[center][h3]Biluda[/h3] With [@Antarctic Termite][/center][hr] The land was green from far above; on closer inspection, it was a reedy dull brown, punctuated with what could be best described as olive-hued plantlife, rather than a vibrant green. Mud splattered on Biluda’s boots, a nearby creek soaking the ground and pulling with it enough sediment to colour the water with clay. They shook one of their boots with a vague grunt of disgust, looking around for life. A dragonfly buzzed past without looking at them. They did not immediately see anything else, and began to walk out of the sucking mud. It pulled on their boots; Biluda felt the resistance even as their soul held on tight. Once they were finally out of the mudbank, they climbed up the embankment of the creek to get a better view, their white mask cresting the slope to reveal the wider landscape. There were no trees to be seen. A low, gravelly hill rose steadily a little way away. The grass was tufty and short, punctuated with stumpy little scrubs and an occasional rock sleeping under a skin of lichen. It was all low, even the slow, clear little streams that wandered around until they fell into the creek, which were ankle-deep. This was moorland, then: a highland that was short of everything. Biluda turned to the rough hill; even if it would provide minimal vantage, it was still better than the reedy soil that fouled their boots. They walked towards the hill, dodging softer ground as they kept to the stubby grass. It was almost comforting when the crunch of gravel sounded under them, and they continued up the minimal slope. No sooner had they come to the top of the slope than they saw the thin and wavering smoke of some thin and wavering hearth, drifting up from the bottom of a meagre and crumbly landslip that marked the far edge of the hill (such as it was). The smoke rose from a grass-covered hovel of peat or packed mud, too large for a water-rat and too lacking for a bjork shelter, and didn’t even clear the top of the little cliff before the breeze would whisk it away again. The reeds nearby had been… chewed, perhaps, and downstream of the brookside hovel was the first sign of a tree: a stunted birch as white as Biluda’s new body, and not an inch taller. Seeing no other life beyond the base insects, Biluda carefully moved down the slope, the shallow nature doing nothing to prevent the loose gravel from slipping under their boots. WIth a few false-starts and missteps, though no major mishap, the Kynikos made it down the slope and began to walk towards the hovel. With nothing moving, they approached the peat mud construction and leaned to look inside the door. Just then – a splash behind them. Biluda turned. The Kynikos locked eyes with the muskrat. The muskrat locked eyes with the Kynikos. “HRIII!” [AAH!] Such was the shock of the encounter that startled rodent only yelled several seconds after its bundle of green reeds had tumbled out of its gaping mouth. The yelling being now finished, as was proper, it pointed to the big white apparition with a sharp claw, bits and bobs of jumbled words tumbling from its mouth with the reeds. “Gem in the sky!” Biluda exclaimed, bringing up their arms in a defensive reaction. They stumbled backwards, tripping over the hovel and swinging sideways, rolling into the mud of the creek, whacked by reeds. The reeds whacked them more as they proceeded to also flail, attempting to achieve some sense of direction. “HIEK IRII IKA IE!” [Bloody great big white thing in the reeds!] Without thinking, the chunky aquatic lawn trimmer threw itself across the muddy bank and into the reeds on top of the white apparition, its brain executing a simple calculation: something new and strange was either friend, foe, or food, and a simple two-thirds majority of those things were best off seized as swiftly as possible. Short as it was, the muskrat was heavier than it looked, and the combined confusion quickly rolled both of them into the stream true. The reeds that had seemed so intent on laying Biluda low were replaced with the wavering blue of water – visibility short-lived as loose mud and sediment bloomed from the streambed and the Kynikos’ own body. They could not see anything. Something was moving next to them, flailing with them. Fight or flight instincts made a split-second decision. A heavy boot swung out, imbued with all the weight and power of the moon, and connected with something warm. There was a scream, and Biluda heard something landing nearby, through the rush of the current. Which way was up? It was impossible to tell. Though the Kynikos needed not breath, they continued to flail in the water, desperately trying to find their sense of direction. Somewhere in the modest distance, the big rodent crumpled and squirmed in a loosely foetal position where it had fallen, wrapped in its long tail, its claws- hands?- pressed firmly against its lower belly as it whined in pain. “Gik! Kii kii pri aghik! Yiek ikk!” [Owch! Bleedin’ heck, me ovaries! I needed those!] Its cries vented a good deal of its discomfort while doing exactly nothing to pick it up from where it lay. They did, however, attract a curious thing. A bumbling, lopsided contraption of straw and twigs and clay walked-rolled-wandered into view from the reeds, staring at the scene with a rune-marked pebble that could have been an eye or a little head. If it had any intention to do anything, the thinking needed to decide what was clearly a little beyond it. Biluda’s head finally emerged from the water, and their blue eyes blinked, glowing brightly through their mask. Still in the throes of panic, they pointed one finger at the runic contraption that could only ponderingly be called a golem and screamed, “What in the name of all that is holy are you?! What is going on?! Get me out of this damned stream!” Golems of Bjarskaland, as Biluda was shortly to discover in detail, were notoriously stunted of both mind and body, and never did it show quite so much as when they had to comprehend a new order. The bundle of twigs lay there exactly as still as a bundle of twigs would be expected to lay, its master howling all the while (“Chee rik gachik rii!” [Sort yourself out, you long-legged gawpsheet!]). Then, after a painfully slow couple of seconds, it scuttled down into the stream and lay its tiny gravel paws on the edge of Biluda’s sleeve, tugging uselessly in what it felt must be the right direction. The Kynikos was quick on the draw, and sharp of mind. They began to swim in the direction of the tugging, giving up any hope of direction as their head bobbed up and down in the water. All the while, they howled their frustrations at the Golem, though they didn’t bother to put words to it. There was one upside to the blasted water; the mud had mostly been stripped from Biluda’s body, and their white shone through once more, albeit tarnished from its original gleam. There was only one place to go, only one place in the world that the golem really knew as different from the other places, and its blessed little heart would not be dissuaded by any amount of cursing. Biluda’s frazzled internal compass only steadied by the time they recognised their own shape pressed into mud and reeds where they had tumbled down the bank, and were now being innocently tugged back up, to the mud hovel, where a second muskrat was staring wide-eyed with its hands over its mouth. Biluda calmed themselves down after a few moments, and their hands planted in the mud beneath them. It was undignified, but they were brought to their feet, in all their mud-dripped glory, and with an annoyed tone, they pointed a finger at the second muskrat and threatened, “If you jump me as well, I’m going to drown you in the stream.” They knew the threat would not pass the language barrier; but it felt good to say nonetheless. There was no need to worry this time. Whatever Biluda had said was clearly understood by the rat to be very important, and it nodded anyway, fearfully following the lilting melody of the alien’s voice. Biluda scoffed, and turned to survey the land once more, before they suddenly jumped at the muskrat. Their hand sideswiped the muskrat, and they stormed into the opening they had created to climb into the little hovel. There, they hoped to find something to dry themselves off with, be it some sort of towel or fire. The golem followed, and Biluda entered otherwise unmolested, the thrown rodent scurrying off to attend her injured sister. The bad news was that the hovel entrance did not, in fact, widen into a miraculously spacious house with a full bookshelf and larder. It wasn’t a burrow, but it also wasn’t a hut, or even a lodge, though it had bits of all of them. The walls were mud-packed reed wattle and the roof was mostly peat. An array of flint knives were stuck into a straw bundle near where strips of salt fish hung from the ceiling, and there at last the stooped-over Kynikos found the hearth, hissing steadily away on its supply of coal and dung. With a growl, Biluda reached out to the coal, taking care to avoid the dung. Scooping up two great big handfuls, they tossed it all into the fire. Then, they reached out for more, and tossed those handfuls in as well. “Get bigger already!” They yelled at the fire, fanning it with their hands to encourage its growth. This succeeded at blowing a lot of smoke into their face. ‘Mind the fire’ was a simple order for golems and children, and the little pebble-head was just about capable of doing just that. However, ‘build up the fire’ was equally simple, and the poor creature immediately set about arranging coal on the existing flames and stuffing the gaps with straw. The hovel being shortly burned down in this way, Biluda emerged from the collapsing heap of hot mud and charred reed completely dry, if rather well-smoked. They took a few steps away from the ruins of what was once a livelihood, stepping back onto dry ground, thankfully out of the mud. As the heat of the moment wore off, a twinge of guilt at burning down the couple’s home hit them, and they looked over to see how the two muskrats were doing. It seemed that at this point they were gone. In their place, about a dozen sizeable males stood around the bottom of the stream in various states of grizzledness. The group noticed Biluda and fell silent. The last to stop making noise was the one sharpening his claws one by one on a small whetstone. Biluda let out a sigh, and raised their hands slowly, their fingers outstretched and their palms facing the muskrats. They muttered, flatly, “Just take me to – do you even have prisons?” The assembly listened in silence, then began to share bewildered glances. A murmur of squeaking quickly rose into a general hubbub of chitters, chirrups, grunts and whistles. [Is it some kind of deer?] [Looks like an overgrown spider to me.] [We could ask it.] [Use your head. It doesn’t have the faintest clue where it is.] [...Where are we, anyway?] [Trook and Frook’s place.] [Oh yeah, they married my fifth son.] [They married [i]my[/i] fifth son, idiot.] [Oh. He’s dead, right?] [Had it coming.] [Well, they can marry my son next.] [Why are we here again?] Some spontaneous order asserted itself among the rodents after some debate of the most profound and vital sort, which was naturally settled by the cleverest manbjarsk- who was also, by no coincidence, the oldest- shouting for everyone to shut up and help take the foreign spirit to the Great Sun-Headed One. After a long wait, the rodents swiftly encircled Biluda and began to march them towards what was probably the next hill on the horizon, the ones in front looking back often over their shoulders, those behind close at their heels. Biluda allowed themself to be driven on with no real protest. Slow was the going, though the muskrats were hustling on as fast as they could- their legs were short, and they weren’t built for jogging. The whole assembly was lucky that their destination was so close. As they approached it, the bjarska dispersed slightly, as if afraid to be seen with the alien, and their wariness turned from their captive to the hill before them. It was noticeably taller than the previous one, and they were approaching from the cliff side, towards where a great dark gouge had been weathered in the rough and crumbly rock. “Kyech hi,” said the old rat, pointing to the gap. [In there.] The squeaking of the muskrats was unintelligible to Biluda, and they did not fully understand what the diminutive creatures wanted. However, they saw only one path forward. Bodies blocked every route except for the cave entrance, and Biluda, with one last look at the surface world, walked in. The cave was not at all deep. What might have been an antechamber to some more epic system of tunnels elsewhere was, here, the only room. Its high ceiling bore a small crack to the hill above, and the light that spilled therefrom and leached in from the wide entrance illuminated the denizen sitting crosslegged in the center of the chamber. It was a giant. Its twisted limbs were formed from petrified stone. Its head was shining brass diorama of heath-flowers, enclosed in a bubble of curious magic wider than Biluda was tall. Its only movement was to incline its straightened back forwards every so slightly as they entered. That was all it needed to do. Something, somewhere in that eyeless orb, was watching, and waiting. Biluda’s voice cut through the shade of the cave and the lone beam of light, “Hello?” They were tense. They did not recognize this creature, nor did it seem to share any traits with the much more barbarous creatures outside. Their blue eyes glowed in the dark, lightly illuminating their mask as they waited for some kind of response from the giant. Perhaps the creature was itself waiting for some more conversation, for it made no immediate response. Eventually, it lifted its big hands from its knees, and slowly opened them towards Biluda in a general gesture of questioning. “I take it you don’t understand me,” Biluda sighed, taking several steps forward, careful to avoid uneven footing in the shade. They held out their hands, in a hope to avoid being taken as a threat as an approach was made. One more intonation, just in case, “I was brought here by some little brown-furred creatures. What is their relationship to you?” The giant moved with quick ease this time, raising its index finger as soon as it was questioned. Biluda was finally in luck. It pointed out to the entrance of the hollow, then made a motion like a scurrying rat into a hole formed by its other hand before tapping its chest. It made another rodent with its hand, and the two scurried into one another, its stone fingers clattering together as they squabbled. Leaning in closely to the imaginary bjarska in its hands, almost squinting at them, it pushed them away from one another, the left rat with its right hand, the right with its left, and then wagged its finger. It looked at Biluda, and resumed its casual pose. Biluda looked down at the ground a moment, considering what the giant could be conveying. Once they had decided, they looked back up, running across the decorative diorama with their glowing gaze. Hesitantly, they asked, “So, you are some sort of judge or arbiter of these people?” Double thumbs up. The Great Sun-Headed One even lifted its hands and added a polite little clap, which boomed tremendously around the shallow cave. It settled back down and once again opened a free hand towards its guest, a little more pointedly this time, nodding slightly. Biluda brought their hand out, and with a great deal of trepidation, rested it in the middle of the giant’s palm. They asked, “Is this what you want me to do? What is going to happen?” Its chest rose, then fell again, lower than it was, a remarkably accurate imitation of a sigh. It leaned in a little, touching its cool-but-not-cold stone fingertip gently to the top of Biluda’s head, then bringing it up to the side of the elegant brass egg it used as a head. Holding it there, nodding patiently a few times- aha! It raised its index finger and nodded understandingly in its ordinary pose. The Kynikos elected to hazard another guess as to what the giant wanted; they paused for a moment to consider their options and presentation, before launching into an explanation, “I am Biluda, a Kynikos-in-exile from the Academy. I, ah, arrived to this land, and was immediately set upon by one of the creatures outside.” They paused again, deciding on how much blame to place on themselves and what to pin on the creatures. They then continued, “In the ensuing struggle, I wounded them and their fire was let loose from its pit, burning down their hovel and their..” they struggled to find an appropriate word to describe the golem from before, “their living straw contraption?” Without hesitating long, the arbiter-giant turned around and plucked from some niche behind it a smooth rock tied in straw and twigs. The twigs waved at Biluda briefly before being put back in the golem creche. A living straw contraption, yes indeed. A continuation of the explanation, “Afterwards, a large mob of them set upon me and I surrendered. They brought me here, to you.” The Great Sun-Headed One steepled its fingers and nodded sagely, pondering the matter. Then it reached out, very gently, patiently, and wrapped its hands around the stranger. Biluda was inspected, turned around, curled up, straightened out, gently shaken for loose bits and bobs, and set down on the cave floor again. The giant… shrugged. Two squabbling rats? They blew away on the wind in a flurry of fingers. A home blown away in the same manner? Built up again, one knuckle at a time, good as new. The giant waved it away into some imaginary distance like a loose bit of dust and shrugged again. What was there to do? Life would go on. The bjarska would recover stronger for Biluda’s antics, and Biluda… well, nothing wrong with a learning experience. In other words, it seemed, all was well. “So, I’m free to go? What do I tell the creatures outside? Will they just let me go?” Biluda asked next, as they turned to look back at the entrance briefly. Their gaze lingered at ambient light filtering through the rough gorge that made up the entrance, before they returned to watching the giant for its response. All they got was a friendly wave. With a turned back, Biluda extricated themself from the cave, out to the crowd of muskrats waiting outside. Some were gone, but seven remained, pouring something black-brown and bubbly from a jar into clay cups and sipping as they cast dice, using gravel chips as tokens. A young bruiser noticed the Kynikos and squeaked. “Chye, shru pikhii!” [Hey, he’s not squished!] “Iiy yk?” [What? Not even a bit?] “Nii cheh-kiui iu. Kirire y eesh.” [Shake the piss from your head, you decomposing sponge. Not a speck of dust on him.] The rodents discussed the matter among themselves for a few seconds in loud chirrups, but made no move on the stranger until, finally, the old one grabbed the cup from the smallest one, topped it up, and waddled over, cautiously holding it out. “Ikriip ke,” he said. “Chekichek hiiri kuii. Hniknipi?” [Let’s start over, stranger. We’ve just begun our game. Won’t you join us?] The cup was accepted into a white, gloved hand; the Kynikos looked it over, and said, flatly, “I assume you want me to play a game with you, but I still can’t understand you,” they paused, and then added, “I’m sure you can’t understand me, either, but whatever.” They let themselves fall backwards, slamming down into the grass in a sitting position next to the muskrats. They then asked, “So, how do you play this game?” It turned out the game was very simple. After the third cup of beet beer, it was even simpler. Biluda won every round. [hr] [hider=UNEXPECTED CROSSOVER?] Biluda lands in Bjarskaland. He looks around for a bit and is immediately attacked by a startled muskrat. Muskrat shenanigans ensue. Biluda gets pulled out of a stream into a bjarsk hovel by a little pebble golem, which are a common, simple-minded and mute slave race to the bjarska. He tries to warm himself up in the hovel only to burn the place down. Some muskrats come to… idk, beat him up, probably. Feeling a bit bad, he lets them arrest him and take him to the resident legal authority, The Great Sun-Headed One, an Alethesian Guardian. The GSHO can’t speak either, so they play charades together. The entire muskrat legal system is based on these charades, which probably explains a lot. The GSHO is lenient towards accidents and the hovel will be rebuilt, so Biluda is released. The muskrats accept this judgement and allow him to join them for dice and drinks. I’ll put a coin in the ‘Termite writes a bjarsk post without mentioning scent hierarchy once’ jar. [/hider] [hider=Biluda] Biluda - 3 Spirit +1 (presence in post) +1 (main character of post) +3 (post length) Biluda - 8 Spirit [/hider] [hider=???] The rodents discussed the matter among themselves for a few seconds in loud chirrups, but made no move on the stranger until, finally, the old one grabbed the cup from the smallest one, topped it up, and waddled over, cautiously holding it out. “Rat noises”, he said. “More fucking rat noises.” [/hider]