Take a basketful of good herbs - ideally thyme, rosemary and mint. Place these in a mortar and pound them gently. If you do not have a mortar and pestle, you may grind them with your hooves - just make sure they are clean before you do.
Once the herbs have been pounded, take good oil of either flax or olive. Rapeseed will do in a pinch, but if you do use it, add a fistful of dried mushroom powder for a deeper flavour. Steep the herbs in the oil and leave it to sit for a full day.
The following day, take twigs from a tree sapling - soft ones are preferred, but in a pinch, harder ones will do too. Do not use dry branches, for these have a dusty flavour. A rule of hoof is to take two twigs for each guest. Break them into pieces a little larger than bite-sized. Toss them in a bowl with fresh clover and chicory. Mix well and set aside.
Take pebbles of good quality shale - river-polished shale is preferred. For better flavour and presentation, use pebbles of varying colours. Pour your herbal oil with the herbs into a bowl. Dig the pebbles in the oil and put them briefly in a fire and let them get hot. While they roast, pour the oil over the twigs, clover and chicory salad.
Finally, place the hot rocks in a decorative pattern atop the salad. Season to taste. By Talyr’s graces, it will come out good.
The bull knew not for how long he had flown (again, time was in flux). He had simply sought to get as far away from the wicked, taunting laughter of his sworn enemy. Remains of cosmic gas oozing from the ethereal manure on his hooves left an icy blue trail behind him, like an odious comet streaking across the fetal cosmos. Had he not been fuming with anger and shame, he might have heard a raging ape somewhere over the golden lake cuss out a little flea. The bull paid it no mind, for he had no mind to pay with. His head flowed over with unsavoury plans for how he would integrate the smug face of that heroic fart into the cosmic soil. His head was so full, in fact, that he didn’t notice the giant monkey’s kidney stone flying across the cosmic horizon. By the time the bull’s eyes escaped his navel, he was an arm’s length from the barren surface.
A moment later, the bull came back to his senses. His velocity and carelessness had sent him straight through the outer surface of the planet into a set of porous caverns right underneath, formed from rapidly cooling magma exposed to the freezing outer atmosphere. He eyed the darkness surrounding him; it was doubtful that the cave network stretched far. His disturbance of the geology had created a localised anomaly, nothing more. He looked up - a small blink indicated that the surface was some distance above, but not unreachable. The bull paid little mind to questions regarding whether he had made a crater or caused irreparable damage to the planet; the immediate shock of the crash was gradually replaced by his previous anger. Why had he crashed here? Why had the planet been in the way? He just wanted to sulk, damn it!
In his fury, he ripped a stalagmite out of the ground and swung it around, breaking the walls around him and releasing more magma, which would rapidly cool, only to be broken again. Channels were dug deeper in some directions; in others, the ground caved in. Water from above poured down in sections, creating aquifers and underground rivers. Magma and water collided to create great clouds of steam which condensed on the cave ceiling and left a dank atmosphere. Some water dripped down on the ground and left the whole network eerily moist.
Eventually, the god tired of his tantrum. Over the span of his rampage, he had dug kilometres of underground channels, some which had spawned cracks up to the surface where the occasional blink of light from the lake of gold winked at the deep. Underground lakes had formed, and the barren darkness had acquired an oozing dampness that choked the nostrils. The bull huffed and looked around. So much destruction wrecked on the Chthony of Galbar. Yet he was not sated. Oh no, he was far from sated - he could wreck a thousand channels more. Maybe the surface deserved a good dig? With a thirst for tilling, the bull climbed out of the hole he had made upon his crash into the planet and, using his horns as shovels, began tilling the dead, barren earth, nostrils fuming like the bellows of a forge.
Yet the bull’s rampage had left another mark, one that he had not picked up on his stampede. The primordial filth that caked the bull’s disgusting hooves had brought with it some unexpected passengers: A little spore, a remainder of a simple life form that had lived off of nebulean cow pies back in the bull’s own realm, had traveled along on the minotaur’s hoof. In the rampage of the monster, some tracks had left spores all throughout the caverns. Most spores were instantly destroyed; either by the freezing cold, the barren soil or by the grueling heat of the sunpool. Yet one small patch persisted, one hardly larger than a biscuit. It had found an almost right microcosm in the underground caves: the moisture was adequate, the temperature was survivable, the shadows sheltered it from the gruesome radiation of space.
Still, one crucial item was missing: sustenance. The soil was almost entirely inedible, and despite the fungi’s best efforts, once it had consumed the filth in the hoofprint on which it had hiked, there was nothing else there. A part of the colony sought to expand outwards in search of food, and some mucus tendrils were lucky and found more filth; however, it was consumed quickly, and the mucus could hardly reach the distance the bull had taken in a single step. With no more food in reach, almost the entirety of the fungus went into a catatonic state of near-death, a last-ditch effort to save nutrients in a desperate plea for a future of plenty. In virtually any other timeline, this would have meant the end for this fungus as well; like the other traces left behind by the bull, this one too, would have died.
Yet a fraction, a small network within the network of the mycelium mucus, had absorbed the greatest share of nutrients from the bull’s filth. As such, it had concentrated most of the strength and power… Divine power. With it, the groggy, near-dormant fungus concentrated what power it had left in a craving search for something - anything - to help it stay alive. In an instant, using the droplet of the droplet of infinite potential trapped within the divine essence it had absorbed, the fungus broke through the barrier between the Material and the Astral. It was no star - it was not even a flicker of burnt gas; what it was, though, was enough. For the briefest, infinitesimally short blink of time, the fungus transcended into the Immaterial. It understood not what had happened, for even without its complete and utter catatonicism from starvation, it would not have had the senses nor the consciousness to describe what had just transpired. As such, with the last of its power spent, the fungus descended into a weak, doomed slumber.
… And yet, it had happened. A flicker of divine energy had permitted Galbar’s first mortal life to break the barrier between the planes. The fungus was not dead; it could very well be within an hour, but for now, it lived. The Astral Plane had felt its hunger, even for the briefest of moments, and a link had been established. The fungus, for the rest of its existence, would be irrevocably tied with the realm of the stars. Should it survive until sustenance arrives, perhaps the link could be nourished and, with time, even expand into a channel? But for now, it slept, trapped in limbo between the newly material concepts of the living and the dead.
Elsewhere, the Great Till had begun.
Hummus flies through space and is angy. He crashes into Galbar, which makes him moar angy. He crashed through the surface and into the underground, and goes on a rampage through a section of the planet’s crust, digging channels and causing cave-ins, which create aquifers and underground lakes. He then gets tired and climbs back up to take his rage out on the surface instead.
However, unbeknownst to him, the shit on his hooves left some prints, and on some of those prints, a tiny fungus clings to life. Almost all of it dies immediately, but a tiny disk no larger than a biscuit lands in a Goldilocks spot and manages to eat enough hoofshit for it to fill up on divine essence. With this essence, it spends the last of its nutrients establishing a very weak channel to the Astral Realm. The fungus then enters a deep, near-death hibernation state, but the link persists as a miniature blip on the Astral radar.
Across the vast, endless expanse of the multiverse, a cosmic bull was grazing on the light-year long strains of gases and matter on the Flowerfield Nebula. It was quiet - even for a realm devoid of noise such as space - and the bull knew nothing but peace and quiet. Here, he had danced with the nebula for untold ages: He would eat its fill of hard matter and, after a time, release it back out again as gases into the circulation of the cosmic phenomenon. The nebula had been shaped by the bull’s grazing, and the bull had been shaped by the nebula’s abundancy. He had grown fat on its overflow of sustenance, and the nebula had grown dependent on his recycling of matter back into gas. They had domesticated each other, and neither could leave for fear of permanent, irreversible change.
All was peaceful until…
”Come…”
The bull raised his head from the eternal graze. The pain of the stiffness of straightening his neck for the first time in aeons drowned out the sound, which had been as soft as the beat of a mosquito’s wing. He paid it no mind and shifted his eyes to the delicious matter below him. Yet before he could lower his head, there it was again.
“Come…”
Louder this time, yet not more audible than whisper. In absence of other noise, however, it was comparable to a yell. The bull shook, his belly with him, a quake rippling across his skin. He scowled around, horns thirstily searching for the assailant of his ear drums. Yet nobody came. The echo of the deafening whisper quieted down, and he was once again left alone. Just to be sure, he fixed his eyes on the black horizon, stars twinkling nervously all throughout his gaze. Only after an eternity that felt like the blink of an eye, did the bull’s eyelids laze down to their drowsy state.
Then, a thunder, a cacophony, a circus of a billion decibels rocked the very fabric of space encompassing the bull. The gases in his nebula quaked and dissipated like smoke in a hurricane; planets cracked apart and stars imploded and exploded like bubbles in a tub. Despite the relative emptiness of the vacuum of space in the bull’s realm, the perversely powerful soundwaves transcended the laws of nature, physics and common sense.
“OHOHO! You’ve called me, little thing?! Very well. I, Galaxor, the God of Heroes, the Hero Maker, Divine Artisan of Heroes, Celestial Forger of Legendary Champions, Master of Heroic Destinies, Architect of Heroism and Valor, Weaver of Epic Tales, Cosmic Mentor of Heroic Prodigies, the Legendary Enabler of Greatness, Creator of Champions, the Mythweaver, the Cosmic Patron of Heroic Aspirations, the Celestial Architect of Legendary Deeds, have answered your call!”
The bull could barely make sense of what happened before:
“HERE! Take some speck of my power and make my wishes known within this universe.”
The bull screamed, but he was an ant battling an elephant.
“All shall rejoice when heroes walk the world.”
Like a grain of sand to a hurricane.
“All shall learn from GALAXOR!”
”Shut up, pleeeaaase!” the bull squeezed out through the storm of noise, speaking words for the first time.
“HA!”
His rage and fury twisted his muscles, bones and skin. His front limbs cracked apart and regrew into colossal, tree-trunk arms with muscles like pistons.
“HA!”
His powerful back craned upwards, lifting his massive belly off the “ground”. His hands and feet stepped in millennia old nebulaen cow pies left by himself over aeons. His transparent, celestial skin browned with maroon fury and his corporeal form filled with substance and depth.
“HA!”
His back hooves now carrying his whole weight, he stood up straight for the first time, his face growing a beard in a second as though the rage within him started pushing out whatever grew underneath his skin.
“HA!”
He hit peak anger. With a charge like a flash of lightning, the minotaur tore through the shattered space he had lived in for as long as he could remember. He gored at the walls of the multiverse with his horns and ripped apart the wall between realities until he saw on the other side, several lights and forms. With a final roar, he rent the last threads and shoved his head and half of his torso out, spotting all the forms in great detail. In their midst, he saw his target, laughing mightily as he did with an aura of glory radiating from him like the rays of the sunpool beneath them. Still halfway stuck in the tear, the minotaur forced a hand through and shook it at the heroic character.
Galaxor continued laughing with mirth usually only reserved for the most joyous occasions as his power was slowly being drained by the Codex. Taking a deep breath of…nothing, he was about to write more in the Codex, more rules, more trials, more tribulations that would haunt mortals in this universe until they became the legendary heroes worthy of the name but then he felt something. A ripple in time and space. The fabric of the multiverse itself was being ripped apart by something or someone. Only another deity would have that power. Only a deity that…shouted at him.
“SHUT UUUUUP!” He kept pushing himself through the tear, grunting and fuming as he did.
Turning his head to where the sound came from, Galaxor laughed once more, louder and stood tall, letting his perfectly sculpted muscles shine in the light of the sunpool behind him. Generating some wind, his hair waved in it and with a smile that could melt the heart of a love goddess.
Looking at what shouted at him, Galaxor studied the weirdly looking deity. It reminded him of a domestic animal of his youth but bigger and better. “Maybe that’s what happened with it! He became a deity! So, that’s what happens when you turn an animal into a hero!” he thought to himself, even his thoughts were loud, shouting within his own mind, making the heroic aura around him expand and contract as he did.
“Hello there! Are you, by any chance, Little Roxalag? Do you remember me? ” he said out loud, fully ignoring the “Shut Up”.
The bull would not be out-ignored and reverse-ignored his smug reply. With great effort, he pushed his enormous body through the tear and kicked off from the nothing beneath his filthy hooves. As he flew at the herculean figure before him, he wound up a straight punch. “GRRRRRRIIIIT THOSE TEEEEEEEEEETH!” he cried.
Surprised, Galaxor laughed once more, his hands going on his belly.
“Oh? You’re trying to fight, little one? ” said Galaxor, looking into a different direction as he did.
The bull’s colossal body approached Galaxor at lightning speed and only when he was a mere meter away, Galaxor let out a loud yawn and grabbed the bull’s fist, all while still looking away and spinned him around. As he spun him, after a few seconds, he stopped and placed the bull nicely in front of himself before giving him a gentle flick of his finger on the bull’s nose.
“HA! HA! I win. You’ve still got a lot to learn, little Roxalag! ” continued Galaxor with a gentle smile. He wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone if asked, but he found the bull’s reaction, kinda cute.
The bull’s skin turned from maroon to crimson, a blush so powerful that it threatened to cook him from the inside. He looked up at the smirking, perfect face that had treated him like a toy and could hardly control his breath. He wound up another blow, this time an uppercut, blaring, “Sh-SHUT UP!”
Galaxor raised an eyebrow and shook his head. "Ahhh…they never learn." he said before pulling his head back, more than it would be normally possible and at breathtaking speed used it to connect with the bull's fist.
A massive explosion of force as the two divines connected followed. As the cosmic dust cleared, Galaxor's aura shined through. If one would look at him, one could see that he wasn't even remotely hurt while his opponent's hand was battered and bruised.
"Little one. Stop, you're just hurting yourself. Let me give you some advice. Go back wherever you came from, train for a few eons and let's spar again. If you continue, I'll be forced to take this as a challenge and I, Galaxor, the God of Heroes, the Hero Maker, Divine Artisan of Heroes, Celestial Forger of Legendary Champions, Master of Heroic Destinies, Architect of Heroism and Valor, Weaver of Epic Tales, Cosmic Mentor of Heroic Prodigies, the Legendary Enabler of Greatness, Creator of Champions, the Mythweaver, the Cosmic Patron of Heroic Aspirations, the Celestial Architect of Legendary Deeds, face all my challenges with extreme force. "
The bull didn’t reply. He was soaring away like a comet across the sky, dazed as though he had made out with a rockslide. He groaned something out into the nothingness of the ether, his fist a funny pudding of bones and skin. The stump lead the way, like a clump of lead at the end of a fishing line. After a good ten minutes or so (time wasn’t really a thing quite yet), he was still out of it, but at least he was conscious again. The rage threatened to choke him, so to ease up on the pressure, he readied his other fist. Just one punch - JUST ONE! That would show him! He kicked off yet again and flew right back towards Galaxor, albeit from a longer distance away and clearly slowed by the pain.
“I WILL MAKE YOU PAY FOR TAKING ME AWAY FROM MY PASTURE!”
Putting his hands in front of him, Galaxor looked confused.
"I've got no idea what you're talking about but if you want a fight. Fine. I'll show you the differences between our skills. " replied Galaxor to the bull before taking a deep breath, growing in size as he did.
Now standing at 6 meters tall, his heroic aura shined bright, almost like a small sun and with a clap, he took off at breathtaking speed. Faster than the bull, faster than before, he caught the bull's horns mid-flight and spun him around a few times before throwing him away. But he didn't stop there, as the bull was flying, Galaxor caught up to him, punched him in the opposite direction and continued to do so a few more times. Battering the bull’s body with blows. These blows were not at full strength but enough to teach him and all others that might watch, that Galaxor is not to be trifled with. After a few more hits, he grabbed the bull by the neck and looked him in the eye.
“Yield. ” said Galaxor. Only one word but it was said with a commanding tone only known to divine beings. The tone of a god talking with his mortals. Gone was the cheery and full of life Galaxor. Instead, the Hero Galaxor came out. The true Galaxor. The fighter. The legendary warrior.
The bull hung from his hands like a dead fur. He was very clearly alive - barely - but he seemed to be completely knocked out. A horn had been cracked and his face was overgrown with swellings. He grunted something small, but it was very clear that the fight had been knocked out of him. He let out a small “prrt…” and some filth dripped off a bruised hoof.
“Very well.” said the Hero Galaxor with the same tone as before.
As he released the bull, his heroic aura dimmed once more to what it was at the beginning. Looking at the beaten divine, Galaxor smiled at him and put his hands together. Divine energy formed between his hands, glowing brighter and brighter before becoming a tiny ball similar to a sun. The ball flew from Galaxor’s hands and went into the bull, healing him of his most serious injuries.
“HA! HA! HA! Now that was something! Phew! Thank you for the entertainment, little Roxalag. Are you calmer now? Introduce yourself. Tell me your titles and name. ” said Galaxor to the now-healed divine.
The swelling faded around the bull’s eyes, and underneath them dwelt a scowl. He snorted angrily, which incited a cough: “Hugch-huch-HUMMUSahaqawattr!” he hacked. It was then that a flash flickered in his eyes. His rage had yet to subside, but he no longer seemed aggressive - at least not against Galaxor, for fear of ending up a steak. He kicked off again, this time away with all haste, ignoring the hero god’s attempt at peace brokering. Instead, he shook his fist again as he flew off into space. “YOU WIN THIS TIME, YOU DAMN YELLER! I will never forget this!” His orb-like body soared through empty space like a comet, seeking a distant corner to sulk in.
Galaxor laughed as he saw Hummus running away and waved at him.
“Not many forget their first encounter with GALAXOR! You take care now, learn a bit more and challenge me again, Hummus! You were fun to play with!” shouted Galaxor before taking off too. He wasn’t sure where to go but he knew he would hang around this universe. It was a fun one.
A space cow eats and shits gas in an alternate universe. The loud fucking voice of Sloth sorta bothers him, but the absolute shit concert of Galaxor’s entrance shatters the very universe this cow lives in. In pure rage, the cow morphs into a minotaur, jumps through into the Galbarverse and tries to punch Galaxor. Galaxor beats him into a pulp and the bull, who coughs his name into existence, runs off and promises revenge.
Agriculture is the taming and domestication of wild plants to meet the needs of the domesticator; it is claiming the plant for one’s own, altering it through selection of the best harvests, and gradually morphing it into something completely different from its wild cousins. Yet it is not a slavish relationship, for just as the agricultured is domesticated, so does the agricultured domesticate. A tribe settles down in a valley of wheat and barley and tames the land for their own use; generations later, they have been shaped by the valley, their lives dedicated to furthering the wellness of the wheat and barley. Society pours resources by the tonnes into the safekeeping and preservation of the agricultured, raising armies and walls to defend the harvest at all costs. Temples and monuments are constructed in honour of the plants that were once wild and ever threaten to abandon their self-proclaimed domesticators should they ever forget to till the soil, spread the manure, remove the pests and irrigate them.
Agriculture is a relationship; it is a hostage situation; it is a haggle; it is a dance. It binds the mobile and the immobile to the soil; it locks the seed and the sole to the seasons. If either is out of tune, the whole song flattens and sharpens like the blade of a knife. If the plants grow out of control, they will attract predators and pests and put the whole field at risk; if the farmer forgets to irrigate, the rest of the year may be in jeopardy.
Furthermore, like any other relationship, it does not stop with the two; each has their own to consider, and while the enemy of my enemy is my friend, friends of friends may swing either way. Neglect the needs of the agricultured to interact with the wild they came from, and they may rebel; ignore the needs of the growing populations of the agriculteur, and they will move heaven and earth in desperation to satisfy them.
In summary, the power of agriculture allows Hummus to act as matchmaker between a domesticator and a domesticatee, showing both species how to please the other and enter into a lasting relationship of agricultural exploitation. He can teach mortals what seeds to grow and plants what demands to make of mortals. He helps mortals wrest the plants from the wilds and convinces the plants that they never wanted to be wild to begin with. He works them both to the bone to ensure that mortality’s growth is never stalled, and is strict and ruthless to those who return to the ways of the wild.
Hummus is a massive minotaur, standing well over three metres and boasting width in both shoulders, arms and belly. His skin is brown like fertile soil and wrinkled like the husks of dry grain. Every nook and cranny of his body is either dusty with dirt or caked in it. His hooves are constantly stained with fresh soil and hot manure, and his beard sports speckles of gnawed cereals and droplets of sticky fruit juice. The tip of his horns are never clean, but brown with freshly-tilled earth.
Hummus’s body is clad in armour of bone and fibre linen, fashioned from mortals and plants who refused to obey his commands. He dons pendants of gold offerings made to him by desperate mortals and plants seeking his favour, and a fat, golden disk amplifies his already fat belly to indicate his mighty appetite for further sacrifice. In his left hand, he grasps the Chain of Flax, the rope with which he traps the agriculteurs in their eternal dance; in his right hand, he wields Hoepebreaker, the legendary farming tool with which he first tilled the soil and banished the wildness of nature from his realm.
Description
Hummus is a wicked and power-hungry god, viewing himself as the progenitor and saviour of all urbanised life, the antithesis of the wildlands of Allianthé. He is scheming, ruthless and strict towards those who worship him - as fickle and unpredictable as the season, he treats his worshippers like guests one day and then casts a draught upon them for the next three years. He claims his power and position with gusto, dreaming of one day ruling the world and its gods and to ascend to the Outer Plane to join infinity as its master.
Agriculture is the taming and domestication of wild plants to meet the needs of the domesticator; it is claiming the plant for one’s own, altering it through selection of the best harvests, and gradually morphing it into something completely different from its wild cousins. Yet it is not a slavish relationship, for just as the agricultured is domesticated, so does the agricultured domesticate. A tribe settles down in a valley of wheat and barley and tames the land for their own use; generations later, they have been shaped by the valley, their lives dedicated to furthering the wellness of the wheat and barley. Society pours resources by the tonnes into the safekeeping and preservation of the agricultured, raising armies and walls to defend the harvest at all costs. Temples and monuments are constructed in honour of the plants that were once wild and ever threaten to abandon their self-proclaimed domesticators should they ever forget to till the soil, spread the manure, remove the pests and irrigate them.
Agriculture is a relationship; it is a hostage situation; it is a haggle; it is a dance. It binds the mobile and the immobile to the soil; it locks the seed and the sole to the seasons. If either is out of tune, the whole song flattens and sharpens like the blade of a knife. If the plants grow out of control, they will attract predators and pests and put the whole field at risk; if the farmer forgets to irrigate, the rest of the year may be in jeopardy.
Furthermore, like any other relationship, it does not stop with the two; each has their own to consider, and while the enemy of my enemy is my friend, friends of friends may swing either way. Neglect the needs of the agricultured to interact with the wild they came from, and they may rebel; ignore the needs of the growing populations of the agriculteur, and they will move heaven and earth in desperation to satisfy them.
In summary, the power of agriculture allows Hummus to act as matchmaker between a domesticator and a domesticatee, showing both species how to please the other and enter into a lasting relationship of agricultural exploitation. He can teach mortals what seeds to grow and plants what demands to make of mortals. He helps mortals wrest the plants from the wilds and convinces the plants that they never wanted to be wild to begin with. He works them both to the bone to ensure that mortality’s growth is never stalled, and is strict and ruthless to those who return to the ways of the wild.
Hummus is a massive minotaur, standing well over three metres and boasting width in both shoulders, arms and belly. His skin is brown like fertile soil and wrinkled like the husks of dry grain. Every nook and cranny of his body is either dusty with dirt or caked in it. His hooves are constantly stained with fresh soil and hot manure, and his beard sports speckles of gnawed cereals and droplets of sticky fruit juice. The tip of his horns are never clean, but brown with freshly-tilled earth.
Hummus’s body is clad in armour of bone and fibre linen, fashioned from mortals and plants who refused to obey his commands. He dons pendants of gold offerings made to him by desperate mortals and plants seeking his favour, and a fat, golden disk amplifies his already fat belly to indicate his mighty appetite for further sacrifice. In his left hand, he grasps the Chain of Flax, the rope with which he traps the agriculteurs in their eternal dance; in his right hand, he wields Hoepebreaker, the legendary farming tool with which he first tilled the soil and banished the wildness of nature from his realm.
Description
Hummus is a wicked and power-hungry god, viewing himself as the progenitor and saviour of all urbanised life, the antithesis of the wildlands of Allianthé. He is scheming, ruthless and strict towards those who worship him - as fickle and unpredictable as the season, he treats his worshippers like guests one day and then casts a draught upon them for the next three years. He claims his power and position with gusto, dreaming of one day ruling the world and its gods and to ascend to the Outer Plane to join infinity as its master.
Map Location: The Mansadom occupies a circle of systems ringwards of the outer regions of the Augustan Empire, an area normally referred to as either the Boukour Loop, the Circlet of Mandé or the Edge of the Storm. The reason for this naming scheme is that the hyperlane network between the solar systems of all the Mansadom worlds form a ring around a supermassive black hole at the centre of the loop, called the White Eye, the Storm in the Void or the Bright Grave. This black hole has a bright accretion disk and severely hampers hyperlane travel anywhere near it, forcing travel around it instead. Due to its energy output, many power companies and state engineers have proposed enormous projects to capture its beams in massive solar panel arrays; however, no such project has been completed as of yet.
Government Type: Oligarchic monarchy lead by Mansa Abdoulmaye II of the Khourboukdao dynasty, a harkback to the ancient kings and emperors of the First and Second Malian Empires back on Earth. The mansa is in theory supposed to be kept in check by the Parliament in the capital system Manden, but the current mansa’s grandfather, Ahmoud II Khourboukdao, initiated several reforms to strengthen the monarchy in the face of widespread rebellion in the autumn of his reign. His son, Ahmoud III, continued in his father’s footsteps and had the Parliament pass the Renaissance Act, which made it so all decisions made by Parliament would have to be approved by the mansa or the mansa’s small cabinet of advisors, known as the Elders’ Council or Les Anciens. The class of religious scholars and imams known as the Learned, or Les Ulames, also holds considerable power as they made up the mass of bureaucrats, statesmen and clergy that enact the mansa’s will on his peoples.
Furthermore, the Mansadom is a vassal state of the Augustan Empire, but has recently wrested additional freedoms from their overlord during a short period of decline. However, as an independent state, the Mansadom would never survive - as it is wholly dependent on access to the internal imperial market and the protection of the imperial armed forces.
Demographics: The Mandenic Mansadom is home to both humans and many species of xenos, all united under two principles:
1) their faith in Allah and in that Muhammad is His prophet.
2) their fear of the extrasolar barbarians beyond the Boukour Loop.
The majority of humans in the Mansadom are descendents of colonists who arrived with the Orion Rim Colonisation Programme (ORCP), colloquially called “Le Deuxième Jennat” or “the Second Jennat”. The ORCP was initiated several centuries ago by the Federation of West Africa (La Fédération d’Afrique Ouest) back on Earth, a union of francophone African states who had united to become a considerable player on the Tellusian stage. The Mandens, as they are called, are largely black or dark brown with black hair, with local variations resulting from planetary conditions. The humans of Manden are the most similar to the original colonists, while the Mandens of the tunnel-cities on the frozen planet of Koufada are almost pale and gray with albino features. The majority of Mandens are farmers, fishermen, pastoralists and asteroid miners. Many also make up much of the middle class in the form of merchants, teachers, clergy and academicians. The upper class are almost exclusively made up of Mandens.
Hailing from the planet of Simkoufa-III, an ocean planet barely dotted with other land than a few islands and polar ice caps, the xeno race known as the Géless dominate the waters all pelagic zones of the unending oceans. The Géless are a race of “xenocetaceans”, classified thusly because of their outwards similarity of Tellusian whales. However, many will find after examining them more closely that they could hardly be further from the fact. The Géless are colony-feeders, meaning they feed on the enormous quantities of algae and plankton that grow in the thick “beard” of bristles around the length of their long mouth. Their migration patterns expose them to nearly all layers of the sea where life can thrive (at least to an extent), filling their bristles with nutrients that the algae and zooplankton can grow numerous on. The Géless can grow up to forty metres in length and weigh up to 150 tons.
Similar to hypotheses about cetaceans from Old Tellus, initial colonisers of Simkoufa-III proposed that the Géless were intelligent beings with complex social structures. They regarded them as an alien whale and gave it little thought beyond simple biometric scans for the sake of expanding the genetic biobank. However, as the years passed, a Manden biologist by the name of Aboubakher Ismaïl Doukana was listening in on a Géless colony in a nearby ocean sector when the clock struck five in the afternoon. What he initially mistook as the sound of the minarets coming from outside turned out to be coming from the Géless: The oldest bull was singing its own adhan while the others were silent. Dr. Doukana couldn’t believe what he had found and soon after received funding from the House of Academicians to conduct large-scale research into human-Géless communications. After nearly ten years, his team produced the first comprehensible translation programme to enable cross-species communication. What followed were inquiries into how the Géless had come to learn and practice Islam; over the years, the trend Dr. Doukana had initially discovered
(The people of your nation, human, xeno or both. It could be as simple as a percentage list with pics, a small paragraph or whatever you feel is best)
Military: (The fun part! What’s defending your nation in these uncertain times? You can provide as much or as little detail as you like. Can’t also forget, showing tons of pictures of what their soldiers, vehicles and ships look like :P)
History: The Storm in the Void, a massive black hole, dominates the centre of the Mandenic Mansadom, spewing forth great bouts of energy that feed the solar arrays on Manden and Gao, but also complicates hyperlane travel and intersystem trade. This has forced each world within the Mandenic Mansadom to grow increasingly independent, which has weakened the throne on Manden. (Speaks for itself. It can as brief or detailed as you wish.)
It began with the tribe of Ozymandia. Ozymandia and her kin had been unfortunate enough to count among the few elves to be spawned outside the fortress-city of Earthwall. To demonstrate the reasons why their caring mother Celestine had forged the city in the first place, the Ozymandians - even in their mighty elven forms - had struggled against the wrath of nature. The taiga offered little of sustenance beyond hunting, forcing migrations that teared at the stamina of the tribe as a whole. Boar hide and stag skin made for decent clothing in the summer, but once the winter came, the taiga became its own kind of hell. With game suffering as much as they did, the elves were forced to chew on lichen and bark for sustenance. Further casualties resulted, for even a resistance to winter cold couldn’t sate their crippling hunger.
It wasn’t until Ozymandia’s eldest daughter, Ozara, discovered the entrance to what would be their salvation, that the Ozymandians could truly know peace and security. Ozara, while scouting for game with a party of her siblings and cousins, had stumbled upon a cave in the snow. Fearing it might be inhabited by beasts, they had advanced with care. However, as minutes gathered in the tens, the party quickly realised that this was no mere cave, but a tunnel - and it sure was a lot warmer than the outside. A messenger had been sent back to tell the others; swiftly they had followed him back, for the camp was already packed at that point. The Ozymandians arrived in the cave to settle, but only a generation passed before they outgrew their own ability to scavenge the overworld for food in a sustainable manner. Ozara and Ozymandia then fell out over the next course of action.
Ozymandia wanted to remain at the cave mouth - perhaps try their luck again in the overworld.
Ozara, on the other hand, wanted to delve deeper - further.
In the end, the mother and daughter would separate, most following their chieftess while the bravest - or most foolish - followed the heiress.
In the years to follow, Ozymandia and her tribe would never hear from Ozara and her followers again. They sent scouts into the caves on occasion, but they always returned empty-handed - if they returned. However, the bond between mother and child is strong, and the chieftess could feel her daughter’s pulse through the fabric of space.
She was alive… Somehow.
Deep in the black belly of the world - beyond the edges of light and air - one would think nothing could live. At least, nothing not accustomed to the life down below. Here, where surfacers came to die, another people thrived. Kept secret from the heavens, these creatures knew only the shadows of the earth and the light of its veins. Their diets of alkalichen, cavern cantarelles and irongrubs turned their skins red as clay, brightened to a flaming crimson by the underground magma offering what light it could. Their skin filtered out the vast amounts of chalk in their water sources, which formed a porous, yet helpful natural armour layer atop their skin. Considerably shorter than they used to be, their forms had to change to fit the narrow channels through the stone, as their bones changed to resist the many dangers of the Underground. These creatures grew numerous and pioneered new caves in the Hob, the great networks and pockets of limestone caverns. Led by their new chieftess Ozara, these new hobgoblins spread far and wide within their new home, taking in the glorious creations of the Earthwarden… And of their patron.
With time, each cave developed into their own tribes and engaged in trade with one another, helped by the Worming Bazaar led by the Procurement-Princes of the Umbralground and their host of mercenaries. These were the Centaurions of the Crater, humans, kinnaras and centaurs fighting for a living, and the hunters of the Rimeteeth tribe, legendary trackers of the Tundra - all of them demonstrating the vast diversity of peoples in the Underground. Connecting to the greater network of the Land Under Land, the hobgoblin tribes prospered under Ozara.
But then, as surprising to the hobgoblins as as super volcano to the Steppe dwellers, Ozara died - not of hunger, not of wounds, but of age. The hobgoblins realised then that the agelessness of Elvenkind had left them and they prayed for their patron to come save them.
And so he had come - on time - the Bureaucrat, to oversee his latest pilot project. The reasoning had been, since the Ferryman and his Souls Inc. were already immensely overworked, the Bureaucrat would solve the problem at its roots: Too many people were dying. Changing otherwise doomed creatures into something else had been quite successful, as the hobgoblins had shown. However, death followed all life all the same, and the Bureaucrat knew that anything done to help the living was always a temporary solution.
The hobgoblins pleaded with him: What should they do, they asked - their leader had left the world and would never return!
While the Bureaucrat was very aware of the ghost of Ozara before him weeping for all her kin that she had left behind, he nonetheless offered them consolation. New leaders would rise, surely - right now, it was more important to ensure that the corpse of their chieftess would be properly cared for and that her ghost would be properly tended to until the Ferryman would arrive. At this, the hobgoblins frowned in confusion, but then the Bureaucrat shook the hand of Ozara's daughter. An eerie blue flash blinded everyone present, and when their vision returned, nothing had changed. Well, nothing drastic, but Ozara's daughter Ozymala was crying - crying and reaching out into the air before her. Her hand gripped something, but nothing could be seen - yet it was far too firm a grip to be grasping simple air.
As the hours of resting neared, Ozymala would hold a ceremony for her mother, lighting Monoxen coal aflame and burning her corpse down to the alkaline ash and glowing iron at the core of their beings. The ashes were then spread over the three rivers of her home village. As the others rested, Ozymala remained awake for the whole night, singing in a mystical language that rumours said only ghosts could understand. When she sang, the deep seemed to quiver; the waters seemed to ripple; and, most frighteningly, a most unfamiliar phenomenon to the underdwellers could be felt - gusts of wind flew by as they would on the surface.
Thus was created the first Death-Singer, a most trusted colleague of the Bureaucrat.
And surely, new leaders did rise, and like on the surface, disagreements brought them to separation. The hobgoblins thus spread out throughout the Hob and beyond, exploring the Underground as new citizens of Lektor’s realm.
Some Elves got fucked by fate and put in the taiga. Temperature is one thing, but there’s jackshit to eat, so they die like flies. They eventually find shelter in some caves, but soon have to move on account of the areas around the cave running out of food. The majority decide to move on while the minority decide to delve deeper.
Those who delve deeper become hobgoblins with a lil’ help from the Bureaucrat. The hobgoblins then experience their first death by age, which alerts them to the fact that they are no longer virtually immortal. The Bureaucrat cares as much as he’s expected to to be polite and makes the Necromanagers, a holy order of babysitters for the dead.
Then the hobgoblins spread around the Hob and beyond in the underground.
The Ferryman/The Bureaucrat 5MP/5AP 4MP - Create the Hob, a large, limestone cave biome in the northeastern caverns. Despite the fact that the only thing saving this realm from pitch-black darkness is weakly glowing magma veins, this biome thrives with thousands of species feasting on the rich mineral soil or on whatever grows from said feast. There are lakes and rivers aplenty full of calcium-rich waters to the point where the water is constantly white or gray, and lichen fields and mushroom plains give the whole Hob a mossy texture. As the caves are made of limestone, they are also quite porous and moldeable.
Some charismatic species here include:
Alkalichen which grows like a spongy grass on the cavern floor, walls and ceiling;
Cavern cantarelles, which grow tall as reeds on the cavern rock; Irongrubs, which are juicy, metallic little caterpillars the size of rats that feed on rust and exposed iron veins;
Monoxen, coal-black sponges that eat the carbon in carbon monoxide and release oxygen. Form porous coal structures when they die;
Underpeas, a colourless legume that grows on limestone and next to chalky water. They absorb nitrogen from the air and become nearly the only source of it for other creatures. This makes them a keystone species in the Hob as many creatures depend on nitrogen-rich feces from creatures eating underpeas to survive;
Lobstermites, a large lobster suited for subterranean life that eats most of what it finds down here. Very territorial and extremely dangerous if threatened;
Maxolotls, monstrous aquatic beasts that rule the chalky lakes and rivers in the Hob. In truth, they are mutated dragons of the surface, morphed from lost dragons found in the Underground caves. Like their surface siblings, the Maxolotls are apex predators and rule their territory with tooth and claw.
1MP - Mutate Elves into Hobgoblins: The Elves of Ozara that journeyed into the Underground have become Hobgoblins. In exchange for their 350-year lifespan and resistance to temperatures, the Hobgoblins have perfect darkvision (though have very poor sight in daylight); they sweat limestone which gives their skin a porous but helpful natural armour; they are not as tall as their Elven kin, but their iron-rich diets give them powerful bones and thick blood to the point where their skeleton is immensely hard and rust when exposed to air.
2AP - Create the Cadaverpillars: Known more commonly as Market Maggots on account of the Umbralground Umbra using them as moveable bazaars. However, in truth, the Cadaverpillars double as effective transport for both the living and the dead. Born with a natural affinity for sensing and, more importantly, interacting with the dead, these 35 metre long, 6 metre wide worms are technically tasked with carrying the souls of the dead to afterlives all around. In truth, what ends up happening is that the living learn to tame them, pack them with harnesses for their stores and wares, and then the dead just hitch a hike. Cadaverpillars feed on cave moss, mushrooms and alkalichen.
3AP - Create The Necromanagers: A holy order under the Ferryman created by the Bureaucrat. Seeing as the Ferryman cannot be everywhere at once, the souls of the dead might find themselves waiting a bit for their ride to the afterlife. This is where the Necromanagers come in. Death-singers, witch doctors, undertakers, grave-dancers, mediums - they go by many names. Common for all Necromanagers is their shared purpose of looking after and caring for the dead until their souls are picked up and safely escorted to the afterlife. As such, they have natural affinity for seeing and speaking to the dead, and can interact with them as though they were alive.
Sashla stood motionless on a rock on the empty plain. Blood trickled from her knee in branching paths, and her torn robes danced in the wind like banners on a pole. He held in her hands a necklace - the only remains of her mother. At the roots of the tower of smoke splitting the endless horizon in two, the smoulders of her home village surrendered themselves to a settling cloud of ash and dust. Her elven eyes were not strong enough to make out details, but in the centre was the unquestionable shape which had heralded the tide of doom for her people:
Druzhik Maneshaver. “Those are some beautiful locks you have.” An ever-young man, hair like gold flowing over long, sharp ears, glared daggers into the flesh of his adversary. A tough, leathery hand held him by a fistful of those golden strands, one not even his elven strength could best. Its owner, a bald, ox-horned centaur with bloodshot eyes, brought the hair closer to his nose and gave it a deep whiff. The man struggled against the perverse beast.
“Unhand me, you animal!”
“Ah…” whispered the blissful creature. “You must bathe regularly. An impressive feat out here in the grasslands…” He lowered himself to eye-level with the man. “You know what happens now, don’t you?”
The man grit his teeth together. “I… I will rip your disgusting, fungus-ridden tongue out–!” All around the two, a rocking choir of laughter rang out and hooves clapped to the ground. The man withered briefly. The Maneshaver grinned mockingly and stuck his tongue out.
“Heeh! Go a’eah! Guh ih ou’!” After seeing nothing but a fading scowl from the elf, the Maneshaver sucked his tongue back in to the sound of more laughter. “See, this is why I don’t like your kind. You’re just so…” He snapped his fingers searchingly. “... Well, you just don’t know when to quit, you know?” He gestured to the charred ruins and several corpses around them. Groups and lines of prisoners tied with simple rope intermittently appeared in between walls of centaur slavers. “I didn’t -have- to kill and enslave all of you. You could’ve just paid up as I asked.” A mighty hand extended to accept an obsidian knife while the other lifted the elf by the hair. “And yet, you always resist… Always, always, always.”
“You… Horsefucker…!”
“Don’t bring Aslimor into this!” The Maneshaver sighed. “Honestly, I almost don’t feel like punishing you.” A brief pause. “... Longlegs, what are your thoughts?”
An imposing mare answered sharply: “Grind him into the grass, I say!”
The Maneshaver nodded. “Towfur?”
A blonde stallion tugged at a link of ten slaves and kicked up a front leg. “INTO THE GRASS!”
The Maneshaver nodded again. “Mossnibbler?”
A black-spotted white mare with great horns rubbed her chin pensively. “The grass is thirsty at this time of year. It would do good with some moisture.”
Yet again, the Maneshaver nodded appreciatively at the advice. “And you, my dear lieutenant?”
A mountain of muscle, bulbous from hoof to halo and crowned with a forest of antlers, huffed like a bull in heat. “He insulted me by name. I will peel off his skin with my nails and use it for rope; I will grind his bones into meal and use it for facepaint; I will plant tree seeds in his organs and bury them, then chop down the trees that grow from them and use them for firewood. All this I will do, or my name isn’t Aslimor Horsefucker.”
The Maneshaver nodded one last time. “My bloodsworn have spoken. You now know what fate awaits you, little man.” He then brandished the knife in front of his eyes. “... But first, I will have my way with you…”
Before the man could reply, an unspeakable pain sliced into the top of his forehead, slowly and coarsely making its way along his entire scalp, far down his neck.
A super short post! Here we meet the centaur band led by Druzhik Maneshaver as they fuck over an elven village in the grasslands. Confronted by the village chief, the Maneshaver contemplates what to do with him. His bloodsworn companions, Longlegs, Towfur, Mossnibbler and Horsefucker all agree that he should be ground into the ground. Maneshaver agrees, but not before scalping the everliving fuck out of him.
Hell had just been created, but the Ferryman had been living it for weeks now. Back and forth, back and forth to the Ghostel to drop off the souls of the dead. Of course, he had no idea that Hell was a thing. All he knew was that souls were appearing like flies - recently, the grass plains had offered souls by the score, with villages laying in ruins all around them. This latest shipment was its own horde of children, parents and smelly old people. The Ferryman could hardly muster the spirit to share tales with them on their travels.
As Wellington made landfall and the souls hopped off and into the grossly overcrowded Ghostel, the bell of death rang once more in his breast pocket. He felt his eyes roll back into their sockets and released a primordial groan. When the Ferryman groaned, it was always from the bottom of his soul - it was the one action he poured his entire spirit into. The sound was so powerful that living flowers died and passed into the afterlife all around. The souls in the Ghostel, so packed with cacophony, all fell silent. The Ferryman cast the building and its inhabitants an exhausted glance and sat down on the rim of Wellington.
Over by his side appeared a concerned shadow, mostly appearing the same as it always had except it now wore an apron and a funny hat. The Umbra, whom the Ferryman had named the Chef, patted his master on the shoulder and whispered, “The Chef senses the Ferryman struggles.”
“The Chef would be right,” the Ferryman concurred. Another two Umbra came out from the Ghostel.
The Janitor adjusted his shirt and offered the Ferryman a handkerchief. The Ferryman took it and dabbed his forehead.
The Groundskeeper picked one of the flower souls and offered it to its master. The Ferryman took it and gave it a scenic sniff. He paused and sighed again.
“My friends… I fear I may have grown overworked.”
“Should the Janitor fetch the Masseuse?”
“No, that’s alright, Janitor. My shoulders are fine.”
“Perhaps the Bartender, then,” the Groundskeeper suggested.
“No, I’m not thirsty…”
“Is the Ferryman bored, perhaps?” It was the Puppeteer who had come out of the house, and already he was playing around with shadows from the ghastly lanterns, forming pictures and dancing animals. From the Ghostel came light applause.
“No! I mean, yes, but… I’m sorry, Puppeteer, I don’t think it’s the sort of boredom that can be cured with shadow puppets.”
The Puppeteer shrank and got a shoulder pat from the Janitor. The Ferryman sighed for a third time. “Look, it’s nothing personal - not at all. I love your puppet shows. It’s just… I guess boredom isn’t the right word, either. It’s just… Work. A lot of work. And it doesn’t end. I pick up souls, take them here, and then repeat it. This is no afterlife, it’s just a Ghostel!”
“Not to mention the souls run off all the time,” the Groundskeeper added sourly.
The Ferryman blinked. “Wait, run off? What do you mean?”
The Groundskeeper shrugged. “The Groundskeeper has no idea. They keep saying they can’t help it and we have to escort them back and put them in the chest in the cellar.”
“The Janitor counted six souls down there last time he checked.”
The Ferryman felt a tug in his brain signalling that he had heard something like this before. However, he couldn’t put his finger on it just yet. His mind boarded instead his earlier train of thought and made him purse his lips. “... Well, uh, that’s odd. Anyway, I’ve been thinking I need to expand my staff somewhat.”
The Umbra looked his long rod up and down. “The Puppeteer thinks the Ferryman’s staff is sizeable enough as it is.”
The Ferryman blinked. “No, the–... Nevermind. What I meant to say was that I think adding another colleague to our party would be beneficial for future management of the Soul Business.”
“The Chef thinks a different name for the firm would be better…”
“Right, we can vote for the name later,” the Ferryman conceded witheringly. “Either way, we need someone, in my opinion, who can take over management here and (Homura willing) in our future branch offices while I’m out ferrying. Someone with a mind for numbers and efficiency.”
The Umbra exchanged looks. The Ferryman snapped his fingers. “Someone who fixed stuff like -that-, you know? Like a really good deputy manager.”
“The Ferryman speaks in riddles,” mumbled the Puppeteer.
“Oh, sorry, the corporate lingo comes all too easy to me.” He snapped his fingers again. In an instant, a ghostly man in strange clothes appeared. Lacking significantly more colours than the rest, the white and black gentleman adjusted a tie about his neck and combed his hair back, sticking the comb into a small portfolio suitcase in his opposite hand. He then stuck out that hand, palm open and welcoming in the Ferryman’s direction.
“Afternoon, Mr. the Ferryman. Name’s the Bureaucrat.”
The Ferryman blinked and shook the hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bureaucrat, but you can drop the ‘the’.”
“Oh, apologies. My bad.” With lightning speed, he reached into his suitcase, took out a form, crossed out a tiny word and filed the form back in its correct folder. The Ferryman clapped in brief awe. The Bureaucrat grinned and pulled out a different form. “By the way, I trust you will fill this out at your earliest convenience.”
The Ferryman took the form and scanned it briefly. “Terms of employment?”
“For the archives, you understand,”
“... ‘The employee reserves the full right to spend divine power to’... Wait, what?”
“Why yes! It’s in my contract.”
“What contract?!”
The Bureaucrat produced a separate document. “The one you signed by summoning me, of course.”
The Ferryman scanned this document as well, discovering that, indeed, someone or something had signed The Ferryman in neat little cursives at the bottom of the page. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“You won’t, but your passengers sure will,” chuckled the Bureaucrat and filed the contract under the correct folder once again. “Well, circa 59.2% of them. You have collected a considerable number of sinners. You would want to ship them to the Hellforge right away.”
The Ferryman blinked. “The Hellforge? What's the Hellforge?”
The Bureaucrat nodded with infinite patience. “That would be the afterlife, sir. Well, one afterlife - I’m certain someone will make another once they read the reviews for it.”
The Ferryman could hardly believe it. An afterlife had been made. A real, proper afterlife! A place where he could take the souls - well, at least sixty percent of them! The ecstacy boiled him to the core and he hopped into his boat. “People! Gather all the souls headed for the Hellforge!”
“But how will the Groundskeeper know–”
“Not to fear, my solar urticariatic friend,” said the Bureaucrat and popped out a list. “I have a registry right here.”
Aldion and Zylana walked the streets of Hell, pondering new ideas.
”Hellspawn,” Aldion said aloud, before shaking his head. ”No. Forgeborn? Ehhh…”
“Aldionites?” Zylana offered.
”Tempting, but no. Hm. The Fallen? The Reborn? No, no. The Convicted? The Wardens? Such names will only convey a part of their role.”
“Have you settled on a name for the larger island around us?” Zylana asked.
“Hm? Oh, yes. I have. Infernus.”
“Hellcast Infernals,” Zylana proposed.
Aldion stopped, and his eyes widened. That was the greatest name he had heard yet! Unfortunately, it had not come from him. He shook his head. ”No, too long. Let’s keep it simple. Hm. Made from the souls of the damned. Damned. Damnen. Damnon. Damon.” He snapped his fingers. ”Demon! Yes, demon. That will do nicely. Rolls off the tongue easily, and it is its own word.”
“You are truly clever, Your Infernal Majesty,” Zylana said in a tone that sounded sincere, but definitely wasn’t. Aldion allowed it. It may not have been intended as truth, but it was the truth. And besides, inferiors should always be prepared to flatter their betters.
Then, a presence. It was hard for Zylana to sense, but to Aldion it was as tangible as a touch. Another deity was approaching, and the black flames of Hell boiled hungrily as though sinful souls were near.
Aldion looked up. ”A visitor?”
Zylana shook her head. “An invader,” she corrected. “They bring an army of sinners with them.” She extended her claws and licked her lips, eagerly anticipating bloodshed. “Perhaps even using their souls to track us.”
”Well, that won’t so,” Aldion remarked. ”But it would be best to determine their intent first. It could be an offering of tribute, or perhaps the Trade Goddess making her first shipment - she is the only one I told, after all.”
Zylana looked disappointed. “That may be so,” she reluctantly conceded.
”Still, best to be on our guard. Here in our Realm, we hold the advantage. Let’s not squander it.”
And with that, Aldion and Zylana returned to the top of the tower, where they awaited the newcomer’s arrival. Though the colourful smoke emitted by the Forge might make it hard for a mortal to see, for a divine it was clear enough.
On the Horizon, a small boat sailed swiftly on a magical river of light that formed before it and faded behind it. Aboard were, to the soul-seeing eyes, a veritable crowd of anxious dead, all gulping as one at the torturous purgatory designated as a forge. At the back of the boat, steering with a stick, a bald humanoid in a robe whistled joyously to soothe the situation, much like an ant attempting to lift a melon.
As the boat approached, the robed man waved and shouted from a distance, "Pardon me, sir, but is this the afterlife where all those mean souls are supposed to end upl?"
”That is one way to describe it, I suppose,” Aldion replied. ”What is your purpose in coming here?”
The boat stopped right at the edge of the tower and the pilot smiled from ambiguous ear to ambiguous ear. “Fantastic! You have no idea how happy this makes me.” He stuck a hand out. “I’m the Ferryman. I’ve been looking for places to take the souls of the dead for, oof, ages now. Heard from an acquaintance of ours, Miss Ashevelen, that a Mister Aldion collect the sinful sort. Are you Mister Aldion, by chance?”
”King Aldion,” Zylana corrected. “To be referred to as ‘His Infernal Majesty’, and to be addressed as ‘Your Infernal Majesty.’”
Aldion waved her off. ”He is a fellow god, Zylana. Some liberties may be allowed.”
Zylana bowed her head. “Forgive me,” she said, clenching her fanged teeth.
The Ferryman waved his hands apologetically. “Oh no, please don’t apologise! I confess, I only glanced over the contract (especially the introduction), so I only caught bits and pieces relating to titles and such. I’m in the wrong here.” He cleared his throat. “So, uh, Your Infernal Majesty - where’d you like me to put’em? Got about, uh, seventy in here with another two hundred or so back at the Ghostel ready to be shipped.” The souls aboard squealed and begged loudly for mercy and forgiveness. The Ferryman regarded them largely as a fisherman would regard dead fish in his hull.
”Into the Hellforge,” Aldion said, gesturing to the mass of colourful flame behind him, which was already hissing with the burning of screaming souls. ”Cut them loose and the forge shall do the rest.”
“Yessir!” trolled the Ferryman and sailed off. Once over the sea of fire, he whistled a little jingle as he shoveled weeping souls into the gruesome pit of doom and destruction. It was brief, swift and professional, and the Ferryman had soon pulled up next to the tower again and offered Aldion and Zylana both a courteous nod. “Right, that was the first delivery! Say, Your Infernal Majesty - got a moment to discuss that contract of yours with Miss Ashevelen?”
”Indeed I do,” Aldion said, flipping open his Black Book. ”If you would step off that vessel and come over here…”
The Ferryman nodded again, brought Wellington to the bank of its magic river, and stepped comfortably off the boat and onto the tower floor.
Aldion gestured for the Ferryman to stand next to him, then showed him the book. ”As you can see,” he said, ”The terms of the contract are quite clear.”
The Ferryman nodded. “Oh, absolutely - and just to make this clear - I don’t intend on challenging any of these clauses and upset this very nice cooperation you’ve got going with Miss Ashevelen, cross my heart.” He paused to briefly regard the book’s pages. “Lovely handwriting, by the way.”
”Good.” Aldion nodded. ”Then I suppose I must also inform you that it is not just umbra souls I will be claiming. My judgement must extend to all mortals who sin. In many ways, this contract is merely a formality, one I primarily agreed to because most of Ashevelan’s ideals seem compatible with mine - in letter, at least, and I find cooperation preferable to conflict.”
The Ferryman nodded politely. “Yessir. That soul business was actually what I wanted to talk about. If it’d be alright with you, I’d like to sign on as your main partner in shipping.” He supported his fists on his hips and equipped a smile.
”My Forge already draws all the souls I lay claim to on its own,” Aldion noted. ”But I must confess it is a slow process. Another deity willing to transport them manually or introduce his own system will greatly expedite this process,” he mused. ”And yet I must wonder what you gain from this. What are your terms?”
The Ferryman shrugged. “I suppose I gain the satisfaction of doing my job,” he reasoned. “Besides, seeing slow processes in need of effectivisation be unmanaged and unimproved makes my fingers itch.” He hummed as he looked down in the books’ pages. “I guess if I had any terms, uh… Don’t sign on with a competitor without consulting me, I guess? I don’t know how many are in the soul shipping business, but can’t be too careful, right?”
“That is a reasonable request,” Aldion decided. ”I shall in turn put forth a term of my own. Should a soul qualify for two or more afterlives, and one of those afterlives is Hell, I have right of first refusal.”
“You’ve got it, Your Majesty,” jingled the Ferryman. He held out a hand. “Looking forward to a good and fruitful partnership!”
”As am I,” Aldion said, but he did not yet accept the hand. ”Before we shake hands, however, we must first discuss the finer details of our cooperation, and also draw up a contract.”
“Oh, uh, right!” The Ferryman cleared his throat. “The Bureaucrat’s a bit sharper on this than me, but I’ll try. What do you need from me?”
Aldion quickly launched into an explanation of his ideals, and what sort of behaviours he deemed worthy of eternal damnation. He provided a few examples as well, in some cases becoming surprisingly heated as he described them. A few other minor terms were raised - things that should mostly go without saying, but Aldion thought were best to have in writing. He also included a helpful definition for the term ‘right of first refusal.’ As he spoke, he wrote all this down, and added the Ferryman’s own condition as well.
”Would you prefer your copy in stone or in parchment?” Aldion asked once he had finished.
“Uh, stone, I suppose. Nothing lasts like stone!”
Aldion snapped his fingers, and a stone tablet fell into the Ferryman’s arms. ”Just sign your name there,” Aldion instructed, handing him a hammer and chisel. ”Then sign the copy in my book,” he held up the quill.
Amateurishly, the Ferryman chiseled in his signature, then signed the book page in ink with similar green inscription skills. Evaluating his work for a brief minute, he shifted to Aldion and nodded. "That should do it, I think. This'd go nicely on the wall of my house… If I had one." He eyed the rest of the forgegrounds "You do real estate, by chance?"
There was a look of appraisal in Aldion’s eyes, as he signed his own name. ”Why do you ask?”
The Ferryman waved dismissively. "Oh, nothin'. Just thinking out loud. Alright, got everything you need, Your Majesty?"
”I shall inform you if I require anything else,” Aldion said.
"Sounds good, Your Majesty." The Ferryman offered a polite nod and strolled over to his boat. Setting a foot aboard, he faced Aldion and gave him a thumb-up. "Well, I'm off to fetch another shipment! About a hundred-and-sixty-seven additional deaths have passed over the course of our conversation, so there's plenty to do." He boarded fully and grabbed his oar. "Farewell!" With that, he sailed off.
The post opens with a very overworked Ferryman taking even more people to the Ghostel. He shares his frustration with his Umbra colleagues for a bit and then makes the Bureaucrat, an avatar of extreme patience, efficiency and management skills. The Bureaucrat tells him to take sinful souls to Hell, so the Ferryman loads up and boats off.
Cut to Aldion and Zylana discussing what to call the Servants of Not!Satan. After a lot suggestions, Aldion suggests demons. After reaching this genius conclusion, the Ferryman arrives. After brief introductions, the Ferryman explains that he wants to be Aldion’s DHL. Aldion initially asks why, and the Ferryman says he wants to. This sounds good to Aldion and the two sign a contract - Satan gets the right of first refusal on sinful souls and the Ferryman gets to do his job. Afterwards, the Ferryman bounces.
The Ferryman (5MP/5AP) 5MP - Create avatar: The Bureaucrat. The Bureaucrat is a friendly, organised and diligent paperworker with a knack for business and effectivisation. He carries around with him a suitcase of forms, applications and statistics which he uses regularly to support his boss the Ferryman and manage his soul moving business. End 0MP/5AP
A howling cold wind washed over the island of Genesis. Sharp sparkles of ice and chill came carried in on it, sifting over the snow crusted ground and cutting into the crooked island trees. Local elk were sheltering in the thickest forests that dominated the center forests of conifers, while the bathing lizards submerged themselves safely in the surrounding geysers. Towering over it all was a hissing volcano, where longhaired alpacas greedily enjoyed the heat spilling from the lip.
The wind swirled and spat, but beyond the geysers and volcanos, there was another spot it dare not go. By the shore, where the coast rolled upland enough to meet a field of oats sat a village, glowing orange with fire. Cheer erupted from the area, laced with laughter and joy.
Po sat happily in the middle of the village of Genesis, ritual fires flickering around her while Porry after Porry rushed to her with big grins and bigger offerings of charred meats, ornate wooden carvings and even whole fish.
One family even came with a fat block of browned whale meat for her to snack on. There was a bittersweet contortion of pride on the matriarch's face - rumour had it that the whale, the first to be brought ashore by Porry spear and Porry hand, had claimed four lives - two of which had been of her own kin. A fifth was nearly taken, but they were submerged briefly enough to reignite after being pulled from the icy waters. Bitterness had plagued the village, but now there was sweetness - with the offering came honour to their memory, sounded by both cheers and the salivating sizzle of bubbling whale oil.
The Porries had quickly come to realize after their creation that unity and kinship were the keys to the gate of survival. After all, a fire is only a gathering of sparks and fuel. A lone Porry was a candle in the wind; a clan could be like a forest fire, capable of withstanding the worst of storms. Furthermore, should the storm manage to extinguish the forest fire, the Porries had observed that sparks could smoulder underground for a long time, ready to set the woods ablaze again. Such would be the kinship of the Porries. The thought put a smile on her face, the future would only prove bright.
“Oh my favorite!” Po snatched Matriarch Burning Snow’s offering and quickly devoured it. A scratchy voice emanated from smacking lips. “You have my favor, my oily, delicious favor. What’s your clan name, again?”
"Clan Highgeyser, Great All-Warmer!" saluted the Matriarch proudly. "Your gratitude is all we could ever want. That and the knowledge that the lives of my brother Flickering Wick and my oathsister Wild Smoke have offered themselves in your glory." She prostrated herself along with the rest of her clan.
“Mm! They burned well. It’s a shame the water doesn’t light… yet.” Po reached forward and placed her hand (as was custom already) on the Matriarch’s scalp, her flame turning a bright blue as the heat intensified. A proud gleam could be seen in Po’s blazing eyes and she removed her hand, the blue flame lingering as it normally would — for now at least.
The Matriarch tearfully rose her head, the lava droplets burning pock marks in the ground. She ran her hand over her scalp and let her fingers dance before her eyes, blue flames spitting and kicking from her fingertips before finally dissipating. She turned to the rest of her clan and yelled, "The Sapphire Flame is with us!" A united roar clapped like thunder in response. She then stepped aside, helped by a young woman and a middle-aged man due to a poor gait of hers.
“Bring me my next offering!” Po sat back down in her glowing stone throne. “Bring the next clan!”
"Hep!" shouted an imposing figure, torso hidden from hand to hand and neck to knee. Like a cloud of colourful bats, the group strode into the offering circle like a patterned tide, jaws dropping like flies all around. At their head was Dancing-In-Ash, kicking and punching at the air while chanting in tongues. Up next to him stepped his daughter, Lights-in-the-Clouds, wearing a similar outfit to her father, but with her flaming scalp adorned with a crown of cracking stone. The rest of the clan formed a ring facing outwards towards the rest, hissing and flicking their tongues at the other Porries. Meanwhile, a particularly beautiful piece of fabric was being brought along behind the father and daughter, folded in thirds and sprinkled with obsidian dust.
"SHABOOBUH-BULAH!" howled Dancing-In-Ash as he kicked a footful of sand and grime at an unfortunate bystander.
"My father, the Ever-Seer, greets the Eternal Flame with the most profound respect," translated Lights-in-the-Clouds proudly.
“Oo!” Po cooed with fascination. “Your clan seeks my favor? Name your clan and present your offering.”
"HAJA AD-HAJAHAJA! MAWAHOOEE!" The Ever-Seer ran over to a nearby rock, kicked off and spun through the air. Then he mimicked two horns on his head with his fingers and crabbed menacingly beside one of his brothers, who returned the gesture as though he was repelling an evil spirit.
"My father confirmed that the greatest clan, Clan Peakfire, humbly seek your favour, Magnificent Mother of Magma." She clapped her hands. "Bring the Volcanic Queen her gift!"
The fabric-holder stepped forth, presenting the triangle of colour in her hands. Eight hands surrounded her to unpack the work, fold by fold. The tongue of metallic wool uncurled itself slowly into a tapestry of history, a work depicting the creation of the Porries, of Genesis and of the world, all at the hands of the Eternal Flame and He-Who-Sails-the-Heavens. The fabric's final shape resembled what the whole clan was wearing - a triangular attire that covered the torso and kept the warmth in and the cold out. The Ever-Seer and his clan froze so that she could regard the gift in peace.
Po gripped the poncho, sending the metal into a steamy hiss as she looked it over. Save for the dancing and festivities of the clans long since favored by the pyres, the area was silent in anticipation. FInally, Po shoved the poncho under her hood with a gulp. “All is consumed by fire! I am fire!” A burp. “You have my favor, clan Peakfire, show me your flame.” She held out her hand.
The clan exploded with roars of cheer. Dancing-in-Ash whooped like a howling ape and cartwheeled over to Po with all the agility of someone twenty years younger and stood right before her, eagerly bouncing up and down to the hoo-hoo-hoos of the hooligan horde behind him.
Palming Dancing-in-Ash's head, Po ignited his hair a brilliant hot blue. "Spread heat wherever you go."
The Ever-Seer cast himself in another cartwheel, whooping like a flock of birds. The rest of the clan followed the sapphire wheel out of the circle, breaking formation to form a triumphant train of dancers who celebrated the name of Po and clacked together bone percussion sticks. Like a conga line, they stopped intermittently to kick their legs out to one side, then the other a few steps later.
"Are there any clans left?" Po held her stomach.
For a brief minute, there was silence. Then one of the smaller clan matriarchs, Clan Glacier-Foes’s Star-of-Red, shouted, “The Blackshores haven’t presented their gift yet!” A rumbling mumble rolled through the gathered clans; the richest ones displayed borderline mockery - the poorer ones, concern. Another half minute managed to pass before the circle parted; the background music had slavishly followed the dying enthusiasm, and Clan Blackshore, a small family of hardly seven porries, stepped forward.
Empty-handed.
Seeing how skinny they all were, one could easily make the argument that they were no more than four in number. They stopped before the goddess, their clan head Matriarch She-Who-Shatters-Waves leading the pyrrhic charge. They prostrated themselves as deeply as they could and, to the crescendo of silence, the matriarch spoke, “Eternal Fire, please accept our most sincere apologies and regrets for failing to present an offering.”
Po leaned back on her throne. The air was thick. The porries knew she wasn’t the quiet type and seeing her silently tap her finger on the arm of her chair was more than enough to send a fright through them. “What?” Her voice finally came, snappy and hot.
A quiver rocked the matriarch and her family to the core - they stood shaking like pebbles before a quake. Grasping for an escape like a drowning sailor, the panicking matriarch defaulted to the truth: "The, the, the winter - the winter was cruel to us this year! It took all our food, our home - my niece Braving Seas flickered her last in the early Spring. We, we…" The lava tears rolling down her boney cheeks threatened to choke her out. From the other clans, the response was mixed, ranging from shifting eyes to spitting and snarling.
“You brought nothing.” Po’s scratchy voice seemed to be in disbelief. It quickly turned to a growl. Her fire roared as it grew. “Fire is all consuming and you brought nothing?!”
"Then I will offer myself!" came a declaration from the matriarch's right. Considerably younger, likely her son, a boy in the eve of his teens fought severe nutrient deficiencies to erect himself to his full height, which compared to many others around was nothing to boast about. The stunned mother took a little too long to recuperate from the message and yelled, "He will do no such thing! Please, Infernal Mother, this spark knows not what he says!"
"For the honour of my clan!" the boy insisted as his sister and cousin tried to wrestle him to the ground.
“I accept!” Po hissed, her flames still licking angrily. “From fire to fire!” She held out both her arms, as if offering some strange hug. “Come ‘ere!”
"NO! Nuh! Not you, too, my little Blaze!" the matriarch wept and joined in to hold back the youth. The teen struggled against the three adults and moved not an inch, but all around the Porries egged him on and denounced the rest.
"You shame him and your own name, She-Who-Shatters-Waves! Keep it up and his sacrifice will be annulled! To think such disgusting behaviour could be exhibited by a neighbour. Puh!" chastised the matriarch Burning Snow. When it became clear that the starved boy would never break out of their hold, zealots from every clan great and small stepped forward to peel the family off of him. To a chorus of wails from the Glacier-Foes, Blazing Woods was finally released and, with what little strength he had left, he stumbled into the arms of the fire goddess.
There was a flash of light as he hit Po’s breast and without a trace of dust or ash, he was gone. The goddess sat back down, her flames quelling but slightly as she did. She held out a single hand. “Remember… someday I’m going to eat the world. Everything will be fire, like how we are fire. One fire. Collect my favor.” She stretched her fingers.
Shattered, the matriarch stumbled forward robotically and presented her scalp, the flames on her head burning small and orange, almost red. Po placed her palm on her head and with a rush of heat, sent the matriach’s hair spiraling up in a blaze of blue.
“One fire,” Po reiterated and retracted her hand. The matriarch silently turned around and shuffled emptily back into the ring. Meanwhile, the chorus around had forgotten her and her clan; they looked only at the goddess, shouting as one voice: "ONE FIRE, ONE FIRE, ONE FIRE!"
Weeks had passed since the offering, and life on Genesis had a way of returning to normal once the cold winds reminded everyone that they were, indeed, on Genesis. Food didn’t appear in one’s belly on its own; it was a struggle - a condition for life. The Porries were quick to labour and toil for survival; after all, a flame will consume everything it can to stay alive. So long as there are things to consume, that is. Fortunately, the island of Genesis was fat with sustenance, with forests full of beasts and waters full of fish. A wooden boat from the main village on Genesis, Polis, had cast off the shore and drifted into the ice cold waters, eagerly following the rivers of silver twisting and rolling under the lapping waves. Aboard were four people, each from a different family:
Born-Aflame of the Peakfire, every bit as eccentric as his grand uncle;
Fiend-of-Shadows of the Singewalkers, the oldest of the crew;
Two-Flowers of the Charr, a robust and patient fisherwoman;
and Yellow-Scalp, a hotheaded young man of the Highgeysers.
Asail as the four of them were, each were busily tending to their tasks in a search for distraction as the monotony of the sea eventually settled down over the boat. Nets were mended and prepared; fishing spears were sharpened with rocks; wicker baskets were checked for holes. Before too long, however, the two youngest ones, at least, found themselves running low on tasks. The boat being so small as it was, one couldn’t move around much before it began to upset the balance of the vessel. It therefore quickly got on the others’ nerves when Born-Aflame, restless as he had always been, started pacing back and forth impatiently.
“Sit down!” Yellow-Scalp, without much filter, grumbled. He himself was sitting squarely by some wicker, weaving it into this and that to pass the time. Born-Aflame ignored him.
“There! That one! I swear, it was a fat one!” he said eagerly and pointed into the water with such vigor that Fiend-of-Shadows had to lean out on the opposite side to balance the boat.
“You heard him, sit down!” Two-Flowers demanded. Born-Aflame turned around and rolled his eyes before sitting down to poke at one of the nets. Mustering the sort of groan that only teenagers can, he looked longingly out into the water, distant glaciers contrasting the black peaks of the surrounding islands.
“Are we throwing the net out soon?” he tested.
“Soon,” Fiend-of-Shadows replied patiently.
“Uuuuugh… I see the fish - they’re right there! Let’s catch them already!”
“There’s a trick to it, you dolt,” Yellow-Scalp chided. “Not that you know much about thinking.”
“What was that, you little flicker?!”
“Boys! Po almighty, we’re just fishing,” Two-Flowers moaned.
“Yeah, we’re fishing, but I don’t know what he thinks he is doing.” Yellow-Scalp crossed his arms and cut a smirk. Born-Aflame was the type to bear everything on his sleeve - had the term been literal, he would’ve been weighed down to the ground at all times. The rage within him thus wasted no time in manifesting in a sharp kick, breaking straight through the wall of Yellow-Scalp’s wicker basket.
Yellow-Scalp threw the scraps still in his hands at the other boy. “What the hell did you do that for, you animal!” He stood up, nearly rocking the boat. “Why did you even bother coming!?”
“Why did YOU bother coming?! This is MY clan’s boat! You’re just here because Two-Flowers likes you!”
“Sit down, both of you! You’re rocking the boat!” Two-Flowers snapped back.
"You're wasting your breath." Yellow-Scalp started daggers at Born-Aflame. "You can't reason with animals."
“Animals?! You dirty–!” Born-Aflame snatched a fishing spear and tried to smack Yellow-Scalp across the face.
Yellow-Scalp leaned back to dodge the blow, but suddenly felt his stomach lurch as the boat followed him just enough. His knees locked up but it was too late - he lost balance. His hands flew behind him to catch anything but there was only air and with a sizzling splash, he landed overboard and into the water.
All three of the ones aboard panicked, and Two-Flowers almost instinctively jumped after him. However, mid-jump she was grabbed and held back by Fiend-of-Shadows, the boat only not tipping over because Born-Aflame fell backwards into a broken-backed seat atop some more baskets. While he slowly recovered, Fiend-of-Shadows blared at him, “YOU STUPID CHILD! Two-Flowers, grab that spear and help me fish him out!” The two tried their best to get a good grip on him, but as seconds became minutes, hope slowly faded for the crew. After a great deal of maneuvering the boat and labouriously trying to balance and counter-balance one of them leaning out to pick him out, they finally managed to recover Yellow-Scalp, now a flameless corpse.
When it became clear that his life was beyond saving, the other two turned slowly to face the very quiet Born-Aflame. Fiend-of-Shadows cast him a brief scowl before looking down in the belly of the boat. “You’ve caused such a shitshow, you stupid boy.”
Born-Aflame’s eyes flicked from side to side scouring for a reply, but even a youth like him understood what this meant. Two-Flowers said not a word either - she only glared beams of fire at him. Fiend-of-Shadows mustered only a sigh as his mind was still processing what had happened. After a moment passed, he added, “When we reach the shore, you will be given one day’s amnesty to return to your kin to say your farewells…”
Two-Flowers spat into the sea. Fiend-of-Shadows tossed her a brief stare. Born-Aflame moved not a muscle, but merely looked out at the distant icebergs drifting in the ocean. Fiend-of-Shadows continued, “... Afterwards, you will present the corpse to the Highgeysers and offer up your own life as an apology.”
Another period of silence, broken only by waves kissing the frame of the boat. Then Born-Aflame mumbled, “It’s not fair.”
Calmly, Fiend-of-Shadows replied, “Yeah, I’d wager that’s what he thought as he felt the heat sap from his body. All over a little dispute…” He shook his head.
“You better show,” hissed Two-Flowers.
Born-Aflame swallowed nervously. Fiend-of-Shadows nodded. “Yeah, you better sit at the other end of the boat until we reach the shore, boy. The Charr are sworn to the Highgeysers through blood.”
Born-Aflame suddenly quickened to and shot up to a stand. “But wait! Your brother and chief, Slagstone Singewalker, is a bloodbrother of my mother, the clan heiress! Therefore–”
“Therefore I will do jackshit, boy. Good luck finding a single Singewalker who will follow a murderer.” The boy deflated. Fiend-of-Shadows turned the boat around and started paddling back to shore, helped by Two-Flowers. With his last ounce of patience spent, the old porry spat in the sea and growled the words: “Now sit your stupid ass down.”
We open with the Feast of Po, a festival where the Porries give stuff to Po to eat. Here, we meet two of the big shot clans, Clan Highgeyser and Clan Peakfire, and one tiny poopy clan, Clan Blackshore. Highgeysers give Po whale meat, Peakfire gives her a poncho and Blackshore gives her squat. When Po gets angry, the Blackshores offer up a son much to the matriarch's dismay, but the others think this is very honorubru.
Cut to four people on a fishy boat, two young lads, an old man and a woman. The two lads, Yellow-Scalp of Highgeyser and Born-Aflame of Peakfire, get into a fight. Born-Aflame accidentally then kills him by making him fall into the ocean. The old man and the woman, now hateful towards the young lad, paddle on home to take him to be judged.
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