[centre][img]https://www.arcgis.com/sharing/rest/content/items/b39101de69c340f4a752066fb6c241ea/resources/eQmQB2xwTUqPfYc0bZp0-.jpeg?w=800[/img]
[h2]The Voganids[/h2][/centre]
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[centre][h1]Svarog Shellhunter - The Things We Do For Love[/h1][/centre]
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The dam in the works already looked more magnificent than any construction ever seen or recorded in the Thousand Lakes yet. The construction did not just dam up the river and created a small lake, but it stood twice as tall as it had before, like a grand bridge connecting the opposing sides of the water. The foundation was an impenetrable bedrock of stone constructed from boulders chewed to perfect pillars. The top of the dam had been outfitted with dens and chambers on several floors, and the top was a timber spire stabbing at the sky in honour of the gods. On a floating raft stage behind the dam, priestesses and shamans of all the gods did their dances on a great stage for all to witness, the dam becoming almost like an amphitheatre when they did so. The scenes were illuminated by torches burning with the flames of the Burning Snake-in-the-Air, and fire-priests would initiate the plays in the night with dances in Her honour. Here, stories of the greatness of the gods were told over and over, and the new crowd favourite was the play of how the newest local celebrity, Yaroslaw Boulderbite, conquered the wilderness and its cruel mistress, the Green Murder, and gathered materials with his lieutenant Nolinya to construct the Grand Dam of Voga.

Now the Voganids felt safe for the first time in over a year: Their dam had already been attacked by a bear once smelling sweets within the walls; yet even bear claws could not scratch the stone and clay mortar and break through the outer wall. This new security and peace of mind set the Voganids on other thoughts: Now came the time to recover the prosperity they had had before. With the Rod, food was not a pressing issue, but this left one more important point: Recovering the populace.

In times of crisis, womanbjorks would lower their usually fairly high standards for manbjorks in favour of the survival of the pack and the clan, but this was not the case now, especially among the higher strata of the Voganid society: Luga had not chosen a mate yet, and the suitors were lining up for a chance to be selected as prime consort, that most powerful position of [i]bolshakov[/i]. But with the recent rise of great heroes amongst their people, it was no longer enough for a simple manbjork to show how fast he could swim or how few bites it took him to snap a thick twig.

"Hah! I do not know whether I should laugh or cry!" the [i]bolshaya[/i] had mocked the suitors. She had then pointed to the exit of her new royal den and declared, "The manbjorks of the Voga have greater skills than biting timber faster than our neighbours! Look to the Mish-Cheechel; look to the Boulderbiter - tell me that [i]those[/i] are not worthy manbjorks! Come back once you have made a name for yourselves like they have!"

For most of the manbjorks who left the hall that day, that was the end of their dream to swoon the chieftess. They would return to the woods and continue their lives as woodsbjorks or foragers and likely be selected by a lesser womanbjork after proving their skills in the primary sector. There was one, however, who took the [i]bolshaya[/i]'s words to heart:

A young manbjork named Svarog. 

Svarog hadn't been Voganid for long. During the reconstruction, refugees for a nearby dam that also had been assaulted by agents of the Green Murder had come to the Voga dam looking for a place to stay. The [i]bolshaya[/i] Luga had taken them in on the condition that they assimilate into the Rod Clan rather than to vassalise like the Wickertooths had. The clan chieftess, Lada, had bowed down to Luga and fasted under guard until she had grown so thin that she could no longer produce her own scent, as was the custom when submitting to a mightier womanbjork. Svarog had been part of that clan, the Pine Clan, named so after the trees most used in their dam, and he had fallen in love with the [i]bolshaya[/i] at first sight. A fat, mighty womanbjork such as her had all the luscious curves a manbjork could ever want, and he was going to win her favour no matter what.

But how would Svarog interpret the command to make a name for himself? Mish-Cheechel was way too far away to mentor him, and even if he was nearby, he might not have wanted to. Could he start his own vendetta against the Green Murder? Nah, that wouldn't be very original - no one likes a whittler copying a whittler. Maybe he could reach out to the Yaroslaw Boulderbite and study advanced construction? Nah, same problem - the sphere of dam construction already had its star, and Yaroslaw Boulderbite and his silver-sheen teeth were unmatched in endurance and strength by anything non-divine. 

So maybe he’d hoard a huge treasure for the [i]bolshaya[/i]? Okay, now he’d gotten somewhere. No one had tried doing that yet: The Voganid manbjorks were still all about self-sufficiency - a good manbjork ideally needed no clan of his own; he could gather wood, build the dam and serve his womanbjork all without the help of competing males. What if instead of the laborious path to glory, Svarog chose the wealthy?

But what would this treasure for his beloved Luga be, he pondered and thought of a memory: One day during the Reconstruction, a stranger had come to the Voga and begged passage. The guards had held her off with their fire-hardened spears, as was the custom - if you didn’t smell like a Voganid, you had no business by the Voga. And yet the stranger had been granted passage anyway through a powerful spell: The stranger had spoken soft words to the guards and planted shiny charms in their palms - beautiful, brazen shells from the distant sea. “Cowries”, the enchantress had called them, and the guards had been smitten with awe and let her pass, their eyes absorbed by the colour and sheen of the shells. How had the enchanter acquired these shells, many had asked her. 

“On the distant beach, there lives a tribe of giant slothmen who always walk on two feet. However, these are not like the sloths who also walk on four legs: These slothmen are with less fur and clearer speech; they hunt in the saltwater as no bjork can, and they collect these shells off the lake floor under the Great Undrinkable Lake.”

This had sparked a brief sense of wonder among the Voganids, but it had quickly passed as the looming threat of attacks by the Green Murder compelled all to work on the dam. Now, it seemed, the event had passed out of memory for most. 

Svarog had decided. He would find these slothmen and ask them to give him a basket of these cowries. His [i]bolshaya[/i] would surely adore him for that! Svarog the Traveller set off from the Voga later that very same day, armed with a fire-hardened stone spear and loaded with a river reed basket with dried waterplants on his back. He travelled alone, for he had no wish to share his idea with anyone. 

The journey was long and arduous, but Svarog was previously of the Pine Clan, and no one in the Pine Clan had ever been caught in the open by wild beasts - he was not about to be the first! The manbjork slept under the carcasses of trees and kept to the river water during the day where few of the land predators could smell him. This was not a perfect solution, as the waters had many dangers as well, and not rarely did he have to kick himself back onto land to avoid the ravenous jaws of an oncoming sturgeon or a bloodthirsty pike. The journey took him nearly two weeks of floating downriver, avoiding predators and circumventing hostile dams, but at long last, a stinky, wet and hungry manbjork by the name of Svarog reached the end of the endless web of rivers, tasting brackwater for the first time in his life. He gagged and climbed onto land the second he could. Here, nature was nothing like at home: Endless giant forests had given way to white beaches full of stinky, black, bulbous lakeweed, and then a blue lake that stretched so far that no little bjork could ever hope to see the other side, no matter how tall they were. 

This had to be the Great Undrinkable Lake, Svarog thought and spat out what remained of brackwater in his mouth. Here, he would surely eventually find the home of the slothmen with the shells. He followed the beach for half a day, but it didn’t take long before he became terribly thirsty. The sun wasn’t as strong deep in the woods as it was here, and the sands cooked beneath his four feet. Before long, Svarog had to stop for a break and look for water. He headed into the woods in search of a small brook, but he looked and looked and looked and found nothing. The sun cooked at the surface of his fur, and the little bjork was certain that he would pass out any moment. His movements became sluggish; his eyelids flicked lazily up and down; his tail dragged against the ground like a dull plow.

Then finally, he passed out, and a nearby growl could be heard. Svarog’s instincts tried to fire up, but the bjork was too tired, too weak. Oh well, at least he would die in the service of his lady…

The growls came closer, a crazed, hyena-like cackle and the thundering thump of menacing steps. Svarog faded out of reality and let fate take him.

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A wash of cold dripped over Svarog’s lips. His eyes were too crusted to open, but his consciousness reawoke and tried to make sense of these sensations. Blimey, had he slept through the summer and into winter?

A menacing wheeze hissed beside him, followed by another quiet rumble. Panic claimed the manbjork’s systems and the little creature tried to muster the strength to escape blindly. It realised then that its body laid in cool water - freshwater. He splashed and tossed, but ten mighty talons hooked around him thick as branches and held him down. Svarog squealed and squeaked, and whatever held him growled back and seethed like water on a fire. Finally the panic tugged his lids free of the crust and Svarog stared a giant in the face - a horror of the woods! The enchantress had spoken true - it was a sloth! An almost hairless sloth! A terrible, vicious, almost hairless sloth! Svarog squealed some more and the sloth, which he now realised there were two of, unleashed a hacking roar that almost seemed to mock him.

The second slothman, much smaller and much less hairy, grabbed Svarog by the fur and clawed him down the back. Svarog tried to slap him with his free tail - the creature cast some more hacking roars his way. The one that held him flipped him over and tried to mutilate his chest with his talons - they scraped and scratched, but thankfully Svarog’s fur, like any good manbjork’s, was thick and dense. Sloth claws like these could do nothing against it - hell, the attack was almost comfortable!

Svarog curled his belly and yapped at the talons, trying to get a good bite in. He missed, though, and the creature understandably snarled, but then also wagged that same digit right in front of him tauntingly, pointing skywards. Why? What was it pointing at? Svarog followed the digit to the ceiling of what looked to be a leathery cave, like the insides of the cloaks that those weird shamans would dress in. The manbjork struggled still against his captor, but to no avail: Its talons were soft and bendable, yet strong as wooden logs. He tried to bite again, but couldn’t reach. Truly, he would be trapped here, and the slothmen almost seemed to be playing with him. What heartless monsters! Couldn’t they just kill him and get it over with?

Then the largest and hairiest of them put him back down in the basin of water. Svarog tried to take the chance to escape and skipped out of the basin, but the ten talons snared around him again and put him back to the sound of a low growl. Svarog escaped again and was put back. That mocking, hacking murmur…

Kha, kha, kha, the two creatures chorused. Kha, kha, kha, kha, kha. Svarog felt smaller, lesser. They kept him here for entertainment, he realised, for who else would store their food like this? The thought sickened him - these slothmen were worse than bears and eagles. 

After a while, they left him alone in the cave. Svarog was by himself now, sourly quenching his thirst by sipping the now quite sweaty water in his basin. No matter. He could surely escape this place. He hopped out of the basin and looked around. It was dark here, but dying charcoals in the centre of the cave offered a conservative brightness that allowed him to make out contours. Using his well-developed nose, he felt his way forward to a crack under the cave wall - an odd place for there to be a crack. He didn’t have his spear nor his basket anymore, but whatever - he had to save himself now. Svarog flattened himself against the ground and prepared to squeeze himself out of the crack, but realised quickly that this was no ordinary cave wall at all - this, this was just like fur, like touching the skins that, again, those weird shamans would wear. His eyes squinted at the material - was this cave made out of fur? He then noticed the faint whites of bone arching up towards the centre of the ceiling - mammoth tusks. Svarog shuddered and crawled out.

Outside, it was midday. Svarog heard growling and roaring from behind the mound of fur he had crawled out of - looking over it, it looked like the body of a mammoth if you cut off the head and the legs; like a half-orb of fur. Svarog admittedly had little love for mammoths given that they walked where they pleased and would frequently challenge the strength of dams all around the region, but this? Only shamans did this sort of weird, macabre stuff and wore the furs of other things. 

A nearby roar sent Svarog into hiding again. He watched from underneath a fold in the mound a giant slothman pass, a basket in his upper legs (or were they arms?) full of wiggly fish. Fish, huh? Maybe he was still at the shore? Svarog looked around - yup, over there he could see the sheen of the white beach in the distance. Then maybe this could be the land of the cowries? 

He tossed another look over to the corner of the mound where he could just make out the edges of another mound and trace the scent of fire. He kept low and snuck around, sticking to the underside of the fur flaps surrounding the foot of the mound he had been in. Thankfully, his brown fur blended well with his hiding spot, so he wasn’t easy to see even in daylight. He just prayed his fur’s sheen or his stink wouldn’t rat him out in the moment.

That was when he saw it: There, right there by another fur mound - a basket as tall as he was, filled to the limit with cowries of all sizes and colours such that many had spilled over and laid in the gravel beneath. Gods, if he could run off with that…

He looked around again. By the place where he could smell smoke, more hacking, snickering growls could be heard. He measured the distance to the basket visually - that was a fairly open space and a fairly long skip. He bit a claw in thought. Could he even lift the basket?

“Oh gods around and above,” he whispered pleadingly, “anyone - how do I take this basket?”

Suddenly, a voice rang out within his mind [color=CECECE]”Well, well, another beaver seeking to steal, oh this must be our lucky day.”[/color] 

Svarog stiffened and cowered underneath the fur flaps. “Gods!” he squealed in a whisper. “Who are you?”

[color=CECECE]”That is simple, we are Yesaris, and we help, those like you,”[/color] A buzzing sound began to grow in the air, and Svarog could notice the slowly growing number of flies congregating around, [color=CECECE]”So you wish to steal a basket? And what does this mortal intend to do in return for our aid?”[/color]

Svarog gulped. “Th-the basket looks very nice, for sure… I’d, I’d sure like it.” He scratched his cheek in thought. “I, I could give ya some of the shells!” he proposed.

A harsh, chittering cackle was the response [color=CECECE]”Svarog, we are a god, we have no need for shiny shells, we are in need of, better offerings and, sustenance.”[/color]

The little bjork frowned and licked his incisor. “H-how about I ask one of those weird shamans to offer some meat in your name when I get home, huh? I’ve heard that the gods like that!” He ducked underneath the flap as a slothman passed by and spat a fishbone on the ground next to him with a [i]pft![/i], flapping its talons at a cloud of flies.

[color=CECECE]”Hmmm, we suppose that will work, it would be nice to gain an offering finally,”[/color] for a moment, the god was silent, as the buzzing flies began to coalesce together, [color=CECECE]”Very well, we will help you with this, endeavor, in exchange for speaking of our name and gifting us some offerings.”[/color]

Suddenly, the flies all gathered together, buzzing into a singular mass that twisted and shaped as the flies moved about. As suddenly as they began, they flew away, in their place, settled neatly upon the floor next to the bjork, was a long cloak, made of crudely stitched together leather and skin, it would easily fit over his body and shroud his form. 

[color=CECECE]”Take this cloak and put it on, it will allow you to change your form into one that can blend into the environment, letting you get away with your little thefts. Just remember who helped you out with this.”[/color] 

Svarog took the cloak and packed it around himself. He still had an aversion to wearing fur over his own fur, but this was life or death. He bowed in no particular direction and said, “Ye-yes, You of Many Voices! I won’t forget it!” 

[color=CECECE]”Yes yes, you will not, safe adventures, Svarog.”[/color] With that, the voice faded away, and the buzzing flies dispersed, flying off into the distance of the skies above. The little bjork tested the fabric between his fingers - it was dense and coarse, yet loose and patchy. It looked like scrappy work, but it was surely divine, right? He measured the distance again. He, he hadn’t been tricked just now, right?

He let his eyes be seduced by the shells again - how many times had the priestesses ever warned of cruel and misleading spirits? He thought this through: Never, was the answer. The gods, except for the cursed anathema of all bjorkkind, the Green Murder, were good! This had to mean that the Many Voices had to be good, too! So he clutched the cloak and skittered into the open.

…

Nothing. He hadn’t been spotted yet. He kept skittering across the open space. Some of the slothmen even looked directly in his direction and didn’t even squint. He wondered for a minute what form he had taken on in their eyes, but didn’t decide to dwell on it too much. He soon reached the basket and marveled at its size. Okay, it hadn’t been quite as tall as him after all, but it was very close, and it was [i]hnng![/i] heavy! He looked around - still no one had noticed him, but he heard some commotion in the mound he had just come from. Out of the opening, which he could see clearly from this angle, came the smaller slothman and growled something to the larger ones, who seemed to shrug amongst themselves. After some yapping, the smaller one seemed to get one of the larger ones to join it for a look-around. This was not good. 

Svarog acted quickly. He lifted the basket with all his might and waddled clumsily into the woods nearby. Again, he had gone unseen, but it was clear his theft had caused more commotion than his escape. He slept in the heaps of moss that night, both him and the basket hiding under the cloak as slothmen with torches patrolled the periphery of his vision. He was still hungry and weak, but now he was so close to completing his quest - if he could just get this basket home, Luga would choose him as her consort for certain!

The journey home took young Svarog a whole month; the heavy basket slowed him down considerably, and it took him almost a week and a half to find his way back to a river he was familiar with. All the while, he foraged the forest for what scraps he could eat and drank sap from birch trees to stave off the thirst. His incisors grew long over the course of the journey, but he never had time to really sit down and gnaw on a good tree; whenever he would take a break to rest, he would cloak himself and his loot, but predators could still smell him and frequently sniffed at his very face behind the cloak when he slept in the woods. Once a boar had gotten a bit too curious and begun digging at his cloak. Svarog had then bitten hard at the boar’s snout and sent it grunting away in a sulk. It was both safer and riskier. When he finally reached the rivers, his travels sped up considerably. He had been nearly out of strength from carrying and dragging the basket along, but now he could float the basket on a raft of sticks and driftwood. Whenever he encountered another dam, he would make landfall and wrap himself and the treasure in the cloak, sneaking around as quietly as possible. 

One time, he had circumvented a fairly large dam and found that its inhabitants had stripped much of the surrounding forests bare. This made it hard to find materials for a new raft, so he tried to swim with the basket in his arms. However, this made him much too heavy and he accidentally dropped the basket, which sank like a rock. Svarog spent a whole two days picking up stray shells that had fallen out after he had fished the basket back up - he was certain he had lost many for good.

But eventually, finally, after a month had passed and his body ached like it had been beaten and tortured, Svarog reached the Grand Dam of Voga once again. With the last of his strength, he carried the basket past the guards and the damsfolk, all of whom marveled at its contents, and up to the tallest den on the dam. There, he was helped inside by the [i]bolshaya[/i]'s guards and managed to squeeze out the words:

"Fuh yoo, mah luhve…" Then Svarog, who had laboured so hard for his love, the chieftess, passed flat out on the mud floor, exhausted and barely alive.

Luga seemed surprised to say the least, and as she descended from her throne of reeds and wood, she ordered, "Medicine! Medicine for my consort!" Priestesses hurried on over with herbs and sapwine as the [i]bolshaya[/i] picked up a silver cowrie from the basket and studied it closely. "Marvellous…" she whispered and addressed the closest healer. "Let him rest in my nest while he recovers and make certain he is fed well and often. One such as him who can bring his chieftess a treasure like this…" She smiled from ear to ear and compared the brazen sheen of another shell with her own brown, oily fur. "... He is a true manbjork."

Even though he was unconscious, one could almost detect a slight uptick in the edge of Svarog's mouth. His quest had Been completed. Now he was consort and bound to his love forever.

The Shellhunter, [i]bolshakov[/i], Consort-Lord of the Voga, had been born, and that night, the shamans charred and burnt a whole deer in the name of the Many Voices. 

[hider=Summaree!]
The Voga dam is lit as hell and now that food and shelter are checked off, the next step is to repopulate! Now all the manbjorks are fighting over mates, and no mate is as sought after as Luga, the big chieftess. Luga has standards, however - only the likes of Mish-Cheechel and Yaroslaw Boulderbite are good enough for her. This brings us to Svarog, who thinks about getting her a treasure, as he is neither a warrior like Mish or a builder like Yaro. Svarog remembers a visitor who came to the Voga some time back with cowries and decides to find Luga a shit ton of cowries.

He travels for ages to this mystical land of cowries by the sea. Once he gets to the sea, he passes out from thirst and is found by slothmen (childans), who take him in as a pet. Here, Svarog recovers, but hates being a pet, so he tries to escape. On the way, he finds a basket of cowries as tall as he is and wants to steal it. He is scared of getting caught, though. 

In comes Yesaris who grants him a magical cloak that helps him shapeshift. With this, Svarog steals the basket and barely makes it home alive, being weak and hungry for a month. When he eventually gets home, he passes out and is taken in by Luga, who names him prime consort. That night, meat is sacrifised to Yesaris as payment for the cloak.
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[hider=Vigor costs]
Yesaris: 
Starts: 9
0(discounted from 1): Create the Cloak of Ticks, a cloak that can allow its wearer to shapeshift their form into an object commonly found in the area. This only changes the perception though and is not a full shapeshift(ie: a Bjork turning into a pebble will still be squishy like a Bjork). Meaning that if someone is dedicated to searching for them, it's not entirely difficult to find them.
End: 9
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