am a gift from that Maxwell right? W-well… what if Maxwell… isn’t very happy? What if he is actually quite upset by all this fighting - fighting and killing and goring and not a single poem or song, no epical record by all those vainglorious warriors, no performances, no wisdoms... ’ she paused and glanced at Boudicca with a guilty smile, ‘what if Maxwell is really quite angry? What if even now he is preparing a great furious song condemning before all the world the death of all art that Ha-Dûna’s constant warring has brought?’ She paused, eyes wide, ‘do you think that might shock them towards more cultured pursuits?’
Boudicca pulled away and turned to the sky as though reflecting on this compelled her to apologise to whatever was up there. She caught herself just before her knees were about to give out and cupped her chin in her hand. “Hey… Hey, that’s a great idea! Rebellious, though, my officers may be, they have no wish to be mentioned in Macsal’s cursesongs!” The giant woman took Shaeylila by the shoulder and grinned from ear to ear. “This is perfect! Tell me, tell me! What should I say? How should I frame His anger?” Shaeylila’s elation was all to clear and she seemed to bob up and down in response to Boudicca’s happiness and relief.
‘His anger?’ Shaeylila paused, and the smile slowly faded from her lips. She looked at Boudicca, and where there had been a spark before her eyes now seemed to crackle. She extended a hand to thesanndatr’s cheek. ‘I will show you.’
Thesanndatr stood upon a handcrafted pedestal of wood, carved with intricate images of flames and daemonic battle, at the centre of which was the staring visage of a furious clean-shaven youth. Beside her on the ground, wearing an equally forbidding countenance, was the one everyone was saying had been sent down by Macsal. Anger crackled in the siren’s eyes, and the giant sanndatr’s own eyes seemed to reflect no less a fury. Tension hung in the air for what felt like the longest time, before the Macsalian thing looked down to the ground and spared the gathered people the gorgon in her aspect. The sanndatr glared outwards, a crowd of beards, of scars, of dirt and of cold, red cheeks staring back with baited breath. It was then that the giant raised her arms to the sky and boomed,
“With me, people of Ha-Dûna, as we begin this confession by greeting the gods: As with every dawn, we give thanks to the Sun, to our Mother, Reiya, who helps us keep warm in winters such as this, and pulls our crops out of the soil so we may eat our daily meals without a worry in the world.” She pointed to the horizon.
“We give thanks to the Moon, to the Nightwarden Gibbou, who keeps the wolves at bay when our tents lay exposed and our children are asleep, and ships us off into the realm of dreams.” She pointed to the ground.
“We give thanks to the Stone, to the Boar of Earth, Boris, who gave us the ground we walk and the tools we use. The eternal mountain never breaks down, no matter the passing times.” She arced one arm across the heavens.
“We give thanks to the Stars, to our Beacon of Hope, Seeros, who inspires us every day to do our utmost for both friends and family; the million lights that glisten above when all other lights go out.” She turned around and gestured to the shore below.
“We give thanks to the Sea, to the Ocean Father Claroon, without whose seafood bounty, we would have starved long, long ago. The steady tide brings us high water on which to sail our boats, and spring rains and autumn storms bring our city both crops and feed.” She placed two hands on her temples.
“We give thanks to the Truth, to the All-Knowing Fìrinn, for guidance in these times of ignorance and confusion. The mirrors reveal all, and the holy glass he gave us has let us divine the struggles ahead with graceful accuracy.” She pointed to the forests beyond the city.
“We give thanks to Jennesis, the World Tree, to whom we owe our eternal love and loyalty for all that grows, for the forests that give us game, wood, fruits and nuts. Her power is mighty and her ire is great - may we ever live in her grace, and always respect the line between woods and mankind. Finally…” She gestured to the crowd.
“Let us give thanks to Macsal, the Immortal Poet, whom we must thank for our songs, our lyrics, our dances and theatre. Without Macsal, much of what we think of as Dûnan would simply not exist - the Worldsong would not be here to help us listen to the worries and counsel of the very earth and sky. So let us praise him, and let us praise the Eight for their kind vigilance over our people, which has allowed us to grow into the great civilisation we are today.” She took a brief break to let the message sink in.
“Let us also give praise to Caden, whose strength lifted us above our Sigeran foes in this war; to Taeg Eit, whose will and law kept our people and our marriages together through thick and thin; to Naya, whose colossal heart carried all our sorrow for us so we could fight on despite our losses; to Artafax, for giving us walls and houses unbreakable to any bandit; and to Vandra, for the fire to last all seasons. We thank the gods; we thank them all - we must thank them all, for these past five years have shown that we have grown insolent; we have grown spoiled and ungrateful in the face of the gods, and our people have never been further out of reach of their favour than we are now.”
Ripples of malcontent moved throughout the crowd. Boudicca held up a silencing hand. “There is no denying it and every man, woman and child here knows that quite well: We chose Sigeran. We chose Sigeran over the true gods!”
“The Sigerans chose Sigeran!” came a retort, supported by furious “yeas”. “We stayed true - that is why we won!”
Boudicca raised a hand again. “We didn’t stay true at all! Had we done so, we would’ve never gone to war in the first place. Our rampant massacre of our neighbours to the east was what drew Sigeran to us to begin with!” Whispers flowed between heads like water through a shifting delta. “Had we been true to the teachings of Reiya, to the gospel of Gibbou, to the faith in Seeros and the songs of Macsal, then we already would have known where these sorts of black thoughts would take us!” Before the retorts could come, she took the initiative. “I know what you will say in defense: We had no food - our people grew too many, too fast! And I know this, too - I said the same thing! Our growth took us plundering without a care in the world for how it would affect us in the coming years - how our standing with not just our neighbours would suffer, but with the gods as well!”
“... No… When faced with such grand devastation as a famine, the pious, the virtuous, will not take from others what they want; instead, the virtuous will fall to their knees in prayer, for the gods are good - they are kind - and they will help us if they see our suffering.” She gestured to the many snow-covered fields beyond the city walls. “And lo and behold - Reiya saw our dire need, even after we had taken to the axe, and gave us fields of unprecedented growth! The pious is rewarded; the vile, punished.” Murmurs grew quieter - the sharpness in their words had been dulled.
“We turned hoes into clubs; plows into shields - we neglected the earth and soil for blood and wealth. We used axes and adzes meant for shaping wood into objects of art and architecture, to slay innocents by the thousands. Spears meant to hunt the Highlands’ bounty with, were instead turned on our neighbours - even those of Dûnan blood! We gave up our long poetic traditions for war cries and ceaseless boasting. Our borders may be longer than before, but there is no Dûnan soul left to fill it. Our neglect for culture has gone so far that Macsal himself, furious as we’ve made him, is even composing a cursesong for our people! One that may plunge us into centuries of misfortune!”
At the very moment that mention of the cursesong was made, a collective gasp arose and with it the head of Shaeylila snapped up. Her eyes were as roiling ink and her hair seemed to harbour lightning.
Brothers of the axe and sword - sires of much war. On my tongue there is a word come from Macsal’s shore. This is but a taste of rhymes that the angered poet writes, for he hates to see your crimes and he hates all haughty heights:
Pause before the ruin and cry For those long rhymes turned to sloth Lore that sleeps will quickly die In the dust its plighted troth While bloodshed by dawn and dusk Knibbles at our wit and art and oft destroys them both.
The world around the song seemed to darken even as streams of colour and ink surged about her, and the inks were given form and the verses came alive. The ruin of art stood unveiled, and around it humanoid shadows shed crimson tears even as the ruins disintegrated into dust and a great surge of gushing blood exploded from it until the scene fell away and only the crimson gore remained.
Sheathe your fears and hear the flow That whispers through the world and sighs- Let your thirst for beauty grow And from your burning heart let rise The words that conquer spears and bows And binds back severed links and ties
A great blade cut through the endless cascade of blood, and the inky ichor exploded into audible sighs, and the sighs became a hum and song reverberating through the world. Beneath the humming song the sword fell away and was a staring, flame-eyed youth sitting below a burning bush. His chest beat with a flame, and when he stood a field of spears and arrows stood against him. He walked through it unafraid, a song of flame dancing and billowing from his eyes, and all about him the spears and arrows melted away and became extended hands which he pulled from the earth and united with the extended hands of others.
And should those nursed on war rise up To strike with gilded tongues the call And should they think to claw and sup On blood and meat from where you fall Then meet them with a tongue that spurns Their furies and stand proud and tall
The earth fell away beneath the fire-eyed youth and great demons with golden tongues ripped and clawed at him, ripping him limb from limb and consuming what remained. And even as they stood in the darkness, their bellies bloated and the flame emerged from their melting forms. Above it all the youth, a giant, rose and stood. He remained like that, slowly growing into the undeniable image of Macsal himself.
With tongue of ink and lyre for hand Strike up the chords and loose art’s heat And like a raincloud, beauteous, grand Pour down upon the thirsting wheat And quench the thirsting of the land And wipe the tears that drown in blood And sing the furies that wars fanned:
But if this is no age for art And words of beauty find no place In any hard and war-forged heart Then make your peace and rest your case And let the age of weeping start For how can they bring endless peace Who dealt to beauty death’s cruel dart?
The full-grown form of Macsal was gored, and blood of unknown colours frothed forth as the god fell; and from the blood there grew a hill atop of which was the great shadow of Ha-Dûna.
Oh Ha-Dûna on the hill Pearl of poesies of old Now your poem is grown still And the heat of art is cold Now the rhyming god is shrill Pledges only ruined disgrace: They who kill off all their art sure in time art will kill!
Dark clouds billowed about the inky Ha-Dûna, and the visage of Macsal - half tearful, half furious - formed in the inky heavens and looked down upon the hill, and into the gathered crowd. Only the ambient sound of rushing winds and the promise of a storm remained in the ink. After a half-minute, the whole thing dissipated and Shaeylila’s gaze returned to the ground and she was silent and still.
The onlookers were white as sheets, no lip left unquivering. The silence choked out even the instinct to scream, and a minute passed as though frozen in time - only the wail of babes still overcoming the terror of the display could be heard. The shock shattered when there came a thump in the snow - on the front rank, one woman, her husband and their children had fallen to their knees, lifted their arms to the podium and shouted, “MACSAL! FORGIVE US!” The sentiment washed over the crowd like a crashing wave, and soon, the hundreds, the thousands of Dûnans who had filled the city core to the brim and spilled over into the streets beyond all collapsed in wailing prayer, begging and pleading for forgiveness. Boudicca offered Shaeylila a knowing nod, the song’s eyes twinkling back, and let the masses lament their sins. This would be a breakthrough for their people - their need to change their ways was now more evident than ever.
Boudicca 2 + 5 = 7 Circle of the Long Stride: 17 + 5 = 22
| 5MP and 5DP | 1MP towards Puppetry | 2DP towards Acting | 2DP towards Inspiration | 3DP towards Music | 2DP towards Dance |
2MP to grant all sapients the capacity to summon songs.
There are two manners in which songs may be summoned to Galbar: either passively or actively. The active manner involves a magically proficient person carrying out a magical ritual to bring them forth into the world - these songs are referred to as Succubi and are generally masterful singers and entertainers. These rituals vary across time, place, and culture. However, all who summon them in this manner should beware for they are flighty things and will not be kept for long; the words of a lovestruck poet or the zealous singing of a bardic lover may see her eloping in the night.
The passive manner of summoning songs occurs when a person - artist or not - wishes to create something beautiful and is in desperate need of inspiration. This level cannot be any normal or fleeting desperation, but must be born in pain and repeated failings and tears so that it becomes a constant companion and weight. When any person reaches such a frightful state, a song is brought forth from the divine realms to be their inspiration and their muse.
While most songs summoned to Galbar will live in communities, it is entirely possible for one to get lost. Such lost songs can be found living wild in lakes and rivers and woodlands, and may also hide in perfectly rotund mounds. As this implies, songs cannot be de-summoned and do not automatically return to the divine realms, but remain and live out the remainder of their now-mortal lives on Galbar.
Scene 1: In the aftermath of the reconquest of Ha-Dûna, the great town stands at a crossroads and Boudicca faces the near-impossible task of steering the people towards a more peaceful way of doing things. While she has met with some success, it has not effected the deep changes necessary to transform the martial spirit that had long been ascendant into one more peaceful. Wishing after Meghzaal’s blessings in her coming speech, she gives a prayer before his stone. Her prayers receive a cryptic message, and her lack of understanding drives her to ask desperate questions which cause a song called Shaeylila to emerge. Those gathered in the stone circle are excited by the appearance of this creature (who is very confused and has no idea who this “Macsal” they associate her with is) but Boudicca soon shoos them off and the two walk together and discuss Boudicca’s problem: how is she to turn her war-loving people towards more peaceful pursuits? Shaeylila is no philosopher and can’t offer up any great idea to uproot the martial ways of the Dûnans, but she is able to come up with an innocent lie that may well solve all these problems… that Macsal is furious with the people of Ha-Dûna for pursuing war and abandoning art and even now prepares a cursesong that will disgrace them before the world. The two then retire to prepare the performance off-screen. Scene 2: Boudicca stands before the gathered people of Ha-Dûna and delivers a powerful speech that first praises the gods for all their blessings and then reprimands the people for having turned their back on the virtuous ways of the gods, pursuing war and slaughter instead. There are protests at this, but Boudicca swiftly sweeps the protests aside and reveals that Macsal, saddened beyond measure and furious at what they have done, is preparing a terrible cursesong against them. Shaeylila then gives a great poetic performance that leaves the people aghast and repentant. Boudicca shares a knowing look with Shaeylila at the ploy’s success.
Théin Gomarix sat atop his elk, scanning the highland surroundings with great admiration in his eyes. The curving hills between patchy forests and rocky canyons offered much-needed nuance and texture in an otherwise snowed-down landscape. Behind him trailed a small warband, all looking very much exhausted from the journey thus far. The commander sucked in a deep breath through the nose and said, “You know, Kaer Obee - I think I have another verse in mind.”
Kaer Obee, who had aged during the war about as well as milk, offered him a wrinkled, tired stare. “Splendid, brother… Would you -please- give us your -best- performance of it?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” chuckled Gomatrix to the chagrin of his companions. He took another deep breath and spoke,
”Snow ‘pon yonder hill is a wondrous sight, Mayhaps as great as my own might. One, one-two, one-two-three flakes fall; The snow’s as deep as I am tall. A smile from Ynea, this winter be, A kiss at my druid, my men and me!”
Kaer Obee sighed. “Brother, please do not use a goddess’ name so frivolously in verse…”
“What? She’s a Cenél goddess, Bee-Bee - she can’t do me anything, as she does not exist.”
“Please do not call me--”
“For there are only fourteen gods, my Bee! And neither Ynea, Malgog nor Seva are among them!” The commander fisted the air triumphantly. Kaer Obee took a deep, impatient breath.
“I pray we are alone on these plains today…”
Gomarix turned to look over his shoulder, a white shock all over his face. “Woman, you are married!”
Obee blushed and scowled back. “I meant alone from any Cenél spies, you stone head! And that’s ‘sister’ to you, théin!”
“Hmph! Why, I have never. You ought to learn some proper manners before you speak to me in that manner, siste-- Oh, look! We’re here!” Before Obee could even begin to retaliate, the officer clapped his elk’s buttox with a flat palm and rode ahead. The druid could only suppress a deep, furious growl. When they got a clearer view over the slight hill brink, the anger subsided somewhat, though. They had arrived. There, opposite a dip in the landscape with a thick forest, tree saplings had begun to reclaim what had once been the clean-shaven hill up to a castle at the foot of Tordentind, the eastmost mountains in Dûnan territory.
Grimholt.
“Or at least what’s left of it,” came a sober comment from one of the guards. She was silenced by a hard glare from Gomarix. The théin took his axe from his belt and lifted it to the sky.
“By Caden, what glory awaits us up ahead! Soldiers - today, we stand at the brink of oblivion, as so few warriors are sent to reclaim what was once the Eastern Gem of the Dûnan civilisation! There are none I would rather share this experience with than with you, loyal sons and daughters of the Trueborn Folk. Together, we will surely triumph, and those who may fall will await nothing but glory eternal in the afterlife! Now… CHARGE!” With that, the commander rushed forward down the hill and into the woods. The others exhumed a collective groan.
“He knows it’s most likely empty, right, mother?” one of the warriors asked in concern.
“At this point, I’m not sure anymore,” Kaer Obee confessed and all of them followed at a much slower pace, albeit still a small jog. Twenty minutes later, they heard the echoing creak of ancient wood, reasoning that Gamorix had opened the gates of the palisade fort and moved inside. When they themselves reached the open gates and stepped into the fortified village, they looked around for their commander. “Brother?” Kaer Obee called. “Théin Gomarix?”
They moved down the main path, passing by houses as empty as could be. The streets, once alive with trade and music, were completely deserted. The warriors huddled together somewhat, wearing mixed emotions of concern and confusion on their faces. “We heard it’d be abandoned, but I, personally, was at least expecting a few squatters or Cenél settlers. What’s going on?”
Kaer Obee felt her breathing quicken. “Théin Gomarix? Are you here?”
They then turned a corner to see the town square. There, in its centre, their commander laid dead. More specifically perhaps, his torso did. His other limbs had been arranged in a neat pile on his belly, his head topping the pile with a twisted expression on its face. His elk had been butchered, too, its limbs and entrails surrounding its owner’s pile like a wall. Many of the warriors screamed, and the others immediately went into high alert. That was when a wooden crash shook them even deeper to the core. The gate had closed itself.
Despite the fear of the warriors there was no charge, no sudden eruption of violence. Things seemed grimly quiet despite the grisly scene before them. Things were stilled, grimly so as the warriors collected themselves. The only noticeable change a chill breeze sweeping past.
“I-... I wanna go home,” came a quivering confession from one of the warriors.
“Hush now, my daughter,” Kaer Obee soothed, but she seemed anything but calm. “Let’s just… Slowly make our way back to the entrance and see if we can get it open.” Their morale stabilised by a tangible purpose, the group slowly began moving backwards to where they’d come from, leaving the mutilated corpse of their commander behind.
“What caused this, mother?”
“I-... I don’t know. It could… It could’ve been the Cenél gods, for all I know.”
“They exist?!”
“I don’t--! I don’t know, but let’s not take this discussion now. Move faster!” They quickened their pace, keeping their voices to loud whispers.
The winds picked up as they got closer and closer to the gate working their way back. Getting colder and colder in spite of all else the chill stayed and surrounded the Dûnan warband.
A door slammed open in sudden motion, nothing came out, it slammed back with the breeze. Soon others joined in this cacophony, strangely hounding the band as they moved back through the town. Shifting and other noises could be heard around corners, wind or perhaps something else that could be waiting.
One of the warriors at the back of the party hunkered down, pulling her hat down over her ears. On the other side, those at the front set off in a full-force sprint. Kaer Obee was stuck in the middle with the remaining third of the soldiers. “HEY! COME BACK!” she shouted while her companions tried to haul the last one with them. She refused to move, even kicking and screaming as they began dragging her with them. Those who had run ahead quickly disappeared out of sight behind the various houses and ruins, their footsteps and shouts deafened by the thunder of slamming doors.
The slamming cacophony of doors continued as the few warriors tried to corral her along. The wind and cold worsened, each could begin to see their breaths before them as they trundled along.
Then it stopped. The chill remained, the wind was absent, the doors no longer swung on their hinges by any unknown force. The warriors could barely move, as shaken as they were, and after all the chaos, the sudden silence seemed almost less natural. The anticipation gnawed at their bones like rot, and every cell of their bodies pulled them closer and closer to the gates, whether by sprint or by walking. They kept quiet, convinced that any sound would alert the evil spirits again, for it had to be evil spirits.
Passing corners each seemed to hold untold danger. Only frozen splatters of blood, arrows from unknown archers, and Dûnan weapons left abandoned, stained and broken.
Grim scenes that foretold the fate of those that ran off before, their assailants still left unknown, excepting the idea of evil spirits, haunting things of ill-fortune and ill-fate. The group grew ever closer to the gate, both with grim fascination and fear and hope to escape.
“I think we now know why the last settlers never wrote back,” one of the warriors whispered through whimpers. Kaer Obee comforted her with a squeeze of her shoulder. When they came to the gate, they found those who had run ahead earlier - spread in bits and pieces across an area of twenty square metres, their blood and skin curdled and frozen as though they had been dead for weeks. Kaer Obee and the four warriors that were left all sounded screams on reflex, which only scared them more, and they tossed themselves at the gates to drag them open.
They were thrown back with an overwhelming force, bringing them to the ground, landing on their backs. One or two managing to skid for a bit on the frozen entrails of their compatriots.
It became clear not just that they were not alone, but that figures were watching them from the doorways here.
Shrouded and tall, the forms of warriors for sure in build. They were men surely, too short and tall to be any kind of troll. And yet there was something so off in the way they stood and watched, motionless although they had been there the whole time. Yet what was most in concern although their clothes were darkened by well use, is the arms they carried. Axe and shield, bow and arrow, fresh blood covering near all.
At least seven had made themselves visible from the doorways, but if they were responsible for all this or otherwise had some connection to evil spirits…
“P-please! Spare us!” pleaded Kaer Obee. “We are but humble settlers! We will leave if you claim this land!”
Silently the seven walked out towards the remaining members of the warband. At each step the Dûnans felt the strength drain ever further out of their bodies, whether fear or something else. The figures surrounded the Dûnans at a distance, excepting one who approached Kaer Obee.
It lifted up the Druid with one arm, grasping an axe with the other. The stench of death and rot was nearly unbearable as Kaer Obee was brought face to face with the... ...man.
It spoke with a rasping and gasping voice, "Humble. Settlers. Nothing Dûnan about that."
It paused, drawing Obee ever closer to its face, before throwing the Druid down and speaking once more to the group, "Grimholt stands again. No Dûnan blade or blood will take us."
“H-hey, isn’t that--”
“Y-y-y-yeah… That’s Barth - I could’ve sworn Vegard took his head before, before…” Kaer Obee quieted the two soldiers down with a quivering shush and swallowed.
“W-we understand. If you let us go, not a single Dûnan shall ever set foot on your soil again…” She took a shaking breath. “B-but if you kill us, I guarantee you that, come spring, they will send another party of settlers - then another - and another. We w-will tell them never to venture here again! We swear!”
"Sworn oaths mean little from a Dûnan." Thus came the snarling reply, however he-who-was-Barth looked around at his party standing so still around them. "If Dûnans come again dismemberment will be the least of their worries. Pick druid."
Barth pointed towards the remaining warriors of the warband. "Two."
“T-two what?” the druid whimpered.
"Pick the two that will carry you." With that Barth slammed the back end of his axe against Kaer Obee's leg causing a most unpleasant cracking sound. "Something to keep your memory clear." The druid screamed and took her leg, holding it up limply while the adrenaline still held. Her breathing could barely keep up with her pained sobs as her woolen kneesock darkened with blood, and the others instinctively backed off at first, afraid they would be next. However, two of the warriors whom Kaer Obee had soothed earlier each hooked a grip under each of her arms and pulled her with them, their backs now up against the gate.
The Men of Grimholt let them leave.
11k words. Circle of the Long Stride: 12 + 5 = 17
Some Dûnans go to reclaim Grimholt. When they arrive, though, it’s all empty and shit. Their general charges ahead, thinking the enemy just hides inside the castle. The rest come in a bit later, only to find the general dead in the town centre. Everything gets super spooky and lots of people die off camera. Then, when the survivors reach the gate, which had closed by its spooky self, the attackers reveal themselves - they’re super spooky undead. They announce that Grimholt is rightful undead clay and break the legs of the druid in the Dûnan group. They then let them go. The end.
It was no easy task, traversing the Blackwoods in the deep winter - its black pines darkening even more the already deep blue polar night; however, they had no choice, either. The reindeer had journeyed this way, after all - the highway of hoof prints in the snow revealed nothing less, and it was not the first time the Weike had been afoot during the zenith of the winter’s cold. The flock was erratic, these days, frightened by great migrations to the south. A campaign of sorts, heading into the Lúpmí. The chieftain hadn’t believed it when he had heard it at first, but having seen the tracks and the flocks of men, women and even children moving to Reginsvik to pledge service to the cause, he could no longer choose to ignore it. Good riddance, the younglings had exclaimed - they were ignorant of the way of the world, after all; they were innocently oblivious to the implications of this great assault.
The elders knew, however, and as did chieftain Sabba.
The Weike had long been dependent on the southern trade routes with the Dunná and the Rákká, and the peoples of the Yellow Plains. They had good relations with most of them, too, and their own crafts and products were well received among their buyers. However, with an invasion like this one, the trade routes that had just opened up again after the turmoil in the south, would once again be left sundered and weakened.
His people would be left sundered and weakened.
A bray up ahead made him hunker down. His followers slowed down, too. A knock of bone against bone and several more grunts and groans hinted that they had arrived. Sabba placed a finger over his lips and beckoned respectfully at one of his followers in the back. She was a middle-aged woman, his sister, in fact, Aile. She stepped forward slowly, her reindeer hide mittens bringing a small feathered mallet out from a red and blue wool satchel at her waist. In her other hand, she held a small skin drum. She offered her brother an assuring nod, who returned it. Then she walked past him into a clearing in the snowed-down woods.
As she stepped into the opening under the moon, she began to sing, beating the drum ever so gently with the mallet as her voice carried through the frozen winds. The reindeer stopped what they were doing to look up, eyeing the woman curiously as her feet edged ever closer to them, her soothing song begging for them to stay. Her voice was not alone, though; the wind chimed in, as well, adding ethereal high notes; the trees wished and swayed from side to side, adding the rhythm of their knocking branches; even the snow seemed to twirl around the woman to dance with her. The reindeer, listening to the chorus of the woman, the wind, the trees and even the lichen, joined in, braying and groaning to the melody. Aile’s fervour grew and her song intensified for a few bars to greet her new friends with mutual respect - they responded in turn, kicking and digging at the snow with their horns to the rhythm. Shortly after their greeting, Aile brought the song to a close, and the reindeer seemed immediately much friendlier to her, the calves approaching to knock heads with her torso. Aile giggled and waved the others over invitingly. The rest of the Weike crossed the forest border into the clearing, and the reindeer remained calm.
“Well done, Aile,” praised Sabba curtly and caught the incoming head of a curious buck in an embrace, the buck grunting warmly. Aile scratched the buck under the chin and grinned back.
“Hee-hee - that was easy! The reindeer in these parts have been quite lonely, they told me - seeing people again made them really giddy all of a sudden.”
Sabba frowned. “Is that so, huh? Then Sarak and his Loike must’ve travelled east, as well…” He sighed and shook his head. “This is troublesome news.”
“Look at it on the bright side, chief!” came a young and energetic voice. Aile and Sabba both turned to eye a smiling lad of seventeen winters, his pale face rosy in the cold. “More reindeer for us, right?” Sabba frowned.
“Firstly, they’re not ‘ours’, Kveie. They’re unbound souls, free to join us or leave us at their leisure.” The young Kveie rolled his eyes with a smirk - he had obviously heard this lecture many times. “Secondly,” Sabba continued, “our clan hasn’t got the herders necessary to drive all these reindeer from place to place.” He gestured to the flock - in this clearing alone, there were at least a hundred heads; if Sarak and the Loike truly had ventured east, then the west would hold at least a thousand heads more. “We cannot greedily request them all to join us - their stampede across the region would impede the functions of the other spirits.”
“Pfft, alright, calm down, gramps. I was just askin’.”
“Gramps?! Now you listen here, young man--”
“Sabba!” Just as the chieftain grabbed the lad by the collar, Aile took her brother by the shoulder warningly. Sabba looked down at the lad, whose face had lost its smugness to a twinge of fear mixed with uncertainty. The other Weike were staring disapprovingly at both the lad and the chieftain, and even the reindeer stepped over to intervene, braying coarsely for the chieftain to let go. He did, and Kveie staggered back to regain his balance, adjusting his collar properly. Sabba looked around, seeing the people flinch slightly when he looked at them.
“... We’ll camp here for tonight,” he commanded sternly and looked down at Kveie. “I will be taking this boy fishing… Any objections?” The others were silent. Sabba nodded. “Good. Now get to it.” While the others were setting up tents, Sabba pulled young Kveie along, two quite nicely polished fishing rods in his free hand. Multiple times did Kveie try to run for it back to camp, but the chieftain was always there to drag him by the collar. When the youngster got violent, Sabba would respond with violence, and Kveie would lose upon the first, well-placed hit to the belly. After thirty minutes of this sort of back and forth, they eventually reached a frozen-over river. Kveie grunted sharply.
“Oh, would you look at that. It’s frozen - what did you expect? ‘Go fishing’... Pwah!”
Sabba sighed and grabbed a large rock, stepping out onto the ice. There, making sure to spread his weight as widely as possible by descending to all fours, he began hammering at the ice. “When a barrier obstructs your path, kid, remove it,” he muttered. Kveie scoffed, but eventually a hole was made and the two of them dipped the bone hooks of their fishing rods into the water. There, they waited in silence. For a long time, they only exchanged looks every now and then. Then eventually, Sabba opened his mouth slightly.
“Where does all your anger come from, kid?”
Kveie scoffed quietly. “Maybe it comes from you calling me ‘kid’ all the time?”
“I call you what you act like.”
“I act like I am treated.”
“Oh, grow up. You know very well that it’s your own behaviour that’s the problem here.”
“Oh, do I? I think I might be a little too young to understand these things.”
Sabba snarled and pulled back a right hook. Kveie lifted his arms in reflexive defense, his hook flying out of the water, fishless as expected. Sabba did not hit him, however, but lowered the fist slowly instead. “It’s just… I see a lot of myself in you.”
Kveie grit his teeth together and dipped his hook back into the water. “When has that ever been an excuse to treat someone else like a brat?”
“It isn’t… However, I just don’t want you to repeat the mistakes I made.”
“What, like the fact that you’ve never had kids of your own?” The following silence brought a sudden sting to Kveie’s consciousness, and his following statement had lost much of its smug momentum. “A-actually, I didn’t mean that… I took it to far and--”
“No, you’re right. While that wasn’t the incident i was thinking of, it has, in truth, been one of my great shortcomings, that.” He nodded slowly. Kveie frowned.
“Say… Why haven’t you actually gotten yourself a girl? You’re the chieftain, after all. Shouldn’t ladies be lining up to be with you?” Sabba shrugged apathetically.
“They have been, but I’ve turned them all down. When I die, the role of chieftain will pass to my sister’s son, Tveia. He’s a good lad, that one - the clan will be in good hands.”
Kveie’s frown deepened. “But why? Why have you told them all no?”
“There’s only one lady for me, son…” mumbled the chieftain mysteriously and looked up at the bright half-moon, contrasted by the dance of the Afterlight. “... Black hair… Broad shoulders… A woman with no sense of fear nor weakness…”
Kveie blinked and shook his head. “Forget that I asked…”
Later that night, Sabba gathered everyone in the camp for the sermon of the day. Behind him, Aile and her children sat drumming and humming. The chieftain and some others had fashioned a small altar in the centre of the camp, built out of snow and decorated with feathers, bones and branches. The chieftain took a deep breath and spoke, “It is now that we give thanks to the North God for granting us another day of only encountering the softer hardships of winter. It is in the North God’s grace that we exist, and if their mercy is spent, we will all surely perish. We offer them this bounty as thanks.” With that, the chieftain knelt down and placed a fat salmon on the altar. He then folded his hands in prayer and continued, “Then we must remember those who have passed on into the Afterlight - they life forever in harmony with the spirits of this world, and we must ever remember that we are welcome among them as family. Fear not death, everyone, but embrace it - for in death, we are given new life, like winter becoming spring. Praise the sagely dead.” The whole camp started to sing along with the shamans, and the chieftain started dancing around the altar, tossing up snow with kicks and jumps. Others joined in after a bit, all wanting to show their appreciation for the ancestors and the North God.
The Weike had been reduced, yes, and much suffering was still to come. However, they would ever persevere, for they were survivalists - and the North God was on their side.
The Weike are back, baby! Sabba’s been made chieftain (yes, he survived the troll attack all those years ago - as did his sister Aile, who is now a shaman) and is chasing a reindeer flock with his gang. They find it and Aile goes to worldsing for them. She succeeds, so they get some reindeer friends. Sabba then gets into a fight with a young mang named Kveie, and the two go fishing to bro it up some more. They chat and stuff and find out that Sabba’s not married and has no intention of doing so - he loves only one woman, and that woman’s off somewhere far, far, faaaar away. The post then ends on a ritual prayer to the North God, aka. Yam-Yams with many aspects of Thaa, as well.
”So… You all know why you’re here…” The stink of alcohol permeated the room as Gibbou wobblingly wagged a wine glass from side to side in her hand, her feet propped up on a large, round table. Seated on each of the other three non-existent corners of the circle were Qael, Artifex and the Patron. Gibbou eyed them all decisively before lifting her glass into the air. ”We gotta build a school!”
Qael had no idea what was going on. He just got an invitation from Gibbou to meet up. Apparently Artifex was invited as well. As was some strange sibling he hadn’t had the time to meet yet. Unlike the laissez-faire attitude of his sister, Qael was sitting propped up on his chair, looking awkwardly around. Four of his six eyes lit up with various shimmering colors. He just hoped it wouldn’t be a waste of time. Well, then finally Gibbou laid the cards down on the table. “A… school?”
”Da’s right!” A burp. ”The people of Galbar are stupid, so we gotta educate them!” She fisted the air and rose to her feet, one of which was still on the table. Her pose would’ve been impressive had it been a different pose, or no pose at all.
“Weeeeeeeeeell, she’s not wrong.” The Patron commented as she eyed Gibbou with amusement. She was slumped in her chair, arms stretched behind the backrest, paying attention but affecting the opposite as best anyone could. The olive-skinned woman had been, quite literally, pulled out her realm by the Goddess of the Moon and, while clearly as confused as Qael, seemed to prefer playing along over asking questions. To that end, she added, “I want secret libraries, though. Maybe forbidden towers? Oh, and some of that wine. Dragging me here and not offering a glass? Pft, rude.”
”Oh, shizz, I’m sorry…” slurred the moon goddess and snapped her fingers. A glass appeared before every god, filled to the very decadent brim with wine. ”... Also, who are you again?”
“Hglprmmm?” The Patron managed while drinking the glass in one long swig. A pair of rivulets spilled from the sides of her mouth and ran down on her dress, which was fortunately made of what seemed to be wind. Well, fortunately for her. A small spray of drops almost immediately bombarded everyone else around the table. She paused, carefully put the glass down, and answered while extending her arm and leaning over the table for a handshake, “I’m me! A god, I think. Who are you? I didn’t drag myself here.”
”Good question…” mumbled Gibbou faintly and didn’t shake the hand as much as she limply accepted it, her eyes staring into nothing. She quickly recovered, though, and smiled broadly at the god to her right. ”Arty! So nice you could, ‘scuse me - hic! - make it! How’re you?”
”I’m doing well, thank you for asking” the goblinoid shaped god replied while attempting to clean the Patron’s spray of wine from his garments with a handkerchief and failing rather spectacularly to do so. He frowned at the wine stains and then gave up ”or I was. Till this one’s” he waved a hand in the direction of the mess making god ”complete lack of table manners got in the way of my good mood.”
The Patron, having lazily slumped back into her chair, lolled her head in Artifex’s direction and complained playfully, “Hey! This is my first table. Did you just pop up knowing everything about tables? Mmm, I don’t know, tsk, seems unlikely to me.”
The goblin raised a finger to object, seemed to think about it for a moment and then replied weakly ”well. no. But in my defence at the time of my birth they did not exist,” before sighing, lifting and sipping at his wine with refined grace before attempting to get back the point ”So. Gibbou. This school. Where is it going?”
Gibbou conjured forth a map in the centre of the table. It showed the entire planet, bulging outwards to give a spherical sense. She lifted her finger and, face slammed down on the table, pointed in the middle of the Mydian Sea. ”Here!”
”Well it’s central. if a bit... out in the middle of the ocean?” Artifex said scepticaly before scratching his chin thoughtfully and then adding ”hmmm, though that could be an interesting challenge,” before pulling out a piece of parchment upon which he began to sketch on while the others spoke.
“Could make it float,” The Patron noted as she carefully leaned over and grabbed Qael’s glass of wine, giving the God of Magic a little wink as she did. Now doing her best to sip at the liquid she went on, “Or maybe a volcano? Might get a bit toasty though.”
”Active volcanoes do not make for good foundations,” Artifex commented, ”Floating could work. I believe Qael has already done something in that department?” the goblin looked up from his sketches and over at the god of magic for confirmation.
The god of magic had honestly no intention to drink the strange liquid before him. Especially not considering what it seemed to do to Gibbou. Still, it felt incredibly rude of the strange goddess to just take his goblet. She could’ve asked! No, no Qael wouldn’t make a fuzz of it. “On air… to be specific.” He quickly clarified. “A small island floating in the air. Though I fear mortals have yet to discover any way to fly so I would not suggest it.”
”Wass about a normal island, then, y’know? Jussss…” She pointed on the spot again, missing it by a few centimetres, and the map spawned a bump meant to be an island. ”Like that, y’know?”
“Boooooooooooring,” The Patron droned, before pivoting to add, “But maybe it could be underground? Have a portal lead to it, or a whirlpool? Or have a whirlpool be the portal to it. Could work for the floating island too. Oh, or-” She paused and stared at the empty bottom of her second glass, seemingly rethinking any further suggestions.
“Or an island.” Qael said in quite a passive aggressive fashion. “A normal island would be a good place to start.” The region of Mydia was indeed uniquely suited for such a school. Toraan couldn’t seem to get its act together. Local warlords were fragmenting the land and nobody seemed to be capable or willing to unite everyone for longer than one needed to destroy their neighbors. Meanwhile the goddess before him, the one without a name, seemed oddly out of place within these negotiations. Unlike Artifex and himself, she seemed chaotic. Without structure or organization. She just spouted out her thoughts in a drunken haze. Qael’s remaining two eyes turned to look at Gibbou. Well, the stranger was not alone he supposed. Qael’Naath stood up in preparation of his case: “Magic should be taught. Obviously. It’s the only knowledge worth knowing. Through it mortalkind will be able to observe and understand the world around it. I thus propose the school to be singly focused upon the arcane studies.” When he was done he once more sat down.
After taking a refined sip from his own wine Artifex said that ”I agree with the island. As, mmm, fun as this one’s ideas are, we do want people to be able to get to this school, and those of a scholarly disposition aren't always the most, ah, resilient to the trials of adventuring upon the waves.”
In order to finalise the matter, the god reached into his jacket pocket anr retrieved a pebble, which he placed onto the spot Gibbou had pointed to, giving them a basis for their creation.
”That said, I disagree that Magic is ’the only knowledge worth knowing.’” Artifex did not stand to make his argument and instead maintained a conversational tone ”Do not get me wrong, those who master the art can weave wonders most sublime. But it is not the be all and end all of knowledge. You could argue it is the pinnacle if you so desire, but even the glossiest of shining spires need a solid foundation. It is technology with which societies are built, with tools and machines that can be used by the masses. There is overlap of course, magical artifacts blur the lines, but I do not think it wise to ignore the potential of the material world to focus only on the magical.”
”Hear, hear!” praised Gibbou. ”Oughta have stuff for other people than magicians! Like, like temples to stuff - stuff like us!” She fisted the air triumphantly. ”Dibs on making dorms!”
Well… maybe Artifex had a point. Some less magically inclined mortals could benefit from a less magical education. But the god of magic chose not to mix with those. It would seem that Artifex had plenty of his own ideas already. The god of magic was quick to brush aside the trivial ideas Gibbou brought up as well. It wasn’t that dorms weren’t important, it was just that…well they weren’t important to him.
“A greenhouse and orchard for ingredients.” He mumbled out loud, and as if it was commanded blue glowing flying sand took shape around the god of magic in the form of a greenhouse with an orchard in the back. “Obviously a star observatory spire.” A spire took shape from the blue glowing, flying sand that just appeared. Showing it with a dome roof. “Large balconies suspended in the skies. Choirs. Spell-circles. Dissection altars. Grand dance halls. Runic auditoriums.” Every room named summoned another depiction of that room. “Hmmm, perhaps a complete alchemical laboratory for the joined wing.” He said mostly towards Artifex who suggested the joined wing in the first place.
”Glad to see you’re onboard.” Artifex said, nodding with approval ”Now lets see. First, the more practical concerns.”
The god pulled out a small sharp knife and began to slice segments off his sketch paper, each one coming alive for a moment, fluttering towards the pebble island he had made on the map. Wherever the architect’s blueprints landed their diagrams came to life, forming structures from pen strokes in an instant.
”First off, docks, for the arriving students” Artifex explained as the first of his diagrams came to life, creating a sheltered stone harbor, its high walls guarding its ships form storms while its long piers would allows dozens of vessels of all shapes and sizes to dock with the island.
”Paths, store houses, plumbing, a place to grow food to sustain them and store water to water them” the god added, crafting infrastructural buildings around the docks and center of the island that all would need, while also raising up a large swath of fertile farmland that would ensure the island would not be massively reliant on imports to feed itself and building large cisterns to catch rainwater for the people to drink from.
The god nodded to himself, before beginning to add the places to learn of the scientific arts, making them a mirror of the magic god’s own structures for sake of symmetry. Spaces of craftspeople of all trades were made, from forges to woodworking shops, glassmakers to potters. places where resources could be shaped and fashioned however the students wanted. Then came the labs and workshops, places for things to be built and assembled. there was little focus on what should be made there, instead the god focused on providing spaces where any kind of invention could be made. He also added a series of wharfs near the docs, so that the islanders could produce ships and a large shallow and especially sheltered section of the docs dedicated to safely testing experiments with new designs. Heavily reinforced places, ones that put the sturdiest fortress walls to shame. Any who had experience with the god’s Inventors knew exactly why this was.
He also created a swath of wild land, packed with natural resources, from ores and gems hiding in deep natural caves to woods and glens teaming with wildlife from all across Mydian. any material an inventor might need could be found if they were willing to brave the untamed lands beyond the University.
A long twirling wisp of smoke emerged from the Patron’s extended finger, and as it swept over the tiny diagram little mounds of vapor rose on the island. With a little smile she explained, “Tells. So the students think this island has been around for a while. Also, a good excuse for catacombs!”
The smoke outlined a vast network of interweaving, chaotic, catacombs whose entrances would be focused on the academy and the supposedly ancient tells, but would extend far below the island. As a final touch little spots across the catacombs, hundreds of them, began to glow. “Tombs, with spell books and treasures and secrets. For the adventurous.” The Patron openly grinned and leaned closer to the menagerie of pebbles, living diagrams, and apparitions of smoke.
She poked the academy in a few places and imposing, gravity defying, spires appeared. Long suspended bridges branched out between them forming a sort of upper academy, connected to the larger structure on the ground by the spindly bodies of the spires. The Patron elaborated, “And for masters, an upper academy. Somewhere to put all the spells that’d kill the students. It is a school after all. I’d think it oughta be safer than just poking at those spells floating around like everyone’s doing now.”
Gibbou lifted her face from the tabletop in a jolt. She pointed at the model of the academy and, suddenly, a row of large, square-shaped houses popped up by the courtyard, all decorated with gothic statues of muscled men with bat wings and faces like fruit bats. There were at least eighty windows in coloured glass on each side, meaning forty rooms per floor, and each room was furnished with two beds, two desks and a chest for each, from what one could see through the tiny model windows. In total, there were five dormitories. ”Yay, dorms!” cooed the night goddess before zapping the other side of the campus. There, even more lavish dorms popped up, these ones arranged into three great towers all linked together with bridges on every third floor: Each floor had four rooms, and there were a total of five floors, each furnished with a single bed, a desk, a bookshelf, a cabinet, and, if one looked really closely, the same fruit bat gargoyles over the door frame. ”If people feel uncomfortable sleeping -here-, then…” She sniffed. ”Then I’ll be sad…” She had another swig of her drink.
The fact that this new goddess was so concerned about hiding spell got Qael a bit on edge. Who was she and why did she care so much for hiding his creations? Perhaps she had a point, but there were less dangerous ways to hide information that should not be known yet. He himself locked it behind trial and tests. Not with hiding and obfuscation. Alas, he did not want to have the discussion now. There were other matters at hand.
“Libraries.” Qael’Naath mumbled, realizing all of them except the newest goddess had nearly forgotten them. “Not the hidden ones. Normal ones. Though surely you could come up with an easier to use medium to carry the information?” He asked Artifex, before returning to his own musings. There was already an archive of magical knowledge. One that had been growing for two decades now. Why replicate such an achievement? From those ponderings appeared once more a blue glow. Though this one did not assume a physical form. Instead it held a concept for a higher realm. One in which people could study the knowledge stored with Sancta Civitas’ Library.
”There are many advanced forms of information storage that I have seen down the mortals path, though ironically as record keeping technology improves its ability to withstand the ages fades. Compare stone engravings to writing on parchment for a current example,” Artifex replied before proposing that ”for now I suggest we stick to the classic stone. If we want to give the impression of age then it’s the most logical material to have survived. not that they need to stick to that material once they start adding to the work.” Artifex proceeded to populate the little libraries with stone tablets featuring knowledge old and new, while also adding saltwater papyrus like plants to the shallows of the ocean, and small colorful diving beetles who protected themselves with ink sprays to live among them, and large wading seabirds who would pray on the beetles and whose feathers would make excellent quills.
”hmmm. Though perhaps...” he then said contemplatively, before plucking out a feather, pot of ink and sheet of papyrus from the parts of their rapidly growing tableaux. Then he put the feathered down on the table, retrieved a fine needle and began engraving runes on it.
While Artifex busied himself, the Patron gave Qael an amused look and set about doing exactly what she’d promised to. The god’s playful smile grew and she leaned closer to the little mockup on the table before declaring, “But also, secret libraries. In the upper academy. Ones that don’t need stone or paper or ink.”
Once more little wisps of smoke flowed from her fingertips, but this time they stilled into a number of pools, each one becoming perfectly reflective. Within the little pools magical symbols appeared and began to shimmer, before the patron tapped each one and watched the symbols rearrange into new ones. The Goddess carefully placed the little smokey pools inside the apparitions that were the planned upper academy and explained, “Some mortals have been using a book that works like these. So I’ll add a few here. Just plop a spell into the pool and it and all the others will be able to access it.”
Having finished engraving the quill, Artifex picked it up, dabbed it in the little ink pot and started writing down instructions about how to do the bit of magic he had just done.
”Humm, what else…” grumbled Gibbou. ”Oh yeah!” She slapped down another building, this one veering slightly off the campus centre. Inside its tiny windows, one could see loads of long tables and benches to boot, and all along the middle of the house were firepits with metal pots suspended over them. ”Without their food, a scholar’s no good!” she mused happily as she also added fruit gardens and crop fields next to Qael’s reagent garden. ”They’ll have to get some foods from the surrounding islands, but I’ve heard the local, whassit, Akwanz? Whatever, there are locals who’d gladly help ‘em out.”
Artifex finished writing as Gibbou added more agriculture to the island, squinted at it as if unsure if she was adding redundancy or was just to smashed to notice his own plots, and then shrugged. he retrieved a second sheet of paper, dabbed the quill in the pot, placed its tip at its op and then let go. the quill, rather than fall, hung poised above the parchment before it began to write on its own, copying the document Artifex had just written word for word. artifex smiled, then made a second quill with the same runic engravings and repeated the process, resulting in two quills scribbling away to copy the original document.
”You can never have too many ways to backup knowledge” he said to himself, before adding a tablet containing instructions on how to make this text repliating magic to the library.
"AH!" blurted Gibbou. "Almost forgot!" With a slap of her hand on the table, she turned the empty spaces around the university into peaceful gardens for study and meditation. One grove in particular sprouted various tranquil trees with leaves specifically designed to muffle sound and provide the visitors with the optimal quiet experience. Then, around the various hills and groves, she put down small prayer houses and temples. ”There we go. I’m good.”
Qael rubbed the tentacles running off his chin for a second. The gardens, yes. How could he forget!? They were paramount for mental endeavors. Even The Library back in Sancta Civitas had one. A significant one at that. Gibbou’s gardens were no doubt beautiful but they lacked a certain…spark. “Allow me.” He said as he extended a single finger at the gardens. They were bathed in a soft blue glow for a second, as certain aspects of them returned. To respect Artifex’s balance (and eventual unity) between magic and technology, he only altered just about half the gardens. Turning them into something more magical. With floating gazebo’s accessible only through floating stepstones, or a meditative place where carved stone orbs would rise up from the ground and orbit around you in auspicious patterns. These would be the places where mortalkind’s serene creativity would flow like water, that in certain places flower up the waterfall now.
Artifex, eyeing this magical enhancement to half the gardens, added a few minor touches to the other side. A number of exquisit statues were raised, made of glass, marble and bronze formed into elaborate abstract shapes that pleased the eye. A small river was added running through the gardens, fed from a fountain, that gave the pleasant ambiance of running water to the area. He also added some hedge mazes, sundials and a hedge that could be used to track the time of year.
Having watched Qael and Artifex closely, the Patron chewed on her lip and started crafting her own garden, one placed firmly between the two major halves of the academy. It started as a shallow pool of water, no deeper than a few feet but as many as a hundred meters across. From it rose a great plume of fog, but one which grew heavy and clung to the water. The water below it grew dark, and soon it seemed to suck the light out of the already foggy air above it.
There, in the dark, little plants took root and grew. They started out as little more than lilies, but soon grew thick purple roots that found the soil deep below. Anchored to the world the plants became trees rising from the water, trees whose leaves glowed a faint blue and illuminated the Patron’s garden. Platforms rose close to them, each one a tiny amphitheatre with a stage of sorts below a descending ring of seats. Around each platform were columns of obsidian, arranged to hold up a covering dome that glowed faintly like the leaves from the trees which loomed above it.
From the edges of the garden were invisible stepping stones, as black as the water and just millimeters below its surface. They led to the platforms, and from platform to platform. A nearly invisible network of stones connecting the misty gardens pavilions. The Patron, now fussing obsessively over her mock garden, added all sorts of glowing fish to the midnight water, alongside a number of underwater plants for them to hide and nest in.
It was only after she’d spent nearly as long as Qael and Artifex combined on her garden, much of it spent on choosing the particular hues of the fish, that she looked up and, in a remarkably self satisfied tone, announced, “And done! The central garden.”
”So… Should we add some staff? Y’know, someone who knows the deal - could maybe tell people what this place is all about?”
”Magic within this institution must be overseen by the appropriate agent…” Qael’Naath mused as he stroked his chin-tentacles. There were no mortals alive whom he could offer the charge. At first he thought about his daughters. Auriëlle could never be chained down to such a place and while Soleira would make a fine guide for mortals, her magical capabilities were still painfully lacking. His mind darted to other places. An Eloxochitli perhaps? No, he needed something approachable for all races. Something that could guide them as well. Someone from Anghebad? Alas, they were only barely scratching the surface of their Labyrinth. They made him proud but were not yet ready for the task. But as his mind went over their Labyrinth, he found his answer. He squeezed his fist for a second, and then opened it again. Showing a fired-clay figurine of one of the axolotl-looking creatures and put it on the table. ”The school’s headmaster of magic.” He presented it to his siblings.
”A frog, huh. Neat.” Gibbou conjured forth a slice of bread as she regarded the statuette. ”Y’know… A place like this is bound to get pretty dirty. Y’all think everyone would be responsible and clean up after themselves after doing their stuff and things like decent mortal beings?” She looked around the table. ”Yeah, no, I agree.” She took a crumb of her bread and, in a second, it flourished with mould. The mould twisted and turned, eventually shaping into a person-like figure with three legs, two hands - one swallowed by the mushroom growth - and a bioluminescent ghostcap for a head. Gibbou placed it down proudly. ”Now we have a janitor!”
”Well now. that raises all sorts of interesting possibilities. A living member of a species that never existed” Artifex noted as he looked upon the axolotl Qael had made, ”I predict its life will be a rather interesting one. Now then,”
The Artifex leaned back in his char, swirled his wine and then took a sip, clearly contemplating. Then he nodded to himself, before pulling to rings that he was wearing off his fingers. ”I think the office of head of technology shall be headed by a mortal. The best, possibly decided by competition, but that does not mean I don’t want them to be completely without the kind of continuity and wisdom provided by magic’s ageless ruler. ” The smaller was placed inside the other and the space inbetween filled with a black mass as he spoke ”So I’ll give them an assistant” The mass suddenly grew eyes and abstract limbs, propping itself up onto them. The god made a vague depiction of a mortal, their general appearance and even species ambiguous, and set it next to the axolotl. The prototype obediently scampered over to this model, before clambering up it and sitting to rest on its shoulder like a tame raven.
”Ain’t that somethin’. This’ll be such a project, y’all!” clapped Gibbou giddily. Turning to the Patron, she frowned pensively. ”You. You adding anything?”
“A librarian would be useful,” The Patron bit her lip in thought, “Someone to take care of all the books and tablets, and my spell pools. They’d need to keep the students from killing themselves whenever some master dropped a book in the lower academy too. So not a pushover, hm.”
Her fingers drummed on the table for a moment, before she grinned and set to work on her own little figure. This one was large, far too large to walk about the university. Rather, the giant furball with a mouth full of jagged teeth and two long twisting horns was given a chamber in the catacombs. A vast cavern with glowing crystals, a small lake, and what almost qualified as a forest.
However, from the beast’s cavern the patron plucked a little tree. She twisted it until the foliage resembled an old man grown from wood. Growing from the figures shoulders was a long sweeping robe made from yellow leaves, and from its head sprouted two long wooden antlers. Once she was done she pulled a tiny thread from the beast and connected it, not just to her one wooden figure, but to the entire little forest where the beast lurked.
The Patron leaned back into her chair contentedly and said, “Our librarian, and one that won’t die once some angry kid shoots a fireball or drops a boulder on him.”
”How about that… So, how’re we doing, folks? Anymore thinga-magiggs y’all wanna add?” She refilled her cup.
“We must find a way for students to reach and return from the school.” Qael still noted as he observed the wider map. Boats would be fine for the Amazons and the Night Elves. But for the people of Sancta Civitas, Anghebad and civilizations even further the journey would be perilous and dangerous. Once more did he clench his fist, only to reveal a fairly sizable figurine of a giant lobster. From the side though, you could see inside its chest. Which was separated in several rooms and one-way magical windows that showed the ground below and the skies around it. “An emissary, guide and method of passage. All in one.”
”For a more straightforward bit of help” Artifex said as he popped a large tower down on the port’s wall, and atop it a beacon that lit up the night, guiding ships towards the safe harbor. Then he enhanced the light so that it could be seen from much further away by any who sought the island, so that they would never lose their way while they sought the island.
“And just to be safe,” The Patron commented as she placed a room deep below the tower, accessible only through a number of spelled doors in the catacombs, “Something to keep the island hidden, when it has to be.”
She eyed the little room, and the spells etched both into its walls and the walls of the catacombs that stretched out in every direction around it. With a snap of her fingers the little room glowed and soon a vast blanket of magical, disorienting, fog descended on the little diorama of a school and the mock seas around it.
”Neat! Dunno why we’d need that, but neat! Anything else, folks?”
“No.” Qael said, in response to Gibbou’s question. This place of learning had already become quite a grand creation. Uniting four gods their power into it. What more could it need still?
”I think these plans are functionally complete. All that remains is to make it real, and to find a way ‘explain’ why there is suddenly a new island with an ancient university complex in the middle of the Ocean where none was before” Artifex replied ”there are, after all, people living in the ocean who might ruin the illusion if we just put it there as a blatant divine act.
“Oh,” The Patron stood up and looked down on the table, conjuring a little sparking cloud that grew with every moment. She started twirling her finger in it as she spoke, “That’ll be easy. Just spin up a little storm, add a dash of magic to it, and tada!”
The little storm grew to cover the entire table, taking on a sickly purple hue. Below the sea’s waves became enormous breakers as the rain that pounded it started to glow like the purple lightning above. The enchanted deluge struck the little mock academy and the false water around it, mixing with the sea and rendering anyone touched by it unconscious. Magic ran deep into the sea. Wherever it went any memory of the expanse of ocean where the academy was to be placed was erased. Washed away in the storm. The tempest grew until it was spilling over the sides of the table. It was only then, when it was finally large enough for her liking, that the Patron sat back down and explained with a content little smile, “And now nobody will know.”
”Perfect! And here. We. Go!” As if slapping a button, Gibbou hammered the tabletop with her palm. Immediately down on the planet below, the centre of the Mydian Sea began to toss and churn. A gruesome, mighty storm washed over the surrounding islands, flooding forests and villages in rain and seawater. Coastal villages screamed as a pillar of clouds and lightning could just barely be seen at the very edge of the horizon - a hurricane of power as though sent by the gods. Something about the storm seemed to hint that it had not simply gathered there out of natural causes, and as it passed, Akuan communities swimming to the shore told every islander that a miracle had happened: At the center of the storm they’d found an island. One of great development and technology, filled with buildings and landscapes more advanced than anyone had yet seen. All the cultures of Mydia agreed - they needed to hasten to unveil the secrets of this site.
Gibbou, sad after fighting Neiya, gets hella lit. She's so drunk she invites a bunch of other gods, and drags one she’s never met over to her realm. There, she declares her intent to make a school. The others are pretty into it, even if in jest at first. Anyway, things get going and soon a school is being made. It’s gonna be half magic, half mundane, and teach anything there is to know. It’s got a lower section for students, and upper towers for masters. No less than THREE gardens! It’s also gonna be run by a fun cast of weird spooky people. It’s disguised as being ancient, aswell. A giant storm is created which causes mass amnesia in everyone it touches to hide the creation of the academy.
The Omniversity: Tower of Galbar II - All mortals at this holy site can understand one another regardless of origin, language and biology. It does not translate the meaning of cultural expressions and gestures, however. Scripts of Qael I - Knowledge of magic and alchemy is acquired at an accelerated rate. Tools of Artifex I - Knowledge of engineering and crafting-related trades is acquired at an accelerated rate. Of the Old and the New II: Already discovered technologies spread between societies who have contact with the university at an accelerated rate; technologies that have yet to be discovered can be researched faster at this holy site. Explorers Tale I: Tales told by passing sailors and former students, of distant places or long lost treasures and spells, sometimes find their way into a book at this academy. Though never found until the teller is long gone, these tales will inspire forever. Fog of Confusion I: An ancient spell room in the university contains the trigger to a powerful defense for the academy. When activated it conceals the entire island, and much of the sea around it, in a thick blanket of fog that actively disorients and confuses those within it. The inside of the academy is immune to the effects.
Gibbou 5MP/5DP
2DP: Create extraordinary, legendary monster - The Janitor: The monster inhabits the university grounds, living as a legend in the shadows of the night. When the students and faculty have gone to sleep, the Janitor seeps out from wherever it has been hiding in the day to consume all the filth left behind by the resident scholars. A cursed myth to the daywalkers, and a true nightmare for any nightdwellers careless enough to wander outside their designated quarters.
1MP to the Omniversity. 1MP to the magic school bus.
End Gibs: 3MP/3DP
The Patron: 5MP/5DP
2MP: Create legendary monster - The Librarian: The Librarian is a beast of extraordinary power that lurks in a vast cavern below the academy. Appearing as a massive furry beast with a maw nearly a quarter the size of its body the Librarian is a fearsome beast, but usually a gentle one. He uses his innate magic to grow the peculiar trees that thrive under the magical light of crystals in his cavern, trees which he can warp into puppet forms to manage the academy in its vastness. The Librarian usually has at least three of his wooden puppets wandering the academy, managing its vast collections.
3DP +1MP: The Fog.
2DP: Mysterious Storm
1MP: The Island
End Patron: 1MP/0DP
Qael’Naath 5MP/5DP
1MP for the Legendary beast “Duxus” - Duxus is a large, lobster-shaped, golem-like construct that is capable of flight. Its body is hollow and filled with various rooms to sleep or entertain oneself in and also has various one-way magic “windows” so people inside can see the ground below or the skies around them. Several rooms have a masked face carved in its wall. Each allows interaction with Duxus, Emissary and Guide of the Omniversity. While Duxus seems menacing, he mainly exists to ferry those who so desire to the Omniversity. To do this he often lands and stays near larger settlements for several days before he returns to his island home. Duxus possesses magical abilities to expel those from inside of him should they prove to be dangerous or aggressive. 3MP for the Ethereal Vault 1MP to the Omniversity. 3DP to undecided titles for the Headmaster of Magic End Qael: 0MP/5DP
Artifex 5MP/5DP 1MP to the Omniversity. 1 MP to teach the ability to make enchanted quills used to replicate texts. 2 MP for assistant 0 mp (ship discount) for lighthouse: II guiding light: the light of the lighthouse can guide any ship trying to sail from the surrounding parts of Mydian islands to the university will be able to see the light of the lighthouse, guiding them to it. 1 MP towards island
Member
Kangutso
Lord Zee
Dinh AaronMk
Timemaster
Lunamaria Hawke
Taeryn
Nallore
Sigma
ButtsnBalls
