[sub]KhoSauce Productions Ltd. presents:[/sub]
[centre][h2]The Uirda[/h2]
[img]https://i.imgur.com/9CuTfuf.jpeg[/img]

***[/centre]“When in the days of the black fog winter ruled, my children, there were no Uirda - you [abbr=High-mountain, a clan of the Uirda]Yaka[/abbr], you [abbr=Sunrise, a clan of the Uirda]Rayi[/abbr], you [abbr=Mountain-dusk, a clan of the Uirda]Kaltalai[/abbr], you [abbr=Sun-mount, a clan of the Uirda]Raikal[/abbr], you [abbr=Moonstone, a clan of the Uirda]Niccai[/abbr], you [abbr=Stone-song, a clan of the Uirda]Aippak[/abbr], you [abbr=Great Goat, a clan of the Uirda]Tumanta[/abbr]. There was no earth. There was no sky. The winter ruling in the black fog ate the world.” The shaman, face whitened with crushed chalk, goatskin hide covering his chest and kilt his nethers, tapped a goatskin drum with his forefingers. “And in time the Great Mountain saw that this was an evil state, and it rose - that great self-created stone - and tore fog and winter alike. What did it do, my children?” The shaman tapped the drum again and looked at the many gathered youths of the seven Uirda clans expectantly.

“It tore fog and winter alike, [abbr=Shaman, lit. stone-singer,][i]aipikka[/i][/abbr].” They recited. The shaman nodded and continued.


[centre][img]https://i.imgur.com/wpB7cwB.jpeg[/img]

[i]The heavens listen when the mountain speaks[/i][/centre]
“The mountain rose, the rock was formed, it was the heart of the world. Atop it earth grew, a soft warm heart against winter’s rage. On that grass and trees; then all the animals. Then the goat. Then we, the Uirda; you Yaka, you Rayi, you Kaltalai, you Raikal, you Niccai, you Aippak, you Tumanta. The Yaka from the mountain peak where winter is most severe, and so Yaka skin is as snow, eyes as ice - but the heart is a passionate flame. From the sunrise on the plains, the Rayi, and so Rayi skin is golden, eyes amber. From the dusk on the mountain, the Raikal, and so is their skin as gathering night and their eyes as coals; and when the cold is greatest it is by the flame-heart of the Raikal that the cold one may kneel. From the rock of the moons, and their light, the Niccai; and so the skin is fair and the eye as lilac. From the song of the stone were the Aippak born, and that is why we hear best the mountain’s thrum and command, and that is why the great-masked ones of the world-voice, them who are draug, sing with us. Then from the blood and horn of the great mountain goat were the Tumanta, and that is why their herds are greatest; they know the heart and way of the goat.” The shaman spun slowly and walked among the youths as he recited the great origin of their people. Now and then he stopped and raised the drum high and loosed a wail before spinning and continuing, his feet striking the earth rhythmically with the drum.

The youths, all young boys fresh from their tenth winter, and so grown men, watched him pass. “Gather your herding sticks, my children, you are men now. Gather your herding sticks, my children, gather your spears, gather your hides and gather the herds. The sun awakens now; and [i]the flesh of youths is strong and craves the mountain's heights and crashing waves[/i]. You have ventured out with your old man before, but come is the time to relieve your great-father from the toils and burdens of the mountain’s peak, come is the time my children. The mountain greets you and you are babes, and when next you descend you will be men.” And so saying, the shaman passed the gathered youths and spun and drummed his way towards the adults stood far behind, and as he did the youths all rose and followed. And the shaman danced and spun his way passed the men - all old and white of beard, for they were all grandfathers and these the grandchildren who would now take over the summer herding in the mountains on their behalf.


[centre][img]https://i.imgur.com/xhXTkC6.jpeg[/img]

[i]Bones may wither with great age, but young forever stands the sage[/i][/centre]
The old men, long staffs in hand - some sharpened or boasting boneheads -, greeted their children and handed over the sticks. “The land is good, my children, know that well,” chanted the shaman as he continued spinning and walking, “and in the summer youths will roam; so winter's bite will bring them home. Round the fire they will sing with glee when the draug comes from the sea; for the long and dark winter nights will bring dances and song's delights.”

[centre]***[/centre]

How long they had dwelt betwixt the mountains and the sea no one could say; but the Uirda knew that they were born of the mountain clay and had been here from the dawn of the earth’s first day. And they knew of no other people but themselves - and the earth was great and rolled ever onward, perhaps the Mountain had deemed to create none but them, or perhaps it had created other than them. That only the god knew, and the beautiful draug of beautiful song who sang of people near and far, across the waters and [i]in[/i] the waters. And the Uirda beheld the songs with wonder and contentment - they never sought out those far people. The tales awoke the imagination, and the imagination inspired the tongue to great epical feats on long wintry nights when the draug was gone.

But they could not hope to forever stand alone in the world. One summer there were none, and the next they streamed from every hill and vale, fearful and dishevelled, dressed strangely. The Uirda could not understand them, but watched them as they settled in clumsy camps, raised their voices against one another, sometimes attacked each other individually or in groups. Some of them hunted, some could not. Some attempted to steal Uirda goats. The youths scared those thieves off, but word spread and the Uirda became wary. Yet watching them, the Uirda could see that when winter came many would die - some already were. And they spoke to the shaman, and he communed with the Mountain, and the great god bid them open their hearts and homes to these strangers.

“But know this, you passionate youths: your hearts are fair prey to their womenfolk; but beware you maidens of the Uirda and tie well your hearts, for their menfolk are not made lawful to you.” And so it was; the Uirda helped the [abbr=they who came later][i]yortbraho[/i][/abbr], gave their menfolk of their herds and showed them the mountain ways, showed them to dig homes into the earth so that soon they had a village all their own. They married of their womenfolk and brought them into their homes where they quickly learned all the duties of the good wife; while the youths herded in the summer the women cared for the home and saw to the needs of the greatparents who, having toiled in youth and the middle-years, now rested, as was well-deserved, and nurtured their ties with their grandchildren and taught them Uirda ways and Uirda laws.


[centre][img]http://ars.els-cdn.com/content/image/1-s2.0-S0305440312002166-gr18.jpg[/img]

[i]The god of life lies in the wife[/i][/centre]
And then, one day, the [i]yortbraho[/i] who came were not seeking shelter. It began with an elk, not too unlike those observed by the braves who dared venture beyond the mountain passes and witness the rolling hills below; atop it sat a woman in leather and fur, intermittently speckled with sheets and scales of glistening stone, or was it a rare sort of animal skin, catching the sun in its golden hue? She seemed genuinely surprised, breath-taken by the fact that the Uirda had made these mountains their home, as though she hadn’t even imagined the possibility. Behind her followed both menfolk and womenfolk, dressed much in the way she was, though the odd scales could only be seen on one or two of them - the rest stuck to layers of fur to keep out the cold of the mountain and season. Their language was both a work of music and a grind of stone, coarse consonants and broad vowels dancing together to sound of melodic tonal shifts, and they pointed at the Uirda approaching them and exchanged looks and gasps.

The youths of the Uirda were confident and brave, curiosity carried them and they stood with bone spears in hand and dogs at their feet - unafraid of these newcomers. 

In the distance, however, those [i]yortbraho[/i] who had come many winters before saw the elkriders and gave cries of surprise and fear before turning and running away. That was the first sign to those brave youths that something was amiss, and they frowned to one another and whispered, and when the elkriders made to ride past them they shouted and ran about them and signalled for them to stop, their dogs barking and growling in warning. The elkriders pulled at the primitive reins commanding the animals, footmen rushing forth with glistening, yet quite lumpy weapons in hand, but their commander obviously barked for them not to escalate the situation. She regarded the youths who had stopped them, and then raised her gaze to scowl at those who had come all those winters ago. She shouted threateningly and pointed after them, the melody of the language suddenly as stiff and brutal as a march. One of the first [i]yortbraho[/i] squealed and shouted in the Uirda language: “NO! Don’t let them take us! They’re going to take us away! Help us! Please!” Some others, keeping their distance, wept pleadingly in the language of the elkriders, at which some of them scoffed mockingly and retorted even harder than before.


[centre][img]https://i.imgur.com/F9ht3Q6.jpeg[/img]

[i]In the summer youths will roam; winter's bite will bring them home[/i][/centre]
The youths frowned at one another, some giving the shouting elkrider a wary look. A few turned from the strangers and shouted to the [i]yortbraho[/i] with gestures leaving no space for doubt as to their meaning: you go now. After a few moments of tense staring at the elkriders, the band of youths turned and walked away with a confident slow gait, spears over their shoulders, allowing the [i]yortbraho[/i] to run off. A few trailed behind and others walked ahead, and now and then one of them glanced behind at the elkriders as if to say [i]we see you[/i], but seemed to have little interest in them beyond that. The commander pursed her lips and frowned as though rethinking her strategy. She dismounted, a fellow warrior coming over to take her reins and golden helmet, letting her unleash her sweaty, auburn hair. She calmly offered her band a few sentences and then approached the Uirda youth, gloved hands raised in peace. Carefully, she moved one of them to her chest, patting it gently, yet rapidly, to draw attention. She said a word, then repeated it as she studied the surrounding faces to gauge their understanding. Until she could spot the flash of realisation in every one of said eyes, she spoke the word over and over.

“Materix.”

The youths murmured to each other, gesturing to her and repeating the word. One of them, perhaps particularly quick, stepped over and patted her on the shoulder. Her guard tensed up, but she waved them away, offering the lad a greeting nod. “Matrik,” he assured her, before turning about and gesturing for her to follow. The youths muttered amongst each other, some still confused  - [i]Matrik?[/i]; [i]hil hil, Matriks![/i], [i]eeehh, Mechriks?[/i] - and moved on ahead. They appeared to be arguing, but the one who had spoken to Materix seemed to assure them eventually. He trailed behind, his dog panting at his feet, and looked back at her, stopping and gesturing for her to follow once again. He pointed further off and spoke insistently while looking back at her, and then started walking again. She nodded slowly in quiet understanding, took a few hesitant steps, and then turned to face her following again, barking at them what was presumably more orders, for after a bit of back and forth between her and some of the others dressed in golden scales, they took a few paces back and rolled out furs to sit on in the mountain snow. There, they waited, though not all seemed equally happy about it, particularly not the scaled. The commander then turned back to the lad and kept following.

The youths seemed in no hurry, continuing at their lazy gait. They laughed amongst each other, and when they passed by a lake or stream they stopped for some minutes while some took a drink or just waded in for the fun of it, while others yet leaned on their spears and watched the others idly. The youth who had spoken to Materix remained near her, however, smiling or chortling in her direction whenever his companions wandered from their route for whatever reason. At one point a dog was heard barking in the distance and a few of the youths perked up before breaking off from the others and sprinting away towards the sound. Materix’s youth clicked his tongue and flicked his wrist at them, signing for Materix to follow him and walking at a quicker pace. He shouted to one of the others, who went running ahead and soon disappeared beyond the crest of a near hill.

When they arrived at what appeared to be their destination, the youth who had run ahead was there, along with a number of older men and a few recognisably [i]yortbraho[/i] women. A strangely clad man with a painted face stepped forth as Materix approached with her youth. The shaman said something to one of the women, who came up beside him and looked uncertainly at Materix. The youth greeted the shaman respectfully and said a few words before gesturing to the newcomer and loudly declaring, “Matrik.” The shaman, for his part, surveyed the stranger for a few moments before turning and speaking to the [i]yortbraho[/i] woman he had called on. After listening to the words of the shaman, she turned to Materix.

“Uh. This is the [i]aipikka[/i] Muir Aipik, the mountain-shaman of the mountain clans, and these here are some of the greatfathers of the mountain clans. They greet you and bid you welcome and, uh, assure you and those with you that you will be provided for and afforded goats that you may live and prosper like everyone else.”

Materix eyed the translator curiously, then offered her respect to the shaman by placing a palm over her heartspace and taking a knee. She spoke for the translator to convey: “In the sight of the Eight and the Seven, I, Materix of Dûna, daughter of Boudicca, True Daughter of the Dûna, of clan Metsep of the Gaardskarl tribe, offer my greetings to the [i]hainpirke Mirh Hainpirk[/i]. May we exchange bread and salt in siblinghood--” She then looked around as though breaking out of a trance of decade long practice and performance, a clear cultural schism present on her face. She cleared her throat. “May our exchange be one of good siblinghood, I mean.”

The translator’s eyes seemed to light up when she heard Boudicca’s name, though some of the other [i]yortbraho[/i] women further behind gave Materix wary looks. The shaman nodded sagely as the words spoken were translated, and then made a slow, enunciated response, betraying no small degree of experience when it came to ceremonious speaking. “The [i]aipikka[/i] wishes it to be known that he salutes the Eight and the Seven in the name of the Great Mountain, the great self-created stone, and salutes also Boudicca and all her kin of the Metsep clan, and the Gaardskarl people. A ram will be slaughtered in your honour, and the honour of the Gaardskarls.” She paused as the youth who had led Materix whispered to the shaman, who closed his eyes and nodded before speaking again. The translator then continued: “He is told that some of the mountain people who are newly arrived from your lands showed fear on seeing you, and that there was a less-than-happy exchange. [i]Aipikka[/i] Muir Aipik wishes you to assure him that there is no acrimony between you and those of the [i]yortbraho[/i] clan.”

Materix pursed her lips. “Forgive my ignorance, but what is [i]yortbraho[/i]?”

“Ah, apologies [i]théin[/i] Materix; the mountain clans are seven, and they refer to us who came from the Dûnlands and settled among them as the [i]yortbraho[/i], the clan of those who came later.” The woman clarified.

Materix frowned at the translator and eyed the [i]yortbraho[/i] women in the back. She remained kneeling, but a quiet growl threatened to banish the softness in her voice and replace it with the coarseness of old hatred. However, self-control managed to limit the tonal shift to a mere increase in sternness. “You don’t say… Then, with respect, please inform the great and wise [i]hainpirka[/i] that me and my band recognised multiple faces among these people, a few of whom are in the back there,” she pointed at the wary women, “and we did so because they are criminals on the run, guilty of the darkest treason and blasphemy in the eyes of gods and people in this world and the [i][abbr=”Godly world”]Helgensmund[/abbr][/i].”

The translator winced at the words and turned back to the shaman and spoke softly. The shaman considered these words for a few moments, and then spoke again. “He says,” the woman translated, “that neither he nor the people of the mountains know what drives the southern people to fight, and he says also that when the [i]yortbraho[/i] first came they fought amongst each other too. The slaughter of goats and the sharing of good meat can drive away old hatreds and feuds, and criminals who repent are criminals no more if in repentance they are sincere. He bears witness that the [i]yortbraho[/i] have repented sincerely and have been peacemakers and doers of good for many winters now.”

The commander rose to her feet, arms crossing firmly over her chest. “Tell the shaman, once more with all due respect, that -they- have committed crimes that cannot be repented, regardless of their recent deeds. As per the law of [i]Dlíbók[/i], our codex of justice, they are to be brought back to Ha-Dûna to stand trial and be judged under the sights of Fìrinn, Taeg Eit, Reiya and Selesta - the gods’ punishment alone can absolve their souls of their grievous sins.”

When these words were translated, the shaman stepped forth and there was a smile on his face though his eyes were as stone. He spoke to the [i]théin[/i] slowly and without faltering, each word immovable. When the translator spoke, it sounded considerably less impressive. “Uh, he says that. Well,” she paused and frowned in thought, “he says that the laws of Ha-Dûna and of its Eight and Seven gods are due all respect, but that out here in the shade of the Mountain, and along the highland paths, the law is that of the Great Mount. They who seek protection in the shade of the great earthen god have found it, and the Mountain’s protection is as rock to those who keep to its laws and ways. The [i]yortbraho[/i] have been true and so they shall not be cast from the great shade of the Mountain.” She paused and the shaman spoke a few last words, which seemed to surprise the translator. “He also says that the [i]yortbraho[/i] are as one with the mountain clans, our blood has intermingled and we have sired goodly progeny of one another. If you are to take one of them while they are true to the Mountain, then you must of certainty come up against us all - and that would be folly, for the sea does not come to the mountain.”

Materix drew a slow breath and backed away a pace. Swallowing, she eyed the faces staring her down around the clearing and then slowly lifted her hands. “I must beg your forgiveness - the journey has been long and arduous, and my mind is not at its best right now. If I may ask that my band may be allowed to camp here for the night, and that we may share our tales with one another over ale and… Over meat and milk, then we would be most grateful.”

After listening to the translation, the shaman turn to the white-haired greatfathers and spoke a few words, and a number of youths went scrambling off at the gruff commands of their elders, drawing knives of stone as they ran off. “That is good,” the translator said to Materix, “there will be meat and milk, and water pure and sacred from the highest mountain springs.” The youth who had brought Materix stepped forth at a gesture from the shaman, who spoke a few brief words. “Young Thum Yakui here will guide you back to your band.”

Materix made hard eyes at the other [i]yortbraho[/i] for a split second, but quickly shifted back to the shaman again and touched her heart. “I thank you, on my bands’ behalf and my own.”

When the [i]théin[/i] and her band arrived later, they found that a number of goats had already been slaughtered and were being roasted on rudimentary spits and that there were now considerably more of the mountain people about - women, men, and children tarried here and there. Women laughed as they watched the fires, now and again smacking a foolish child for getting too close to the fire; some held babes to their bosoms as they added wood to the flames or chatted with their fellow clanswomen. The men idled about, watching the strangers curiously - and the youths in particular approached the odd elks and looking them up and down or stroking them. Now and then one of them went scrambling when an older woman shouted at him to go do something; but in all other ways the people here seemed relaxed and at perfect ease. Whatever concerns and tribulations life held seemed to be carried on their collective shoulders with no one left to bear their burdens alone, and so they all seemed the happier.

When the food was ready, it was laid out before the guests on goatskin hides, and communal wooden beakers full of water or milk were brought forth along with small empty bowls for scooping from them. The shaman sat opposite the [i]théin[/i], grey-bearded greatfathers around him, and gestured for her and her companions to eat with a smile. One of the greatfathers took an empty horn from his side and scooped some water, supping at it in small amounts and watching the strangers.

The foreigners made no self-driven effort to mingle with their hosts, with the exception of their leader and two others who wore very distinct clothing compared to their colleagues, leather and furs reduced to simple woolen robes of a whitish beige, kept warm in the mountains with the help on much more colourful woolen scarfs that seemed more like capes. When the children touched them and asked what they were called, the wearers, upon understanding their inquiry, answered, “plaithe”. These two were particularly friendly, telling what could be presumed to be stories in their language, complete with sketches on bark and stone drawn with charcoal from the fires. Expert performance skills enchanted the listening children even if not a single word came across, the stories carried by powerful and spontaneous gestures to all the elements of nature and the self. The children, for their part, appeared enthralled by the performance and from then on referred to the oddly dressed pair as “[abbr=draug-kin]draugmihra[/abbr]! Draugmihra!” Realising that they were before performative masters, they immediately got to showing off their own imitations of the trolls - though were not quite as impressive as the draugmihra at doing so.

Opposite the fire from the elders, the [i]théin[/i] sat cross-legged upon a sheepskin. Beside her, she had a flat of skin, upon which laid a selection of strange tools and artifacts she and her band had brought with them: Their axes weren’t bladed with stone, but with a darker form of gold with hints of green; the commander herself revealed a biface not fashioned from stone or flint, but of gold, as well, only with surfaces as polished as those of clean bone; they had medallions and rings fashioned from all sorts of strange, glistening stuff, adorned with stones of every colour. She showed them texts from her home and works of glass, explaining their use for the translators to convey. 

The translators did so, and the greatfathers looked at the strange axes with knotted brows, turning them over in their hands and swinging them back and forth. They tapped at the strange metal with their fingers, and the translator seemed to explain what it was - gesturing to the mountain and then to the fire in her explanations, and all the while the greatfathers nodded and muttered this or that gruffly. The translator showed them how the medallions were worn around the neck, the rings on the fingers, and one of the old men took the ring and, gently catching a lock of the translator’s hair, tied it there and planted an affectionate kiss on her cheek. He muttered something to the [i]théin[/i] and gestured to the ring, and the blushing translator turne to her.

“He says he likes the ring and would like to trade you a goat for it.”

The [i]théin[/i] knotted her own brow and offered the translator a lopsided frown. “Do they trade in nothing but goats? Is their whole society founded upon their woolen backs?” She then pursed her lips and took an intricately whittled and carved wooden pipe out of a satchel, pinched a clump of dry grass from the same container and patted it tightly into the bowl. “You may tell him that it’s his. Consider it a gift to symbolise a budding friendship between our two peoples.”

The translator spoke a few words and caused a number of the greatfathers to chuckle. They then spoke at length as the translator conveyed his words. “He says that the goat is life, and to give over a goat is to give milk and cheese and meat and goatskin, and the good-haired goat provides the softest goathair; these are the good things of life. A goat is a companion - and an intelligent and caring one at that. Of its horn one can make music or craft a drinking vessel,” at this one of the greatfathers raised an ornately carved drinking horn hanging at his side and extended it to Materix for inspection while another brought a musical horn to his lips and released two sharp blows into it, followed by a long third. 

The sound brought immediate silence to the great gathering for a few moments before everyone returned to what they were saying or doing. “And of its skin a drum to go with your horn; if you wish for leather its brain is all you need. Everything that a man may need he can find in the goat - the bone for the spear, the teeth for the necklace, its sinew the finest thread. When we make masks - as the singing draug taught the aipikkas of bygone times - the head of the goat is an aid. If you wish to carve, the bone of the goat is ready and yielding. There is no need except that in the goat is its answer. And if the goat cannot provide, then the earth is good - stone, wood, herbs, berries, mushroom, chalk. The waters of the mountain springs, fish on the goatbone spear, fire to warm the heart and song to warm the soul. When you wish to please your woman’s heart go to the sea and bring her cowrie shells - kiss her hair, bless her eyes. If chalk is not what you seek, the plants are many and dyes all yielding. Bring the aipikka a feather and place your name on his headdress. So yes, we are a mountain goat people, made of stone and sinew, and have no desire to be anything else.” The translator stopped speaking at last, a small smile on her face. Then she added of her own accord, “I admit it was a bit weird at first, and you miss the things you had in Ha-Dûna, but then this whole thing really grows on you. It was our way of life before…” her words trailed off and she said no more.

The [i]théin[/i] look hardened, and she turned the horn in her hand with a fomenting slowness. “Yes… It -was-. Please tell the greatfather that--”

It was in the midst of all this that, in the distance, the great blast of a horn sounded and caused even the now-placid shaman to become instantly alert. The greatfathers glanced at one another with deep frowns and rose from the food. In the resounding wake of the blast there came the abnormally loud yet light clapping of free and loose hooves against the mountain, and in the gathering darkness there seemed to be a singular light far off on the mount that wavered momentarily then completely disappeared.

There was silence then for a time, and Uirda all gathered about each other and whispered to one another. There was the light of excitement in the eyes of the children, the knot of worry in that of the elders. And the reason for it became apparent when - with great suddenness - the earth melted away some way from the clearing and a great light erupted from the ground, followed by the light but insistent sound of thundering hooves. The light approached at speed and soon manifested itself as a creature unlike anything known to mortal eyes - other than those of the Uirda, for they knew to honour the great mountainson.


[centre][img]https://i.imgur.com/9fagWdu.jpeg[/img]

[i]The mountain grows in stature as its burdens grow.[/i][/centre]
Before them, with standing ears and great branching antlers between which was nestled a radiant halo of almost-blinding sunlight, stood a cervitaur of considerable size. His face, once child-like oval, was now angular where it was not bearded; once-flowing green hair had yellowed with age and was now formed in great winding dreads. There was an unearthly beauty to his visage, his eyes seemed to glitter, his features - though scars ran across his face and muscled form - seemed delicate and refined. In one hand was a spear tipped with a foreign silvery metal and at his side, wrapped in leaves and vines, was a sheathed sword. He looked upon the southern strangers with grave eyes of forest-green and on his face was no smile. Many of the Dûnans removed their hats at the sight; others instinctively took to their axe shafts and spear staffs, but stayed frozen in caution beyond that.

The Uirda all whispered words of humility and and lowered their heads in honour of the divine being. With nostrils flared he passed the translator and his hand alighted on the metal ring. Deft fingers loosened the hair and the ring fell into the cervitaur’s hand, and he looked on it with displeasure before whispering a few words in the Uirda tongue. The greatfather who had tied the ring into the translator’s hair stepped forward and spoke. The cervitaur handed him the ring and responded brusquely, and in response the greatfather approached the [i]théin[/i] and placed the ring into her hand wordlessly.

“I see more of you southerners have come wandering north,” the cervitaur spoke with an unplaceable accent as he approached the [i]théin[/i]. It was not even Dûnan, and yet… they could somehow understand it. “You have brought metal. It is forbidden upon the Uirda. You will nevermore bring it here.”

The [i]théin[/i] looked into her palm and then upon the creature. Its mighty presence and powerful aura brought her eyes to the ground, her auburn hair hanging around her face like a veil. Her pipe still smouldered in her hand, for the shock of the new arrival still held too much power over her for her to put it away. “F-forgive us, mighty being. We did not know - we meant only to show them our crafts so that they, too, may know the freedom from stone and instead embrace something hardier, more efficient.” 

The cervitaur leaned back and gazed at the gathered mountain clanspeople, garbed as they were in their primitive leathers and hides, bone- and stone-tipped spears in hand, knives made of the same at their hips. The children hid behind the legs of their mothers or grandmothers and stared out curiously at the strange mountainson - some were afraid, most were only curious. The greatfathers wore knotted brows and glanced from time to time at the shaman for reassurance.

“More efficient.” He repeated, turning back to the woman. “And what, pray tell, has your efficiency brought you? What have you gained through [i]freedom from stone[/i]? It is your people who flee here, not the Uirda who flee to you.” There was a certain anger in his voice, a level of contempt, and he kicked at the earth and stirred it up to make known his displeasure.

By this, the [i]théin[/i] seemed insulted. The cervitaur’s words had knocked her out of her fearful passiveness, and she assumed the proud, powerful stance of her mother, though she stood only half the creature’s height. “If it’s ‘our people’ you want gone, we will gladly take them with us - they have no place here; they belong on the temple fields of Ha-Dûna, working the fields and tending the herds as atonement for their sins. For yes, -that- is the efficiency given to us by the freedom from stone - our hoes part earth like fingers through snow, and our sickles cut straw as though they were air. Our armour has kept hundreds of us alive in our battles against the rebels in the South and West, and our weapons have allowed us to grow into the mightiest force in the region.” She gestured to the hills. “We have been welcomed here, certainly, but we have seen the sort of life these people lead - it is simple, complacent; they are content in their mountains, and see no further beyond them. A lifestyle such as this…” She silenced herself before she could go on, glaring up at the beast still. “We will leave if we are not welcome.”

The cervitaur’s nostrils flared and he stepped forth, bringing his face down so that his nose almost touched the insolent woman’s. His eyes of green, which bore no warmth and seemed more rock than plant, bored into hers. “Atonement. Sins. Temples. You have created out of the paradise you were granted a living hell. Armour, weapons, battles - what, for [i]power[/i]? Do you think you are eternal to claw at power? You are a thing that is nearly dead; I have lived longer than your species has walked the world. Your weapons, your wars, your sins and crimes and punishments; they are as naught. Of all these trapping the Uirda are free, they do not kill and do not fear being killed, they do not impose themselves where they are not wanted. If a clan wishes to leave, it can leave - do you see them raising spears against their own? They hold onto the only thing that matters - their joys. You would do well to learn from them, for they are the more refined ones here, not [i]you[/i].” He raised his head and looked at the other southerners. “Go home, there is nothing for you here. Consider the ones you think to punish, dead; consider this land not here. If you come with metal and strife, come not here at all.”

The [i]théin[/i] nodded in silent understanding. “Then leave, we will. We were pleasantly surprised when there were people here; a shame their master cannot see reason.” She turned to the [i]yortbraho[/i] translator. “You. Tell the elders this - perhaps the sea may never come to the mountain, but us who live by the shore have seen terrible things arise from the waves to wash in over the land. If the fish of the sea can walk on land, then what stops the wolves of the woods from climbing into the hills?” She turned back to the creature and flared her own nostrils to the degree possible. “Will you be there for them when, in a thousand years, a cruel force numbering thousands come thundering over the mountain tops?”

The bearded cervitaur scoffed at her barely veiled threats. “Whatever the case then, [i]you[/i] will certainly not be,” he paused then and his hard features softened. “Go to your man, woman, see to your young, wander the hills and laugh some. It is all that matters now - and when death wanders a handspan from you, it will be all that ever mattered. You would be wise to learn from my words now rather than regretfully learn when it is all too late.”

The [i]théin[/i] glared sharply back and turned. “Osotorix, prepare my stag. Rangers, pack up. We are going home.” Many of the Dûnans sighed in relief, while others hastened to finish their meals. A few offered a final scowl to the [i]yortbraho[/i], but all in all, the majority just seemed happy to be leaving, hastily gathering their belongings and walking towards the mountain pass with hurried steps. At the tail of the host rode the [i]théin[/i], closely followed by the two [i]draugmihra[/i], who were the only two to look genuinely upset at this whole ordeal - they took their time saying goodbye to the children, offering them flower petals from the lowlands in memory.

The cervitaur watched the [i]draugmihra[/i] until they had finished saying their farewells to the understandably saddened children, and then he gestured for them to approach. They seemed reluctant at first, looking over at their leader for permission. However, with a quiet nod, she granted it, and remained at the mouth of the pass with her warriors ready should her druids be caused any harm. The two obeyed the cervitaur’s request and approached, both bowing with their hands over their hearts. “In the sight of the Eight and the Seven, we greet you, child of Boris,” they chorused.

“Be at ease, [i]draugmihra[/i]. I thank you for bringing the children of the Uirda joy. They will remember you, of that I am certain. Know this: the Uirda have no interest in the crafts and metals of the south, but there is nothing wrong in the sharing of happiness; tales and laughter, song, playthings and pastimes. These are good. Perhaps I have spoken harshly to the woman, but that is so you may know where the line is drawn. Should you ever come into the shade of the mountain bearing joy and forsaking metals, you will be welcome as friends. Let your leaders know this.” He hefted his iron spear and, gripping it horizontally in two hands, extended it to the two. “Take this with you, a gift for the woman. I do not think she will be returning to her children soon - it will be of more use to her than to me until then.”

The druids shifted in their stance upon accepting the weapon, one of them taking it in her hand and testing its weight. She swallowed. “This is of quality make - I have never seen anything like it. The, the [i]théin[/i] Materix will be most grateful for this.”

“We have been honoured to be given this opportunity to share our stories and culture, and to learn from theirs. If, if I may be so forward as to ask - would any of these people like to come with us? To visit the south and, and learn of us as we have learned of them?”

The cervitaur lowered his head at the question, his lips pursed. “I do not like that any clansman or woman should leave the shade of the mountain. But as you have asked it, it is for them to answer.” And with that he turned and spoke in a loud voice that seemed to reach all, and his words caused the mountain clanspeople to talk among themselves. Frowns and shaking of heads was met with loud rebuttals and gesticulation. When this had gone on for a time, one of the greatfathers turned to the cervitaur with a question - as though seeking reassurance. The cervitaur nodded and spoke a few words, and the greatfather visibly relaxed. “Guik Kalta!” the greatfather said, and the youth who had accompanied Materix to the clearing stepped forward. The greatfather gestured to the translator too, and the clanspeople huddled all around to bid the ones who had been chosen farewell.

“You will wander from the mountain’s shade, Guik Kalta,” the cervitaur spoke in that strange tongue that was neither Dûnan nor Uirda, yet was fathomable to both, “the first of your people to do so. You will see much on their behalf, and you will be the face of the Uirda to a world that has not known you before. Walk upright, like the mountain, be strong of heart; and return with tales that will warm and regale your kin round the flame of winter.” The cervitaur stepped forth and placed one hand on the young man’s shoulders. Rummaging in his thick belt of leaves and vines, he emerged with a [url=https://srv.latostadora.com/designall.dll/mascara_tribal_killmonger--i:14138587228314138538;x:38;w:520;m:1.jpg]strange mask of stone[/url], intricately carved and decorated with thick mane-like hairs from the wild mountain goat. The youth accepted it and lowered his head respectfully, and then hefted his spear over his shoulder and turned with a smile to the two [i]draugmihra[/i]. The translator came up behind him and placing a hand over her heart and briefly taking a knee.

“Guik Kalta and I, Herla, lowly child of the Clennon Fen, will be honoured to accompany you.”

The [i]draugmihra[/i] exchanged wary looks. “Before you do, we must verify…” One of them took her staff in both hands and touched its tree-branch tip lightly on Herla’s forehead. A drop in space rippled through the air like in a pond, and the druid lowered her staff again. “... In the name of Fìrinn, the truthful one, do you swear that you have renounced all faith in the cruel and wicked Sigeran, the great devil and antithesis of the Eight and the Seven?”

“Ah- I. I never…” she seemed uncomfortable and flustered for a few seconds. “I never took up worship of Sigeran, fathers. The Eight and Seven alone know I have been true - and the mountain, for surely there is a god in it, bears witness that in its shade Sigeran’s name has not been spoken by me in worship.” The ripples faded, and the [i]draugmihra[/i] looked at one another again.

“Her account is true. We are honoured to have you with us. Worry not - should our people harass you over this misunderstanding, we will vouch for you in the name of Fìrinn and Taeg Eit. Any child of the Dûna is always welcome home…” The speaker smiled up at the cervitaur, “... Even if it is just for a visit.”

The cervitaur for his part almost smiled. “The mountain holds none prisoner. If you - who was once Herla of the Clennon Fen - wish to stay amongst your people, none will hold it against you. Though your man waits upon your return, his heart will mend in time I’m sure.” Herla glanced back at the greatfather who had tied the ring to her hair earlier and smiled, but said nothing. The cervitaur looked to the  [i]draugmihra[/i] and Guik Kalta as he turned away. “May the one who built the earth guide your steps always.” And with that he trotted away and, as suddenly as he had erupted from the earth, disappeared beneath it once more.

[centre]***[/centre]
[list][*][hider=Summary]Introducing the Uirda, a mountain people on the north-western boundaries of the Dunanlands. Dunan refugees have flowed into the region, where the Uirda have generally been welcoming - while they are an endogamic people, they do partially intermarry with the Dunan refugees - Uirda men are permitted to marry Dunan women.
One day Materix comes along with a band in search of Sigerans they can bring to justice, But the Uirda are not willing to hand over any Dunan refugees.
Matrix and her band are welcomed with a feast and there seems to be the beginnings of a potentially good trading relationship… before a cervitaur (Aeinwaje) crashes the party and tells the Dunans to take their metal and be gone. Things end on a bit of a bitter note as Matrix and her warriors depart.
The cervitaur, at the last moment, speaks with the druids accompanying Materix and they come to a limited understanding of sorts. He gifts them an iron spear for Materix, and a young Uirda youth and a young Dunan refugee woman accompany the band back to Ha-Duna - for exploratory purposes.[/hider]
[*][hider=Might]Consecrate Ironheart (Spear) 
[indent][i]Take Heart I[/i] (1DP => 0DP with Inspiration disc.): The person who owns this spear strikes an inspirational figure to all others, who are filled with conviction and purpose when following them.[/indent]
Consecrate Visage of the Mountain
[indent][i]Break, Evil[/i] (1DP => 0 DP with Wards disc.): This mask acts as a ward against misfortune, unfavourable omens, injury, disease, suffering, unnaturally induced desires, magics, and other harmful influences and evil. Its effects take place while worn or while present on one’s person. As it is a general ward, rather than a specific one, its power is not great - it will generally alleviate the worst effects rather than fully warding off particularly powerful influences, while lesser influences are completely warded.[/indent][/hider]
[*][hider=Prestige]+5 to Aeinwaje - 11 total[/hider][/list]