[centre][img]https://i.imgur.com/TiC9fEF.png[/img]
[h2]A Bastion of Culture 1 - Song[/h2]
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[sub][i]Year 29AA, middle winter, Ha-Dûna...[/i][/sub]

Boudicca held her chin up on her thumbs sticking out of her folded hands. She sat atop her bed, a number of animal skins criss-crossing a mattress of dry reeds, hay and grass, legs crossed and knees supporting her elbows. It was one thing to change a friend - another to change an enemy. The restructuring of the Dûnan identity as one of peace and diplomacy didn’t sit well with everyone - the [i]théins[/i] like Hilda the Leoness had been furious, originally. Battle was her life, and to not be allowed to exercise it was a great dishonour to her and her men. Boudicca had to admit it, too - peace wouldn’t sit all too well with her personally, either. 

Still, it was the preferable outcome, and after a long and arduous discussion between herself and the other [i]théins[/i], they had all come to the same conclusion: While war brought glory and revelry to the fighters, those swept up in the chaos suffered greatly - and there were always many, many more that didn’t fight than those that did. As the greatest power in the region, they had an obligation to rule it justly and peacefully. The [i]théins[/i] who wished had been put in command of the professional soldiers, the [i]hildargeach[/i], and would spend their days drilling them in tactics and survival in the wilds. The warriors weren’t many, but in time, they would be good - very good.

The [i]théins[/i] who hadn’t chosen military employment served as administrators in Ha-Dûna or were sent out to the various villages to function as chiefs. Valix had been among these, bringing with him migrants and supplies to the small mining town of Ha-Klan over Risenberg, earlier known as Gleann, the first village to fall in the conquests. They were often accompanied by one druid each to serve as spiritual guide. If the village already had a druid, then there was no need. This way, Ha-Dûna had once again begun to strengthen its foothold. 

However, it hadn’t been easy to get them to accept a capital-sent chieftain. Some villages had shown signs of rebellion, which had had to be put down. Instead of killing the rebels, however, Boudicca had requested that they be given a choice: death, or to be taken prisoner instead, to be brought back to Ha-Dûna to serve as monks and nuns in the temples to the gods. This would be their new alternative punishment as part of their shift to diplomacy - the temple thralls. 

Today, she was to speak before the people and give their thanks to the gods for their aid in the city’s recapture. She had written the speech in her head in its entirety, but in truth, it wouldn’t hurt to beseech the gods for courage before such a performance. She knew just the one. Rising out of bed, she made her way past the central hearth and out through the wolf skin curtain door, stepping into the snowy town core from what had once been the Hall of the Weary. She turned to the left, pulling her plaid and furs ever tighter around herself to ward off the cold. She received greeting bows from passersby going about their daily duties, and she greeted them back with a pound of the chest and a straight-armed, flat-palmed wave. As she pondered how much she regretted not wearing her cap to ward off the wind, she turned the corner of a longhouse and reached the ageing Circle of the Eight. Already, a number of druid apprentices had gathered there with their mentors, being evaluated on the sincerity and ability of their prayer. The mentors stood at the ready with birch branches, ready to whip those who took too lightly to their task. Occasionally, Boudicca would hear a [i]smack![/i] and a pained moan. She paid them no mind - though greeted them when they greeted her - and knelt down before the megalith statue to Macsal: a tall, rough stone triangle where the only triangular characteristics of the stone were that it had three tips. It bulged and caved in places, but the side facing forward had been chiseled and sanded flat through days and weeks of intense sculpting long ago, and now displayed a beautiful mural of a handsome, brown-haired and clean-shaven man, sitting in green and golden grass under a tree and singing for all the animals of the world. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

“Great Macsal, Holy Poet… Please hear my prayer… My heart is set, but my mind is clouding me. I have the will to lead my people, but I know not if I have the voice to charm them - to sway our former enemies to becoming our friends. Is there a way I can show them all the importance of peace? The keys of stability?”

[centre]The stone was silent, though, and still, 
and from across a distant hill, 
like sea waves crashing on the main, 
there came a wind gust, loud and shrill. 
It seemed to bellow through the air 
and twist and turn and toss with flair 
until it came upon the [i]théin[/i]
and died upon her auburn hair. 
The singer carved into the stone 
seemed to stir, perhaps to groan, 
and something in his rocky vein 
moved and spoke: [i]you’re not alone.[/i] 
And in the stone a smile was formed 
and rippled till the air was warmed, 
and colours here and there now stained 
the rock until it was transformed.

[i]Go stir your people up and speak
Our tongue will speak with you
Speak words that are not strong or meek
And nothing you’ve prepared:
The outward peace that you now seek
Will not emerge if you’ve despaired
That there is peace in you[/i][/centre]

Boudicca bowed her head ever lower, almost to a kowtow. She swallowed and took a deep breath. “I… I think I understand. But what if I say something wrong? What if I say something I will regret? What if… What if they misunderstand me?” The air rippled around the[i]sanndatr[/i], and from the inked and smiling stone rose a roiling shadow. From the shadow appendages crept, and with their emergence colour spread. The roiling inky mass formed up and took a more solid shape until there hung above the stone a feminine almost-human thing - only that its skin was a multitude of wondrous colours, very much like the heavens. And as the smiling woman above the stone looked upon the[i]sanndatr[/i], the colours left her skin and hair until a perfect human floated there. And although she appeared in all ways human, there was a certain swirling of colour in her eyes and luminous allure that danced about her. Without knowing how or why all those fears in Boudicca’s breast were swept away; and only an excitement and a desire and inspiration to speak beautifully remained.

For a few moments the strange magic hung between Boudicca and the creature, until she leapt lithely from the stone and looked around. It was not frantic - or did not seem to be -, and there was no worry or anxiety - or at least, Boudicca did not think there was. At last the creature stopped looking around and turned to Boudicca, shivering slightly in the crisp morning air (for her strange, low-cut dress was ill-suited to such cold climes and windy morns). ‘How strange, only now I was with the others and now…’ she laughed slightly - nervously? - and her brows furrowed (was it fear?) and she seemed to jump whenever a distant [i]smack[/i] would sound.

The druids who had been praying at the other stones had already scurried over to behold the miracle. “It’s a gift - a gift from Macsal!” they praised. “Macsal has given Ha-Dûna a most beautiful young lady!” The shouts seemed at once to effect a change in the woman, and her variegated eyes seemed to twinkle and lips to dance.

“Hush, hush!” Boudicca cautioned and held out a flat palm. It was clear on her pale face that it took every ounce of her concentration not to join her peers in sheer awe at what had just occurred. With her other hand, she reached upwards to the lady on the stone, wetting her winter-dry lips as she thought of what to say, “A-are you alright?”

The woman looked from the commanding Boudicca to the druids gathered about her, then back to Boudicca again, their excitement playing in her eyes. ‘I am my lady,’ came the serenade of her voice, and she lowered her head, bowing ever so slightly in that universal and instinctive show of humility and respect. ‘I am Shaeylila, a lowly plier of songs and poesy, you honour me with so gracious a welcome,’ she fell silent for a few seconds, as though listening to something. Her eyes rose... and fell on those of Boudicca, ‘and I am told there is a strangled song that weeps within your breast, my lady. What hurts and woe have made it so?’

Boudicca instinctively laid a palm on her chest. “A, a song?”

“Have you doubts, good [i]sanndatr[/i]?” came a voice from one of the druids behind her. “Macsal will often metaphorically use musical or poetic words to describe ailments of emotions and the like,” she declared proudly in a well-read manner. Some of her peers whooped quietly in awe at her encyclopedic knowledge. Boudicca frowned.

“Is that what you meant?”

Shaeylila bowed again, her eye lashes shimmering in thought before her head rose up again. ‘Yes, you seem to be sick at heart my lady... but I am a stranger here, and perhaps my hearing is- ahem, I mean, perhaps I am reading too much into too little.’ She glanced at the gathered druids for a long thoughtful moment, eyes seeming to wander off in thought, before they focused again and she smiled. ‘My but there are… so many of you here. And who is this Macsal you’ve made mention of again and again?’

“Why, Macsal is your creator, is he not? The great, the outstanding, the unbeatable poet of--”

“Kaer Guni, please, just--...” Boudicca raised a palm and took a breath. “Please, leave me to talk to her by myself.”

The druid blinked and the others, too, looked confused. “But [i]sanndatr[/i], this is a great holy event! We must log every single--”

“Later! Later, I promise. Now leave us be for a time.” The crowd slowly, very slowly began to disperse, disgruntled by their leader’s orders. Boudicca sighed in relief and looked back at the song. “Forgive them - they are eager, always eager, to meet any sort of creature the gods hold dear. I barely had room to think. They didn’t scare you, did they?”

Shaeylila watched them depart and turned back to Boudicca with a knowing smile. Taking the [i]sanndatr[/i] by the hand, she drew her towards the stone and sat down against it, on the strange white snow. ‘Not at all! They are all… very sweet. But certain words , these matters of the heart, are sometimes best not heard by so many ears. Especially not the matters that plague a leader’s heart,’ she paused and tidied her dress, then gestured to the other woman. ‘Come come, sit. Speak to me. I don’t know about this Macsal, but I will listen.’

Boudicca nodded slowly and did as told, sitting down next to the stone of Macsal, as sitting on it would be blasphemous. She twiddled her thumbs slowly, trying her best to ignore the cold snow melting into her tartan plaid and checkered pants. Eventually, she drew a breath through her teeth and spoke, “I am troubled by some of my peers’ attitude to peace - we have been at war almost constantly for five years, and while most appreciate a good breather like the one we have now, I fear that we will need only one unruly troublemaker to break this fragile peace we have. I do not know what I can say to my people that will not fuel sentiment for these troublemakers - if I appeal to our pride as a unified people, this pride will be used to push down those that are not us; if I appeal to our strength as victorious conquerors, they will ask why we have stopped showing it; and if I mention neither, they will see me as meek and cowardly. I… I don’t know what to do, what to say.”

Shaeylila was silent for a while, brow bowing gently and lips creased. At last, however, she looked at Boudicca, lips chattering. ‘This white stuff… snow... I can’t feel my- oh me.’ She flushed red and leapt lithely to her feet, looking down at her wet and ruined dress of silk. She patted the remnants of quickly melting snow away and then considered Boudicca for a few moments, before she spoke through blue and shivering lips. ‘Maybe, my lady… rather than placating them with what you say you should instead put something on display. A story! Do you perhaps know the tale of Great-horn Brin’s battle against the Thrice-born Terror? There is a lesson there perhaps more eloquent than words.’

“Oh, gods, you must be freezing! Again, forgive me! You, [abbr=”Druid apprentice”.]trell[/abbr]! Fetch this lady furs and a plaid!”

The apprentice, seemingly picked at random from a crowd, immediately set off in a sprint towards a nearby hut. Boudicca sniffed the last of her sternness back inside and raised a brow at Shaeylila. “I have not heard this one, no. Would you tell it to me?”

Once the trell in question had brought the furs - at the song’s inviting glance helping her into them, and receiving whispers of delight and warmth before scurrying off again - Shaeylila turned back to Boudicca, hugging the cosy furs to her. ‘My, so this is what cold feels like. Brrrr.’ Her rosy cheeks were flushed with the cold and a delighted smile decorated the delicate features of her face. ‘But yes! The tale.’ She stood before the[i]sanndatr[/i] and spread her hands so that little blobs of ink spiralled from her palms and formed up into a great dark mass of battling warriors. At the centre of the mass were two great figures, one with a prominent horn atop his head and the other boasting  three heads, three sets of arms and feet. They danced about each other and Shaeylila’s voice seemed all at once to provide the shouts and cries of battle, the clanging of weapons and twanging of bowstrings, and the grunts of the two great figures as they leapt to and fro and clashed against each other.

[centre]On the fields of Falaro
‘Twixt the mountain and the sea
Great-horn Brin took up the bow
And the sword audaciously

Struck he once and struck he twice
And his foe flew far away
He was struck with blows that dice
Grunted them off with a sway

And the god of victory
Standing watch above the fray
Praised the Terror endlessly
And for Brin had naught to say

‘Oh you great god far on high
‘Have you no eyes for my deeds
‘With my blows my foe does fly
‘And his blows fly off like seeds!’

When the Terror was gone down
And when Brin the victor stood
The god looked upon his frown
Who thought he was great and good

‘Lay your weapon down, oh Brin
‘Throw your bow upon the wind.’
As he did, where once had been
Weapons which at death had grinned

There was now but dust and air!
‘Know: your weapons long ago
‘Fell before the Terror’s glare
‘And the strike of his arrow!

‘Only by the happy grace
‘Of my will and decreed fate
‘Were you spared a great disgrace
‘And a weak and slavish state!’

Oh then Brin fell on his face
And near broke his horn in twain
And he spoke a word of praise
And he damned the haughty vein -

‘May they never prosper who
Are too great in their own view!’
Then brave Brin went back off home
Never more in pride to roam.[/centre]

With the epical verses and inky performance complete, the dark figures melted back away into Shaeylila’s hands and returned to that rose-tinted beige at which the skin of people here seemed to hang. She looked at Boudicca expectantly, biting her lower lip ever so slightly and her eyes of whirling colour wide. ‘D- do you think a performance like that would set the scene for what you have to say, my lady?’ She paused for a few seconds, ‘because if not, there is also the tale of the Great Vile King - whose greed and hubris grew so great that he quaffed and gobbled up everything, even himself in the end!’

“That was…” Boudicca trapped her nose between her palms. “I am torn here, too - the story has a great moral, certainly, but pride in ourselves is…” She looked over her shoulder. No one was watching them intently from what she could see, so she shuffled a little closer. “... Pride in ourselves as the rightful sovereigns of this land is a large part of what keeps us going. The conviction that we are the chosen people is powerful - very powerful. Of course, I…” She paused and suckled thoughtfully on a breath. “... I supposed it could be framed as a return to moderation - a hope that we can still be proud of our role, status and deeds without believing ourselves superior to others… But will they listen to such a message? Will Hilda listen?”

Shaeylila pressed her lips together and brought a forefinger to her nose in thought. “Hmm, Oh! I know! Maybe what you need is something… tailor-made. In an attire that really speaks to your people. But for that, tell me more - who are you people? Why have you been at war so long? Who is this Hilda?’ She turned around and started walking off, ‘come! Let’s walk!’

“I should’ve led with this, really,” chuckled the [i]sanndatr[/i] and followed her, eventually taking the lead on the tour through the city. The route took them out of the city core at first, taking a right towards the industrial district where the air grew thick with the fumes from molten glass and burning wood. Pottery lined the edges of the gravel road, and the pair had to dance between the currents of sleds and pulks pulling frozen clay and lumpy metal to their rightful places. “While Ha-Dûna has existed for merely one score and four six years, the people who would call themselves the ‘Dûnans’ after its founding have journeyed together for decades before that. In truth, we are not one people, but four - the gaardskarls, the clennon fen, the herjegalling and the brasforts - all of whom hail from various places to the southeast. At least, that’s what my mother told me.” She paused. “When we first came together, we stuck together - fighting off the Ketties and bandits and that sort of scum. ‘Course, fusing together four different tribes takes love, will and effort - our history isn’t without infighting; in fact, that’s been much of the reason why, ever since Ha-Dûna was founded, we’ve focused on becoming [b]one[/b] people. Already here, we encounter issues: Too many of the [i]théins[/i] are gaardskarl or brasfortsian, and not enough are druids; they have a fondness for battle and conflict, and I’ve never known a single gaardskarl who didn’t carry harsh sentiment against foreigners. Likewise, not enough clennon fen are [i]théins[/i] - their ascetic roots keeps them from chasing any sort of leadership role that isn’t rooted in divinity. So I’m stuck with warmongering [i]théins[/i] and peace-suing priests. Are you following so far?”

Shaeylila looked over at the [i]sanndatr[/i] with scrunched up brows. ‘Yes my lady. Angry karlfortasians and gardmarks who don’t like outsiders…’ she pursed her lips and looked around with raised eyebrows, ‘so I, uh, better keep a low profile,’ she scratched her cheek and drew the plaid up so it covered her face to the eyes. ‘And peace-loving dravidian-priests and glennon vens wandering around not wanting leadership. Got it. So what happened next?’ Came her now-muffled serenade. Just as Boudicca started again, the serenade picked up once more. ‘Though I- uh.’ She sighed and her eyes grew dim and downcast, ‘I don’t know if a speech or a performance is going to fix all this, my lady. It already sounds so terrible and it’s only the beginning. I’ve never really… dealt with these kinds of things.’ She stopped walking and the plaid fell somewhat. ‘Seems like some cruel playwright perfectly set-up a tragedy.’

“Don’t say that, this is stressful enough already,” Boudicca confessed with uncharacteristic honesty. The smoke of industry thinned, and the pair soon exited the fumes into a livestock market, smells of sweat, fur and manure washing over them like a tidal wave. They had to compete with moos, bleats and grunts to be able to hear each other, and their promenade would come to a stop many times as traders herded cows, goats, sheep, elk and reindeer to and fro like they were irrigating the city with flesh. “On top of this, the last five years have been nothing -but- war, and I fear my officers have grown to like it, and our neighbours are beginning to get a taste for it. The loss of Ha-Gaard to our former allies at Kirin’s Rest only shows that we are increasingly alone in this land - our neighbours aren’t quick to forget what we did to them five years ago, and I’m already beginning to feel that the quest to become a cultural centre did not carry the appeal I thought just some months back…” She looked at Shaeylila and frowned at herself. “I’m sorry for overwhelming you with all this - it may have been fool’s hope that all of this should be solved with poetry.”

Shaeylila’s eyes seemed to harden with anger and she let out a frustrated sigh. ‘Yeah…’ she murmured sullenly. Looking towards the great town, now that they were at its outskirts, a small ripple of colour grew in her eyes until it was a great spark. She turned to Boudicca with a conspiratorial smile, biting her lip slightly. ‘Wh-what if…,’ she hesitated, ‘those people back there said... I am a gift from that Maxwell right? W-well… what if Maxwell… isn’t very happy? What if he is actually quite upset by all this fighting - fighting and killing and goring and not [i]a single poem or song[/i], no epical record by all those vainglorious warriors, no performances, no wisdoms... ’ she paused and glanced at Boudicca with a guilty smile, ‘what [i]if[/i] Maxwell is really quite angry? What if even now he is preparing a great furious song condemning before all the world the death of all art that Ha-Dûna’s constant warring has brought?’ She paused, eyes wide, ‘do you think that might shock them towards more cultured pursuits?’

Boudicca pulled away and turned to the sky as though reflecting on this compelled her to apologise to whatever was up there. She caught herself just before her knees were about to give out and cupped her chin in her hand. “Hey… Hey, that’s a great idea! Rebellious, though, my officers may be, they have no wish to be mentioned in Macsal’s cursesongs!” The giant woman took Shaeylila by the shoulder and grinned from ear to ear. “This is perfect! Tell me, tell me! What should I say? How should I frame His anger?” Shaeylila’s elation was all to clear and she seemed to bob up and down in response to Boudicca’s happiness and relief.

‘His anger?’ Shaeylila paused, and the smile slowly faded from her lips. She looked at Boudicca, and where there had been a spark before her eyes now seemed to crackle. She extended a hand to the[i]sanndatr[/i]’s cheek. ‘I will show you.’

[centre][img]https://i.imgur.com/XRcyBUw.png[/img][/centre]
The[i]sanndatr[/i] stood upon a handcrafted pedestal of wood, carved with intricate images of flames and daemonic battle, at the centre of which was the staring visage of a furious clean-shaven youth. Beside her on the ground, wearing an equally forbidding countenance, was the one everyone was saying had been sent down by Macsal. Anger crackled in the siren’s eyes, and the giant [i]sanndatr[/i]’s own eyes seemed to reflect no less a fury. Tension hung in the air for what felt like the longest time, before the Macsalian thing looked down to the ground and spared the gathered people the gorgon in her aspect. The [i]sanndatr[/i] glared outwards, a crowd of beards, of scars, of dirt and of cold, red cheeks staring back with baited breath. It was then that the giant raised her arms to the sky and boomed, 

“With me, people of Ha-Dûna, as we begin this confession by greeting the gods: As with every dawn, we give thanks to the Sun, to our Mother, Reiya, who helps us keep warm in winters such as this, and pulls our crops out of the soil so we may eat our daily meals without a worry in the world.” She pointed to the horizon.

“We give thanks to the Moon, to the Nightwarden Gibbou, who keeps the wolves at bay when our tents lay exposed and our children are asleep, and ships us off into the realm of dreams.” She pointed to the ground. 

“We give thanks to the Stone, to the Boar of Earth, Boris, who gave us the ground we walk and the tools we use. The eternal mountain never breaks down, no matter the passing times.” She arced one arm across the heavens.

“We give thanks to the Stars, to our Beacon of Hope, Seeros, who inspires us every day to do our utmost for both friends and family; the million lights that glisten above when all other lights go out.” She turned around and gestured to the shore below.

“We give thanks to the Sea, to the Ocean Father Claroon, without whose seafood bounty, we would have starved long, long ago. The steady tide brings us high water on which to sail our boats, and spring rains and autumn storms bring our city both crops and feed.” She placed two hands on her temples. 

“We give thanks to the Truth, to the All-Knowing Fìrinn, for guidance in these times of ignorance and confusion. The mirrors reveal all, and the holy glass he gave us has let us divine the struggles ahead with graceful accuracy.” She pointed to the forests beyond the city.

“We give thanks to Jennesis, the World Tree, to whom we owe our eternal love and loyalty for all that grows, for the forests that give us game, wood, fruits and nuts. Her power is mighty and her ire is great - may we ever live in her grace, and always respect the line between woods and mankind. Finally…” She gestured to the crowd.

“Let us give thanks to Macsal, the Immortal Poet, whom we must thank for our songs, our lyrics, our dances and theatre. Without Macsal, much of what we think of as Dûnan would simply not exist - the Worldsong would not be here to help us listen to the worries and counsel of the very earth and sky. So let us praise him, and let us praise the Eight for their kind vigilance over our people, which has allowed us to grow into the great civilisation we are today.” She took a brief break to let the message sink in.

“Let us also give praise to Caden, whose strength lifted us above our Sigeran foes in this war; to Taeg Eit, whose will and law kept our people and our marriages together through thick and thin; to Naya, whose colossal heart carried all our sorrow for us so we could fight on despite our losses; to Artafax, for giving us walls and houses unbreakable to any bandit; and to Vandra, for the fire to last all seasons. We thank the gods; we thank them all - we must thank them all, for these past five years have shown that we have grown insolent; we have grown spoiled and ungrateful in the face of the gods, and our people have never been further out of reach of their favour than we are now.”

Ripples of malcontent moved throughout the crowd. Boudicca held up a silencing hand. “There is no denying it and every man, woman and child here knows that quite well: We chose Sigeran. We chose Sigeran over the true gods!”

“The Sigerans chose Sigeran!” came a retort, supported by furious “yeas”. “We stayed true - that is why we won!”

Boudicca raised a hand again. “We didn’t stay true at all! Had we done so, we would’ve never gone to war in the first place. Our rampant massacre of our neighbours to the east was what drew Sigeran to us to begin with!” Whispers flowed between heads like water through a shifting delta. “Had we been true to the teachings of Reiya, to the gospel of Gibbou, to the faith in Seeros and the songs of Macsal, then we already would have known where these sorts of black thoughts would take us!” Before the retorts could come, she took the initiative. “I know what you will say in defense: We had no food - our people grew too many, too fast! And I know this, too - I said the same thing! Our growth took us plundering without a care in the world for how it would affect us in the coming years - how our standing with not just our neighbours would suffer, but with the gods as well!” 

“... No… When faced with such grand devastation as a famine, the pious, the virtuous, will not take from others what they want; instead, the virtuous will fall to their knees in prayer, for the gods are good - they are kind - and they will help us if they see our suffering.” She gestured to the many snow-covered fields beyond the city walls. “And lo and behold - Reiya saw our dire need, even after we had taken to the axe, and gave us fields of unprecedented growth! The pious is rewarded; the vile, punished.” Murmurs grew quieter - the sharpness in their words had been dulled.

“We turned hoes into clubs; plows into shields - we neglected the earth and soil for blood and wealth. We used axes and adzes meant for shaping wood into objects of art and architecture, to slay innocents by the thousands. Spears meant to hunt the Highlands’ bounty with, were instead turned on our neighbours - even those of Dûnan blood! We gave up our long poetic traditions for war cries and ceaseless boasting. Our borders may be longer than before, but there is no Dûnan soul left to fill it. Our neglect for culture has gone so far that Macsal himself, furious as we’ve made him, is even composing a cursesong for our people! One that may plunge us into centuries of misfortune!”

At the very moment that mention of the cursesong was made, a collective gasp arose and with it the head of Shaeylila snapped up. Her eyes were as roiling ink and her hair seemed to harbour lightning. 

[centre]Brothers of the axe and sword - 
sires of much war. 
On my tongue there is a word 
come from Macsal’s shore. 
This is but a taste of rhymes 
that the angered poet writes, 
for he hates to see your crimes 
and he hates all haughty heights:

[i]Pause before the ruin and cry
For those long rhymes turned to sloth
Lore that sleeps will quickly die
In the dust its plighted troth
While bloodshed by dawn and dusk
Knibbles at our wit and art and oft destroys them both.[/i][/centre]

The world around the song seemed to darken even as streams of colour and ink surged about her, and the inks were given form and the verses came alive. The ruin of art stood unveiled, and around it humanoid shadows shed crimson tears even as the ruins disintegrated into dust and a great surge of gushing blood exploded from it until the scene fell away and only the crimson gore remained.

[centre][i]Sheathe your fears and hear the flow
That whispers through the world and sighs-
Let your thirst for beauty grow
And from your burning heart let rise
The words that conquer spears and bows
And binds back severed links and ties[/i][/centre]

A great blade cut through the endless cascade of blood, and the inky ichor exploded into audible sighs, and the sighs became a hum and song reverberating through the world. Beneath the humming song the sword fell away and was a staring, flame-eyed youth sitting below a burning bush. His chest beat with a flame, and when he stood a field of spears and arrows stood against him. He walked through it unafraid, a song of flame dancing and billowing from his eyes, and all about him the spears and arrows melted away and became extended hands which he pulled from the earth and united with the extended hands of others.

[centre][i]And should those nursed on war rise up
To strike with gilded tongues the call
And should they think to claw and sup
On blood and meat from where you fall
Then meet them with a tongue that spurns
Their furies and stand proud and tall[/i][/centre]

The earth fell away beneath the fire-eyed youth and great demons with golden tongues ripped and clawed at him, ripping him limb from limb and consuming what remained. And even as they stood in the darkness, their bellies bloated and the flame emerged from their melting forms. Above it all the youth, a giant, rose and stood. He remained like that, slowly growing into the undeniable image of Macsal himself.

[centre][i]With tongue of ink and lyre for hand
Strike up the chords and loose art’s heat
And like a raincloud, beauteous, grand
Pour down upon the thirsting wheat
And quench the thirsting of the land
And wipe the tears that drown in blood
And sing the furies that wars fanned:

But if this is no age for art
And words of beauty find no place
In any hard and war-forged heart
Then make your peace and rest your case
And let the age of weeping start
For how can they bring endless peace
Who dealt to beauty death’s cruel dart?[/i][/centre]

The full-grown form of Macsal was gored, and blood of unknown colours frothed forth as the god fell; and from the blood there grew a hill atop of which was the great shadow of Ha-Dûna.

[centre][i]Oh Ha-Dûna on the hill
Pearl of poesies of old
Now your poem is grown still
And the heat of art is cold
Now the rhyming god is shrill
Pledges only ruined disgrace:
They who kill off all their art sure in time art will kill![/i][/centre]

Dark clouds billowed about the inky Ha-Dûna, and the visage of Macsal - half tearful, half furious - formed in the inky heavens and looked down upon the hill, and into the gathered crowd. Only the ambient sound of rushing winds and the promise of a storm remained in the ink. After a half-minute, the whole thing dissipated and Shaeylila’s gaze returned to the ground and she was silent and still.

The onlookers were white as sheets, no lip left unquivering. The silence choked out even the instinct to scream, and a minute passed as though frozen in time - only the wail of babes still overcoming the terror of the display could be heard. The shock shattered when there came a thump in the snow - on the front rank, one woman, her husband and their children had fallen to their knees, lifted their arms to the podium and shouted, “MACSAL! FORGIVE US!” The sentiment washed over the crowd like a crashing wave, and soon, the hundreds, the thousands of Dûnans who had filled the city core to the brim and spilled over into the streets beyond all collapsed in wailing prayer, begging and pleading for forgiveness. Boudicca offered Shaeylila a knowing nod, the song’s eyes twinkling back, and let the masses lament their sins. This would be a breakthrough for their people - their need to change their ways was now more evident than ever. 

[centre][img]https://i.imgur.com/XRcyBUw.png[/img][/centre]
[list][*][hider=Prestigios]
Boudicca 2 + 5 = 7
Circle of the Long Stride: 17 + 5 = 22
[/hider]
[*][hider=Might]
| 5MP and 5DP | 1MP towards Puppetry | 2DP towards Acting | 2DP towards Inspiration | 3DP towards Music | 2DP towards Dance |

2MP to grant all sapients the capacity to summon songs.
[indent]There are two manners in which songs may be summoned to Galbar: either passively or actively. The active manner involves a magically proficient person carrying out a magical ritual to bring them forth into the world - these songs are referred to as Succubi and are generally masterful singers and entertainers. These rituals vary across time, place, and culture. However, all who summon them in this manner should beware for they are flighty things and will not be kept for long; the words of a lovestruck poet or the zealous singing of a bardic lover may see her eloping in the night.

The passive manner of summoning songs occurs when a person - artist or not - wishes to create something beautiful and is in desperate need of inspiration. This level cannot be any normal or fleeting desperation, but must be born in pain and repeated failings and tears so that it becomes a constant companion and weight. When any person reaches such a frightful state, a song is brought forth from the divine realms to be their inspiration and their muse.

While most songs summoned to Galbar will live in communities, it is entirely possible for one to get lost. Such lost songs can be found living wild in lakes and rivers and woodlands, and may also hide in perfectly rotund mounds. As this implies, songs cannot be de-summoned and do not automatically return to the divine realms, but remain and live out the remainder of their now-mortal lives on Galbar.[/indent]
[/hider]
[*][hider=Sum-Sum!]Scene 1:
In the aftermath of the reconquest of Ha-Dûna, the great town stands at a crossroads and Boudicca faces the near-impossible task of steering the people towards a more peaceful way of doing things. While she has met with some success, it has not effected the deep changes necessary to transform the martial spirit that had long been ascendant into one more peaceful. Wishing after Meghzaal’s blessings in her coming speech, she gives a prayer before his stone. Her prayers receive a cryptic message, and her lack of understanding drives her to ask desperate questions which cause a song called Shaeylila to emerge. Those gathered in the stone circle are excited by the appearance of this creature (who is very confused and has no idea who this “Macsal” they associate her with is) but Boudicca soon shoos them off and the two walk together and discuss Boudicca’s problem: how is she to turn her war-loving people towards more peaceful pursuits? Shaeylila is no philosopher and can’t offer up any great idea to uproot the martial ways of the Dûnans, but she is able to come up with an innocent lie that may well solve all these problems… that Macsal is furious with the people of Ha-Dûna for pursuing war and abandoning art and even now prepares a cursesong that will disgrace them before the world. The two then retire to prepare the performance off-screen.
Scene 2:
Boudicca stands before the gathered people of Ha-Dûna and delivers a powerful speech that first praises the gods for all their blessings and then reprimands the people for having turned their back on the virtuous ways of the gods, pursuing war and slaughter instead. There are protests at this, but Boudicca swiftly sweeps the protests aside and reveals that Macsal, saddened beyond measure and furious at what they have done, is preparing a terrible cursesong against them. Shaeylila then gives a great poetic performance that leaves the people aghast and repentant. Boudicca shares a knowing look with Shaeylila at the ploy’s success.[/hider][/list]