[center][h1]The Renevits of India[/h1]
Featuring Rockpetter
[img]https://i.imgur.com/IDDZX7n.png[/img]

[i][sub]Written with Kho![/sub][/i][/center]

When Reaper returned with his band, hauling an avian beast of rather tremendous size, it was with no small degree of confusion that he and his band of six (and accompanied by the strider, Elutil) surveyed the place. They had left a bustling camp at morn, and now returned to… nothing at all. The six men gathered around Reaper, each wearing deep frowns. No matter in what direction they looked across the empty wastes, they could see no sign of them. “They’ve just…disappeared.” Fishlancer said. Beside him, Netter and Donkeywhacker murmured in agreement, while Galloper stood to the side and fiddled with his rope. 
“Not so much as a shadow of them as far as the eye can see.” Horsebreaker confirmed. Claymender was crouched low, looking for any trail or sign hinting at where they may have disappeared to. But there was nothing. “They’re gone.” He said with finality.

Reaper leaned on his spear, jaw tight and brows furrowed. They were gone. Galloper, still fiddling nervously with his rope, glanced at Reaper. “Do you think… the goddess again? Could she have?” He asked. Reaper released a deep breath and shook his head, as mystified as any of them. “I couldn’t tell you Galloper. The way things have been of late…” his gaze swept across the far horizons, “it could have well been anything.” They stood there a long time, confused and at a loss.

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The stormclouds had come as if from nowhere. One moment there was the hot barren wastes, scorched beneath Itzala’s baleful gaze as he began to surveil them for another day, and then in the next there was an encroaching wall of darkness upon the horizon. It raced towards the encampment faster than any of the monsters. The horizon faded into blackness in the shadow of the stormfront, and as the clouds neared they grew to blanket more and more of the sky, until they blocked out even rising Itzala.

“Have you ever seen something like that?” one Soilturner stammered, eyes wide open.


The closest thing he got to a retort was a grunt, followed by Goatwrestler the goatherd thrusting one of the bleating goats in his direction to keep hold of. They were not prepared for a rainstorm; the desert hardly offered more than a sparing drizzle, and even those that still remembered Renev clearly could not claim to have ever seen such darkened skies.

Panic and bewilderment animated the camp as the first strong breezes heralded the coming rain. Without the sun, the colors all around were suddenly very bleak and the air quite crisp. The distant booms of thunder rolled across the flat and filled their camp. There was no time to try and find Reaper and the men who had gone out on the morning’s hunt, but then, any idiot would see such a terrible storm brewing! All that there was to do was hunker down to weather it out, and hope that the others did the same wherever they were.

The herd of goats was rounded up and brought inside some of the largest of the tents before they could all flee in a panic, and then everything else of value–few as their possessions were–was brought together and sheltered under the tents, for what little protection they might offer from the deluge and the gales. The people then all huddled together in what little space remained within the tents. Not ten heartbeats after Soilturner crawled in, being the last of those who had been outside, they heard the sound of the oncoming rain striking the ground: this din was like the pounding of so many hooves, like a stampede of animals. And then it was upon them.

Howling winds threw open the tent flaps and hurled rain inside. The raindrops were especially large and came with such force that their strike was painful, almost like little stones striking the skin. The wind was so great that several tents were at once overturned! It was only their having buried some parts and packed others beneath the weight of various goods that spared the leather tents from being lifted and flung beyond the horizon right away. The mighty gales roared, and though the sound of the storm was such that one could hardly hear the shouts of a person right beside him, and though it was as dark as a starless night save for the brief flashes of lightning that illuminated the scene for one of every fifth or sixth breaths, Goatwrestler leapt out of the tent’s flap.

A reaching hand shot out to seize him by the waist and try to drag him back to safety, but the goatherd wrestled free of it; one of his terrified goats had gone out there and he had to bring it back! Already, the once-parched desert sands had become a quagmire. The water came up to his ankles, but then Goatwrestler felt the itch and sting and burn of wet sand on his neck, and his beard was drenched, for the wind had flung him down. The great booming thunder seemed oddly distant, rhythmic, like a heartbeat. Or like the terrible laughter of some callous god, some force of nature…the rain itself seemed to have hands, for it grasped at him as it fell, and pulled him along as it swept across the ground. Now he was rolling through the floodwater and sand, coughing and struggling, reaching out for anything to grip as he was flung about–[i][b]crack![/b][/i] His head struck something, and the last things that he remembered perceiving were a bright flash of light, the thunder’s murmuring, and the taste of blood in his mouth.

Lifedancer hovered above him when he opened his eyes. “There he is. A nasty bump on the head, but it’ll heal,” she was speaking to somebody. Justroastit was immediately above. “Oh you silly man!” The riverwife said, clearly resisting an impulse to whack him. “My heart nearly gave out when you went prancing out like that!” He groaned and sat up slowly, fighting the dizziness. “Goats…” he muttered. “Oh goats goats goats, is that all you ever think of.” Justroastit snapped at him. He looked at her blankly, and her stern gaze melted into a laugh. “Stupid of me to have asked!” She sat by him and looked at Lifedancer.

The herbalist was gazing away forlornly, her eyes on the verdant earth that lay where not so long before there had been hard rock and sand. “I,” she turned back to Justroastit, “will leave you two to it. If he complains of anything, have him lie back down so he can rest. He’ll be back to his normal self in no time,” she smiled reassuringly at the concerned Justroastit, and left them. The world that now greeted her was a far cry from all she had known over the last however many years.

Goatwrestler groaned. His face lay on its side, his eyes parallel with the green ground. [i]Green.[/i] That was a funny color. Like bile, or entrails. He couldn’t think of much else that was green in the wastes. Once upon a time, in a village called Renev, he remembered green hills and trees.

He rubbed his head, tried sitting up, found himself too dazed and collapsed again. There had been rain, of course. He remembered now. Had it made the nigh-lifeless wastes bloom? Was the rain a blessing?

Slower now, he rose against the objections of whoever stood over him, and then he looked the other way and saw the [i]wreckage[/i]. Bits and pieces of the torn tents were littered all across the landscape, random goat-prods and tools strewn everywhere, and over there, he thought he saw a dead goat, unmoving even as some of the others stood over it with the butchering hooks and knives… at least that meant a good supper.

But then he squinted again, for in the distance, upon the horizon, he thought he saw a great spiraling mountain, like a stony finger thrust up to point accusingly at the place in the sky where that tempest had erupted so violently and suddenly from! “What is that–” he mumbled to anyone who would listen.

He turned, trying to see who was there. Familiar faces, he saw all around. But then, in another direction, a great verdant [i]wall.[/i] “Huh?” he sputtered. He blinked. Surely this was an illusion. The wastes could play tricks on the eyes. But he rubbed them, and still that great and imposing wall of trees was over there, where the green grasslands suddenly gave way to some dense jungle. Clearly bemused, if not outright concerned, by his confusion, Justroastit pushed him back down and would brook no dissent this time. He may have been the unbeatable wrestler of goats that he was, but he stood little chance of victory against his wife. Still, as if to assuage her own astonishment at what had befallen them, she leaned close and whispered, conspiratorially, as though it was a secret, “there are… monkeys here. Monkeys, Wrestler. I’ve not seen monkeys since the harvest of our wedding, when that mad monk visited the village with his monkey troupe for the festivities!” She paused for a few moments, “but they seemed quite odd for monkeys. Something in their eyes, I can’t place it.”

“Wha–?” Her words didn’t make any sense to a still-dazed man, wrestler as he may have been. “Monkeys? Where?”

But then he pushed her aside–he was quite the wrestler!--and struggled to stand up. He made it only halfway before she had him back down again, curse her, and then he heard a most strange sound–something between a squeak and a cry. Craning his neck even as he lay upon his back, he contorted to look backward, and there he beheld a small brook, too small for the whisper of its running water to fill the air, but large enough for a grove of trees to have sprung up beside the water. And in one of those trees, there was a white rhesus macaque pointing a finger right at him! Had it heard his wife’s whispering? It pointed at him though, and was smiling, and squeaking with an enthusiasm that seemed like it could hold nothing but joy. And it clambered down from its tree and began to approach.

Justroastit scrambled behind him and watched the approaching monkey wide-eyed. His wife she may have been, and love him dearly did she, but perhaps not so greatly as to stand between him and some accursed monkey. Observing the monkey with the caution of a famed goat wrestler, he determined (whatever his determination was worth, what did he know of monkey business!) that there appeared to be little - if any - hostile intent in the little beast. Confident that steadiness had returned to his feet, he finally arose, and he took two confident steps forward and looked at the monkey. Justroastit fretted fitfully behind him, and her chatter drew the attention of other clansmen who gathered around to see the monkey.

And the monkey strode ever closer, walking not upon all fours as the monkeys of their memory had been wont to do, but only just its two feet–its paws were clean and immaculate. And once it came just ten paces from Goatwrestler, it sat down in some strange way with its legs crossed and one foot atop the other, and it seemed to gesture for the newly arisen man to get right back down again, and then it patiently and expectantly stared at him. Goatwrestler stared down at the odd monkey for a few long seconds, and then a clansman shouted out, “I think it wants you to sit, Wrestler!” He looked over and saw that it was Treesbane who spoke. “It’s a monkey,” Goatwrestler said, “I’ve no idea what a monkey might want.”

Treesbane shook his head, and around him the other clansman repeated what he had said before. “Go on Wrestler, sit with the monkey.” Puffing, he sat with the monkey and leaned towards it curiously. Perhaps from that very moment he was Goatwrestler no more. His clansmen would know him only as Monkeywhisperer. “Happy, little monkey?” He asked with a quizzically raised brow.

The monkey’s placid look lit up once it saw the strange and clumsy creature imitate his action. Perhaps these beings could be taught after all, the beast might have thought. Or maybe this monkey had already encountered similar beings before and so earned its patience through time, for these Renevits were not the first tribe of men to have found their way into the Indias. But the wise sage Stambh had taught this rhesus macaque guru (or at least, its predecessors) well, for it did not let that air of smug superiority leak out beyond the deepest depths of its mind, and even there it quickly banished such hubris. With a start, the monkey saw that something was wrong: the strange creature, even as it sat, had not fully adopted the correct posture. So the monkey made a deal of crossing and uncrossing its legs until the other one–slow as it was–seemed to understand. And then, the monkey closed its eyes and began to deeply inhale. It paused a long time, and then it exhaled, rhythmically. Over and over, a cycle like the seasons. Monkeywhisperer looked at it, lips pursed, and then glanced back at the others. Most of them were smiling broadly, barely containing their laughter.

“Pah! Well I hope you’re satisfied!” He shouted at them, getting to his feet once more. “[i]Why don’t you sit with the monkey[/i]. Well, there you have it. Now I’ve goats to finds and…” he looked around at the little green paradise they were in, “and, well, I guess this is a good development all things considered.” And with that he went off grumbling about stupid monkeys.

And at his rising and turning about, the monkey’s eyes suddenly snapped open and it cried out with great dismay and disappointment–where was its pupil going now?! It clapped–even though such raucous actions and the resulting din was probably beneath it–and gestured back at the place where ‘Monkeywhisperer’ had sat. The display was received with great excitement from the remaining Renevits, who likewise clapped. Some of the gathered children ran up to the monkey and jumped up and down in imitation. Barring one, who approached calmly with a great smile on her face, and placed a hand on the monkey’s head. “Aren’t you pretty,” she intonated melodically, her eyes bright, “and you smell so flowery.” She murmured. Seeing her touching it, the other children quickly gathered around and started patting and grabbing the monkey. “Let me pat its head Rockpetter, let me,” one was now saying, even as others examined its tail or arms or rubbed its back curiously. The same overly bold girl, whom they had called Rockpetter, placed a single finger on its nose, and stared wide-eyed at the monkey. The monkey did not seem overly fond of the gesture, but the child’s joyful ways did appeal to its kind spirit, and so it responded in kind by tapping her nose. Then she caught a better whiff of its scent; there was a strong aroma of sweet and earthy juniper that clung to it, a very [i]clean[/i] and pure sort of smell. And its white fur was cleaner even than the girl’s own body!

The rhesus macaque overlooked the filthiness of her body and gestured for her to sit. She excitedly shooed the other children, still trying to grab or pat the monkey, away and very readily sat in front of it. Unlike Monkeywhisperer before, she appeared to have no qualms whatsoever about being seen to be up to monkey business. The other children formed a quick circle around the duo and observed them - not quietly by any means, for now they shouted for Rockpetter to touch its mouth or open its hand or rub its belly or to pull its long wispy beard. She ignored them for the most part (though she did stroke its beard curiously) and focused on sitting as much like the monkey as she could. It seemed greatly pleased by her efforts, amicably tolerating her grasping at its beard, and eventually closed its eyes (though one [i]might[/i] have been just a crack open, for nervousness of being surrounded by so many of the strange creatures) and then began to repeat its strange breathing exercise, much as it had done for Monkeywhisperer, only this time it found a much more ready, willing, and curious pupil. When she emulated him, even one such as she began to find a sort of peace. This meditation was made harder by the din of the children all around, but already that seemed to be an increasingly distant thing.

It was not until the [i]monkey[/i] itself tapped her shoulder that Rockpetter startled from that trance and opened her eyes again, surprised. Now it gestured for her to follow it toward those trees by the brook, where it had been perched in observance of their tribe not so long ago. As she moved to follow, one of the other children, a slightly older boy, grabbed her by the hand. “Don’t go off on your own Rockpetter!” She looked at him, eyebrows furrowed, “but why, Sandskipper? Look, the monkey wants us to follow.” She insisted. “Yeah, but we don’t know what’s going on exactly so it’s best to sit tight and not do anything reckless.” He told her firmly. She patted him reassuringly and smiled. “Don’t worry about me! And anyway you can all come too.” And slipping from his grasp, she made quickly after the monkey and was followed by a small troop of children, against Sandskipper’s protestations. Seeing that his reprimands and commands were doing no good, he at last relented and followed them with a staff in hand. 

Bundled together in the shade of the tree, the monkey had stowed away a small heap of juniper berries and various flowers. He seized it up now and showed it to them, letting the children look at the amalgamation and smell the pungent, woody aroma. And then he took a small bit of it and laid it upon one rock, and then he grabbed another rock and used it to begin mashing the mess into a pulp. Seeing this, Rockpetter grabbed a nearby rock and joined the monkey in smashing. The two rocks fell into a steady rhythm and harmony, descending one after the other, and Rockpetter shook her head from side to side alongside the monotone drumming, humming melodiously as she did. About them the remaining children stood, rocks in hand and watching carefully. Behind them all was Sandskipper with his staff, staring suspiciously at the monkey and keeping a careful watch all around.

Soon the product of their rock-smashing was an ointment of sorts that smelled very much like that herbal odor clinging to the monkey. The rhesus macaque laid down its rock, then rolled a finger through the paste and sniffed. Then, satisfied, it plodded to the brook and started washing itself, occasionally rubbing the ointment into its fur. Intrigued, the children all gathered more closely around the paste and, not waiting for Rockpetter to cease rolling her hands in it, got to wipe it onto one another’s faces and hair and noses. They yelped and cried and wrestled around the rock, those with paste on their fingers chasing those without. Only Rockpetter, who remained absent-mindedly preoccupied with what residues of the paste remained on the rock, did not participate in their chaotic play, and Sandskipper who remained upright and watchful. Eventually, Rockpetter wandered on after the monkey and observed it. She picked at her nose inattentively, watching to see if the monkey would do anything new, and then squatted down and stroked its tail.

The monkey stopped its bathing for a moment, staring at her. Rockpetter thought she saw something mischievous in its eyes, but in reality, it was merely frustrated that its (smelly) pupil chose [i]now[/i] of all times to cease imitating its actions, and now the macaque was contemplating how best to get through to her. In the end he figured that a good start would be smearing the ointment on her, so he reached out and rubbed a palm, still coated in some of the watered-down ointment, into her clothes.

Seeming to understand what it sought, the girl got to scrubbing the monkey's head roughly with the existent ointment. Satisfied with that, she rubbed at its nose and then - with equal parts fear and curiosity - stuck both her hands into the monkeys mouth and made a poor attempt at scrubbing its teeth and tongue with the ointment, though she got no further than smearing her unfortunate companion’s mouth with the stuff. It frowned and snorted, wiping the stuff off its own face to then petulantly smear it onto hers. She shrank back, face scrunched up, and then wiped what she could away with her sleeves. “Bad monkey!” She declared, grabbing at its cheek, thinking she’d pinch it and yank the mean creature to and fro–but when her hand darted out, the monkey’s face twisted to the side. Again. Again. Again! It evaded her grasping hands each time, backing a bit further into the brook’s water as she stepped after it, again and again, until the water was about up to her knees. Then with one final lunge that missed, Rockpetter fell forward and was soaked, much to the monkey’s delight. The monkey, ever helpful, moved forward to help her scrub through those clothes while she bathed.

Frowning sullenly, the girl accepted the monkey’s scrubbing and got to lazily flicking water. At first she just generally flicked. Then the water happened to splatter the monkey’s arm. Then she curiously flicked at his torso, watching the droplets land against its hairy body and join the flow of other droplets back down into the brook. Then she flicked a little harder so that the droplets did not land on its chest, but rather sprayed its nose and face, and landed on its brows and flowed down the corners of its eyes.

By now, most of the other children were tramping about in the brook too, giggling and calling out and splashing one another. Their earlier game of smearing the mashed juniper and herbs all over one another made their play almost as good as an actual bath, even if they didn’t scrub! Sandskipper, still sour, had his patience worn to wit’s end and finally started yelling harshly and demanding they all get out and dry off. Most obeyed the younger boy, though Rockpetter wanted to stay with the monkey. Eventually, however, the white-furred creature seemed to grow tired of having water flicked at its eyes, and so he flashed her one last amicable grin before clambering out of the water and into some tree. Rockpetter was quick to follow, dragging herself out of the break and making after the monkey, but a firm hand caught her by the wrist and pulled her resolutely - though not ungently - away. “Come on, you’ve done enough monkey business for today,” Sandskipper grumbled.

Throwing her head back, she glanced into the trees until she caught sight of her newfound friend. “Bye-bye!” She called out to that sagacious monkey, who watched from a perch atop a tree. It might have waved at her in response. It was hard to tell if it was doing that or just flicking drops of water down at her eyes.

[hider=The Magnificent Indias]
Reaper’s band of Renevits is split once more. As Reaper went out on a morning expedition, leaving most of their band behind in the camp, he returns to find them all mysteriously vanished without a trace.

From the other perspective, we see the camp-dwellers beset by a massive rainstorm that seemingly comes out of nowhere! In the desert, no less! Their stuff gets blown all over the place, there’s a witch flying through the air on a bicycle, and before anybody knows it they’re waking up in [s]Oz[/s] the Indias!

They’re in a relatively nice grassland by a stream, in the tepid India, but the mountain-spires of the Cold India and the jungle-borders of the Hot India are both near. For now though, they just stay put, and have an encounter with one of the wise and amicable rhesus macaques, the monkeys previously enlightened by Stambh in the last India post.

By the power and virtue of Cyclone, some few dozen Renevits are swept into India by a mighty storm for 0MP!
[/hider]