With but the faintest spark began the Age of Fire.
In the waning epoch of the Forgotten World did mortals lose the Old Divine, whatever number of candles they breathed life into gasping into fruitless smoke, never to be seen again. Of those times little is known but much is said, regardless of the veracity of such pointless talk, but before there was the Age of Fire there was Then. Magnificent works climbed high into the heavens and the world was a jewel in the crown of creation, mystifying and awe inspiring in its divinely-impressive majesty. With the passing of the Old Divine in His singularity or Their multitudes the World-That-Was weeped, mourning the loss of its creator. Light slowly left the universe as the creations of those greater and grander times fell to ash and all that had been earned was snatched away by time’s cruel embrace. That, however, was not the Age of Fire.
Though man huddled close to the sparking embers of a fire their ancestors lit, desperate and pleading for the return of their great successes, the cogs of civilization ground to a halt. One by one lights went out, homes went dark, and minds turned inwards towards aching needs. Pettiness drove man upon itself gently as the departing of the Old Divine left many questioning what lasted in the beyond if such a powerful force could simply be snuffed out. Faithless men with shallow hearts and ambitious minds sought their own futures without the guiding light of What-Was and so it was that mortal-kind failed itself.
Even that, however, was not the spark that set the flame.
Something crawled beneath the surface of Galbar, festered and dragged, slithered and writhed.
In the waning days of the Forgotten World the ground cracked and became pocked as life unseemly and untoward burst forth from the depths of their forgotten barrows. Like a thunderclap crashing in to remind mortals of their place in reality, monstrous life of all shapes and sizes unleashed itself onto Galbar, as if punishment sent by distant deities for humanity’s lack of faith. From the depths of those many fetid warrens seeped all manner of plague and pestilence, killing bountiful crops, laying low stout men, and turning the clock back on all that had been done.
And yet the hand of fate was still not done.
One by one the stars went out, lights that had so long been present in the skies of the world flickering out of existence like eyes turning aside to not observe the catastrophe. One night the moon did not rise and the following morning no sun followed suit. Strange lights danced in the sky, looking as unwoven strands of nature winnowing off skyward to some strange destination. In the darkness mortal-kind clung to what light they held and what weapons they had fashioned, ever increasingly pushed farther from one another as the very ground upon which they stood turned against them. Great quakes toppled many of the massive spires and vast structures their forefathers had raised, sending the ruins thundering to the earth to scatter those yet living from their protective embrace.
Minutes from proverbial midnight and mankind was nearly spent but, despite their circumstances, they doggedly refused the hand that was dealt them. Where monsters rose, weapons were bared. Where pestilence reared its vile head, good sense and skill prevailed. Even when their fellow men turned upon them, most of mortality stood stalwart. They were a dedicated people who, despite all they had lost, would not surrender the world of their making to the fickle will of sightless design. The Old Divine had been with them, of that they were certain, and so too would it return and join them again. Day by day, mortals crawled back into some semblance of light.
Then sparked the Age of Fire.
The ignition, what set off the blaze, would never be known. The great cracks and crags that had grown across the landscape reached far and wide but never before had they worked such dread results. Massive, burrowing monsters may have tunneled into places they had never found themselves before, splitting the world into splinters. Whatever happened, the cuts went deep and for the first time the very core of Galbar was opened to the sky. Sickening light burned brightly from dozens of growing fissures across the surface, separating what was left of the world from the rest of it. All the work that had been selflessly earned by stoic heroes in the ending days of the final epoch of Galbar was undone.
The roaring aurora that scorched the sky in a rainbow blaze reached low to touch the rising, baleful inferno of Galbar’s inner heart and together the two turned the world inside out.
In the heart of an ancient citadel, in one of the forgotten ruins of Galbar’s past, decrepit machinery that still somehow turned end overend creaked and moaned with its eternal effort. The dread events that occurred day after day outside the confines of the structure had meant nothing to whatever arcane engineering, chugging along in its unenviable and equally unintelligible task. Every so often the walls would shake or shudder but regardless of any chaos ruling beyond its boundaries the citadel remained strong and the machinery continued on.
When the world cracked, that changed.
The ancient hall sundered itself in the middle of one of the growing crags, an entire face shearing off as the crevasse boiled into screaming brightness. The lower floors descended and evaporated into the heart below, while the upper portion climbed high into the sky, shattering into a million shards and expanded into the sky as a cloud of flak. The machine’s gentle blue glow hummed out of existence and roared back into a red light, ancient-engines shaking violently as a whole half of the building that housed it roared off in two separate directions. Outside what was once its protected stronghold the world was shaking as each shard of Galbar severed from one another. Even as it shook itself apart the machinery still whirred and roared, a sickening red glow starting to emanate in all directions. A loud buzzing bellowed from the machine, one moment after another, howling louder and louder. Outside the world continued breaking but within the machine churned on heedlessly as the jet black sky opened into a hundred thousand different colors.
All across the surface of what remained the midnight sky and the sea of lights erupted into blinding fury. Uncountable points in space and time vomited unreality into existence, the very stuff that myth and legend were born of, and for the first time in countless eons did magic pour ceaselessly into the world. As the iridescent spectrum of light poured forth onto the world the ancient machinery of that long forgotten station finally reached critical mass, the crimson glow now bright enough to melt eyes from sockets. Vermilion bolts of electricity danced from the machinery down dozens of tubes and pipes and wires. In one single, dazzling display of energistic release whatever powers that were once confined within the arcane apparatus exploded.
A fireball the size of an old city rapidly expanded into the sky, spreading outwards as the glowing lights of magic danced with the corona of the explosion. The detonation looked every part a storm, howling like a beast while lightning and flames ripped at the surroundings. All across the remains of Galbar similar explosions set off, echoing off old pipelines and tearing apart the landscape.
The rising mushroom cloud glowed a sickly, baleful scarlet and spread that same cruel light all across the landscape, eclipsing the rainbow array of colors spread forth from the magical aurora in the heavens. In the heart of it all, just barely visible through the brilliant gleam, was a smile. A perfect grin, broad and brash, rose out of the eruption followed by two dark pits that served as eyes. All around it the world was coming apart, fires spread, and magic unleashed upon the doomed remains of an already dead planet sang the clarion call of the apocalypse. Across the world the little attempts at relighting mortal life were nearly snuffed out. It was in that moment, when the last chance at a human secured world ended, that the Age of Fire began.
It was in the sight of that apocalypse, that the explosion excitedly laughed.
“This is gonna’ be a blast!”
In the World that Was, so-called Galbar, the light of the Old Divine, for whatever reason, left the world. Left to their own devices mankind did not perish and struggled through it all despite some losing sight of the bigger picture. Seemingly unwilling to let sleeping dogs lie, the cruel will of fate dealt the mortal progeny of Galbar one losing hand after another. Even then, mortals on Galbar persevered. In a sudden and instantaneous release of energies long thought dormant or gone, magic erupted into the world of Galbar and in that action sundered the world irreparably. With that one act of seemingly random happenstance, all the effort by mortal men to renew their world ended.
In one distant part of one of the many failing fragments of Galbar, an ancient stronghold harboring an arcane machine chugged on. During the final, magic-induced death of the World-That-Was the machine exploded, mixing with magic into something utterly and completely new. The very first New Divine was born in the cataclysmic detonation and set its senses upon a world in utter chaos.
It laughed.
With the breakdown of reality, magical and divine energies are freely and chaotically flowing throughout the world. This sets the conditions for your god to spawn. When they have spawned, venture out and begin your story as a god of Galbar.
Turn 0 - The Apocalypse is expected to last the normal two weeks but may continue depending on how long people want it to last in order to get out all their desired posts. During this turn, actions that would otherwise cost MA are free - the restrictions for what players can do even with MA still apply (see overview under Major Actions in the OOC). At the end of the Apocalypse there will be a timeskip of at least a century; do not create mortal characters during the Age of Fire who you're not prepared to lose, excepting gifts of immortality. Finally, try to restrict the more nuanced elements of Civilization building for later turns; let the Age of Fire be appropriately apocalyptic!
Domain: God of Mortals - Born during the heart of the apocalypse, Lonn is the human condition made manifest. The domain of mortals focuses not in the creation of races or their works but instead every aspect of what makes a sapient, intelligent life-form truly be “alive”. Within his domain exists the components of personal growth, the range of sapient emotions, aspirations for greater things, the capacity to enact conflict, and the ultimate mortality related to such a mode of existence. Lonn revels in the love in the hearts of men in equal measure to their hate and professes adoration for their passions, big and small, no matter the target or their aims.
The Domain of Mortals thus commands the very thing that makes people unique, empowering Lonn to encourage both the greatest and worst excesses within Mortals to complete both great and terrible things. Lonn is the fire in the hearts of men that makes them reach for better lives and the lightning in their minds that makes them dash aside the lives of others.
The Red Lance of Lonn
Ardal ald Ardalan sat brooding within the shadowed confines of his urdu, his court and guards having been sent away in his most recent bout of fury. Outside the burlap barrier of the war-tent a camp grew out in all directions, filled with hundreds if not thousands of warriors. It was a host the likes of which the land had not seen in the age of fire yet, despite all that Ardal had done, those blasted walls refused to even shudder.
A hundred yards from his camp stood those blasted parapets that kept secured the fortress of Wold. Impenetrable Walls of Wold, they called them.
“Blasted, bedeviled Woldians…”
Ardal had laid siege to that damned stronghold for the better part of a year now and still it held, well supplied from years of fattening themselves on the realms abroad and secure from the raids that harried most settled folk. The Age of Fire had brought low so many peoples but there, in their bunkers and hard points, the Woldians had found for themselves a keep made by the ancients. The warlord had paid every price he could to hire engineers, those who had knowledge of physic and iron, to build machines to bring them down and yet still they stood, mocking him.
Ardal was pulled from his restlessness by the shining of a light, a bright red glow that slowly grew till the entirety of his urdu burned bright with that crimson incandescence. Ardal drew his saber, a fanged thing that looked vicious in his hand, and held it towards the light threateningly; Ardal had not earned his place through weakness and he had not been bowed by monsters before.
“Speak! Who dares scurry when Ardal the Unbowed stands alone!”
No figure appeared, instead the light coalescing into a single point then extending outward into a line of crackling arterial dread. There was malice within that baleful light but benevolence as well, warming the part of Ardal that had driven him so long ago to take up the sword in the first place.
“Ardal,” shuddered a voice, rippling out from the rod of red in a piercing static shock to the Warlod’s senses, “Truly, you are the best of them.”
Ardal stared blank eyed for a moment, blinking as he churned through the mountain of information provided in but a single sentence. The thing knew of him, that much was certain, and its dread visage formed into that of a lance seemed to reflect that intuition with ecstatic motion. It rippled and bit at the air around it, remaining completely unmoving beyond the unnerving motion of its changing shape. What exactly this thing was, Ardal did not know, but if it knew him and spoke highly of him, who was he to speak ill of it? His weapon lowered, if only slightly, as it continued to speak.
“You deserve this, Ardal; those preening eidolons a top their platinum towers. Did they struggle as you did in this Age of Fire? Did they earn what they have or simply sit upon the works of greater men; YOUR ancestors, at that! And now they have the gall to laugh at your efforts? Such rank unfortunates, the whole lot of them; damned Woldian wolves, I say.”
Ardal again stood unmoving, decades of struggle and effort and reward having taught him patience more than anything. He dare not speak a word as the entity whispered sweet nothings at him, doubting severely its intentions as it seemed to agree with his every thought and desire. If someone you have never met agrees with everything you say, something is amiss, after all.
“Your worry is unnecessary, good Ardal,” echoed the voice, the cloth walls of the urdu rippling at its insistence, “For I am a generous benefactor who offers much and asks little. Your goals are my goals, good Ardal, and my means will be your ends. Take up my lance, wise King; with it, all you rightly deserve is but a toss away.”
The red light receded inwards toward the lance, though the rod still rippled and gnashed at the air, sparking like lightning waxing crimson. Now an aura of cardinal brightness roared out about a meter in diameter around the spear, the center of the deadly spike seeming to calm as if offering itself as a grip for the warlord. With hands barely trembling as Ardal did his best to contain his emotions, the warrior-who-would-be-king slowly stepped forward as a voice in his ear began to cheer him on. Voices from his childhood, from his early days, from his rise, supporters and foes alike, all telling him this is what he deserved, what he had earned. Fingers reached forth to cautiously brushed against the spear and in an instant it was in his closed fist, as if jumping to his hand between the blink of an eye and forcing his digits closed upon it.
Power surged through Ardal’s veins, red arterial lightning flashing across every artery visible against his skin. His eyes widened, the man feeling greater than he ever had before. An energy coursed in his heart and drove him to walk from the hall, no longer feeling the anxiety of the siege nor the exhaustion of his long conflicts. Several guards locked to attention as he strode out, seemingly unaware of what had occurred within the urdu. With surprised fascination they stared at the baleful weapon held within their master’s hand and with ferocious intent, Ardal stared down the wood-packed road that led straight towards the no-man’s land between the camp and the walls.
Before Ardal stood his greatest enemy, the very walls of the Woldians that kept them safe and let them cast sneers and insults towards him. Rage rolled through his body and with it came the ecstasy of certainty, a confidence in his actions held only by a man ablaze. With all the fury and passion in his heart, Ardal stepped into a throwing stance and hurled the lance with all his strength towards Wold.
The lightning bolt lance launched down the path, its carmine radiance lighting the path as it travelled with the pace of the Age of Fire itself. A thunder crack shattered the silence of the night as the dread weapon skipped across the landscape and reached the wall faster than eyes could keep track. As the spike struck the wall it passed through, leaving a scorch mark in its space, before slamming into the heart of the city.
A tower of light rose from the center of the city followed by scorching heat and the deafening roar of a god let free. One second passed and the city of Wold exploded, the briefest screams of terror snuffed out in the blast. The column of red flame and lightning climbed well into the heavens, pushing the clouds of the night out in all directions and making, for an instance, the moon surrender to the light of day.
All around Ardal his men lay flattened, slowly rising back to observe the destruction wrought by their lord. Ardal himself shook, eyes wide, jaw dropped low. Before him, where once the Impenetrable Walls of Wold stood, now sat a crater. All he had hated, had wanted, was gone and in its place the ultimate expression of mankind’s willingness to act. As ash began to fall, Ardal’s awe struck visage drew back into the slightest smile; a generous benefactor indeed.
Base Form: Lonn presents himself in a number of forms as relevant to his current scheme or project, but primarily dances between three major figures that are actively recognizable by peoples familiar with the deity. Though depictions may vary culturally, he will regularly take up these forms to interact with mortals and gods alike.
Lonn the Fulminator, a crimson bolt of light that dances light a lightning bolt through the sky. Though capable of holding a vaguely humanoid shape, this is a facsimile of such a body and nothing more. It is in this form that he interacts with mortals in the most supportive way, empowering them to action in the most literal of senses. It is from this form in particular that Lonn’s nicknames relating to lightning and the color red are derived.
Lonn the Transient, where Lonn inhabits the form of a human man. The human facsimile of Lonn is not noticeably tall, skinny, or even attractive. A shock of red hair, well within the normal range of human hair color, is common but not always present and is often changed to blend in with peoples with less common hair colors. What is common throughout is a set of perfect teeth, pristine to the point of being noticeably uncanny.
Lonn the Destroyer, where Lonn occupies the form of a human-esque skeleton. The material of Lonn’s structure appears reminiscent of the old ruins of mankind and his internals seem lit by reddish power. He occupies this form as a beacon of violence, promoting riotous behavior, the annihilation of one’s enemies, and a perpetual willingness to do anything to complete one’s goals. It is this skeleton icon to which soldiers pray, assassins swear oaths upon, and Warlords secretly whisper their deepest desires towards in the dark of night.
True Form: Though Lonn’s truest form can, in many ways, be prone to change as any person might change throughout their life, the two forms most regularly seen in such dire times are that of the Throne and the Annihilation.
The Throne of Want, Lonn’s pure representation of mortal desires, needs, and capacity for greatness, appears as a carven throne with a skeletal figure sunken within. Upon presenting such an icon of overwhelming mortal experience, the exact size and vastness of the Throne becomes unbearable. The skeletal figure sunken within represents the nature of mortals, ruling upon a throne of their own making but trapped within that greatness like a tomb. The dead-eyed stare of the Red God bares down on those who observe it, seeing their thoughts pour from the icon of mortality as sprawling streams of thoughts carven into reality.
The Annihilation of Awe, the rarest of such presented identities, represents the capacity for mortals to bring about their own end. A massive red explosion, filled with crimson fire and arterial lightning, thunders outward from a single point consuming everything in its path. Although brought about by a deity, the Annihilation of All harkens to the world shattering magics that sundered the world in their numerous, baleful glows during the height of the apocalypse. Within the explosive maelstrom, for those capable of peering within, the rising image of a furious skull, grinning and grimacing in equal measure.
Domain: God of Mortals - Born during the heart of the apocalypse, Lonn is the human condition made manifest. The domain of mortals focuses not in the creation of races or their works but instead every aspect of what makes a sapient, intelligent life-form truly be “alive”. Within his domain exists the components of personal growth, the range of sapient emotions, aspirations for greater things, the capacity to enact conflict, and the ultimate mortality related to such a mode of existence. Lonn revels in the love in the hearts of men in equal measure to their hate and professes adoration for their passions, big and small, no matter the target or their aims.
The Domain of Mortals thus commands the very thing that makes people unique, empowering Lonn to encourage both the greatest and worst excesses within Mortals to complete both great and terrible things. Lonn is the fire in the hearts of men that makes them reach for better lives and the lightning in their minds that makes them dash aside the lives of others.
The Red Lance of Lonn
Ardal ald Ardalan sat brooding within the shadowed confines of his urdu, his court and guards having been sent away in his most recent bout of fury. Outside the burlap barrier of the war-tent a camp grew out in all directions, filled with hundreds if not thousands of warriors. It was a host the likes of which the land had not seen in the age of fire yet, despite all that Ardal had done, those blasted walls refused to even shudder.
A hundred yards from his camp stood those blasted parapets that kept secured the fortress of Wold. Impenetrable Walls of Wold, they called them.
“Blasted, bedeviled Woldians…”
Ardal had laid siege to that damned stronghold for the better part of a year now and still it held, well supplied from years of fattening themselves on the realms abroad and secure from the raids that harried most settled folk. The Age of Fire had brought low so many peoples but there, in their bunkers and hard points, the Woldians had found for themselves a keep made by the ancients. The warlord had paid every price he could to hire engineers, those who had knowledge of physic and iron, to build machines to bring them down and yet still they stood, mocking him.
Ardal was pulled from his restlessness by the shining of a light, a bright red glow that slowly grew till the entirety of his urdu burned bright with that crimson incandescence. Ardal drew his saber, a fanged thing that looked vicious in his hand, and held it towards the light threateningly; Ardal had not earned his place through weakness and he had not been bowed by monsters before.
“Speak! Who dares scurry when Ardal the Unbowed stands alone!”
No figure appeared, instead the light coalescing into a single point then extending outward into a line of crackling arterial dread. There was malice within that baleful light but benevolence as well, warming the part of Ardal that had driven him so long ago to take up the sword in the first place.
“Ardal,” shuddered a voice, rippling out from the rod of red in a piercing static shock to the Warlod’s senses, “Truly, you are the best of them.”
Ardal stared blank eyed for a moment, blinking as he churned through the mountain of information provided in but a single sentence. The thing knew of him, that much was certain, and its dread visage formed into that of a lance seemed to reflect that intuition with ecstatic motion. It rippled and bit at the air around it, remaining completely unmoving beyond the unnerving motion of its changing shape. What exactly this thing was, Ardal did not know, but if it knew him and spoke highly of him, who was he to speak ill of it? His weapon lowered, if only slightly, as it continued to speak.
“You deserve this, Ardal; those preening eidolons a top their platinum towers. Did they struggle as you did in this Age of Fire? Did they earn what they have or simply sit upon the works of greater men; YOUR ancestors, at that! And now they have the gall to laugh at your efforts? Such rank unfortunates, the whole lot of them; damned Woldian wolves, I say.”
Ardal again stood unmoving, decades of struggle and effort and reward having taught him patience more than anything. He dare not speak a word as the entity whispered sweet nothings at him, doubting severely its intentions as it seemed to agree with his every thought and desire. If someone you have never met agrees with everything you say, something is amiss, after all.
“Your worry is unnecessary, good Ardal,” echoed the voice, the cloth walls of the urdu rippling at its insistence, “For I am a generous benefactor who offers much and asks little. Your goals are my goals, good Ardal, and my means will be your ends. Take up my lance, wise King; with it, all you rightly deserve is but a toss away.”
The red light receded inwards toward the lance, though the rod still rippled and gnashed at the air, sparking like lightning waxing crimson. Now an aura of cardinal brightness roared out about a meter in diameter around the spear, the center of the deadly spike seeming to calm as if offering itself as a grip for the warlord. With hands barely trembling as Ardal did his best to contain his emotions, the warrior-who-would-be-king slowly stepped forward as a voice in his ear began to cheer him on. Voices from his childhood, from his early days, from his rise, supporters and foes alike, all telling him this is what he deserved, what he had earned. Fingers reached forth to cautiously brushed against the spear and in an instant it was in his closed fist, as if jumping to his hand between the blink of an eye and forcing his digits closed upon it.
Power surged through Ardal’s veins, red arterial lightning flashing across every artery visible against his skin. His eyes widened, the man feeling greater than he ever had before. An energy coursed in his heart and drove him to walk from the hall, no longer feeling the anxiety of the siege nor the exhaustion of his long conflicts. Several guards locked to attention as he strode out, seemingly unaware of what had occurred within the urdu. With surprised fascination they stared at the baleful weapon held within their master’s hand and with ferocious intent, Ardal stared down the wood-packed road that led straight towards the no-man’s land between the camp and the walls.
Before Ardal stood his greatest enemy, the very walls of the Woldians that kept them safe and let them cast sneers and insults towards him. Rage rolled through his body and with it came the ecstasy of certainty, a confidence in his actions held only by a man ablaze. With all the fury and passion in his heart, Ardal stepped into a throwing stance and hurled the lance with all his strength towards Wold.
The lightning bolt lance launched down the path, its carmine radiance lighting the path as it travelled with the pace of the Age of Fire itself. A thunder crack shattered the silence of the night as the dread weapon skipped across the landscape and reached the wall faster than eyes could keep track. As the spike struck the wall it passed through, leaving a scorch mark in its space, before slamming into the heart of the city.
A tower of light rose from the center of the city followed by scorching heat and the deafening roar of a god let free. One second passed and the city of Wold exploded, the briefest screams of terror snuffed out in the blast. The column of red flame and lightning climbed well into the heavens, pushing the clouds of the night out in all directions and making, for an instance, the moon surrender to the light of day.
All around Ardal his men lay flattened, slowly rising back to observe the destruction wrought by their lord. Ardal himself shook, eyes wide, jaw dropped low. Before him, where once the Impenetrable Walls of Wold stood, now sat a crater. All he had hated, had wanted, was gone and in its place the ultimate expression of mankind’s willingness to act. As ash began to fall, Ardal’s awe struck visage drew back into the slightest smile; a generous benefactor indeed.
Base Form: Lonn presents himself in a number of forms as relevant to his current scheme or project, but primarily dances between three major figures that are actively recognizable by peoples familiar with the deity. Though depictions may vary culturally, he will regularly take up these forms to interact with mortals and gods alike.
Lonn the Fulminator, a crimson bolt of light that dances light a lightning bolt through the sky. Though capable of holding a vaguely humanoid shape, this is a facsimile of such a body and nothing more. It is in this form that he interacts with mortals in the most supportive way, empowering them to action in the most literal of senses. It is from this form in particular that Lonn’s nicknames relating to lightning and the color red are derived.
Lonn the Transient, where Lonn inhabits the form of a human man. The human facsimile of Lonn is not noticeably tall, skinny, or even attractive. A shock of red hair, well within the normal range of human hair color, is common but not always present and is often changed to blend in with peoples with less common hair colors. What is common throughout is a set of perfect teeth, pristine to the point of being noticeably uncanny.
Lonn the Destroyer, where Lonn occupies the form of a human-esque skeleton. The material of Lonn’s structure appears reminiscent of the old ruins of mankind and his internals seem lit by reddish power. He occupies this form as a beacon of violence, promoting riotous behavior, the annihilation of one’s enemies, and a perpetual willingness to do anything to complete one’s goals. It is this skeleton icon to which soldiers pray, assassins swear oaths upon, and Warlords secretly whisper their deepest desires towards in the dark of night.
True Form: Though Lonn’s truest form can, in many ways, be prone to change as any person might change throughout their life, the two forms most regularly seen in such dire times are that of the Throne and the Annihilation.
The Throne of Want, Lonn’s pure representation of mortal desires, needs, and capacity for greatness, appears as a carven throne with a skeletal figure sunken within. Upon presenting such an icon of overwhelming mortal experience, the exact size and vastness of the Throne becomes unbearable. The skeletal figure sunken within represents the nature of mortals, ruling upon a throne of their own making but trapped within that greatness like a tomb. The dead-eyed stare of the Red God bares down on those who observe it, seeing their thoughts pour from the icon of mortality as sprawling streams of thoughts carven into reality.
The Annihilation of Awe, the rarest of such presented identities, represents the capacity for mortals to bring about their own end. A massive red explosion, filled with crimson fire and arterial lightning, thunders outward from a single point consuming everything in its path. Although brought about by a deity, the Annihilation of All harkens to the world shattering magics that sundered the world in their numerous, baleful glows during the height of the apocalypse. Within the explosive maelstrom, for those capable of peering within, the rising image of a furious skull, grinning and grimacing in equal measure.
Keelzaskorul stared with all six of his bronze colored eyes into the blackness of the sea. Though the light above had gone out and the gaze of the One-Good-Orb hidden behind a thick barrier of clouds, his vision peered deeply and cut through the murk. It did not take divine sight to know what was happening.
For nearly a century Keelz had ruled over this domain. He had earned it rightly and fairly, following the decrees of the All-Tyrant to the letter. As vrool go, he had never been ambitious; it was enough to be the largest in his domain and rule over dozens of subject vrool and several thousand akua. Though he admitted it was perhaps a weakness, Keelz was never interested in being the greatest in the sea; just great. He had even been marginally kind to the akuan tribes under his protection. And now all of his hard work was being destroyed.
A fortnight ago it had begun, as all things in the sea did. With sudden and surprising swiftness. A predator, after all, could not go gently into the dark abyss.
The arrival of another vrool had not warranted much of a complaint from the Tyrant. His realm lay on a prime trade lane between the capital in Aopoa and the western reefs Kaarnesxaturl claimed as tributaries. It was not uncommon for lesser spawn to travel through here, seeking greater glories and riches in the west. Unfortunately, it had proven to be an atypical experience this time around. Though the vrool that had arrived was no bull, only half the size of Keelz at that, he brought with him an aura of domination that the Tyrant of the Twin-Isles couldn’t simply neglect. Some measure of the other vrool’s strength was needed to make it clear Keelz would not tolerate upstarts.
That had proven to be a mistake.
One of Keelzaskorul’s retainers had gone forth with a collection of akuan warriors at his back to confront the new arrival on the edges of the reefs surrounding the island. Evidently, it had not gone well. Though Keelz could not speak to the events, that retainer and his band had not returned. And that, of course, had only been the start. Over the following days Keelz felt his grip over the islands rapidly diminishing. Those camps he kept for those few undesirables that opposed his rule had been torn apart by the offending vrool and whenever Keelz sallied forth to oppose him, his opponent had retreated. With half a dozen other vrool at his back alongside a number of reasonably loyal akua, Keelz felt he was prepared for open battle. The fact that his enemy refused to give countenance to his attempts was particularly frustrating. In the past, interlopers had faced him in battle and had fallen; this one simply refused to do the first step of that historically successful arrangement.
So Keelz was forced to wait, watching as his pocket-empire collapsed at the hands of an enemy who refused to face him. A maddening affair, though one Keelz was uniquely prepared to handle as a vrool; unlike many of his kin, Keelz did not feel the sting of these losses. Eventually his enemy would HAVE to face him on the ground of his choosing and that would see him victorious. Then he would just need to work hard to rebuild as he had a century prior. Keelz trusted that on his island, he would have the advantage. Though nothing resembling the great ziggurat on Aopoa, a modestly fortified lagoon made for a strong defensive position and required his enemy to either cross over land to scale the walls or enter through the small mouth. Inside, Keelz could easily fight along the shore as he had painstakingly trained himself to and could, if needs called for it, draw in reinforcements from the gates.
Yes, Keelz assured himself, a century of preparation was about to pay dividends. Duurl held tightly to his bident with one massive lower limb wrapped three times over along the haft, glaring in that most furious of ways only an organism with six eyes could. Bedecked in bronze helmet and panoply of thick shell and coral, Duurl was sure he made for an imposing figure. He was the largest and most powerful of the Tyrant’s Retainers and enjoyed the benefits therein; more food, to get larger, and the best prizes from hauls and tribute. He made sure to show off many of his assorted land-items acquired through plunder and trade, replete with several eating utensils. To Duurl, this indicated quite clearly that he intended to eat his enemy and he was most pleased with the clever symbolism.
Nevertheless, no amount of self-preening could bring up his mood. Duurl was, as it were, quite furious. Five nights now he and the other retainers of Keelz had swam forth from their stronghold to oppose this invader and each time they had been left with nothing but empty stomachs and wasted energy. For a vrool of his size, such activity needed to be rewarded. Of course, he had numerous servants and a sizable land grant that provided him with all the sustenance he needed but that didn’t matter.
It was the principle of the thing, after all.
Yes, this upstart invader was coming to take everything Duurl had worked so hard to achieve. And to think, in a few weeks time his carefully laid plans to kill, eat, and thus replace Keelz were about to come to fruition!? The gall of this interloper to come and destroy such a masterfully spun web of lies! He had even sacrificed a sizable portion of his latest booty to Tekresxeret, the Tyrant-Maker, and Yaxanramat, He-Who-Watches! He secretly cursed himself for not attempting to woo Kaadinxerun, knowing the Lord of Perfection may very well have been a better option. Duurl was, after all, perfect himself; surely the wise deity would have recognized that and granted him success?
“Graah! Storms and hurricanes, whirlwinds and whirlpools! This is Reegz’s fault!”
Duurl nodded his head vigorously, quite pleased with himself; yes, it certainly was Reegz’s fault. That pitiful whelp had simply not done enough as an underling to prepare Duurl for this eventuality. He would need to be punished severely for his impertinence at a later date. No matter, conspired Duurl, he could simply use the interloper to his own benefit. All he needed to do was take advantage of this momentary chaos to overthrow Keelz, perhaps letting the two battle it out then slaying the no-doubt weakened victor. Ah, of course! It was all so clear now!
“I’m a genius!”
The sound of sloshing water caught Duurl’s attention, pulling him from his philosophical musings to glare once more at the waves. He sat in the cut trench that made for an entrance into the lagoon and so had unbroken vision towards anyone who might try to enter. It seemed, then, that his enemy was intending to enter here first. Powerful, predatory eyes locked onto the movement and were suddenly struck with dumbfound surprise at the object of their attention.
It was an akua. An ugly akua, at that.
The creature was pale scaled with large eyes that glowed with an almost sickly reflection of the already limited moonlight. Spines and shrunken fin-like growths sprouted along its body while a nasty set of teeth were bared from its jaws. Though only its upper torso was visible thrusting from the water, Duurl could clearly see a thrusting spear clutched in one hand and a nasty looking fileting dagger held menacingly in the other. A net like structure was thrown over its shoulder, the use of which unclear to Duurl despite his immense genius.
“You are not Vrool!” bellowed Duurl, the water around him turning into choppy white water from the power of his Vonu spoken in anger, “Where is your master so that I might address him!?”
Duurl flinched almost imperceptibly as half a dozen more heads peaked from the water, followed by a dozen more. His vision parted, eyes spreading to the left and right as the numbers increased and he swiftly lost count. That meant there was a lot of them, reasoned Duurl, as he drew up his bident and the several other assorted weapons wrapped up in other tentacles. The retainer was suddenly faced with what seemed to be a hundred Akuan warriors of some deeply strange origin, all of which had their sights set squarely on him. Duurl, being the wise and powerful vrool that he was, did the only thing he could.
He roared out an alarm.
As he did the Akua screeched back, yelling out battle cries in an awkward but surprisingly effective control over the holy tongue. The accented Vonu of the entire host drew up a strong wave behind Duurl, rising up and immediately pushing him out into the open water of the sea. Moments later and five more vrool drew themselves from their abodes, crevices giving way to massive monsters of flesh and fury. The riptide of the Akuan vonu tugged them out with it, the vrool warriors gladly going forward. The attackers parted to the sides as the vrool were drawn out and dove into the waves, drawing up a net of flesh around the now centered vrool retainers. It seemed Keelz’ pitched battle had finally come. The Tyrant of the Twin-Isles looked up from his makeshift throne, the sounds of alarm and then subsequent conflict unmistakable. With little effort he drew up his weapons and placed his bronze helmet over his bell, locking it in place. It had come sooner than expected but his enemy had at last shown himself. Keelz lifted himself on powerful tentacles, rising to his full, terrifying height of five and some odd meters. Armed and armored as he was, the hulking mass of bronze and flesh began to slide into the waters of his lagoon, making for the entrance where battle was commencing.
As Keelzaskorul closed the distance between him and the battle unfolding just outside the gates of his stronghold an almost familiar voice played at the edges of his awareness. It seemed to prick at his hide even beneath the cool embrace of his armor, setting off sensory organs across his body. Keelz’ shuddered at the sensation, eyes tightening to slits as they sucked back into their sockets.
Something wasn’t right...
The massive vrool could see battle was commencing from above the water, visible quite clearly as vonu ripped the surface into a maelstrom of activity. The water by then had become sloshy and red, the scent of blood unmistakable. It wasn’t that furious battle that was commencing, however, that was causing the disturbance. Every moment Keelz tarried he knew he potentially lost valuable warriors but he could shake the sensation. Biting back his animalistic urges to secure himself in a more protected environment, Keelz strode forward. There was a time for caution and a time for action and a battle was raging was ever evidence of the latter. Just as he reached the outer limits of the lagoon he dove forward, massive tentacles acting like springs to propel him into the water below.
The monstrous entity hammered into the waves like a torpedo, kicking up huge gouts of water as he made room for himself in the sea. Before him hung an orb of oddling Akua, armed to the teeth and harrying his warriors. They had formed themselves up into a hunting sphere, diving in and twisting around one another to confuse their opponents. The vrool within had become trapped, their own arrogance leading them into the center of the conflict only to find themselves intentionally placed there. With the skill of a pod of dolphins, the Akua darted in and out of battle, resting at the edges when needed and slowly wearing their prey down.
Keelzaskorul would have none of this.
The projectile that was his body crashed into the line, limbs flailing and lashing out with ferocious efficacy. Stabbing blades thrust into opponents, free tentacles grabbed and crushed soft bodies that couldn’t swim away fast enough, and his deadly trident dove forward to impale or dismember with equal efficiency. In an instant the orb had gone from a tightening noose to a shattered egg, the cohesion of the attackers dissipating from the astonishingly powerful shock-assault. With their warlord now tentacle-deep in battle the vrool retainers found their hearts and dove back in, diving at the shaken lines of their enemy.
Keelz felt a rare moment of pride as he tore into his enemy, a dozen of the strange akua already dead at his hands. Blood and gore became an arterial fog of war as real battle was met and the few gains of the invaders were wiped away. Steeped in the entrails of his foe, it was hard not to feel powerful. His gaze turned outward to observe the action, battle starting to separate as individual vrool fought their way into a mess of foes to wage their own private battles with those who had earlier thought them their betters. In the distance Keelz could see his own akuan warriors closing, recognizable from the daubed war-colors and weapons his own artisans had forged.
Excellent, this battle was over before it had started.
Keelz’ eyes went wide, pushing out to the farthest extent they could reach; there was a vrool at the head of that mass of fighters and it wasn’t one of his. The gears turned in the Tyrant’s head as quickly as possible, putting together the unfortunate conclusion that things were not going the way he had planned. Keelz cursed as he noticed the source of that untoward voice; a darkly shaded trident held in the vrool’s strongest tentacle, blacker than the deepest abyss, was whispering at him. One howl of the holy vonu shook from the descending battle line and in an instant water parted and obeyed the command.
A riptide whirlpool forced itself into existence in the midst of the aquatic battlefield, sending everything into havoc.
The countercharge of the once-loyal akuan warriors took many of the vrool retainers by surprise. The strange akua they had originally been battling had done well enough keeping them at bay, primarily escaping the vrool rather than actually attempting to slay them. It had been a ruse of the most devilish kind, with the retainers now separated entirely from one another rather than held in a tightly packed formation. With only six eyes and twelve tentacles they could only hope to defend themselves against a tentacle-full worth of opponents and the numbers quickly warped against them. In the three dimensional environment numbers were king and soon the vrool were surrounded on all sides and forced down towards deeper water where they could be kept from the surface or the seafloor. The first of the vrool died to a hundred separate stabs, butchered from every direction until his massive body gave way and collapsed on its own weight.
Keelz, for his part, was no coward. He would die well, if that was the fate that awaited him. Diving through the curtain of blood and viscera that marked his initial assault, Keelzaskorul made for the one true enemy in all of this. The upstart vrool warrior was unarmored but bore that dread trident alongside a number of other deadly tools of murder. Finally, a heavy shield cut with slats for easy maneuvering in water was held on his left side and made for an imposing bulwark against attack. The Tyrant would have to make do.
When the pair were nearly ten meters apart their attacks began, tentacles flaring to stop forward momentum while weapon arms within reach shot forward to stab at one another. It was clear Keelz had the advantage of size and thus reach, his tentacles able to reach across the water to strike at his foe while his shorter limbs served to parry aside blows that might threaten to pierce armor. The initial clash, unsurprisingly, went in the Tyrant’s favor as he continually smashed away at the other vrool’s defenses. The clang of metal on metal filled the waves while daggers were slashed and stabbed at outstretched limbs to gain advantage. Keelz gained first blood, slashed the edge of his blade across an overreaching limb. The strike was a solid one that bit deep but only managed to injure, failing to make his opponent drop the weapon in that tentacle.
“At last, my foe,” roared Keelzaskorul, his beak gnashing at the water in front of him from behind the relative safety of his helm, “We do battle! Do not disappoint! I am Keelzaskorul, name yourself so I might know my meal or my conqueror!”
Keelz’ vonu ripped up the water into thick, bubbling chop that momentarily hid the pair from one another. The storm of tentacles continued to surge through the wall of white water, stabbing and slashing at one another or deflecting blows with deft parries or sudden grabs. An echoing cry of the holy tongue surged through the waves, bereft of meaning beyond vigorous intent before turning into a sentence of true verse.
”I am Kremmesxaturl,” came the verbal repost, a slipstream of water knocking one of Keelz’ blows aside with the power of the spoken word, ”I will not.”
The laconic response caught Keelz off guard, especially when considering the power behind it. In that moment of laxness the young vrool shot through the cloud before them, closing the distance while Keelz’ trident head was deflected to the side. An attempt by the Tyrant to thrust back in with the weapon saw the tines deftly caught in the slats of Krem’s shield, the powerful tentacle wrapped up behind it twisting to pull the trident head off to the side. Keelz was suddenly open as Kremmesxaturl dove inside his guard and the two locked together in the fighting stance of ancient vrool. Beaks lashed at one another ferociously while tentacles fought to gain advantage, twisting and turning on one another between deadly stabs. Even here Keelz held advantage, his size and armor making it difficult for Krem to harm him, but the Tyrant of the Twin-Isles had not lived as long as he had through pride.
This position was by design, and Keelz knew it.
Out of nowhere Keelz felt a stabbing pain, the sensation of being too deep in water. He let out a horrified screech as part of his body seemed to separately be crushed by the immense weight of the Vo, immediately attempting to break his hold with the invader. In that instant Krem thrust forward with his trident, stabbing deep into the unprotected side of Keelz. Hot blood poured forth from the wound, filling the space around the Tyrant with his own fleeting lifeforce. Keelzaskorul sank deep, screeching and flailing with what power he had left. Around him his retainers took notice, those few unharmed enough to attempt to flee making a break for it. Keelz cursed that this was his end but accepted it begrudgingly; he hoped Klaarungraxus would put in a good word for him with Txaun, for death was not a welcome place for the Vrool.
What little light there was became shaded as a massive form dove above him. The recognizable shape of Duurl hung above him, battered and bleeding but with a sinister look in his eye. Clutched in one tentacle was a stabbing blade of white coral, already stained with blood.
“Wait, great and powerful Tyrant-to-Be!” howled Duurl, waving back a number of the Akua closing in to kill him, “I am Duurlekzural, your humble servant! I had planned all along to slay this feckless idiot and deliver his head to you! Let me serve as your retainer, mighty one, so that I might prove my loyalt-”
There was a sickening pop as the voice of the ocean reverberated outward from the inside of Duurl’s head. What once made up the bell of Duurl had sucked inwards, popping structural organs and smashing brains into a pulp. All six eyes that had once glowed brightly from his bell now were mashed into unrecognizable lumps and even his beak had shattered from the force. The rest of his body spasmed vigorously, tentacle-minds desperately trying to figure out what had killed them before slowly experiencing that death themselves. Keelz looked on in an odd mixture of shock, fascination, and horror at the event that unfolded before his eyes.
Keelz looked up and around himself after several seconds of thoughtless staring into the void. Three more of his retainers had been slain leaving one free and escaping into the depths while the other was surrounded and surrendered his weaponry. The once-Tyrant’s eyes flashed up to Krem, staring into the other gaze with acceptance.
“End it, Kremmesxaturl. You have bested me. Let me die with some dignity.” Keelz spoke with humbled tones, his vonu only gently stirring the waters around him. The response that came was not what Keelz expected.
”No.”
Keelz twisted his head quizzically as far as his bell would allow, eyes sinking into their sockets to make thin slits of light glow out from his head. His beak chattered three times, clicking with confusion and curiosity. Though he didn’t dare look a gift whale in the mouth it was exceedingly difficult for the once-Tyrant to come up with a reason for this behavior. It was clear Kremmesxaturl had seen through Keelz’ visage, immediately providing an answer. ”They spoke in favor of you.”
Keelz looked behind his conqueror at the collection of akuan faces. Those that he recognized, ostensibly his people, looked back with something reminiscent of respect. Keelz had never punished them severely, had never demanded ridiculous tithes of them, and had always protected them when it was needed. Though he had never done so out of kindness in the traditional sense, he had certainly gone out of his way to treat them with some level of dignity. He had even been derided for it by some of his retainers, including the now dead Duurl, but the Tyrant had never seen point to wanton cruelty. It always seemed deeply unproductive and in most cases actively harmful.
It seemed that particularly unassuming action had paid far more dividends than preparation.
“What then, Tyrant? Am I to go into the depths and die, wounded and weak? An unkind fate.”
Krem stared at him for a moment, eyes drawing up and down before offering some sort of emotion therein. His eyes glowed blue, a deep oddity among vrool, and it gave the young vrool a deeply alien visage. Regardless, it was clear to Keelz that the princeling was considering the answer in earnest.
”I will need comrades.”
The statement came quickly and briefly, less an offer and more an assertion than anything. Nevertheless, Keelz saw opportunity where it was and saw no reason to deny fate its kind embrace. With the gentle glow of the One-Good-Orb above, Keelzaskorul felt certain the Seven Soft Currents had seen fit to spare him. He silently swore to offer a meal to every single one of the great pantheon and a whole platter for the All-Tyrant in recognition of this gift.
“Then you have found one.”
On the distant twin-isles of Naruxan and Naxuran, the Realm of Keelzaskorul is under threat. The Tyrant, a self-admitted oddity among Vrool, is in the midst of resisting against an incoming invader from across the sea. Despite his best efforts he has failed to bring his enemy to ground in a timely fashion and has made the fateful decision to return to defenses of his stronghold.
At the same time, the retainer Duurl plots betrayal. No doubt the most genius of al Vrool, Duurl plans to turn on whoever is the victor of the conflict in order to place himself as the rightful ruler of the isles. It’s only a matter of time till he succeeds…
The attack begins with a host of odd akua leading the fore, using their mastery of vonu to draw the vrool retainers to battle in open water where they can more readily be surrounded. Battle commences and the tide seems to be in the Akua’s favor before the arrival of Keelzaskorul into the fray.
A counterattack by once loyal Akua sees victory slip from Keelzaskorul’s tentacles. Single combat is met between Keelz and his opponent, revealed to be Kremmesxaturl. Though Keelz gives a good showing for himself, he is defeated by the Hero and his powerful weapon. Just as Keelz is nearly slain, his cowardly retainer Duurl attempts to throw him under the proverbial bus to save his skin. Krem has none of it.
With that, Keelz and Krem have a momentary, laconic discussion, before Keelz offers to serve Krem as a companion in his battle. Thus begins the liberation of the sea from the clutches of Kaarnesxaturl, the All-Tyrant.
Start 5MP/0DP
>5 MP - Form the Hadean Throng (Aaxges’Xuuro), a Holy Order (spent towards Battle); Known in the tongues of surface-folk as the Hadean Throng or the Host of Krem, the Aaxges’Xuuro is a fighting force raised by Krem using the Holy Tongue to bind it. Consisting of Akua recruited both through power of oration and direct liberation as well as a growing number of vrool, the Aaxges’Xuuro is at its heart a force of liberation and revolution. The warriors of the Throng, occasionally referred to as Myrmidons in the Voduun fashion, each swear loyalty upon the Hadean Trident to see its goals accomplished. The Order, expressly religious and worshipping a reformed collection of deities from the Vroolish pantheon, has set in its sights the old order of the Tyrants as laid down by the All-Tyrant, Kaarnesxaturl. Warrior-Monks of the most truest sense, Aaxges’Xuuro fighters experience empowerment in the feats required for victory against the impossible odds presented by the Vrool Tyrants. This manifests itself in many ways but truest among all others is a prowess for the many facets of battle. (7 title points to hand out)
Mirak il’Kurhah Zhaan held his chin in the cup of his right hand, the rough hairs of his beard scraping against the thick, leather-like hide of his palm. His old eyes stared blankly, the bronze of his irises gleaming in the flickering light. All about the enclosed space of his war tent were familiar faces; each was one of his honored and trusted khayhar warriors and had earned that gift through blood and sweat paid to the earth a million times over. Most were veterans of numerous skirmishes and battles, having followed the belligerent Zhaan on his quest to oppose those who would threaten the Benya Kurhah and all Arrak people.
Years ago, Mirak had led a contingent of Kurhah warrior-retainers and tribesmen into battle against the giant Thwump. The Dovregubbe had earned the ire of the clan and had been appropriately punished for it. This act had seen Mirak steal the name of the Dovregubbe and a consumption of the troll’s power by the ovoo spirits of the Kurhah back in Angetennar. Despite losses to the troll, through Mirak’s clever ploy the monster had been defeated; this had not gone unnoticed. For the better part of a decade the chieftain wiled away his mid-forties in continued battle against the enemies of the Arrak. His reputation for skill at arms was said to be brought upon him by a thousand spirits of fallen Arrak warriors driving him forward.
This dread and honored reputation came with a price Mirak had not been keen to pay, but so too with rewards he had never expected. The Benya Kurhah had quickly risen to prominence among the Arrak Clans; there was no one better to ask for assistance in conflicts, be it against devilish trolls, cruel city-dwellers, or all manner of other monsters besides. Though at first Mirak had simply ignored these requests where he could, the pressure from his retainers had grown; a fire had been lit in their souls and Mirak could not manage to snuff it out. The Kurhah had become rich on gifts and supplication that their Chieftain did not feel they had earned, the aging Zhaan wishing only to return to a normal life upon the plains or in the deep forests of his home. Alas, it was not to be.
And so the Kurhah grew and changed. Warriors of all stripes, often second sons, who wished rather than splitting their father’s herds instead sought honor fighting for a higher cause. Though these initial fighters were rebuked and made a vague mob that followed the Kurhah where they went, it was quickly realized that the Arrak rules of hospitality could not be denied forever. Soon they were living amongst the camp, hunting and herding to assist the clan, and offering their services in those few battles Mirak could not deny. One by one the warriors had offered their souls to the Kurhah ovoo, marrying daughters and merging what herds they had to become one with the clan. These firebrands brought with them the desire for honorable combat that had fueled their departure from their home-tribes and the Benya Kurhah felt every new candlelight add up to a raging fire soon enough. With the blaze no longer within his control, Mirak relented; the Benya Kurhah was never his to command and he was forever her humble servant.
A decade later and now Mirak dwelled on the past, pinning more than anything for the simplicity of that old life. His retainer host had grown beyond one hundred khayhar, a number unheard of in the past. In addition, a throng of numerous tribal warriors had joined him, increasing his fighting capacity to well over a thousand. By day they lived as tribesmen, glad to have joined the ranks of the vaunted Benya of Mirak the Belligerent, when battle called they answered. Though not as disciplined or veteran as khayhar, they did their part well enough and followed orders to the letter and that was all Mirak could ask for.
“My Zhaan, what is your answer?”
Mirak’s eyes opened wide as he realized he was daydreaming. A curse of old age, he had kept telling himself, though he knew it was something far more insidious. His khayhar sat cross legged in his tent, packed to the breaking point with their number. They never seemed to mind it, of course; more than happy to be close to their brothers, they would say. Mirak would’ve appreciated having more room in his tent, personally.
“Hmmm. It is not a simple question, Nazih.”
The old veteran nodded understandingly. He was of the old days, when the band numbered no more than ten at its greatest strength. Nazih had been at Mirak’s heels since they were children, a devoted friend like no other and one Mirak planned to die next to. He hoped whatever part of them was returned to Angetennar would be placed beside one another on the ovoo; though he knew that would not mean they were closer in the afterlife, he thought it a fitting memorial to their bond.
Many of the others, of course, were not so wisely tempered.
“My Zhaan, forgive my tongue, but how can it be so?” The interruption came from a younger khayhar, one of those fiery youths that had sought out the old Chieftain years ago, “They have offered combat, and so surely we must answer?”
There was a general agreement among the warband as younger, less tested khayhar seemed to approve of the mindset. Those older warriors, now becoming fewer and far between in his ranks, remained quiet; they knew better to speak for their Zhaan and backed his opinions to the letter. Trust was a hard thing earned and Mirak had it heaped upon him in droves and so it was no place of theirs to question him.
“There is nothing to forgive, Anheh. You speak freely in this tent, as all khayhar do. We are brothers here and brothers do not hesitate to share their thoughts.” As always, Mirak’s measured response seemed to generate admiration. Mirak inwardly sighed as he saw the youngest of the crowd looking on with beaming eyes, the entire fanfare of the war tent and their revered Zhaan enkindling that oh so frustrating flame in their hearts. The Zhaan regretted that power he held over these men.
“The question is difficult, my brothers, for this is an enemy I know. It is not an enemy we wish to fight.”
Though there were no jeers it was clear from the dread silence that many of the numbered khayhar felt slighted; were they not skilled enough as their master’s old warriors, to be doubted in combat against this old foe? Though they did not say it, Mirak could see it plainly. It was no different than an older brother telling his siblings he had no interest in quarreling with a neighboring tribe. That statement alone humbled them and galled them in equal measure.
“But, why, my Zhaan?”
“They are iskurhil, Rurek,” muttered Mirak, eyes glazing over with memory, “They are demons of the cruel spirits’ making.”
That pervasive silence sat on the shoulders of the band heavily; those who knew what the iskurhil were understood fully why their Zhaan was reluctant to do battle with them. The iskurhil were said to have been poured onto the earth by one of the particular cruel spirits worshipped by the men-behind-walls, a blight that consumed everything in its path. Traders close to the Arrak whispered of twisted bodies, warped from men stolen by that evil idol.
“If we stand against them, we must do so prepared and armed with the knowledge of their evil. They will not behave as men do, nor will they be as trolls in the day. To fight them, we will be drawn into a battle against numberless swarms.”
“Then do we deny the request? Does the Benya Jaahed fight alone?”
Silence descended on the room once more, and all eyes turned to the Zhaan. Mirak looked inward, as if staring at himself, another pair of eyes added to the many gazing into his soul. Would he drag his people into another conflict, against a foe far more inhuman than even the trolls? For several long moments that felt like hours Mirak thought, the flickering of the fire in his eyes reflected off his bronze irises. At last, he stood, stepping towards the flame while pulling free a fetish from his vestments. With the string torn Mirak tossed it into the flame, severing the Kurhah’s bond to this moment of peace and welcoming into their hearth the spirit of war. A sense of power emanated from the flame, filling the hearts of the men around it as the blaze in their eyes were stoked by their master.
“No Arrak is ever alone.”
Within the war tent of Mirak il’Kurhah Zhaan, the collected khayhar warriors of the Benya Kurhah are in the process pf deciding between action or inaction in a new conflict involving the Arrak. The Benya Kurhah had grown in the last decade, becoming the preeminent warrior-host among the Arrak clans due to Mirak’s prestige. After some deliberation, it is decided the Benya Kurhah will join the Benya Jaahed in battle against the so-called iskurhil, an inhuman enemy to the north harassing Arrak herds.
Start 5MP/5DP
>5MP (Spent towards Battle)- Consecrate Holy Order, Khayhar an-il’Arrak: The Khayhar an-il’Arrak, or the Protectors of All Arrak, are a pseudo-order of warriors originating from the Benya Kurhah. Empowered by the spirits of their ancestors still acting through the lifeblood, the Khayhar of this host are supernaturally empowered with wisdom and courage. Titles (7 Points): Battle-Guile (2 Points) - Warriors of the Khayhar an-il’Arrak are blessed by their ancestor’s with the wisdom of a dozen generations. As such, Khayhar value independent thinking, freedom of action, and wisdom in combat above all. This manifests itself in independent action in combat, be it at the tactical or strategic level. Khayhar are known to commit to actions on their own, breaking from more draconic organizational units in favor of successful actions. Among their leaders, this is seen in an uncanny ability to see through the fog of war and determine successful routes or movements. Ancestral Courage (2 Points) - Though they may well not be the finest warriors in the world by might of arms, none can deny the courage of the Khayhar. The Ancestral spirits of war and conflict rage in the hearts of Arrak warriors, particularly those donning the panoply of their families. For some other peoples this courage would become heedless, suicidal determination; to the Khayhar, this becomes a much broader courage. Though Khayhar bands might detach from combat, it is almost never from fear; to the Arrak land means nothing and falling back to punish the enemy for ground taken is far more courageous than dying on worthless hills. There is a steady unwillingness to falter in the face of adversity, a determination to never truly surrender, and a desire to see every conflict end in defeat for the enemy or a pyrrhic victory bitter in their mouths. Born in the Saddle (2 Point) - Like all Arrak, the Khayhar warriors are born in the saddle. It is often said they’re more comfortable upon the backs of their stags than their own two feet, and for many that would not be a lie. Unsurprisingly, Khayhar are unmatched as light cavalry and control their mounts with a skill verging on the paranormal. Rides on their Stomachs (1 Point) - Khayhar are, first and foremost, nomads at their core. Perhaps better than any force beyond the monstrous enemies of mankind, Khayhar bands survive with ease in the wilds. As such, khayhar need no supply train to feed themselves nor do they rely on heavy logistic burdens to survive.
Far beneath the protruding skein of the world to the bedrock of the ocean, past great trees of stone, in the darkness of the deep a silent susurration dwelled. Like an unseen predator, it expanded its domain, filling the ocean with its siren song and a deadly, imperceptible embrace. From it, lifeforms fled, and those who failed fell upon the world’s floor and drowned in its crushing hold. It was a great pressure, an unseen blinding blackness. At its center was a shaft of oil-slick stone, a pearl of angst and discontent thrice pressed into Galbar’s stolid stone. With time the darkborne life of those forgotten ocean currents came to accept its presence and adapt and though few Vrool lived in that unbroken occlusion, some remained, their many-minded limbs coming to begrudgingly fear and revere that strange place.
Whisper of the All-Sire, bite not upon mine limb. Grasp not at my bell, bless me from afar.
Their hides--so long-held apart from even the gentle light of the One-Good-Orb--shaded darker, so that dark water was indistinguishable from the pitch of their slick flesh. Many creatures, pale or dark of scale, adapted to the greater pressure of the strange artifact. Akuans--those drowned in the place--gained a subtle resilience, letting them recover from the crushing pressure of its far-flung touch.
Decades stacked upon themselves and with their passing, those mortals who gathered beneath the vast continent, in the deepest depths, began to build and linger. A clan of Akua, the Kha’ Anaku Rae, formed amidst the columns of that dark place, and so schools were corralled and controlled by their hands. Coral and oceanic flora were sown in repeating frequency upon the soil and that pillared bedrock of Khesyr and eventually they took root. Ever so slowly, in the pressure of those depths, a civilization formed, and a faint light pierced the vast Drowned Forest of Anatsa Kest.
A century passed and a great expanding ring of bioluminescent reef formed to encircle and protect the great column of pressure. While some wildlife swam unaffected within the killing embrace of the Trident, the Kha’ gave it space and revered it from a safe distance. Only their dead were given unto its great pressure.
Splits in the clan erupted, and after a period of discontent and war, the united split thrice--as if to reflect the Hadean idol. So that Kha’ Anaku Rae became the Kha’ as one, each taking their own titles to separate themselves from their former kin.
The Kha’ Wae remained in the central band of the Anatsa Kest, their get was the largest, and so they kept their grip on much of the holdings that the three had built together. Delving deeper, the Kha’ Kū’i made their home beneath, so that all which drifted down--forgotten--might feed them and theirs. Perhaps those lost to memory might rise up once more and retake their domain of eld. Their numbers were least amongst the three, and yet with few predators and fewer rivals in those depths, they claimed the most, carving their homes into the pillars beneath the sea, and growing black jagged coral. They came to rely less upon their sight, developing their hearing--and the reach of their voice--above all else. Among them came to be born many to whom deepspeak came more naturally. Yet, far above both fled the Kau Kha’ Tai and theirs were a numerous breed with far-reaching sights and ambition. Though their territories were smaller than the others, they spread out far and wide, connected by patrolled currents like great highways beneath the ocean.
Between this triquetra of Kha’ hate simmered, but time heals all wounds and so through the influence of centuries they became almost united once again. With their strength and numbers, they spread far and wide and while allies, they each held their own territories spread out across the vast tides of the hidden ocean beneath Khesyr’s stone.
Still, even with the sprawling luminescence of coral and stone, and the strength of many Akuans, the sacred peace that remained about the great Trident could not remain forever. For it had been wrought by He-Who-Spawned-the-Oceans, and so twas destined to be wielded. Yet, no Vrool had yet managed to pass the hardy defenses of the Akuan Kha’. For their numbers were great and their cleverness a thing spawned from the collective of many minds in unison. In their histories, carved in libraries shaped like stone columns was held a history of slavery and obeisance.
These Kha’ they had tasted freedom...and they were not soon to give it up. Not without a fight.
Of course, with two millennia behind them and countless battles triumphed, the Kha’ perhaps grew too arrogant in their strength. So it is that the tides of change slowly creep upon them, coming from a place of light where no longer are they fit to dwell. On this, a calm day, same as many before it, arrives a Vrool of a different sort.
On this day--within the outer reaches just beyond the Undersea of Khesyr--arrives a Vrool of truly royal blood and with Krem’s arrival...change is just past the next reef. The young prince of Aopoa gazed into the dark abyss that stretched out beyond him in all directions, the inky depths of that dark and distant realm. His journey from the realm of his father, the All-Tyrant Kaarn, had found him buffeted and driven to the far reaches of the world. Gliding upon the western currents leading from the Tyrant’s reefs, Krem had wandered from the benthic domain of his spawning to find himself among the strange edifices that held aloft the oddling continent of Khesyr. Though the surface did not interest Krem farther than he could throw it, the gentle whispers of the ocean called the princeling deeper and deeper into the veritable forest of basalt columns that stood ominously in the stygian confines below. He had slowly delved deeper into the dark realm of Anasta Kest, a name unknown to him before that day. To the Vrool in the capital and the Akuan slaves who whispered of it, it was Kexestarxa. Accounts of the place had always been scarce and the weakness of the local vrool alongside the scarceness of food had kept the armies of tyrants well from that place. And though they would not admit it, Tyrants feared that place; tales of supernatural things emanated from there and all wise Tyrants gave wide berths to such alien things.
Obvious why… asserted the laconic internal monologue of the Thirteenth-Spawn as he glided through the depths.
His journey had taken him deep within and although the darkness was now becoming more than even he was commonly prepared for it was not enough to dissuade him. He had learned from a diminutive vrool at the outskirts of the continent’s depths more of the Akua who dwelt within. Strange folks, oddly colored, and of poor demeanor; they had no love of the vrool or even their distant kin. Nevertheless, the princeling delved further onwards. That had been nearly a week of travel behind him now and Klaar had begun to regret his choices. In this dark realm even his predatory skills were put to the test; he had to admit to himself as well that he had never truly needed to hone those skills to the razor edge his race was built for. The prey here was skittish and clever, prone to fleeing even at the first sign of threat, and those that did not remained due to a considerable sense of security in their own defenses. He had been able to win over a carcass from a relatively small Deep Drake, a deep-diving whale slain by the monstrosity, but had abandoned the corpse after only some feasting when a far larger sea serpent caught wind of his rapast.
Now with his stomachs gurgling ferociously and demanding sustenance even to the point of consuming himself, Krem knew he was in danger. Given much longer his body would begin consuming his own muscles to maintain his life and weaken him further. The life here that he found easiest to capture and devour were too small to sustain him indefinitely and required patience enough to keep him from continuing on his journey. The idea of remaining longer beneath the continent seemed even more deadly than simply starving in his travels so Krem had continued unabated. Worse still, he noticed two days prior that he was being stalked. Though they likely believed him unaware of their presence, Krem was no measling spawn of this fetid place; he might be smaller than his siblings but he was without equal among the vrool these Akua had faced. Gripping his thrusting spear of sharpened black coral and bone in one tentacle tightly, he had continued ever onward into the murk. A voice yet called to him and no manner of distraction could pull his attentions from it; he had to know its source.
It seemed though that the lurking sightless shadows of that murky deep abyss had other stark intentions for his most regal, ostentatious fate. From afar something disturbed the currents as they passed across Krem's skin, perhaps alerting him to a more dangerous incursion that was likely soon to reach him. Then, despite that warning, a wave of chaotic currents struck at Krem and the almost soundless droning of some far off singing sea-thing reached the water-treading Krem.
Kremmesxaturl recoiled away from the currents, allowing their forcefulness to move him; it was never wise to simply stand against the tide. Spitting out a curse in the Holy Vonu, a riptide formed around Krem that pulled him from the path of the deepspeak assault. All twelve tentacles jumped to position, forming a cage of defensive, dexterous tines to strike out at his assailants. All but one were emptied save for one of his lower tentacles baring the dangerous coral barb he wielded as a weapon. As he waited, eyes peering out into the depths, a gentle hum escaped his bell that sonorously echoed off his surroundings. Though most vrool might have announced their intent for violence then and there, challenging their hidden foes, Krem was far more patient; if it had been a vrool he would not have been ambushed, after all.
From the formless deep a silence seemed to reach and grasp, but its hold could not last for long as more deepspeak was unleashed, its sound like a far off gurgling gasp. It came at him from below, but its threat was ponderous, and so something else reached before it glanced against his hide. The rippling waves of its passing deadened by forces most arcane, an unknown shape struck out at Krem, flinging forth a long, bladed shaft, which aimed for any gap in his net of arms.
With a keening howl Krem rotated to fight against the attackers though he knew full well he had stumbled well and truly into their ambush. Though he had no time now, there would be curses saved for later to sting him for not acting sooner. Sounds of two currents crashing against one another, the emanations of a school of fish being parted by a predator diving into their wake, and the din of forceful waves crashing against the seafloor roared from Krem. The deepspeak chant produced a tight area of violent, opposing riptides that struck the lance on either side and dashed it in either direction, robbing it of momentum. With the women deflected Krem launched himself away from the center mass, having seen Akua hunt large game in a similar manner; he would not be their prey, that was for certain. His intense burst of speed brought him towards one of the great pillars, the princeling intent on using it to anchor at least one side of himself from the ambush. As he arrived at the pillarous cleft he spun about, baring his weapon and tentacles with two lower limbs grabbing hold of the wall to aid in movement. With beak bared, Kremmesxaturl prepared for the next strike to fall.
Left-to-right and right-to-left high pitched noises of indecipherable nature shifted across the flesh of his bell, alerting him of some unknown communication. Then, from ahead, a slowly turning current began to manifest, as if a whirlpool had been sucked beneath the ocean and made to against him press. The discarded thrusting implement was pulled off by the swirling current and soon vanished from all perception, not that it was lost.
Chittering arguments and calls of circumlocution swept between the members of the Kha'.
"Do see how big tis? It's grown fat from far-off crop!"
Another voice slipped swiftly through the tides, almost undetectable to their prey. "Foe-down nine. Foe-left ninety. Foe-face twenty--shut up Tis Tha', you echo much."
"Ah, what's harm then, mmn?" Tis Tha' shot back, her query followed swiftly by their shifted coordinates and an utterance of action.
A blast of narrow force struck out, passing through a gap in limbs, to strike at Krem's side. The sound of its speaker was lost before it struck. The attack was not followed up, but the strength of the growing, churning, riptide continued to grow.
Krem’s eyes darted back and forth from the enemies hanging in the murk, their silhouettes too difficult to make out consistently in the extremely low light. He counted at least a half dozen of them, though that could easily have been a false appraisal. All the vrool knew for certain was that he was starving, outnumbered, and reacting. To continue to follow at their pace was folly; he needed to gain the initiative. Two more tentacles joined the pair already pressed against the pillar, the double brace of limbs tightening up into thick coils as he pressed himself ever closer to the stone. He waited patiently for the next communication, an errant cry of well-channeled Vonu that kept their voices directed to specific areas. When at last one spoke more freely, perhaps talking to more than just one of its comrades, Krem rotated. The hulking body of the vrool propulsed itself from the column with tidalwave force, immediately tightening and lengthening out to make for as hydrodynamic a projectile as possible. The terrifying amounts of energy generated to allow Krem to close the distance sent spiderwebs of cracks dancing out in all directions from his launching point on the pillar.
Two tentacles surged forward ahead of his torpedo-like assault, one wielding his thrusting barb while the other simply waited behind the forward guard. In less than a second he was on top of the assailant, now clearly seen as an Akua. The creature’s eyes went wide in horrified surprise at the rapidity of Krem’s dive, attempting to paddle back while thrusting forward with a spear. Kremmesxaturl’s well-trained tentacles set about their business with a literal mind of their own. The tentacle wielding his barb batted the head of the opposing spear aside just enough to miss his body by centimeters while the second rapidly enveloped the haft of the spear, tugging it with contemptuous ease from the attacker’s hands. In that instant of disarmament four more tentacles dove inwards, grasping at outstretched limbs to gain purchase and tug the foe towards Krem’s gnashing beak.
”Change your course,” blurted out the princeling vrool, both towards his acquired hostage and the surrounding Akua; if he could not see them, he could at least let them hear him. Unlike vrool Akua cared for the lives of their kin and now Krem was betting everything on that sentiment, ”Or he dies.”
Struggling vainly for but a brief moment, the Kha’ found that he was soundly caught and so fell into utter stillness. Unable to move of his own volition, Tis Tha’ released a short string of high pitched noises--far more grating upon the senses up close than they’d been from afar. Turning then to face the deadly beak of the vrool, the Kha’ swallowed and spoke in halting tongue more familiar to Krem’s mind.
“They. Leave me here to die. Come back later. Kill,” he said, no hesitation in his tone. Yet, in the akuan’s body there was a subtle tension which to Krem would be palpable against his limbs. Tis was lying.
Far off high-strung noises, their directions shifted by deepspeak’s insistence, pinged against the vrool’s many tentacles as the unseen others spoke.
”Then I will be fed.”
The Thirteenth Spawn’s threat was palpable, rippling through the waters like the aftershock of a deep-sea quake. It was clear as day that he couldn’t pass this chance by. If he did the risk to himself would be far greater, his gambit having brought him far out into open waters once more. Further still, despite the captured Akua’s best efforts to disguise his lie the deception was clear as day to Krem; though he could not hear their words exactly, the others of this one’s ambushing party were worried.
”We need not fight,” came the surprising followup to the previous threat, ”I seek the voice below.”
There was a very visible release of tension around Tis’ limbs, a metaphorical slackening of the leash that indicated willingness to follow through with the promise. Though they could tighten down in an instant, even snap bones with ease with enough effort, the tentacles hinted gently at freedom. As he spoke a second throughline of his voice carried the conversation outwards towards the others, rippling Vonu riding upon verses of its own making to distant ears.
Insistent echoes argued 'cross currents like subtle whispers, barely heard, then fell silent in stark resistance to holy Vonu's call. Tis' limbs relaxed briefly, then stiffened. A great pressure built out of sight. The akuan swallowed nervously and though he could not sweat, a look of clear discomfort slipped onto his visage.
A moment passed, tension building somewhere in the murk, then capitulating, Tis Tha' let out a pleading bark.
"Stop!"
The pressure fell away, Tis relaxed, his eyes eyeing the vrool's closed maw with pleading nervousness. Still, he did not speak further, almost as if waiting. Around them, faintly illuminated particulate--stone, sand, and flecks of blood--drifted through the undersea. Then, when silence had almost outworn its welcome, six more shaded shapes drifted into the reach of vroolish eyes. Two of the strange akuans held weapons, while three more were black as pitch--barely silhouettes in the dark, their eyes glowing faintly.
One let loose their weapon, and it drifted gently in the waves. Unburdened, she swam forth and gestured to their friend.
"Let go," she said, her accent light and lilting where the paler Tis' was thick and rough. She spoke Krem's tongue with clarity, lacking indecision, her tongue familiar with its taste. "You are proven now. Few need fight among the maiole."
She paused, her azure eyes falling on his bloodied limbs, lips twisting downwards at the sight.
Her words tinged now with crashing waves and deep flung ocean's might, she further clarified.
"You will not come to further harm." Casually she drew one taloned finger across the outside length of one arm from shoulder down to hand. Blood as black as volcanic silt slipped out gently as if at her command.
Two of the others spoke in their strange high-tongue, looks of faint disbelief on their faces. The rest remained unmoved.
Krem’s senses devoured every input the strange Akua provided, from every tentacle’s sense of touch to his two forms of hearing and everything in between. They truly were like nothing he’d ever experienced before. Though the princeling himself had better control of himself, sub-minds pinged back rampant curiosity; their language in particular was keenly sought after, the statocysts dotting his body responding to the high pitched tongue with considerable intensity. It did not take much for him to realize what the behavior meant, at least vaguely enough, and he took the woman’s behaviors as a clear sign of the honesty behind her words. Kremmesxaturl offered up a brief prayer to the All-Sire for his luck; if these had been vrool he’d been ambushed by, he was confident he would have been slain.
”Then we are alike,” he responded in Vonu while watching with fascination at the woman’s actions. The drawing of your own blood was meaningless in vrool culture, perhaps even a sign of early onset insanity, but the heir of Aopoa was wise enough in his few years to think otherwise. He trusted the same was not required of him, blood always leaking from a light wound received from the initial ambush.
”I seek the voice below,” reiterated Krem then, unwilling to allow the lull in activity to potentially sour his chances further. A rumble rolled through his body as the extra exertion reminded him of just how hungry he truly was. ”And a meal.”
The woman nodded faintly, a regal air about her, before she turned from Krem and gestured to her kin. The others let out small noises of acknowledgement and shifted back into the mire of shadows.
Swimming to the edges of vrool vision, the akuan leader took hold of her strangely wicked weapon, then turned back to look 'pon Krem. Her eyes glimmered faintly in the murky dark, unwavering as they met his many-eyed gaze. A small smile quirked her lips, "Come, maiole, swim with me." Then, without further hesitation, the akuan turned and darted off into the black.
Krem groaned deeply, entirely displeased with the game he was fairly confident she was playing. Unlike most vrool he knew the emotional cues of mortal species well and that smile told him everything. No matter. With that he used what energy he had to keep up with her, surging through the water in tow. He trusted their words that he would go unharmed, more out of desperation than anything. A twinge of guilt came over him as one of his subminds spoke back realizations of new options arising; if they were not completely honest, he could simply eat everyone in their village.
Driving the thoughts from his mind, Krem swam onward. If nothing, he would at least have a chance to get closer to the voice that called to him in the distant depths. With that he continued to swim forward with the Akua, keeping pace with them with relative ease but feeling the sapping of his energies deeply.
In the inky depths of the Drowned Forest it was difficult to tell how long one had been swimming or how far they had come, and with dark water stretching out in all directions Krem could scarcely tell--after a brief time--which direction he had come from. Nonetheless, he and the Kha’ hunters traveled for some time through the waves, but after an indeterminate period had passed, the vrool might notice a faint change in the waters, as if an unseen light had touched his flesh. Moment passed and the hunters took up formation around him, with the woman swimming just ahead of him.
Slowly the gentle pull of a deepspeak current tugged at his body, easing his way through the depths. The Kha’ speakers had begun to guide his path. Where once silence had reigned, the gentle tonal hum of deepspeak now droned on and at the very edges of that undersea horizon, the illusion of illumination began to make itself known.
The woman swam ahead some, her voice reaching back through the waves to reach him. “Your name, maiole?”
Krem swam onwards, stunned by the surprising change in scenery. The thrumming vonu could be heard by anyone educated enough to listen for it and Krem himself was no mere foundling at its use. The light that began to illuminate the space before him wasn’t true light, that much Krem knew, and he had seen such acts of vonu accomplished by warlocks for their hidden laboratories. It spoke of this community’s skill with the holy tongue of Klaar and the princeling found himself surprisingly humbled by their unity. It was only then, as he praised them, that he realized he had unintentionally ignored his host.
“Kremmesxaturl,” he responded, dispensing with his heritage both out of general disinterest and a sense that it would do him nothing but harm among these Akua, “Or Krem.”
A moment passed as his eyes moved separate from one another, devouring the information they could glean. Even his tentacles seemed to be acting on overdrive, their statocysts rumbling in tune with the vonu. This was, for all Krem could perceive, one of the most unique places he’d ever experienced in the sea. Not that he had seen much. Even his precocious grasp of laconic communication seemed overwhelmed, driving him to speak more than he had in the weeks of his travel.
“Where are we? What is this place?”
There was no response for a time, as if she perhaps had not heard his words. Before it could drag on, one of the other Kha' took up the slack, giving him a toothy lopsided grin. "D'nah mind Tae-nā Olūra, she is ridin' za path," the warrior said in a rather lyrical accent, the sound perhaps more familiar to the vrool.
"Name's Uak nimu," he explained, unbidden, swimming in synch with Krem, seeming undaunted by the vrool's greater size. "Ya seein' za song woven through our tides maiole. The gentle glow o' masterful Vonu ent za subtle glow of far off--ah, was za word--...." Nimu fell silent, a frown warping his features before he seemed to dismiss the issue, "Kha' grow food. No bright orb. Down 'ere it makes its own light."
That said, he fell silent, side-eying the vrool with a glint of amusement.
Krem returned the side-eyed glance with three of his own, staring at so-called Uak quizzically. His accent was thick, that much was completely apparent, but Krem was able to muddle through. Though his dialect was distinctly different from that of his keeper, Kaia, the shared inflections of the Akuan tongues spoken in Vonu were similar enough. The description of it all fascinating the vrool as he swam ever onward, now allowing for much of the movement to be driven by the current.
”I see.”
Krem retreated into his mind's-eye as the descent continued, his gaze turning away from the oddling Akua and instead towards the numerous sights about his personage. All six eyes moved separately, creating nearly a 360 degree image of the space. It was unique, to say the least, and nothing like anything he’d experienced on Aopoa. To him it was almost like going onto the surface, so different it was from the world of his birth.
Nimu bobbed his head with an appreciative smile, and returned his gaze forwards. The only sounds from then on were the occasional bursts of high-tongue and the far rarer stumbling depth of Nimu’s accent, talking idly of simple things if only to fill the time. It was a long journey, it seemed, but from time to time the hunters would dart off and return with a glowing morsel or some strange floran delicacy of the deep. Once, Olūra herself departed, returning with something larger than the rest as if not to be outdone. She ate little of it, discarding it behind her after only a few measly bites, as if to say that she was above such things as hunger. However, held within that casual carelessness was an understanding of their guest, for the leavings remained untouched by the other Kha’ and instead drifted well into the reach of Krem.
Perhaps, if he were paying close attention, he might have noticed a single furtive glance from the leader of the party.
Nonetheless they continued on for some time and though it was blacker than the foulest of Klaar’s darkest moods, the young vrool would notice that at times they strayed around entire patches of ocean as if skirting the edge of some unseen territory. The perceptive Krem might even catch the faint rumbling noises of some unknown beast lurking far off in the depths. With each league of currents crossed it became more and more apparent why no vrool legion had managed to conquer the Kha’. It was a sobering thought to consider that the akuans managed to survive this place at all, let alone thrive within it and thrive they did.
As they crossed some unseen boundary, the ghostly lights on the horizon grew markedly in brightness and number. Around Krem, the akuans seemed to collectively relax, as if before they had been ready for an attack from any direction and now they could finally breathe. Splitting away from one another, all except their leader and the two blackfleshed akuans swam each in their own directions.
For her part, Olūra slowed the pace of their reduced party before turning to regard Krem. After a moment of intensity, a small smirk tugged at the corner of her lips and she spread out her arms.
“Welcome, maiole, to Anatsa Kest.”
As the words left her lungs and bubbled through the shifting currents of the blackest sea, they passed through another unseen barrier and revealed to Krem was a vast sprawling city. Coral of all types--and plants yet unseen by the vrool--protruded from almost every available surface, turning each endless column of stone into a glowing menagerie of life. With each sweeping pass of his many eyes more details would reveal themselves to him. First the sheer vastness of the settlement, then the lush bounty of the thriving undersea metropolis. Though it was hardly bright, the ghost-like lights that danced to-and-fro in the gently shifting currents of the undersea made it seem as if the illumination itself swam alongside the akuans who called this place home.
In every direction, branching towers of coral, their growth seemingly guided by a cunning intellect, forging from their organic forms pieces of incredible artistry like spiralling towers and twisting structures--some closed off, and others with many perforations. To one side a group of akuans flitted in and out of a coral structure, gathering up--or returning--what could only be weapons. The building was full of long curving entryways and resembled a cage more than any enclosed sort of thing. As he watched an argument seemed to break out between a group of akuans who had seen him.
Hearing the commotion, Olūra burbled softly, seeming to laugh at their foolishness. The displeased Kha’ rushed the armory, but just as they neared it, the entire structure twisted and a hollow thrum shook the water. The coral had shut itself and--apparently--it had been grown in such a devilishly clever manner that the motion created a deepspeak utterance, for the would-be assailants were sent tumbling back through the waves. They were soon gathered by another group of akuans, chiding them and leading them away.
Olūra shook her head, her mantle drifting lightly in the water. “Some suffer at the sight of your kind. Their pride is fragile. Worry not. Despite them, you are safe and welcome here, maiole...Kremmesxaturl.”
The other black-scaled Kha’ shared a glance, then looked to their leader, letting out a number of barely audible vibrations. Olūra nodded in response and waved them off. They departed together, darting away with surprising velocity. Casually, Olūra gestured to him, turning to swim at a more leisurely pace.
“If you have questions…” she trailed off, letting him infer the rest of her statement.
For his part, Krem had observed with intensity unequaled by species of simpler and lessened senses. Every inch of his body was dotted with some form of sensory organ or nerve bundle, each new morsel of information devoured and digested by numerous minds. Though his kind often suffered from slow wittedness Krem felt no such compunctions, his cognizant mind active in its consumption of the raw data left out for him. In this time he had seen things unlike anything he had trapped in the realm of Aopoa and even more that was far more similar than these Kha’ Akua would like to believe. Even their response to him, their aggression in the face of his danger, was more alike to vrool than otherwise. Despite the potential danger posed by an angered populace, however, in this low light, more than enough for voracious vrool eyes, he was king. He had fed well off what they had provided, enough to feel energy roaring in his veins. What was far more interesting than their reactions, however, was that of the structure itself.
His mind acted quickly, picking apart what information he had gleaned. The city itself was large, though dwarfed by the sprawl that spilled from around Aopoa, but lacked the design of mortal planners. It was alive, that much was certain, and this concept alone played at the fantastical in Krem’s thoughts. If he was right, and he was sure he was, he knew this Anasta Kest was one of the great wonders of Klaar’s world. Words from Olūra, his guide and patron in this place, brought him back out from the oceanic depths of his mind.
“It thinks. How?” His question came simply, thunderously, as if there was now something powering his interest forward. Another thought burst through his brain, rippling out into words, ”Where is its heart?”
The waves rippled out from the thunder of his question and though the bustling of the Undersea’s greatest city took paltry notice, it was as if the currents about them had been struck to utter stillness. A tilted head, widened eyes, briefly parted lips, then a guarded expression, and a wary gaze. Olūra searched his visage for a time, allowing the silence to stretch between them, forming patterns that revealed the importance of his question. Still, though she was faced with a vrool of royal brood--his size speaking of many conquests, his words speaking of a deep and calculating intelligence--the Kha’ woman did not seem daunted. A small smile touched her eyes.
“You are like coral turned inside itself. Soft outside, but sharp within,” she regarded him a moment, then frowned. “No...perhaps the suppleness of your flesh is an illusion as well. You are more like a javelin. The core of you is sharp, and though the rest is smooth, it is just as much a weapon.” She nodded, satisfied with her simile. To this Krem offered no thanks, simply a continuation of his glowing, six-eyed attention.
Turning briefly, high-tongue casting out into the waters, Olūra increased her pace, facing him once more. She navigated the corridors of the city with the ease of one who has made it an extension of themselves. Without looking at her path, she spoke to him, assured that she would get where she needed to without the aid of her eyes.
To Krem she said these words. “It is customary to treat guests--our new maiole especially--with a small feast and honors for their accomplishment. However, I see that the sharpness of your curiosity will cut unnecessarily if it is not first sated.” She gave him a small, if winsome, smile, as if to tell him that she knew the hunger of his mind far outstripped that of his belly.
“Still...you must obey my words here as if I were your…” she paused a moment, searching for a word, “...mmn All-Tyrant.” She nodded to herself, satisfied that she had remembered this thing. A flush of iridescent color spread from her cheeks over her black-scaled hide, before vanishing with the shifting of the light and her mind’s focus.
“Will you agree to this maiole-Kremmesxaturl?” Her gaze then was heavy, as if behind it was held the weight of responsibility far outshining the light of her individual existence, or even that of Krem’s royal blood. There was a formalness to her tone as well, a somberness in her manner. Further, he would realize that she had stopped speaking in a more familiar akuan language, but had said the words in High-tongue and Holy Vonu both. Several akuans around them glanced in their direction, but quickly turned away--as if pointedly ignoring them. Some of them seemed more startled at the sight of Olūra than by his magnificent many-limbed form.
“In this, at least, you must submit yourself,” she clarified. “I will not betray this trust. I swear it on my name-entire,” she continued, pressing a hand over her bosom, three fingers together so the thumb and pinky made the two smaller tines.
Then, dropping the high tongue, she spoke her name, a regal air about her, its like expressed in perfect Vonu which few might achieve.
“Kha’ Kū’i Tae-nā Olūra Mai Kotoa, by this name I swear.”
The currents about them swirled and churned in a display of her conviction, speaking against his smooth flesh the essence of her seriousness and--to some small degree--her very nature. As the currents stilled, he would notice that those Kha’ nearby now either gawked at the display...or had fled into their coral abodes. Regardless of their actions...there was utter silence, as if every one of them now held their breath, anticipating his reply. Olūra did not blink or waver. She simply held his gaze and awaited his response.
“I obey.”
The ease with which his answer came may have startled others, the nature of the vrool opposed to such quick willingness to give up their individuality. To Krem, this was an easy thing to give. He had spent his entire life under the vast shadow of his father; to follow the demands of an Akua, temporarily at that, was something that would not gall him greatly. In the end, she had sworn as well to not abuse his oath; if she did, it would be on her head. Half-a-dozen orbs of blazing light stared down at the woman, lightning dancing in the confines of his skulless head. In the depths of his mind an awareness had electrified itself into existence. There was more to Olūra than a simple hunt-leader and Krem intended to find out what.
From her there was only the briefest hesitation as she looked the vrool up and down, before nodding. “So sworn is it by blood and blood; by Klaar, and by a current not of sire, but greater in its adherence to every oath ancient and newborn both.” She lightly made a sign as if slashing over her heart, then nodded again and turned.
“Follow.”
With a sudden burst of energetic movement she swept forwards, a trail of muttered Vonu casting out behind her, ensuring he could follow her path, even despite the confusing mire of the great Anatsa Kest.
Path-to-path they swam within, each a great throughway, while others branched out and were soon forgotten. They moved ever inwards and a sense of density and grandeur grew with each passing league. Though they were swift of limb within the water, and all others parted before them, it took a long time to reach what Krem could only guess could be their destination.
She slowed, a certain carefulness in her actions, a reverence in her strokes. Before them was the largest coral structure in the city, stretching vertically far beyond their meager mortal sight. She stopped then for a moment, muttering a Vonu chant that might evoke a sliver of remembrance. The worship of his father, perhaps by akuan servants who might see him as a greater entity. A respect earned even among all those many vrool who fought and clawed their way upwards at risk of life and limb...ever seeking the pinnacle of existence. Whispered words of old and gnarled sorcerers, ever scheming as they sought to make return the ocean’s prodigious sire, in all his magnificent mass and magnanimous majesty.
When she had finished she bid him lower his eyes from the great monument that spiralled up and out of so many pillars of stone, intertwining in a beautiful rising column, glowing to the point of blindness as if to hold fast against the cloying dark. Into this great throng they went, and though the colossal edifice was spacious, they found few residents therein. Those they came upon merely bowed or gave brief, quiet, words of respect, before passing on their way. By and large, Tae-nā Olūra ignored them, though when the occasional elder spoke to her, she gave to them motions that were surely those of respect.
After a short time the paths opened up and both were afforded room to stretch, the vrool especially. Here Olūra paused and flicked her limbs, swiveling in the water to face him. Behind her was a long stretch of gradually reduced illumination, all held within a truly cavernous corridor. The position of each glowing flora were grown in specific locations, and when seen together elicited an impression of twisting currents or an expanding shroud of tentacles. Strange imagery, given how insular the Kha’ seemed to be--and further, how they held the vrool largely in contempt as revealed by those would-be attackers at the outskirts of the city.
Olūra spoke, “Weapons. Belongings of any kind. Let them drift,” she gestured, her hand opening to show that he must leave them here. “This is a sacred place,” she gestured around them, taking in the whole of the structure, then especially the great corridor before them. Meeting his many eyes again she nodded, “The temple, it is Tuhin-ga O'mua.” The words--though vaguely familiar--had totally alien meaning, despite the fact that she had taken to speaking only the holy Vonu.
She glanced behind her meaningfully to the open maw, which seemed to descend into deeper and deeper darkness. “In the temple we speak quietly, but here…” she trailed off, a gentle care in her voice as it drafted to him upon the almost placid currents.
“Here only those through which the Vonu flows, may speak.”
Slowly she began to traverse the darkness, knowing he would follow. The deeper they went, the more familiar the place would feel to Krem as the interplay of unearthly power began to ripple through the water in the form of deepspeak far beyond that of mortal ken.
Throughout the entire journey into the depths of the Tuhin-ga O’mua Krem had remained silent. Each new order had resulted in action, his scant-few weapons left behind in some distant passage. Though his eyes had looked on at each passerby with some level of vague curiosity they too he had mostly ignored; his focus had moved on to darker things by then. He continued to follow in the dark waters of that stygian temple, eyes peering into the lightless depths with razor focus. A gentle, throaty hum began to emanate from his bill that rumbled out in the form of a vonu interplay with the symphony of sound rolling out from all around him.
”We are close,” spilled the thoughts of the princeling aloud, awareness of proximity to his goal intensifying.
There was no reply, only the darkness and the silence. They swam for an indeterminate amount of time and with each stroke the pressure of the water--and the murmur of arcane Vonu--grew in intensity and volume.
Finally, they passed from the great corridor and into a huge chamber filled with a tower of water that disappeared in both directions. Beneath them, far far below, the sound of something familiar spread.
“Behold,” she whispered, reverence thick in her resonant Vonu, “The Stygian Column.” Her words shook in the calm water and were swallowed as if by a great maw as their resonance was utterly subsumed by the immortal hymn of the unseen edifice.
Krem’s eyes followed the column downward, the glowing orbs marveling at the sight below. Every one of his senses was on fire, devouring the voice of the distant pillar sitting at the deepest point of the pit. At the farthest reaches of his perception he noticed his tentacles twitching with fascination. The voice of the depths spoke to him on a level he could hardly understand. A gentle hum escaped his bell, the deep tongue rolling from his body to echo back the call of the deep. With that his lower tentacles set him off from the deep, pushing his form into the open waters. Now lost to the world around him, Krem descended slowly into the darkness.
Likely lost in the call of the black-water edifice, Olūra called out; the strength of her Vonu writ with anxiety and fear. Behind him, beyond his attention, she swam forwards before he entered the Column and she could not follow. Her fear was not for what he might do, but for what might happen to him. For upon his entrance into the Column the pressures of those far-flung depths they twisted at his flesh, begging for his death.
The first waves of pressure emanating from the pillar struck Kremmesxaturl, his bell warping from the powerful waves of force. Telluric energy drove him downwards while Krem’s many-minds railed at the challenge. Tentacles struck out against the unending pressure of the Trident, fighting to grab purchase onto the pillar, ever being kept inches away. Again and again those mighty limbs thrashed at the water around him, kicking in all directions to push him every centimeter he can earn. With immense strain and struggle his first tentacle grabbed onto the pillar, immediately pulling itself about and tightening down to drag Krem closer. His rumbling form rippled like crashing waves as it fought upwards, one tentacle after the other snagging onto the edifice to begin the ascent.
Seconds turned to minutes and those dragged ever onward, stacking up as Krem battled his way upwards. By now his brain had lost nearly all blood flow, his hide paled by the pressure dragging him backwards. Despite all that difficulty his soul roared, fighting for every inch. The top of the pillar, where the Trident roared its gravitational power, seemed so distant even as the last few feet were closed. Beyond the worst reaches of the Trident swam Olūra, gaze locked on the path of the Vrool princeling.
Inches from the top, his prize just outside of reach, Krem slipped. The basaltic rock of the pillar gave way, crumbling beneath tentacle, threatening to drive the royal Vrool downwards to the very bottom of the pillar. With a roar of defiance, his voice opening up into a throaty song of the divine tongue, Krem struck back. The Holy Vonu poured from his beak and bell, vibrating the water into a violent roil, two immense forces battling between one another for reach. With a single moment of pause in the oppressive barrage of force, Krem lashed out with one powerful limb. The tentacle shot through the water as a thunderbolt, emanating the very same gravitational force exuded by the trident; in that moment, everything stopped.
Clinging to the trident’s shaft, just where that black pearl handle met the deadly tines, Krem’s reach held with flesh-whitening tightness. The immense gravitational forces of the trident abated, the anger and rage poured into it by its creator calmed in the hands of a new master. Krem rose in the waters, freed from the troubling force of the dread polearm while his eyes gazed with fascination down at its form. With one simple tug the Hadean Trident came free, the deadly weapon unleashing one rumbling echo of Vonu to assert its new-found loyalty. The Hadean Trident had found its fated master and at last Kremmesxaturl had come to collect.
Many years ago…
Kremmesxaturl, princeling Vrool of the All-Tyrant’s Realm, has left the relative safety of his palatial abode. His search first took him northwards, towards the oddling continent of Khesyr. Beneath the stilted landmass a civilization of Akua has thrived, deep in the darkness below that strange place. They are the Kha.
Despite the dangers of his intended path, a voice calls to him incessantly. Krem’s path takes him directly into the waters of the pillared abyss, straight into the ambush of the natives. Though powerful in his own right, the Vrool battles in unfamiliar environs against a far more numerous foe. Nevertheless, he successfully takes a prisoner to bargain for his safety; words are had. With all confusion cleared up, he is welcomed deeper into the abyss.
A description of the Kha is given in detail, of their city built around an ancient artifact placed there by Klaarungraxus himself. Their civilization proves uniquely adapted to the environment, if notably odd. With direction from a Akua known to him as Olūra, Klaarungraxus is guided more and more towards the voice awaiting him. At long last he gazes upon the Hadean Trident. With considerable effort he drives himself towards its pillar to draw it and claim its power for himself.
It had wriggled often. It was, in fact, one of its most common and favorite pastimes. Though the dark depths of its slumber were cold and cramped they had been more than enough for the immeasurable deity. And so the massive, tentacled entity wriggled. For uncountable amounts of time it had done so, drifting aimlessly in the depths-that-was-not-water, lost in itself. There was an emptiness in that pool but, as vast as that dark crag was, the creature seemed enough to fill it. It had, of course, enjoyed more spacious accommodations when it had first awoken in that dark abyss; as time went on, the abyss seemed to shrink and the thing within only grew.
Now the dark depths that served as its abode were not enough to drift in, a small puddle compared to the ever expanding form that resided in it. To the lidless, staring eyes of the enormous bulk the stygian embrace of the deep place seemed eternally timeless; somewhere in its forgotten minds the creature recognized that it was, itself, the creator of its watery domain. It had spawned that abyss, for the abyss, to reside in the abyss. A contemplative thought that the immense tentacled thing had struggled with in its forgotten age but became an ever more thought on subject as it lost itself in its many minds. Now, as it dwarfed the abyss and its numerous eyes began to perceive the realm of its own creation, the creature once more ruminated.
It, as the endless Old-Growth-Below had come to realize for the second time in its life, was Klaarungraxus.
All half-dozen orbs that served as eyes for the Deity of the Deep rolled in their sockets, finding common cause and a singular interest. They focused on the tentacles floating before them, twelve perfect limbs that grasped at the pseudo-ruins that marked the center of his watery realm. This was Saxus, that much was certain, or so his many-minds explained. It felt as if it had been eons since he had looked upon it, despite his immensity having been spread out across its hallowed and buttressed walls. Now under complete control of the primary-mind, eyes peered outward into the comparative darkness of the shadowy depths.
“What year is it?”
A dozen voices chimed inside the primary-mind of the great, vast bulk that was Klaar. The question was a simple one, a recognition that time must have passed. In mere moments Klaar devoured the information provided by his subminds, flooding his sentience with recognition that time had passed. Each, of course, provided different answers. How troublesome.
An awareness of two separate minds entered the Great Fish’ mind, distant and nearly separate. After moments passed they pinged back awareness, as if waking up to the hive mind of their own. Two separate minds, almost unique but not quite reaching individuality, had been in pseudo-stasis on the other side of the worldly realm. The ping clicked back with names, separate designations for each; Mawar and Tewaka. They once had the designation of limbs, Left-Forward Two-Down to name one of the pair. They had been active for some time after loss of overall sentience from the whole but had, eventually, lost power. With connection to Klaarungraxus reengaged, the two demigods awoke once more. The flush of knowledge and memories from those distant sources confirmed Klaar’s fears; he’d slept awhile.
“Unfortunate tidings and red tides bear rotten wood,” rumbled Klaar, his alien “voice” vibrating the water around him into a roiling tide, “Much time has been lost and here I am, sleeping…”
For the first time in decades, perhaps even centuries within the depths of Saxus, the Old-Growth-Below moved. Seaweed and coral, lichen and barnacles, and entire colonies of life shook and shuddered upon his mighty hide. In every way Klaarungraxus appeared a true deity of the sea. Saxus had shrunk in his mind’s absence, thought the vast god of life, rolling through the tunnels and passages of his realm while he mused. Or, rather, he had gotten larger. Leaving the seemingly ancient structures at the heart of his undersea realm, Klaar hunted for the edges of his realm, where the eternal darkness of the deepest void overtook what little light he provided. There Klaar could reach into the world.
His mighty tendrils reached into the emptiness, losing solidity and mixing his mind with the very matter of reality. From there he could observe what had become of the world. Six heavy, glowing eyes sank into their sockets, half-blinking with the puckered flesh of his thick hide. As they peered inwards, turning around on themselves, Klaar stared into the void and reality stared back through the other side.
Much had changed, that much was certain. The Gods had not remained idle while he slept, making his disappearance and quieting from the world unique. The sound of a million separate prayers cycled into his mind, in voices and tones he never heard before. Mortal voices, not those of his chosen Vrool or their drowned kin. A million more joined them, the voices of Akua and Vrool who prayed to their creator-god, asking for boons or for love or for riches. Oh, they were perfect! Most of all, he heard the voices of his beloved warlocks; while he slept they had not stopped in their works. Now that was thoroughly pleasing news. Then, in a breathless instant, the apple of his many eyes appeared; the One-Good-Orb still hung in the sky.
“Perfect.”
All was right with the world, though the surface had become most full. Even the oceans now seemed alive with life not meant for its surface or below. The All-Sire could not disdain them this pleasure, of course; who wouldn’t wish to enjoy his great seas? The oceans teemed with life and fed the creatures both above and below. This was a success. The mortal creatures had forged for themselves the means to travel upon the surface of the sea, bringing goods and treasures to be kindly given to his numerous spawn. Surely, this could only be good.
“Ah! Such wonders and marvels,” howled the Creature-God, a scree of both glee and rage, “Thou hath missed much, beloved self! We must address such loss accordingly.”
The tentacles-that-weren’t-tentacles that made up his mind drew inwards, expanding their minds into the meat-puppets that served as his avatars. In mere moments all sense of self disappeared in the creatures, temporarily wiped of thought and turned into welcoming vessels for a far vaster intelligence. Klaar rumbled in the depths of Saxus as he felt the waters of reality once more wash across him, his beloved sea with the light of that thankless orb echoing into the deep. Oh, how he missed the great expanse of his magnum opus; one day he would feel it on his own hide again, this he promised. With that Klaar turned twelve eyes outwards, two dozen tentacles churning the oceans of Galbar with passion and drive.
There was much to see...
In the depths of Saxus, Klaarungraxus has reawoken! His awakening is felt across the seas as the ocean rumbles to life once more. Having no recollection of what has occurred during his long sleep, Klaarungraxus puppets his Avatars to observe the world in full. Let the Mortals of Galbar rejoice for the Old-Growth-Below has returned!
All across the seafloor awoke the teeming excitement of the hunt.
Dozens of Akua had collected on the outskirts of the village, preparing their traps, harpoons, and nets. The village itself sat down in an undersea ravine, nestled comfortably in the tight confines of the enclosed rock crevasse. Above the ravine was the typical preparation point for supplies and equipment. It was on that rocky face, dotted with corals and colorful undersea flora, that the assembled hunters collected themselves. A shaman walked amongst them, offering prayers to the druidic gods for safety in the hunt and success in their ventures. Most of all, though, the hunters boasted.
“I will take the largest tuna, I think!”
“No, lolo, that can’t be; the whole school will be mine so there’ll be nothing left for you to catch!”
“Hah! Big shark gonna’ be mine for the taking and all you will look at your tunas with shame!”
“Pah! Young, unscarred soft-scale talk! I’m going to take a whole whale back to the village!”
To the uninitiated it might have seemed like a bunch of braggarts at their favoured art. In truth it was part of the ceremony. Young hunters, those newest to the group, needed these sorts of early-morning sessions. It got their hearts beating, challenged them to do their best, and most of all gave them the sense that the band wasn’t afraid. There were great horrors in the sea despite its teeming gifts and hunters faced the reality that they could potentially never return. The threat of sea serpents or deep drakes or even vrool seemed far less apparent when the older members of the group gladly boasted their success before it even was earned. Instead the attention was set to preparing their equipment, making sure knots were tight and coral points were sharpened. It was, all together, a far more productive use of time.
A blown conch echoed through the water, calling all attention to its low pitched hum. It was time.
Kapono Tama'Mano o'te'Ui-Ki'he, Ali’i of the village of Hohono, sounded the conch once more, the second blast symbolic of preparations complete. Setting the conch onto the fishhook at his belt, Kapono addressed his people in the Holy Vonu as was their sacred tradition. The Ali’i, chieftains of the Akua, were all well versed in Vonu by the kahuna, those shamans who spoke and prayed to the gods. Gentle currents emanated from Kapono as he intoned the rightly given call to the hunt. A shared prayer was given out, silent and kept to oneself, at the final word and the kahuna gave thanks to Klaarungraxus for his numerous gifts and bountiful seas.
The hunt was on.
Up the hunters swam, children and mothers kept below and well out of sight; it was ill omen to let them see their husband’s and father’s backs, after all. With that they ascended and swam outwards towards the reef, the skilled and aged hunters of the group directing the several dozen hunters on their path. The goal would be the large schooling fish, of course, but anything that could be caught, speared, or netted would be good enough to eat. The women would later leave Hohono later to gather from the crop-fields, prepping a full feast for when the men returned however many days later. With that the village of Hohono was separated, to be made whole once again by feasting and celebration.
”Hxowaii, choi xxii-wii tsompei h’aii xosa-he, j-wa t’ang cho-wei choo, ha?” whispered Mynt softly to his son.
”Ha!” responded the young lad, checking the final stretch for any weak links in the net. They shared the limited space on top of what could generously be called a raft - it consisted of eight palm trunks tightly bound together with vines, fiber and sinew, mud, dirt and clay stuffed in between the cracks to tighten it further. Still, it could barely hold the two of them, and Mynt had repeatedly warned his son off of standing up or crawling too quickly. Around closer to the shore were five more rafts like theirs, these in neither worse nor better shape than Mynt’s. It was clear that their raft wouldn’t allow them to catch too many, but if they were lucky, they could catch just enough to feed themselves -and- have a bit extra to trade for some delightful perfumes.
”Xosa, pah!” the son whispered enthusiastically. Mynt clicked his tongue approvingly and smacked his lips in anticipation as the pair rolled the net off the side of the raft and then proceeded to both lay down perpendicular to the raft’s length, their backs nearly touching the water. There, they waited.
Deep below the raft the hunting Akua watched. Most clung to rock and reef though some tread water freely. Their hunt had been going fairly well as evidenced by the fish hanging from their lines but now this trespasser was making things difficult. The school that had once been thick and thriving had parted ways, separated into more difficult to track streams that would regroup further afield. Not easy for Akua, that’s for certain.
“It’s the smell,” said one of the elder huntsmen, his dangerous looking twin-barbed lance held in a bored and disinterested position off to his side, “Fish don’t like it.”
A chorus of agreement rolled between several of the other elders followed by nods and ascensions by younger hunters, learning from their superiors and desiring more than anything to fit in. Kapono pondered this as he stared up, his cowry shell and sea-reed shoulder cape flowing around him in a surprisingly noble posture. As Ali’i of the village he had dealt with the night elves frequently; the village of Hohono abided and freely traded with the Pako’Ano tribes of the Mahina’Aina. The Mahina, the name the Akua dubbed the Night Elves with, were a friendly lot generally and so long as both sides paid homage to their respective traditions they got along just fine. Nevertheless, tempers sometimes flared.
“Ali’i, these are our waters. Why not tell them to go back to ground?”
Kapono turned and eyed the speaker, giving him the stink-eye enough to silence him quickly. It was a younger boy, fit and strong; he’d make a good warrior one day, of that Kapono had no doubt. Nevertheless, this was not his knowledge to speak on. Several of the elders grinned, flashing sharp white teeth as they saw the boy realize his err. Before he could apologize or offer recompense Kapono kicked off his rock and hurtled in front of him. An example had to be made. There was a dread silence as Kapono came to a stop before the boy, treading water before him imperiously. With middle finger pinned to thumb tightly, Kapono lifted his hand in front of the boy’s head and let loose the hurricane force of his finger.
*Thunk*
The boy, for all his muscles and power, flinched and winced at the impact. Before him Kapono floated, the mighty chief looking upon him with clear condemnation. To other races it might have seemed an utterly benign scene but to Akua, it was clear the boy had been censured. After a long moment of staring down at the boy the Ali’i broke eye contact and the young hunter bowed his head, offering a quiet apology. It was clear he took it well and for that he’d be given respect in future, perhaps even awarded the first cast of a harpoon when something big was found. Humility in defeat was a respectable quality.
“It is kapu to treat your neighbors poorly,” echoed Kapono, using his mastery of Vonu to double-speak in both his native tongue and the holy language of the deep. It carried his voice across the sea floor, bouncing and rippling like a tide, “They might live on ground but they are our neighbors and ohana. I will not hear talk of treating them poorly again. We walk on ground for meat and fruit, so they sail our waves and swim our seas. It is a good uncle who lets his nephews and nieces take what they need.”
“And I am a good uncle.”
With that Kapono rocketed upwards, his fins kicking only once; that would suffice. He reached the surface and popped up above, making sure to do so far enough away not to frighten. Having dealt with their kind often, Kapono kept his voice down as he called to them.
“Aroha, family. It is good to see you on the waves. Soft currents to you, brother and nephew. How goes your fishing?”
The son nearly lost composure and rolled off the raft before his father could stabilise him. The father clicked something to his son, ”Xxoch-la - jjoen xo-xo-t’haisa, ha?” and then sat up carefully, clicking his tongue invitingly at Kapono. He then covered his ears ever so slightly and spoke in a hushed, yet squeaky voice, “Arroha, kk’oppeng. To yah ssoft korrentss . Yah ha-ha too ssee, too, ha. Aot, uhm, out… Xii-wii, xii-wii - feeshin, ha?”
Kapono tread water before the surprised duo of nelves, staring with unblinking eyes towards the father as he collected the situation. The Ali’i of Hohono had some command of the Mahina though could not make all the noises required. It was to his relief then that the man showed he could speak Ku’Ano. Thick accent or no, Kapono smiled as he heard familiar words pass through the nelvish man’s lips.
“Ya-ya friend, fishing. But that’s with pole and hook, we hunting today,” he replied, lifting his bident from the water non threateningly. There was a moment of silence before Kapono lowered the bident and broached the subject, “So, friend, I must ask you; your fishing is a little uh… fragrant, brother. So, kk… kkoppeng, I have a proposal for you. You take your rafts towards shore, farther away from shoals, and I’ll bring you a big proper fish for you and yours. Nothing you could catch with your line, eh? You give me some of your shells you grab up from shore for a good trade. Howzat sound to ya?”
The night elf scrunched his nose and clicked his tongue through pursed lips. “Ha, neh, ova’ t’ere ssee . Pperson mahny, too mahny. Neh feesh,” he clapped the back of his right fist into his left palm to underline the statement’s importance. He pointed to the shoals with an intentionally shaky hand. “To shore k’o, one feesh k’et.” Then he patted himself loudly on the chest with a flat palm. “Here, may’pe more feesh k’et. Kk’oppeng safayss, uh, knows, one feesh not xoinah, enoff.”
Kapono frowned inwardly, staring back at the night elf man. It was clear he was willing to work with the Akua and for that Kapono felt indebted to do right by him, but the request for more fish was a frustrating one. One fish he could ensure he could catch; after all, he was an Ali’i, so for him it would be easy. But two? Three? Each new fish would weigh down his line and make his scent more apparent. Fingers rapped away at the top of the raft before an idea plunged into his mind. White, pearly, sharp teeth were revealed in a pleased smile.
“Okay, Kkoppeng. More fish, bigger fish. I give your people one propah fish an’ one real big one. Howzat? Feed you real good. We dealing?”
The night elf sucked pensively on a tooth. Next to him, his son let out a whine. ”Pah, chiakk-si rru-lao?” The father squeezed his foot reassuringly and turned back to Kapono with narrow eyes. “Offa’ ha-ha k’et, ru--... X’ow beeg we talkin’?”
“Shark,” was all Kapono said, a wry grin continuing to show itself broadly across his blue scaled visage. With his left hand reaching out far to the left and his harpoon thrust far to the right he indicated the length of his intended prey. It would be easy; all the killing often brought such creatures anyway. They were not so difficult to kill, no moreso than a large seabass or giant tuna, and they would be easy to find. A good sized shark could feed a village plus the teeth could be used for all sorts of things.
“Whatchu think, family?”
The nelf sounded impressed, sucking spit between his teeth and sticking out his lower lip. “Si-mak’, kk’oppeng, si-mak’. ‘Keh, we lushweh-- pattle bahck - yoo brink beeg feesh-beeg feesh. Two, hein?” He clapped the back of his hand again. “Yoo ssay two.”
“Yeh, yeh, friend,” responded Kapono quickly, waving the nelf towards the shore, “One fish, one shark, like I say. You get some things for me from shore and we make real trade. Shellfish, coconut, I don’t care. Just keep off the water while we’re out and you’ll get your share, ey kk…. kkoppeng? Good.”
Kapono grinned and waved before letting himself descend into the water. A huff of bubbles escaped his lips before her turned downwards and threw up a shaka towards the collected hunters. He would have a little less fish on his floor for the evening but who could set a price on peace and being neighborly? He spun with a swimple kick of his legs to face the other hunters who now stared up at him with bored amusement. It seemed that he had succeeded, at least, for the loud surface dwellers were awkwardly paddling back to shore.
“What’s the plan, lolo? Are we gonna’ peace the sharks to death, too?”
There was a shared laugh from among the band of hunters as Kapono simply smirked back, shaking his head. Always with jokes, as it was with Akua. Humor was essential to a good hunt, he had to admit. Keeping the party in good spirits meant they’d work together even better when the difficulty came. With that he adjusted his grip on his hunting spear and raised it up high, the universal symbol for the hunt beginning in earnest.
A snapshot into the lives of Nelves and Akuans, particularly their dealings with one another as distant kin. A deal is made between some Akuan hunters and their surface counterparts, trading fish for the elves returning to the shores to stop scaring all the fish. In addition, a flipped perspective from the last post in order to demonstrate Nelvish accent when speaking Akuan.
Frettzo
