”We’re not robbing them. They’re handing over their belongings out of their own free will. Well, yes, our missiles may be locked on their ships, but that’s beside the point.” Captain Alfredo Samuel Tenor upon collecting “tribute” from a bypassing trade convoy.
The Wandering fleet is a collection of larger and smaller ships surrounding the repurposed ark known as Eldorado, which functions as flagship for the fleet. The fleet is for all intents and purposes a massive city of constantly shifting and changing components united under a very loose government of crime syndicates that possess varying degrees of wealth, firepower and will to cooperate.
While the fleet itself is neutral ground and in principle welcoming to all, the multitude of factions that exist on it have their own loyalties to the various nations of Eden - however, common among almost all the factions is a shared disdain for the Core Worlds, owing to the fact that many faction members are on the run from these very powers. All sorts of lawfolk and interpol organisations are also heavily disliked.
The fleet’s government is decided by whichever crime syndicate can wrest control of the most territory, as well as some key districts like the space ports, oxygen farms, terrace farms, mineral and ice storages. The current syndicate in power is the Tenor Family, led by patriarch Alfredo Samuel Tenor. His family has considerable manpower, allowing him to hold the central engine room, starboard docks, starboard storage halls and the financial sector.
Other notable families include the Taixing Triads, who hold the bar and restaurant districts, led by mama Ma Yiyi; the Majagupta Family, who hold the stardocks on port side and the port terrace farms, led by matriarch Vinyasa Majagupta; Los Desperados, who hold little territory, but have an extensive black market that gives them access to weapons and mechanics, led by the feared Ahméd Gonzales.
Humans: By far the largest population group. They’re humans, they’re numerous and they come from all around the cluster - some are mutated; some are clean; a lot of them are down on their luck, just like everyone else who ends up in the Hole.
Simmie: The Simmies would be quite familiar to humans, seeing as they actually came with them. They are great apes brought along by humanity for experimentation. Eventually exposed to a brain-altering serum, the chimpanzees developed an almost human-like self-consciousness and understanding. While they are only 200 years old as a new subgroup of the great apes, they possess an almost eerie level of civility, having adopted a great deal of cultural norms from humanity. They still separate themselves in a number of ways, particularly by means of language, which they convey through hand signs and grunts. Simmies commonly work as mechanics, electricians, drone operators and construction workers on account of their agility and dexterity, or as translators when Mi-self Translate is down.
Putt: Putts come from the fringe desert planet of Demos 4, also known as Oppo. They’re slightly shorter than human males on average, standing on average 167 centimetres for both males and females, sly and business-savvy, hailing from a tiny desert planet where competition, exploitation and opportunism means survival. They are skinny and fragile, however, and make for poor soldiers. No, their speciality comes in the business of trade, them being among the finest salespeople around.
Qurok: Quroks are enormous humanoids hailing from the outer sector, specifically from Ripp. They have thick, leathery skin in the shade of meaty pink, earlike shapes growing out of their skulls made of bone, and have keen senses of smell. They stand on average 2,3 metres tall for both males and females. Ripp is a savage system, and Ripp 3 is a gruesome place to evolve, being a hellish landscape of toxic swamps, massive predators and an acidic atmosphere. Quroks originally evolved underground, where they formed colonies that would hunt on the surface. They developed enormous lung capacity, a natural resistance to toxic gases, and the ability to seal shut every orifice in their body and protect their eyes with thick layers of biological glass - if not for the cold of space, they would be able to survive by just holding their breath. As citizens newly introduced to interstellar society, Quroks have taken up work on industrial worlds and space stations, requiring very little oxygen to actually sustain themselves. Given that they only were discovered a little under a century ago, many of their tricks from hunting still remain, and many Quroks take up work as mercenaries and bounty hunters.
Civilian ships and assets make up 97% of the fleet’s total number of ships, though hardly all of these could be classified as civilian - they merely look that way until unsuspecting victims come too close.
Once known proudly as “Xuanzang”, the 671st ark was once a proud member of the Sol fleet to escape Perseus. Now it’s a den of sin and crime, soaring through the stars reaping the profits of pirate raids, black markets, smuggling runs and bribes. As the centre of the Wandering Fleet, the ark is a host of businesses both bright and shady, most providing goods and services for travellers and residents.
While there are only two in the whole fleet, the Mawmaw-class Freighters (most of which have been commandeered from other powers in the sector) are essential to transporting the minerals and goods of the fleet and also carry all the fuel, supplies and materials used to sustain the fleet at large.
A very common ship in the fleet, this freighter’s flexible model allows it to be modified to fit the owner’s needs: With life support modules installed in the container compartments, the ship can house up to a hundred human-sized humanoids with relatively roomy living space. Can also easily be filled with armed pirates and function as a raiding vessel or be filled with explosives and function as a catastrophically huge missile.
In the Demos system on planet Oppo, homeworld of the Putts, there lived an engineer and artist by the name of Mubsup Ip. Ip was known far and wide for his colourful ships and quickly became a favoured manufacturer of the populace. This made the ships incredibly cheap and easily accessible, which is why there are quite a few of them in the fleet. Reliable like an AK-47 of the olden days, these ships are as popular as they are numerous.
The fleet also brings along so-called “tethered stations”, space stations that are in any way tied to the fleet. These range from medical stations, bars, security beacons, observation stations, living quarters and much, much more. Unlike the ships, these are not very mobile on their own, and are thus dependent on the larger fleet to propel them along for the ride.
It should be noted at first that the Wandering Fleet can afford very few dedicated military ships; in truth, they do not really want to buy any, either. Repurposing civilian ships into vessels of war is both cheaper and looks much more inconspicuous up until the very point where any target ships are in firing range. The obvious drawback is that these improvised fighters are no good against actual fighters, so the fleet keeps a few actual military vessels on hand just in case.
Like the Mawmaw freighters, these battleships number few in the fleet, being only two, as well; however, despite their age and appearance, their outdated weapons still pack a punch up close. They also each have their own small support squadron of ten fighter ships.
A cheap, mass-produced fighter ship from the mid-cluster systems. Can be outfitted with both torpedoes and guns, and is speedy and nimble enough for the price. Their abundance also means spare parts come cheap, as well, so they are easy to maintain.
The fleet’s most valuable asset is the fact that it is a mobile unit - a ship that can transport (or traffic) people and goods all across the cluster and never be easily traceable to one constant location. This cuts the need for administrative expenses on maintaining trade fleets and planetary garrisons, but means that any stay at any planet is always temporary, for better or worse.
The syndicates of the fleet’s most profitable business is the mining, smuggling and sale of psyonium. They pay considerable money to gather any and all information on unexploited nodes and make certain that they are the first to arrive there or, if someone got there first, the very last to leave. This business has gotten them in a lot of trouble with the core powers before, which is why they primarily engage in this business in the outer sectors. Other notable businesses include the purchase and sale of weapons both legal and illegal, drug trafficking, human and non-human trafficking, “ship-flipping” wherein salvaged or stolen ships are repaired, restored and sold off to new owners, and the sale of precious technological or alien artifacts. Salvage from space debris is also a big source of income, particularly in the fringe worlds.
Servicing the people onboard is the central chamber of the ship. Once a multi-leveled storage chamber for cryopods and embryos, it has since grown into a towering slum with everything from apartments to bars to farms to stores to hotels and much, much more. This section of the ship keeps the local economy afloat, as merchants from all walks of life fill the hallways of the ship with goods like a crude shopping centre. It is referred to as “the City”.
Not necessarily an important economic factor, but rather a social one, is the transport of core goods to the outer worlds. This “remittances”, as they are sometimes referred to, is the Wandering Fleet’s way of giving back to the planets and asteroids that fostered them. Of course, this isn’t a mindset held by everyone onboard, and just as many choose to help these places as choose to raid them right afterwards.
Once known proudly as “Xuanzang”, the 671st ark ran into issues quite rapidly after leaving the Sol system. Hastened construction efforts brought with them botched and overlooked faults, and life support systems broke down upon exposure to the overpowering energies of the Jump Gates, killing everyone onboard before the ship’s eventual arrival in the Eden cluster. Navigation systems and autopilot awaited commands that would never come, and so the “Xuanzang” drifted into the emptiness of space for centuries.
Only fifty years ago would the ship be rediscovered by chance - not by radar, but by sight, as a poor, penniless asteroid miner named Pelé Tenor, a Simmie from some backwater fringe colony, just so happened to dig for ice in an asteroid field that just so happened to hide one enormous asteroid. Of course, this proved to be no asteroid at all, but the “Xuanzang”, lost to time for six hundred years. Pelé immediately marked down its location and returned home, gathering the rest of his colonists and whomever else would like to come and proceeded to board the ark. Aboard, they found technologies they had never even dreamt of seeing in these boonies of space - everything from weapons, vehicles, ships and generators to life support, farming equipment, seeds and communication. Of course, some of it had been rendered useless by an eternity in the freezing temperatures of space, but overall, most of it seemed salvageable. And salvage, they did, taking everything that still seemed to work and filling up their ships for the black market.
It was at that moment, though, that Pelé’s son, Alfredo, suddenly got an idea - sure, they could sell all they had found and live rich as kings on their backwater planet; maybe they could even buy citizenship on a core sector planet. For many of his listeners, their attention stopped there, the keys of their ships turning around as they soared off to get rich. A subset remained to hear the “or”. Alfredo had grinned and thumbed back at the ship: Or, he had said, they could repair the ship, concentrate all their wealth in it and sail through the stars as kings and queens of commerce. While some still insisted on soaring off to sell their loot, Alfredo’s speech has stirred something inside the hundred or so people who remained, including his father - a sense of wanderlust coupled with a patience that only a strategist could match. Sure, the status as nouveau riche sounded fancy, but how would you keep up that growth? Nobody had the education to nail a desk job in a core world, anyway - at best, they could end up as floor scrubbers at some facility.
Nuh-uh, not for Alfredo and his folks - no, siree. They would become their own kings and queen, sailing through the stars and discovering all sorts of new sights that none of them had ever seen before. Pelé, Alfredo and the rest sold off what they had to to buy spare parts and got to work. It took twenty years to repair it entirely, and many of their workers passed away due to accidents, life support failure, pirate raids and more. However, as word spread of their project, many fringeworlders flocked to the scene, eager to join in on the adventures once the project was complete. With their help, the ark was eventually restored, though that was putting it nicely. It would never be as reliable as the day it left Sol, but at least it would travel. Pelé passed away only a year after its completion and Alfredo rose to the top, though he had already been the de facto captain of the vessel for decades by now. As the population of the ark grew steadily, he surrounded himself with his most loyal and made sure to keep an iron-fisted control aboard his ship. Given that these were fringeworlders, cartels, pirates, criminals and other scum were quick to seek refuge aboard the ship, as it was a fairly safe moving base and had basically no rules aboard other than “respect the head honcho or else”. While Alfredo was initially disdainful towards these people, he soon found that he could always claim a bit of the loot they brought back. Thus, the Black Contract was formed, the basis of existence aboard the “Xuanzang”, by now redubbed to “Eldorado”.
You could stay aboard as long as you’d like if you paid your ticket fare. The fare? A percentage of your loot, labour or limbs, depending on what was most convenient. Eldorado quickly got itself involved with all sorts of piracy and smuggling business, particularly of psyonium, which remains their most profitable and vital business. As its renown grew, so did the number of people wanting to throw in their lot with the flagship. Soon, a fleet of vessels had formed, bearing everything from honest businessmen to pirates of the scummiest sort. Nobody knows how long the fleet may outrun the law, but for now, they are fairly safe.
Alfredo Samuel Tenor, patriarch of the Tenor Family: A Simmie who appears to sport a lot more gray hairs than his volcanic temper would suggest. Tenor can swing between icy calm and molten rage in the span of seconds with little to no warning, a trait which has gotten many unfortunate messengers and careless negotiators beaten to near-death or shot on sight. He may be a loose cannon, but in a world like that of Eldorado, that’s just what one needs to be sometimes.
The Schumacher Sisters: A pair of notorious killers, Claire and Annabeth Schumacher are top of the class mercenaries that have taken up refuge on Eldorado, passing the time between contracts by engaging in gang wars and exploring the bars and gigolo clubs.
Spencer “Spike” Schubert: A bonobo just trying to balance his life as a soon-to-be-father and his career as a member of the Snapjack Gang. He’s no foolish ape and tries to keep his head cool as much as he can, but the expectations of his peers often get the better of him and forces him to make decisions that may put the life of himself and his family in danger.
Year 30AA, autumn, surface reefs south of Ha-Dûna...
“There - that should do the trick,” said Boudicca upon tightening the knot. A linen scarf had been wrapped around a pack of cooked meat, juices soaking into the fabric. She had tied a thick fiber rope around the lined again and placed it neatly in the centre of their trap. She and thirty other experienced hunters had taken the day-long trip south to Seejentún, a large and well-exposed land reef full of life and resources. Here, they had corresponded and traded with the local Meike and Doserung peoples, exchanging ideas, stories and goods in good, fraternal faith. Boudicca had drunk honeywine with the Doseung chief and the other elders and the village had all feasted on delicious caproshrimp barbeque and shorecattle tartar, served with seaweed, shore apples, saltberries and many other fruits of the sea. Afterwards, the elders had gathered the children and the foreigners and shared stories from the sea, of great Vrool tyrants and their Akuan champions, of majestic Merelli beauties and sirens who would lure sailors ashore to the north, never to be seen again - the clever escapades of one they called “Gra’al” were told over and over with the intensity and admiration of a Gaardskarl sharing the story of Gaard Goldhair. It seemed uncanny to the Dûnans to hold a monster such as Grallus, but nothing that received the praise the Doserung gave it could possibly be all bad, could it?
The trip was as much a break for the sanndatr as it was a diplomatic mission: The flaming tensions in Ha-Dûna were too much to bear, even for her, and when she had received an invitation to travel down south to meet with the Doseung and Meike, she just had to accept. She found herself confiding in one particular Doserung chief, one Bonursan Chirrut, a man ten years her senior with open ears, a calming aura and small, black horns on his head - uncannily, though, he did not look a day older than his son.
“I… I feel like I’ve lost sight of our mission, our purpose - and only after one year! Ha-Dûna has been united for one year and we are already breaking apart at the seams again!” she had complained to him over the fire as she sat alone with the chief, his son Yip, ambassador of their people, translating for him. The chief never said much, usually nodding for her to continue whilst thoughtfully sipping his sweetkelp tea as she took him through the past year and all the horrors. Eventually, the sanndatr descended onto her forearms on her knees, head hanging hopelessly from her shoulder. “I just don’t know what to do.”
Normally, it would be odd for an elect such as herself to confide in a foreign chief; however, Boudicca had learned from Yip that the Doserung value honesty and the sharing of information as the highest virtue, and that secret-keeping was synonymous with lying. Thus, when the chief eventually spoke back, he would to anyone beyond his own people have sounded most rude and insulting - Boudicca confessed to herself that she grew furious at his diction, but the message itself was sound:
“The way I see it,” the chief had said through Yip, “you are showing your people your inability to make rational decisions for the good of all. Like the people, you allowed yourself to be swept by emotion and take the popular, but foolish road to vengeance. I realise that unpopularity is all you have reaped throughout this whole year, but a mighty leader faces the wrath of their people for the good of their people.” Before she could retort, the chief had raised his hand. “I realise my words may seem uncouth to outsiders, but know that I speak no lies. You have the potential to make Ha-Dûna the pearl of the north - my son tells me it already is a sight to behold; however, you must not let yourself stray from the path of Murr-shom-windo. Maintain stability at all costs, and you will be remembered as strong; give way to chaos, and you will only be remembered as its herald.”
The sanndatr had taken his words to heart, and after another few days in the cold, yet beautiful paradise between land and sea, she had returned home with a caravan filled to the brim with the fruits of the ocean and land reef. As soon as she returned to Ha-Dûna, she gathered all the théins and their hildargeach, their bloodsworn clansfolk, and had them all swear fealty to her under Fìrinn once more. Most did so without question, some did it reluctantly, and three took quite some time to convince. Their argument against the oaths was that this sort of behaviour was much too similar to what they were doing in Old Ketrefa - a queen demanding the loyalty of her subjects. If Boudicca wanted their loyalty, she would have to earn it.
And so Boudicca said, “Very well… I hereby declare that théin Aifric be given the title of Chief Constable, and that all her hildargeach be given the ranks of dlíling. From now on, they are tasked with policing this city and making certain stability reigns supreme. We shall not break apart again - not so long as I live!”
Initial reactions were unsurprisingly trapped between anger and shock - the act was compared to mad kings and queens of the past, and fears over the effects of this constabulary on freedom to act and live in the free, Dûnan way were voiced multiple times. However, they all grew silent as the constables took to the streets, their uniform a black leather armour and a silver talisman around their necks with two symbols: the eye, the sigil of Fìrinn, and the book, the symbol of Taeg Eit. However, the constabulary almost immediately grew much larger than its constables - in secret, Boudicca had permitted Aifric to recruit spies from all walks of life to make sure no one could plot behind her back.
She then summoned the three largest clans in the city to her hut: The Tegosep, traditionally a rival clan of her own, the Metsep. It was the largest Gaardskarl clan - not much larger than the Metsep, but still very large; the Blanche, the strongest Brasfortsian clan, and rival of Aifric’s clan Sûr-le-Mont, as well as the Metsep; and the du Pierre, an ally of the Sûr-le-Mont, rival of the Metsep, though not a rival of the Blanche. Common among all of them, though, was a shared disdain for Boudicca’s leadership. At first the Tegosep head, Ur-Dairl, had refused to come altogether. That had been a grave mistake, for neither the Blanche nor the du Pierre were particularly fond of the Tegosep, either. When Ur-Dairl finally chose to answer the summons, he was promptly informed that he was no longer welcome by order of the mórthéins, Charlix of Blanche and Clement du Pierre. Furious, Ur-Dairl returned to his estate, only to discover that his clan had been banished from it, and that agents from the Blanche and du Pierre already were dividing his lands between themselves. He questioned their mandate and was told that the Tegosep had been declared “agents of unrest” by the Constabulary and that his family had been arrested. His clansmen, meanwhile, had been given the choice - to submit themselves and take up work on another farm and be compensated for their loyalty to the Dûnan order, or to face arrest as well and be disinherited and disowned in the eyes of the gods. Ur-Dairl’s cousins, siblings and bloodsworn had joined his family in the Temple of Law, but his farmhands, cooks, scribes, druids… All had taken up office elsewhere, though with a guilty conscience.
It was at this point when word reached Boudicca of the terrible loss of Ha-Leothe. It reached her in secret at first, and she had spent almost two days inside the smoking house trying desperately to calm her nerves. With pipe in hand and lungs full of calming pipeweed, she pondered as hard as she could while cursing her folly. To think this was actually happening - a foreign warlord was making his way towards Ha-Dûna, and he was winning. The loss of Ha-Leothe and of théin Valix was tremendous - the village was Ha-Dûna’s main supplier of copper, and Valix had been a charismatic athlete admired by all; to see both vanish like smoke before an enemy they knew nothing about would surely devastate the Dûnan morale before it could even be built. Worse yet, while she was still planning her next move with her advisors, word came of songs of praise in the name of the foreign conqueror Jonwayo - the eastern théins and their villages were joining him one by one; the lack of loyalty was blamed on Valix’ arrogance, how his stubbornness in the face of impossible odds had gotten Ha-Leothe burned to the ground.
Immediately, Boudicca ordered the mórthéins and the Constabulary to send peacekeepers out to their nearest villages and spread a counter-message:
“People of the Dûna - hear the words of your sanndatr: A great many evils have tested our people of late, and this latest pest that plagues our glorious civilisation may be the worst yet. The foreign ‘zar is nothing short of a bloodthirsty villain - Valix tried to reason with him at the gates of Ha-Leothe, but Jonwayo, the incarnation of Sigeran himself upon this world, wanted to send the Dûnans a message written in blood with a pen of bone. Alongside his lieutenant of sin, the traitor Darragh, they water our lands with the blood of our people, slaughtering everyone to the last babe. I implore you, therefore, take what provisions you need, burn your crops and your storages, and make for Ha-Dûna as quickly as you can - here, we will shelter you and keep you safe from this evil menace. We will make it through this test of piety as we have made it through every other.”
With this message, naturally, came the news that Ha-Leothe had fallen, and Boudicca made certain to emphasise the brutality of the Celeviaks every chance she got. After this, she sent out diplomats to the five Ikdûni tribes, the Mink, the Swadi, the Nubveians, the Doserung and the Bastians, asking humbly for any help they could give. The first to answer was the Great Bull, mweweybutuWeymbierka of the Nubveians. He came to Ha-Dûna himself, as he ofttimes did to visit his sister, Greatmother Ugulele, and offered Boudicca forty of his strongest men, the legendary Buffalo Riders of the Prairie. His contribution was hailed among the Dûnan people, and the Nubveian king was showered in gifts of riches, clothing and jewelry from distant lands as thanks.
Second to come was chief Bonursan Chirrut of the Doserung. As the possibility of a great battle in the not-too-distant future grew loomingly, the chief had brought along stockfish and sea salt to preserve food with, as well as sixty hunters from his own tribe and his cousins’ tribes. Many displayed thick, black horns, a sign of their strong Merelli heritage, and many also had scaly skin and fins where there should have been hair, showing too their close ties with the Akuan peoples of the northern sea. The hunters were armed with land reef coral, brittle, yet frighteningly sharp - Chirrut himself wielded a frightening weapon fashioned from reeds and shark teeth, a gift from the people of the sea. He pledged himself and his men to Boudicca, vowing that he, himself, would fight alongside her for the fate of their mightiest ally.
Third to come was Pride-King Koisa the Leon of the Swadi, cousin of the father of none other than Hilda the Leoness. He proclaimed he would have been the first to pledge himself, and that the only reason he had taken so long was that he had been compelled to gather more soldiers than anyone else. He had been devastated at the news of his cousin’s curse, and had mourned for a fifteen days and fifteen nights, as was custom when such relatives would pass - afterall, it was to the children of cousins titles such as king would pass to, and Hilda had been part of the royal line, though not the prime heir. For months, the Pride-King had cursed the Cenél for their actions and had been eagerly waiting for the chance to annihilate them. He had brought no fewer than one hundred warriors, the finest archers on the Prairie. Armed with the Swadi foot bow, they would be a force to be reckoned with.
Fourth came Prince Olsanmaar of Bast, brother of the dûnanised scribe Ratinmaar, both sons of King Ki’ogmaar of Bast, followed by ten giant men - and these were truly giant; each of them stood two metres and three quarters and had skin as gray as stone. They had monstrous features the likes of which had never been seen in Ha-Dûna before: Noses like logs, hugely overbitten jaws that were as big as cabbage heads, hunkered, clumpy backs and arms and legs like pinewood trunks. Some had heard the legends, but only the most well-travelled druids had seen them before: the Bastian Troll-Men. Armoured in bronze with proportions that could fit no other human (if they could even be considered such) and armed with warpicks that could spear a wild boar. While nobody asked why he had brought so few, the prince read the room quickly and proclaimed that the Bastian Troll-Men were the greatest warriors in the world, and that one was worth at least ten normal footmen.
Last to come was Old Crone Svyetlana of the Mink, and it was evident already before she arrived that she had not wanted to come. It was understandable, too: The Mink had for generations been very good friends with the Cenél - they had exchanged both culture and marriages for centuries before the Dûnans had arrived. Furthermore, the vast majority of Mink, including the Old Crone herself, could trace their lineages out east into the distant mountains, so they felt a familial bond to the Celeviak, as well. However, Boudicca knew this well, and she had made certain to let the Old Crone know, in secret, that every Mink in Ha-Dûna could become hostages overnight if she did not cooperate. Svyetlana had many children, siblings and cousins in the city, and thus had no choice. She brought as many of her Death-Singers as she had to without seeming outright impolite, a total of ten.
With all the auxiliaries gathered, Boudicca had the théins drill them in defensive tactics for then the battle would come. The language barrier was surmounted thanks to the stellar work of translators, though some cultural schisms, like whenever Doserung uncouthly spoke their minds, would arise from time to time.
Boudicca then sent orders to the Brewer’s Guild, telling them to make as much light ale as they could. It wasn’t easy, but after gathering all the grain that could be spared them, plus any roots, fruits and vegetables that could be brewed, the Guild got to work. The first batches were done in a few days, tapped early to avoid the brew reaching a strength wherein the soldiers couldn’t drink it. Some batches were left for longer and sweetened with honey - this would become wine for medicinal use. After it was tapped on glass flasks, it was heavily spiced with caraway seeds and coriander to infuse it with their healing properties. Their hard work soon bore fruit - their skill and diligence had left the city with enough beer for everyone to quench their thirst. This would come in handy for a possible long siege.
Boudicca then went to the Circle of the Long Stride, seeking to enlist the aid of the druids to reinforce Dûnan morale and defensive capabilities. She ordered them to shore up the city’s walls and reach out to the animals and the spirits of the Highlands and turn them against the Celeviaks - the sheep, cows and goats should run away from them, and the weather around them should be cruel and cold to slow them as much as possible. Many druids were initially reluctant to do so, but as soon as Boudicca threatened to revoke their permission to use the resthouses, protests grew rarer and rarer. A group ventured out of Ha-Dûna and made preparations all around the most likely marching routes the Celeviak would take: They asked the trees to withhold their fruits; they asked the heavens to bring icy rain upon their enemies when they would approach; they asked the mud in the ground to give way and send soldiers down from their mountain passes and into the abysses. Many requests failed, but wherever the druids prayed in groups, traps could be laid, and they laid three grand ones which each would cause great detriment to the enemy’s advances:
At the northern shore, the druids beseeched the creatures of the surface reefs. After singing to them for days upon days, the first to come was the tidal jackal, intrigued by the druid’s promise that if they helped them, they could eat away at the enemy’s provisions as much as they’d like. Second to come was the barnacle flier, who was surprised to hear that the marching humans also had food that was small enough for even her to eat. Lastly came the bearfish, who had been reluctant to show up on account of the risk to her personal safety - she was no small creature, and if she were to be spotted, the beach would be her tomb. The druids promised that her efforts would be rewarded tenfold if she helped them, and that they would leave offerings for her cubs should she be slain. After much thought, the bearfish agreed.
In the central Dûnlands, the druids beseeched the heavens for rain - icy rain that would cause sickness to spread and make the ground slippery and hostile, possibly causing landslides. Here, too, it took long time for the heavens to listen, but after making sacrifices of ink and spending the days singing and the nights reading the ink in the sky and the lights of the moons, the heavens saw that the druids were sincere and agreed, though the rain would not last until the enemy would reach Ha-Dûna - it would last three days, and that would be it. Should the druids demand more, this would require additional sacrifice. The druids, stretched to the end of their capacity already, agreed and returned home.
For the southern Dûnlands where the crossing of the Misanthir would take place, Boudicca had a plan already. It was the most likely place the Celeviaks would cross, as crossing any further north would take them too close to Ha-Dûna. She prayed quietly that she had enough to negotiate with with the god in question and left her home to go to the Circle of the Gods. However, as she left her door, she was stopped by a constable who saluted her.
“Sanndatr! We have a problem!”
Boudicca swore under her breath. Tensions had never been higher in the city, with dissatisfaction with the new order already causing fights to break out multiple times per day. If any single thread were to snap, the entire web holding Ha-Dûna together would break into nothing. She turned and spat a little more harshly than she had intended, “What, what is it?”
The constable straightened up. “S-ser! The Temple of the Moon! We received word that there was a great cacophony inside during the night and went to investigate. The monks, nuns and druids all seemed livid and maddened, drinking and feasting as though tomorrow was the end of days. As we investigated, it would seem that this has been going on for a week!”
The sanndatr scowled. “Drinking and feasting? Do they not realise we are rationing our supplies?”
The constable shook her head. “Ser! They do not seem to be responsive to anything save for hedonism! It, it may be best for you to come see for yourself.”
The sanndatr looked over at the Circle of the Gods and cursed once more. “Very well. Bring seven constables more and meet me there as soon as you can. I’m going ahead.” Before the constable could respond, she had already stormed off, a dark scowl on her face. Nothing would break this city apart again - nothing.
They met at the Temple of the Moon where there already was great revelry inside. Crowds had gathered around to witness the craziness, and open windows revealed all sorts of debauchery going on inside. Boudicca glared and shook her head. “We are in the middle of a war and this is what our priesthood resorts to… Go inside and find the High Mother and have her explain what is the meaning of this.”
“At once, ser!” said the constables and hurried inside. Impatiently, Boudicca waited, her foot drumming the dirt road street. Carefully, a woman approached her from behind and asked respectfully,
“Sanndatr, what is happening?”
Boudicca regarded her and then the greater gathering with tired eyes. She sighed, closed her eyes and turned back to the temple. “We will know soon enough. Everyone, please return to your homes and your duties and--”
Suddenly, the door curtain was shoved aside, one of the constables sprinting out with another under her arm. The remaining six were nowhere to be seen. The crowd gasped as one and Boudicca felt her breathing quicken. “What’s going on in there, constable?!” she demanded.
“Madness, sanndatr!” the constable responded windedly. “They’ve all gone off their rockers - every single one of them!” The constable under her arm looked utterly exhausted, eyes rolling under the lids and breathing wheezing. He was laid down on the ground and Boudicca knelt next to him.
“Fetch a druid! Swiftly!” She blinked at the constable who had brought him out. “What happened? How did he get like this?”
The constable shook her head. “I, I don’t know! Firion took the lead, then we stepped into a dimly lit room wherein there was some… Some kind of, of sinful debauchery. We tried to arrest the deviants, but they were absolutely insane, as though under the effects of both weed, berries, wine and mushrooms. Worse yet, when Firion reached out to grab the High Mother, he… He changed.”
Boudicca frowned. “Changed?” She stood up to make way for some quickly approaching druids and pulled the constable aside. “What do you mean, changed?”
“They… They suddenly grew very quiet and still, much like him. And then they… They turned. Firion snatched a wine bottle right out of one of the debaucher’s hands and started drinking as though he hadn’t drunk for days. When the other constables tried to restrain him, they became like him. Only I made it out with Murion there.”
Boudicca made hard eyes at her and took a step away from her. “Are you saying this madness… Spreads? Like some sort of disease?”
The constable noted her movement and waved her hands defensively. “Don’t worry - I made sure not to touch anyone.”
Boudicca pointed at Murion on the ground. “How about him? I saw you carry him out.” The constable blinked over and swallowed.
“I… I don’t think I--”
“Sanndatr!” said one of the druids. Boudicca turned to her.
“Hmm?”
“He’s trying to say something…” Boudicca and the constable looked and one another and then hurried over to Murion.
“Speak, brave soldier. I’m here,” said the sanndatr. The man’s eyes looked lazily around, red and bloodshot; his tongue looked swollen and sticky; his lips looked dry and chaffed.
“... ine…”
The sanndatr leaned in. “Say again, would you?”
“... Wine… Please…”
The druid blinked. “It… It would seem he’s asking for wine, ser.” Boudicca raised herself back up, eyes wide.
“Everyone, step back from him!” Everyone kicked back in a flash, leaving the man alone in the middle of their gathering. Boudicca wrapped her cloak tighter around herself and pointed at him. “He is infected with some unknown disease! Do not touch him!” She eyed the temple, laughter, crying and other debaucherous noises roaring from the inside. “... This entire temple must be quarantined.”
“Wh… You mean to seal off the Temple of the Moon?! Hall of the Protector?!” shouted the druids.
“We cannot afford to let a disease spread throughout our city! We can only ward off the infected and wait for the sickness to pass. If this disease turns you into a maddened sinner such as those found in there, then it must not spread further! Bring wood and boards!”
As workers ran to and fro with building materials, the constable approached carefully. “Ser, if I may… How will the people inside survive if we board them inside?”
“We will funnel in supplies for them to live off of. It is all we can do in these trying times… Curses, why did this have to happen now?”
The constable nodded slowly. “Agreed, ser… What, what shall we do with Murion?”
Boudicca eyed the man on the ground who looked to grow increasingly livid at the absence of wine, twisting and turning as though in pain. She grimaced and looked at the temple. “We will have him put inside with the others and pray they will all survive.” She frowned down at the constable. “... You will bring him inside.”
The constable blinked. “M-me?”
“You touched him. We cannot afford to take the risk that you aren’t infected.” She pointed at the druid who had treated Murion. “That goes for you, too.”
The druid gasped and one of her colleagues stepped in front of her. “Kaer Liose is a most accomplished medicine woman! We cannot condemn her to imprisonment in a den of sin!”
With that, Boudicca drew her sword and protests fell silent. “It pains my heart that it must be this way…” She pointed her sword between the druid and the constable. “... But order must be maintained.”
The constable started whimpering. “Sanndatr, please…”
“Hold your tears, constable. Your unwillingness to offer yourself for the safety of all is shameful.” She quieted down, but her body broke down into a silent sob. She turned to the temple entrance, whimpered some more and stepped inside. Kaer Liose on the other hand, seemed furious. She took the body of Murion and helped him over to the doorway. Before she stepped inside, she turned to Boudicca and glared.
“Know, sanndatr, that I offer myself for the people of Ha-Dûna; the gods will judge which one of us is right in this.” Then she stepped inside.
Boudicca looked at the others who had gathered and furrowed her brow. “Alright, seal up the temple! I do not want a single soul entering or leaving. I must go pray.”
With that, she stormed off as hammers and planks knocked against each other behind her. She hastened over to the Ring of the Gods before anyone could stop her and knelt down before the statue of Caden the Brave. She folded her hands and whispered, “Great Caden, are you there? I come humbly before you in a time of great need… Our city, our civilisation is under attack, and our foe is foreign and wicked in his tactics. Please… Can this unworthy being ask for your aid once more, you who have aided me so many times before?”
For a minute, there was only silence. Then, there was a light crack in the air, the result of a small tear in reality, which slowly expanded until there was a swirling vortex between her and the statue.
Before she could get up, or reply in any form, three men stepped out. Their skin and hair were of varying colours, unlike that of any human, and textured in a way that reminded her of Shae. Each held a banner mounted on a ten-foot long silvery pole - one blue, one green, and one purple, and on each banner was a clenched steel fist. They assembled around Boudicca and, with theatrical precision, thrust the tips of their banners into the dirt.
Time is short, so I shall be brief, Cadien’s voice spoke within her mind, and any who might be observing. I gift you three standards bearing my symbol. The Blue Standard of Focus, the Green Standard of Vigour, and the Purple Standard of Strength. Each one will bolster your army in some manner, so long as it is kept pointed at the sky by one who serves a noble cause. Find three trusted individuals to carry them; those who would rather die before allowing their standard to hit the ground, for if it does, you will disrespect my symbol and its blessing shall fail until it is picked back up again.
The portal began to shrink. Taking that as their queue, the three Songmen let go of the banners, leaving them embedded in the dirt as they turned and retreated back to the realm from whence they came. The portal closed behind them.
That will be all. Choose the standard bearers well, and carry them into battle in my name.
Boudicca lowered her forehead to the ground, and all who witnessed the portal and the standards appear did the same. “Thank you, Great Caden, from the bottom of our hearts. Our loyalty is forever yours.” She sat back up and shouted, “Kaer Pier!”
The eldest of the druids hurried over to the extent that he could, arriving a small while after she called for him. “Yes, sanndatr?”
“Find me the champions Frode the Enduring, Kuhbelo of Swadi and Axe-Fist Leif. I choose them to be the carriers of Caden’s banners.”
“At once, ser,” replied the druid fraily and slowly hobbled along. Boudicca moved to the next statue, the statue of Boris, the colossal boar of the southern mountains. She drew her breath and asked with the same sincerity:
“Great Boris, master of stone… I come to you in our hour of great need. An enemy is on the horizon and I humbly ask for aid. Are you there?”
However, there came no answer. Boudicca nodded slowly and stood up. She had dearly hoped that the crimes against the hills of Ha-Leothe would have incited the boar’s ire, but it seemed that his long-lasting silence would last longer still. She moved on to Gibbou’s stone and repeated her prayer. There once again came no answer, not even when she asked about the outbreak of disease in the temple. The moon goddess’ silence irked the sanndatr, but she nonetheless apologised for the measures she had taken at the temple and moved on.
Reiya’s stone was as beautiful as ever, being the most well-decorated of them all. She repeated her prayer and was met with silence. However, after a short while, there came a promise: “You are not alone,” said that familiar silken voice. Boudicca found herself smiling, and though nothing physical had come from the heavens like Caden’s banners, it was ensuring to know that the Sun would protect them.
She moved on to Sirius. The star god hadn’t answered a Dûnan prayer in months by now, and Boudicca’s was no exception. She moved on to Jennesis - the tree goddess, too, was silent. The sanndatr deeply wished she could purge herself of the doubt created by this silence. Were they truly the gods’ chosen people if this many turned away from them in their hour of need? She slapped herself in the face. The gods had more important things to care about, too, of course! She couldn’t very well let herself think this way. She moved on to Fìrinn - no answer. Taeg Eit - no answer. Vandra - no answer. Artafax - no answer. Lyd - no answer.
She then knelt before the statue of Claroon, the tentacle-faced man surrounded with ornaments of coral and shells. She folded her hands and spoke, “Great Claroon… I come to you in a time of great need to humbly ask for your aid… Can you hear me?”
Silence permeated the air for a moment, which Boudicca soon realized was actual, legitimate silence. It wasn’t that the God hadn’t responded; sound had simply drained out from reality around her. In its place was pressure, the impermeable and immediate sensation of weight pushing down on the land-walker sanndatr. Before here eyes the tendrils of the tentacle-faced deity writhed and twisted, suddenly awake with recognizable sentience. The eyes of the idol rippled like liquid and Boudicca was struck with the unmistakable sense of being watched.
”Aahhhh,” came a voice like a storm heard from below the surface of a roiling lake, ”It speakssss. Thou hath called and We hath answered; a blessed joining through darkness that quenches desire most dire. We were beginning to think We were disdained. Time stretched as flesh in egg and We had lost fffffocus. It is gooooood to hear the mortal tongue.” There was a pause, followed by the divinely forced emotions of relief and excitement pouring across Boudicca in equal measure. The silence was broken once more, this time filled with all manner of sounds that turned it into a symphony of nature that broke like the peal of thunder.
”Nnnnnnngrahhhhh. Yes, dear Child, We most CERTAINLY hear thee.”
“The god of the deep speaks? Has he returned?!” came an excited outburst from one of the praying druids who had decided to follow Boudicca on her trip around the ring.
“The god of the deep speaks!” shouted another and more came to pray. Boudicca lowered herself further and said,
“We have missed you dearly, Great Claroon, He Who Masters River and Sea, and we pray we may continue to serve you as we have now that you have returned. Whatever we may offer you of the land, you shall have it so we may show we are a loyal and pious people; for now, however, I must be insolent and respectless and voice a request: We are under attack from another warlord to the east, and we cannot stop him on our own. I ask humbly for any aid you may be willing to give us - we will take anything.” She swallowed the last word. “If it pleases, however, I would more specifically ask for something that stops his armies at the Misanthir. Please, Great Claroon, hear our plea.”
“Aahhhh, a request! The Maiden of the One-Good-Orb’s children, her beloved horn, the Druids of Xa Duxna! No such insolence in the voice of children; spawn eat from their sires, as is intended. Life must teem, after all!”
Klaarungraxus, in his distant realm of Saxus, wriggled with unrestrained excitement; though this was an unseen action by the Druids, all manner of vessels containing water shook and shivered from the rolling waves that suddenly roiled their contents. The Idol seemed to dance in place as mirror to Klaar’s emotional outburst. The world itself responded to the nature god’s decree.
”This is a simple thing, beloved spawnling child, for the eternal Vo embraces thee. Make battle at the river’s edge and trust in the depths; worry not, for your All-Sire offers plenty! Speak again to Us, child, for thine voice is most pleasing.” In an instant everything stopped, leaving only sloshing water to slowly come to a stop in the assorted jars and pools it resided in.
It seemed the sanndatr assumed this was a pattern of speech and she spoke, “The All-Sire’s generosity is legendary. We are blessed to be in the good graces of the sea and its master,” answered Boudicca. “Where on the river shall we make battle? Can your power foresee where they will attempt to cross?”
Only silence met Boudicca as the tentacle-faced idol seemed to slowly lose life. The tendrils that hung from its face were the last parts left moving, evidently clutching something within their slippery embrace. False-flesh slowly parted to reveal a pearl perfectly sized to fit in Boudicca’s palm. It waited there to be snagged by her, seemingly humming with power. As Boudicca neared the object she could peer into its depths, the pearl seemingly darkening at its core. From within that almost liquid core whispered voicelessly the tongues of the tide; the Holy Vonu spoke from within, leading to some far and distant place the sanndatr could never go. The pearl called to her sonorously, offering itself wholly and utterly to the Queen-that-wasn’t now chosen by Klaarungraxus.
Boudicca blinked and reached out, taking the pearl carefully in her hand and admiring its beauty. She swallowed as her eyes scanned it thirstily and whispered, “This… This is magnificent.”
With the pearl held tightly in her hand Boudicca’s whispers poured from her lips not in the Dunan tongue but in a language far older. Vonu, pure and righteous as the day it was first uttered by Klaarungraxus, echoed from within with a voice not quite her own. The sanndatr’s voice was replaced with the sounds of the sea, of roiling storms and rolling stones. The very same vessels that shook with Klaarungraxus’ voice responded to hers, dancing into ‘magnificent’ whirlpools and coronas of misted white water. It seemed Klaar had gifted unto the Dûnan the truest tool to speak with him again; that of his own tongue. With the Nacrean Dragoman in hand, Boudicca found herself suddenly fluent in the old tongue of the world and with it all the command over nature that lay therein.
The sanndatr smiled warmly at the orb and prostrated herself before the statue. “Truly, your generosity knows no bounds, All-Sire Klaarungraxus” she spoke in the divine tongue, and all around her people spun and blinked at what they thought had been tremors in the earth and air hinting to quakes and storms. The waves of the sea in the distance seemed to rock with her syllables. “Thank you,” she finished.
From the depths of the dragoman came but one, single word in response.
”Gladly.”
Placing the precious pearl in a satchel brought over by a druid apprentice, Boudicca moved on to the statue of Naya, a veiled, weeping woman with her hands in her face, surrounded by empty cradles meant to symbolise the recent passing of children. There were six of them today, a morbidly high number for the Dûnans. Such was life without access to the Statue of Prolificacy. Boudicca sighed, knelt down and whispered, “O great Naya, thank you for accepting our sorrows as always. I come to you so more sorrow may be avoided. Enemies are on the approach, and Ha-Dûna begs humbly for any aid we can be given. Can you hear me?”
Silence followed, enough to instill doubt that anyone was listening yet again. As the breeze rolled in however, a sensation not unlike someone breathing against her skin overtook Boudicca. The air seemed to carry a long sigh as empty cradles seemed to rock and turn, and brought with it a stillness that sucked out doubt and worry - like a mother cradling her child. Boudicca sighed with comfort and looked up at the statue with a smile. Her eyes soon played tricks on her, the statue itself seemed to sway ever so slightly in the wind; her ears as well, as a soft lullaby slipped between the statue's fingers. It gained in volume until it rung out and drowned the area in it's melancholy melody. At once previous hardships and those lost flowed to the forefront of the mind, yet the sting of loss and bitterness did not come with it. The melody weaved into the wind, until it and the air were one and the same.
That seemed to be all at first, before Boudicca's eyes caught sight of a dark trickle between the fingers of the statue. The weeping woman wept blood, and the statue seemed to seethe with an intensity that it hadn't before. Just as the feeling became overbearing, she blinked, and the sensation was gone, along with the blood. A vision? Or something else? Boudicca touched her eyelids and swallowed. This would all be worth it.
“Thank you, Great Naya, for this gift,” she said quietly and moved on to the statue of Macsal. She got down on her knees, repeated her plea as she had done for all the others and waited for an answer.
The euphonious response did not sound like that of a grown man at all - more like that of a child, feminine even. The world around Boudicca sang momentarily and then grew silent and still. Only the voice remains. “Brave Boudicca.” It sang simply. “Stalwart sanndatr. You cast out the help I sent… and come asking for more. Macsal would dislike you indeed - queen that you are. Favoured as your people have been.” There was a moment of wide-eyed silence, the ether seemed grimace. “But you are in luck, he is asleep. Take, Boudicca. Take.”
About the sanndatr’s neck their grew an inken collar. Stone emerged, jade, gold, gems, and it hung there snug enough, but present. “Take, and inspire all else to take too.”
Boudicca patted the collar and frowned - something about it felt wrong. She tried tugging at it and found that its threads were of no simple, rippable material. She tried quickly to think of a response, saying, “N-no, there has been a misunderstanding! I, I did not cast her out - we, we just needed to keep her safe!” However, there came no response. Boudicca hung her head, disheartened, and moved on to the final statue, the pointy-eared woman Selesta, carven neatly in fine stone. There, for the last time that day, she knelt down and prayed for help.
A few moments after Boudicca began praying at the statue of Celestine she would realize that she was getting no answer to her prayer. Following this revelation she would hear the soft flapping of a cloak and the gentle clinking of armor as someone approached. The sounds steadily grew louder as Boudicca kept praying, and unless she got up to see who or what was approaching she would feel a gentle hand upon her shoulder and a familiarly calm voice would speak from just above her. ”You may rise, Boudicca. I have returned from my search, though not as I would’ve wished.”
It was then that the avatar of Celestine would take a step back from Boudicca to allow her to stand properly. As she waited, the avatar of celestine would take a moment to gently lower the hood that she was wearing so that her face was more visible. This would likely cause her to once again inadvertently summon a gathering of devout people to sing her praises, but that was something that she would just have to deal with.
The sanndatr offered her master a bow. “Welcome home, Great Selesta. Did you find the culprits in the end?”
The avatar of Celestine would shake her head briefly before responding. ”Unfortunately I did not. I searched the site where Brian was killed, but the small amount of tracks that I could find quickly faded as they moved onto firmer ground. Thus I decided to return. Do you have somewhere private that we could speak? There are some things that I wish to speak with you about that will not enjoy the company of prying ears.”
Boudicca hardened her face and tugged thoughtfully at the collar around her neck. “Of course. Follow me.” Together, they left the Circle of the Gods, druid acolytes and masters alike figuratively kissing the ground where Celestine stepped. They entered the Boudicca’s hut and sat down by the luke-warm hearth, barely smouldering after breakfast. The sanndatr pondered for a moment and patted protectively the satchel around her torso. She then said, “Alright, we should be safe here. What’s the matter, master?”
The avatar of Celestine would walk swiftly behind Boudicca as she led her towards what Celestine would eventually learn to be Boudicca’s hut. As Boudicca sat, the avatar of Celestine remained standing. Unfortunately, the look on her face was not one that indicated she bore good news. As Boudicca would likely notice, the avatar’s eyes appeared to hold judgement within them rather than their usual calmness. As Celestine began to ask after something, her voice was steely and firm. ”Ser Boudicca, my divine senses tell me that you have violated part of your chivalric code. Though I do not like to do it, punishment must be handed out. Kneel.”
Celestine’s avatar drew its sword slowly. Boudicca could get the distinct feeling that she was not in danger, but the look on the avatar’s face was not one of kindness just yet. Though at the same time one could suppose that she was still being quite merciful and protecting Boudicca’s dignity since she could’ve chosen to administer this punishment the moment she arrived. The avatar waited for Boudicca to comply.
The sanndatr recoiled. “Violated the code? By Taeg Eit, I have done no such thing! What accusation is this, master? Where have I wronged?” She stanced herself defensively, arms tense and ready to protect herself.
The avatar of Celestine blinked unerringly before focusing for a moment. It then spoke once more to educate Boudicca upon the code that she had broken. “My senses tell me that you have violated tenent three of my Chivalric Code. Who’s dead have you dishonored?”
Boudicca looked lost beyond words. “Dishonoured dead? I have never dishonoured the dead in my life. My respect for those who have passed into the afterlife is like that of all other god-fearing women and men of this city. They have all been burnt and their ashes spread onto the wind, soil and sea, as the singing nature demands.”
Celestine’s avatar furrowed her brow slightly as she focused once again. Then a revelation seemed to spark behind her eyes as she thought about what Boudicca was saying. Placing a hand upon her hip she asked a simple question of The sanndatr. ”What if the culture that those people came from did not decree that their dead should not be burned?”
Boudicca scowled. She licked her front teeth thoughtfully and shook her head. “To bury your dead is to show the utmost disrespect to their spirits. If I burned someone from a culture of buriers, then I have made up for their sins towards nature and their ancestors. If the body isn’t burned, then the spirit cannot break free and enter the afterlife. What, are you expecting me to support such uncouth practice?”
The avatar of Celestine would shake her head in response. Seeing as having her sword drawn was likely not helping the situation, she sheathed it gently. Placing a hand upon the pommel to show that she would not be drawing it soon, Celestine’s avatar spoke again. ”I do not expect you to support the practice, Boudicca. But it is something that deserves accommodation. Not all of these lands are cut from the same culture and believe the same thing. Part of respecting all you encounter, my first tenent, is to respect the cultures that they come from. You know that I do not seek to ask unreasonable things of my chosen knights. Who has perished recently?”
Boudicca scoffed. “Just because they do not believe the same thing does not mean they are right. If it was recent, I assume you are referring to the Chelevyak men who attempted to murder my chief inspector. They worship death, master, and Sigeran is a cruel and bloodthirsty master. We did their souls a great favour by burning them in the sight of the Eight and the Seven.” She sighed. “I mean no disrespect, master - I do not know how gods see the world, nor will I ever hope to; however, it is clear that you try to bridge gaps that simply cannot be bridged. If we had let people bury their dead, the afterlife would be empty and the world would be a place of the walking, vengeful unliving. Such is the working of the world.”
Celestine’s avatar remained silent for several moments. She simply stared at Boudicca wordlessly as various thoughts and considerations came and went through her mind. She recalled her debate with Jjonveyo and the stubbornness that he displayed. But she also recalled the Boudicca of the past, who seemed to be vastly different than the one that sat before her. Perhaps Boudicca was correct in that some gaps could not be bridged, but perhaps there was something more…
When Celestine’s avatar began to speak again, their voice had changed to one of compassion as she began to ask a different question. ”Boudicca, my chosen, what plagues your mind? I recall the day I knighted you, and you seem to be so different now. Is this merely a hardness in preparation for conflict, or is there something more that you have not been able to resolve within yourself?”
Boudicca seemingly grew smaller, more timid. She drew a long, slow breath and gradually lowered herself to a seat on a bench by the dead hearth. “It’s…” She caught her forehead in her palm. “... It’s been a tough year… Everything seemed to fall in place when we retook our home and now…” She sniffed quietly. “... It’s all breaking apart again. I can’t do this for another five years, master, I can’t…”
Celestine’s avatar nodded a few times. There was something that needed addressing more than her Chivalric Code. Stepping forward, Celestine’s avatar knelt before sniffling Boudicca and spoke gently. ”I understand that weight. I bear the weights of Peace and Neutrality. The weight of leadership is not an easy burden to bear, but you do not have to bear it alone. Even if I am compelled to punish you for a misdeed I have never ceased to be your friend. It is alright to show weakness to me. Let your stress flow. Let your mind be at ease.”
With that said, Celestine would gently wrap her arms around the shoulders of The sanndatr and pulled her forward gently into a hug. The sanndatr sobbed in response and slowly hugged back. After a while of silence, she whispered, “If you understand, then… Then please…” She tightened her grip. “Help me. Help me end this conflict and bring back peace once more… Please…”
The avatar of Celestine nodded once again before whispering a reply. ”I will.”
Letting her statement hang for a moment, Celestine’s avatar would gently rub the space between Boudicca’s shoulders before patting her back. Whispering once again, she would elaborate upon how she thought. ”My dominion over soldiers and overall neutral stance leads me to knight all who are worthy, but given recent events I have come to understand that even honorable people can serve a dishonorable cause. I will forgive your breaking of my chivalric code without punishment this one time. When you are ready, there is more news that I would share with you.
Celestine’s avatar would remain hugging Boudicca until she moved to push herself free, at which point the avatar would immediately let go. Boudicca held on a bit longer before eventually letting go. She swallowed and wiped her tears away, her face hardening the soft features of sorrow into her tired, stern, everyday expression. “I, I understand… Thank you. Well, since we already are here, it may be best for the news to be shared now. What is your message, master?”
Celestine’s avatar nodded once again before grasping at her cloak and offering it towards Boudicca to wipe her face with. Surprisingly, despite all it went through the cloak was almost perfectly clean. Once Boudicca had decided what she would do with the offer, Celestine’s avatar would speak once again. ”I have spoken to Jjonveyo, as I was compelled to knight him due to my domain over soldiers. He did make one demand that would cause him to stand down immediately and consider diplomacy: Do you know of the location of a man named Wojeck?”
“Wojeck? Wojeck…” Boudicca tasted the name while rubbing her face dry with the cloak. She then shook her head. “No, I cannot say I do. Is he a criminal they want caught or something?”
The avatar of Celestine would shake her head once again. As Boudicca would dry her face she would find that the cloak remained free of stains. When Boudicca was finished wiping her face clean Celestine’s avatar would speak once again. “He said that Wojeck was his nephew. Sent to speak to your people about reforms of some kind. Do you recall anything of that sort happening recently?”
“No, I-...” She then lowered her head. “... That must have been that Chevelyak man…” She snickered condescendingly. “‘Reforms’, is that how he phrased it? According to my inspector who was almost murdered by him in broad daylight, he came demanding an absolutely unreasonable tax in the name of some distant warlord whom we now know to be this Jonwayo. My good théin naturally refused his offer, thinking him a madman, he got violent, and the rest of the story should be clear by now.”
Celestine’s avatar nodded a few times. ”An unfortunate turn of events. Then this information may be useful to you: He informed me that he would be in Ha-Leothe for three days to await the return of his nephew. Unfortunately, he did wish for his nephew to be alive. You might be able to formulate a battle plan based on that information.”
Boudicca grit her teeth. “... They make camps in the ruins of my people’s homes, upon the bodies of the people they slaughtered. The nerve.” She collected herself again and nodded. “Thank you, master. This information is vital to bringing peace back to the Dûnlands. We will bring the man to justice and end this war for the good of all.”
Celestine’s avatar nodded before she began to weave something with her hands. As she did, she would speak softly. ”I am also preparing something to reinforce your numbers, though due to their massive diet and behavioral patterns I will only be summoning them when they will be fighting and will have to keep a tight leash on them regardless.”
Holding out a square of grey mist, Celestine gave instructions for its intended use. ”Gaze through this without blinking. You will see inside my realm for a few moments. There you will see what I might unleash in the coming battles.”
As Boudicca would gaze through the square of grey mist she would see Death Dragons and Virtus Elves intermingling in Celestine’s near paradise of a realm. She would also hear Celestine speak softly to admit to a small weakness that she possessed. ”Unfortunately, I have need of more time. I know that the war will not wait, but if you can stall things even a little my divine power will regenerate and I will be far more capable. I am sorry that my plans are not nearly as complete as I would’ve wished.”
Boudicca blinked with wonder and fright. “What… What are those creatures? The men and women are… So fair, so beautiful, like you, master. And the monsters behind them - what are they?”
Celestine’s avatar gave a small hint of a smile. It was not the first time that her Virtus Elves had been called beautiful. Speaking softly, she elaborated upon what Boudicca saw and what her plans were. ”The people that you see are echoes of myself, made in my image as I coalesced. The people behind them are not monsters. They are known as Death Dragons, made by the collaborative effort of many gods. I bargained with Thaa, the god of death, to attain a group of them. They are extremely powerful, but require a careful hand. While they’re active they can eat a large cow or a horse each day. Sometimes two. My realm is populated with such prey animals, and why I aim to keep them there until absolutely needed. I had to convince them to pledge themselves to my cause with words and promises, and one of those promises would be that I would see their every need met.”
Celestine’s avatar paused for a moment before deciding that it would only be fair to inform Boudicca of what else she had done in her time away. ”This realm is also where those that I knight will arrive when they pass onto the afterlife. Unless something or someone chooses to interfere. Rest assured that should something try and steal your soul away from the paradise that I try to make I will fight with steel and fury to correct that. It is the least I can do for my knights.
Boudicca hardened her eyes. “You mean… This is the afterlife?” She regarded it as closely as she could through the hole. “... So stellar. As expected of a goddess who can overpower the cruel god of death!” Boudicca saluted her. “Truly, your splendor and generosity are without equal, master.”
Celestine decided it would be best to not inform Boudicca of the trust she placed in Thaa, nor the fact that such a paradise was only granted because Thaa allowed it. Perhaps if or when Boudicca could stand before the full might of Celestine’s non-avatar form she would understand the complex politics that divinity was submersed in. Though she did feel the need to correct Boudicca on something important before too much of a false perception was made. ”This is an afterlife for warriors. I could not secure all of the souls from Thaa, as I am not a goddess of death. Cadien has made a similar bargain. It will likely not be everything that you believed the afterlife to be until now, but I will do my best to have it satisfy your desires. Look to the castle. There should be a large central chamber with a grand feast taking place. That is The Longhall. You will find my divine form there.”
“I see,” the sanndatr replied slowly. “It looks glorious. I…” She paused. “... I will be sad to be separated from my family when I go, then.” A sigh. “I reckon they cannot come along if they are not warriors?”
Celestine’s avatar placed an assuring hand upon Boudicca’s shoulder before speaking. ”If you can aspire them to greatness, I may be able to knight them. Those that are knighted by me are guaranteed to come to my realm. If that cannot come to pass… Then I might be able to speak with Thaa about pulling their souls to my realm. It will likely have a price that I must pay, but if it is your wish then I will see it paid. Though I will ask you of something so that you may mull over it: A passage exists for souls who wish to pass onto Thaa’s realm and enter into a final rest. I would ask you, when the day comes, to ignore its existence and stay with me as an advisor. I don’t believe I can make you into a goddess, but you will be an honored guest in my realm all the same.”
“I…” Boudicca blinked and looked away. Slowly, she licked her lips with a small tongue and then answered, “Since you are so kind to bring my family, as well, I cannot deny such a request. I shall consider it the greatest honour.” She bowed deeply.
Celestine’s avatar would nod and then pat Boudicca’s shoulder a few times before speaking. ”Thank you, my friend. Do not worry about it for now. You have a long life ahead of you, and it will not be important until you awaken within my realm. Did you have anything else clouding your mind that you wished to speak about? I would not wish to occupy your entire day by conversing with you until you were hoarse.”
Boudicca shook her head. “No, master, I have no more requests. Your help and counsel have both been most useful to me and my people. I hope I can be so shameless as to rely on you in the future, as well.”
Celestine’s avatar gave a smile before speaking with a slightly amused tone. ”You may indeed rely upon me, for my avatar will not be departing until the war is finished. There is one final gift I would give you today before I busy myself with whatever you think you might need me to do or assist with.”
Opting to not use her sword for this one, given the negative reaction to it that Boudicca had. Celestine placed her hand upon Boudicca’s head and spoke firmly. “I bless you with Chivalric Premonition, Ser Boudicca of Ha-Dûna. If the time comes where you might break my Chivalric Code once again, you will feel a tug upon your mind to reconsider your actions and prevent a mistake from happening.”
As Celestine spoke, Boudicca would feel a silvery light flooding her mind briefly before it would return to normal. With her blessing given, Celestine removed her hand from Boudicca’s head and spoke once again. ”Now. I am at your service. What do you need assistance with? Show me the way and I will try and see it done.”
Boudicca nodded gratefully. “Then… Help me, my master - help me win this war and bring peace to these lands once more. Our piety and will to fight for the safety of our children and our children’s children will not falter knowing you are with us, Great Selesta. We offer ourselves to you so that we together may triumph over the eastern threat.”
Celestine’s avatar nodded before speaking once again. ”I will. Come. Begin your daily duties. I will assist you as much as I can.” The avatar of Celestine would then stand aside and gesture towards the entrance of the hut. As she did, she would cease maintaining the misty window into her realm and allowed it to fizzle and vanish. Boudicca nodded and the two left the longhouse to continue the preparations.
Holy shit, a lot more happened that I had initially planned. Okay, so I’ll try to give a basic overview:
Boudicca is hella stressed, so she heads south to the surface reefs where the Doserung tribe lives (like a few days from HD proper). She confides in the local chief who tells her that order must be maintained at all costs.
When Boudy comes home, she creates a secret police with théin Aifric as its leader whose purpose is to keep the peace at all costs.
She then goes to the three strong rival clans who hate her and make a deal with two of them, kicking out the third. These two clans who agreed to follow Boudy have their clan heads named mórthéins, which are basically prime ministers.
She then has the mórthéins and the secret police send out a message for all Dûnan villages near HD to come to HD for safety, burn down their crops and homes so that the enemy army will be starved on their way, while at the same time bolstering her numbers.
She then reaches out to the five non-Dûnan tribes for help. They all send their most elite soldiers, though some are more eager than others. Whereas the king of Swadi was Hilda’s father’s cousin and is so pissed that he sends a hundred men, the old crone of the Mink is less eager because her people are close to the Cenél and have ancestry tied to the Celeviak.
Boudicca then asks the Brewer’s Guild to make beer for everyone. With a lot of effort, they do, and they also make some new cool, spicy booze. Neat.
Boudicca then sends the druids out to reinforce morale and lay traps for the Celeviak. Check the prestige summy.
Finally, when everything seems to be going great, Boudicca gets word that something’s up at the moon temple. Turns out a strange disease has broken out and is infecting everyone inside. She has the temple sealed off and everyone who came into contact with the people inside, also quarantined with them,
Boudicca then goes to pray for help from all the gods. These are the ones that answer:
First is Cadien. He gives her fancy banners outlined in the MP summary.
Second is Oraelia, though she only says that the Dunnies aren’t alone. Gee, thanks.
Third is Klaar, who is delighted to be awake and be spoken to. He’s his bubbly, squiddly self as usual and in his happiness offers Boudy a very nice orb that lets her speak perfect Vonu and use telluric magic. Best squid.
Fourth is Neiya, who lets the Dûnans commit atrocities in the now, but forces them in exchange to remember all the atrocities they’ve committed before. She also made all predators hate people. Goodie.
Fifth is Megh-but-actually-it-was-LiW-all-along, who gives Boudy a sick-ass choker that makes her addicted to conquering and expanding Dunny lands. Yay!
Sixth is Celestine. So Celestine, right, she appears as her avatar, tells Boudy she didn’t find Brian’s killers and has her bring her inside for some private chit-chat. When they go inside, Celestine pulls a sword on her and says Boudy gotta be punished for mishandling someone’s dead. Boudy says she didn’t and that she only burns corpses as good Dunnies do. Celestine tries to explain that not everyone burns their dead, to which Boudy says that’s stupid and that she would never do something so stupid. How’s the spirit gonna get out if you don’t burn the body, amirite?
Celestine is convinced and Boudy avoids punishment. Celestine asks what’s wrong to make Boudy so jaded and Boudy says the times are tough. They hug and Boudy asks for Celestine’s help to bring peace. Celestine shows her a glimpse of her realm, which contains death dragons and virtus elves ready to be air dropped into battle.
Boudicca thanks her and they talk about how Boudy will be part of Celestine’s afterlife when she dies. Boudy agrees ‘cuz Celly says she can bring her family, too. She then gives her some blessings to make sure she doesn’t break the knight rules again. Then Boudicca asks her to help her prep and they walk off screen.
Gibbou: 5MP/5DP -3DP: Curse acolytes of the moon (Mothers, monks, nuns and druids of Gibbou) in Ha-Dûna with Midnight Madness. Midnight Madness: A plague of the mind that spreads through touch. Causes the infected to maniacally engage in partying and overconsumption of inebriating substances, destroying themselves by sleeplessly feasting, dancing and drinking for days until they collapse with exhaustion. Can thus be quite fatal. The infected also develop acute late-stage addiction to these substances, even if neverbefore having been exposed to them, and will become violent and desperate if not given their fix. The disease will, however, pass after a period of six days if the infected is not provided with any such substances. If they have steady access to them, though, the disease will not fade naturally. Can be cured with healing magic.
A newly infected subject will at first feel exhausted and be unable to move. Then they will begin to ask for any sort of inebriating substance that they know of, whether this be wine, cocaine, weed or something else. If given any of this, the sickness will take root. (3MP/5 towards Addiction Portfolio). End: 5MP/2DP
Cadien Beginning MP: 5 Beginning DP: 5 Cadien sacrifices 4MP and 5DP to create three artifacts with the following titles:
The Standard of Vigour Bountiful Stamina IV - So long as this banner is held upright by a sapient living creature, those who march in the same army on the same battlefield as its carrier will be less prone to fatigue and exhaustion. Paid for with 2DP and two free titles from the Endurance portfolio. Cadien's Judgement I - If Cadien does not approve of the bearer's cause, the banner will become hot to the touch, burning whoever carries it even if they are wearing protective clothing. Paid for with 1MP.
The Standard of Focus Enhanced Concentration IV - So long as this banner is held upright by a sapient living creature, ranged combatants who march in the same army on the same battlefield as its carrier will always remain calm and collected even in the face of the most dire threats. Their minds will remain clear while their hands and breathing shall remain steady, allowing them to take more accurate shots. They can also see through fog, mist, and other non-solid visual obstructions, and will not be blinded if they are aiming in the direction of the sun. Paid for with 2DP and two free titles from the Archery portfolio. Cadien's Judgement I - If Cadien does not approve of the bearer's cause, the banner will become hot to the touch, burning whoever carries it even if they are wearing protective clothing. Paid for with 1MP.
The Standard of Strength Bolstered Strength IV - So long as this banner is held upright by a sapient living creature, those who march in the same army on the same battlefield as its carrier will have their strength increased. Not to a superhuman extent, but they'll be able to overpower most ordinary mortals. Paid for with 2DP and two free titles from the Strength portfolio. Cadien's Judgement I - If Cadien does not approve of the bearer's cause, the banner will become hot to the touch, burning whoever carries it even if they are wearing protective clothing.
He also pays 1MP to temporarily open a portal which was used to transport three Songs and the three artifacts to Galbar. The portal was open for maybe half a minute before it began to close and the Songs had to go back through.
Ending MP: 0 Ending DP: 0
Klaarungraxus Beginning MP: 5 Beginning DP: 5
-5 DP (Increased by Sorcery, Nature, and Artifice) - The Nacrean Dragoman - Taking the form of an apricot-sized pearl, the Nacrean Dragoman is a divinely created artifice-device that, when held, allows the user to speak and understand Vonu with complete fluency. In addition to the obvious benefits provided by being able to speak one of the most spoken languages in the world, the Dragoman provides the added benefit of what comes alongside complete comprehension and control of Vonu; mastery of Telluric Sorcery. The Holy Vonu spoken by the holder of the Dragoman acts with the power and efficacy of the most skillful natural speaker, translating words into waves and shouts into storms. Finally, the precious oceanic artifact provides the user with an unnatural command over sealife. Though this cannot translate into complex commands, it does allow for some surprisingly unique opportunities.
Benthic Preeminence V - While the Nacrean Dragoman is held against one’s person, either in one’s hand or through some other form of clear physical contact, the user has complete mastery of Vonu-born Telluric Sorcery. This translates to decades of potential effort placed in the Telluric arts involving water, storms, and rock. Though the user is not limited by potential skill, they are still reliant on their own experience and cunning to determine just how much they can accomplish with the powers afforded by the artifact.
Oceanic Polyglot I - Perhaps the most subtle but intense benefit of the Nacrean Dragoman is the use of Vonu not as a powerful source of magical might, but as a language. Vonu is spoken by all Vrool and Akua, either in the language’s natural, unaltered state or as mutually intelligible dialects. In addition, numerous coastal communities can be found connected through at least some mastery of the non-sorcerous varieties of the language. With complete fluency in Vonu, the wielder would find considerable potential opportunities from the language barriers broken alone.
Piscine Command I - Though an unintended consequence of divinely translated Vonu, the Nacrean Dragoman carries the capacity for its wielder to speak with and command lesser sea life. This does not, however, provide said creatures with greater intelligence. As such, those animals commanded by it may only be given the most simple of orders, and can only be given such commands if able to hear the speaker directly. Finally, the command is faint and more intelligent animals will be far more likely to act in ways that will save their own skin rather than simply obey.
Neiya 5/5
-2 DP - Blessed the people of Ha-Dûna with Sorrowmother's Lullaby; Negative emotions like sorrow, grief and despair are lifted and kept at bay in all but the most extreme cases, but in return the losses incurred in the past are kept fresh in memory. The blessing lasts until the last leaves fall in winter.
-3 MP - Cursed the Westfold with Pain of the Goddess; Snakes, birds of prey, wolves and other predatory animals become increasingly aggressive towards maintained human presence in an area.
End 2/3
Collar of Taking (2 Free Titles): Conqueror's Inspiration III (1DP under Art Domain, 2 free titles under Inspiration portfolio): This collar, which cannot be removed by mortal means, inspires the wearer to hoard and conquer - and it inspires all those around them to do likewise. The longer one is in proximity with the wearer, the greater their conviction to hoard and conquer grows. It is their right. Their inheritance. Their destiny. They must take until there is nothing left to take.
Celestine starts with 1 MP and 3 DP.
1 MP: Create a temporary window for Boudicca to view her realm with.
1 DP: Bless Boudicca with Chivalric Premonition to make violating the chivalric code harder.
Chivalric Premonition: The bearer of this blessing will receive a mental “tug” when they would be about to perform an action that violates Celestine’s chivalric code and would cause them to give pause and reconsider.
Boudicca 37 + 5 = 42 -15 Create unconsecrated order - The Dûnan Constabulary: A police force (and secret police) under Boudicca and only Boudicca’s command, capable of censuring and arresting anyone who attempts to sabotage the stability of Ha-Dûna. -15 Create unconsecrated order - The Five Tribe Auxiliaries. A diverse band of auxiliaries made up of elite warriors from the five tribes of non-Dûnans that live in Ha-Dûna: The Mink, the Swadi, the Nubveians, the Doserung and the Bastians. The Mink Death-Singers specialise in charming magic and (small) curses; the Swadi Leon-Warriors are mighty archers and masters of the foot bow; the Nubveian Buffalo Riders ride buffalo into battle; the Doserung Longhorns are old veterans of the hunt, lethally silent and deadly with their coral spears; and the Bastian Troll-Men are the royal guards of the King of Bast, known for their stony flesh bred forth over generations of amalgamation. End: 12
Circle of the Long Stride 32 + 5 =37 -3 Impressive feat: Lay a trap halfway along the marching route of the Celeviak if they go straight: When they reach the midline going north-south through Scawick, they will be plagued by cold rain for three days. -3 impressive feat: Lay a trap halfway along the marching route of the Celeviak if they go by the shore: When they reach the midline going north-south through Scawick, bearfish, barnacle fliers and tidal jackals will steal their supplies in the night. End: 31
Brewer’s Guild 5 + 5 = 10 -3 Impressive feat: Brew enough beer for the entire city. -5 Minor cultural shift: Create a Dûnan style of wine called múnfíon, a strong wine spiced with caraway seeds and coriander. Used mainly for medicinal purposes, but can be drunk. End: 2
Burud and Murtagh had walked homewards largely in silence. Many times, Burud had tried to convince his companion that their victory was a great one - that Ha-Dûna had been wounded in a way that no other enemy of theirs had wounded them before; however, Murtagh had never answered him - in fact, he hadn’t said a single word since that fateful day. Eventually, Burud had lost interest, and the two had slept under the stars with contentious distance between their bed rolls, their once-powerful brotherhood breaking into smaller and smaller pieces by the day. By the time they could see the village, they weren’t walking beside one another anymore - in fact, Burud had a fifteen minute lead. He lifted his hands over his head upon seeing the village people, shouting from the top of his lungs,
“I’m HOME, Scawick! We did it! We triumphed!”
Scawick for the most part looked much like it had when Burud and Murtagh had left… through there were some rather noticeable differences. What had been a small blacksmithing forge just large enough to handle the odd piece of metal work that had to be done had clearly been expanded, alongside the construction of what seemed to be a second forge.
The addition of this change would be easy to see as the guard that met Burud was wearing a set of armor made out of an unknown greyish metal that covered their chest that looked almost like fish scales in design. He even had a spear in hand tipped with a point made of the same grey metal. In fact, having a closer look around would reveal plenty of examples of tools made of the strange substance being carried and used for a variety of tasks by many of his fellow villagers.
The guard boy, young Ragni, beamed at Burud as he stood to attention. “Burud! Where have you been?! So much has happened lately and…” He paused for a moment as he looked around in slight concern as he asked “Where’s Murtagh? I thought you were traveling together.”
“Where’s Murtagh?!” shouted Burud. “I’m more interested in what’s happened here! Did I take a wrong turn somewhere?” He eyed Ragni up and down, the outfit clearly impressing him deeply. “My, oh my, did a trading caravan from the south come and gift you all this precious metal? What in the gods’ name…” He reached out and gently tried to squeeze at his studded leather shoulderpad.
Ragni seemed to be infused with a mixture of pride and slight embarrassment at having the older man squeezing his shoulder to test the leather out. “Oh no! No traders! After you and Murtagh left, Master Hamaar arrived as a messenger of Droka, the craftsdragon and master of metal! Hamaar took the blacksmiths, their students and a bunch of other students from those who hadn’t quite found their calling yet and taught them all how to work Iron!” There was actually a bit more pride and excitement in his voice as he tapped his chest. “That’s what this stuff is. We’re the first people in Westfold and beyond to be taught how to work it!”
The excitement… faded slightly as Ragni noticed something off. Namely, he finally looked at Burud’s hands… and noticed the lack of a finger. “What happened to your hand?” He asked, his excitement prior making the graveness in his tone all the easier to hear in contrast.
The older man eyed his hand briefly and hid it behind his back. “Oh, never mind that. How long’ve you got left of your shift? I’ve been missing aunt Leitha’s oat and onion porridge. Meet me there when you can!” He clapped him supportively on the shoulder and began walking away.
“Oh, I’ve got a little while to go yet.” Ragni answered, trying to get some of that pep back into his voice but… there clearly being something weighing on his mind as he watched Burud walk away. He didn’t leave his post or alert anyone to his private thoughts just yet through; After all, the message from Droka and the blacksmiths had been clear that there was a pair of people who would arrive in Scawick, not a singular man. So it couldn’t have been Burud, right?
Merely five minutes later, another figure appeared on the horizon - visibly ragged and beaten by weeks of sleeping in nature. His hair and beard were rough and unkempt, and his every step seemed to stagger him.
Ragni had still been at his post, so he clearly saw the figure approaching. It took a few moments to figure out exactly who it was, but figuring that with Burud having recently returned he could take a guess that this was “Murtagh? You look terrible.” Leaving his post in order to walk up to the staggered man, he wordlessly tried to slide himself under one of the larger man’s arms to help steady him.
The man looked up at him with dead eyes. Then, wordlessly, he started crying, collapsing forward and landing at Ragni’s feet, weeping into the ground while grabbing weakly at his ankles.
Looking down at the larger man, Ragni was completely confused… before his gaze fell on Murtagh’s hands. A finger was missing… and a chill went down his spine. It was a harsh thing to witness, as the message from Droka had come true and the meaning behind it was clear to see but… this was not the actions of a man who had done such a vile act as Droka had shared willingly.
Gulping heavily, feeling the need to confirm his deepest fears, Ragni softly asked “Murtagh… what did you and Burud do?”
“Please…” he wept. “Please forgive us…” He lifted his hands in surrender, and surely enough, the right ring finger was missing. “Forgive us…”
………………………………………………….
The Hammers of the Dragon had been expecting resistance when the men called out by Droka had arrived. This was not the case. Murtagh proved easy enough to bring before them without complaint or issue. Burud’s presence was also easy to get, if only because they had politely asked him to come so they could hear about his adventures and they could let him know about what changes in the village of Scawick had happened in his absence.
The two men were not kept in the same room, with Murtagh being offered the room that Hamaar had been using during his stay while the Hammers had decided that the best place to question Burud was in his own home. They did not let on that they were questioning Burud about anything beyond his trip; The remorse that Murtagh had clearly expressed over their actions had tempered the anger that had been created by the original revelation of their sins, and thus the Hammers had quietly agreed to let Burud have the same chance to come clean and express remorse.
So with a flask of beer offered to the ‘returning hero’, Annul and Rigna took their seats at the table as Rigna asked “So what was this triumph you were boosting about when you arrived? We had to have a healer look Murtagh over when he arrived because he looked pretty out of sorts.”
“He lacks resolve, is all,” mumbled Burud and accepted the flask and gave it a sip. He collected his hands around its neck and leaned forward onto elbows. “He’s been like this for a few weeks, letting himself be eaten by guilt over something no man should ever feel guilty for.”
Annul had always been a large boy and had grown into a large man, but when Burud had left he had still been an apprentice rather than a fully recognized blacksmith in his own right. His hair covered arms shifted slightly as he moved to make himself a bit more comfortable with his elbows on the table, a mug of beer resting for a moment as he asked “And what would that be exactly?”
Burud gave him a stern look. “Vengeance, my boy; making them pay for what they did to us, for all they’ve done to us.” He sipped the bottle again. “Murtagh couldn’t see further than the tip of his own nose, and now he’s lost as he tries to escape what he did rather than accept it.” He flexed his missing finger. “This, my boy - this was the cost of revenge for our mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, sons and daughters who all died that winter after the filthy Dunnies sacked our home. A small price.”
For a moment, there was nothing but silence from Annul and Rigna… until at last Rigna cleared his throat and pointed out rather pointedly, with a small degree of heat in his tone “You seem rather evasive as to what exactly it is you both did… and why it cost you both a finger. What did you do Burud?”
Clicking his tongue, Burud took another sip. “Have you two ever heard of Resla the Gray?”
Rigan glanced at Annul for a moment… before answering in a somewhat vague manner “I’ve heard stories… old tales.” and letting Burud continue.
“Yeah, you probably have. They’re all true - I know that now after having found her and met her… The natives in this area telling of the time she gave ancient chiefs terrible plagues or made parasites infest the game and wildlife to no one could eat - it’s all real. So we asked her to curse that most evil bitch, the Leoness… And by the gods, did she deliver.” He chuckled coldly and had yet another sip.
There was a moment. As Burud chuckled and drank where Annul and Rigan looked at each other again in silence. If Burud bothered to listen, he would have heard the creaking as Rigan’s grip on his mug tightened. Rigan had clearly heard enough as the words he spoke next were infused with a cold, seething fury. “And all your revenge cost you was a young boy and Scawick’s future.”
“Scawick’s future? We -saved- Scawick!” The man grit his teeth and smashed the flask to the floor, shards flying everywhere. “We were the ONLY ones who dared take the fight to them! They have never been weaker, yet none of you pussies dared stand up to them, because you are COWARDS! All of you!”
Rigan didn’t slam a fist against the table, or break his mug… or do anything he had instinctively wanted to do to express the anger that had bubbled up from his soul that was competing with the feelings of disgust trying to force its way up his throat. Instead his grip on the mug tightened to the point where the wood splittered and cracked, but his voice remained icy in its contempt.
“Droka spoke about what you did, Burud. Hamaar told us how you spilled innocent blood to summon a demon into this world. How you turned the Leoness into an inhuman creature of pain and suffering that will haunt the Westfold for generations to come… and how if we did not act to deal with what you have summoned, it will come here and destroy Scawick as readily as it would the warmongers of Ha-Dûna!”
Breathing deeply through his nose, he sneered as he ignored the blood dripping from his fingers. “Droka decided to give us a chance to avert the fate you and that witch-” The word was spat “- have tried to force upon us. You’re key to doing so.”
Burud spat back and rose from his seat. “What, all of you forget the meaning of sacrifice? Did you grow soft in my absence?” He lifts both hands into a guard and bit his teeth together. “If you’re gonna have me killed, then you’re gonna have to work for it.”
“What good is taking vengeance for those who died due to Ha-Dûna’s actions if it kills everyone you cared about?!” Rigan spat back, raising onto his own two feet as Annul slowly did the same. The look in Rigan’s eyes hardened as he gazed at Burud, but there… was still a hint of mercy within them. After all, just because his opinion of the man had been drowned in mud didn’t mean all he had done had been wiped clean.
“We’re not going to kill you Burud. What we need is your blood. You brought this demon wearing the Leoness’ skin into this world by spilling innocent blood, only weapons infused with your blood will cast it back to whence it came. If you give any damn about Scawick at all, you’ll help us undo your mistake… before it consumes us all.”
Annul watched the exchange for a moment… before he decided to speak in a somewhat more calm tone. “For what it’s worth Burud, regardless of if we kill her or not… the Leoness is dead. All we’re doing now is killing something that looks vaguely like her before it reaches our homes… and Droka promised us a boon for putting her down.”
Slowly, but surely, Burud lowered his fists slightly. He still appeared jumpy, but a shadow of defeat filled his face more and more by the second. Eventually, he dropped his arms down at his sides, his breath becoming like shivering branches on a winter night. “... I… I just needed one triumph… It’s just not fair. It’s just… Not fair…” Sobs choked him up and he slapped a palm over his eyes. “Gods, what have I done…”
The anger that had been building up in Rigna faded away as Burud started crying. It was easy to be enraged by a man who was celebrating the vile deeds he had committed while being uncaring of the consequences, but now that the barrier had broken and the full weight of what he had done had finally hit him, the rage departed.
As Annul walked around the table to offer a comforting hand on Burud’s shoulder, Rigna decided to speak up and offer… something on a peace offering to a broken man. “I… I know it’s not much but… there was some debate about what was going to happen after the demon was slain. A lot of people were discussing exiling the guilty parties but… If you want, I think I might have an alternative. Let you and Murtagh have the first chance of fighting and killing the thing. We were already planning on producing weapons able to slay it so… a couple more isn’t going to be a tall order.”
“It’s your call. I’m happy to let you think about it before I bring it up with everyone else. It is your life after all.”
“Hah, would that be right?” Burud sniffed and swallowed, lowering his palm to reveal flooding, red eyes. He pulled the snot from his nose and cleared his throat. “No… No, we don’t deserve to go after it - I don’t deserve it. Murtagh is a broken man because of me, and I will not go into the afterlife to be with my ancestors even if I should die fighting this creature I summoned. Find me a cell - take my blood as you need it and find me a cell, so I can rot there until I am to be banished or killed for my crimes.” He sank back down in his seat. “I don’t deserve to die in battle.”
There was… a brief look of disappointment, but Rigna would respect Burud’s wish. He might still run the idea by Murtagh to see how he responded but… only time would tell. “...I’ll give you some time to think about it. Ask again when we’ve got some equipment together and we’re better prepared to head out.” Because as much trouble as Burud had likely brought into the world… it was hard to condemn a man who had once been a leading figure in Scawick.
Burud and Murtagh come home separately ‘cuz the journey left them kinda split and angry at one another. First comes Burud - he greets gateguard Ragni with a big hi and mires his fancy iron armour. Ragni kinda flattered, but then notices Burud’s finger. He asks and Burud dodges the question, going on and on about their victory as he leaves to get some porridge.
Then comes Murtagh, who’s a broken man and immediately crumbles down crying at Ragni’s feet upon seeing him.
Cut skip to Annul and Rigna, two smiths, interrogating Burud after Murtagh snitched. They offer him beer and Burud says he did it for that sweet vengeance. Annul and Rigna accuse him of endangering all of Scawick, and Burud gets threateningly violent for a while. Then they talk some sense into him and he, too, breaks down after realising what he done. Feeling sympathy with him, Annul offers him a chance to redeem himself somewhat by helping take Demon Hilda down. Burud refuses and says he ain’t worthy of dying in combat. Rigna is disappoint and they leave Burud alone. The end.
Darkness, lit only by a single, circular beam of light was all the dizzy, exhausted Ciara could see in the room she had been locked in, so torturously concentrated as it was right in her face. She was bound to a chair by the wrists and feet - an uncomfortable one at that - and her throat was parched from a dry, waterless night. The walls around her were nearly invisible in the shadows around her, but she noted that they were incredibly odd, as though they were full of… Her - going on for miles and miles and miles into infinity. The floor felt like dirt to her bare feet - cold, hopeless dirt that licked freezingly at her toes in the morning dew. Everywhere around her was dreadful silence.
Then footsteps approached from behind. The sliding and knocking of wood revealed that the wall behind her was not like those she could see - there was likely a door of some kind there. Inside came flickering lights, nothing bright enough to outshine the sun, but enough to give her eyes a break from the terrible contrast of darkness. Shadows of people held torches around her, and then a bald head blocked out the bead of sunlight, forcing Ciara’s eyes to adjust.
“What’s your name?” said a female voice.
“You know my name!” Ciara yelled. For at least a year she walked the market. Helped people out and bought apples from the stalls! The people knew her. “Please, please I don’t know why I’m here. I didn’t do anything!” The bruises on her arms still felt sore and made her muscles ache but above all else, she felt tired. Tired from the fighting and crying and pleading.
Suddenly, she was drenched with water from a bucket splashed in her face with oppressive force. The cold shocked her just as much as the split-second suffocation. When the water fell her lungs sucked in the air as if she was just underwater for a minute. Ragged, panicky breaths took her back to when she was caught and beaten.
“What is your name?” the voice repeated.
“Please I just…” Her weak voice cut off. Afraid she’d get drenched in in cold water again. “I-I’m Ciara.” She answered with a trembling voice and a quickly shrinking heart.
“Where are you from?” continued the voice. The light of the sun formed an oppressive halo around her bald head, and out of the corner of her eye, Ciara could spot other women bringing in a table lined with… Something - it was unclear what it was.
Wild-eyed she looked around. Not understanding what was happening. Why were they asking questions? What was that table? Why was she being treated like the enemy!? She opened her mouth. Ready to let the questions pour out. But she swallowed the words. “I’m from the Cenél villages.” She said with a heavy sob.
“Where is Darragh?” asked the voice. The icing sound of a whetstone scraping over metal hissed in the background. A burnt smell filled the air and soon, the crackle of burning wood joined the background noises.
“I-I-I don’t know!” She tried to move but couldn’t. She would thrash, but her body was already exhausted. “Please, please why are you doing this? We’ve done nothing.” She repeated then, over and over, as she broke down further.
“The curse that befell our warrior Hilda was the work of ungodly magic - the kind that your kin is known to practice. I will ask again - where is Darragh?” The air filled with a different burnt scent - sour, sickening. It was a burnt plant of sorts, and it made the room unclear and hard to perceive, as though Ciara had been given a drug; however, the others seemed to be unaffected.
Things started to fall in place within Ciara’s mind. Her eyes grew wide. The quartz, it detected magic. “Wait!” She screamed out. As if her salvation dawned in her mind. Even though the room ws becoming blurred and her senses dulled. “Please wait! We didn’t do anything. Darragh… he felt it. Please I’m begging you, we didn’t do anything.”
“What did he feel, exactly?” The smoke had at this point grown so thick that it was getting hard to see. Slowly, but surely, it felt more and more like Ciara was alone in the room - and the world. The smoke appeared endless and quiet, and the only sound was the sound of her own breathing.
“I-I don’t know…” Her voice faltered again as her heart shrunk in her chest. She tasted copper in her mouth. The smoking was obscuring everything now. Was she still in Ha-Dûna? Was she still in the world? She wanted to beg again. Hope someone would finally help her. Instead, her lip just quivered as tears fell from her eyes. In her mind started praying to Seva to save her.
Suddenly, there came a burning sting, as though her skin was singed by hot coals. The pain coursed through her. She screamed at the top of her lungs. It pulled her up from a daze she didn’t know she was in. A moment later it was gone. Her mind blocked out the pain. Turning into a faint sense in the back of her mind. But she broke down crying. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.” She kept saying, barely comprehensible through the sobbing.
Out of nowhere, a heavy-handed punch hit her in the cheek. Meanwhile, she could feel her mind begin to float - it was as though someone was forcefully opening up her consciousness and attempting to see the world as she saw it, like a pair of eyes behind her eyes.
“WHERE IS HE?!” came an ungodly, terrifying scream like a chorus of demons.
“Home!” She screamed. Her mind forcing out anything to stop the pain. To stop whatever was burrowing through it. That’s what he said. Go home. Go to the Cenél. She wanted to be back in her house. The roots and branches of which her grandmother had coaxed into their shape. Seva wasn’t coming. “Irra protect me. Irra protect me.” She kept muttering. The line between thought and speech blurred. Another punch, this one to the back of the head. At this point, her mind felt pierced, like something had driven a splinter deep into her brain. She couldn’t see it completely, but there was very clearly something staring back into her mind’s eye. It searched, forcing Ciara to see memories from her whole life, image by image, scent by scent, pain by pain. The joyful memories were somehow devoid of emotion, coldly analysed and tossed aside in the quest for the revealing detail. The eyes grew less patient by the second and the stream sped up, Ciara hardly having time to process each bypassing memory as more than a flickering image. It felt as though it lasted for hours, and whenever her mind threatened to regain focus, the stink of smoke intensified and sent her right back into trance, and every time she grew too exhausted to stay away, a surge of pain from either burns or punches would force her back into dazed wakefulness.
Finally, after what felt like a row of three sleepless nights, the eyes blinked and disappeared. She heard mumbles beyond the smoke, but nothing she could interpret. Just as she was about to keel over from exhaustion, ice cold water once again coated her from head to toe.
Her mind felt blank. Untouched. Her body reacted in spasms and gasps. It wanted to live and breathe still but her mind didn’t seem to care anymore. Did she want to die? Or to sleep? Was there a different anymore. She just wanted out. Away. Home.
But then she needed someone kind. Someone who cared. Someone good. In the back of her mind it felt as if light pierced through the fog. A name. “Boudicca.” She muttered. Her blank eyes still staring down at the ground. “Boudicca.” She said again. The glimmer of hope seemingly keeping her mind above water.
However, the voices were silent. Eventually, one of them said coldly, “Who do you think had you arrested?”
Who arrested her? Who took her? Who put her here? Her mind kept going over things. Memories laid scattered. Forced open and closed. Their order broken. Who took her? Who punished her? Not her. Not Boudicca. “Boudicca.” She said again. Still half breathless. Refusing to believe the kind and just sanndatr would’ve put her here. Darragh was long gone. The Cenél would not come for her. The gods had forsaken her but not Boudicca. She wouldn’t let her suffer here. Like this. “Boudicca.” It became her prayer.
There came a sigh. “Leave her here. She’s got nothing to do with the summoning.”
“So she spoke true, then?”
“Yes, she had no memory nor conception of doing the crime, and unless Darragh also knows the ways of the Truthful One, which is unlikely for his… Profession, then she is innocent of the crime.”
“Shall I inform the sanndatr?”
A pensive hum. “Delay that for a bit. There might be other parts of her memories we can use for the coming conflict.” With that, the voices faded, leaving Ciara alone in her cell once more.
High up the moonlight that would fall inside was partially blocked by a small, insignificant shape. From inside one could barely see its black, oval figure. With two icy, blue eyes that seemed to be glowing. When the men were done the creature unfurled its wings and flew away. Leaving behind three black-striped white feathers.
Ciara gets tortured by truth bois until they can read her mind. They find out she’s innocent, so they let her go free and give her money to compensate.
Just kidding, she’s still in prison and will be tortured for another while to get more deets on the Cenél.
The day had come at last. After weeks of preparation, discussion and offerings to the gods, the tournament grounds had been set up properly and all the gods had been invited to watch the sanndatr and anointed of Selesta, Ser Boudicca of Gaardskarl Clan Metsep and théin of théins, defend her honour as the chieftess against her good friend-turned-rival théin Hilda “the Leoness” of Clan Ur-Gaard, who ushered a challenge against her abilities as a leader. The arena was grand, and there were many games in which many others would participate to warm up the crowds for the great fight. Logging competitions, snow shoveling, spear-throwing, archery - all would be tested and competed over to please the crowds waiting for what was to come. Legendary athletes such as Frode the Enduring, Megan the Strong and théin Valix of Leothe all participated with great glee and stage presence, rousing up the crowds with their prowess in sport and sense of competition. Braziers with offerings to Caden and Selesta burned all day - in many ways, the tournament was much like a light version of Caden’s Test of Strength during the week of Helgensblot. Festivities raged around the spectacles, too, wherein the occasion was celebrated with fresh spring salads and berries, and some even slaughtered goats to grill. Nets of fish were hauled up from the Misanthir and speared onto sticks over the fire. The bards danced and performed elaborate dramas about the stories of old battles, of the likes of Gaard Goldhair and the Gaardskarl Rebellion, Charles du Pierre and the Battle for Brasfort, and the Herjingsaga. Children and grown-ups alike all took great pleasure in the bards’ work, and all joined in to sign the songs they knew.
When the hour of the battle finally arrived, the city was as wound up as a bowstring. The arena was filled to the very brim, and those who had not come in time to get a seat sat themselves upon the roofs of surrounding buildings or climbed trees. Everyone had to watch - this was possibly the greatest event of their lives, and no one knew if there would ever be a tournament like this ever again. The combatants were hidden away inside tents opposite of one another on each side of the flat wooden arena in the centre of the tribunals. Inside her tent, Hilda stood quietly with her family as a trell dressed her in her armour, bronze scale hauberk imported from the south over custom-sewn leather and linen underarmour produced on her own commission by the crafters in the city. She donned her tall, cone-like helmet and drew a slow breath, looking over at her husband, Fender. In truth, Fender was her second husband, one she was forced to marry by the druids in order to do her duty to the Sun. She had little love for him beyond what was required of her, her heart in all known truth still belonging to her dearest Vegard, dead and buried with honours by the Grimholt stronghold where he fell. However, in this moment, she felt affection for him - real, genuine affection. She reached out to him and took his hand, looking deep into his eyes. They said nothing to each other, but the smiles they exchanged said a thousand words. By his side stood her son Brian and her daughter Ailsa, none of whom were older than ten winters. She kissed them both on the forehead and caressed their cheeks. “Now you make sure to cheer mommy on from the rafters, okay?”
Brian sniffed quietly and Hilda smiled at him. “What’s wrong, Bry? Are you scared for mommy?”
The young boy nodded. “I’m scared that mommy will die,” he whimpered and closed in to hug her. Ailsa, reading the mood, joined in with a whimper of her own. Hilda felt that familiar burn in the nose and struggled to keep the tears from flowing.
“Now, now, my, my little babies…” She cleared her throat. “Mommy will be just fine, okay? She’ll kick that mean Boody’s butt so hard she’ll never come back again, and then we can have cheesy oatmeal for dinner today, what do you say?” She looked up at Fender with a small smile. “Think you can manage that, dad?”
Her husband snickered warmly. “Yeah, that shouldn’t be too much to ask.”
Hilda slowly pulled her children away. “Would that be okay?”
They nodded through the tears. Hilda smiled and gave them each another kiss. “Good. Cheer loudly, okay? There are a lot of people, so you have to make your voices extra loud.”
“Okay,” said Brian. Ailsa nodded.
Boudicca held out her arms while the trells dressed her in scale hauberk adorned with gems and sigils in honour of the gods. They wrapped her wrists in bronze bracers and her shins in bronze protectors; around her waist, they tied a belt with a great buckle displaying a boar’s head. Her shoulders were pauldroned with leather, and her many layers of cloth, skins and hide made for thick underarmour. She took a bronze spear and practiced a few stabs at the empty space before her. A curious hum sounded from her right and she turned to face her daughter Materix and the rest of her family. “What?”
“Why aren’t you using your sword?” asked her eldest daughter. Boudicca looked ahead again and went for another jab.
“The sword is Caden’s work - it cuts wood like paper and bronze like skin. I want this to be a fair fight.” She stabbed again, this time piercing the tent wall. Her husband Aethel sighed.
“Can you be sure Hilda will think the same?”
Boudicca pulled her spear back and wiped the first drops of sweat forming on her brow. The trells hastened to patch up the hole. “Hilda is many things, but she is no cheater. She knows that those who have come to cheer for her want to see her win under our shared rules. That would prove her strength over me.”
“But you’re not going to let her win, right?” Materix asked. Boudicca smirked and put on her coned helmet.
“Of course not. She will be defeated for all to see and then we can once again return to guiding this city in the right direction - we can finally put this squabble behind us.” She picked up a wooden tower shield emblemed with the symbols of the Eight and tested its weight. She nodded at her family. “Alright, then. Materix, you find your father, sister and brother a good spot on the benches, you understand? I wouldn’t want you to miss this.”
Materix rolled her eyes and stepped over to kiss her mother on the cheek. “Yes, mom.” Aethel sighed and cupped the teen Zelda and Boudin on their backs.
“We’ll be cheering for you, my love,” Aethel reassured her and Boudicca nodded again.
“You better.” Then she stepped out of the tent.
The applause was deafening. As the two combatants ascended the arena from opposite sides, sound thundered from the benches the likes of which had never been witnessed in Ha-Dûna before, not even during the Helgensblot competitions. The crowds were wild animals, nearly pouring onto the arena as they closed in around to get as good a view as possible. Neither contestant roused them on, however; both were much too occupied studying one another, the wolven eyes of Boudicca studying the Leoness’ scowl. They each stood still, testing the weight and feel of their weapons and shields, armour and forms. Atop an altar built tall to oversee the fight, the druids had prepared a large elkskin drum, and Kaer Pier, ancient as he was getting, was slowly making his way to the top to say a few words before the fight. Some in the crowd egged him on to hurry up, which he took with humour and tolerance, though others chastised the rowdy ones for hastening an old man. Meanwhile, Boudicca and Hilda continued to circle around one another.
“This didn’t have to happen, Hilda… Yield now and your honour will be spared.”
Hilda spat. “You know it won’t be - the gods know it; the people know it. If I yield before battle is met, I will lose all glory and respect.” She banged her spear against her shield. “This fight was your idea - live with it.”
Boudicca sighed and tested a battle stance, knees bent and shield held close to the torso, spear lifted above her and ready to stab downwards. Hilda tested the spear’s swinging momentum, did a spin attack at the air and then stabbed in Boudicca’s direction. The crowds cheered. Then sounded the drums and the arena quieted down. Both Hilda and Boudicca turned to face the altar, atop which Kaer Pier stood with his hands lifted to the sky.
“As every Dûnan should know, blood and tears are not the draughts of peace and friendship; however, there come times when peace between persons must be set aside so the greater society may continue to live in it. Hilda of Clan Ur-Gaard has committed acts that challenge the authority of our sanndatr Boudicca of Clan Metsep, and the sanndatr has requested a duel between herself and the offender to determine who has the right to rule in the eyes of the gods.” Before him were arranged one row of eight wooden boxes and one of seven leather pouches. He reached into each one starting from the leftmost of the boxes, took a fistful of its contents and sprinkled it on the wind over the arena: “Hear us, great gods, and give your champions your blessings. May the seeds of the Sun give them hardiness; may the mead of the Moon give them warmth; may the sand of Stone give them smoothness; may the salt of the Sea give them fortitude; may the colour of Ink give them beauty; may the splinters of Trees sharpen their edges; may the dust of glass make True their strikes; and may the dust of Stars give them hope to persevere.” He then moved onto the pouches. A few in the crowds were getting sleepy, though fewer still dared even pretend like they weren’t paying their fullest attention. The champions stood with their eyes closed, allowing whatever substances hit them to do so. The druid reached into the pouches and continued: “May teeth give you Endurance; may dried berries wash away your Sorrow; may ribbons tie you to your Promises; may mothdust give you Structure; may Metal dust grant you armour; may charcoal rile you up like Fire; and may the Bones of the fallen guide you on to victory.” The crowd took a moment of silence to finish their prayers before the druid lifted up the drumsticks. Boudicca and Hilda turned to face one another.
“Are the combatants ready?”
“Yes.”
“Yes!”
The drums thundered. “Begin!”
Hilda ushered forth her leoness scream and lunged forward. If she was to win, she would have to do so quickly; it was no secret that Boudicca had divine levels of endurance, and she would likely attempt to win by attrition. Hilda would need to overpower her immediately. The Leoness thus stormed in swiftly, absorbing her momentum as Boudicca knocked her spear away and turning it into a powerful shield bash, which the sanndatr had been less prepared for. Still, however, it wasn’t enough, and Hilda hurriedly kicked away to put distance between herself and Boudicca again. The two circled one another again, occasionally jumping to see if the other would flinch. Both upheld iron stances, however, until Hilda struck again, aiming for Boudicca’s legs, her height making those inconvenient to defend. Boudicca’s shield took the strike, so Hilda swung her spear around from the ground to necklevel, the sharp bronze blade whizzing past Boudicca’s collar bone and singing against her armour- a few scales flew off her hauberk. The Leoness didn’t let her rest for a second, and the sanndatr quickly busied herself with dodging the rabid hornet jabs. A few struck metal and leather, and one or two struck skin. However, Hilda was beginning to pant - she couldn’t keep this up. As her jabs grew sloppier, Boudicca found an opening, dodging around her spear and bringing her shield up to knock Hilda away; Hilda, more tired than she had anticipated, was knocked back far, nearly falling off the arena. There, on the edge, she tried to catch her breath while Boudicca patrolled in a crescent on the opposite side of the arena.
“Heh… Aren’t you gonna attack me? I’m right here, y’know!”
“It’s not right to beat someone who’s down.”
Hilda grit her teeth. “Oh, trust me. This is far from over.”
Meanwhile on the benches, Hilda’s family watched the fight anxiously. Ailsa kept pulling at her father robes, begging for him to head down there and help mommy; Brian, on the other hand, followed the battle intently, though the bench they had been granted didn’t necessarily give the most detailed view - sure, one could see everything, but they were far away, and Brian would need to get closer to study the battle closer. He rose from the bench.
“Going somewhere?” asked Fender.
“I’m going to get closer - I need mommy to hear me.” Fender sighed at looked at the moshpit around the central arena. Someone had brought in ale pots and horns, and the cheers were beginning to slur.
“Alright, but be careful, okay? Don’t walk into the middle of the crowd.”
Brian nodded and stepped down the rafters, disappearing into the architecture of the wooden colosseum. The inside was barren of people, as was to be expected - no one could see anything from within here. The boy hurried over to the staircase that would take him to the ground floor again, turning around a corner at which stood two hooded figures. He paid them no mind until he heard them whisper:
“Isn’t that…?”
“Sure is.”
Next thing he knew, four mighty hands gripped Brian’s arms, and the preteen kicked with futile ferocity as his mouth was gagged and he was stuffed in a sack. The boy kept kicking and screaming, but the cacophony of the arena made even his loudest yell just another tweet in a birdsong. His captors hurried down towards the exit, making sure to take the quickest routes. They bypassed the crowds unspotted, all faces facing the arena. However, as they were about to exit the arena, they spotted a pair of singing drunks stagger by. They had already exposed themselves, so hiding again would make them even more suspicious. Barely flinching, they continued walking forward, offering the drunks a nod.
“Heeeeeey! Where’z you goin’?” asked one of them, a fat, bearded man who spilled drink from his horn with every word.
One of the hooded men smiled and said, “Oh, we’re just taking this chicken here to be butchered! Hope you all are hungry!”
The drunks lifted their horns in the air. “Waaaaaaaayyyy! Chicken, chicken, chicken!” They kept chanting as they slumped back into the colosseum. The hooded speaker sighed his relief and the pair continued walking, further and further away from the arena and Ha-Dûna. Only once they had stepped completely out of sight of the city did they remove their hoods. They dropped the sack in the cold grass, whimpers sounding from the inside and panted their exhaustion away.
“That was way too close,” Murtagh quivered. Burud rolled his eyes and peeked over the hillside down to the city.
“You lack resolve, man. This couldn’t have gone better.” He then looked eastwards. “We should have enough supplies hidden away along the road to last the journey. Resla better keep her end of the bargain.”
“D’aaaw… Doubting me already?” Both men jumped nearly a metre into the air as the fossilised form of Resla the Grey seemingly appeared out of nowhere, dressed in more colours than her skin had had for the last hundred years. She smacked her non-existent lips and offered Murtagh a rotten wink, possibly taking a few years off his sane mind’s lifespan. Burud held out his hand warily.
“What, what’re you doing here?”
“Funny you should ask. See, I know I said you should come to me, right, but then you never showed up! Been waiting since winter here, come on. Anyway, since you took so long, I decided I might as well get out of the house and come over here - make a workout out of it, y’know?” She clapped her boney hands together at her own joke - neither Burud nor Murtagh joined in. “So,” she continued, ignoring their terror, “you’ve got the sacrifice?”
“Y-yeah,” Burud answered and kicked the sack, making it cry. “Right here.”
“Ooooo!” cried the witch and squatted down next to it, undoing the wrapping and pulling it away to reveal the bruised boy’s face. Brian stared up at her maggot-eaten face and screamed as loudly as he could into his gag, kicking and clawing at the rest of the sack still covering his body for freedom. “Oh, they’re so adorable in that age, aren’t they?”
“Can, can we just get this over with?” pleaded Murtagh. Resla blew a curt raspberry and rolled her eyes.
“You guys are so depressing. Hadn’t I known better, I would’ve thought you’re backing out on me. Just keep in mind that your fingers won’t be returned! I have a strict policy against refunds!”
“Fine! Fine! He didn’t mean it like that… We’re still determined to do this,” Burud snarled. Resla grinned.
“I knew you’d have the balls for this, man. Don’t worry. After today, Hilda the Leoness will never be at peace ever again.” Brian stopped screaming, shifting between the three faces in a mortified manner. In the arena, the cheers had died down. After Hilda had failed to break Boudicca’s early defense, the fight had become so incredibly one-sided, with Hilda being pushed back after every strike. The attendees who cheered for Boudicca kept up their vigorous chants in her name, but Hilda’s supporters were silent with pity. Their most honoured théin, who had been one of the strongest and bravest fighters during the Conquests, and who had been one of the few who dared stand up to Boudicca’s dogmatic leadership, was dangerously close to losing. She had cuts all over her body; she had long since tossed her shield away, reasoning that she would be more dexterous without it. That had been a mistake, and while Boudicca had just begun to break a sweat, Hilda found that just the spear was challenging her endurance. The fight had gone on for almost a third of a thlénn, and the Leoness felt her ferocity fail her. She packed it all into one final lunge, one that was heavy-footed and predictable, and struck Boudicca’s shield. Her opponent punched the spear to the ground, planted a foot on its shaft so Hilda lost grip and then swung her own spear at Hilda’s neck, stopping a few brief inches from the skin. “Yield!” shouted Boudicca.
Hilda snarled and raised her hands. “Why? Why don’t you kill me where I stand?”
Boudicca snickered. “Killing is not our way. You have shown by losing this battle that you have been wrong, and so you shall serve in--”
“What do you mean ‘it’s not our way’?”
Boudicca blinked in curt confusion. “I, I mean that the Gospel of Selesta says--”
“Selesta! Another goddess telling us what to do! Hah!” Hilda flinched as Boudicca’s spear nipped at her neck. Around the arena, the crowd grew surly.
“What is she saying?!”
“Of course we do as the gods command!”
“Blasphemy!”
Boudicca held up a hand and they quieted down. “Hilda, you are walking a dangerous road - you know as well as I that to speak ill of the gods is to sin. Caden, Selesta - both tell us to show mercy when--”
“Mercy?!” Hilda pushed herself to her feet against surprisingly little resistance from Boudicca, speechless as she was to the point of being stunned. “What mercy is there in preserving my life? I am nothing if I lose here! Such is our culture!”
“False! Our culture is--!”
“Our culture is one of war, of battle! Gaardskarls have forever been warriors against the Ketrefans; Herjegallings are raiders in the hills; Brasfortsians, too, raided the lowlands when the mountain soil was meagre.” She gestured up at Kaer Pier and his fellow druids, among whom some ducked for cover to not be seen. “Even the Clennon Fen, peaceful as we think they are, have been some of the most warmongering among us throughout our shared history as tribesfolk!”
“You hold that tongue before I cut it off, you fiend!” roared the sanndatr, but in her rage forgot her stance and did not see Hilda squat down, pick up her spear and shove it into her leg. “AGH!”
“The Dûnans are a people of war, and the gods know nothing of our culture, of our needs and our wants! They see only our sins, and threaten us if we do not act as they wish, like we are children to them!”
“But we are the gods’ children!” shouted some in the crowd.
“We are their chosen!”
“Hilda’s right! Macsal, Caden, Selesta, Reiya - all have tried to restrain us from our destiny!”
“Shut your mouth, you blasphemer!” The drunken crowd, riled up after an hour of cheering, burst into blows. The druids and théins with their bruisers hastened to restrain as many as they could, but some of them were so angry themselves that they couldn’t help but join in. Boudicca snarled and took her own spear, raising it above her head. Hilda stared up at it, waiting for the strike to pierce her and free her from her wicked life. “MOMMY, HEEEELP!” screamed Brian. His hands and legs had been tied, and his had been put on a flat rock overlooking the city. Next to the rock stood Resla sharpening a knife fashioned from a very special metal - it was silvery, but very clearly much rarer than silver could ever be. When asked what it was made of, she answered vaguely:
“Y’know, magic stuff.”
Murtagh sat a few paces away, covering his ears from the screaming. Burud eyed Ha-Dûna with hate in his eyes. He balanced a hand on the head of his axe menacingly and spoke, “Resla. What will this curse actually do to her?”
The witch creepily hummed a little tune. “Oh, you’ll see. There’s a lot of power in child’s blood. Just be patient.”
Burud groaned angrily. “How much longer?”
“Aaaany minute now, dearie, be patient, I said.” She ran the whetstone over the blade a few more times. The boy kept kicking and wheeping, trying his damndest to escape. Resla eyed him and shook her head giggling. “Now, now, my boy. This’ll take but a minute. You’ll feel an itty-bitty sting, and then it’ll be all over.” She tested the blade of her knife on a nail and nodded. “Alright, we’re set!”
Burud turned and sighed. “Finally. Murtagh, come over here. Murtagh?”
His companion faced away from them, whispering something to himself. As Burud stepped over, he heard it: “... can’t do this. This is wrong. We’ll be punished by the gods, for sure… My wife… My father, mother, sisters, brothers - all will hate me for what I’ve done…” Burud was about to reach out, but stopped himself. Instead, he turned back to Resla and said to Murtagh.
“You… You just rest for now, brother. Resla! Begin.”
“Oki-doki!” shouted the witch. She tossed her hands in the air and the boy was suddenly suspended from nothing, hanging by his hands as though from a rope in the sky. She handed Burud a wooden bowl fashioned with paint and carvings depicting skulls and demons. The man swallowed, but he had come too far to back down now - revenge would be his to exact finally. The witch smiled at him and the crying boy and asked, “Alright, you just hold the bowl riiiight there.” She guided his hands until the bowl pressed against the boy’s chest. “Ready when you are, chief!”
Burud swallowed one last time while staring into the boy’s tearful eyes. “Please… Don’t do this to mommy…” he whispered. The man steeled himself - he couldn’t let himself feel for this spawn of hers.
“Ready.”
“And whoosha!”
A ring of metal, then all sound disappeared. Burud’s eyes trembled as beads of blood trickled out of the boy’s throat, joined immediately by growing rivers. The bowl began to fill, and as Brian coughed up the last of his life, Resla helped steer Burud’s hands so not a single drop would be wasted. Meanwhile, she chanted in a language that sounded like nothing the human tongue could utter - it was bestial, wicked and coarse, like the tongue of trolls if spoken by demons.
And from the bowl in his hands blinked red and black lights, showing that demons were exactly what had been summoned. Boudicca had managed to spear her opponent through the belly, Hilda’s breathing becoming like thread. The crowd had quieted down again, oppressive silence weighing down on everyone. Hilda tried to speak, but a coughful of blood prevented her. Across from her, Boudicca was in tears.
Then Hilda suddenly retched. An echoing heartbeat punched through the air like a shockwave, and eyes went everywhere as people looked for the source. Anxious wariness spread through the arena, until someone pointed at Hilda and shouted, “The théin! Her skin!” Everyone looked on in horror as Hilda’s skin began to blister. Red pox filled her entire body to the centimetre, and some became large tumours which borders were black as coal and swelled up with menacing crimson. Boudicca dropped her spear in terror and stepped back, noticing that the Leoness remained standing - in fact, she seemed healthier than before. Her right arm grew monstrously large with blood-filled tumours, and the rest of her skin scorched over and became a charred, crusted black. Hilda didn’t sound human anymore - in fact, no one could say what she sounded like at all. Few had time to figure it out, too, because not too long after her transformation seemed to slow did she suddenly turn to the crowd and jump off the arena, her colossal, now-clawed arm massacring its way through to the exit. The crowd panicked, drunks, children and elderly falling over in the stampede to get to safety. Boudicca and the rest of the warriors tried to keep the peace, but the sight of those who had died only spurred on the panic. Atop the hill, Burud looked down in glee. He could see people running for the lives away from the arena, and charging through the empty streets, he spotted a blinking, red monster, escaping for its life. He raised his hands in the air and shouted, “HAH! Victory! Vengeance for Scawick!” Murtagh, on the other hand, still hadn’t moved from his spot. Resla eyed the fleeing monster approvingly and clapped Burud on the shoulder.
“Good work, sonny. Couldn’a done it without ya.”
Burud grinned back, completely ignoring the bled-out Brian who had been left on the stone to rot in the sun. “We owe you our most sincere gratitude, Resla! Vengeance has never tasted so sweet before.”
The witch blushed, if one could call it that. “Oh, noooo, it wasn’t much.”
“So… If I may ask… What is that thing?”
Resla giggled and elbowed him playfully in the stomach. “Oh? Is my customer interested in the dark arts, hmm?”
Burud frowned. “No, it’s not that - I just wish to know what it is.”
“Pfft… Bummer. Alright, since you asked so nicely, I’ll tell ya. That, my friend, is a demon.”
“A demon?”
“A demon. But not just any demon - oh no! This one’s special, it is. See, normally, demons that feed on people eat their life away before killing the person. Sounds simple enough, right? Standard parasite stuff.”
“Uh-huh…”
“But this one - oh, ho-ho, this one - this one’s already fed. We gave it the soul of our little friend over there. So what we’ve done, essentially, is put a very fat, very full demon inside our friend Hilda there.”
Burud frowned. “Wait, what damage will that do? Won’t it just stay there and not do anything?”
Resla rolled her eyes and pointed back down at the bulbous monster. “Does that look like nothing to you? No, see, here’s the kicker - since the demon is full, it will eat very, very slowly off of her life, chipping away at it little by little. She will never be at peace from the pain, and the demon will have to eat its way through the entire kid’s life, which is at least ten years, before even beginning to consume Hilda’s. While she’s waiting for that, the demon actually makes her nearly unkillable, so she will go on rampaging through these lands for decades, killing everything and everyone she ever loved. Smart, right?”
Burud blinked. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
“No need to say anything. If you have anyone who, like you, wishes someone eternal pain and suffering for a small, small price, just send them my way and we’ll be even.” She then packed up her things, waved a hand and went, “Too-de-loo!” before seemingly vanishing into thin air.
Burud pinched his arm briefly to confirm he wasn’t dreaming. This was it. They had finally exacted revenge on the person who had brought them so much suffering, and made her people cower in fear of what the Scawicks can do. He hastened over to Murtagh and sat down next to him. “Murtagh, brother - it’s over! We won!”
The man was silent, his eyes as dead as those of Brian. Burud tried to shake life into him again. “Come on, snap out of it! Hilda has been punished and so have the Dûnans! Scawick is avenged!”
“... We killed a child, man… He was just a boy who wanted his mother.”
Burud felt his words stick to his throat. He swallowed and stole a moment to recollect himself, but Murtagh stood up before he could say anything. “Murtagh? What’s wrong with you? He was a Dûnan!”
Murtagh kneeled down next to the corpse, his eyes brimming with tears at the sight. Burud’s mind struggled to balance the flavour of victory with the ever-growing tumour of guilt. He hurried over to his friend again. “H-hey,. Murtagh, look at me.” The man was unresponsive. “Look at me!” Burud repeated. Slowly, Murtagh’s face turned to face his. “Listen… We did what was right… For my family and for yours. They can rest now.”
“And can we, Burud?” There was silence. “Can we ever rest? Can you?”
Burud swallowed. He couldn’t answer.
Thar be a big tournament in Ha-Dûna, where the main attraction is Boudicca vs. Hilda! Grab your tickets now! basically everyone attends and it’s far from a close fight, given how Boudicca is a heroine and Hilda is… Not. After failing to take control early on, the fight is pretty much won for Boudicca.
However, as Hilda begins to lose ground, her son, Brian, who sits on the rafters with his father and sister, tries to get closer to the arena to cheer her on. On his way down, he is kidnapped by two hooded men, who take him away almost unseen. They stop outside of town, where it’s revealed that these men are Burud and Murtagh, the ones who wanna curse Hilda real bad! They plan to go back to Resla to have her curse her, but Resla came to them, so they start the witchening there.
Back in the arena, Hilda manages to spark a riot when she shouts blasphemous accusations at the gods, saying that their culture is not the Dûnan’s and that they shouldn’t be forced to be peaceful because the gods say so. In the chaos, she gets a hit on Boudicca.
Back at the ritual, Resla slices open Brian’s throat and uses his blood to summon forth a powerful demon which then flies down to the arena and infests Hilda. She turns rabid and monstrous, killing people and running away from Ha-Dûna. Boudicca and her followers busy themselves with calming the panicking crowds thereafter.
Back on the witch hill, it is revealed that the demon they summoned was already full of Brian’s lifeforce when it entered Hilda, meaning it will eat away at her very, very slowly, damaging her all the time, but not killing her until much later. In the meantime, she is very hard to kill, so she will suffer for a while. Resla leaves and Burud celebrates while Murtagh is traumatised.
Boudicca 17 + 5 = 22
Resla 5 + 5 = 10
3 prestige - Curse Hilda with a powerful demon possession.
“HAH! YOU LOSE AGAIN! SUCKEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEER!” Gibbou flipped both birds at the figure across the long table, in front of which laid a large, pyramidic arrangement of brim-filled shotglasses, frozen in fear at the sight of their drained brothers and sisters on the opposite end. The figure was speechless, mainly because it had no mouth. Major Rockington of Lightside was a specimen of granite fortitude, a stone of stoic silence, indeed. Its unclearly defined visage was nonetheless in shock and awe at the sheer brutality of the Moon Goddess’ rampage through the liquor cabinet(s). Gibbou let out a simian scream and drummed her chest, still stinky and sticky with yesterday’s vomit. She picked up one of the glasses and hurled it at the major, against whom it shattered into a thousand pieces. Rockington’s expression could hardly be described as anything but stone-faced. Gibbou offered a sour mixture of a hiccup, a laugh and a retch and picked up another glass, tossing it at Kubrajzar. She then danced around in a circle, chanting, “IIIIII AAAAM THE CHAAAAAMPION! IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM THE CHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMPIOOOOOOOOOON! NOOOOOOOO TIME FOR LOOOOOOOOOOOOSER’S ‘CUZ IIIIIIIIIIIII AAAAAAM THE CHAAAAAAAAAAMPION” She then hopped onto the table. “OF THE MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!” She then squealed another scream, one that sent the moon foxes running for the craters. Rockington didn’t know what to say. Gibbou ignored his mountainous silence, skipping down from the table again and bouncing her way over to the other side of her glass-dome house, where there stood a tall barrel filled with javelins. A distance off from the barrel stood a target, next to a pile of broken targets. It was wooden, depicting a humanoid figure - or at least an approximation of one - complete with spikes, horns and a mean grin. Over it hung a large cloth sign stretched between two poles on each side of the target. It read, in big, mean, red letters:
|“AIM FOR TEH HEAD, CUZ NEIYA AINT GOT NO HEART >:(“|
Gibbou cracked her knuckles sloppily and gave the non-existent air a sniff. She pulled a javelin out of the barrel with an arm like a tentacle and made great efforts to balance herself. Squinting blindly, she sucked in a breath through biting teeth and tossed, missing the mark so spectacularly that she could feel the distant, mocking cackle of major Rockington. No matter, though - she had her solutions. Strolling over to a small table topped with a mirror pane, she reached for a tipped-over box sitting on it, white powder spilling out of it like a fallen sack of flour. She dunked the rest of its contents onto the mirror, packed it into neat, index-finger sized lines, cleaned her nose out and pressed her face against the glass. She took a deep, deep breath, dragging herself along the mirror with knowingly open eyes, staring her own reflection down into the ground. The kick was almost immediate, and she pulled away before completely finishing the line, grasping her flaming nose.
“OH FUCK, oh fuck, oh, oh, oh, ooooooooh shit… Gaaah… Aaaaa-ah-ah… Fuuuuck me, oh--... MMMmm… Guh, ugh…” She sniffed many, many times, her mind clearing up with lightning speed and her limbs trembling with a sudden influx of energy and focus. She couldn’t help but slap herself sore all over her face, the substance dulling her pain completely. She leaned over and stared her reflection in its pink, bloodshot eyes. She hated it - it was everything she couldn’t stand; this person in this mirror, she had killed millions - she had forsaken the world below and left it without its protector, and she had been defeated by evil herself, proving once and for all that she, Gibbou, could never be the protector she had aspired to be.
She would never be the Shield in the Night.
The goddess snorted another line. She couldn’t have these thoughts - not now - they needed to go away, far away, never-come-back-away. She eyed her right hand - she had been biting her nails a lot lately; she had eaten away at her fingers, too, scabbed and scarred as they had become. A memory flickered from a night earlier in the week (or was it month? Year? Anyway…) when she had had a glass extra before bed. She had had a nice book in her hand - the Story of… Whatever, she couldn’t remember now - and then that glass had become another glass, and then she had gotten hungry, so she had taken her hoe out to tend to her garden, and then she had remembered that she lived on the godsforsaken moon, so of course there had been no fucking garden to tend, had there? And--... No, she had spears to throw - what was she getting upset over now?
She hastened over to the barrel and withdrew a spear with all the expertise of a coked-up athlete. She took only a second to aim before throwing, the spear impaling the Neiya target straight through the forehead and taking the rest of the torso along for a few orbits. Gibbou threw her arms into the air and screamed, “YEEEEEEAAAAH! I WIN! GIBBOU WINS! GIBBOU! WINS!” Her knees gave way underneath her, and she held the celebratory pose as she knelt, the rush of dopamine filling her up like the warmth of a campfire in a winter storm.
“Hey, Gibs,” came a voice. The moon goddess felt the warmth disappear in a flash, and slowly she brought her hands to her ears and took a quivering breath.
“You’re not real, go away.”
It snickered. ”Yeah… Yeah, you keep telling me that. It’s honestly kinda cute that you want to believe it, too.” Footsteps inaudible in the vacuum of space paced around her. Gibbou shut her eyes and bit her lip. ”That was a good throw, by the way. 8.5/10 in my book.”
”I’m just having a bad trip. You’ll be gone in a minute.” Gibbou whispered. The response was a whistle.
”Babe, you know I never, ever go away. The harder you push, the harder I pull, until we both stumble off the cliff and into the endless, black, lonely abyss of nothingness - but hey, at least the two of us will be together, right?” Gibbou felt her chest tighten. Her heart scoffed at her. ”What, do you think you’re the victim here?”
”I’m-... I’m no victim. I--”
”... Need to be protected?”
”No, I can protect myself, just--”
”... Just like you did against me?”
”FUCK YOU! I’m doing perfectly fine on my own! It’s just--”
”... It’s just that sometimes, it’d be nice to have family around, right?”
”... Or someone who would kiss you?”
”... Or maybe just friends to be around?”
”... Like us.”
”No, that’s--!”
”You will remain as you are. Pitiful and weak.”
”I cannot believe you fell for my act - did you think you could ever beat me?”
”Your body is the only perfect thing about you.”
”... Maybe… Maybe asking you to be the guardian of the night was a bit too much. You’ve disappointed me, Gibbou. You really have.”
Gibbou pressed her forehead against the lunar ground, her cranium aching from her hands pushing against her ears. ”Orey wouldn’t… She wouldn’t say that!”
”Oh, sure, but she’s thinking it! You know she is! They all are, babe, and you know why?” Gibbou swallowed, biting her lip nearly bloody. ”It’s because… They are right.”
“HELP!”
Gibbou perked up, looking around. The moon was barren as ever, save for a few celestial foxes eyeing warily the creature talking so loudly to itself. The voice offered a surprised whistle. ”How about that! If it ain’t one of those millions of prayers you receive every day. Hey, wanna play a game?”
”Just leave me be,” pleaded the moon goddess as she rolled over into a fetal position. The voice clicked its tongue disapprovingly.
”Oh, come on, you were in such a good mood just five minutes ago. Come on, it’ll be fun! Here, I’ll start.” Gibbou felt the currents of divine essence shift and looked up to behold an image of the mortal in danger, fashioned in ever-changing moon dust. It was a young nelven woman and her newborn, both pressed up against a cliffside. Gibbou could not see what had her cornered, but their dressings indicated that they were bandits. She was in tears, her baby weeping with incomprehension for its mother’s stress. The bandits surrounded her ever tighter by the second. The moon goddess pushed herself up so she could look at the image better. The voice snickered again. ”Lookie here, a mommy and her baby in the process of being robbed. Or, well, I suppose if we’re being realistic, the bandits’ll share her around the camp until she’s on death’s door and feed the baby to the shadowtigers, but hey, that’s just speculation…”
”I… I need to help her.”
”App, app, app! The game’s not set up quite yet.” A full neck turn from the image, there appeared a bottle. Gibbou felt a sting in her chest - not one of pain, but one of need, like staring one’s lover in the eyes. A realisation dawned on her and she slowly shook her nead.
”N-no…”
”Soooo here are the rules…”
”I can’t…” she pleaded.
”... You can either save her - I’m sure you’ve already figured out a bunch of ways to do so… Turn the bandits into bats, give her super strength, teleport her away, lotsa ways out of this…”
”I, I can’t, I…”
”Oh, for sure, you may fuck it up entirely, like you always do. Not guaranteed, but you most like would, and then it’ll all be on you. It’ll be your fault that she was raped, or worse, and her baby, murdered, or worse. It’ll be your fault and yours alone.”
Gibbou couldn’t even answer anymore, so choked up was she that ever sobbing felt like vomiting. The voice sighed.
”... Or… You can take the bottle - leave her to her fate. It’s her fault that she got caught, anyway. Nothing you can do about it, really.”
“KIPPOM, PLEASE!” the voice called out again. The baby squealed louder. Gibbou clawed at the skin around her ears, drawing godly blood.
”MAKE IT STOP! TELL HER TO SHUT UP!”
”Well, I happen to know of a good way to chase away the voices.” A tink-tink of nail against glass sounded from the bottle and Gibbou’s bloodshot eyes regarded it hungrily. Her breathing slowed as her stress seemingly vanished at the thought - the voices, they would be gone.
The image unleashed a cacophony of screams and dark laughter as the bandits finally reached her. Immediately, Gibbou sat back up and took the bottle into her hands. She pressed her lips against its opening and drank as though her life depended on it. She could hear the voice snicker. ”Yeah, that’s it. That’s how you shut us out. No, no, don’t stop. Gotta down the whoooole thing. Thaaaat’s it.” As she drank, she could hear it - she could hear it all. The mother crying and screaming for them to stop; the men laughing and grunting and egging each other on; and the baby was nowhere to be heard.
A hollow dunk that could not be heard signalled the bottle's soft crash to the lunar surface, Gibbou retching at the flavour of its contents. She could practically hear the skin tighten around the voice’s many-faced smirks. Her body falling into turmoil between depressants and stimulants, Gibbou felt her mind grow mushy.
”Did you ever consider how you may be more Twilight than Titania?”
Gibbou lifted her groggy eyes, her sight foggier than mountaintop clouds. However, for a few seconds, she saw her - her reflection: beautiful, innocent, powerful - everything everybody loved about her.
But it wasn’t her.
Its face winked and the voice snickered as the figured faded away. ”See you tomorrow.”
Then Gibbou fell asleep.
Gibs has pretty much been drinking and partying it up on her own ever since we saw her last time. At the beginning of the post, she is having a shot competition with Maj. Rockington of Lightside, a most avid drinker, had he not been a rock. Gibbou beats him easily and goes to practice javelin throwing on her custom-made Neiya target. Her first throw misses, so she snorts a line of coke and throws again, but not before hating her reflection in the mirror tabletop for a bit. She gets a small existential crisis upon looking at herself, sure she could never be the protector she wants to be. She then throws the spear and decapitates Neiya perfectly, celebrating with a cry.
Then she gets a visit from the voices in her head. She tries to shut them out, but that only makes them stronger. She tries to reason that it’s a bad trip, but they quickly get to work on breaking her down, taking on the voices of her closest friends and family and just going to town on her self-esteem. Then comes a desperate prayer for Gibbou and the voice wants to play a game: Either Gibbou can save the mortal woman with her baby from being raped and killed by bandits, or she can take a bottle of liquor, shutting out the voices for the night. Gibbou, afraid that she’ll fuck up the rescue attempt, takes the bottle, drinking herself to sleep to the sound of gruesome happenings down on Galbar.
Gibbou 5MP/5DP 5MP - Buy Sin domain: Despite what many may say, the path to a perfect life isn’t in love and family and friends and a good house and… Okay, maybe it is, but ask yourself: Is that a fun life? True self-actualization comes from listening to your own volitions, appreciating the earthly pleasures, and indulging in what you know to be good for you - if you enjoy it, how could it not be? The ultimate form of realizing your own desires and needs comes in the form of sin - only those who listen to none but themselves have the power to indulge, while others remain chained to simple concepts like “duty”, “temperance” and “good health”.
As Goddess of Sin, Gibbou embodies the consumption of whatever makes you feel better right now - those extra minutes (or hours) in bed every morning; that extra little dram (or jug) of wine every night; that extra little handful (or sackful) to your salary without your boss knowing. Sloth, hedonism, the abandonment of duty, health and dignity for that extra rush - she inspires laziness and binges as a tool to delay action, to coax others into being slaves to their own desires, needs and wants. The destructive nature of such behavior is a natural part of life. Some people just can't handle addiction.
Cragking Thunder gave his stony chin an audible scrape through centuries’ worth of mossy overgrowth thickly coalesced into one enormous, now braided beard. He had done this quite a bit over the past few days, sometimes for whole days and nights, as though fishing for a thought that never seemed to bite. He had, in fact, been sitting on his stone throne scratching his chin for so long that several tonnes of gravel, moss and sand had formed giant piles on the cave floor beneath him. He sniffed thoughtfully with such noise that the mountain walls shook.
Then with a rumble of his belly that challenged tectonic movements, the fishing line of the mind finally caught onto something.
“Gen’ral!” droned the king with reverberating bass.
Crush, the Gen’ral snapped to attention, having been dozing off nearby. He quickly, for a troll, rose and snapped his hand into a salute. “Aye Cragking!?” he bellowed, his mind still waking up.
The Cragking gave his chin another scratch. “Hang on…” He squinted, his tar-like mind digging through two thousand years of memories to acquire the one he had just made. His belly thundered again, and Thunder’s eyes lit up once more with remembrance. “I’m hungry, lad.”
Crush thought to himself for a brief moment, letting his own mind shift through things, before he too realized something. “Aye...Me too, iz it ‘unting time?” he asked, looking around the cave of the throne room of their small kingdom. Since their adventure with the blade all those years ago, the place had grown quite crowded: Ranglefants had moved in by the score, along with askeladds and even the odd draug here and there, having been chased out of their homes in the lands below as humanity expanded evermore. Such a rapid demographic growth had brought with it a need for personal space given to the many families and individuals living inside the cave, which had caused some to dig new holes in the walls, or to dig burrows in the floor and cover them over with dirt and moss. Bonfires raged through the night, frail askeladds needing to keep warm in the high mountains - here, askeladd shamans would tell stories and show off neat, flashy hexes for the entertainment of the others.
Food had become scarce, though - very scarce. Thunder hummed once more.
“Ye ken… I had a thought the other day… We’ve seen hummies down below, aye? They keep, wassit, those four-legged thengs that make all those noises and leave droppings everywhere, aye?” He scratched his chin again. “What if, right… What if we did that, too? Then we would nae have to hunt all the time.” He hummed yet again and looked around on the trolls scuttling around on the floor beneath his mammoth feet. Some stopped to wave giddily at him before continuing. “... But how do we feed this many trolls?”
“We’d need a whole lot to feed em,” Crush replied, he too looked at the various trolls going about their daily business through the winding caverns of the kingdom. “maybe...we get sum hummies to like, pay us tribute? cuz those four leg thengs don’t like us, they run when we come, remember? Wed ave to get a, smaller git to, do what dem hummies do with em.”
Thunder nodded so his neck shed another ton of sand, dirt and overgrowth. “Ye’re as wise as ye’re tall, lad.” With effort, he extended his arm, which had been bent in some way or another for weeks, straightening it out into a pointing gesture, aiming at the cave entrance. Using the power of the Cragking Crown, his voice hammered the air like the crack of a storm, Thunder’s thundering message quaking the very bones of all who heard him: “MY LAD - I TASK YE WITH BRINGIN’ BACK A HUNDRED HUMMIES WITH ALL THE MANY-LEG THENGS AND RUCKUS THEY CAN HERD! THIS IS THE ORDER OF THE MOUNTAIN, OF I, THUNDER, KING OF ALL THE TROLLDOM!” The closest smaller trolls fell to the ground, clutching their ears with squeals and cries.
Crush too had to somewhat cover his ears, before giving a curt salute “Aye aye great Cragking!” He slowly walked towards the entrance of the great cave, helping a few of the smaller trolls up after the King’s loud command. He came upon the troll shades upon their pedestal, and delicately picked them up and placed them upon his face, it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared. Before he left though, he turned to the nearly packed throne room, looking for any Rangles or Askeladds he could convince to help him out. He quickly stumbled upon one of the many bonfires around the cave, where an askeladd shaman was midway through a shadow puppet show for some ranglefant trollspawn, all of whom clapped their disproportinately huge hands together with thunderous applause. The shaman stopped and looked up at Crush with a raised brow, waving slowly.
“‘Ey there, man - ‘ere for the show? Or is this abou’ that ordeh?”
“de show is real gud, but, aye, i need some ‘elp for de order, i may be big an’ strong, but a hunded hummies is still a big task.”
The shaman gave her potato nose a rub and stuck a thumb under each strap of her skin suspenders. “Hundred ‘ummies, ha? That sure’s a bit, innit.” She shrugged lazily. “S’pose I got a minute.”
Crush lifted his hand in a thumbs “oight, i ‘ppreciate the ‘elp, i’ll, uh, let ya get ready.” He slowly trumbled towards the entrance once more. The askeladd followed right behind, bringing with it a moth-eaten linen shirt and a sack - a repurposed sheep’s stomach, to be precise, filled with a little something to eat, most likely. The two strolled out the entrance into the darkness of the deep night, and the askeladd looked up.
“Reckon we ‘ave, uh, ‘bout four hours afore the sun’s back out. You be aroight, gov?”
“Aye! got meself some fancy glasses,” he pointed to the shades sitting atop his face “Gift from de gods, I’ll be fine in da sun.”
“Oh, well, ain’t that nice,” commended the shaman. “By the way, I’m Scrap - came from the Smelly Swamps, born and bred.” She politely held out a tiny hand. “‘Appy to be of service to ya, gov!”
Crush carefully took the hand, being careful not to crush it, as was his namesake. “A pleasure to meet ya,” He turned his head towards the horizon “hmmm, ‘ave an idea where we should start? hummies are rare round dees parts nowadays.”
“Dunno, gov. ‘S usually the big bosses who keep the books ‘n all that. Though if I am ta guess…” She hummed, then stuck her hand into her sack and pulled out a turkey’s wishbone. It had already been snapped, so she haphazardly stuck the snapped-off piece back on, only to snap it again and toss the bone off the mountain. She carefully studied the way it rolled, following its direction with eager eyes. When it started drifting, she pointed in its direction - the east. “That way.”
Crush shrugged “good ‘nough fur me.” He trekked eastward, making sure Scrap kept close to him. There was no telling what they could find in these woods and hills that would be crazy enough to fight two trolls. Crush’s assessment was correct in that anything crazy enough to take both of them on could not be found; in fact, nothing could be found at all. The woods were as empty as they were dense, as though all signs of humanity had turned and ran off with their non-existent tails between their skimpy legs. Scrap gave it a few hours of walking before she groaned.
“‘S like they’ve all evaporateded!”
Crush looked around, raising a log to look underneath it, seeing nothing but bugs scattering around. “Huh,” he spoke “Dats strange, culd’ve sworn der were hummies here before.”
“We didn’ eat ‘em all, roight?” The pair exited the woods, being greeted by the wave-like hills of the southern Highlands. There was not a village to be seen - at least not from their current position. “Shait, we might’a ate ‘em all.”
“We might’ve eaten dem all,” Crush scratched his mossy beard that clung to the bottom of his face. “We might need to go further.”
“How much further, gov? We’re already at the edge of the woods ‘n stuff. Where can we go from ‘ere?”
“Hmmm,” Crush thought once more “I don’t know, but we gotta at least reach some of dem hummies, or else me pa would be furious.” The pair continued across the open hills, Crush’s earthquake steps sending tremors that could no doubt be felt for kilometres. Scrap gave her nose a rub and then suddenly clapped her tiny palm on Crush’s foot, as that was all she could reach.
“H-hey! Smoke! I see smoke! Over there, boss!” Following her tiny finger, one could indeed see lazy columns of smoke in the far distance, wagging to and fro in the wind behind a hill.
“Aye! Good eye Scrap!” He squinted his eyes, looking towards the smoke “That might mean some humies are nearby, we gotta be sneaky, don’t want them hearing us.” He crouched and began to slowly walk, which did, admittingly very little to make him more sneaky.
Scrap was much quieter, but Crunch's long steps had her sprinting and panting like a whipped animal. By the time they reached halfway over the brink, they could already hear the screams - however, they had started a little too early to be caused by them. Scrap wheezed her way to the top of hill and whooped. "Boss! They'z under attack!"
As Crush topped the hill, he saw the chaotic sight before him. There was a village that was for sure, but a good portion of it was currently engulfed in flames. He could see humans running in fear, screaming in absolute terror that he had only seen when he made sudden appearances. There were also various humans armed with their pointed sticks and clubs, they seemed to be fighting something, yet, Crush could not see it.
That is, until he heard a savage roar, it was horrid, even to a troll it shook him to his core. That was when he saw the wave of flesh. They were savage beasts, that Crush could immediately tell, their flesh was a pallid grey, they were adorned with limbs both working and useless, their bodies twisted and contorted into strange forms and shapes and their mouths were filled with horrid spikes of teeth. These creatures fell upon the humans, tearing at them with crude weapons, claws, and teeth, savagely eating upon the flesh of any human that had the unfortunate fate of falling to their onslaught.
“What in the blooming ‘ell is this!” Crush loudly proclaimed, gazing towards Scrap.
“Shait if I know, gov!” responded Scrap in a daze.
“Well! What do we do?!?” He directed his gaze once more towards the village, the humans were fighting fiercely against these creatures. Crush had never seen such savagery before.
“Well, king said we ‘ad ta capture humies, so we gotta snatch some while they’re still around. Well, what’re you waitin’ for, man?! You’ve got the big ‘ands, go get ‘em!” Scrap shouted and she started digging through her musty sack and pulled out a lock of hair and a cup of stiffened grease. She slathered her thumb in the stuff and stuck some hair to it and then wafted her stick around, dancing around in circles. A long tendril of hair extended from her thumb and shot forward to ensnare a squealing man running in their semi-general direction. The man kept screaming as the tendril pulled him towards them and did not shut up even after Scrap had snipped the tendril with a dagger and left him tied up and kicking on the ground. “My, these cunts’re noisy. Well, go on, then!” She started conjuring another tentacle.
Crush nodded “right.”, he rose to his full height and rushed towards the burning village, scooping up any of the running humans he could, they were willy, their fear turning them into expert runners as another terrifying, gigantic creature barreled towards their village. He scooped humans up left and right, until he had a whole bundle of screaming and kicking people slung over his shoulder. He rushed to grab another, a woman running for her life screaming her lungs out, but, one of those pale beings pounced upon her, within seconds her screaming had stopped, her throat torn out by the horrid mangled teeth. It ate for a few seconds upon her flesh, before turning its sickly head up towards Crush, its grey eyes starting straight towards his soul. It uttered a loud roar, and the troll could see other pale creatures gathering nearby, clearly unwilling to attack, but still aggressive towards the massive troll.
“Scrap!” Crush loudly proclaimed “A little ‘elp here!” He quickly grabbed a neary beam from a house, waving it in front of him, keeping the beasts back as they snapped and jabbed towards him with their crude weapons and claws.
Scrap finished tying up a third prisoner and then hurried over to help Crush, panting tiredly. Reaching into her bag again, she pulled out a lock of straw and a piece of flint and tinder. Despite her exhaustion, she expertly knocked some sparks over the straw, lighting it aflame. She then danced around in a circle, this time slapping her stick at the ground in every direction, and then blew on the smoking straws in the direction of the pale creatures. The smoke hurled forward like a steamy breath in winter, and then expanded violently around Crush’s feet, tiny sparks in the smoke becoming like flies aiming for the eyes of the vile beasts attacking him. The enemy unleashed hyena-like squeaks as they grabbed at their sore faces, and Scrap waved for Crush to retreat. “They gonna get us, gov! Le’s go!”
Crush tossed his wooden beam, clobberin one of the beasts in its head, he rushed back towards scrap and the other prisoners, effortlessly scooping both up, slinging the humans over his shoulder and carrying Scrap in his free hand. He could hear the roars of the beasts and he afforded a quick look behind him. Only to see a horde of pale flesh drawing closer. This only incentivised him to run fast, as fast as he had ever run before, desperately holding onto the humans and scrap as he did so. The sounds of the horde rapidly fell silent behind them as they ran deep into the woods, and only when the sounds had vanished for a while did Crush finally slow down, eventually coming to a stop as he catches his breath, slowly putting down Scrap and the tied up prisoners.
“Any idea what the ‘ell that wus Scrap? I've never seen those...things, before.”
The small askeladd was visibly shaken, pulling her straw hat off and wafting some air into her face. “No bloomin’ idea, gov - wuz bloomin’ scary cunts, they wuz. Looked like humies ‘n spoidahs ‘ad a baby or somefhin’.” She glanced up at the human prisoners, who were all in different stages of grief. “So… Whot now? Got humies, but ain’t got no four-legs. Whot we do, boss?”
Crush slowly sat down, causing a puff of moss and dirt to erupt around him. “We gotta find ‘nother village I guess, one with four-legs.” He turned his head towards the humans “First, any of you know where four-legs might be? Second, what wur those, things that wur attacking you?”
“Four legs, what?!” shouted one of the women.
“We know nothing about these four legs, please just let us go!” pleaded one of the men.
“MOMMYYYYY!” cried one of the children. Scrap scrunched her nose.
“Well, they’re ‘elpful, fe’ sure. Roight, four-legs’re ‘em big, uh, four-legged fhings wiff the tasty meat.” She gestured descriptively with her hands, conjuring forth quite a creative interpretation of what a cow was. The humans were very much confused.
“W-what?”
Scrap groaned. “Ugh, an’ they say we’z the stupid ones?! By Fhunder, this’ll take all week!” She dug through her sack. “‘Ang on, I fhink I got somefhin’ to make ‘em talk…”
“WAIT, WAIT, WAIT, WAIT!” shouted some of them; others screamed. “Is it an animal you’re after?! Like, like a pig?!”
Scrap blinked up at Crush. “Woss a pig, boss?”
Crush thought for a short while “If, I recall correctly, its one of dem four-legs, but small, we’re looking for one of dem bigger ones,” Crush spoke towards the human, keeping his voice low and quiet, “I think dey have uhhhh, pointy bits on head.”
“Y-y-you mean a cow?” came a quivering suggestion. Scrap scratched her chin thoughtfully. She then dragged her foot back and forth over the forest floor until it cleared of debris and only a flat of dirt was left. Then, snapping her fingers, she released the speaker from her hairy ropes and pointed to the ground.
“Draw it.”
The woman hesitated, looking elsewhere with rapidly shifting eyes. Scrap’s eye twitched. “You’re drawin’ it roight now, slag, or I’ll get worse stuff than ‘air on your body!”
“OKAY! Okay!” the woman squealed in reply, falling to the ground and drawing a very simple looking stick-cow, horns and snout and all. Scrap hummed.
“This it, boss?”
“Ya that’s it!” Crush bellowed out “that's the uh, cow.” He looked at the woman “Ya know where any are?”
She looked hesitant for a bit. “W-we had some i-i-in our village.”
“Beata, you Runnibrook bitch, those are ours!” shouted one of the men.
“Well, if it’s between your cows and our lives, Nelian, then I choose the cows!” she retorted and turned back to the trolls, holding her hands up pacifyingly. “We got a deal? We go free and you get your cows?”
“Well,” Crush began “We’re gonna need some of yous to teach us how to uhhh, keep them living, help feed kingdom and whatnot, also.” He turned his head towards the direction of their village. “Those pale things might still be in ur village right?”
The woman looked dreadfully disheartened; the others started crying and weeping again. “P-please don’t take us away, please!”
“Oi, shut up!” shouted Scrap and slapped one of the children across the face. It went quiet on the spot, looking at her with fearful eyes. She looked up at Crush and shook her head. “Man, humans ‘ave no idea ‘ow to raise their bairns, do they?”
Crush shrugged “I wuldn’t know.” He flopped back down and stroked his chin of rock and moss, sending a few piece of debris falling. “Hmmmm.” He hummed out loud. “Sad hummies won’t work well, too sad to aid Cragking, hmmmmm.” It was clear his mind was overworking to figure out a solution to the group’s conundrum. “But, we need hummies to figure out dem cows, but hummies don’t wanna help, hmmmmm.” It stayed that way for a few minutes, a small pile of dirt had gathered in his lap from his pensive thought. Until, he loudly proclaimed “Crush has idea!”
“You hummies know cows, why not hummies teach me and Scrap cows at village, den we take cows back to cragking and teach other trolls da cows!” His face was filled with joy and excitement as he looked at both Scrap and the humans for approval.
The humans shifted between each other with wide open eyes. “Y-you want us to teach you h-how to hold cows?”
“‘S whot he said, innit?” Scrap confirmed impatiently.
“U-uhm--... Okay! Y-yeah, we can do that, sure! I-if you help us get rid of those terrible Skrill, then we will teach you…”
“Humans teaching trolls… May the gods forgive us…”
Crush nodded “Sounds good to me! Now those uh, Skill, they’re those pale thingies right? shouldn’t be, too hard, right Scrap?” He looked towards his companion, notably unsure of his words.
“Uuuuh… I dunno, gov - they seemed pretty rabid.”
“Ya...your right...but maybe sum of dem have left? that’d be easier.” He replied.
“We’ve, we’ve been attacked by them before. Th-... Oh gods,” sobbed one of the men. Scrap pointed a fat, scabby finger at his nose.
“Spit it out, or I’ll stick this splinter under your thumbnail!”
“That’s not a splinter - that’s a stick!” the man complained.
“A matter of perspective, ya moot. Now say whot you woss sayin’!”
The man swallowed through the tears. “I-... I remember they just took people last time. Lots and lots of people. M-my father and, and, and my uncle, and-... And then they just left with them. W-we never saw them again and--”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, cry me a river’n all that. So, we headin’ back, then, boss?”
Crush nodded, slowly getting up “Aye, we made deal with hummies, we get rid of rabid pale things, they teach us about dem cows.” He looked around for a brief moment, before picking up a lone fallen log.
“Righto. Take us back, then, boss!” the shaman offered and grabbed onto his leg.
“Waitwaitwait, you’re not gonna leave us here, are you?!”
Scrap blinked at the humans. “‘Course we are. Right, boss?”
Crush looked at the ‘umans “well, you’d be safer ‘ere, but if any of u’s can fight, we can bring ya along.”
All of them suddenly got quite busy staying bound. “No, no, we’re good! You two’ve got this!” they cheered. Even the children seemed to join in, smiling as encouragingly as they could fake it. Scrap looked up.
“Well, that’s that! Take us away, boss!”
Crush chuckled “well alright, we’ll be back once we dealt with dem pale things.” He lowered his right arm to allow Scrap to clamper onto him. Then he began to trudge back towards the village, vaguely retracting his steps when they ran from the creatures the first time. Eventually, they came once more upon the hill just beyond the village, peering over, the two trolls saw a ruined assembly of huts and wood, the pale things walking and crawling around, feasting upon what little they hadn’t already eaten.
“Aight scrap,” Crush whispered “any idea of a plan?”
“Just gotta crush ‘em, roight?” She punched her palm. “So we crush ‘em!”
“Ya you right.” Crush replied. He stood up straight and uttered a roar, with scrap in his one hand and the massive log in the other, he charged forth from the hill. The pale creatures were caught horribly off guard, scattering all about as the massive troll, with another troll in his arms, charged into the village. Crush swung about his weapon and scrap using her magic to toss around the pale things. But soon enough, the two were surrounded, a massive horde of flesh on all side, yet, they did not attack, they didn’t swarm at them like they had the humans, instead, they kept their distance.
And then, above it all, a shout was heard, the voice gravelly and harsh. “Stoneskin!”. The horde of pale skins parted, and a massive horned creature walked through. Ragged red fur clung to its form and its head looked like that of a wolves, yet the skin of the muzzle had been torn away. Various pieces of metal were put upon its body, and in one hand it held a massive hammer-like object.
“Glad to see that you’ve returned, Stoneskin.” The creature continued, the other pale things seemed to keep their distance from this figure, some even bowing in reverence. This large creature stared at the two trolls. “I wish, to speak.”
“Speak ‘bout what?” Crush replied,
“I do not wish to fight you, Stoneskin,” They began “I have no desire to see more of my kin fall, its clear we both have interests in this village, and so,” They stretched their arms out, gesturing around the area. “let us talk, shall we?”
“Dun’ like this, boss… They’re too friendly - just like draugs. Can’t trust ‘em.” Scrap hid warily behind Crush’s trunk-like leg.
Crush let his right arm pat Scrap, guarding the smaller troll in case the pale things surged forward. “Aye, we’ll talk, what u want? Hummies told us to clear ya from the village, in exchange they teach us about cow thing.”
The large being chuckled “I see, going soft on us Stoneskin? dealing with the Unmarked is something neither of us do often.”
“Sometimes, ya have to,” Crush replied “We need cow for great Cragkingdom, for food.”
“Ah yes, the great endeavor of flesh for all.” The being gestured once more to the pale things around him. “Something me and my kin relate to,” He grinned, and gazed towards scrap. “See? we and you are not so different.”
Crush took a slight step forward, bringing his form up and straightening himself. “You will leave dis village, that is our demand for talk.” He gazed around to the pale things, hoping he was giving off a sense of authority.
The creature stared at him, its grin slowly falling, it gazed too at its “kin”, before turning its attention back to Crush. “Very well, Stoneskin, but, in exchange, you will not interfere with our hunts again, this village will be safe, but if you come across us again, you will not stop us.”
Crush thought for a moment, looking down at Scrap, who eyed the beings with suspicion, before offering Crush a shrug. “Sounds like a deal ta me, boss.”
He turned his head back to the creature “Very well, wut is ur name? so we know if we meet ‘gain.”
“Helmut, Lord of the Palefire Brood, yours?”
“Crush, son of Cragking Thunder.”
“Very well Crush, I believe we are done here.”
“Yes.”
Helmut raised his arm wielding the hammer, emitting a loud screech, it reminded Crush of a dying hog squealing as it was speared. And in seconds, the pale creatures retreated from their encircling of Crush and Scrap, gathering up bones, flesh, and metal scraps, before vanishing in massive waves behind the huts and buildings, scurrying off from where they came.
“Until we meet again.” Helmut spoke, before too running off to join his kin.
Soon enough, the two trolls were left alone, in the shattered ruins of the village. “That wus...weird.” Crush finally spoke.
“You tellin’ me?! Woss is those fhings anyway?!” Scrap kicked a charred plank into the sunset, all of two feet. She stuffed both hands in the pockets of her hide overalls and sniffed passively. “So thassit? Who was they anyway? Whot was all that about ‘huntin’ and that? We don’t want no competishun ‘round ‘ere.” She stuck a pinky up a nostril.
Crush could only shrug “I dunno, we shuld ask me pap about dem pale thingies wen we get back to Crag, de seem dangerous.”
He stood there for a moment, staring at the distance to ensure the creatures had finally vanished “Well, lets get em hummies and bring dem back.”
He let scrap clamber back up upon him before heading off. Once more tracing his steps back to where they had deposited the humans. And only getting slightly lost on the way there. Finally, they arrived back to the group of humans, who had huddled underneath a few trees for shelter.
“I got good news.” Crush declared as he came into view.
“Did you shoo them away?!”
“Did you kill them?!”
“Is-is my family okay?”
Scrap shut them all up with a loud clap. “HEY! Quiet down when the gen’ral’s speakin’!” She cleared her throat and gestured up at Crush. “Go ahead, gov.”
“Dank ya Scrap.” Crush spoke, before turning his attention to the humans “We chased dem pale thingies off, they wunt bother ya no more, i think some of ya kin managed to escape, but I can’t say fur certain.” Crush did slightly hope what he said had some truth to it, he still needed the humans to help him out with those cow things. The humans seemed courageous enough now to summon forth some form of happiness in their stupour of trauma. Some even smiled. That was until Scrap clicked her fat tongue against her yellow teeth and snorted.
“Now don’ get too happy. We ‘ad a deal, remember?”
The humans swallowed as one. The woman from earlier whispered, “Yes… A deal… D-do you have any cows of your own? Anything you can practice on?”
Scrap looked up at Crush. “Shit, we don’, do we?”
“nope, we weren’t prepared for this, pa didn’t tell me what those four leg things were to begin with.” Crush replied, scratching his head. Scrap scratched her head, too.
“Humans! Show us where there be cows!”
They all looked uncomfortably at one another. “W-well, the thing is…”
“Our cows were the first to be killed and eaten by the Skrill… I doubt there’d be any left for us to show you. Unless…”
“Unless you saw their corpses lying around. That might’ve told you what to look for. Did, did you see big, four-legged corpses lying in the grass?”
“So you wuz lyin’ after all, huh?!” Scrap snarled and raised a hand threateningly Beata cowering. Then, however, she lowered it and sighed. “Remember if we saw anything like that, boss?”
Crush eyes widened as his brain tried to remember what had occurred. “Oh ya!” he finally declared “dey did look like furry juddra, more small heads though and some had horns, dat dem?”
“Sounds ‘bout roight,” Scrap nodded. The humans looked shocked, though it seemed founded less in fear and more in confusion, perhaps even pity. The woman blinked as she tried to find the proper words.
“S-so… You know what juddra are, right?”
“Know ‘em?! Pfft, lady, lady, lady… Where we’re from, juddra roam around everywhere. S’like they own the place - them ‘n those boaks… And the boraks... And the felgars… And don’t even get me started on the madriel.” Scrap kicked a small pebble to vent her frustration. The woman stuttered in disbelief.
“Th-then if you have so many juddra, why do you need cows?”
“PFFFFT! Stupid humie! That’s ‘cuz… Is ‘cuz…” Scrap’s eyes grew smaller and smaller with thought, and slowly, her fingers made their way up to her chin to nip at it ponderously. “... Oi, boss, why do we need cows, actually?”
“uhhhh.” Crush too had to stroke his chin to think “I, uh, dun know, me pa said to find hummies and four legs so…..if Juddra like cow, we don need cow….” One could most definitely hear the stones turning inside his head. “so….wut now?”
“Uh…” Scrap’s own tectonic brain inched forward a millimeter. “We ‘ead back, I guess - tell the king.”
“W-wait, you’re just leaving like that?” exclaimed one of the humans.
Crush looked at the humans “well, s’pose we culd take yas back to yur village. If yas want.”
“W-well,” the humans hesitated, “how about you just let us free, and we’ll get back on our own.” A few of them struggled against the binds of hair. Scrap rolled her eyes quietly and snapped her fingers; the binds went limp and collected on the ground around the humans’ feet.
“Righto, off ye go.”
The humans shifted between the midget and the giant, and then kicked off into a sprint in the general direction of wherever, hoping more to get away than to get home. Scrap pocketed her hands and kicked a stray pebble. “So, we goin’ home?”
“Ya, lets” Crush replied, taking the lead back towards the Cragkeep. The two of them showed up before the Cragking Thunder with this surprising knowledge, and the Cragking agreed that choosing to herd the local animals was indeed quite a wise move. He commended Crush and Scrap both for their great wisdom, and gave them each a juddra of their own as reward, picked from a flock that happened to pass by not too far away from their cave entrance. Soon, trolls rushed out of the cave in the night, picking up juddra herd by herd and bringing them back to the cave for milking. When these juddra eventually escaped again during the day, the trolls had to rush back out to capture them again. They did the same with felgar, boak and boraks, though these respectively proved too agile, too evasive or simply too fat for most trolls to easily capture and bring home. Undeterred, however, the Cragking’s subjects persevered, bringing home catch after catch and storing them in containers fashioned from large rocks for later consumption. So was founded the very first milk and meat-runners, and everyone forgot that the mission also was supposed to include the capture of a hundred humans.
Oh well.
Cragking Thunder’s hungry, and so are many other of his fast-growing number of subjects. He sends his son, Gen’ral Crush, to capture four-legged creatures for them to milk and eat, as he’s sees humans do, and humans to show them how humans do it. Crush agrees, bringing with him Scrap, the askeladd shaman. They head down in search of humans to teach them to hold animals and find that the villages grow sparcer and sparcer around them by the day. Funny that.
Either way, they arrive in a village after following the sudden appearance of smoke, which is being overrun with Iskrill! They are momentarily confused, but grab some humans in the chaos and return to the forest, asking the humans what the hell that was. The humans, caught by trolls, are understandably miffed, so they are pretty scared for a while before fessing up. They’re at first confused as to what the trolls want, as they keep saying they want four-legged things. After drawing some, the trolls learn that the things they want are called cows, and that the humans have some they are willing to trade for the trolls kicking out the Iskrill. They do, or not really - the Iskrill actually approach them all friendly-like and ask them to cooperate. Crush convinces them to leave if the trolls never interfere with them again, so that’s over with. They then go back to the humans, who then ask if they have any cows. Turns out that the humans didn’t have cows after all, or that those that they had were eaten first. Another twist: The trolls didn’t know what cows were, but they knew what juddra were, so the humans ask why they didn’t just raise juddra. The trolls, unable to come up with an argument, return home to raise juddra.
Shadows too dark to see with any eyes not made for this land, casting themselves on mushroom trunks that grow for tens of metres into the air, forever hidden under caps that block out both the Sun and Moon.
A distant squeal - the owl has caught its prey. A mouse, most likely - one that so eagerly fed on one of the smaller mushrooms on the mycoforest floor. Its corpse, when gulped back up by the hungry owl, will feed those very same mushrooms in time.
A slick and a thump - an unlucky cat slug just fell from a tall sun-cap and splattered against the tiny white floor of fungus grass below. A nearby enoki bush, as large as a small tree, parts to reveal a hungry giant hedgehog. Normal black and brown slugs are common meals for this apex predator of the island, but to find a fresh cat slug - now that is a feast. It waddles over to the gooey mass of flesh and gives it a whiff - it may be blind, but its sense of smell and touch are second only to few others. Then, with sharp front teeth, it expertly tears into the slimy slug meat. This male needs to grow big and strong to impress the females in its area - competition is tough amongst the giant hedgehogs of the Black Paradise.
A wheeze and a fwoo! The hedgehog peeks up to smell the air, snout glistening with slime in the incredibly dim light of the omnipresent bioluminescent lichen and moss. It stands incredibly still, listening intently. It may be an apex predator, but it is not alone in that role. It sniffs the air more closely and begins to back away. As it suspected - something stepped on a nearby colony of puffballs. It retreats back into its bushroom; it did not get to eat its fill, but at least it can save the energy consumed rather than spend it fighting a fight it may not win.
The groans and stretchings of the mushy floor of the mycoforest made sneaking up on anything a feat requiring years upon years of practice. While catching a cat slug may not be the hardest task for the top predator on Neverday Island, it will only resort to such a goopy meal in the utmost need. If given the chance, it will hunt for sweeter meats, chase it for hours if need be. However, in an environment wherein sound, smell and touch are your only tools, even snail-like prey can become a challenge. The lichen’s glow offers little light for the eyes to use, but using what little there is, the top predator spots an invisibly faint movement in the bushroom by what its now-goopy fingers says is the corpse of a cat slug. The predator approaches the bush, its quieted steps enough to alert its inhabitant. Faintly, the bushroom stirs and the predator steps back. Its prey has flexed its back, and the predator knows that, among the thousand small buds and sprouts of the bushroom, there are now a myriad of toothed barbs that will bury themselves deep under its skin in a heartbeat and take hours to remove. Should they snap while inside, the predator may die of an infection within the month - these hedgehogs crawl and dig under all sorts of dangerous fungi.
However, this predator is no fool. It is not on the top of the food chain for nothing. It steps back to evaluate the situation, the faint light of lichen washing over its face.
This is a night elf.
She readies her weapon, a flat-headed club of mycowood. The key to fighting a giant hedgehog is to break its back, incapacitating its ability to flex its back muscles. When that is done, one can roll it onto its belly and finish the job. Easier said than done, though - the night elf will have to use all her cunning to outsmart the hedgehog.
Stepping to the right, she assesses her options. The hedgehog turns in a heartbeat, expertly retracting and flexing its spines to meet the threat without compromising the cover of the bushroom. She tries to outspeed it, dancing in circles around the bush while looking for an opportunity - however, as with most other places, it is simply too dark to aim a proper strike. She realises quickly that she will tire faster than the hedgehog and slows down. She waits, big, milky eyes staring at the bushroom; big, bat-like ears with hooked owl claws and animal bone in the lobes, listening intently for any sort of movement; broad, masterful nose probing the scentscape for anything she can use to her advantage.
There it is - the hedgehog has terrible luck today. Another male waddles into his territory, ignorant of, or perhaps just ignoring, the squatting night elf sitting by the bushroom of its rival. Long has it craved this land, so ripe and overflowing with juicy mollusks and nutritious macro-shrooms. Everyone can smell it - the intruder has unleashed a sour scent that rips at the nose-hairs: The intruder has signalled its call to duel.
The defending party has no choice - if it does not respond, it will be seen as weak, and its competitor will begin marking its territory and begin calling for mates - ITS mates. The sour smell intensifies - the defender has answered. The intruder waddles menacingly over to the bushroom, a blind snout testing the enoki between which its opponent hides. Not even nelven noses are close to the smelling capabilities of these hedgehog snouts, and nelves thus do not know that the nasty stuff that gets stuck all over their spines and barbs, actually has a smell. The defender jabs with its spines, but the intruder smelled this a long way coming - the male of this territory has a stink to it that makes it frightfully disadvantaged in his battle. The defender listens intently - the fungal grass rustles all over. The intruder is confusing it, using its back legs to kick up soil and mushrooms and make itself sound larger than it actually is. The fresh scent of exposed soil unveils the truth to the defender, though, and it keeps its calm, much to the increasingly impatient intruder’s chagrin. The defending party truly has fortified itself well, the spores and scent of its bushroom stronghold masking its scent just well enough that the intruder cannot smell exactly where its spines are - if it attacks, the intruder can dodge, but this will be a long siege if they keep going like this.
It is perhaps at this moment that the intruder chooses to notice the third party in this duel, the sweaty, sea-salted scent of the nelven huntress growing increasingly ominous by the second. The intruder was certain this would be a quick fight - the defender was already in deep trouble; it only had to sneak in and take its territory while it struggled against its foe. However, it seemed that both the defender and the huntress were most cunning, indeed. A secret deal, they had wordlessly made - the huntress would spare the defender today, and in exchange, she would get an even fatter prey. The intruder realises this all too late, for as it prepares to waddle away in panic, a crushing clack! sends the hooting owl flying, and the intruder lies dying amongst the fungal grass, its back paralyzed by a swift and expert whack of the night elf’s paddle-like club.
The hunt is over. Satisfied, the huntress pulls a length of glowberry vine off a nearby sun-cap megafungus, using it to tie the carcass to her paddle. This is a good catch - it’ll feed her and her family for a few days, a week if they portion it out. Eyeing the bushroom as she leaves, she offers the hedgehog there a few clicks of gratitude. The hedgehog answers by excreting a sour and bitter stink - a clear signal that she is not welcome in its lands ever again. The nelf takes the hint quickly before any spines catch her feet and leaves for her home.
She was on a roll now, the huntress - this was her third hedgehog bull in four months. With this, she would surely be given permission.
Yes, the chief would have to let her go now.
Her stride quickened with anticipation, eager steps skipping across white fungal grass and moss that seemed to blink with colour as she stepped on it. Suddenly her eyes and face filled with a tickling sensation and she got to waving, spitting and swatting. Small, aggressive wafts of all were all over and eventually disappeared. She stood still for a second, spitting and dragging her tongue against her teeth.
“Damn moths,” she whispered to herself. The wheeze of bats zoomed above as those same moths quickly became the prey of the dukes and duchesses of the sky. A distance away again, the kings and queens offered some curious hoots. She picked up her pace again - wouldn’t want the owls growing too interested in her catch. Still, though, she had to tread carefully - these weren’t her woods, after all; anything could happen here. She made certain to keep her eyes as peeled as could be and her ears as open - if she accidentally planted her foot in hedgehog dung, she would have a bad day; an anthill, a bad week.
She froze. There was a terrible buzzing on the air, like a storm. It was distant still, but if it came any closer, her fantastic luck would turn to the cruelest misfortune. She dove down into the bushrooms, covering herself in the soil, mud and goo of the forest floor. She tried her best to do the same with her catch, but the noise was getting too close now for her to make any sudden moves anymore. The buzzing was deafening, frightening all other wildlife in the area into hiding. It zoomed and whooshed here and there for a bit, stopping in certain places and then continuing on to others. The huntress knew very clearly what it was, hence why she had been so quick to hide.
It was a Vespian.
The workers didn’t come often to her parts of the island, but she wasn’t in her parts now - and she had heard rumours that the workers of the Storming Hive, located on southwestern coast, would sometimes stalk the nightblack woods in search of foraging nelves - few other meats were tastier to them, better even than fresh meat of titan crabs. The worker would not get her meal today, though. Thankfully for the nelf, her hastened disguise had worked, though - the Vespian took off shortly after arriving. That was the nelven advantage in their fight against this enemy: Four hammering wings holding up a nelf-sized insect produced a deafening amount of noise - one would have to be deaf, daft or just really unlucky to not get out of sight and smelling range in time. Fighting off Vespians, however, was a very different challenge, one few nelves ever survived. Even with the advantage of darkness, camouflage and silence, the Vespian venom and ability to fly were more often than not simply too powerful in a fight between the two species - and Vespians multipled much faster than nelves did. She waited a bit longer despite the fact that she knew even a low buzz in the distance meant she was far, far out of its auditory and olfactory range. She wriggled out from under the blanket of mud and slime and brought her catch along. She had to shake it a bit, for even in the curt minutes she had laid still, there had been more than enough time for all kinds of crawlers to probe around in its fur to look for an opening to feast from. The huntress flicked the smallest of them away, but would pick up one of the larger ones between every third or fourth flick, give it a whiff and take a crunchy or slimy bite. Beetles and grubs were good road snacks, after all, if one made sure to eat the right ones. She picked up a large one which had a bulbous lower body that excreted a vile stink - in an instant, she tossed it as far as she could in a single reactionary move. The bileback was nothing to scoff at - its acid spray had melted many a nelven nose in the past. Her pause didn’t last much longer after that - maybe she had one or two more grubs before she continued homewards. The Vespian’s presence had helped her solidify where she was, though, and she picked up her pace. Indeed, in under an hour, her nose smelled familiar plants and odours; her feet knew which stones to avoid and where the anthills were. The lichen here shone with a homewarm hue, and the bats screamed in a welcoming manner. The huntress hopped and ducked and slid, entering a cage of myconroots underneath a colossal sun-cap. She expertly danced between the roots and entered into an open cave under the mega-fungus, wherein glowing lichen and moss had been purposely cultivated in tall, ivy-like nets along the walls. Upon them, insects and slugs all grazed with lethargic glee, themselves taking on faint glows from their diets. The cave split into a multitude of tunnels along the walls, some lit by the lichen and others, blacker than night itself. The huntress looked around the cave and lowered her oar club to the ground, the wet corpse of the hedgehog sloppily spreading out on its back.
“Aren’t you a little old to play in the mud?” came a quiet whisper and the huntress caught herself smiling. The moss on the ground lit up around one pair of approaching feet, the flashes dimly hinting to a male form - clothed in a loincloth adorned with feathers, chitin and cowry shells, and with a vest of giant bat fur. The huntress reached out to him, her hand landing on his belly, and he returned the gesture.
“I’m home, Gyatso.”
“Welcome back, Ngaso. So, you’re going to tell me what happened, then?”
The huntress squatted down and started untying the hedgehog from her club. “Oh, nothing dire, that’s for sure, but it was unexpected. The tracks took me much farther west than I had anticipated, so I couldn’t make it back home before I felt my body ache from all the walking, so I ended up sleeping outside.”
“As you do, as you do. Any hole’s a home when you’re far from family, as elders say, but why did you stay out for another two nights, then?” The male clicked in slight disapproval. Ngaso clicked back with a tinge of submission.
“W-well, I got caught in the moment and continued following the tracks.”
“For two days?”
“For two days. See, chasing migwü is no small task, y’know.” The huntress patted her hip until she found a stone biface underneath one of her many hip straps.
“Ngaso,” Gyatso sighed.
She looked to be busy gutting the hedgehog. “Yeah?” she answered passively.
“You and I both know that migwü don’t migrate.”
Ngaso pointed her biface correctingly in his direction. “Don’t migrate far, you mean! They are still quite a challenge to spot and catch!”
Gyatso sighed again. “Alright, you win this discussion, but I still don’t understand how it could take you three days of rest and four nights of hunting just to come home with a single bull migwü.”
Ngaso slowed down her carving and pursed her lips to burble thoughtfully. She looked around, flexing her ears and nostrils. Gyatso frowned and squatted down next to her. “What’s going on with you-- woah!” With a swift hooked arm, Ngaso pulled Gyatso in next to her and brought him around so they both faced the exit. She once again looked over their shoulders, glaring suspiciously at the many tunnels leading deeper into the cave. Then with a lightning motion, she stuck her hand in under her salamander scale vest. Gyatso squealed.
“What’re you--!”
“Ssh!” She looked over her shoulder again whilst digging. Gyatso whimpered in embarrassment.
“This is so icky!” he complained.
“Stop fussing so much and pay attention.” She extracted her hand again and held up for them both to see, but not so visibly that any other eyes could catch them. It was difficult to see, but the two of them could just barely see a crystal with an orange hue between Ngaso’s finger and thumb - one the size of palm. Gyatso was about to squeal again, but Ngaso covered his lips before he could. The man looked to be jumping where he squatted, unleashing his overflow of excitement in any way he could. Finally, upon calming down, he hunkered together with Ngaso again, this time taking the secrecy as seriously as her.
“Where’d you find it?”
“Ssh, don’t wanna say that here!”
Gyatso looked over his shoulder yet again. “Does Zilandra know?”
“‘Course she doesn’t. Why do you think we’re keeping this so secret?”
“Got it. So… How will you get it to the Master? That’s probably the biggest chunk I’ve ever seen, you know - he’ll make you a za’a’a on the spot.”
“That’s why I was gone for so long, man - I found a route.”
“Oh sssh--...! Where?”
Ngaso’s right ear twitched - as did Gyatso’s left. A groan of moss and lichen sounded behind them - approaching footsteps. Ngaso hastened to hide her find and gave Gyatso’s cheek a kiss. “Can’t tell you now. I will when the deed is done.”
Gyatso nodded and kissed her back. “Alright.” Then they both rose and turned to behold another female, arms crossed over one another over a belly full of life. Skeptical milky eyes beheld them both, and then came a low, warning growl aimed at Ngaso, who returned the noise in challenge.
“And what’re you two conspiring about?” she asked.
“Nothing much. I just came home from my hunt and just happened to meet Gyatso right here. What, aren’t we allowed to chat?”
The woman’s growl grew quieter, but her glare didn’t subside. “Depends on what you’re chatting about. Don’t think I don’t know you two - you’re up to something, aren’t you?”
“And why do we -have- to be up to something, Zilandra, do tell.”
The woman paused and squinted. “Don’t think I won’t tell on you when I find out what you’re doing. Your zü’ik will shame you into the ground!”
Ngaso shook her head. “After we’re done, I highly doubt that. That’s why they’re zü’ik.” Gyatso gave her a reassuring nod.
“So you -are- up to something!” Zilandra accused. Ngaso sighed.
“Listen, Zilandra - we don’t have time to listen to your nagging for much longer, so I will be taking my food and head home, okay?”
“I hope you choke on it,” Zilandra replied venomously. Ngaso rolled her eyes.
“Understood… See you around, Gyatso.”
“Mm. See ya, Ngaso.” As Ngaso picked up her butchered prey and brought it past Zilandra, she could hear the woman approach Gyatso with a warning whisper.
“... I don’t like you talking to her, you know.”
“Well, that’s your opinion, isn’t it? She’s zü’ik.”
“-We- used to be zü’ik! What happ…” The whisper faded into nothingness for a short while as Ngaso turned the corner and stepped into a smaller tunnel. Then came a deafening whisper that was almost a voice: “I’M NOT POSSESSIVE!” Ngaso snickered to herself and turned another corner. She ducked under a curtain she knew was there and stepped into a dimly lit room. She felt a familiar sweaty smell and sighed warmly.
“Welcome home, Nga. You were gone for longer than you said you’d be.”
“Yeah, well, took a detour. How’re you doing, Trung?” The man in the corner, sat atop a massive mushroom cap cushion, held a small, sleeping child in his arms. Ngaso sucked in a breath and stepped over to touch his and the child’s belly. “Shoot, I didn’t wake him, did, I?”
“Don’t think so,” whispered Trung quietly and paused to listen to its breathing. “No, you didn’t. He’d be crazy if he saw you now.” Ngaso grinned giddily and caressed the boy’s black hair.
“Little Ngung… Has he met his zü’ik yet?”
“Yeah, I took him to see Hung and Ngoi yesterday. Ngung and Ngoi clicked right away, but time will tell if Hung’ll be part of his zü’ik at all, honestly. They seemed outright hostile towards one another.”
Ngaso sat down next to him. “What did he take his food or something?” Trung shrugged.
“Could be, could be. I was too busy eating with Silla to really pay attention.” He looked over at Ngaso to see her fiddling under her vest. “Hey, can you not? I’m holding a child here.”
“Wha-- no! Why does everyone keep--... Nevermind. Look at this!” She pulled out the orange stone, letting it catch the light of the lichen. Trung squinted, then widened his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Oh, Night, that’s…” He lowered his whisper. “That’s tau-tau’nüt. Is that real--... Oh, by the Stars…” Ngaso nodded smilingly, but Trung’s brow quickly knotted itself together and he eyed the opening to their cave. “Wait, if you have this, why did you come home? Why didn’t you run straight to the sea instead of taking the risk?”
Ngaso clicked over at the butchered hedgehog. “Well, I had to bring back food for my zü’ik, didn’t I?” Trung eyed the catch and sighed with a roll of his eyes.
“You didn’t have to do that. Me and the rest, we’d, we’d be fine! This is way more important than--” A finger closed his lips.
“I will not let you finish that sentence.” She then leaned back into the mushroom cushion and gave the ceiling a glance. “No matter what happens when I give this to the Master, I won’t leave my zü’ik behind, you understand? You are my friends - my organs. Without you, I will die.”
“As the elders say,” Trung concurred. They sat in silence for a few seconds. Then the man placed a hand on her belly and nodded. “Alright… Take whatever’s left of the jerky in the basket and whatever leaves are left as food for the journey.”
Ngaso nodded. “Is Ngie roosting tonight?”
Trung knotted his brow in thought. “It should be day right now, but I’m not sure. You may have to travel on foot. Be very, very careful.”
“I will check just in case,” she responded and hurried over to the baskets at the other end of the small dirt cave to pack her supplies. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Trung clicked happily. “Be safe, my friend.”
Ngaso clicked back and ran outside. Luckily, no one else were out in the public areas of the cave, so she didn’t have to sneak as stealthily. Once she had climbed back outside, she hopped atop some smaller rocks and then continued to ascend a spiral ladder of rods buried into the trunk of their home mushroom. It was a long climb - thirty metres, almost - but she eventually reached the top and climbed through one of the many holes buried through the sun-cap sponge. This was the tougher part, for there were people in here, too. Immediately as she climbed inside, she was met with some judging stares. She sniffed politely and clicked her greeting, moving over to touch the stretched out hands of the closest of them. “Good night,” she greeted.
“Going somewhere, Ngaso?”
Ngaso stopped as she was about to turn the corner. Shrugging, she clicked pensively. “No, just wanted to see the night sky, pretty much.”
The group exchanged looks. “That’s a bit late now - sunrise’ll be here any minute.”
“Oh, it’s, it’s just a quick look. The shamans said tonight would reveal my horoscope, and I came home from a hunt just some time ago.”
After a pause, there came a quick scoff. “Alright, suit yourself. We’re not sharing any eye-ointment.”
“Understood. Have a nice day!”
“Mhm…” Ngaso hurried on through the tunnels in the sponge, encountering many other faces in passing, none of which she stopped to greet, however. She would have to be swift - if only she could find Ngie and take off before sunrise! She turned a final corner and skipped up a slope, seeing the uncannily bright night sky above, reds at its horizon hinting at the approach of dawn. She paused for just a second - the sight here would never seize to amaze her: As far as the eye could see, there were green, fuzzy mushroom caps the size of plateaus, growing over and under one another like bubbles in boiling water. Many had small trees and shrubberies growing on top of them, while others were completely barren and baked after centuries of exposure to sunlight. These would crumble under the own weight in time, allowing new sun-caps to grow and momentarily exposing the myconforest below to the terror of the Sun. Ngaso hurried to snap herself out of her awe. Ngie! She had to find Ngie! She sped off in the direction of the disappearing night sky, seeing a faint, milky light at the distant end of the mushroom cap. She panted her relief - Ngie was still here.
There, at the very edge of the cap, huddling in its shadow, a fully grown owlix was getting ready to take flight. Ngaso called out, “Ngie!” and it stopped, looking in her direction with enormous, glowing eyes. Ngaso came to a stop in front of it, fishing a piece of jerky out of her pack. “Heeey, birdie! How’re you feeling?” The owlix snapped up the piece in one bite and gulped it down as though it was a lonely crumb. It looked at her expectantly afterwards, but a frown on its avian face revealed that it could guess what she was after. Ngaso ran her fingers through its feathers and dow, scratching it here and there to sway it to her side. “Sooo… I need you to take me to the ocean…” The owlix recognised that sentence very well, so that was all she needed to say. However, it kept looking at the reddening morning sky and then gazed down between the cracks in the caps below, where it would fly if it was to roost for the day. Flying down there, though, would be out of the question - it was much too dark for the owlix, and they would no doubt be spotted. Ngaso held up another piece of meat. “I don’t have too many of these, so please help me?” Ngie let out the equivalent of an owl sigh and took the bite, hooting grumpily as it turned its back to her and allowed her to climb on. “Remind me to hunt a hedgehog for you and you alone, you wonderful beast!” Ngie didn’t respond, but something told Ngaso that would be a minimum requirement. The great bird kicked off and spread its enormous wings, fashioned so that, despite its wingspan being as long as ten nelves would be tall, the owlix glided through the air without making so much as a sound. This expert hunter of the night flew like a ghost, inaudible even to the nelven sentries readying themselves for the dayshift. They thus slipped by unnoticed and soared over towards the beach, landing in the middle of a great coral and seashell plaza that stuck out from the white beach like a cliff in a grassplain. A great, bleached coral altar was erected at the tip, the salt of seawater encrusted upon it like plaque on a tooth; around it laid pots and baskets of every size, some empty and some filled everywhere from halfway up to the brim with the bounty of the fungal forest - mushrooms, stones, berries, meat, rare weeds and moss, and much, much more. They were offerings - offerings to the Master.
Ngaso looked around - the plaza was abandoned at this hour of the night, very much due to the fact that the blinding, burning rays of the sun were peaking over the horizon in the east, catching her eyes with murderous intent. Hastily, she pulled out a rolled up length of vine from under her vest and tied it around her eyes. Robbed of her sight, she descended to all fours and crawled her way over towards the altar as carefully as she could to avoid cutting her palms and feet on the coral floor. Behind her, she heard the flap of wings - Ngie sounded impatient.
“It’s okay, Ngie - I’ll be just a moment, don’t--... Wait, Ngie, don’t--!” Alas, a great buffet of wind forces her to grab onto the ground as the great owlix let out a defiant hoot and, within seconds, was nowhere to be heard. Ngaso drew a deep sigh and kept crawling forward. “... Make that another week or so of sleeping in the wild…” She came to a halt a few metres in front of the altar, listening intently to the surroundings - the deafening thunder of the sea nearly choked out all other noise, so she had to focus. She knew well that just within the border of the fungal forest, there was a great village - the largest on the island - home to the Altarkeepers and the priests of the Coven of Utzuul. They weren’t Oi’wet like herself, but Za’a’alim, and as the strongest tribe with the tightest connection to the Master, they had a say in who could and could not make use of the altar - and a measly Oi’wet huntress like herself could not.
However, she’d be damned if she would have to give her tau-tau’nüt to some acolyte who then would take all the honour for the find and be rewarded in her stead - no, this was her accomplishment, and regardless of the consequences for herself and her tribe, she would take the risk if the reward meant glory for her zü’ik. She felt a sharp wall in front of her and clapped it gently - it had to be the altar. Using it as guidance, she brought herself to her feet before it, patting the rough surface with utmost care as to not cut herself. She took a deep breath, testing hypotheses for how to use the altar in her mind. She had been to offerings a few times before, but only her tribal chief had ever been allowed near the plaza; now that she stood here herself, she was clueless.
“I summon the Master,” she whispered and waited. The sea lapped at the beach and plaza, but was otherwise silent.
“I, Ngosa of the Oi’wet, call upon the Master of the Seas!” Again, the ocean was unresponsive. The growing anxiety telling her that she could be noticed at any point grew stronger and stronger, and the pain of the rising sun on her skin added more and more reasons for her to run back into the forest.
“Please! Is anyone down there?!” She turned an ear to the forest. Nothing out of the ordinary had come yet, but it could happen at any moment. That was when Ngosa remembered something - at the beginning of every offering, just before the Master had come out of the sea, there had always been a sound - hollow dunks followed by a reverberating hum, as though someone had beaten a very large empty skull. She ducked into the shadow of the altar and lifted her blindfold ever so slightly - the leading priest had carried something to every ceremony - of course! That was what was used to summon the Master! It had been a, a horn of some kind - a tusk as long as a nelf was tall. All she had to do was find it and, and, and it wasn’t here. Her breathing picked up speed - the horn wasn’t here! She slapped herself in her face - they surely brought it with them back into the village between every offering. She cursed her incompetence - she had put herself in an incredibly dangerous position by coming here, and she hadn’t even prepared. In frustration, she punched the altar and immediately squealed - the sharp teeth of the coral had cut her knuckles and fingers bloody. She pressed the wounded hand to her mouth, tongue licking the cuts as clean as possible. However, quickly thereafter, her ears picked up the faintest of sound coming from the forest; she lifted her blindfold again and squinted over the edge of the plaza, but couldn’t get a proper look in the light of the dawn. She tried smelling the air for a hint, but the winds by the ocean blew in over the land, and all her nostrils filled with was the stench of rotting seaweed. She decided the best course of action was to lie still, pray that whatever was coming wouldn’t see her shadow against the backdrop of the morning sun. However, she miscalculated.
“HEY!” came a furious snarl, and Ngosa instinctively pressed herself up against the altar, the coral digging into her back. Ascending the hill to the top of the plaza came two women, dressed heavily in robes fashioned from fibres and fish skin, armed with clubs fanged with shark teeth all around the plank-like head. They wore special soft shoes that gave them an excellent grip on the coral plaza, while sparing their feet any injury. Their eyes were covered under a net of black lichen that cast a shade over their eyes while allowing them to see perfectly fine even at dawn; their ears were covered from the sun, but left open to every angle with the use of flaps that could both dampen and amplify noise; and their noses were perfectly exposed to the air - they had every sensory advantage over here, and she was as visible to them as white marble in a pile of coal. They approached her with murderous intent, grabbing the hilts of their clubs with both hands. “You scheming blasphemer! You have no right to be here!” As the closest one raised her club, Ngosa rolled out of the way, her back only being saved from the claws of the floor by the grace of her skin vest - her arm and knee were not as lucky, however, and Ngosa whimpered painfully as she crawled over towards the edge of the tall plaza, leaving a trail of blood as she hastened away. She followed the sound of the ocean to the edge of the cliff-like plaza, the updraft telling both her skin and ears that there were powerful forces churning at the bottom.
She heard the two pairs of feet trap her on the corner she had escaped to, and the smell of her own blood was becoming stronger than the stink of the ocean. She heard the two women snicker to each other before one of them whispered, “Did you think you could come onto the Altar of the Oceanborn and make an offering just like that? Such insolence; such arrogance.”
“A heretic like you deserves nothing more than to be cast upon the sea - to be chum for the spawn of the Tyrant-Under-The-Moon.” Then Ngosa felt two arms grab hers and pull her to her feet. She struggled, but being blind, weak and wounded made her resistance meek and sloppy. She felt them turn her around, and the offensive blast of sunbeams singed at her skin as though she stood next to a bonfire. She was pushed forward slightly, and she felt her cut feet peek over the edge.
“No please… PLEASE! I can’t swim!”
“The Reef-Lord cares not whether you float or sink. If anything, it will be mercy if you drown before you are found. Now, gaze into the depths and be reunited with your ancestors in the Abyssal Paradise.” With that, Ngosa felt another push, and her belly screamed that she was in free fall. A few seconds later, she broke the surface of the water headfirst, crashing through a wave in the process of falling. The force pulled her body further underneath, immediately dragging her far away from the plaza. Then she stopped briefly before the force of the ocean pushed her the other way, back towards the lethal coral wall. Barely having time to react, she kicked off just in time to that only her feet, which already were cut open, were once more clawed asunder by the wall. Then she was dragged back out. Desperately, she tried to swim for the surface, but the current wouldn’t let her. She tried to escape the tow of the waves, but the sea was stronger. As air became scarce and her nose and mouth filled with seawater, she began to lose strength. She was bloody, tired and choking. Her blindfold loosened after a bit and floated off, allowing her eyes to see the blurry sight of the ocean, red as it was with the light of dawn. She had failed - she had failed in a most cruel manner. All she wanted was for her and her zü’ik to be seen - to be heard. Now, she would not only lose her life, but the treasure that could have given them so much, would probably wash up on the beach for someone else to claim.
Oddly enough, her weakened state of mind made her oddly contemplative, and she reached under her vest to retrieve the amber stone for one last peek. She wasn’t sure if she did that at all, really - she could very well have imagined it, but as her fingers, real or not, caressed the jewel ever so slightly, she heard a deep, reverberating thunder surround her. This was it - the gates to the afterlife were opening for her. However, barely conscious, she still felt something, and a second rumble was followed by a slimey, forceful sensation. Wasn’t it just her luck, Ngosa thought, that she couldn’t even die before being ripped apart by one of the Abyssal Lords… She felt her body grow limp and she lost consciousness. Darkness gripped her and she felt her soul grow fluid. She floated out of her form, and a blinding light stronger than the sun offered a paradoxically inviting call for her to approach. She blinked and took a step.
Then, like a dagger to her mouth, she felt air surge down into her lungs. She coughed violently and squirmed - she was suspended in the air, held aloft only by a fat, wriggling belt around her belly. She heard that thunder again, like an earthquake that vibrated through her form, but it was no natural force, this - this was a voice, and the light of dawn kept her from seeing what produced it. The voice hammered at her ears again, instinctively causing her to cover them in agony.
“STOOOOP, PLEASE!” she wheezed, kicking and squirming for freedom. The grip around her torso remained tight, however, and no matter her efforts, she couldn’t break free. It was then that she noticed the world around her darkening, almost to the point where she could open her eyes. Upon doing so, she looked straight up into three pairs of eyes, blinding menacingly down at her from above. She realised quickly that the darkness around her was the shadow of this massive creature, and she found herself overcome with an instinctive need to escape, like a mouse in the clutches of a sadistically playful cat. However, the monster held her still, only offering a silent glare. Then, in notes so deep that even nelven ears struggled to hear them, another quake rumbled through the ocean. Not long after, a small head peeked out from under the waves. At first, Ngosa’s cloudy vision mistook it for one of her own - its long ears and dark skin immediately brought connotations of the Nelven. However, as she looked closer, the creature’s piscine features begun to stand out more and more - webbed hands and finned forearms kept it afloat; its head had an impressive crest of fins and spikes in a myriad of powerful colours; and its face was smooth and glazed like that of a fresh fish. She swallowed - it was one of the holy people, the chosen of the sea.
An apzü.
The creature made itself as small as it could and spoke to the monster in a much quieter and much more tempered version of the quaking language, but even Ngosa could still tell that there was divine and ancient power behind every word, even if it was a dialect. The monster quietly thundered an answer and the apzü looked up at Ngosa and spoke, “Landwalker - does this stone belong to you?”
Ngosa blinked over at the orange gem still held by one of the monster’s four manipulator limbs. She nodded increasingly fast. “Y-yes! I-I brought it as, as a gift! A gift for the Master!” The apzü nodded and translated. The grip around Ngosa’s waist loosened slightly, allowing her to breathe more comfortably. The titan of the sea drew its six eyes from her to the apzü and tasted the words. It thundered something back and the translator nodded.
“Her Ladyship Vydianuxurl wishes to convey her most sincere congratulations to you for coming all this way to bring this stellar gift to His Lordship Raangarmodrul, Grand Warden of the Northern Seas, Gate-Keeper to the Abyssal Paradise, Patriach of the House of Raan, Tyrant of Gexou and seventh spawn of the Immortal All-Tyrant Kaarnesxaturl. She says that, if she was to judge from your appearance, you have gone through quite the ordeal to come here.” Drops of Ngosa’s blood still pittered against the water surface below and the nelf swallowed.
“I… I came for my zü’ik... We don’t have much, but we were hoping we’d… That this gift could…”
“OUR LADY!” came a sudden call from the coral plateau on the beach. The Vrool’s thunderous dialogue had drawn a crowd, and now at least a hundred nelves dressed in the same heavy robes and shoes as the guards earlier came running over to the altar, from which they stood at eye-level with the Vrool. Once there, they collapsed to their padded knees, torso pointing to the sky and head hung forwards, hands collected neatly in a cup stretched out before them. In the lead was an old priestess, handsomely decorated with hedgehog spines gathered in a wide necklace around her throat, a mighty headdress fashioned from an owlix skull, and the bones and skeletons of fish decorating her sleeves and ending in skull “gloves” over her hands. “We apologise dearly, Our Lady!” she pleaded, backed up by the whispering whimpers of her fellow acolytes and villagers. “She was never meant to come here - our guards tried to stop her before she could insult Your Lady’s patriarch’s holy altar with her filth! Please, let us wrest the names of her zü’ik out of her so they may all be offered to Our Lord with all haste!”
Vydianuxurl silently regarded the acolytes. She thundered another few sentences or so, and the translator nodded. A tendril lifted the apzü out of the water and placed her atop the altar. Swiftly, the acolytes shifted their stances to face her instead. “O holy Oceanborn apzü, good aunt Kanani Tama’Kai o'te'Akau-Raki, we are thankful that you have come! Please, let Our Lady know that--”
“SILEEEEEEENCE!” screamed the translator so loudly that it nearly dazed the nelves. She pointed to Ngosa and continued, the acolytes barely having recovered. “Lowly, unfaithful scum such as you may not refer to me as “aunt”. You dare obstruct a loyal subject of the Tyrant from bringing her offering to Him?!”
“B-but now is not the time of offering--!”
“Now is not the time of offering?! Such foolishness; such sightlessness! Are you, a Nelf, so lost to your age that you cannot see past your own, graying eye lashes?! Her Ladyship is grievously wounded that your guards could even consider taking the life of someone so devoted to the Lord that she would defy tribe and Altarkeepers just to give Him this magnificent gift.” The Lady held up the piece of mushroom amber, its orange colour catching the red dawn and blasting rays like blood across the plaza. The acolytes swallowed as one - its beauty was incomparable. They extended their hands forward again and whispered for forgiveness.
“Forgive us, Drowned One - we could not see; her gift truly is beyond our feeble imaginations! Pray tell - what will she be given in return?”
The translator scoffed at their pleas, but translated all the same. A moment passed before the Lady offered her rumbling reply. The apzü nodded slowly and turned sideways so she could shift from the acolytes to Ngosa. “The Lady shall deliver the gift to the Lord today - His verdict will be given at sundown. Until then, you are to dress this one’s wounds, and treat her as though she was apzü.”
“As though she was--?!”
“AS THOUGH SHE WAS APZÜ, YES! You heard correctly, Grand Acolyte Kwosé. If even one word reaches the depths that you have shirked this duty, the Lord will rip the entire tribe of Za’a’alim out of the Fungal Forest and drown each and every one of you in the blackest abyss.”
The nelves couldn’t utter a single word in response. The apzü nodded slowly, the backdrop of the sun looking to finally be getting to her. She turned to face her Lady and let her place the weak, bleeding form of Ngosa in her arms. She carefully descended from the altar and spoke, “You two - get up and carry this one to the House of the Coven. Give her food, rest and healing. Be thorough, or you and your zü’ik will feed the Lord’s next clutch.” Quickly, the kneeling nelves got to their feet and hurried to carry the wounded Ngosa down towards the forest and into the village. Ngosa felt her exhaustion overtake her - sunburns all over her frail skin didn’t do much good either. As the welcoming shadows of the forest loomed overhead, she closed her eyes and faded into deep slumber.
Ngosa had no recollection of the day’s sleep - it had been too deep for dreams. All she remembered from the day before was pain - the pain of light in her eyes, the pain of sun on her skin, the pain of the cuts all over her body, and the pain of that thundering voice that never seemed to leave her skull. She was shaken awake, finding herself on a bed surrounded by tent walls - a new sensation, seeing as she had never slept on one before. The mattress was made of sea sponges, kept only slightly moist by the air itself, which was thick with humidity. Over sponges had been laid a sheet of the softest seal fur, and her head rested on a pillow of owl dow. The room smelled wonderful, herbal steam rising from fissures under the walls. She heard some clicks and turned to regard the face of an acolyte, so designated by the appearance of his clothing. He seemed reluctantly respectful towards her, refusing to look into her eyes and instead bowing his head to her. He then pushed himself away, stabilised himself on his knees and held his hands forward in surrender. “Honoured One - forgive my disrespect in awakening you from your slumber. The Great Tyrant summons you to the altar.”
Ngosa tried to move, but crippling aches from all over her body stopped her movement dead. The acolyte nodded slowly. “Be careful, Honoured One - you lost quite a bit of blood yesterday, and some of your cuts were quite deep. Much of your body, too, was burned by the cruel sun. With honesty, I confess I admire your conviction to your zü’ik for what you endured.”
Ngosa sighed. “Th-thank you…” There was then a pause. Her body had been covered with bandages and ointments, and even without the pain, it had been difficult to move. “C-could you help me up? I cannot seem to--”
“Please, Honoured One - let us get you a palanquin.”
“Oh, no, that won’t be--!” But before she could finish her sentence, the acolyte had already hastened out of the tent. She clicked in slight discontent - this was all going so fast: One day, she’s an enemy of the most powerful tribe in the land, and the next, she’s practically royalty. She knew the gem would be worth quite a bit, but she had never imagined this sort of treatment. Footsteps outside indicated the acolyte had returned, and he had brought friends. Three more joined him into the tent and gently carried Ngosa out into a palanquin fashioned from shroomwood and upholstered with sea sponges covered in a carpet of plant fibre. A drape of vines and fibres hung low over the seat to shield it from the sun. She was placed softly down on the cushions and the acolytes took their places by each of the palanquin’s four handles. Then, before Ngosa could properly prepare herself, they lifted her up and began carrying her towards the ocean. She didn’t know if she could get used to this lifestyle - it was eerily comfortable, and a shift in class like this one would give her frightening habits, surely. They stepped out onto the beach, where the moon was making its ascent towards its zenith. Ngosa felt the palanquin tip backwards slightly as the acolytes ascended the slope up to the altar. She smelt the ocean and heard the waves crash, and before her, she saw an even bigger Vrool than the one who was slowly making its way back into her memories by the second. This Vrool was enormous, its presence radiating terrifying authority like any apex predator, but amplified by a thousand factors. Its silvery skin glistened in the moonlight, and tendrils fat like tree trunks lapped sloppily at the coral altar with deceitful weakness. Ngosa’s palanquin was placed down before the altar, and she stepped out to see the plateau and the beach below packed with acolytes and villagers, many from other tribes than the Za’a’alim. No one from the Oi’wet had come, but they had surely not had the time to travel all the way in a single evening. Stepping up next to her was the apzü from the day before, flashing Ngosa a smirk.
“Nervous?” she asked. Ngosa blinked.
“W-what?” The apzü amiably placed a hand on her belly and a finger over her lips.
“Don’t worry, landwalker. The Lord was incredibly pleased with your gift - you have done well. You have done so well, in fact, that He Himself has come to personally grant you your reward.” Kanani gestured up to the tyrant and Ngosa followed her hand with her eyes. The giant’s eyes fixed on her, and even though the apzü had described it as such, Ngosa couldn’t find a shred of kindness in its eyes. Kanani spoke a few sentences in their language and the tyrant thundered. The waves themselves seemed to roll harder and faster, attacking the beach with terrible momentum and knocking several onlookers onto their backs. The clouds briefly flew by faster, covering the moon and inviting even black darkness over the ceremony. Then, it calmed, and the translator nodded. She climbed onto the altar and raised her palms to the air, all the onlookers kneeling and presenting their hands in surrender. Ngosa skittered to do the same, but Kanani gestured for her to stop and stay standing. “HEAR THE TYRANT’S COMMAND!” shouted Kanani, the nelves grabbing their ears in pain. Kanani smirked and continued, “This one, Ngosa of the Oi’wet, has offered the Tyrant a most beautiful gift! Even as thoughtless specimen of her own species attempted to have her killed in the act, she persevered, and the Tyrant was given His prize! Loyalty and service to the Abyssal Lord and Tyrant of Gexou is its own reward, but acts like these are too few and too far between - they should thus be commemorated, so all will remember the strength of allegiance!”
As her speech came to an end, something climbed out of the water - they were apzü, but smaller - dwarven, almost - and rough with barnacles all over. Some had piscine or requine heads, and their finned feet and hands made them out to be some form of subspecies of the higher apzü. These were, however, quite clearly a laborer caste, perhaps one that covered the whole subspecies, seeing as they were so uniform in shape and size. They climbed up onto the altar, one arm carrying sacks fashioned from fish skin. These were put down on the floor before Ngosa, one after another, until the pile reached her almost to her hips. She swallowed and looked to Kanani, who smirked knowingly. “Go ahead,” she said, “these are all yours. Open one if you wish.” Ngosa did as suggested and opened one of the sacks. The sight immediately stole her breath, and all who stood around her were equally smitten by its contents.
Every sack, which was about the size of a large pumpkin, were filled to the brim with pearls. Ngosa collapsed to her knees in shock and looked up at the grinning Kanani and the silent Lord, her tongue twisting itself as she tried to formulate words. Finally, she managed to say, “Th-this is too much! All I gave was but a small piece of--”
Kanani wagged a finger at her and clicked disapprovingly. “Now, now, do not deny a gift from His Lordship - that is most disgraceful.”
“B-b-but---... All this! This is so much more than I gave! How is this fair?!”
Kanani scoffed condescendingly and knelt down next to Ngosa. She took a pearl between two fingers and hooked Ngosa’s shoulders with her arm, bringing them both to a stand so they could regard the pearl’s sheen in the moonlight. Behind them, the crowds were over themselves with awe. “Allow me to tell you a story from the depths, my dear Ngosa: Down there is a world completely unlike the surface - the servants of the Reef-Lord never go hungry; we live in such luxury that we only swim to stay in shape - our chariots can take us anywhere, should we wish for it; we have riches from all around the world. These pearls?” She flicked the one in her hand back into the ocean. “These are just the ones that have collected in the corners of the mighty Tyrant’s abode.”
Ngosa was speechless. The Tyrant’s glare was unmoving, and she could see in his eyes that he understood everything the apzü had said, and agreed with every point. Kanani continued, “However… What you have brought the Grand Warden, what you call tau-tau’nüt, it exists nowhere but on this island, and a piece as large as the one you found has not been found for over a thousand years. Not a billion pearls could even compare to the magnificence of this find.” She patted Ngosa approvingly on the shoulder and let her slump back to her knees. “Now, I must, of course, warn you not to fall into hatchling sickness.”
Ngosa slowly collected herself and looked up at the Tyrant. “Hatchling sickness?”
“Indeed.” She followed her gaze and snickered. “Don’t worry, His Lordship and his subjects are all quite aware of it, and many even take pride in it. It is what we apzü call that mixture of greed, insolence and arrogance that the youngest of the vrool express in their first few centuries. With all the power and agility of youth, they think themselves invincible, and amass great hoards and followings, only to be taken down by older Vrool who outmatch their experience by several centuries. Now that you have been made the richest of your kind, you shall forever live in luxury, but know that you cannot let yourself fall asleep on your laurels. As a wealthy woman, you must secure yourself against those who seek to overthrow you, and surround yourself with your most loyal subjects. Your zü’ik will become legendary, perhaps so legendary that you will form your very own tribe or even collection of tribes - capable of standing against the Vespian tide from the West.” She cupped her chin in her hand. “Until then, though, take care and be on the lookout.” With that, she skipped off the edge of the altar and dove into the abyss. The Tyrant of Gexou, Raangarmodrul, glared at her for a minute longer, rumbling something under his beard of tendrils, before he, too, descended into the ocean again.
Ngosa struggled to calm her breath. Before her laid enough wealth to live for a hundred generations, and it was all hers. Footsteps approached from behind, and she looked up to see the Grand Acolyte Kwosé stare at her with wide, milky eyes. She swallowed, shifting between the pearls, Ngosa and the ocean, and then offered her hands in surrender.
“Honoured One, favoured by the Tyrant - what will you have us do?”
Ngosa looked around and saw all the other acolyte copy the gesture. She stole a minute to collect her thoughts, but realised she would need days to completely absorb everything that had happened. For now, she took a handful of pearls from the top sack and handed it to the Grand Acolyte, who whimpered with joy upon seeing them. “For now, help me carry this back to my village.”
The post opens with an Animal Planet coverage of the Night Elf hunting giant hedgehogs on Neverday Island. After some shenanigans, she gets the kill. We then cut to the nelf carrying the prey home. She encounters a vespian on the way and hides - turns out vespians on Neverday are pretty frightening and don’t have the best of relationships with the nelves. We then cut to the Nelf, whose name is Ngosa and her entry into her home, a bunch of tunnels under a mushroom tree. There, she meets Gyatso, part of her zü’ik, a very loose and ever-changing family of friends and lovers that shifts eternally. Ngosa reveals to him that during her hunt, she found a huge piece of amber. They immediately agree that this must be kept hidden from everyone so it can be delivered to “the Master”. They’re almost caught as Gyatso’s former zü’ik (i.e. a former flame), Zilandra, comes over to bug them. They shove her off and Ngosa goes to present her find to her closest friend and lover, Trung, and her son Ngung. After they encourage her to go, she hurried atop the mushroom under which they live and, after almost getting caught again, mounts an owlix named Ngie who lives on top of the mushroom, who reluctantly takes her to the sea.
However, now dawn is approaching, so when they get to the beach, and an altar of coral and shells built upon it, Ngie leaves and leaves Ngosa alone. She tries to summon the Master from the sea, but cannot seem to find a way to call it. She recalls that the acolytes usually overseeing the altar during offerings use a special horn to summon the Vrool, but they of course keep it in their village (and her tribe and the Altarkeeper tribe aren’t the best of friends). Frustrated, she punches the altar, forgetting briefly that it’s made of knifelike coral. She squeals, attracting guards. They chase her around the coral plateau, Ngosa cutting herself all over and getting sunburned while their protective gear keeps them safe. She eventually reaches the edge of the plateau and the two guards toss her over the side to be turned into vrool food. As she splashes against the water, the amber falls out of her pocket and catches the attention of the Tyrant’s consort, Vydianuxurl, who picks her out of the water and, with the help of the translator Kanani Tama’Kai o'te'Akau-Raki, congratulates Ngosa on being so devoted to her duty to the Tyrant. The Vrool through Kanani orders the guards and now gathered crowd who had come to witness the spectacle to take Ngosa in and treat her wounds as though she was royalty under pain of death, and they do.
The next evening, she is woken up and taken to the beach, where the Tyrant himself, Raangarmodrul, has come to reward her for her loyalty. He gives her more pearls than she could ever give away, because as it turns out, the Tyrant has a lot of pearls, but a clump of amber like the one she found only appears every 1000 years. Then they leave and Ngosa is made the wealthiest woman on the island.
As per the new commandments of Dlíbók to better collect, measure, catalogue and distribute state funds correctly, I, Kaer Thian, have been tasked with accompanying tax collector théin Driod of Klan to collect the capital’s due from Ha-Dûna’s people. I swear by Fìrinn that this is a true account of the events that will transpire along this journey, and I swear to Taeg Eit that I will not accept any sort of payment or favours in exchange for muddling with these records. May the Eight and the Seven all offer my oath their blessings, and punish me dearly should I break it. This account will follow the traditional recording style employed by Kaer Mirh, may the gods rest his soul, as early as year 14 before the Founding, with later addendum sections on economy and measurements as outlined by Kaer Myvon and the others at the Ha-Dûna Office of Agriculture.
Mission:
The mandate given to tax collector théin Driod of Klan covers the collection of taxes on the grounds of the following four chapters of Dlíbók:
The eighth chapter outlines the Law of the Farmer. I am here quoting the paragraph on Taxation of the Farmer:
“Every farmer under the sight of the gods who is not under the jurisdiction of a temple, but owns their own land and works it all year, must pledge one fifth of their grain harvested, of a quality which the tax collector finds adequate, in the months of Haust and Hratep to the resthouse in their home village; if no such resthouse can be found, the produce will be sent to the resthouse in their neighbouring village. In the event of drought, floods, disease or raiding, the farmer may be exempted from tax if the collector finds them eligible.”
Comment: In Ha-Dûna, there are a total of five resthouses:
The House of the Weary,
The Barley Hall,
The East Gate Hall,
The South Gate Hall,
The House of Pilgrims.
Then, the tenth chapter outlines the Law of the Earth and Clay. I am now quoting the paragraph of the Taxation of the Craftsman:
“Every crafter under the sight of the gods who is not under the jurisdiction of a temple, but works their furnace, whittler’s knife or potter’s wheel, must pledge one fifth of their produce, of a quality which the tax collector finds adequate, to the resthouse in their home village; if no such resthouse can be found, the produce will be sent to the resthouse in their neighbouring village. Furthermore, if the crafter has no such products to offer, they must instead offer grain equal to two snes. In the event of drought, floods, disease or raiding, the crafter may be exempted from tax if the collector finds them eligible.”
The city has two additional sectors that will be chronicled by my colleague, Kaer Teagan “the Crone”. These are the sectors of fishing and lumbery, covered by the following chapters of Dlíbóka. I will add these to the addendum section.
The ninth chapter outlines the Law of the River and Sea. I am here quoting the paragraph of the Taxation of the Fisher:
“Every fisher under the sight of the gods who is not under the jurisdiction of a temple, but who spins their own nets and fish their own grounds, must pledge one fifth their catch in the months of Haust and Hratep, dried or smoked, and of a quality which the tax collector finds adequate, to the resthouse in their home village; if no such resthouse can be found, the produce will be sent to the resthouse in their neighbouring village. Furthermore, if the fisher has no such catch to offer, they must instead offer grain equal to two snes.In the event of drought, floods, disease or raiding, the fisher may be exempted from tax if the collector finds them eligible.”
The eleventh chapter outlines the Law of Wood and Trees. I am now quoting the paragraph of the Taxation of the Lumberer:
“Every lumberer under the sight of the gods who is not under the jurisdiction of a temple, but tends to and takes from great Jennesis’ woods, must pledge one fifth of their lumber and firewood, of a quality which the tax collector finds adequate, to the resthouse in their home village; if no such resthouse can be found, the produce will be sent to the resthouse in their neighbouring village. Furthermore, if the lumberer has no such resources to offer, they must instead offer grain equal to two snes. In the event of drought, floods, disease or raiding, the crafter may be exempted from tax if the collector finds them eligible.”
As mentioned above, my subject, the théin Driod of Klan’s mission is to collect the taxes owed by the crafters and the farmers of Ha-Dûna.
Comment: I note that the failure to meet any of these requirements invoke punishments in accordance with chapter four, the Law of Punishments, from the paragraph on Failure of Duty, quote:
“Whomsoever shall shirk their duty to the tax collector by not providing their fithe in an adequate way shall be subjected to fifty lashes by the village théin. If the accused is found to have hidden away their whole or part of their fithe rather than pay it in full, they will be subjected to sixty lashes and their fithe taken.”
The above-mentioned paragraphs are all relevant to the region, to be used as reference for myself and for my future readers in the assessment of my work. I will make sure to add additional paragraphs should we encounter categories the above-mentioned cannot satisfy.
Log:
Reiyasday, 12th of Haust anno 27 after the Founding. Ha-Dûna east.
We left at first thlénn, beginning our trek through the Workman’s District. While I am already quite fond of Ha-Dûna, nothing makes me quite as satisfied with my home as when the worthy crafters all line up along the street with their goods lined and presented for the tax carts. Below have been outlined the representatives from the workshops we collected from in order of profession, as well as what they offered as tribute and the amount offered.
Potters:
Potter Brian of Clan Metsep, gaardskarl: Three pots capable of carrying one and a half snes; five pots capable of carrying one snes; five pots capable of carrying half a snes.
Comment: I found myself particularly fond of master Brian’s pottery - théin Driod, too, was of the same mind, and asked the man why he had not offered some of his lesser work and saved these masterpieces for his family or bypassing merchants. To this, the good man Brian answered, “Had the gods wanted mediocrity, they would not have founded Ha-Dûna.” To this, théin Driod agreed, and in exchange for his diligence, he was given a voucher for a week’s worth of resthouse supplies for him and his family.
Potter Ragna, daughter of Ralfe, herjegalling: Two pots capable of carrying one and a half snes; eleven pots capable of carrying half a snes.
Potter Sienna, daughter of Sienna, gaardskarl: One snes of wheat and one of rye.
Potter Karl of Clan Tegosep, gaardskarl: Two snes of wheat.
Potter Pierre of Clan Blanche, brasfortsian: Twenty pots capable of carrying half a snes.
Potter Ciónn, daughter of Kaer Diónn, clennic: Two snes of wheat.
Comment: Potter Ciónn refused to part with her work, and then after the tax collector offered her the option to pay her fithe in grain, she refused that, as well, stating that her family had no such grain to give. Upon inspecting her house, a secret stash of grain was found behind her wall. As per law, she was taken into the street and given sixty lashes. Her grain was taken, as well, as per the law.
Today’s goods were all delivered to the Barley Hall, as that is the closest.
Gibbousday, 13th of Haust anno 27 after the Founding. Ha-Dûna east.
Metalworkers:
Smelter Tavish, son of Hama, clennic: Thirty bars of copper, ten bars of silver.
Smelter Enné of Clan Tegosep, gaardskarl: Two bars of bronze; six bars of copper; one bar of silver.
Smith Oleg, son of Tór, herjegalling: Six five axes; one bar of copper.
Comment: After we had left Oleg’s smithy, we found that one of his axes had been shoddily crafted. We returned and théin Driod demanded he give us a proper tool. Oleg informed us that he had no more axes he could afford to part with, and gave us a bar of copper instead.
Smith Megan, daughter of Kaer Pier, brasfortsian: Fifteen axes; fifteen sickles; thirteen pickaxes.
Jeweler Giome of Clan du Pierre, brasfortsian: Two snes of wheat.
Fìrinnsday, 14th of Haust anno 27 after the Founding. Ha-Dûna east.
Woodworkers:
Fletcher Gaard of Clan Ur-Gaard, gaardskarl: Two hundred arrows and three yew bows.
Fletcher Vegard of Clan Metsep, gaardskarl. Three hundred arrows.
Carpenter Vegard “One-Eye”, son of Grim, herjegalling: An elk cart.
Carpenter Dima of Clan Tegosep, gaardskarl: Two snes of wheat.
Carpenter Pené, son of Zid, kirinian: Two snes of wheat.
Glasiers:
Logi, son of Tór, herjegalling. Three vials; one bauble capable of holding half a snes.
Isutorix of Clan Leona, clennic. One and a half snes of rye and a glass vial.
Comment: When asked why their fithe was so small this year, Isutorix explained that her father, the late Déodin of Clan Leona and master of the Leona Glassworks, passed away from the black cough, setting their work back months. The Eight and Seven rest his soul - after some discussion between me, Driod and Isutorix, the théin saw reason to accept this limited tax and move along, on the agreement that Isutorix would pay one and a half fithe next year. She agreed.
Today’s goods were all delivered to the Barley Hall, as that is the closest.
Borisday, 15th of Haust, anno 27. Ha-Dûna east.
We left once again at first thlénn, this time for the farms beyond the walls. Today would be the longest hoard, théin Driod told me - a two-day long hoard, in fact. It would also be the first harvest in Ha-Dûna in many years; the gods have been good to us in the times since the Reconquest. Of course, this meant, as the théin remarked, that we had to keep our eyes well-peeled, as times of great change may bring unexpected surprises. Below are arranged the clans and family heads of the twenty túns on the eastern half of Ha-Dûna’s arable land, both between and beyond the city and the Misanthir, arranged in order of visitation:
Clan Metsep, gaardskarl, at the Metsep túns. 12 snes of wheat; 17 snes of oats; 9 snes of barley; 12 snes of rye.
Clan Tegosep, gaardskarl, at the Tegosep tún. 36 snes of wheat.
Erimex, daughter of Kaer Obee, clennic, at the Druïtha tún. 20 snes of wheat.
Egil, son of Halfdûn, herjegalling, at the Druïtha tún. 13 snes of rye.
Clan Blanche, brasfortsian, at the Blanche tún. 32 snes of barley.
Today’s goods were delivered to the House of the Weary.
Jennesday, 16th of Haust, anno 27. Ha-Dûna east.
Kyrre, son of Ralfe, herjegalling, at the Mionn tún. 12 snes of rye.
Clan du Pierre, brasfortsian, at the Pierre tún. 8 snes of oats.
Clan Ur-Gaard, gaardskarl, at the Ur-Gaard tún. 10 snes of oats; 10 snes of barley.
Clan Ur-Met, gaardskarl, at the Ur-Met tún. 4 snes of barley; 7 snes of oats.
Comment: When asked why their fithe was so small this year, the head of Clan Ur-Met, Old Mother Binya, explained that they had already shipped off most of their grain to the breweries and the mills. The théin explained that this was the equivalent of tax evasion and sentenced the old mother to be punished; however, her oldest son, Frinn, offered to take the punishment for her, and was thus given fifty lashes for his mother’s foolishness.
The Shepherd family, herjegalling, at the Ur-Met tún. Two snes of wheat.
Clan Ur-Sikra, gaardskarl, at the Ur-Sikra tún. 11 snes of oats; 16 snes of wheat; 17 snes of rye.
Clan Ur-Qir, gaardskarl, at the Ur-Qir tún. 11 snes of wheat; 9 snes of rye.
The Herder family, herjegalling at the Ur-Qir tún. 14 snes of oats; 7 snes of rye.
Clan Sûr-le-Mont, brasfortsian, at the Mont tún. 20 24 snes of barley; 9 snes of wheat; 11 15 snes of rye.
Comment: The clan Sûr-le-Mont offered to pay four additional snes of barley and rye each as compensation for her cousin’s inadequacy. See comment under “Clementine, daughter of Brior” for additional context.
Clementine, daughter of Brior, clennic, at the Mont tún. 8 4 snes of rye; 6 2 snes of barley.
Comment: While reactions to Clementine’s contribution were originally approving, the weight of the sacks proved too considerable compared to the amount of grain supposedly within them. Upon further inspection, the théin found that a good quarter to a half of each sack was filled with white sand. The local théin, Aifric of Sûr-le-Mont, was summoned to give her sixty lashes as the rest of the grain was found within Clementine’s house. The théin Aifric apologised for her cousin’s behaviour and compensated the tax collector by paying her share from her own stores.
Today’s goods were delivered to the House of Pilgrims.
Claroonsday, 17th of Haust, anno 27. Ha-Dûna east.
Clan Ketersep, gaardskarl, at the Ketersep tún. 22 snes of wheat; 4 snes of rye; 2 snes of barley.
Clan Leothe, clennic, at the Leothe tún.15 snes of wheat; 11 snes of barley; 3 snes of rye.
Clan Saune, clennic, at the Saune tún. 6 snes of wheat; 8 snes of oats; 4 snes of rye.
Clan Ur-Dûn, gaardskarl, at the Ur-Dûn tún. 12 snes of wheat; 7 snes of rye; 1 snes of barley.
Clan Leona, clennic, at the Leona tún. 21 snes of wheat; 6 snes of barley.
Martha, daughter of Trant, clennic, at the Leona tún.2 snes of rye; 1 snes of barley.
Clan Ur-Dirr, gaardskarl, at the Ur-Dirr tún. 2 snes of barley.
Comment: When asked why their fithe was too small, the father Bron of Ur-Dirr explained that they had suffered a great robbery a week before tax collection. Naturally suspicious, the théin ordered a search of the clan tún, but found nothing. The théin asked why the robbery was not reported to the théin Aifric, but the man refused to answer clearly. To quote: “We tried to, but things got in the way.” He refused to elaborate on the nature of these “things”. Still, as the fithe was, in the end, inadequate, the théin Driod once more summoned the théin Aifric of Sûr-le-Mont to give the father Bron of Ur-Dirr fifty lashes.
Clan Klan, clennic, at the Klan tún. 6 snes of wheat; 6 snes of barley.
Clan Vitesse, brasfortsian, at the Vitesse tún. 20 snes of oats; 10 snes of wheat.
Today’s goods were delivered to the House of the Weary, the House of Pilgrims and the South Gate Hall.
Comment: Ideally, the House of the Weary should have taken a larger share of the goods we gathered in its proximity, but their larders and silos were already quite stocked from the summer harvests. Therefore, the House of Pilgrims received the leftover fithe meant for the former resthouse.
Seerosday, 18th of Haust, anno 27. Ha-Dûna west.
While the east and the farms along the Misanthir have a majority population of our familiar Dûnan clans, the resurgence in our civilisation after the Reconquest has one again brought back many of our old friends from the north and south, east and west, all of whom are happy to be invited back into our diverse and wonderful city. The majority of these have settled on the lands by the Farmer’s Market and the Sun Gate, no doubt as these directions manage the channels of traders and pilgrims travelling to and from their old homes. Below are arranged the clans and family heads of the twenty túns and lesser steads and grazing grounds surrounding Ha-Dûna in the west, arranged in order of visitation:
Comment: It strikes me as curious that many of the ikdûni prefer to pay their taxes in animals and animal products rather than grain. Many of them seem not to see the point in purchasing grain for paying the tax. The théin Driod, ever a wise and compromising man, offered them to pay as the crafters would - one fithe of any product. I hope this decision will not upset those who obeyed the system as set.
Clan Laird, clennic. 14 snes of wheat; 11 snes of barley; 4 snes of rye.
Comment: After our translator could not seem to convince the matriarch of the Mogwive that grain was our main form of taxed goods, the théin compromised by letting them offer animals instead, despite the fact that this may cost the resthouses great resources if they aren’t slaughtered soon.
Clan Gorm, herjegalling. 7 snes of wheat; 3 snes of oats.
Clan Vlok, mink. 12 snes of oats; 2 baskets of eggs.
Comment: One of the clan bwobushkyas tried to offer the théin a bribe of oatcakes to take a smaller fithe than what was calculated. Normally, this would have warranted a lashing of twenty lashes as mandated by the Law of Punishments, from the paragraph of Obstruction of Official Duty (See addendum for full quotation from Dlíbók), but the théin Driod seemed reluctant to have an old woman whipped for such an attempted bribe, especially after her sons and daughters begged and explained that she has been growing foggy in her elder days. Their fithe was extracted as planned, and they were left with a warning.
Clan Muskvit, mink. 12 snes of oats; 13 snes of wheat.
Clan Misambe, nubveian. 6 chickens; 3 goats; 2 racks of dried mutton; 2 racks of dried elk; 3 racks of dried bison.
Clan Wowomembe, nubveian. 8 heads of cattle.
Clan Ur-Gursep, gaardskarl. 12 snes of wheat; 19 snes of rye.
Clan Ur-Gwynsep, gaardskarl. 10 snes of oats; 7 snes of rye.
Clan Côte, brasfortsian. 12 snes of oats.
Today’s goods were delivered to the South Gate Hall.
Macsalsday, 19th of Haust, anno 27. Ha-Dûna west.
Clan Sirjin, clennic. 5 snes of rye; 2 snes of wheat; 6 snes of barley.
Tamba, son of Isogwe, nubveian. 1 sheep; 1 goat.
Piotr Andreiiwoch, son of Andrei Andreiiwoch, mink. 1 goat.
Karav Sheevyoiwoch, son of Sheevyo Abariwoch, mink. 4 snes of wheat.
Dimir Dimiriwoch, son of Dimir Vlariwoch, mink. 2 sheep; 6 sacks of sheep’s wool.
Sabmi of Núrmi, son of Savas, meike. 8 racks of dried reindeer; 2 racks of stockfish.
Murtagh “the Scawick”, son of Briain, scawick. 2 snes of wheat.
Bonursan Yip, son of Bonursan Chirrut, doserung. 1 rack of dried goat; 2 racks of dried mutton.
Ramansan Nomir, daughter of Ramansun, doserung. 6 snes of wheat; 1 rack of dried mutton.
Ratinmaar of Bast, son of Ki’ogmaar of Bast, bastian. 2 pots of goat cheese; 2 pots of butter.
Today’s goods were delivered to the South Gate Hall.
Reiyasday, 20th of Haust, anno 27. Ha-Dûna west.
Khammed, son of Isherta, doserung. 1 head of cattle; 2 snes of rye.
Clan ap Mirh, clennic. 12 snes of wheat; 3 snes of rye; 5 snes of barley.
Clan ap Angus, clennic. 12 snes of oats.
Frankois Amoir, son of Julippe Amoir, brasfortsian. 6 snes of oats; 2 snes of rye.
Clan Yngling, herjegalling. 1 snes of wheat; 3 snes of rye; 6 snes of barley.
Clan Ur-Lepti, gaardskarl. 6 snes of wheat; 6 snes of barley.
Clan Shepdur, gaardskarl. 3 snes of oats; 12 snes of wheat.
Mendela, son of Mugedo, swadi. 2 goats; 3 pots of goat’s milk.
Kuhbelo, son of Koisa, swadi. 5 chickens; 2 baskets of eggs.
Ragnar, son of Iver, herjegalling. 3 snes of oats; 7 snes of wheat.
Clan Fjaering, herjegalling. 4 snes of rye; 3 snes of barley.
Clan Verite, brasfortsian. 16 snes of wheat; 17 snes of rye; 11 snes of barley; 14 snes of oats.
Comment: I remark that the various cultures of the peoples we have visited today fascinate me to a great degree. I remark that my next work shall be a treatise on these so we may better understand those who come to our fair city in the future.
Today’s goods were delivered to the South Gate Hall, with excess being brought back to the House of Pilgrims in the city centre.
Conclusion:
This concluded the two week-long endeavour to gather the taxes in the agricultural sector. May my peers and our descendants judge this account as true, and may any who wish raise any remarks regarding my method and credibility speak up so we may all do Fìrinn’s bidding of reaching an ever truer Truth.
Addendums:
From the Law of Punishments, paragraph on Obstruction of Official Duty:
“Whomsoever shall obstruct an official of the Ha-Dûnan Office of Government in the process of their duty, whether this be by physical obstruction, bribery, threats or extortion, shall be subjected to twenty lashes by the village théin.”
From the Law of the River and Sea, paragraph on the Taxation of the Fisher:
“Every fisher under the sight of the gods who is not under the jurisdiction of a temple, but who spins their own nets and fish their own grounds, must pledge one fifth their catch in the months of Haust and Hratep, dried or smoked, and of a quality which the tax collector finds adequate, to the resthouse in their home village; if no such resthouse can be found, the produce will be sent to the resthouse in their neighbouring village. Furthermore, if the fisher has no such catch to offer, they must instead offer grain equal to two snes.In the event of drought, floods, disease or raiding, the fisher may be exempted from tax if the collector finds them eligible.”
From the Law of Wood and Trees, paragraph on the Taxation of the Lumberer:
“Every lumberer under the sight of the gods who is not under the jurisdiction of a temple, but tends to and takes from great Jennesis’ woods, must pledge one fifth of their lumber and firewood, of a quality which the tax collector finds adequate, to the resthouse in their home village; if no such resthouse can be found, the produce will be sent to the resthouse in their neighbouring village. Furthermore, if the lumberer has no such resources to offer, they must instead offer grain equal to two snes. In the event of drought, floods, disease or raiding, the crafter may be exempted from tax if the collector finds them eligible.”
A druid joins a théin in collecting taxes, and shows that the punishments for tax evasion are pretty strict. The tax in HD is usually 1/5 of annual production or the annual harvest. We also see that the Western half of Ha-Dûna's pretty diverse in terms of cultures, with the majority of farms being owned and worked by non-Dûnan minorities.
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