I miss writing. Alot. Journaling is all well and good, but there's something about creative writing. I get excited about it! So, here's to a year of doing what excites me. It's time for a change.
My plan is to get working on my post tomorrow and have it up no later than Sunday. I'll also probably be updating the Ysmirod glossary as I introduce new words. I intend to introduce the Ysmirod word for 'shit' in my intro, because why not?
EDIT: Also, in case you couldn't tell from my CS, I like to edit things...a lot. I promise, however, that my edits are purely for phrasing and such. I don't edit dialogue to make my characters come out on top of conversations or alter fight scenes so they emerge victorious. Just a head's up. I'm a wee bit of a perfectionist lol.
I'll get cracking on my post tomorrow most likely since today is a bit crazy. Just FYI, I usually manage one, possibly two, posts a week. I hope that's acceptable.
@Atrophy The feeling is mutual. It'll be interesting to see how Sigrun interacts with Constance. Both of them spent time, or allegedly spent time, living in slums and doing what they had to in the name of saving their skins. And yet they are two totally different people, brought up in completely dissimilar settings. Is good, jah?
((One change I'm making to this picture is that Sigi has a spiral branded onto her forehead.))
Sigrun "Sigi" Alfhild 23|5'5"|Female
“Fuck up when you drink, fuck up when you rut, but don’t fuck up when you fight.” -Old Ysmirod saying, Unknown origin
[ S Y N O P S I S ]
Hailing from the inhospitable island of Ysmir, Sigrun “Sigi” Alfhild is a woman searching for something to bring before the Moot, Ysmir's governing body, to convince them to let her return home. Her years of training as a fighter, self-confidence, and determination have served her well over the last ten years, and she’s recently discovered a passion for medicine as well. Curiosity about the world beyond Ysmir and her quest to find a worthy avallach finally drove this naïve, headstrong islander to join the crew of the UIS Garrloch as a field medic.
[ A P P E A R A N C E ]
Unlike the statuesque beauty most people think of when they picture an Ysmirod woman, Sigrun is short and slender, though her body does have a certain wiry musculature. Due to how close their island is to the Ring of Thunder, the Ysmirod spend a great deal of time indoors and many have pale features. Sigi is no exception. She has her mother’s whitish blonde hair, her father’s dark blue eyes, and fair skin that refuses to tan no matter how much time she spends in the sun. The young woman’s pronounced cheekbones and gaunt physique are testaments to the years she spent in a Gherish slum. Strangely, she has several other traits that aren’t common among the stormborn. Full lips, a button-like nose, and understated ears indicate Sigrun’s blood might not be as pure as her parents claim. This mystery aside, everything about Sigi radiates practicality, from her short, messy hair to the curt way she speaks. Her voice is slightly deeper than what one might expect from such a small woman. Without a doubt, the most notable feature Sigi possesses is the spiral brand on her forehead that marks her as an outcast, a vrykul.
Normally, Sigrun wears plain leather tunics over black or gray long-sleeved shirts with tattered linen slacks. While she’s become fond of the foot-wraps worn by Ghersland's pooter citizens, she does own a gorgeous pair of leather boots dyed the color of the sea at dawn. These boots are the most valuable items Sigi owns, though they have endured their fair share of wear and tear. A fraying leather belt hangs loosely around her wide hips and bears the weight of her pistol and polished iron dagger. The blade's wooden grip has numerous reddish-brown stains on it, an ominous indication of what happens to people that get in Sigi’s way or try to hurt her. Overall, Sigrun doesn’t try to hide how difficult life has been for her since she was banished from Ysmir. All the signs are there for anyone to see, and she sees no point in wasting time and energy trying to be someone she’s not.
[ P E R S O N A L I T Y ]
Sigrun is a vrykul, an Ysmirod term that means “outcast” or "exiled one." This word has clung to her like a foul stench since she was thirteen years old, and it’s shaped most of her life. She spent her childhood among family and friends, learning the traditions and history of the stormborn, but she's lived in the Gherish shantytown of Beggar's Row for the last ten years. Luckily, what she was taught on Ysmir has made it easier for her to focus on the one thing she values above all else: survival. Sigrun is pragmatic, almost animalistic, when it comes to saving her own skin. She views other people’s problems as just that, other people’s problems. Many have called her selfish, and she has no problem admitting it. Furthermore, Sigrun longs to return to Ysmir, but she can’t do so without an avallach, or “homecoming offering.” This gift must be valuable enough to convince the Moot to reverse their decision to exile her. She rarely talks about the circumstances surrounding her banishment, and she would only discuss such things with someone she trusted. And there aren’t many people she trusts. The Ysmirod woman likes her privacy, preferring to let others chatter on like the axebeak birds of her homeland.
Once a person proves their loyalty to Sigi, however, there’s nothing she wouldn’t do for them. As long as it doesn’t interfere with her quest to find a proper avallach, of course. While she almost never talks about herself, Sigrun is more than happy to listen to others and provide what advice she can. She’s also brutally honest. If something is bothering her than she’ll say so without hesitation, a habit that often leads to awkward or uncomfortable situations. Incidents like these remind Sigi of how painfully young and inexperienced she is. Ysmir is a mountainous spit of land floating near Ghersland’s northern coast, isolated from the rest of the United Isles by the Ring of Thunder. While her time in the Gherish city of Highwall taught her many things, Sigrun still has a lot to learn about the world at large and dealing with others. This is especially evident when she’s trying to mend someone’s injuries. There are no soothing words or gentle smiles. Her entire focus is on binding the wound, mixing the salve, or determining the proper combination of chemicals needed to solve the problem. Despite her gruffness, few things give Sigi more pleasure than curing someone or experiencing something new. She just hides her enjoyment behind a veil of gravitas and nonchalance that seems out of place in one so young.
[ H I S T O R Y ]
"Dearest Caitlin,
Greetings, oh flower of my life, from the grim Island of the Stormborn! I miss you more than words can possibly say, but fear not, my fragile bird of Maru, because I intend to leave Ysmir before week's end. The thought is not an unpleasant one, I must confess, because the Ysmirod are a gloomy lot. At first, I was afraid they wouldn't assist me with my research, but my fears turned out to be unfounded. A few days after my arrival at the Red Diamond airfield, I persuaded one of the eldri, which I believe means "leader" in the stormborn's guttural tongue, to talk to me about the island's history. Eldri Ulfric Skovald said he'd be delighted to speak with me, and he seemed surprised that a helgus, an Ysmirod word for "outsider," would be interested in such things.
By the by, and I found this quite funny, the tongue spoken by the stormborn is called Ysmirod. Now, there are two types of people living on the island. Stormborn is the name given to those men and women whose ancestors survived an event known as the Hundred Year Harrowing. Ysmirod, on the other hand, is a general term meaning anyone living on Ysmir, including people that originally come from somewhere else. So, the Ysmirod speak Ysmirod. How entertaining!
Tomfoolery aside, it turns out dear Professor Dunwich was right when he hypothesized that Ysmir was originally part of ancient Ghersland before it rose into the sky. Remarkable, isn't it? During my brief stay among the Ysmirod, I’ve noticed many of their customs and behaviors are similar to those of the mainland Gherish, though there are numerous differences as well. For instance, due to the island's fearful proximity to the Ring of Thunder, the stormborn spend most of their time indoors, which lends them an unusually pale cast. I now understand why soldiers facing Ysmirod mercenaries in battle call them "ghosts." Obviously, the stormborn have a language of their own, and I've already managed to pick up a few phrases. For instance, "Jeg nyder ost!" means "I enjoy cheese!" The men and women of Ysmirod may not have the newest automobiles or overcoats available, but their sense of humor is quite perverse. Delightfully so, I assure you, fair Caitlin.
According to Eldri Skovald, the stormborn that invited me into his home so we could discuss the island's history, a dreadful period called the Hundred Year Harrowing followed Ysmir's ascension and separation from Ghersland. You see, my juicy pomegranate, most of this island is covered by the towering peaks of the Utgaard Mountains, and the only habitable region consists of rocky flatlands on the isle's southern tip. I believe the eldri mentioned a swamp of some kind as well, but you get the idea. To make matters worse, the soil is quite poor here, so the early stormborn were forced to rapidly adjust following their trip into the clouds. Perhaps the most noteworthy example I can think of, oh radiant lady of my heart, is they eat rock lichen here. Far too much rock lichen. You have to give them credit where it's due, however, because they've come up with a staggering number of ways to hide the plant's awful taste. Eldri Skovald even gave me a cup of lichen beer before we sat down to begin our conversation. It tasted like cold piss, but I suppose it's the thought that counts.
In any event, the Hundred Year Harrowing was the name given to an event that lasted, well, a hundred years. During this time, the stormborn had no contact with Dover whatsoever. Cut off from essential resources, every man, woman, and child born on Ysmir was expected to contribute to the survival of their people. This attitude has persisted among the stormborn to this day. Whether they're miners, factory workers, or members of the legendary valarjar, everyone must do their part to ensure the stormborn way of life continues. Furthermore, the first inhabitants of Ysmir had to contend with the vicious beasts living in the Utgaard Mountains, which included sabercats and something called a vhargulf. My stormborn companion refused to tell me what sort of creature a vhargulf was, but he sounded terrified when he spoke of it. In order to survive those harsh, bloody days, the people of Ysmir learned how to defend themselves without the aid of firearms, and even their children were taught how to fight with knives and swords. The eldri took pains to tell me that no stormborn child that hasn't survived the Three Trials has ever been allowed to touch a gun. He ignored all my questions about what the Three Trials were and instead began to talk about the end of the Hundred Year Harrowing.
Gherish explorers, led by a man named Wilcott Fisk, arrived on Ysmir and established contact with the stormborn, though they quickly discovered something that would change the island's fate forever. Vast mother lodes of gold, iron, and copper ore were scattered throughout the Utgaard Mountains, and Wilcott was savvy enough to know he'd just made his fortune. Employing the stormborn as miners and builders, Wilcott built the Fisk Industries factory at the base of Ulfrang Peak before sending messages to his financiers back home. There weren't many stormborn left after the Hundred Year Harrowing, and they needed the money Wilcott was offering to start importing goods from Dover, so the natives allowed this to happen. Less than five years later, numerous mining companies, such as the Three Picks Mining Company and Red Diamond Excavations, established a presence on Ysmir, though they often came into conflict with the stormborn. Unlike Wilcott, who'd spent time amongst the island's inhabitants, the soldiers employed to protect company assets didn't know or care about local customs.
The fighting was on the verge of degenerating into all-out war when Sorthar the Wise, a shrewd and respected stormborn, convinced the two groups to form a ruling body that represented both their interests. Thus, the Moot of Ysmir was born, composed of eight stormborn and the owners of the four most prestigious businesses on the island.
Eldri Skovald's expression darkened when he told me this part, and I got the distinct impression he disapproved of his ancestors’ decision. "But," he growled, his voice as hard and uncompromising as the granite floor of his home, "they did what was best for Ysmir. That is all that matters." I'm not sure whether the eldri was trying to convince me or himself, but he moved on to what resulted from this union between the helgus and the stormborn. With the Moot arbitrating disputes and ensuring stormborn traditions were honored, Ysmir began to trade with Ghersland and Canth in exchange for food, clean drinking water, and other necessities. It was a time of unparalleled prosperity for the otherwise forgettable chunk of rock. And then, roughly ten years later, Corwin Fisk, the late Wilcott Fisk's son and newly appointed owner of Fisk Industries, brought an idea before the Moot.
He proposed that both the mining companies and the stormborn should turn their attention towards something more valuable than metal chairs, tables, and ornaments. "The nations of Canth and Ghersland are constantly fighting each other," he said to the twelve members of the Moot, "and we have the finest warriors in the United Isles. The valarjar, the "golden warriors," were once used to hunt beasts in the Utgaard Mountains. Now, they can be used to hunt the enemies of anyone with enough money to hire them. Of course, all Ysmirod would get a cut of their earnings. We could even manufacture and equip our soldiers with guns made from the ore they're still finding in the mountains." The Moot unanimously agreed. That's how the golden warriors of Ysmir became the most renowned fighters in the United Isles.
And that's the way life has been on the Island of the Stormborn for the last thousand years or so, my love. Can you believe it? Oh sure, the eldri mentioned a group of stormborn, calling themselves the Defiants or something along those lines, eventually declaring they could no longer live alongside corporations intent on pillaging their home. Allegedly, they haunt the foothills of the Utgaard Mountains and occasionally launch fruitless raids on company-controlled land, but they're considered a nuisance at worst. Life on Ysmir is better than it has ever been. The mining companies have become influential corporations, producing both peerless metal goods and weapons almost as formidable as those made in Dover. They've even managed to ensure the Island of the Stormborn remains neutral in the ongoing skirmishes between Canth and Ghersland. Even though they sell weapons to both nations. Still, the combined military forces of Dover could easily destroy Ysmir so the Ysmirod know not to get too greedy. On that uplifting note, Eldri Skovald declared that he'd told me everything he knew about his homeland's past. He was apparently due to start his shift at the local Red Diamond mine so he had to leave soon.
I thanked him, of course, and handed him my mostly untouched cup of lichen beer. One thought I couldn't shake as I walked back to my apartment was how strange this place was. A place where crumbling granite statues of valarjar fighting sabercats stood next to shops selling the latest metal gewgaws and furniture. Curious, isn't it? Regardless, love of my life and sun of my sky, I shall return home soon and we can discuss this in more detail. I hope this letter wasn't too long, but I've attached it to a lovely Ysmirod-style dress that I purchased from one of the local tailors. I hope it fits. I look forward to seeing you soon, Caitlin, and be well!
Love beyond measure,
Simon Garret
-Letter found on the corpse of a Maruvian scholar named Simon Garret. The body was discovered outside the Red Diamond Excavation and Armaments airfield with the words 'The Storm Remembers' carved into its chest.
Sigrun "Sigi” Alfhild was born to Svala Alfhild an Tallak, one of the most decorated valarjar mercenaries in Ysmir’s history, and Lorod Alfhild, a talented gunsmith employed by Red Diamond Excavations and Armaments, on a sunny morning in spring. Although she didn’t know it as she bellowed her childish rage to the skies, Sigrun was expected to be as great an asset to the stormborn as her parents. She was raised in a strongly traditional household, learning how to hold a blade at age seven and how to work more efficiently than any helgus. In spite of her parents’ expectations and the intensity of her training, Sigi was a charming, headstrong child who enjoyed learning and seeing new things. She also seemed intent on shoving anything that looked even remotely interesting into her mouth. Thankfully, she grew out of this habit.
A few weeks after her ninth birthday, Sigrun was allowed to accompany her father to his workshop in the Red Diamond Corporation’s gunsmithy. She spent hours watching him craft weapons to the exact specifications of people living as far away as Edgenook. The other stormborn whispered among themselves that this child would surely become a legendary gunsmith, since her combat skills were somewhat lacking, and Lorod loved Sigi for that. He made a decent amount of money, but his wife’s roving lifestyle as a valarjar provided the family with most of its income. He’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone be more interested in his work than his wife’s stories of bloodshed and glory.
When she turned thirteen, the course of Sigrun's life changed forever.
Like every stormborn child since Ysmir's founding, Sigi was expected to stand before the Moot when she turned thirteen to complete the Three Trials. The Trial of Strength. The Trial of Wisdom. The Trial of Choice. These ordeals would determine whether or not Sigi was ready to do what all stormborn were born to do: help their people prosper no matter the cost. Although the corporations were able to import enough essential goods and services to ensure nobody wanted for anything, they allowed this tradition to continue. It weeded out the weak from the general population. Sigrun's parents and teachers did their best to prepare the girl for the tests, but she walked into the Three Picks Corporation Arena, a gift from the mining company turned weapons manufacturer to their loyal employees, with a feeling of icy dread in the pit of her stomach. The Trial of Strength would pit two untested stormborn against each other, and only one would survive to continue the trials. From the moment Eldri Ulfric Skovald blew the clay horn three times, signaling the start of the test, Sigi was in trouble. Before the gathered Ysmirod could blink, her adversary had pinned her to the ground and was wrapping his hands around her neck. It looked like she was destined to be just another stormborn that failed to pass the Three Trials.
Then Lorod entered the ring and shot Sigi's assailant in the back of the head with a revolver. A revolver that she'd watched him make in his workshop less than a year ago. Blood splattered across Sigrun's pale face and the sands of the arena.
The Moot and the gathered spectators howled in protest. The stormborn members of the Moot wanted to kill Sigrun on the spot and banish her father while Lorod's employers wanted to keep him on the island. His unparalleled craftsmanship was a point of pride and profit for all Ysmir. They didn't care what happened to Sigi. Lorod spoke then, raising his voice above the din and shouting until he was blue in the face, demanding that his daughter be allowed to live or he'd kill himself right then and there. Struck dumb by this shocking reversal, the Moot asked for time to confer and Lorod agreed, cradling his battered daughter and trying not to weep.
After a few tense moments, the twelve eldri of the Moot reached a decision. Sigrun, in defiance of all stormborn traditions, would be declared vrykul, outcast, but she would be allowed to live if Lorod agreed to continue working as before. With tears pouring down his leathery face, the gunsmith bowed his head and agreed. Concerned that other stormborn might try to defy their rulings, the Moot made Lorod brand his daughter's forehead himself later that night. The spiral brand forever marked her as a vrykul. The next morning, three valarjar came to collect Sigi. Lorod gave her what money he could, a bag full of warm clothes and other essentials, a pair of beautiful boots and an iron dagger. Due to her failure, Sigrun would never be allowed to touch a firearm while on the Island of the Stormborn. Svala led the group towards the Three Picks Corporation airfield, her cold gray eyes never once straying towards her shell-shocked daughter. The last words Svala said to Sigi before she left were, "You have shamed us all, vrykul. Do not come back."
And with that parting blow from her mother, Sigrun was exiled from Ysmir and sent to live among the helgus, the "outsiders." She was flown on a rickety, barely functioning aeroplane to Ghersland and dropped off in the city of Highwall. Sigi spent the next few days wandering the inner city in a daze, her eyes wide as she drank in the unfamiliar clothes and bizarre machines. Due to its isolation, Ysmir tended to be behind the times, and this made it difficult for exiles like Sigi to adjust to life in the United Isles proper. Inevitably, hunger drove the vrykul to thievery, and she was pursued by the greencloaks, the mercenaries responsible for keeping the peace in Highwall, for stealing a loaf of bread from a baker's stall. Running blindly through the twisting streets, Sigrun abruptly found herself tumbling forward into a thoroughly dilapidated region of the city. The stormborn girl looked back to see the greencloaks chuckling and shaking their heads as they walked away from her. The little thief was in Beggar's Row now, and it was only a matter of time before she was raped, robbed, and killed. Not necessarily in that order.
Sigrun picked herself up and took a step forward...only to collide with a great bear of a man dressed in a ragged gray suit and an undershirt covered in stains. Panting and drawing her father's dagger, the outcast prepared to make her final stand when she saw something familiar. The man had a scar on his forehead in the shape of a spiral. This filthy, disgusting man was another exile from Ysmir. Sobbing and babbling like a madwoman, Sigi managed to tell the hulking stranger her story, and he quickly ushered her into a nearby shack that stank of sweat and blood. After convincing her to put her knife away, the man introduced himself as Svanrige Grondr, a vrykul just like Sigrun. He refused to tell the exhausted child why he'd been banished, though he admitted it had something to do with the Defiants, a band of vicious stormborn that sought to destroy the corporations draining their homeland's resources. Svanrige ignored the rest of Sigi's questions and gave her all the food and water she could stomach before guiding her to a straw pallet. The girl was asleep in moments.
Seven days passed before Sigi felt well enough to face the man who'd treated her with such unbelievable kindness. The memories of her life before the Three Trials still haunted Sigrun, however, often causing her to wake up in the middle of the night dripping with sweat and screaming for her father. Instead of coddling her as a helgus might have, Svanrige declared that if Sigi was going to interrupt his sleep then she could damn well do some work. Since being exiled from Ysmir nearly fifteen years ago, the warrior had decided to spend the rest of his life healing others, becoming the sole doctor in Beggar's Row. He'd done his best to take what little he knew of stormborn remedial techniques and adjusting them to incorporate the medicinal practices of modern Ghersland. Due to the sheer number of turf wars, muggings, and rapes that occurred in Beggar's Row, Svanrige was always busy trying to help someone. The stormborn offered Sigi a choice: she could either leave or earn her keep as his assistant. The girl chose to stay with her kinsman, though she initially found the work distasteful and the patients utterly deplorable. How many times did you have to get lover's pox before you stopped frequenting seedy brothels?
As the days turned to weeks and then to months, Sigi began to learn more and more of Svanrige's trade, her curiosity peaked by this warrior-turned-healer and his unusual approach to medicine. It felt surprisingly good to realize you had the knowledge to save someone's life. By the time she was twenty, Sigrun was practically running Svanrige's clinic and she never turned away a person in need. As long as they could pay in some form or another. The people of Beggar's Row were still destitute, but at least they had a place to go to receive treatment for whatever ailed them. A month or two after her twentieth birthday, however, Sigi began asking Svanrige questions about his time as a warrior. The older stormborn was flattered by this unexpected interest, but he quickly realized it was more than that.
She wanted to know what lay beyond Beggar's Row, beyond Highwall, beyond Ghersland.
Svanrige tried to ignore this new obsession, but he knew Sigrun well enough to know she wasn't going to let this drop. Besides, she was like a daughter to him, and she deserved to know the truth. A week before her twenty-third birthday, the wrinkled stormborn gave Sigi an old pistol and began training her in its use. The vrykul girl was reluctant at first, fearing the curse that would supposedly descend on children that dared to touch a firearm without passing the Three Trials first. Of course, ten years of living in the poorest district of Highwall had forced Sigi to do many things most of her kinsmen would've considered risky or foolish. With Svanrige's help and guidance, she learned how to properly handle the pistol over the course of a several months. During this period, Svanrige also began telling her stories about the world beyond Highwall, stories about the wonders of the United Isles. And then, on a cold night in the middle of winter, he sat Sigi down and told her about something called an avallach, a "homecoming offering."
If a vrykul managed to find a worthy avallach and bring it to the Moot they might be allowed to stay on Ysmir. Sigrun's mouth fell open and she started to speak, a smile lighting up her pale features, but Svanrige held up one thick, grubby finger. Wordlessly, he pulled off his jacket and undershirt to show Sigi his back, which was marked by three long, ropy scars. He told the girl that he'd brought three different avallachs to the Moot, and they'd rejected each one in the traditional manner. Putting his worn garments back on, Svanrige said he didn't want Sigrun to get her hopes up about returning home, but he thought she should at least make an attempt. He was too old for such things, but she was young. Maybe she could succeed where he had failed.
Sigrun spent a week trying to think of a worthy homecoming offering, but she couldn't come up with anything. The Moot of Ysmir was comprised of the twelve richest and most well-informed men on the island. What could she possibly offer them that they didn't already possess? And then she read an article about the UIS Garrloch in a crumpled copy of the Highwall Herald. Running back to the clinic with the newspaper in her hand, she asked Svanrige if something she found while aboard this ship might appease the Moot. The gray-haired stormborn nodded once, his face tight with a mixture of sorrow and joy, before going into his backroom. He emerged a few moments later with a burlap sack full of money he'd been saving since Sigi's twentieth birthday and a canvas doctor's bag with some basic herbal remedies inside. Svanrige told her she could leave whenever she was ready. The vrykul girl hugged her guardian, her teacher, her friend and said she'd go in the morning.
And she did, embarking on an arduous journey to Canth, the island where the Garrloch was docked. She was ready to go home, no matter the cost.
[ N O T E S / O T H E R I N F O ]
-Sigrun loves lace. She was nearly captured by the greencloaks, the mercenaries employed by Highwall’s koniarch to police the city, for stealing a blue dress trimmed with white lace. The vrykul managed to escape...but the dress was ruined during the chase. Sigi wrapped a length of filthy lace from the dress around her right wrist, and she still wears it to this day.
-Although Svanrige taught her to use a pistol, Sigi doesn’t trust guns. She prefers to get close to her enemies so she can either stab them with her dagger or shoot them at point-blank range. There’s little room for error and, as the famous Ysmirod saying goes, “Fuck up when you drink, fuck up when you rut, but don’t fuck up when you fight.”
[YSMIROD GLOSSARY]
-Stormborn: The people descended from the ancient Gherish that survived the Hundred Year Harrowing. They have a reputation as a dour, blunt, and reclusive people willing to go to absurd lengths to protect their homeland and ensure its survival. Recently, a group of stormborn called the Defiants have risen up against the corporations flourishing on Ysmir. Most consider the Defiants to be little more than a nuisance, but many stormborn believe these rebels are right. The stormborn need to cast the helgus out and reclaim their homeland.
-Ysmirod: 1.) The language spoken by the people living on the island of Ysmir. 2.) A general term used to describe anyone with a permanent residence on Ysmir, including those born on other islands.
-Avallach: An Ysmirod word meaning "homecoming offering" or "homecoming gift." Any stormborn banished from Ysmir has the opportunity to seek out a valuable item or important piece of information to present to the Moot. If the avallach is deemed worthy then the exiled stormborn is welcomed back to the island. If the offering is denied, however, the avallach is taken by the Moot, and the stormborn is whipped before being returned to the United Isles.
-Vrykul: An Ysmirod word meaning "outcast" or "exiled one." If any stormborn man, woman, or child commits a serious crime, they are brought before the Moot to await judgment. Major offenses such as murder or rape normally result in the eldri declaring the individual vrykul, effectively banishing them from Ysmir forever. They are also given a spiral-shaped brand on their forehead, a mark of shame for everyone to see. It's the duty of all stormborn to slay any vrykul on sight. The only way an exiled one can redeem himself or herself is to bring a proper avallach to the Moot. Only then will they be allowed to return to the Island of the Stormborn.
-Valarjar: An Ysmirod title meaning "golden warrior." In the earliest days of the stormborn, the valarjar were the best fighters on the entire island. Their sacred duty was to protect their kinsmen from the bloodthirsty predators stalking the Utgaard Mountains, and they often led armed expeditions called skalds to thin the beasts' numbers. Thanks to the greed and cunning of Corwin Fisk, however, they they are now known as the most dedicated and brutal mercenaries in the United Isles. Their numbers are few, but the ferocity and bloodlust of the valarjar is known from Dover to Maru. Only the wealthiest and most well-connected people can afford to hire these talented killers. In addition, half of everything a valarjar earns while completing a contract is sent back to Ysmir. Failing to do this typically results in the offending valarjar being declared vrykul.
-Eldri: A word meaning "leader" or "master." This term can be used to show respect for one's superiors, though it's most common usage is as a formal title for the twelve men comprising the Moot. Eight of the eldri are stormborn, but the other four are owners of the wealthiest corporations on Ysmir. Currently, those businesses are Fisk Industries, Red Diamond Excavations and Armaments (RDEA), the Three Picks Corporation and Coyne and Sons Industries. The Moot of Ysmir is the ultimate authority on the Island of the Stormborn, and their power and influence is considerable.
-Helgus: A relatively new word meaning "outsider." This term is viewed as an insult by most, a derogatory way of referring to anyone visiting Ysmir to take advantage of its recent prosperity. It's also used by the stormborn to refer to anyone that wasn't born on the island.
-Vhargulf: An Ysmirod word that means "greatest foe" or "nemesis." It's typically used to describe a legendary beast that supposedly haunted the Utgaard Mountains thousands of years ago. This word can also be applied to someone an Ysmirod considers a dangerous or worthy adversary.
-Hind: The Ysmirod word for "dog" or "hound." This term can also be used as an insult, though it's considered ridiculously old-fashioned.
-Golvar: An Ysmirod term that means the "calm mind." The golvar is a meditative state brought on by prolonged relaxation that allows trained stormborn to still their minds and focus on their surroundings, absorbing minute pieces of information in rapid succession. Many valarjar use the golvar as a way to prepare for combat.
-Chagga: The Ysmirod word for "shit."
-Buca: The Ysmirod word for "motherfucker," though it literally translates to "fucker of my mother." This is a grave insult amongst the stormborn and almost always presages bloodshed.
-Kos an fenran!: A common battle cry among the valarjar, though many stormborn will use it in particularly dire situations. It means "Life or death!" It can mean many things depending on the context, though it's typically used to convey that the stormborn will only accept a life or death outcome for whatever situation they find themselves in. Kos means "life," an means "or," and fenran means "death."
@Mercenary Lord Thank you, good sir, and everything looks brilliant. I like what you did with both Highwall and the greencloaks. I'll move Sigrun to the appropriate tab once I get back home. I'm looking forward to this, and I'm more than happy to discuss ideas with other folks. It might be fun to have the crew end up visiting the different islands at some point, but I know the entire purpose of this expedition is to see what lies beyond the Ring of Thunder. Either way, this is going to be a blast.
Something I just realized is, if the stormborn are dutybound to slay any vrykul they see, how are they supposed to tell who is or isn't an exile? Added a spiral brand on Sigrun's forehead, the brand of the vrykul.
