AdorableSaucer

The Fading Light of V'landriel: An Industrial Fantasy RP [Like a phoenix from the ashes we rise!]

Al Baqi Sheikhdom

Inaziz janahi zurq - In the name of the All-Loving, we go into paradise.

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Al Baqi is a desert sheikhdom under the rule of Sheikh Said IV Abd al-Aziz ibn Fawzi. Its thousand years of history along the four ancestral river valleys of Eastern Soiryndia carry the influence of war, politics and religious and cultural disputes that still impact the country to this day. Separated into four major clans, the human majority all live their lives in accordance with their cultural contexts, many of which have led to disagreements with their peers. While the nobles have recently grown more and more interested in Amrean technology, the majority of the country's population still live as they have for millennia, reaping the rich bounty of the four rivers to fuel an extensive caravan economy.

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Al Baqi Sheikhdom

Type of Government: Absolute monarchy - the whole of Al Baqi is ruled by the sheikh and his family.
Head of Government: Sheikh Said VI Abd al-Aziz ibn Fawzi, of the House of Baqi.
Economy: (Main imports, exports, industries, technology level, etc.)

• Imports: Cereals, silk, cotton, technology and industrial parts, modern weapons, raw materials (steel, timber, etc.)
• Exports: Coffee, crude oil, olives, exotic fruits (dates, pomegranate, figs, citruses and melons), almonds, pine nuts, copper, tobacco, spices (cinnamon, saffron, turmeric, cumin, sumac, black pepper), perfumes (rose, lavender, lilac).
• Industries: While Al Baqi is far from an industrialised nation, their capital of Amshadr has multiple mechanised canneries to preserve produce and coffee for export and storage.
• Technology Level: While Al Baqi used to be a great centre of magic and science in earlier times, they have fallen far behind in the race to modernise, and have little to no modern industry to speak of for the majority of people; the sheikh and his family, however, have taken to wearing Amrean imperial clothing and have inbuilt electricity provided by the country’s only powerplant. In terms of factories, the country possesses a total of two canneries, mostly operated with man or animal power, as well as two crude oil refineries, one in Amshadr and another in the second largest city, Al Fawzi.

Primary Species: Human.
Population: 6,6 million.

• Humans (Baqi, Hadi, Imam, Jalal, other): 5,5 million.
• Sahra: 540 000. Desert and steppe-dwelling goatmen
• Karaniü: 400 000. Minotaur steppe nomads.
• Ahkrak: 200 000. Rhino-beetle-headed humanoids from the mountains.
• Gnolls: 75 000
• Amreans: 3 000.
• Various other magical/non-magical creatures from surrounding nations and countries: 4000.

Culture

• Religion plays an enormously large part in most citizens’ lives, and piety is seen as a must-have in terms of personal traits. Weekly visits to the mosques are seen as the norm, if not multiple times a week. This is regardless of social class.
• Tribal identities still remain strong even after almost a century of Baqi dynasty rule. Baqis are, after all, only one tribe among four other major families: The Hadi, the Imam and the Jalal. This occasionally causes tension between certain groups, especially between Imams and Baqis.
  The Baqi hail from the heartlands between the Nahr and the Jabdal rivers. They typically have bronze skin and black hair, and are the most pious and, currently, most powerful tribe. They are the original believers in Aziz and hold onto that legacy with an iron grip. Baqi dress in very monocoloured and conservative attires that cover most of their bodies. Headdress for men include a simple white cap; for women, the whole face is covered save for the eyes. Jewelry and the ability to keep one’s clothes clean are the only true signs of class division among the Al Baqi. Their influence is strongest in their heartlands and around the capital Amshadr and the city of Al Fawzi.
  The Hadi is a tribe from around the Jabdal river delta, all the way to the Majraa in the north. They have a fierce pride in their great cultural heritage from the golden ages of Hadi kings and sheikhs, and are especially wary of their northern rivals, the Jalal. The Hadi support Baqi supremacy, but only as long as the Baqi sheikh remains fair and just to tribes beyond his own. The Hadi are faithful and pious, but also value greatly the sciences and philosophy of their heritage, defending their right to practice them at every turn. Appearance-wise, the Hadi are very similar to the Baqi, but dress more colourfully and flamboyantly than their southern allies. This makes it more evident who has the greater spending power within the tribe. Compared to the Baqi, they also employ their own regional dialect which, while not unintelligible, can be difficult for Baqis to understand at times. Their influence is the strongest in the north up to the Majraa river and especially around the university city of Khayrat.
  The Imam have long had a difficult relationship with the tribes to the north, being both a target of and perpetrator of raids and skirmishes against them. Their culture is vastly different from their neighbours north of the Tahtamil: Even compared to the Hadi, their clothing is bright, colourful and beautifully patterned. They have much darker skin than their northern compatriots, and worship a localised version of Aziz, as well as a pantheon of sages associated with Shallahist faith - in Shallahist canon, these sages are mentioned, but not worshipped; in Imamism, they often take centre-stage over Aziz themselves. The Imam dialect differs radically from both the Hadi and the Baqi dialects, so much so that it can be considered its own separate language entirely, being traceable all the way back to the language spoken during the Shaytan dynasty over 1200 years ago. The Imam are also fiercely proud of their cultural heritage, especially the golden age of Shadhad when their region was the country’s cultural centre. They earned a fierce hatred for the Baqi when their city was burnt to the ground, a hatred that lasts until this very day.
  The Jalal are the only sizable tribe in Al Baqi to not be descended from the progenitor civilisation to the other three tribes known as the Awall. The Jalal are actually a group of Tzücomen (Zikomel in Baqish) all the way from the northern steppes, who came to Al Baqi 677 years ago as raiders and bandits. Like the Imam, they speak an entirely different language, one which has its roots in Tzücomic, but over the centuries has been influenced heavily by Hadish and Baqish. Today, it neither communicates with its kin on the plains nor its neighbours in Al Baqi. The Jalal still live a largely pastoral lifestyle north of the river Majraa and are considered among the poorest tribes of Al Baqi. While bands will occasionally form and terrorise the countryside, modern weapons have made it nearly impossible for them to choose this as a lifestyle. Many have moved southwards to the farmlands or into the cities and integrated into Baqi and Hadi society.
• Coffee, tobacco and spices form the cornerstone of Al Baqi popular culture, and are all consumed by the tons by both the wealthy and the poor. Alcohol is forbidden in accordance with Shallahist law, and tobacco thus takes the spot as the recreational drug of choice, being smoked in both wooden pipes and shishas.
• Literature, architecture and calligraphy are much appreciated among the upper class and the lower class equally, though only the upper class truly has the means to dabble sufficiently.
• The Baqi try to impress on the international scene with their musical and culinary cultures.

Religious and Other Beliefs

• Shallahism: Shallahism is the main faith of the royal family, as well as the majority religion of the sheikhdom. It emphasises worship of the god Aziz through daily prayer and upstanding behaviour. Mosques to Aziz can be found in every village, town and city in Al Baqi.
  Imamism: A sect of Shallahism popular among the Imam tribe. Offers a much more liberal view of the sacred texts and also introduces a pantheon of sages of the faith that have existed throughout time and brought prosperity to the Imam and the whole of Al Baqi.
• Oshori faiths: A shamanistic faith prevalent among the desert-dwelling Sahra. It emphasises the worship of water and the sun and moon as gates into the quintessential planes.
• Kargyyraism: An animist faith prevalent in the north among the Karaniü, gnolls and northern Sahras. Emphasises connection to all natural elements through meditation, often accompanied by throat-singing or animalistic sounds.
• Arthorisism: Arthorite missionaries from New Galia have converted some Karaniü and Sahra tribes to their faith.
• The Golden Dawn: The faith of the Unbroken Host’s god-seer, too, has managed to gain some support, particularly among the periphery tribes of Karaniü, Sahra and nomadic tribes related to the Jalal.
• Church of the Sun: A small minority have converted to worshipping the Sun God as a result of foreign missionaries arriving in the capital city.

Location, Territories and Climate

The arid lands of South-western Soiryndia. The country has a total of three cities with populations over 100 000: Amshadr (450 000) on the Nahr river delta (second southernmost), Al Fawzi (193 000) on the Jabdal delta (second northernmost river) and Khayrat (110 000), also on the Jabdal delta. The rest of the population live in smaller towns and villages along the rivers. A recent acquisition of the northern steppe province of Samermek has almost doubled the country’s area, but the reality is that the Al Baqi presence in the northern half of the country is incredibly limited, in large part due to rowdy Jalal raiders at the desert border to the steppelands. 90% of the country is covered by scorching, nigh-uninhabitable deserts; the remaining 10% is lush, humid forests and farmlands around the four main rivers - the Nahr, the Jabdal, the Majraa and the Tahtamil. This is where 99% of the country’s population lives.

Map

Military and Magic

The military is poorly developed, any resemblance to a standing army limited only to levies armed with arquebuses or, if they’re lucky, proper modern rifles. While the army size that -can- be recruited can number up to a million, the majority of these are untrained, undisciplined peasants with no manner of military experience to speak on - and that’s not even mentioning the backlash the state would receive for recruiting so many. That being said, the royal family of the Sheikh has a personal company of royal guards known as the Alharas Almalakiu, or just the Alharas. These are provided with modern weaponry and equipment, and can clearly be told apart from the other armed forces by their flamboyant (and at times, cumbersome) uniforms. This company numbers roughly 100 individuals.
The pride of the Al Baqi arsenal is likely the rifled musket, the base concept for which has been in use for over 100 years. It shoots far, but reloading techniques still lag behind, making it a slow weapon to this day.
Bronze and, at times, iron cannons are featured as the main artillery in the Al Baqi army. While the weapons often are cumbersome, they are employed both in offense and defense to great effect.
Al Baqi has a very limited navy outside of sloops modified to carry cannons, a max of two per boat. The Al Baqi navy can muster up to thirty gunboats like this in case of emergency. While they possess larger ships in their trading fleet, these are owned by private merchants and would have to be commandeered by the state to be utilised.

Magic Prevalence/Usage and Elemental Alignment: While magic has historically played a huge role in Al Baqi, especially as a weapon or tool of war, it has since fallen out of fashion outside of alchemy guilds and academic circles. Their primary type of magic is solid.

History

• 3500 years ago (AC -2866): A group of humans settle around the Nahr river and reap the bounty of the fertile soil. Theirs was a culture far different from that of modern day Al Baqi - they had no concept of Shallahism, nor did they build mosques and practice the calligraphic arts. These are known today as the Awall, the precursors to what much, much later would become the three of the four main human tribes.
• 3000-2920 years ago (AC -2286 to -2366): The Awall violently expand towards the Jabdal river to the north and the Tahtamil to the south. The ancient capital city of Quailat is founded as a frontier against the barbarians in the north.
• 2600 years ago (AC -1966): The empire ruled under Quailat experiences a series of droughts in the farmlands along the Jabdal, forcing a retreat southwards back to the Nahr. The bastion city of Shuklat is founded here and remains a powerful bastion for the next few centuries.
• 2170 years ago (AC -1536): The first written record, the Tablet of King Shuk III, outlines the great conquests of the Shuk dynasty, carried on the backs of able magicians using solid magic to manipulate the sand and stone of the desert.
• 1950 years ago (AC -1316): The Ziggurat of Shuk is constructed. The project, which according to further records took nearly 100 years to finish, subsequently bankrupted the Shuk empire, causing it to collapse merely 2 years after the completion of the Ziggurat.
• 1812 years ago (AC -1178): After what is estimated to be 134 years of civil war and no dominant power outside of local warlords, a merciless conqueror known as Shaytan unifies all four river valleys from Tahtamil in the south to Majraa in the north. Proceeds to form the Shaytan dynasty during which the old Shuk dynasty logographic script is replaced by an early version of the phonemic script known today as Baqish.
• 1789 years ago (AC -1155): Shaytan dies at the age of 67, leaving his sickly third-born to inherit the throne. The empire subsequently splits in two - the north which governs the Majraa and Jabdal, and the south which hold the Nahr and the Tahtamil. The south is governed by the sickly third-born, Shaytan II bin Aimsahr; the north is governed by his cousin, Khazm I bin Faosi. The south are pushed to the very bank of the Nahr, but Khazm’s forces never make it across. The stalemate persists for half a millennium.
• 1432 years ago (AC -798): Khazm VI bin Dobah moves the northern capital from Faosi further inland to Dobah, constructing the Dobah Academy of Magic and Alchemy in the process. The focus on magic and science further bolsters the military capabilities of the north compared to the south.
• 1234 years ago (AC -600): Yusuf II bin Dobah conscripts every magician in the north in an attempt to take the south; however, even with all the military supremacy of the northern forces, they only manage to take the Nahr - sustaining enormous losses in the process. By the time Yusuf II returns to Dobah, the kingdom is financial ruin and collapses soon thereafter. The Shaytan dynasty in the south, also heavily battered from the fighting, collapses, too. For centuries, a black, empty spot forms a dense void in the historical record.
• 872 years ago (AC -238): A new faith appears in the heartlands of the Nahr, known at the time as the “Word of the All-Loving”. Prophets of the All-Loving, or Aziz, spread far and wide into the desert and between the many tribes living between the ruins of ancient metropolises. The prophets come from many peoples, but most hail or have been taught their practices by a mighty tribe known as the Baqi, led by the chieftain Shayyid the Bread-Breaker. Many accept the faith with open arms and travel to Shayyid’s home village of Beirut; however, many also grow wary of the growing cult.
• 823 years ago (AC -189): Shayyid dies at the age of 63 - his son Afzal lacks much of the diplomatic skill of his father. The prophets of the All-Loving adopt more aggressive rhetoric, claiming Afzal and the Baqi tribe are destined to rekindle the flames of ancient civilisation and restore the empires of old. Many followers join them; many critics are silenced; many foes prepare for the coming storm.
• 811 years ago (AC -177): Afzal and the Baqi face off against increasingly frequent skirmishes from a southern tribe known as the Imam, lead by Danyal of the Blue Desert. The Baqi hunker down in Beirut, which in the time since the prophets of Aziz appeared, has grown into a bustling trade and religious hub. The Imam raid smaller satellite villages and the Baqi begin to lose support, especially in the south. Desperate, Afzal pleads with the northern tribes, particularly the Hadi, led by a warrior-poet named Hafiz. Hafiz agrees in exchange for free passage through Baqi lands for a century. This is granted.
• 762 years ago (AC -128): The Imam are eventually beaten back from the Nahr heartlands, but the 49 years of skirmishes and war have left the land scarred and the people in agony. The Baqi fade into the shadows; the Imam are nearly wiped out and won’t recover for another half millennium. The Hadi assume the role as the dominant power in the region and annex the Nahr heartlands from the Baqi. Hadi rule sees a renaissance in pre-Azizan arts and music - an academy similar to the one found in Dobah over 500 years ago opens in the Hadi capital Fawzi on the Jabdal river. Emphasis on living a poetic lifestyle and devoting one’s life to philosophising over the nature of reality, magic and God consumes the upper class, initiating a golden age of humanism and culture. Many of the greatest architectural and artistic feats of the Al Baqi culture today are from this period.
• 677 years ago (AC -43): A series of draughts and mass-starvation on the countryside bring an abrupt end to the golden age of the Hadi. While state-driven efforts to relieve the peasants’ plights were effective in certain areas, a new, previously unknown enemy from the north cause so much havoc in the countryside that the majority of these relief efforts failed. This group, known then as the Zikomel (Tzücomen in their native tongue), known now as the Jalal, later settled in the lands they had taken.
• 673 years ago (AC -39): The end to the Hadi hegemony once again spurs great skirmishes and battle between the tribes. With the Jalal functioning as a tie-breaker on the three-way balance between the Hadi, Imam and Baqi, previously established facts of alliances and war are thrown out the window, and everyone will cooperate with everyone as long as it leads to the fall of at least one of the four tribes.
• 659 years ago (AC -25): After 14 years of battle, the Baqi are pushed all the way into the western deserts by an alliance between the Imam and the Hadi. Here, the Baqi survivors are given asylum with the local goatmen, known as the Sahra. A bond of brotherhood forms between the Sahra and the Baqi and they set out to unite the Sahra tribes for a counterattack. Meanwhile, the Imam-Hadi alliance crumbles as the Imam lure the Hadi chieftain and his family into an ambush by the Jalal. The Hadi disappear into the shadows thereafter, thought eliminated for good. The Jalal and Imam, now without anyone to fight, begin fighting one another.
• 634 years ago (AC 0): After 25 years in the deserts, the Baqi return to the heartlands with an army of Sahra behind them to find that the Imam and Jalal both have exhausted each others’ forces and cannot even hope to stand against this new force. The Baqi easily seize control of the four river valleys and establish the Amashadar dynasty after their chieftain-crowned-king, Amashadar ibn Baqi, in the city of Amshadar, later Amshadr, on the Nahr delta. Resources are poured into rebuilding the ravaged land, with government aid granted to peasants and merchant caravans, many of which are sent northwards to Zihomal (Tzücomen, later Miranid territory) and westwards to Al Rawiya (Amrea). This year also marks the founding of the Amshadar Calendar (AC), which is still in use today.
• 461 years ago (AC 173): The first 200 years or so of the Amshadar dynasty are referred to as the “Age of Gold and Spices”, characterised as a time when the Baqi enjoy unprecedented wealth and prosperity, greater even than the Hadi golden age. New farming technologies such as rotational cropping and magical manipulation and refinement of fertiliser bring an influx of food into the cities, which swell like balloons into regional superpowers. These cities initiate huge construction projects to the Baqi religion of Aziz, now names Shallahism. These temples are known as mosques and soon dot several sections of every city in Baqi lands. A wish for the revival of Hadi golden age art and philosophy among the upper class is shut down by the Baqi kings, who instead emphasise focus on religious art and literature in honour of Aziz. Heavy censorship of philosophical texts and works of art stifle the creative class, leading to stagnation in the cultural development of the Amshadar dynasty. Growing corruption and cronyism among the upper class eventually sap power from the Baqi kings and into the hands of the royal guards, the Alharas Almalakiu, who form a de facto government with a puppet king 461 years ago in Al Fawzi on the Jabdal delta.
• 432 years ago (AC 202): A failed coup d’état against the Alharas government causes mass purges of the upper class and the establishment of a secret police known as the Shursiri. Censorship grows ever stricter and the prosperity of the Baqi hegemony falls as many among the nobility seek asylum in Al Rawiya (Amrea). Imported matchlocks from Al Rawiya are hoarded by the Alharas Almalakiu and replace the standard bow and arrow employed for millennia.
• 428 years ago (AC 206): The censorship as well as rampant oppression and enslavement of non-Baqi groups by the Alharas government lead to insurgencies in the countryside, large scale uprisings lead primarily by a coalition of Imam, Sahras and Hadi, equipped with primitive weapons for the most part. These fare poorly against the Alharas matchlocks, and the rebels suffer heavy losses.
• 426 years ago (AC 208): The Alharas forces suffer their first true defeat at the Battle of Sunbaked Sands, when, unbeknownst to the Alharas commanders, the supply chains reaching for the Nahr heartlands all the way into the western deserts where the armies fought the rebels, was being raided ceaselessly by Jabal bandits. The matchlock-equipped army, starved and tired, is butchered by hillfolk with crescent daggers, spears and wicker shields. The Alharas manage to sound a retreat in time so as to not lose all their forces, but the rebels have gained too much ground by the time the army can properly regroup. The exiled nobility provides funding for more weapons, armour and mercenaries from Al Rawiya (Amrea), hammering the final nail in the coffin for the Alharas. The Alharas government falls that same year and the whole royal guard is executed and replaced with new recruits. A coalition of the three rebel factions, as well as returning Baqi nobility, form the Council of Wisemen to steer the country into the future.
• 396 years ago (AC 238): The Imam break out of the Council of Wisemen due to disagreements over the censorship rules which were passed down from the Alharas government - whereas the Imam advocate for full removal of all censorship, the rest of the council agree that the clause forbidding satirisation, criticism and/or ridicule of Aziz or Shallahism should persist. The Imam return to their ancestral lands in the south to establish the free artist enclave of Shadhad. A number of the artists that were exiled under the Alharas move to Shadhad and soon, Shadhad becomes a centre of the written word, producing fantastic works of literature full of allegories for philosophical concepts such as the importance of God and the human condition, ambition and motivation. Many of these works never reach the peasantry, but the nobility in the capital Amhadr, the academic centre Al Fawzi and the trading port city Khayrat all gain access to this literature in secret.
• 386 years ago (AC 248): After ten years of hailing criticism from nobles in every corner of the empire, the Council of Wisemen finally give in and remove the restrictions on literature and artworks critical of Aziz and Shallahism. This causes great dissatisfaction within the Shallahist priesthood, which proceeds to forward a counter-proposal to make criticism punishable by death and for Shadhad to be declared a sacreligious city of sin. This counter-proposal causes further division within the Council, especially coming from the Sahra, whose religion is vastly different from Shallahism altogether, being a shamanistic faith of completely different roots. The Sahra’s relinquish their support the following year.
• 380 years ago (AC 254): After six years of rule by only two of the original four members of the Council, it becomes clear that they no longer have popular support, especially not in the south, where Shadhad’s presence has brought growth and prosperity to the region, making the area once more a threat to the central-northern hegemony.
• 373 years ago (AC 261): Seven years of paranoia and pressure from the Shallahist priesthood finally culminate in the Fatwah, the order to invade the southern lands and level Shadhad with the ground in the name of Aziz. By the following year, the entire army mobilises southward. On the way, it becomes very clear that the Imam have been preparing thoroughly for this outcome, and as in ancient times, the north just cannot seem to push further south than the river Tahtamil; furthermore, the Imam have been experimenting with Al Rawiyan technology and acquired grenades, which would sink every boat trying to ford the river and break every bridge formed by magic. These grenades, coupled with matchlocks and midnight raids on the army camps, lead to losses so great that the Council army is forced to fall back.
• 371 years ago (AC 263): Unfortunately for the Imam and Shadhad city, the alchemists at the academy in Al Fawzi use solid magic to shape molten metal into long cylinders with one closed end, which are then filled with black powder and balls of lead or round stones. This newly invented cannon is not as reliant on the need to cross the river to do damage, but can shell the Imam forces from a distance. With this form of artillery, the northern forces level Shadhad with the ground. The crops around it are burned and salted, and whatever Imam cannot escape are enslaved and brought back to Amhadr.
• 351 years ago (AC 283): The cannons are once again employed to great effect in taking down a Jalal horde uprising. The effectiveness of the artillery against the mounted riders inspires further innovation within ballistics and firearms technology. Rifling becomes standard in all firearms produced.
• 285 years ago (AC 349): The powerful military sector which has been supporting the Council for nearly 150 years grows immensely powerful as greater and greater shares of the state coffers are funneled into research and development - and into the pockets of the senior staff. When another series of draughts affects the Jabdal and Nahr deltas, the army stages a coup d’état and puts an end to the rule of the Council of the Wisemen. It is also around this time that expeditions into the desert in search of metals for weapons production cause explorers to stumble upon a black, sticky goo which reacts violently to fire. They name this substance nft or “oil”. Extraction of this substance starts immediately and it replaces wood and wax as the primary energy source for lighting.
• 283 years ago (AC 351): In order to further prove their legitimacy, the military government elect a leader known as a sheikh, as a nod to the ancient tribal chieftains. The first sheikh is Sharif ibn Khayrat, a powerful Baqi general with a number of cronies in high places, particularly in the priesthood. Under the leadership of Sharif, Shallahism fully takes over what had previously been a largely privatised system of education within the now-sheikhdom. Previously secular universities and academies now double as monasteries and mosques, and the censorship on anti-religious art and literature is further reinforced. By now, after centuries of oppression of the free arts, the last of the opposition begins to fade away.
• 193 years ago (AC 441): Religious imagery has almost entirely drowned out the artworks of old - known ancient treasures have been set aside - or worse, defaced and destroyed - in favour of artifacts praising Aziz and the teachings of Shallahism. The sheikh’s grandson, Sultan II ibn Fawzi, has managed to garner so much power than he almost holds single-handed rulership over the whole country.
• 174 years ago (AC 460): Sultan II suffers what is most likely a heart attack caused by his lavish lifestyle; however, his cronies blame the sheikh’s untimely death on assassins sent by opposing cliques at court. A great purge of the nobility is conducted by the military, headed by Sultan II’s brother, Tahir ibn Dushar. Tahir’s nephew, Sultan III ibn Fawzi, is elected sheikh after the purges, even though he is only 11 years of age. Tahir serves as his advisor and makes certain to garner as much power to himself and his cronies as possible.
• 170 years ago (AC 464): A majority of the opposing cliques that had been purged four years earlier belonged to the Hadi tribe, and the remaining nobility from that tribe plot Tahir’s assassination as retaliation for what they see as treachery. Later that year, Tahir is shot during a public ceremony in the Mosque of Amashadar, the largest mosque in the kingdom. The event is condemned publically by nobles all over the kingdom, and the young sheikh reinstates the secret police to find the culprit. This causes a thirty year reign of terror known only as Alkawf Alkabr, or the Great Fear, in which everyone from the highest tower to the lowest pit are thoroughly investigated and punished on the smallest flaw. As many as 300 000 people are executed, roughly a tenth of the population at the time, and millions more are beaten and shamed. The true culprit is never caught.
• 139 years ago (AC 495): Sheikh Sultan III ibn Fawzi dies from choking on his food, later thought to have been poisoned. The Alkawf Alkabr comes to an end shortly thereafter. A Hadi sheikh by the name of Talib I ibn Haswah is elected instead of Sultan III’s son, Sultan IV. Talib and his followers belonged to a smaller clique at court, one which had secretly worked to overthrow Sultan III for years. Talib immediately set out to reduce the influence the military had on the sheikh’s decisions, as well as the presence of Shallahism in education and the public sector. While this made him a target, Talib managed to push through enough reforms to increase his popularity beyond what had been thought possible in the context of the Great Fear’s aftermath. The reforms revitalised the aid programs aimed at the peasantry, which brought a booming growth to the agricultural sector; they opened for greater freedom of expression, which brought a renaissance in the cultural class; they removed mandatory conscription, which both weakened the strength of the army considerably while also gaining Talib the support of the young men now free to work instead of slaving in the army for five years. Since Talib now was untouchable, neither the military nor the priesthood could remove him from office.
• 110 years ago (AC 524): However, merely 29 years after Talib took office, a plague swept the country, taking him with it. While the plague passed within the year, it left open a power vacuum that couldn’t simply be filled by the army or the clergy: Talib had added too many failsafes. Instead, the army and priesthood insert Talib’s cousin, one Omar I ibn Khayrat, ignoring Talib’s son, Hamed I’s, claim to the throne. Omar manages to be the exact opposite of Talib - uncharismatic, slow-witted and rash. It takes five years for the sheikhdom to once again lose all support with the nobility, and within five more, the peasantry stops caring for him, too. Omar accepts a role as puppet for his only remaining supporters - the military and the clergy.
• 98 years ago (AC 536): The military and clergy grow tired of Omar’s incompetence and replace him with sheikh Said I ibn Fawzi of the Baqi. Said I, while supported by the military and clergy, realises he needs the nobility and the peasantry on his side, and thus spends his life trying to mediate a deal between the four actors which satisfy all of them. He never gets to see the outcome, passing away at the age of 74.
• 54 years ago (AC 580): Said I’s son, Said II ibn Fawzi, tries to continue his father’s work; however, he is drawn too far away from the peasantry in his effort to appease the upper classes, causing a great peasant uprisings at the bazaar in Amhadr, known as the Day the Gutters Ran Red. Between five hundred and a thousand civilians are killed, the fault of which is laid on the sheikh. Criticism of the sheikh’s inability to appease the masses eventually drives the sheikh mad with stress, and causes him to suffer a heart attack shortly thereafter. The sheikh’s son, Said III ibn Fawzi inherits the throne.
• 35 years ago (AC 599): The first 19 years of Said III’s rule are largely uneventful - he manages to leave all four factions, the peasants, priests, nobles and army men, neither happy nor angry. However, the 19th year saw large-scale economic collapse across several trade networks as the Rebellion of the Five Provinces broke out in Al Rawiya (Amrea). Widespread unrest and riots broke out in the streets of the cities and the countryside as shops had to close and left thousands without work. The uprisings threatened another countrywide collapse, but a series of well-timed relief programs enacted by the central state kept the population just shy of outright rebellious. These relief efforts nearly bankrupted the state, however, and the sheikh had to expropriate heaps of funds from the nobility, leading to a deep-seeded hatred from the upper class that lasted throughout Said III’s remaining rule.
• 23 years ago (AC 611): As an attempt to regain respect among the upper class, Said III ushers forth a revitalisation campaign for the army and sends them to invade the northern steppes (now named Samermek) that had previously been under the rulership of roving clans and tribes. The army meet little to no resistance - in fact, they meet so little resistance that the project backfires - it did not at all manage to boost morale as planned and cost the state coffers a fortune. Instead, the sheikhdom conquers an area of land over half the size of their ancestral province with no resources to hold it. They set up a stronghold in a large village in the west called Shoog, but the province only belongs to Al Baqi in name. In the sheikh’s final years, news reach him and his court about a new project drawing a great deal of attention over in Al Rawiya.
• Today (AC 634): It has been two weeks since sheikh Said III ibn Fawzi passed, and now the young Said IV, titled Abd-al-Aziz for his devotion to Aziz and the Word of the All-Loving, sits on the throne. While he is green in the role, he and his advisors all observe the ongoings in Al Rawiya and agree on one thing: Al Baqi must modernise.

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

In the Shade of Your Betters

---

It had always seemed as though the Vo forever had declared Juraantoxagrul to the be tyrant of Truulnax, the reef of the southern current. Whenever the thunderous rumbles of the Deepspeak would send tremors through his little reef, all vrool who heard him would hear of his triumphs in a thousand battles, of the authority his reign had garnered him, and of his splendid, unmatched cave - its walls polished to the point of pearl-like sheen, its floor stacked high with tributes of flesh and stone. Every sunrise and sundown, his many lackeys would announce the cosmic scope of Juraantoxagrul’s feats for all the vrool of Truulnax to hear, and for anyone beyond the southern currents to grit their beaks at. Every vrool in Truulnax could only dream of a fortress like the one Juraan possessed - the home of his great clutch. Not even his lackeys were given proper caves, but naught was more hungered for than a cave like Juraan’s.

Truulnax was, however, not particularly large, and physical space became an issue when wanting to dig out a hall like the one belonging to Juraan - for if one were to accidentally bore holes into his cave as a result, one would most certainly become his afternoon snack, and as more and more vrool subjugated themselves under Juraan’s uncontested rule, the reef began to grow too populous.

Yoraxinatruul was a lesser vrool, barely even considered a rookie among Juraan’s lackeys. Hers was a position below sandgrains, tasked with tending to the filter-feeding mammoth mussels whose only purpose for existence was to provide soft, gooey meat for the titan crabs - she was tending to the food of the food. A lower rank in their society was downright unachievable. What did she even do? Flick parasites off the mussels? Scrape off barnacles and kelp growth? What proud, mighty vrool would settle for a position as base and unfulfilling as that of a musselsitter?

No. She couldn’t just accept a life like this - not anymore. She had already toiled and worked these mussel fields for more full moons and tidal floods than she could even recall. She hadn’t even been deemed worthy enough to fight in Juraantoxagrul’s skirmishes. She was far from hardened by battle, and her slimy hide was unscarred and weak as a result. Today, that would all change.

Yora smelled her surroundings and laid her gum-like body flat inside a crevice in the reef. Any minute now, one of her superiors, a slim, but cunning one known as Ulaaxinagrul, would be making his rounds to ensure everything went along with Juraan’s wishes. Ulaax was only marginally larger than her - perhaps this was the time for her promotion. As predicted, Ulaax came floating by a minute or so later, his three eyes scanning thoroughly for any trace of the mussel-watcher.

“Where did that subpiscine, little water nymph swim off to?” Ulaax bubbled sourly to himself. He stopped for a moment, eyes following what seemed to be a trail. Yora remained as still as she could, appearing almost one with the stone. However, Ulaax would not be so easily tricked. He rolled up his tentacles into a great mantle of arms ready to defend himself and spoke, “You utter cretin, subplankton parasite! What manner of loitering is this supposed to be?” Keeping a distance, he began to circle around her hiding spot. Yora looked desperately for a way out. While she was preoccupied with that, though, Ulaax managed to come close enough to reach out and grab one of her limbs. Yora struggled, but Ulaax was stronger in the end. “If you refuse to work, your useless cadaver will be fed to the titan crabs - would not that be a step up for the likes of you?” With a mighty tug, she was ripped out of the crevice. She couldn’t even regain her bearings before another set of tentacles grabbed hers tightly and began to pull and tear. Yora wriggled and twisted as she felt her tentacles give out. Desperately, she tried to peck and bite at the parts of Ulaax she could reach; however, the measly spots she could nibble at were, at best, the surface of some small limb - in contrast, Ulaax could chew directly into her torso, and he did. Black blood clouded the water. Yora ripped and twisted, but couldn’t seem to break loose from Ulaax’ grasp.

They bumped against the reef floor, and Yora felt something sharp brush against the back of her head. It left a cut, but it was clear what it was. In a lightning motion, she flicked one of her arms behind her back and pulled it out of the sand, bringing it up to saw straight through one of Ulaax’ arms - her weapon was a blade-like fragment of a mammoth mussel. Ulaax’ growled, black blood spilling out into the water. That cloud was just the distraction she needed - she burst forth with aching tentacles, arriving in Ulaax’ face before he could react. She swung, the sharp blade cutting the water as well as skin, right across two of Ulaax’ three eyes. He staggered again, and Yora went for the killing blow, biting out his last eye and just continuing to eat, gnaw and stab at the larger vrool’s body until resistance grew dull and weak. As they sank to the surface of the reef again, Yora rolled off of the carcass of her former superior, inspecting her rended, ravaged tentacles and skin. She would be scarred from this… Scarred for life.

She snickered to herself and started swimming towards the Tyrant’s cave.

Finally.

This post was late as heck

Juraantoxagrul is the coolest vrool on the reef Truulnax (a tiny reef off the south coast of Korero), and Yoraxinatruul, a mussel keeper, is jelly af. She wants to get stronger, so she kills her superior, Ulaaxinagrul. She then drags his carcass towards the Tyrant’s cave.

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

The Princes of Fragrance

Chapter 2: Desert Misadventures

---

Thankfully for the duo, King Safron’s threat of casting them into the Sun Wastes was only really true if one were to follow the canyon mouth northward, which would lead you to the Bone-Ridden Pass and, subsequently, to months, maybe even years, in endless, waterless deserts which only salt crabs could hope to survive. This was known to both Cinna and Gale, so they had chosen the less threatening route and headed due east, where the vegetation was deceptively scarce to start off with, but would slowly grow denser and denser as the moist southern gusts brought rain and relief to the island’s southern half. While water and food were issues in the beginning, the jungle was quick to offer them both in the form of fruits and dewy leaves. After days of travel, they eventually reached their first destination.

The Fennel Glen was as promised, a glen filled with fennel plants circled by mighty trees easily hundreds of years old. Flitterlings clouded the canopies while Thumblings worked on the ground and in the stumps that were hollowed out into homes. Gale had left Cinna alone with the only night elf resident of the glen, a young woman named Butter. The two had found a spot by a surprisingly regular sized stone well, their backs pressed against the cool stones -- with the princling soaking in the surroundings and the otherwise disinterested Butter toying with a stick she had found lying nearby.

“So, remind me again - why do you live with these, these…” Cinna, sweaty and just barely rehydrated after days of walking, struggled to find a good synonym for vermin. “... Pests anyway?”

Butter looked up from where she was digging her twig into the dirt. Her wide eyes narrowed and she frowned, “Pests?”

“Isn’t that what they are? If we see any, they’re usually pilfering through our biscuit crates or, or stealing the shroomer’s harvest!” He made hard eyes at a bypassing thumbling farmer. “... I call such things ‘pests’.”

Butter eye'd the same Thumbling and sat up a bit more straight before whispering harshly, "That's my Dad; could you not be such a prick? It's embarassing sitting with you enough as it is."

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve been taught to call an adze for an adze, so that’s what I do. Forgive me if I’m a being a bit of a ‘prick’, but I just lost my heritage, family and home, so leave me alone. It’s not like I -want- to be here, either.” The boy slid down the rugged well wall until only his head was propped up against it, the rest of his body resting spitefully on the dry, earthy ground.

Butter took the opportunity to prod him with the stick, "Then why are you here?"

Cinna’s cheeks flushed a dark purple and he rolled over to face away from Butter. “W-well, because I have nowhere else to go! This is just the lesser evil compared to the Bone-Ridden Pass or the Sun Wastes…” He waved his hand clumsily after the stick poking at his back. “Also, stop that!”

"Are you going to stop being a prick?" Butter said in a rather indignant tone, the stick poking into Cinna's shoulder.

“Owowowowow, stop it!” He twisted back over to face her and tried to snatch the stick from her hands but she quickly held it out of his reach and tilted up her chin, waiting. “Tch… Fine, if it stops you being so annoying.” He rolled back over, propping his head up on a fist instead.

"Say the whole thing," She held the stick menacingly.

"Cinna," Gale's voice called out. The Thumblings was walking up to the pair, a rather portly flitterling by her side.

“Wha-what?” replied Cinna, arms held high to block an incoming strike.

"Jasper here has a job for us." Gale said with a glance towards the Flitterling. Jasper rolled his eyes and mouthed something.

Cinna dug a pinky into both his large ears. “Sorry, what was that? Did you say something?”

“I said Jasper has a job,” Gale reiterated, “We do it and you can stay in the glen, isn’t that great?” It was Butter’s turn to roll her eyes.

“Yes, you, you said something like that… What sort of job is it?”

“We just got to pick up something,” Gale said excitedly, her voice hushing just a little as she continued, “Back in the desert we just crossed.”

Cinna blinked. “You know those’re Sun Wastes, right? Nobody - and I do mean nobody - survive the Sun Wastes.”

Jasper seemed about to say something before Gale spoke up, "Pbbt, none but the best." Butter seemed to scoff at 'best' but Gale continued, "...Us. It'll be real quick and simple."

“What kind of job -is- this? There’s nothing out there but snakes, buffalo and those copper mines my father always keep sending guards to…”

"We are just picking something up," Gale reiterated, "Very simple. Remember hands?"

“Of course, I--!” The young prince growled. “And I take it -I- don’t get to know what this ‘something’ is, do I?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Gale promised behind a viper’s grin, “The details aren’t that important.”

“Speaking of details,” Jasper finally spoke, “I want you to take Butter.”

“What!?” Gale and Butter said at the same time.

“Consider it buyers insurance,” Jasper folded his hands behind his back, “No negotiations... Gale.”

“Wait, we’re bringing her?” Cinna sneered. “Why?”

“Yeah!? Why!?” Butter all but whined.

Jasper just gave the two a hard look, “I’m not taking questions from a couple of blueberries.” With that he plucked a pipe between his lips and nodded at Gale, “Get to it.”

“Couple of--!” The prince breathed in sharply. He lifted a tight fist, holding it quiveringly as his expression twisted and turned. He eventually lowered his fist again upon seeing the rest of the glen turning to stare. Jasper shook his head and began to walk away, his useless wings twitching as he left.

“It’s not worth the debate,” Gale patted his ankle, “Let’s just do this; in and out, then the world is our oyster. You ever seen an oyster?”

“You mean those shellfish that the Akua usually sell?”

“Yeah sure, kid,” Gale smiled and tapped her foot on the mossy carpet below, “Give a lady a lift?” The former prince’s sneer intensified and he reluctantly lowered an open palm to the ground. Gale hopped on, and by time Cinna looked back up, all he saw was Butter’s scowling face.

“I’m impressed Cinna,” Gale settled on the former prince’s shoulder, “You have a knack for making friends, don’t you?” The prince didn’t respond beyond a low growl.

“Let’s just make this quick,” Butter turned away.

Sumsum

Gale and Cinna reach Fennel Glen, stay there for a while and Cinna meets Butter, a nelf raised by thumblings. They hang out with shared contempt for one another before Gale returns and says they have a job to do. Tbc in the next Princes of Fragrance: Kai.

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

Gibbou

Gibbou had fun watching Twilight flop around in the water on his third day of swimming. There was something satisfying about watching that little dumby try out some repentance for once. Truth be told, though, she had no idea what to make him do once he actually reached Kubrajzar. She had brainstormed some punishments, sure, like counting the number of sand grains on the beach he’d make landfall on, or by writing “I hate Neiya” one hundred times in that same sand. Perhaps she’d make him do both.

She poured herself a drink - thinking up punishments for that two-faced scoundrel was thirsty work. Her environment didn’t help much either - there are many ways to describe the surface of her moon, and ‘humid’ isn’t one of them. She sat in a somewhat cold and stiff armchair facing the planet below, feet resting upon a frozen cushion. There, she sipped on her magical cup which kept the liquid inside it cool, yet fluid, despite the much cooler and non-fluid objects outside of it. This cup was at least in the top five of the most convenient things she’d ever made. Granted, in terms of convenience, it was unclear whether things she had made could even number more than five, or five at all. It was a sad thought, and one she tried intently to dismiss as soon as it popped into her head. As is the case with thoughts one wants to disappear, however, thinking about it only made it stronger and stronger until she plopped her face into her hands, shooting a hopeless groan through the blue straw sticking into her glass. She knew she had talked to Oraelia about her feelings of uselessness, and sure, it’d been nice - really, really nice - to have someone to just talk to about them.

However…

”Why am I such a useless goddess?!” she shouted into the void. A void response was all she received in return. She groaned again and emptied her cup. She would have to regain her honour as a goddess… She needed to stop making all these no-good, hopeless species and artifacts that were either so specific that they could never be used, or so broad that there would be no way to control them!

She conjured for herself another drink and gave it a stern sip. Something truly awesome would be her next project… It’d need to be bigger an better than anything she had made before. She took another sip. Yes, bigger, better - something to show mortality just what she’s all about - a peaceful night’s sleep! Yeah! That would surely fix up her image, and maybe even do some good for her own psyche, too! She’d just make enough helpful stuff for people to forget all about the trolls and the vampires and the sword and…

The train of thought made her finish her drink and conjure forth a new one. She eyed her cup, noticing that it has been joined by a twin just like it, oddly enough held by her second left hand. She noticed her skin feeling hotter than usual, and her face feeling oddly itchy.

Eh, it would probably pass any minute. She’d talked to Oraelia now and was a responsible goddess now! She wouldn’t repeat that one time - no way!

---

”Aaaan’... Baaazoooooom!” shouted Gibbou with a cackle. Down on Galbar, specifically in the jungles of Kubrajzar, there popped into existence a blue, snake-like dragon with a great, blue mane that waved in the air like a drunken fire. On its face, it wore a mask, on its head grew black antlers, and its hands were soft, fluffy paws. It was soon joined by more like it, with little hatchlings rolling around on the forest floor. Nearby, an Itztli huntress dropped their spear in fright and slowly backed away. One of the adult dragons caught sight of her, eyeing her hungrily. The huntress spun around and tried to run, but the dragon soared off after her, floating just above the ground like some sort of ghost. The Itztli tripped over a root in her panic and crashed into the ground. With the dragon fast approaching, she screamed for help and her life passed before her eyes - her family, friends, lovers, enemies - all of them filled her mind in her last moments before the dragon caught her.

… Except it wouldn’t be her last moments. In fact, the huntress found herself very much alive and, surprisingly enough, growing increasingly calm. There was an odd sensation around her torso, as though she was bound by some sort of thick rope. She dared open her eyes to investigate, only to stare the masked dragon in the face. She would have gasped, but her body just didn’t seem to find the whole ordeal stressful at all. The dragon titled its head to the side and the Itztli looked down to further survey her situation. The dragon was hugging her, and that in a very sweet, friendly way. It was the sort of hug that is perfect no matter the situation - it just made her feel safe and at peace. The dragon’s skin was warm and soft; it wasn’t covered in reptilian scales, but dow-like fur; it purred softly like a cat, too, which only made her drowsier. It didn’t take long for her lids to grow heavy and for her to realise just how intense today’s hunt had been. As her body grew heavier with exhaustion, the dragon gently laid itself under her and curled up around her. There, the Itztli slept soundly, all the stress and worry in her body seeping out and feeding the dragon underneath her.

When the Itztli woke again the following morning, she had been left on the forest floor, a thin nest of blue hair forming a mattress underneath her. She touched her head - that night’s sleep had been almost too good. She looked around for the beast that had, uh, attacked her the night before. However, they were all completely gone. She plucked at some of the fur and gave it a smell, comparing its scent to that of the surroundings. After searching for them for an hour or so, she shook her head in sadness.

Those would’ve been amazing to keep around after a hard day’s work.

---

”Boohee,” giggled the moon goddess with a snort. ”Issha sho kyoooooot! Oh-boo-boo-boooo!” She reached out to pat it, only to realise she was staring at a projection of the dragon.This bummed her out, so she mixed herself another drink, right before realising she could conjure forth one just like it in her realm. So she did (making certain, of course, to give it the necessary traits to survive the vacuum and temperature of space), and it immediately proceeded to pack the goddess tightly into its coiling body, its soundless purring reverberating through Gibbou’s body as opposed to the air. GIbbou was far from done, however.

”Yesh! More! More kyootsie fhungsss!” She waved her hand just as her forehead crashed into the Dormiron’s furry tail with a ‘puh’.

---

In the deep jungles of the Mydian island of Whakarongo, along the coast where the lands grew humid and warm, an odd, fluffy flower popped out of the sand. Its bloom was a grayish black, fuzzy nob connected to a thick, dark green step which also sported a circular crown of green leaves which seemed to redden at the tip. A nearby Akua couple were walking along the beach picking empty seashells. They exchanged flirty jokes and giggles at one another there in the warm, beautiful sunset.

“... Oh, Tonga, you can’t say those things!” giggled Moana. Tonga smirked back and picked up a shell which had flushed in all the way to the tree line, not too far away from the flower. His smirk became a wide smile and he waved with playful dismissiveness at her comment.

“Well, it’s true! You know _{his mother is...}” His voice faded as he was talking, and he hadn’t quite noticed it himself before he saw Moana’s eye-roll and smirk.

“Oh, so now you can’t say it?”

Say what? was what Tonga tried to say, but while his lips moved and his vocal cords vibrated, nothing came out. He grabbed his own throat and he saw Moana was starting to frown.

“Tonga, are you _alri...?” she approached, arm outstreched. Tonga pointed at her and tried to shout something, but nothing came out. Moana froze in fear - Tonga’s every movement and body signal had indicated that his words would’ve been loud enough to give a Night Elf tinnitus, but what actually came out had been completely void of sound - to the point where she doubted even a Night Elf with celestial blessings could hear it. She tried to respond, both she, too, was silent. Terrified, the two of them ran back homewards, but after running for about fifteen paces, they realised they could hear each other panting. They embraced one another in relief and stared back at the forest in horror.

“What was that?! Some kind of spell?” whimpered Moana.

“I don’t know…”

Meanwhile, the little, black flower licked its metaphorical lips. It had been fed ample amounts of sound, and was now ready to spread out across the forest!

---

What shall we do with the drunken Gibbou?
What shall we do with the drunken Gibbou?
What shall we do with the drunken Gibbou
Earlay in tha’ evenin’!”

The moon goddess whooped and grabbed a salted peanut from a pile she had conjured forth on the lunar surface next to her. She flicked it up into the air and tried to catch it with her mouth. She failed miserably and it landed in her open eye. She scream and waved around clumsily with enough intensity to wave up the Dormiron she was sleeping on. In her flurry, she cast a bolt out of her hands, which soared down to the surface of Galbar. She stopped and eyed its destination - it was in the middle of the Anchor Mountains. With a ‘prrt!’ of the lips, she snickered.

No harm done.

---

High up in the World Anchor, in the great halls of Thunder the Mountain King, sat that ancient monster whose attack on humanity had been the first, flanked on each side by his two favourite spawn: Quake and Crush, both equally skilled in manhunting, and worthy successors of the Cragking Crown. In total, he had spawned perhaps six spawn, but two had been lost to the Eye of Death, one had gone for a trip up north and never come back, and another had gone south… And never come back. Truly, there was no respect in being a father.

The whole cave quaked for a moment, and all three of them wondered for a moment if it was -that- time again. However, the quakes stopped as suddenly as they had come, and they all looked up to see that something had broken through their stone-sealed door. It was a pair of glasses, glass black as night. However, they were trapped in the middle of a deadly solar ray beaming in through their doorway. Thunder had an age-old rivalry with the sun - he was not about to lose now. He clapped his favouritest spawn, Quake, on the shoulder. The smaller dovregubbe, barely a millennium old and just having regrown his shoulder forest after it was shed off to make some spawn of his own, flashed a frown of reluctance at his father. However, all dovregubbes knew that, when it came to their hierarchy, none could defy the Mountain King - that was just a rule of nature.

With quivering legs that hadn’t moved for months, Quake rose up to his full sixteen metres, stretching out for a moment. Then, with rabbit steps, he snuck over to the glasses in the light. With deft patience honed for a millennium, he waited for the sun to be blocked out by a cloud. He waited and waited, and waited some more.

There! While the sun dipped behind a cloud, he knelt down to pick up the object. However! Just as he did, the sun peeked back out. Instinctively, he brought his hands to his eyes, putting the glasses on his nose.

Crush rocketed to his feet in shock, and Thunder, who hadn’t risen for two hundred years, felt age old eyelids that had barely moved since he last moved, part in sheer disbelief. There, his spawn Quake, stood in full sunlight, wearing a pair of black-glassed glasses. Quake’s lip quivered - he hadn’t died. He hurried back into the safety of the dark and the three trolls inspected this artifact closely, and tested it out more in the following days. Indeed, it made it almost as though whatever reality was, their bodies experienced the world as night.

The three trolls exchanged wicked smirks. Maybe it was about time to extend the reach of the Cragking Crown?

---

Gibbou squinted her blurred vision down at the mountains. ”Waaait a minuzz… Ain’t that wher…” A hiccup made her forget her train of thought. ”Dunmatta, mo’ stuffz!” The Dormiron was beginning to feel uncomfortably full - the goddess just seemed to ooze out more and more excitement. She bounced up and down in her soft seat and ‘thought’ about what to make next. She made narrow eyes at Ha-Dûna, that most amiable of villages.

”Bet bein’ mortal muzz be hard, huh, misser dargon.” The Dormiron gave her what could be approximated to be a frown. Gibbou cracked up her fingers and snapped her fingers. ”Lez dere be PEEEEEEEAAAACE!”

---

Down in Ha-Dûna, a number of peasants and druids suddenly got the strangest idea to head out into the meadow in search of a very specific weed. This weed was collected, sampled and replanted, with a small portion being sent off to dry. Plants and logs of wood were turned into pipes of various shapes and sizes, and the whole town started smelling faintly of burnt weed as its citizens breathes deep in the plant’s calming smokes. The pipeweed was immediately made into a pastime for the peasants in between shifts at the farm, as they would meet up with their neighbours to crack a joke, drink some milk and have a smoke. The druid apprentices became ample users, the curriculum of their education much too stressful to study without at least something for the nerves. The druids and archdruids eventually just joined in because everyone else was doing it. The druids brought this culture around wherever they went, as well as a little extra to barter for food and shelter whenever the local chiefs were a little harder to negotiate with. With that, Ha-Dûna enjoyed the sensation that would be known as the peace pipe.

---

”PHEW!” whooped Gibbou and flung her hands victoriously in the air as she fell back on her dragon cushion. She had done it. She had made the world a better place. She should drink like this more often - it made her such a great goddess! The fatigue of the dragon’s meal, the alcohol and the power spent began to sink in, and Gibbou nearly fell asleep. However, in the last minute, she jumped out of the dragon’s grasp and made herself another drink.

”No, no, party ain’t over yeeeet!” She threw her arms in the air and screamed. ”GO HARD OR GO HOME!”

And hard, she went.

What the fuck am I even writing anymore?

Gibbou gets wasted and makes dragons that eat stress by hugging people, flowers that eat sound, one pair of shades that allow trolls to walk out during the day, and teaches Ha-Dûnans, and probably the rest of Western Toraan, to grow and smoke weed.

MP Spendage!

Gibbou 5MP/5DP

3DP: Create Dormirons, an extraordinary species of nocturnal dragon that feed upon people’s stress, unrest and terror, leaving only peace and calm behind. They feed by trapping their victims in an inescapable hug (inescapable due to its extreme comfort) and sap away the unpeaceful and rowdy emotions the prey carries at the moment. If allowed to feed for long enough, the prey will eventually fall asleep, at which point the Dormiron will make them a mattress out of some of their fur to keep them comfortable as they retreat from the dawn. This species is incredibly rare and migratorial across the world, so to see one is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. ⅗ for Peace port.

1MP: Create Voidwillies, a small, black-bloomed flower that consumes the sound produced around it in order to grow and reproduce. Whatever produces the sound within a certain range will find itself acting as though the sound was made, only to find that nothing comes out. ⅘ for Peace port.

2DP: Create artifact - The Shades of Eternal Night: Nightworld II: The user of this artifact, no matter the place or time of day, will experience the world around them as though it was night as long as the artifact is in use.

1MP: Teach the people of Ha-Dûna to grow, harvest and consume calming pipeweed that helps them calm their nerves. 5/5 for Peace port.

3MP: Snatch Peace port - Peace: Gibbou achieves mastery of peace and quiet, granting her the ability to dampen sound, light and conflict more easily. While she cannot use this power to annihilate these things completely, she can turn screams into whispers, make brightness into dimness, and tranquilise bloodthirsty mortals and beasts. In essence, this power allows her to bring something from an energetic and unruly state to a calmer and peaceful one. None of these situations are necessarily permanent, but all can be made into a moment of peace.

Gibbou end: 0MP/0DP

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

Letters from the Duke of Zhou 2 - The Fisherman from Qi

---

To the respected duke of the Song warrens,

It is a grand pleasure to write to you once again, fellow duke - it brings me great joy to hear that all is once again well and harmonious in the warrens of Song. It is my most humble wish to be of service to our next generation of leaders, and to hear about your successful attempt to quell the unrest among your lightfurs is truly music to these long, graying ears.

Now, that being said, you mentioned in your previous letter that you have had some trouble with a certain scholar-gentleman in your employ - one named Master Gu Xuanyi, if I am not mistaken. According to your description, you sent him to oversee the corn harvest; as of now, he has yet to put the peasants under his command to work on weeding the corn, stating that he did not weed his crops last year, and the harvest was ten times that of usual - no matter your threats or bribes, he refuses to budge.

If you would allow me, I wish to draw upon another story that describes a situation similar to this one. You may have heard it; it is a known tale: There once was a fisherman from the warren of Qi. One day, the fisherman was out by the river near the warren, rod in hand, hoping to reap the water’s bounty as usual. Then, as suddenly as lightning from clear sky, a large, fat salmon skipped out of the water and collided with a nearby stone, knocking itself adaze and quickly suffocating as a result. The fisherman saw this and broke his rod over his knee, deciding that he would instead watch the water in hopes that more fish would follow the salmon’s clumsy example. However, no such event occurred again, and the fisherman was laughed out of the warren of Qi.

If I may offer my opinion, it seems that Master Gu Xuanyi and the fisherman of Qi are of one mind - having witnessed a miraculous event, they are confident that it will repeat itself, despite the astronomically small odds that it will. Of course, the chance is there, but stories like this one help us realise miracles beyond the norm are just that - miracles. Master Gu may have seen one grand harvest despite his dislike for weeding, but it is indeed a much-too-commonly observed fact that weeds among your corn generally outcompete the corn and lead to a poor harvest.

My advice to you, my esteemed friend, is to share this tale with Master Gu. Give him a chance to redeem himself in light of reflecting upon its message - I trust that a scholar-gentleman such as him is in your employ for a reason; however, should he fail to realign his path, I recommend you replace him with someone more capable. The warren’s corn crops and the welfare of its light- and darkfurs must come before the social standing of a stubborn man, after all.

I once again wish you great luck in all your endeavours, and pray my advice was helpful and satisfactory. May the gods forever grant you fortune.

With great respect,

Duke Kong Rui of Zhou.

Summaree

Bunny Duke educates other bunny duke on how to handle stubborn bureaucrats,

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

Gibbou

Feat @tuujaimaa

---

The gates to Antiquity in the Hall of a Thousand Mirrors were, briefly, opened. A mysterious sheen returned to that dulled glass, liquid aurum spilling from its depths and pooling just beneath its surface--and from that glow came forth the physical form of the God of Truth, stepping outside its realm and into that communal space wherein the Gods could engage in acts of community and conversation. It rarely had a specific purpose for entering that realm--much of what it was required to do demanded its presence within its realm where it could coordinate and navigate the great morass of mortal perception--but, occasionally, it had cause to visit its divine kith and kin. Today was one such occasion: the God of Truth desired to speak with the Mother of the Moon, to rectify its past errors and to put into practice the newly found emotional context it had obtained from such a recent merging with its twin.

So, it stepped into that great ring of stone and directed its senses outwards, soon finding purchase upon Gibbou, apparently leaving Oraelia’s portal. It cast wordless intend towards her, beckoning her forth:

“Hail, Mother of the Moon. Might we speak privately? There is much I wish to discuss with you. There are errors I wish to correct.”

The moon goddess shot him a horrified stare and then kept moving as though she hadn’t seen him - or rather, as though she -had- seen him and was running away.

In that communal space Firinn did not have the full extent of its deific powers available to it, and was unable to simply arrest Gibbou to prevent her from feeling--and then, it thought, that even if it could do such a thing it would perhaps send the wrong message. Deciding for a more conservative approach, it attempted diplomacy once more:

”I wish to apologise. Our last interaction was coloured by an insensitivity that is native to my condition while alone--without the emotional context of my twin, I am incapable of understanding mortal feelings, never mind divine ones. If you do not wish to talk I will not force you.”

Though it did not speak, the knowledge of its words--and its sincere regret at how their previous interaction had ended--would simply be something Gibbou could feel, as if through waves in the air.

Gibbou stopped, eyes downcast and fists curled tight. While she didn’t face him, she offered words like an olive branch. ”Do you understand this context better now? After two thousand years?”

”Without being directly linked to Aicheil, it is difficult--but our realms are linked, and so therein I have an easier time of it. It is not in my nature to feel, but two thousand years have provided… context, yes.” The words were challenging for it to communicate--as if there were some inborn resistance to the condition of feeling--but it pushed through that feeling regardless, motivated by the newly contextualised remorse and compassion from its most recent interaction with its twin.

Warily, Gibbou turned around to face the Truth God, though her eyes refused to meet with wherever theirs would have been. ”Truth be told, I did realise that you were only trying to help me back then. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. I’m sorry.” She sucked sheepishly on a tooth. ”So… Privately, was it?”

”It would appear, then, that we may both obtain closure after so long. Please, follow.”

With that said, Firinn turned and disappeared once again through the mirror that represented the portal to its realm, vanishing through the glass as if it had never existed within Antiquity at all. Spread out before that entrance there would be a seemingly endless corridor of mirrors on all sides, each containing a memory or a feeling from the many, many mortal lives that had been lived in the gods’ long absence from Galbar. They were currently scattered, unorganized, random tidbits of information that Firinn had sorted--but as soon as Gibbou walked through that portal they would reflect her, and mortal memories of interactions with her. The draug, Twilight, the Druids of the Long Stride--each would have memories and feelings playing themselves out behind an infinite sheet of glass. Firinn would manifest on the floor, beneath her feet--taking the place of her reflection within this hallowed realm.

”I have only ever sought to help, but I did so in a way that would help me--not a way that would help you. I wish to rectify that mistake, if you still require assistance, now and at any point--I wish only for us to be… friends, I think the term is?”

Gibbou was absorbed by an image of Twilight, regret and discomfort clouding her expression. ”Yeah…” she mumbled absent-mindedly. ”Yeah, friends is right.” She finished looking at the mirage. ”Did you and your brother discuss these feelings? Do you feel like you understand now? What a friend is?” She followed deeper into the tunnel.

”Hm. I… have seen every interaction of every mortal since my birth. Each time one of our precious charges has called another friend I have seen that interaction, understood the context, made sense of what is. To understand and to feel are not alike--but in this moment, replete with the grace of the Two-as-One, I know what it means to feel that kinship. I have never seen you interact, but I imagine it must be as you and your own twin feel?”

As the echoes of its intent reverberated throughout the halls the images on the mirrors changed, shifting from those that knew the name Gibbou to those that declared their friendship for one another--friends becoming lovers, friends standing up for one another, friends comforting one another through loss. The totality of that mortal experience splayed itself upon those panes of crystal-glass, echoing within and around one another like the threads of a great tapestry.

”What I had meant to say before, the meaning I had intended to give you… It is that mistakes do not and cannot define you. Cruelty, it seems, is a necessary consequence of freedom--of life. That some of your creatures act cruelly is not a mistake, but a consequence of their Truth--of the collective Truth. It… is not your fault. It cannot be your fault, for you sought only to create and not to control. Does that… make sense?”

”It does, it does,” mumbled the moon goddess back as she squatted down to look at one particular reflection of two childhood friends confessing their feelings to one another. ”I know it’s not my fault -personally- that dovregubbes ravage the countryside a few times a year, or that askeladds keep hexing chickens to lay stone eggs. I do not -make- vampires drink the blood of innocents. I did have a considerable hand in making them as they are, though, and -that’s- what brings me guilt.” She gestured to an image of a friend comforting another. ”Even mortals will blame themselves for something they haven’t necessarily done themselves - and it takes time to realise that it both was and wasn’t your decisions’ fault that what happened, happened.” She stood up and shrugged. ”Took me two thousand years anyway - I’m not even over it, to be fair. Talking to Orey helps, but emotions like these are hard to get rid of. That’s why I reacted the way I did back then.”

”We… are not them. They are, as I understand it, all burdened by a shard of sadness. Each of them knows that it must all end one day, and that each day lived is a day they can never get back. We Divines are eternal, and cannot rightly conceive of our own endings--when you endowed your avatar with a shard of your soul, you replaced that burden of sadness. Now, little Twilight lives freely and without that fear of death--but a mortal mind is not meant to comprehend eternity. He will soon realise how much you mean to him, and how much what he may do will mean to those around him.”

Firinn took a moment to pause, no longer walking beneath Gibbou as her reflection, and manifesting itself within the Hall of a Thousand Mirrors physically. Its mantle-claws wove themselves into hands, and its body shimmered with an aureate lustre for a moment before rippling out and shifting until only the appearance of Gibbou remained.

”It is my nature to reflect. As I am now, connected to you and my Twin both, I can feel the echoes of what you felt. It is not the same, but… it is hard. I am sorry that I did not understand. I am sorry that I burdened you with something you did not deserve. Let us think upon the fact that it brought us together, here, in this moment--let us be thankful that it paved the way for things to be as they are now, and not dwell upon the pain that they caused.”

It reached out its two hands, opening itself wide, as if to offer the Mother of the Moon a hug. Gibbou immediately backed away with her palms presented. ”Woah, okay! Okay. Don’t, don’t rush on ahead, Fìrinn - hugs are between friends.”

It paused, as if dwelling on the thoughts and the refusal to reconcile with that most intimate and connective of gestures, and looked around. It turned its head towards an image of Twilight upon re-entering Galbar and the great weave, and reached a hand out to touch that mirror gently, as if in thought. After a moment it recoiled, as if remembering an echo of that interaction, and turned back to Gibbou, looking her in the eyes from within an illusion of her own form.

”... forgive me. You are so like them, and yet so… not. It is hard to know where one ends and another begins--it is hard to capture the nuance of that fragility between panes of glass and stolen images, and yet that is all I have. I will make mistakes… we will make mistakes.”

Gibbou cast a sideways glance back at the entrance. She drew a short breath through the nose and spoke, ”Your brother tried the exact same thing, y’know - hugging. It’s not, it’s not that I don’t like it, don’t get me wrong. When I said…” She sighed. ”’Hugs are between friends’... I’m sorry, that came out wrong. Hugs are, well, hugs are for friends who know each other well - like me and my sister, for example! The two of us, weee…” Her fingers exchanged between pointing at herself and at the reflection of herself. ”... We are still getting there, y’know?”

”Hm. I understand--it is… Mortalkind has a linear understanding of time. Events happen in concurrence, one after the other, like footsteps in the sand.” Firinn gesticulated to illustrate its point, the mirrors around it showing the timeline of a single human’s birth, right up until their death. It stretched on and on around them, a great circle, each window arrayed in perfect order.

”Yet we gods are not limited to such a perspective. I see all at once--catching up with what was, processing what is, and gazing into the Worldweave above to determine what will be. I do not think… no, we do not perceive time in the same manner at all. You, by choice or design, perceive it as they do--perhaps to better fulfil your purpose as a protector. I, to fulfil mine, see so much at once--it is an infinite series of circles, spilling out from one another and into one another all at once. It has been two thousand years since we last spoke for you, but in my understanding of time, it…”

Firinn cut itself off, trying to find the feelings and thoughts to express what it meant without forcing an unwelcome perspective upon Gibbou. It stood there, motionless, for seconds stretching on towards infinity, the lights around it sparking and flaring as if to signify the deep contemplation it was in. After an indeterminable amount of time it spoke again:

”is like living through the entirety of every mortal’s life all at once, seeing the infinite realities of what they could do, what they could be, what they hope and imagine and dream. That is the influence of Aicheil, and it is like being so full of sensation that the self peels away, cast to the wind. It could have been mere moments ago that we spoke, or uncountable eternities--I can never know what it feels like to you, even now.”

”I don’t envy you, Fìrinn…” sighed Gibbou. ”I don’t envy you one bit. You and your brother received tasks that I can’t even begin to wrap my head around.” One of the mirrors showed her moon and she walked over and gestured to it. ”My moon’s simple, yet so sweet and beautiful in its own right. It exists, and there’s no doubt about it. The night’s the same - absence of my sister’s sun, the planet’s own shadow cast upon itself - it’s simple and beautiful. Now truth? Dreams? No… Whether by design or choice - I’m not sure either, honestly - I can’t even begin to wrap my head around it.”

Firinn nodded along as Gibbou expressed her thoughts, mirroring her actions and feelings with its own. It, too, walked up to a mirror as she did--but beckoned forth a different scene: druids resting peacefully beneath the silvery opalescence of that great orb in the sky, safeguarded from harm and worry.

”Mortal life, in its entirety, is so precious… So valuable. It is all that matters, and it is just a single thread in the great weave of creation. I do all that I do, endure all that I must, for their sake: that their lives might continue to play out. That their every action might never be forgotten--that there will be one, in the end, who witnessed and remembered it all. It is what I was made to do. There can be no sadness in the realisation and fulfillment of my purpose. I… failed to give you that same serenity. I shall never forget that. But now, perhaps, I might make amends.”

Its hands unwove themselves from the gossamer blanket of that reflected image, becoming the claw-tips that they were meant to be. They punctured a single pane of glass, creating a ripple within, and held it tightly until it glowed a beautiful gold--and then released that ripple along all of the mirrors within that great hall, flooding the space with visions of shimmering light and colour.

”I have watched with keen interest the comings and goings of your vampires. The nature of your punishment, the effects it has had upon Truth.” Firinn began, moving forwards and stepping out from the refracted shell of Gibbou’s appearance, letting it fade away into the background as it took back its own true form.

”Such justice is not a concept I preside over, but those Vampires who exist have all, each in their own way, committed an egregious crime against the nature of Truth: they despoil too much, rend the weave around them in vast and irreparable cuts. To bring them back in line with Truth, to contain their wanton bloodlust and set the greater Truth to rights, I offer thee this: Each night, as the hunger sets in, each of the accursed shall remember vividly the final moments of those they slaked their thirst ‘pon. They shall remember those whose lives they have taken from the deceased’s perspective and shall consider what their ambition has wrought. Does this sound agreeable to thee, Mother of the Moon?”

Gibbou blinked. ”You mean, they’d have to relive all the terrible things they’ve done every time they get hungry?”

”Just so. They shall consider their power, and realise that its price can only be measured in equal suffering to that which they have caused.”

”Hmm… Nnng… See, on one hand, I’m not all about having people relive their trauma over and over again. That’s really harsh on the head, after all. Though on the other haaand... Her eyes narrowed. ”... It would serve them right for what they’ve done. I say you can go on ahead with that! Sounds pretty much just like an extension of what I had planned for them, honestly,” she added with a smirk.

”I cannot say that I would have created such creatures, but… they have deterred many a mortal from fratricide or worse. Cruelty and pain are simply facts of the world--and though these vampires are born from those lamentable traits, this curse has prevented more harm than it has caused. I have collected many thoughts of ambitious murder, and even more so of the price that such an action incurs--though it may not seem so without proper scrutiny, mortalkind is safer for your and Fe’ris’ efforts. I thank you both for your service, and am only happy to assist.”

Firinn beckoned forth an image of a vampire to one of the many mirrors, and then into that scene illuminated the moon with a potent silver light. It placed its true hand upon that moon, shifting its hues from silver to red to gold, and then withdrew. The image faded away into nothingness, as did all of the others--before returning to the great panoply of mortal lives being lived and catalogued.

”It is done. Is there aught else I might assist you with, Mother of the Moon? I am happy to do my part for those I would call friend--even if that does not extend to the closeness so associated with these ‘hugs’.”

Gibbou looked through a reflection, where one vampire was kneeling and screaming its sorrow to the moonlit heavens. While she knew she shouldn’t feel that way, there was something perversely satisfying about seeing it. ”Yes, this is good. Hopefully, even the most degenerate of vampires will now realise the horror of their actions.” She offered Fìrinn a smile. ”Hey… Thanks. I’ll be honest, I--... When you invited me in for a chat, I was… Skeptical. However, I see now that you really have changed.” She extended an open palm forward. ”I think that’s enough for me to consider you an, uh, a good acquaintance!”

”I…” the God of Truth started, before mirroring Gibbou’s action and pressing its mantle-claw, now an open palm, forward--though stopping short of any actual contact between them. ”I knew, then, that change was coming. I… made the mistake of believing that I could in some way, resist change--that if I ensured my purpose could continue in my absence I might be spared that unforeseen calamity. Naive, I suppose, in hindsight--but only through that failing did I become a more realised and truthful version of myself. There is much to lament about how those events unfolded, how our truths intersected… what I am trying to say is that no matter how much the events of the past sucked, they brought us to where we are now. That is something to be thankful for.”

Sommar-E

Firinn wants to make amends with Gib. Gib is reluctant, but Firinn says he changed. They hang out, Firinn tries to hug her, she says no - 2000 year old wounds heal slow. They talk about the nature of friendship and relationships and what gods can and can’t feel in terms of emotions. Firinn offers to make vampires remember everyone they’ve killed when they get hungry, which makes Gibs insta-forgive him for that stuff 2k years ago.

PeePee

Gibs: 0MP/5DP
None spent.

Fìrinn: 0MP/5DP
-2DP: Curse Vampires: Every time vampires get hungry and need to feed, they’ll remember everyone they’ve killed for their ambitions.
End: 0MP/3DP

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

Partners in Trade

Feat. @Zurajai

---

It was the first time Pepper got to join her father down to the docks. She’d usually be left back home to help mom and little Parfum manage the herbary, or she would be tending to Musky, their old baqualo cow. Today, however, was different, for she could finally join dad to the coast market to sell off their produce. She had saddled Musky with two large baskets, each filled to the brim with one of two types of herb. Their farm wasn’t large, but they did honest work for honest pay at the market, selling dried and fresh parsley and thyme to all who wished to buy. Although, today was different - they weren’t going to Fragrance this time, no; it was the docks!

“Hey, dad? Who’ll we meet at the docks?”

Her father, a small, field-savvy elf of eighty-four years by the name of Vinnigar, gave his chin a pensive rub. “Well, if we’re lucky, we’ll run into the Tama’Pele - they use a lot of parsley in their medicine against tooth aches, as well as a fair amount in a type of oil they put on their skin so it doesn’t get too dry in the sun.”

“Woah! Really? Will I get to meet one?”

Her father grinned. “Maybe, maybe.”

It took them one hour and twenty minutes from their herbary down to the coastal market, passing out through the Gates of Fragrance on the way, pulling Musky through the silent crowd of commuters from the outside forests bringing fruit and grains into the town to sell on the square before King Safron’s hut. Murmurs rumbled through the crowd occasionally, and Pepper marveled at the deafening sound of the town - in the distance, she heard unfamiliar ting-ting-tings. She tracked down the sound to somewhere beyond the river of flesh running in and out the gate and pointed.

“Dad, dad! What’s that light over there? The one with the weird noise?” She looked up and lost some of her enthusiasm, for she saw her father scowl at the flickering flame at the source of the sound.

“Those are whitesmiths, Pep. We don’t mingle with their sort.”

Pepper frowned. “Why’s that, daddy?”

“You hear that sound?”

Wooooossssh… Ting-ting-ting!

Pepper nodded.

“That sound’s way worse up close. We’re very far away right now, but up close, it’s way, way worse - so bad that it breaks the Great Peace.”

Pepper gasped. “What? But you’ve said you shouldn’t do that!”

Vinnigar nodded. “Yes, Pep, and it’s really important that you don’t. King Safron doesn’t like scheming little nelflings who make a ruckus, y’know.” He ruffled her hair. “Okay?”

Pepper giggled. “Yeah, okay.”

---

An hour later, they were at the coast. The market was small today: Rosey the buffalo hunter was there like always, selling her pemmican, suet and buffalo jerky, and Cumine the perfumer stood beckoning customers with small, uncorked flasks of oozing smells. There were also numerous akua of the Tama’Pele, selling stockfish, fresh fish, seaweed and many other bounties of the ocean. The market was terribly noisy and smelly in spite of its size, though - moreso than the Gates of Fragrance commuters could even hope to ever be. Vinnigar stuffed his hand into a skin pouch on his waist and pulled out a handful of raw cotton, handing it to Pepper. “Here.”

Pepper eyed the cotton curiously and gave it a sniff. It smelled a little musty. “What’s this for, daddy?” Vinnigar tapped on her shoulder to grab her attention. He pulled a handful of his own into two dots and stuffed them into his large ears. He gestured for Pepper to do the same. After giving the cotton a suspicious look, she did as instructed and put it in her ears. She looked up at her father and, for the first time, heard his dry, squeaky and untrained voice.

“These make the trip a little nicer on the ears. The Tama’Pele have a slightly different view on the Great Peace, see.”

“How so, daddy?”

“Well…” His sentence was interrupted by a loud call of an akua merchant selling clams and oysters from a basket she was carrying around. “... It’s different. Now help your old man get these baskets off ol’ Musky.”

“What?!” said Pepper back.

“I said--” The merchant once again shouted her wonderous offer of oysters and how amazing they were with a squeeze of fresh lemon. Vinnigar realised talking was out of the question and beckoned for Pepper to help him. Pepper quickened to action and soon, they had set up a blanket on the ground with samples of parsley and thyme, as well as some small samples of rosemary and sage, all poured out onto wicker plates. Vinnigar smirked down at Pepper and said, “Watch this, kid.” Pepper watched with bated breath as her father took a deep breath and, to her surprise, shouted, “Aroha, come one, come all! Vinnigar and daughter’ve brought fresh parsley and thyme for your remedies and cookeries!” He even clapped his hands, and even through the cotton, Pepper winced slightly at the offensive sound. There was almost something fascinating about breaking the laws like this - thank the gods that this was outside the Great Peace’ juristiction.

“Aroha, ruhe,” came the familiar voice of one of Vinnigar’s most frequent customers. Though they rarely met with one another, the pair had created quite a rapport between one another. The akua stepped forward, chest bare but for the straps from his fishing pack, while his bright blue, purple, and red-tinged scales shone in the light. Though he was clearly akuan by all accounts, it was obvious from his facial structure that his ancestors had been among the Night Elves taken beneath the sea.

“Good see you got da kolohe here, ah?” he said with a friendly smile crossing his visage, clearly lowering his voice intentionally after many dealings with his Night Elven kin while waving at the elven child, “I tell you, ruhe, you no know wha’ lolo kina guys you got coma down-down hiya, ruhe. Good havin’ truss’ with you down hiya, dats fo’ shoah. Nawh, what’cha got fo me an’ mine dis fine evenin’?”

The Akua nearly began perusing the wares out before catching himself, seemingly flabbergasted by a sudden realization! “Oh! Hooo, brah! Where mah manners? Likkle kolohe no know what kine she sayin’ an’ seeing. Best be calling me Uncle Taika, eh, likkle ruhe. Yo’ fadah an’ I go way-way back.”

With his honor appropriately sated, Taika seemed to move on with his focus. He tossed down his back from off his shoulders revealing all manner of ocean-borne goodies while simultaneously throwing a sidelong glance at everything Vinnigar had for trade. The Night Elf grinned, stood up and squeezed his hand.

“Aroha, Taika! You sure sound and smell lovely this morning. Come to grab some more parsley for old ma?” Pepper, meanwhile, sat on the carpet still and marvelled at what she could make out of Taika’s form and texture.

“Das’ right der on da money, ruhe, plusa few tings heya and dey. Nada mention how dem ruhe down watah-side real lolo fo’ land-weeds.”

Taika shoveled out a number of products from his woven sack, planting them down squarely in front of the Night Elf. Collected were a number of shelled molluscs, primarily large scallops, as well as a decent amount of pretty corals and other ocean bits. A few crabs came clacking out of the bag only for Taika to place a rock on top of each to keep them from scrabbling off. Content with his work, he turned back up towards Vinnigar.

“So, watcha thinkin’ heya on dis, ruhe? How much’a willin’ to part wit?”

“Hmm… I could part with two xhoich for two crabs and eight scallops. What do you say, ruhe?”

Taika seemed to bounce on the balls of his feet, a peculiar movement that many Akua often did when they were excited or pleased; in the water it seemed far more graceful. He grabbed up from his bag the correct amount of shellfish, having never been one to haggle with Vinnigar. Their trading relationship, after all, was built on a level of amicability and friendship that Taika had no interest in pressuring. Besides, it was just good business this way. With that he coiled up the collecting in a tight wrapped of seaweed twine and thumped it over towards the Night Elf.

“Aya, thata do it jus’ fine, ruhe; fill yo’ belly real good, eh? Fe’ mah little niece heya, I trow in one moa’ creb, real tasee’ n’ good fo’ yu’, yeh? Make you grow big n’ strong, like yo’ uncle Taika, eh, likkle kolohe ruhe.” Taika seemed to beam at the child, obviously taking to the Akuan concept of Uncle and Auntie very seriously. It was his job, after all, to treat the child right. What sort of uncle would he be if he didn’t give his ruhe’s kids free things, anyway? Satisfied, he bagged up his own goods and tossed them in his pack.

“Oh, whakawhetai, ruhe - whakawhetai,” thanked Vinnigar and handed the crustaceans and mollusks to little Pepper. “Peps, sweety, take the empty parsley sack, run over to the water and fill it up, would you? No, the other o-- yeah, that one.” The girl ran off through the market to fulfill her task. “So, ruhe, anything else you’d like? My wife just harvested the sage this morning - it’s fresh and would go wonderful with some fish, y’know.”

“Yeh, yeh, ruhe, whakawhetai, eh? Jus’ throw a little o’ dat sage thay into my beg an’ we’ll do it jus’ fine, call it even-hapa.”

Taika gladly took the sage and wrapped it up properly as well, making sure to not let it get wet just yet as he tightly bagged it. With that, he plopped the bundle into his knapsack and threw it back over his back. As always, Taika hit Vinnigar first on his surface runs to make sure the Night Elf had the best pick of his goods, but he still had more to trade. They bumped fists in traditional Akuan manner before Taika smacked Vinnigar on the shoulder in a friendly show of familiarity. Vinnigar returned the gesture.

“You got a good family up heah, ruhe. If you evah learn t’ hold yo’ breath long-long time, you come on down an’ have suppah with me an’ mine, eh? Till next time, ruhe; aroha!”

Vinnigar clicked his tongue twice in approval. “For sure, Taika - I’ll keep practicing for that time. Until next time; aroha!” With that, the two parted ways and Vinnigar turned his attention to his next customer.

Summary!

Two nelves head to the docks to sell herbs. They meet an Akua regular and exchange beautiful cultural traits. A fun little culture post.

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

To Become a Druid

Part 1: Taken from Home

---

Kaal’zar’s eyes were overflowing with tears. Of course, that wasn’t uncommon for the kids her age who were taken from their parents by travelling druids. She had been curt in her request, the druid - knocked on the door of Kaal’zar’s house and said to her parents: “May the gods smile upon your blessed household. I am Cer Tess - the stars have guided us to your home in search of our new apprentice.” Few more words had been said before her parents had sent her off with her, as well as the three other equally sobbing children she already had collected. Kaal’zar didn’t understand why she had to leave, nor why her parents had been so quick to give her up. The morning had started off as any other - with Kaal’zar joining her older brother to tend the meagre corn patch her family owned. What happened?

She eyed a young boy next to her. He looked skinnier than even her, and about twice as filthy from travel. His breath was ragged and weak and Kaal’zar could understand why - it had been a while since their last break, and she hadn’t been walking for days like them. She shuffled a little closer as they walked. “H-hey. What’s your name?” she whispered. The look she received could have wilted flowers - a vocal response was far too much to ask. Kaal’zar turned discretely to look behind her - the other two children looked similar. With quicker steps, she reached Cer Tess leading the group and pulled at her robe. The druid stopped and turned around, looking first straight ahead before adjusting her view angle for children. “Yes, my daughter?”

Kaal’zar was only eight years old - she hadn’t had the chance to meet many druids yet. It thus stung a little when this complete stranger referred to her as her daughter. “You’re not my mommy,” she hissed back venomously. Cer Tess sighed.

“My child, it’s merely a form of address. What was your name again?” She knelt down, and the other children sat down to take a rest. The boy Kaal’zar had tried to talk to earlier kept a close eye on her every action.

“Kaal’zar,” she replied valiantly. The druid nodded.

“Do you know why you’ve been chosen?” she asked her. Kaal’zar grit her teeth.

“No! Why have I been chosen? Where’s mommy? Why did daddy and her just give me away? Where’s Kaal’bor?”

“All in due time, my child,” Cer Tess replied patiently. Her whole stance, voice and being indicated that she had done this more times than one could count. “You’re lucky - we’re close to our destination. All will be explained there.”

As she got up, Kaal’zar screamed, “No! I wanna know -now-! Where are we going?!” Some of the other children echoed the request, approaching the druid with impatient steps. Cer Tess sighed again.

“The stars guided us to you, our new apprentices - you have been chosen by the gods to become druids!”

The two children who hadn’t realised or heard this yet all gasped, more bepuzzled than relieved. One of them, a boy, raised his hands, looking a little more confused that the others. “B-but pa oh’ways said I was gon’ be a lumberjack like ‘iiiim!”

Cer Tess sighed. “The archdruid will be clearer in her explanation. She will answer your every question. Now come on.” As the lady began to walk, she found that Kaal’zar remained defiantly where she had stood. She sighed again, this one containing hints of a groan, and walked over. “What’s wrong, my child?”

“I’m not your child! I wanna go home! This isn’t fun!”

“My dear, your new home is just beyond the hill over there, now come on.”

“NOOOO! DON’T WANNAAA-uh? Urrrgh…” Kaal’zar dropped to the ground with a snore and rolled every so slightly down the slope before Cer Tess caught her and picked her up, carrying her in her arms as she returned to lead the group.

“That makes two this year… Kids these days...” The other children glared enviously at Kaal’zar being carried, but a one of them felt odd cases of déjà vu. “Will I be able to do that?” mumbled one of them as they went on.

The journey went on for another thirty to forty-five minutes, as the “hill” Cer Tess had described, turned out to be a little higher up than expected. On top was a large, grassy plateau, sporting a few tents and huts, even one made of stacked flat stones. The hamlet was humble in every sense of the word, with roughly ploughed patches of grain whisking on the plateau edges in the evening wind. At the centre of this small settlement, however, was a great, moss-grown dolmen, surrounded by white-robed humans and night elves. Next to the dolmen, specifically in its sunset shade, stood another group of four children. These were night elves, and their supervisor, a man of their own kind with thick locks of midnight hair, was handing out patches of moss for the children to put in their ears. The human children all cast sideways glances at the elves, who returned the gesture. While Kaal’zar still fumed over being taken from her home, the sight of these creatures momentarily pulled her attention from those thoughts. This was the first time Kaal’zar saw a night elf child, and only the second time she’d seen night elves at all - her father had once gotten in an argument with one of them during a stag hunt, but apart from that, she hadn’t seen any others. She approached and pulled at Cer Tess’ robe.

“Cer Tess? Why are those night elves here?”

“Why, they’re here for the same reason as you, my child - they’ve been chosen. Four elves, four humans - eight in all, as homage to the great gods.”

“But why? Why not just humans?”

“Or just elves?” came another remark.

Cer Tess pointed to the dolmen with her staff. “It’s to maintain a balance, see - nightkind and daykind haven’t always gotten along around here, so in order to ensure peace is upheld, we druids must ensure that we can always function as a diplomatic bridge between all peoples of the mountain - both for those who live on it and in it. This dolmen, the Gudlach, is a symbol of this cooperation.”

The four children stared at the monument, trying to see what was so special about it. None of them could ask any more questions, however, before an old crone raised her tree branch staff and shook it scoldingly. “Cer Tess! You’re late!”

Cer Tess stopped and bowed as deeply as she could. “Forgive me, Volv Eaoir - we were delayed.”

“Dang right, you were! By a day, almost! As always, Cer Cayn came ahead of you - why can’t you be more like him, huh?” The other druids around the old crone sighed their peace, while the night elf overseeing the elven children looked to be discomforted by the praise. Cer Tess was silent for a moment.

“I will do my best, Volv Eaoir.”

“Pweh. Sure you will. Alright, children, gather around now! Come on, come on, we haven’t got all evening.” While Cer Tess brought the human children over, Cer Cayn translated the message into what Kaal’zar could only presume was some kind of elvish. It had a wide selection of aspirated consonants, lots of hissing and only three vowels, from what she could hear. There was a very distinct lack of unaspirated consonants, though, save for the occasional d and g. The night elf had a funny voice, though, Kaal’zar thought - squeaky and weird. It was as if he had the voice of a baby. She couldn’t help but giggle.

The old crone cleared her throat with thunderous gargling, silencing the humans and shocking the elves. One of the nelflings started whimpering and begged whisperously for support from Cer Cayn. “Welcome, all, to Godlach, the centre of druidism here in Laychsomun. This is where you’ll be staying for the next sixteen years.” Protests among the human children, and the nelflings as soon as the message was translated, were immediately crushed by the old crone’s draconic glare. “You will all be assigned to a mentor, and they will be with you for the first ten years. You will also get to know your peers - both daykind and nightkind - and you will learn each other’s strengths, weaknesses, songs and truths.”

“Sach-ak hsii k’ee-ar’loch k’ho?!” squeaked one of the nelflings, seemingly outraged. Volv Eaoir sneered at the remark.

“You will learn to love and appreciate each other in time. From now on, your only difference is that your schedules will be divided into day and night - apart from that, you are druids. Not nelflings and children - druids. Is that clear?” The nelfling who had spoken up looked away. The old crone approached and lowered herself to his level. “Cha-ee k’ho?” The nelfling nodded facing the ground. The old crone scoffed and returned to her spot under the dolmen.

The lumberjack’s son raised his hand - Kaal’zar blinked at him. Volv Eaoir groaned. “I don’t recall saying any of you could ask questions…”

“Please, ma’am, it’s--”

“-Volv- Eaoir to you, mouse,” the old crone spat back and the boy and the other children all shrank by a head. With teary eyes, the boy repeated:

“S-sorry, Volv Eaoir, didn’t mean te…”

“Didn’t mean to what?!” the old crone continued. One of her colleagues placed a hand on her shoulder. “Volv Eaoir, please, he’s only--”

“I don’t care what he’s onlying! Druids don’t back down when met with resistance! How’ll boys like him stop the outbreak of clan feuds and tribal war if he cannot handle a simple old lady?!” She had to be held back by her colleagues as she tried to run at the boy, staff waving from side to side.

Cer Tess tried her best to shut out the chaos and kneeled next to the boy, who had fallen to his knees to cry. Kaal’zar, meanwhile, observed the nelflings grimacing and sneering at the loudness of the humans. “It’s okay, my son, it’s okay,” Cer Tess whispered to him and took him in an embrace. The boy, though initially reluctant, accepted her slowly, and the druid whispered to him, “There, there… What did you want to ask? I can ask it for you, if you’d like.”

“I-I-I jusht… Sniff! … I jusht wanted to ask when we guh-get those super powers… Oo-hoo…”

Cer Tess pecked a kiss on the top of his head. “Alright, let me ask for you.” She turned to Volv Eaoir while still holding the boy and asked. The old crone, who had just calmed down from her tantrum, scoffed with the pierce of an arrow.

“Alright, -one- question more before the rest of the initiation; this was coming up next anyway… Impatient brats… Listen carefully - and if any of you start something anew for this, you won’t get dinner for a week!” Motivation properly shattered, the children merely looked to the ground as a response. Volv Eaoir nodded her approval. “Know this - we will not spend hours and maybe even days in prayer to call forth Hir just to empower gullible little snifflings. No, no. You’ll have to -earn- it!” She pointed her staff at the sky. “When your training has reached its tenth year, and you are well-versed in the gospels of the Eight, the Worldsong of Mich-all, the geography of this land and the stories of the thousand peoples that inhabit it…” She leaned in, eyes narrow, serpentine slips. “... Only then will you be given your power.”

The plateau was silent, except for some crickets. After she felt the blanket of hopelessness had packed itself tightly enough around the initiates, Volv Eaoir tapped the butt of her staff against the mountainous ground underneath the dolmen. “Now, form a line, all, and you’ll be given your new names. Learn them well and forget your old ones - no one will remember you by them anymore.”

Kaal’zar raised her hand. The old crone drew a long, sharp breath. “... What?”

“Will we ever get to see mommy and daddy again?”

The old crone seemed to glare at Cer Tess as though she hoped she would catch fire. “... We are your family now. Starting tomorrow, you will learn this. Now form a line!” Kaal’zar and many of her peers knew not how to even process this concept, so they didn’t react much as they were lined up before the old crone. While the first child, a nelfling girl to be exact, as well as everyone else, half expected the old crone to name her ‘Garbage’ and toss her aside. However, Volv Eaoir sat down and began to drone a song that seemed to go on forever. Meanwhile, one of her companions who had held her back earlier turned to the stars, wagging his staff from side to side; another knelt down to the ground and placed her palms against it as she started to sing along with the old crone; a third stared into a puddle by the westmost foot of the dolmen - stared hard, too, as though he saw the secrets of the universe on the other side; a forth was sat tossing fish bones in a bowl; and finally, a fifth was running between the eastern edge and western edge of the plateau, as though chasing the setting sun and greeting the rising moon. Cer Tess and Cer Cayn gently pushed the first nelfling up to the crone, and she stood there shivering before the woman’s blind, nefarious glare.

“Fina,” was all she said.

“Sok?” replied the nelfling bepuzzled. The crone growled and Cer Cayn gently pulled her aside and whispered loudly through the moss her ears: “Hso ‘Fina’ chol’loch.” Before the nelfling could complain about her new name, she was pulled aside to make way for the next in line, the boy Kaal’zar had tried to speak to on the road.

“Gion,” said the crone through her song. The boy nodded and stepped aside. Next up was Kaal’zar, rubbing her hands together nervously.

“I don’t wanna--”

“Pia.”

Pia blinked. No, this wasn’t right. She was Kaal’zar! Daughter of Kaal’terk and Prol’zar, sister of Kaal’bor. She built up her protest, but Cer Tess pulled her aside with a knowing expression on her face. Pia felt the tears come back. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t--

“Call.”

Pia looked over. Call was a tall nelfling, built well for one of their age. He had no doubt come from a hunter family. He didn’t seem particularly pleased with the arrangement, either, and stomped off to join the rest of the named.

“Tolk.” The lumberjack’s son.

“Chass.” A crying nelfling girl.

“Logo.” A pale, sickly-looking human girl.

“Iro.” A skinny nelfling, likely the youngest in a family of poor farmers.

The old crone finally opened her eyes again. Her companions came panting back to the dolmen, especially the runner. The children looked uncomfortably at one another and Volv Eaoir spoke, “You have been named in the presence of the Eight, as well as all the spirits of land, sea and sky. You will from now on only use these names - your old ones are forfeit, and to use them is considered a grave transgression of the rules atop Godlach. Starting tomorrow, you will begin your lessons.” She nodded. “Welcome, all, to your new life.”

Summary!

Kaal’zar the human kid on the hilltops of Hreelcii is given to the druids to become a druid. She don’t wanna. Her guide, Cer Tess, tries to say that she gotta. She still don’t wanna, so Tess puts her to sleep. They go to the toppest hill, to a dolmen called Godlach. Here, they meet Bitch the Rapper, who berates them for not being perfect druids out the door. This bitch, better known as Volv Eaoir, then proceeds to name the kids. They are named as follows and then starts the semester of My Druid Academia.

Apprentice Names and Summaries

• Pia: The PoV character in this post. 8 year old human girl who misses her family dearly.
• Fina: Nelfling (night elf child) who wasn’t happy with her name. 22 years of age (8 human years, roughly).
• Gion: Human boy tired of life. 8 years old.
• Call: Tall handsome nelfling. 23 years old.
• Tolk: Lumberjack’s son and has a hard time reading the room. 7 years old.
• Chass: Crying nelfling. 20 years old.
• Logo: Sickly human girl. 8 years old.
• Iro: Skinny nelfling from a poor farmer family. 22 years old.

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

The Founding of Ha-Dûna

Fourteen years before the burning of Thyma, somewhere west in the Boreal Highlands.

Kaer Mirh rubbed his eyes intensely, as if trying to squeeze the exhaustion out of them. He hated watching the goats at night - not because he wasn’t fond of goats; in fact, he found them to be wonderful companions, giving wool, milk and, eventually, meat in exchange for protection and permission to nibble at the grass and hay. No, Kaer Mirh’s qualm was that watching the goats at night meant he wasn’t asleep, and he loathed the thought of disappointing the moon by not being asleep.

Of course, it was only fair that he’d watch them. His brother Hama had kept watch all day, after all, and he couldn’t very well ask his pregnant wife Tegan, who had been busy tending to their two daughters. He supposed he could’ve called in a favour from one of the six other families travelling with them, but they all had their own tasks to tend to, and that wouldn’t be solving the problem either way, since, in the end, someone would have to stay up during the night to watch the goats. At least he wasn’t without conversation partners, though…

A goat bleated a song to the grass, thanking it for a wonderful meal, while another was singing her kid a lullaby. The stones, including the one Kaer Mirh sat upon, all droned along with harmonically layered bass and baritone. In the distance, some owls tried their best to outperform their song. Tamed boreal stags droned a sombre blues about the qualms of being a pack animal. A beetle squeaked a high-pitched tune praising the flavour of goat dung. Kaer Mirh considered what it must be like to fall asleep without this constant flux of music buzzing in the background - he hadn’t know the sensation for many decades, and by now, he supposed a night without hearing the lovesong of the flora to the rain and morning dew would be a terrifying night indeed.

He yawned, waking up a nearby goat kid, which eyeballed him sourly. He rose up from his stone and did his round again, making certain all fifteen goats were present. A rush of wind brought the scent of salt and sea to his nostrils - he hadn’t been this far west before, and this smell was unfamiliar. He hadn’t smelt its likeness for decades, at least. He started counting, groggy eyes following an equally lazy finger pointing out the goats among the rocks atop the hill he stood.

Fourteen.

The dissonance in expectation fueled some quickness into his mind again and waking eyes jumped from goat to goat once more, verifying what they had just seen.

Fourteen again.

He sucked in a breath through the nose and sighed. They hadn’t had a single runaway goat for a week - of course there had to be one when it was finally his shift. Well, he could either spend all night looking for it… Or…

Been away for long, kid;
Momma miss ye so, kid;
Why won’t you come home, kid?
Home to mommy’s herd.

He stopped to listen. Some of the other goats woke up and sang to him:

Farseer, farseer, farseer kind -
Have we left a kid behind?

Kaer Mirh spun around and raised his hands in a calming manner.

Be not worried, goats of mine,
For I assure you: All is fine.
‘Left behind’ are words with strength;
He’s likely only skipped a length.
A blink or two and I’ll be back,
Regain whatever rest you lack.

With that, the goats slowly went back to sleep one by one. Kaer Mirh sighed his relief and continued down from the hilltop. He passed by some tents belonging to one of the other families travelling with him and then arrived at the border of a great forest. He looked over his shoulder at the tents and took a deep breath:

Little goat kid, are you here?
It’s your friend, the kind farseer -
I’ve come to bring you home to mom;
It’s past your bedtime, now come on.

Then, a faint, squeaking song replied:

Farseer kind, I’m over here!
I know I should be mother near,
But here I found this fancy stone -
I had to see it, ev’n alone!

Kaer Mirh took a deep breath and sighed. Then he entered into the woods, the trees humming a sleepy plea for them to quiet down. Advance was slow, as the druid had to tap around the ground with his staff to bypass the zig-zagging pattern of roots and rocks. An owl hooted curiously at him, and a porcupine spat curses from below as Kaer Mirh’s bark-shoed foot nearly stepped on it. The druid pondered for a moment whether to plead Gibbou for better eyes in the night, but he was already overstepping his welcome by walking around when he should be asleep. Last thing he should do would be to come over as insolent and ungrateful - especially on the road like this.

The forest was thickening and the trees grew taller. The scent of the sea, which by now grew rancid with rotting seaweed, was offensive to the nose. It was an aspect of Claroon, however, and thus had to be respected and loved. When he looked up through the canopy, he saw the moon’s wink grow clearer and clearer the deeper into the woods he came. Stepping over a few more roots, the stars peeked through, too, blinking and twinkling in a dance around the bright crescent moon.

You’re close now, farseer - I can hear!
Come now, come now, you must see!
This rock is godly essence near -
The Worldsong says just so to me!

Kaer Mirh stopped to listen. The thousand voices of trees, stones, stars and animals echoed the kid’s statement. They sang:

A stone a thousand ages old;
A wall of trees like World Tree mold;
A spot to gaze ‘pon every star;
The spray of oceans, never far;
Reflective puddles ‘round the stone,
The rose and white of moons do hone;
The Worldsong here is never done,
For here shines best the light of Sun.

As the verse came to a close, the spirits celebrated, and Kaer Mirh stepped into the clearing. He had seen the World Tree once, long, long ago - the trees weren’t even close to its height. Still, however, they were incredibly tall, taller than any tree he had ever seen in the highlands. Yet still, the stars and moon shone perfectly through the treetops - the whole night sky was visible above the clearing. Nearby, where he could see the foliage wasn’t as thick as the rest of the wall, he could hear the laps of the ocean licking at the beach not even two hundred paces away. Then, in the centre of the clearing, elevated on a slight rise and surrounded by spots of otherworldly clear water, was a large, sharp rock that arced towards the sky, upon which sat the goat kid, admiring the sky. Kaer Mirh approached, making certain not to step in any of the puddles along the way. He climbed onto the rock and sat himself down by the kid to join in on the stargazing. The kid bleated happily and drummed its cloven feet on the stone in excitement with a series of tak-tak-taks.

See, farseer - behold up high:
The finest plot of Galbar sky!

Certainly is, oh little goat.
From tallest tree to smallest mote,
All sights here are just divine!
Gods’ blessings, goat kid, what a find!

Kaer Mirh jumped to his feet, nearby tumbling forward as he hopped off the rock. He managed to skip over one of the tiny pools, but the hop finally made him lose his balance and roll down the small hill until his back crashed into a tree trunk. The kid skipped expertly down from the rock and hopped over, singing anxiously:

Farseer, farseer, are you alright?!
A fall like that, break bones, just might!

But Kaer Mirh only cackled, maniacally almost, waving his arms and legs around in the air as he tried to get back on his feet. Above, the moon was waning as the sun began to blink over the distant horizon. The druid finally regained his footing, kicking up mud and grass as his legs propelled him into a sprint back through the woods. The goat kid followed faithfully, and the songs of the woods followed the action with baited breath:

What now, what now?
The druid has run off!
With speed, his prow
T’wards camp just did blastoff!
Has he, this man,
Received a holy sign?
Perhaps this land
Has just become a shrine?

It took merely an hour for Kaer Mirh to return to camp, where the fourteen goats still laid peacefully, albeit now began to awaken from the ruckus. The kid bleated for its mother, who bleated back in a distracted manner as she eyed the druid run in full sprint from tent to tent, shouting for all to wake up. The kid hopped over to its mother and the two gently rammed heads in greeting. Eyeing the panting druid, the mother goat asked:

Pray tell, advent’rous son of mine -
Has this druid seen a sign?
He’s skipping ‘round like Creit the Ram
Waking every human, stag and lamb!

The kid skipped up and down in its excitement:

Mother dear, it’s quite the tale!
See, I heard the Worldsong’s hail,
And followed it to forests deep
Where stones of ages past did sleep.
I may be ‘llowing thoughts to run,
But I think our months-long journey’s done.

In the centre of the camp, groggy humans who had barely had time to put their clothes back on, rubbed their eyes as one. Morning mugs that believed they should’ve had at least an hour more of shut-eye affixed skeptical, even annoyed stares at Kaer Mirh, who was sporting a wicked mad grin in spite of his absolutely filthy, once-white robes. Being among his closest, his brother Hama stepped forth and spoke, “Mirh, what has you so worked up? We almost thought we were under attack when you came running, but we see neither any bandits nor bears to speak of. What is this about?”

“I have found it, my kinsmen!” He gestured to the surrounding highlands, elevations and flats of grass and stone, save for the forest behind him, appearing like an oasis in a desert. The coast below reddened in the light of dawn, and distant herds of wild highland deer skipped after their leading stag. Cool winds blew in from the north and made the children huddle closer to their mothers. “This will be our new home,” declared the druid.

The people looked around, some looking surprised, some skeptical; some satisfied, some outraged. “What’re we supposed to live off here? We know nothing of this place!” came a shout from the crowd. It wasn’t his own kin, but one of the other families.

“You said we were stopping here to rest before we continue!” came another shout. Kaer Mirh waved his hands calmingly.

“We wanted to travel west to escape Ketrefa’s expansion. We have travelled as far west as west goes - if we go further now, we will enter a land so different from what we know that we will likely be consumed by it.” He gestured to the surroudings again. “We are already almost a year’s journey from the Walled City. We are as safe here as we’ll ever be, once we get to know the lay of the land.” He pointed at the one who had shouted first. “Dairl, you and your clan used to work great fields out east, is that correct?”

Dairl, a man who could in every way be described as broad, was taken aback as he was pointed at. “W-well, yes, of course! We were gaardskarls for generations before those slavers burnt everything we had and took my cousin’s family! What about it?”

Kaer Mirh beckoned him up to the rise he stood on. Dairl followed, and as did the rest of the crowd, curious to see. Kaer Mirh pointed along the grasslain slope running down from the rise until it reached the sandy coast. It stretched as far as the eyes could see, containing both flatlands and highlands. The druid turned back to Dairl. “Could you and your kin work this soil, you think?”

The farmer’s temper subsided and he brought a ponderous hand to his brownbearded chin. “... Well… The slopes will be hard - it’s tough work to plow and sow in such stoney ground. The lowlands will be easier, though.”

“Can you do it?”

Dairl shot Kaer Mirh a glare. “What, you doubt the ability of a gaardskarl?! You better watch your tongue, or I’ll--”

“You’ll do what, exactly?” came a sharp snap from Hama behind Kaer Mirh, hand resting faithfully on his stone adze. Dairl’s sons saw the gesture and reached for their own tools, but Kaer Mirh raised his hands to them both.

“I will not have animosity between us when we’re -this- close to finding a new home! Dairl, forgive me - I didn’t mean for it to come across that way. What I meant was whether you and your kin would be willing do work this land if we are to settle here.”

Dairl scoffed and looked back over the land. Glares of challenge were still being exchanged between Dairl’s sons and Hama, who was now being backed up by his and Kaer Mirh’s cousins. As tensions began to spark, Dairl stuck out his hand in Kaer Mirh’s direction.

“We’re not doing it for you. We’ll turn this land into a garden to prove, once and for all, that we gaardskarls cannot be outmatched.”

Kaer Mirh smirked and raised a brow as he squeezed the hand. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

Dairl rolled his eyes and rumbled back down to his camp along with his kinsmen. Kaer Mirh felt a prick on his shoulder and turned to see Tegan, his wife, belly protruding slightly underneath her humble leather clothes. She offered him a worried expression, now clearly visible under the rising sun, and spoke, “Mirh, I’m certain this land is as good as any other, but… -Why- exactly here? You know what happened to Ragsam and his family, right? When they ventured south? We haven’t heard from them since. What if…” She paused. “What if we’re too close to the Prairie?”

Kaer Mirh shook his head and put a hand on her shoulder. “It must be here, my love. There is no other choice. The Song sang thusly.”

Tegan sighed. “Mirh, you know I love you and trust you in everything, but… None of us can hear it. None of us can hear this song you keep telling us about it. Are you sure you’re not…”

The druid placed a finger over her lips, inciting a confused blink from her. “I’m not,” he said curtly and smiled weakly. “Trust me.”

Tegan didn’t smile back, but pressed her lips together in a somewhat worried frown. “I do.”

“Good,” said the druid. “Franser, could you come here a bit?” Kaer Mirh continued over to a different man whose trade was builder and started discussing acquisition of building materials. Tegan sighed again and caressed her belly moreso to soothe herself than the baby inside. His judgment hadn’t been wrong before, but it was never easy just accepting the existence of this mysterious song, no matter how many times he tried to explain it. She looked over at one of the goats, which looked back with its odd, flat-pupiled eyes. Another one behind it bleated loudly.

No, these creatures definitely couldn’t sing.

---

A year passed, and the settlement had grown from a population of thirty-three to eighty-one. During the four month, all forty membres of the Circle of the Long Stride had arrived to behold the Dûna, the moot stone, guided to it by a blinking star that had shone brighter than all for the duration of a moon cycle. All the druids who had arrived agreed: The Dûna was a holy place, and it would serve as their meeting stone for all eternity. The growing settlement created work for those of neighbouring villages who had nothing to inherit, and bonds of allegiance formed between Ha-Dûna and its neighbours, as well as sparks of rivalry. Language barriers were hard to breach, but trade and favours spoke a thousand words. The druids of the Circle of the Long Stride decided the first year that the Dûna and Ha-Dûna by extension should serve as the centre of their circle, and should strive to be a core hub of druidism in the highlands. Whenever they would go out to other villages to spread the word of the gods and tend to the inhabitants’ qualms, they would also make sure to spread the message that Ha-Dûna was a haven for druids and those devoted to the gods, and would accept all who would be willing to work in the name of divinity. After that, the meeting adjourned, and the druids once more travelled out into the highlands to perform their tasks, eager to see their capital grow into a jewel the gods could be proud of.

A bastion to the glory of Fìrinn, Claroon, Gibbou, Reyia, Macsal, Seeros, Boris and the World Tree.

---

SummaREEEE!

Kaer Mirh and about 30 others are travelling from eastern BH to avoid Ketrefa. Mirh sits out watching the goats when a goat kid runs off. He tries to find it with spiritsinging, but it says it’s found something dope. Mirh follows it into the centre of the woods and finds the Dûna, a normal rock that just so happens to be in a very, very elementally significant spot (see Prestigios for summary). Mirh’s psyched af, runs back to his people and says, “yo, we gotta settle here”. After some bickering, they do. Ha-Dûna is now the druid capital of North Toraan.

Prestigios!

Circle of the Long Stride: 10.
18k+ characters = +5 prestigios.
-5: Found a settlement - Ha-Dûna, founded next to the Dûna, the moot stone, a pointed boulder in a forest clearing close by the sea, where the tree cover surrounding the clearing leaves the sun, the moons and the stars in perfect view. There are also reflective puddles around the stone, and the area is a hub of spiritsinging things. Also merely a month’s travel away from the Sunlit Temple.
-8: Cause a major cultural shift - Druid moots and the culture of moot grounds: Druids (on Northern Toraan for now), whether part of the Circle of the Long Stride or not, will find themselves non-consecrated holy sites (typically places of great significance to one or more of the Eight) where they will meet once a year to discuss the past year and plan the following year, a so-called moot. OOCly, this also serves as the time and area where druidic circles can spent prestige. Moot grounds also serve as recruitment grounds and schools for new druids if no other academic institution is present in the area.

End: 2 prestigios.

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

Gibbou

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Gibbou strolled triumphantly across the surface of her moon, looking giddily down at the planet below. As she had foreseen, the appearance of vampires had immensely reduced the number of people who killed their superiors and family for ambition. Her plan had succeeded. To celebrate, she conjured forth a fancy glass with a blue drink, which immediately froze. With a pout, she thawed it again and drank it as quickly as she could before it froze, gagging at the overwhelming presence of blue curaçao. A short moment passed, and then she made herself another.

Before long, the goddess was skipping across the moon, giggly, giddy and about as wasted as the satellite's surface. Maybe she finally had done it? The Circles, the vampires… Maybe the tides were turning for little Gibbou? Maybe Neiya’s poisonous words could finally leave her - Cadien’s statue, finally disappear? Maybe… Maybe she could finally be as good and amazing as her beloved sister?

A distant whisper made her lose her balance and faceplant into the rocky soil. She groggily forced herself back up, her sloppy hands somehow not managing to grab the ground properly. With a push that sent her five metres into the not-air, she managed to coerce her clumsy legs into a sitting stance and her eyes into a resemblance of a focused stare. She dove deep, deep inside her rum-sozzled brain, pulling forth the faint flicker of a voice that had tried to contact her. It was a prayer - a small child whose language sounded Lapite. Gibbou pulled at her nose and tried to make herself somewhat presentable before listening in once again. With messy hair, restless feet and a head that just couldn’t seem to stay still, she focused.

“Dear Yuemu...” The voice was crying, and Gibbou’s emotional centre and attention span were battling gruesome battle in the deep, unforgiving swamp that was her inebriated mind. “... A… A monster has been attacking us in the night. More and more people are disappearing, and, and, and… I’m so scared. I can’t sleep even if I want to. What if it gets us like the others? What, what if I’m next?”

This puzzled Gibbou, or at least she looked puzzled. Squinting eyes and pursed lips overtook her expression, and the goddess ran a hand over her chin. ”Mhm, mhm… I, uh-duh… I, I shee,” she mumbled to none in particular, and hopefully not to the frightened little girl back on Galbar. After what felt like an eternity, her senses conjured forth a proper response. ”Yuh-your mind ish unwell, my ssshild. Here, lemme help you.”

With a clumsy wave of her hand, she cast something (she wasn’t quite sure herself, even), and the sound of a slow sigh came from the other end. She summoned forth a moon dust mirage of the other side and saw the child soundly asleep next to her parents, who also appeared to be resting peacefully. When she expanded the mirage, she saw that that whole part of the warren that the child lived in had suddenly fallen into a deep, peaceful sleep - even the guards. Satisfied, she made herself another drink and blew the image away, just as a shadowed figured entered the view from a corner. After downing her drink, her eyes suddenly picked up a very peculiar fish east of Toraan. She focused her hazy eyes, and her heart skipping four beats. Immediately, she poured all her might into establishing a mental link with this individual, just as it was washing ashore on the Kylsar Isles.

”Hic! … Hey...”

”No,” answered Twilight on the other side, busily pulling seaweed out of his sandals.

”Boo, you suck,” moaned Gibbou disapprovingly. ”Enter--... Urrp… Entertain me.”

Twilight sighed. ”Isn’t part of being a goddess that you can do anything? Gibbou shrunk. ”Including making a playmate?”

”Nnnnnnno!” exclaimed Gibbou and nearly rolled backwards onto her back. Twilight winced at the background noise as the moon goddess got back up. ”I wan’ ssshat wishoo.”

Twilight placed a seawater-smelling palm in his face. ”Look, Gibs, could you not do this right now? I mean, I just made landfall, I’m tired--

”Ooo! Whashu, urp, doon? Tsell me, cuh-maaawn!” A moment passed. ”C’MAAAAAWN!

Twilight looked up and sighed from the bottom of his lungs. ”Y’know… Being doing stuff?”

”Kinda staff?”

”Stuff! Like, uhm… I met this troll-guy. He was… Really nice, actually. Kinda miss him. Tidemand was his name. Yeah… Him and Oscar sure are some sweet guys.” There was silence, during which Twilight hesitated to test whether the link was still open. Eventually, however, he said, ”Gibbou?”.

”MY TROLLSH AIN’T ALL BAAAAAAAD!” came a long, tearful scream followed by a sulking, guttural ”uuuuuuuuuuu-huuu-huuu!” Twilight felt a compulsive need to pat her politely on the back, but said nothing until the moon goddess eventually continued, ”Oo-hoo… Shanksh, Twi, hic! It helpsh that--... Ugh… That you tsell me theesh shings…”

”You’re-... Ahem, you’re welcome, Gibs. For a while, there was only sobbing and sulking on the other side. However, suddenly, something rustled in the bushes nearby. Twilight’s eyes focused on the spot with lightning quick accuracy, and he knelt down slight. ”Gibbou, listen, I know you’re sad, but--”

”You’re shad!” she accused back.

”Look, I can’t do this right now, Gibs, I can’t hear myself think with all your--” Then, out of the bushes came two cloaked and masked humanoids, each armed with bone spears. Immediately, one of them lunged at Twilight and shouted, “Bad luck, kid! Fork over the belongings and run, or we’ll take ‘em and leave you to rot in the swamp!” The avatar dodged away, only for another spear to appear from behind him and graze his hip as not even his godlike reflexes could properly avoid it. ”Crap, bandits!”

”Whashat?” Gibbou droned.

”Gibs, would, would you just shut up for a-- phew! -- for a moment?!” Twilight cursed back as he narrowly ducked out of the way of another spear attack, barely dancing away from yet another one. The three tried constantly to surround him, and while the avatar made it hard, three deftly stabbing spears was no easy foe to avoid. There came a sniff from the other side.

”You’re alwaysh sho mean to meeee…”

”I swear, if you start crying again-- hup!”

“Who’re you talking to, boy?! We’re the only ones here! Yargh!” One of the bandits jumped forward, adding some extra length to his thrust. The blow grazed Twilight’s arm, ripping through the fabric of his shirt. Twilight grit his teeth.

”Gibbou, are you gonna help, by sunlight?!”

”Oh, I’m sh-shorry! I thought you werr part godz! Can’t you, like, mayke stuff or shomshin’?” The pout on Gibbou’s face was audible.

”I can’t-- ugh! -- focus like this! Help me!”

There came a long sigh. ”Uuuugh! Fiiiiine!” There came a flash in the sky above, breaking through the clouds and crashing into Twilight’s hand like a lightning bolt. The three assailants stopped in awe and confusion as the avatar suddenly held a scabbarded blade, curved ever so slightly backwards to resemble somewhat a softer curve of the moon. Twilight blinked, and then a widening grin formed on his lips. The assailants blinked amongst themselves (not that that was possible to see through their masks) and slowly began to back off. Twilight’s grin turned to a malicious smirk as he unsheathed the sword, its blade a cold, white shade of steel; its edge, an ashen sheen that stood out in the night’s darkness. He weighed the sword in his hand, testing its balance.

”Now… -This- is a weapon. Thanks, Gibbou. At least you can do something right.”

”At leash you can do something right, bleh, bleh, bleh…” The bandits staggered backwards as Twilight approached.

”You thought you could pounce on me so easily? Heh… Well…” The bandits all tripped backwards and huddled together in sheer terror. Twilight snickered. ”You’ll be feeling it now… The wrath of myself, Twilight, and my trusty companion…” He paused to think of a name, looking upwards with a respectful nod. “... Tsukigami-no-Kokoro.”

From the other side of the mind-link, he heard Gibbou burst into laughter, which kind of ruined the moment for him, but at least the bandits couldn’t hear it. He approached the one who had taunted him to earlier and lifted the sword high above his head, the bandit’s companions crying for mercy for their boss. Twilight rolled his eyes. ”Mercy… Like the kind you wanted to show me?” He spat. ”Mercy’s too good for the likes of you.” Locking eyes with the leader, he said, ”... Tell the king of the underworld… Twilight sent ya.” Then he hacked his blade downwards.

DUNK!

“Ow!” shouted the leader and immediately brought his hands to the growing bump on his head. Twilight’s eyes widened in surprise and puzzlement, as did all the others’. Twilight immediately turned around and looked up to the sky. ”GIBBOU!”

”Hm? Wha?”

Twilight shook the sword around. ”What the hell is this?!”

”Why, it’sh the shword that you named Tsookeegahmee no--... Pfffahahahahaha! Ican’believeyounameditthaaat! Hahaha!”

Twilight tossed the sheath into the ground so hard it caused sand to splatter everyone around. Another audible pout. ”Hey, I made dat!”

”What the hell kinda sword -is- it, though?!”

”It can cut through anyshing when the moon shines on it! It’sh super-strong, y’know!”

”When the moon is out?! Gibbou - it’s OVERCAST!”

There was a long pause. Then Gibbou exploded into a snorting laughter once more. The bandits seized the opportunity to run and Twilight sat himself down in the sand with his face in his hands, suffering the taunting guffaw of his superior. ”Hoooo-hooo! Ican’tbreathe! I’mgonnapee!” came a few words wheezingly from the other side.

”Just leave me alone,” Twilight pleaded in embarrassment.

”Hehehehehehe, noway, thish is too good, oh, sister.” There was a long suction of breath, followed by an equally long side. ”Holy sunlight...”

”If my divine powers are good for anything, then please let them help me block you out of my head…”

”Oh, now you’re mean again, boo...” Gibbou moaned. ”Fine, I’m going… But not because you toldz me too! Hmph!” With that, the presence in his mind disappeared. Twilight sat there on the beach in shame, Tsukigami-no-Kokoro sheathed across his lap. He sat there, for a very long time.

Sumree

Gibs celebrates the, uh, SUCCess of her vampires by getting wasted to shit. She gets a prayer from a baby rabbit while rum-sozzled to kingdom fuck, asking her to help her sleep because some monstrous, definitely-not-vampire thing is roaming the warren. Gibbou, being drunk Gibbou now, grants her wish and puts her whole neighbourhood to sleep. She unlocks the respite port for this and celebrates with more drinks. She then drunk dials Twilight, who has just arrived in Kylsar. During their conversation, Twilight is attacked by Reshut bandits and asks Gibbou to help him. Gibbou makes him a legendary sword, which Twi names Naruto-Sasuke-no-omae-wa-mo-shinderu, causing Gibbou to burst out into a cackle. However, just as Twi’s about to kill the fuckers, he realises the blade is as blunt as a roll of weed. Turns out swords that can cut through anything in moonlight are useless when it’s overcast. The bandits run away unscathed (except for the leader who gets a bump on the head from the sword), and Twi sits on the beach to the mocked by drunk Gibs.

Em-Pee

Start 4MP/2DP
1DP - Bless (or possibly curse) some rabbits in a lower warren section of a Lapite warren to a very good night’s sleep. (5/5 for Respite port).
3MP - Snatch Respite port: Respite: Gibbou’s mastery of respite allows her to easier bless life with calmness and mental peace after traumatic experiences. While she cannot erase these memories, her blessings may instead help life cope with them, whether this is a terrible loss or a difficult childhood. The mental respite granted by Gibbou eases the mind to a state of tranquility, allowing the blessed to bypass emotions such as panic and anxiety for the duration of the blessing.

Respite isn’t permanent, however, and all must eventually rest again. The respite portfolio also grants power of rest in general, and can turn the strength gained from a 15 minute nap into what one would normally gain from sleeping through the night. However, respite doesn’t necessarily require sleep, and can be achieved simply by meditation or general rest.

3DP (discounted to 1DP with Moon portfolio): Create the legendary katana Tsukigami-no-Kokoro, blessed with the following title:

• Moonblade III: When the moon shines on the blade, it can cut through anything. Otherwise, it's blunt as a hammer.

End: 1MP/0DP