You are on the right path, but I would expand just a bit more on the government? It sounds more like a loose collection of tribes then a nation? Also be sure to have a characters tab, a tab for named characters who will likely appear or are named in your NS.
Half right, it's not a nation for sure -- but a smattering of collectives, communes and commonwealths that come in the form of familial farms, intrafamilial hamlets/villages, and mayoral towns and cities. They are all linked by a common culture and geographical region; that's the humans. The Goblins similarly have no single nation but are separated in tribes that share a common culture, religion and region.
The Grovelands is a heavily forests, hilly, seafaring land made up of communes, commonwealths and tribes.
It is dominated by humans and goblins
There is no one official currency, with municipalities creating their own systems.
It is a large amount of land that is sparsely populated, besides municipalities.
There is no professional army or levy
Last harvest was good, this is a land of plenty.
Races
Humans,
For clarity on a Goblin and what a Goblin looks like: a Goblin stands on average around four feet tall, have sharp facial features, a lack of facial hair, black hair, long sharp ears, brown to reddish eyes, and pale green skin. They can be fit, fat, skinny, muscular same as any human.
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History
Year 0: The Muhan Empire falls.
Year XXX: The _ begin their conquest of western Eusovis (the post-Muhakin empire)
Year 568: The Kingdom of Nandar is founded by King Aelend, formerly the Muhakim province of Anaria. The tribes of Anar are united.
Year 696: The Grovelander revolt begins, taking their opportunity during the ____ Empire’s waning power. Folk hero Rachel Piper unites the Grovelander Humans and Goblins. Xarta, governor of the Grovelander province devises a subversive method to cause infighting in the Grovelands so as to focus resources on the other parts of the waning empire.
Year 697: A stray Gurk foils Xarta’s plan and the rebellion enters full swing as Xarta is killed and the Humans and Goblins formalize their treaty.
Year 697-700: The _____ Empire falls, freeing the cultural Grovelander lands, the Nandarian lands and the Dathanari lands.
Year 700-730: Under the “divine” rule of Emperor Gaelin Tassarion, the Holy Dathanari Empire forms and wages a series of wars against its southern neighbours, successfully conquering the southlands. In order to financially secure themselves, the newly crowned Emperor had sent a diplomatic envoy to the Sacred Athalan Union to acquire the funds needed to keep the Empire afloat, the loan itself worth hundreds of thousands of gold and silver.
Year 730-733: The Dathanari invades the Grovelands, but due to an incompetent general and heavy guerrilla resistance, the empire is forced to withdraw.
Year 734-740: An immediate call to tend to the bruised ego of the Imperial army quickly turned into a second mobilization against the Grovelands, leading to a six year conflict that after an inch by inch war lead to the successful capture of Bedford and annexation of lands past the Melbourne River and only a few kilometers from Souton.
Year 742: The Bedford Revolt lead to the gruesome execution of a visiting Dathanari military family and liberation of the city by Franklin Dover, a supposed descendent of the fabled Dover family. This sparked a punitive conflict against Bedford that quickly spiraled into a Grovelander reconquest lead by Dover as well as a sizable pledge of Goblin tribes.
Year 742-744: The Grovelander Reconquest results in pushing the Dathanari back over the River Melbourne and back into Dathanari lands. Rumors had it that Dover planned on invading the Empire to create a buffer zone -- but succumbed to a stomach virus around the end of the war.
Year 744-830: The tentative hundred year peace begins between the Grovelands and the Dathanari, the ferocity of the previous two conflicts inflicting heavy demands on both sides.
Year 830-839: The Dathanari attempt to annex bordering Grovelander municipalities by bribery and extortion. While some accepted the offer, this was mostly met with resistance and in 839 a Grovelander Pledge was called to defame any acceptance of vassalage.
Year 840: Tensions rise between the Grovelanders and the Dathanari, with bordering Goblin tribes disrupting defamed Grovelander municipalities now under Dathanari control. This sparks the fourth war between the Dathanari and the Grovelanders when the Dathanari march on the Grovelands.
Year 840-853: The longest Grovelander and Dathanari conflict begins, filled with sporadic skirmishes and long periods of waiting for the other to make their move. The Dathanari had grown suspicious of the guerilla tactics and the Grovelanders refused to meet them head on, leading to an almost standing war. This conflict was finally ended when a Dathanari diplomat, Thaola Adgwyn, made history by being the first foreigner to attend a Pledge, the camps of the Grovelands agreeing to a ceasefire and hopes of peace in the future. Grovelander municipalities were relinquished, Goblin disruption is ceased, and Official trade opens between the two nations.
Year 887: Official trade between the two nations close after several border disputes and territory lines are argued, leading to the silent era.
Year 977-980: In a resurgence of jingoism and with the defamation of the Dathanari diplomat, Thaola Adgwyn, the Dathanari in renewed vigor launch a full invasion of the Grovelands. The battles are quick and devastating, leading to a full annexation of the Grovelander lands up to the border of the Melbourne river. The war is stopped in 980, as war fatigue sets in -- but tensions remain hot.
Year 992: The Dathanari Governor of the Grovelands resigns by force due to his many blunders and the continued resistance by the locals making a fool of him and the garrison. The 11th Eastern Legion under the command of Legatus Ayduin assumes the Governors position over the Groveland province.
Year 1000: present day
Culture
In one word, Grovelander culture can be described as quaint. While it is true that the Grovelanders are considered tough, direct, swear-ready, defiant, and harbor a take-no-funny-business attitude; their rough and tumble vocabulary, accent and outlook is just a symptom of their accepted way of life. Embracing their relatively peaceful and free way of life means that to ensure their warm and cozy living remains such a way, that they have to adopt a level of roughness needed to keep it as such. They question authority and social "set in stones" freely, never fold (be it bravery, patriotism or arrogance) to external pressures, and are always ready to defend their homes and ways.
This is not to say that the Grovelanders are a very serious and stern people, as humor and comedy is not only a social goldmine among them, but a respected and enjoyed art. Because of this, Grovelanders are both intimidating in a sense that they could be in an obligatory brawl one moment, while wisecracking the next with the very same people they were just fighting with.
Other than humor and a sense of toughness, the Grovelanders respect families and familial loyalty, be it with your actual family or a close knit group of friends which serve as your adopted family in a sense. Those you care about and enjoy being with are some of the first priorities in Grovelander culture, a symptom of their way of their close living and free way of life. This sense of companionship often extends down to the many pets of the Grovelands, often taking the appearance of a loyal cat or dog.
The last two things every Grovelander respects is the Grovelands themselves, and its cuisine. The quickest way to upset a Grovelander is to insult or destroy the Grovelands in an unnecessary fashion, but the quickest way to please a Grovelander is with good food.
Key ingredients to every Grovelander’s feast include various seafoods, butters, cheeses, potatoes, yams, cranberries (and jellies), beef, chicken, hazelnuts, turkey, venison, moose, garlic, onions, corn, pumpkin, maple, tomato, bell peppers, wild rice, spinach, green beans, peas, cabbage, carrots, oats, apples, ciders, and an assortment of breads, whiskies, bourbons, beers and pastries. Some common dishes include shepherd's pie, meat pie, steamed clams, baked fish, and an assortment of maple desserts. While not eaten, tobacco is also a regularly enjoyed crop.
As assumed, maple plays as vital a role in Grovelander culture as their other signature foods. During the height of winter, maple season begins -- and as such, festivals and large communal feasts follow the labor intensive work of turning the maple sap into syrup and sugar. Communities gather together for the large boiling fires and moving of barrels, just to reap the tasty rewards as crafty elders put forth their most creative maple dishes.
Other important seasons include the harvest season of autumn, and following the last harvest of the season is the traditional harvest feast. Usually centered around the fattest hunted poultry of the season (usually a turkey), the community comes together to put forth the best of their season in one large cornucopia feast. It is unheard of for cranberries and pumpkins to not grace the feasting table, being as integral to the tradition as the bird.
In the morning the Grovelanders usually sit down for a breakfast consisting of eggs, bread and a slice of meat (usually bacon or sausage), this can be washed down with chilled milk. Lunch is usually a simple meal full of vegetables and proteins to keep the Grovelanders working strong -- this could be a salad or seafood tossed with cabbage. Finally supper comes last and is usually a quiet affair (outside of feasts) done with close friends or family. Here the Grovelanders take their time and put forth their best dishes and desserts. Since suppers come earlier in the day (around 5), Grovelanders may have a snack before bed -- usually leftovers or a pastry over hot cider (spiced with imported Cinnamon if they can afford it). During this post-supper time, Grovelanders enjoy their many hobbies such as playing instruments -- often acoustic or stringed instrument -- for their close ones, whittling/carving, sports, singing, story telling (and sea yarns), and in the cities: watching theatre or drinking at a local bar.
Due to the many seasons of the Grovelands, the Grovelanders have an array of usual outfits to wear, from billowy buttoned/toggled shirts over rolled up trousers and shoes in the summer -- to fur or wool lined heavy coats in the winter. Most outfits are considered fit for either man or woman to wear -- with little regard for any gender role, and so it is common for men and women to wear the same form of outfits in the Grovelands. One such popular outfit in the Autumn is heavy pants with boots strapped over, with woolen socks and shirt, and maybe a long Autumn colored cloak over the whole ensemble. While there is no one way to do facial hair, Men’s hair tends to be cut short -- but even then, with the medley of hair and skin tones that make up the Grovelands, such uniformity in length is outdone by the variety of hair possible.
When discussing community, it is also important to discuss the family structure of the Grovelanders. As mentioned previously, Grovelanders have a deep respect for both familial ties and friendship, making their families as liquid as they are solid. Bringing friends into close family events is normal for Grovelanders, and as tight knit they hold their direct family, they are also independent enough to often find themselves making their own families or lifestyles at young ages (usually by their late teens and early twenties). It is usually unheard of for a Grovelander to stick around their parents home past adulthood without a good reason such as being a help for a farm, business, or medical/emotional trouble; the former two being the most common in rural boroughs and hamlets.
Other than this sense of independence yet respect in regards to family, social rules and cues regarding families are as varied family to family as the many personalities of the Grovelanders is. In the spirit of this variety, humans are not the only race that can call themselves Grovelanders (though often they are), as a sizable goblin population also shares the groves with the humans.
The Goblins
Much like the other goblins populations of Eae't, the goblins of the Grovelands prefer to separate themselves from the other races. Their usually deep self segmentation from the other races, however, does not run as deep in the Grovelands as it does elsewhere. The traditional goblin philosophy is the disregard and abandonment of the technical progress of civilization and to shun the large civilizations built by the other races in favor of a simpler more traditional living in union with the spirits of nature. This is often mistaken by the other races as a sign of stupidity, savagery or primitive living -- these assumptions not helped by the goblins’ stubborn nature against correcting or conversing with outsiders.
However, these stereotypes do not hold completely true in the Grovelands. Oddly enough and in spite of the Grovelanders harsh and straightforward honesty and way of talking, the Grovelands are a surprisingly open minded people, and in giving the goblins that level of respect, the goblins reciprocated. They lowered their defenses enough for the two peoples to coexist happily and converse in the grovelands -- with the humans living in their boroughs and the goblins in their discrete tribal locations.
Trade is common between the two camps, and while there are territorial disputes between the two at times, their coexistence is relatively peaceful. This level of cooperation with goblins is rare, and as such, the goblins would rather keep what partnership they have garnered with the human Grovelanders and in turn usually appear to aid the Grovelanders when outside change is threatening to disrupt this balance.
Other than that, the goblin Grovelanders also hold a deep respect for the grovelands, as well as their own sense of humor -- which can be found rigid or dry in their stark and serious goblin Grovelander demeanour. Unlike their human counterparts, the goblin Grovelanders utilize shamanism -- and while they respect the human religions, they harbor their own shamanistic religion based around the direct worship of the nature spirits. This pan-goblinic religion steeped in harmless rituals and deep respect for nature, the ancestors, and the spirits is called many things depending on the tribe and location. The common name in the Grovelands is simply “The Shaman’s Path.”
The Goblins themselves rely less on harvest and farming than the humans, but instead hold a tradition of hunting in the thickest parts of the woods -- isolated from passerby. Their sacred hunting bows are used to take down the many deer, turkey’s and moose of the Grovelands. What farming is done is done in spotty segments of the forest, where shafts of light break through the canopies.
Their respect for the forests goes in so far as they refuse to harm the trees of the land, opting to only use fallen branches and logs for their unique settlements. Because of this unique outlook on wood-use, their tools tend to be fire hardened and their buildings take the form of stretched hide and canvas rather than logs.
These yurts can be so large as to have different smaller yurts stuffed inside, or have a shawl wrapped around a ring of tiny yurts as to protect from wind and snow. Added to this, the goblins tend to decorate their yurts with colorful paintings of their communities past, present and future.
Leading these colorful settlements is the elder of each clan, along with their shaman. It is a rare sight for one of these elders or shamans to make their way into a Grovelander city, but not uncommon for them to have contact with smaller hamlets and farmsteads near their clan’s homes.
Military
Being denizens of an uncentralized cultural land, there is no official military force that blankets the Grovelands, nor is there any official levy (Unless called by a Pledge, then those who pledged form a combined partisan militia under an elected general). In lou of a pledge,the defense of the Grovelands falls squarely on the desire for the locals to keep their land the way it is, and as such, in times of trouble, the people of both human and goblin territories rise to its defense.
The military can be split into two camps (when not combined by a pledge elected general) -- goblin warriors, and human militia. Some goblin tribal warriors have plenty of seasoned practice in the art of small skirmishes and wars from experiences of violent troubles between disagreeing tribes or territory disputes, and as such are well trained in their instruments of violence.
The goblin warriors are armed with a vast array of possibilities, from hammering clubs of wood and metal, to the ever present spear and javelin (preferring retrievable throwables to bows). Their hide shields are often painted with visceral colors, and their bodies tend to match. Flexible and thick clothing or hide can be used for armor, but their true edge lies in their ‘no hesitation’ tactic of fighting, making them fierce, fearless and extremely aggressive warriors -- able to strike where most would hesitate. They are unpredictable and extremely dangerous ambushers, often choosing the battlefield through expert tactics, deception and baiting.
The humans similarly may be well trained in their particular weapons of choice, or even violence itself -- the life of a hunter, or a farmer defending their stake from raiders and ne'er do wells providing ample opportunity to learn self defense and offense. This coupled with the trained police force of some of the cities, aggressive and sometimes bloody settlement rivalries/conflicts, and the fisticuff happy bar nights, the humans of the grovelands are not as naive in the art of violence as one would expect at first sight.
Complementing the goblin’s own fighting style, the people of the Grovelands are expert ambushers -- able to use their vast hunting knowledge and puzzling terrain of the thick forests and sudden groves to their advantage against foreign troops. Bows, axes and even swords find their way to the hands of the Grovelanders, using these personal weapons to better maneuver in the tight quarters of the forests and breaking up any uniform enemy. Maneuverable shields of banded wood are popular, as are strong nasal helmets. Body armor tends to be padded cloth between thick quilts, or mail between two quilts -- whatever keeps their body safe without making them too large or heavy to make their way through the forests and fens.
Despite the Groveland’s ability to field a large amount of belligerents, as each family has something to lose in the event of an invasion, the Grovelanders both human and goblin tend to avoid large open battles -- sticking to the tactical use of their dense forests, swamps and hilly environments to ensure the victory. Traps, ambushes, and unexpected angles matched with the fierce tenacity and defiance of the denizens is what wins them their battles.
As far as their coast and naval engagements are concerned, without a centralized military or government, naval engagements are rare despite their mass of boats. Only when a major threat is imminent and a navy is truly required is when the Grovelanders attempt to Pledge the municipalities and port towns into a militia fleet. Such a fleet focuses on using the Grovelander hooks and harpoons to link themselves with enemy boats, turning each ship into a tiny battlefield where they can unleash their aforementioned tenacity.
Government
If the Grovelands could be summarized in one word it would be ‘simple.’ This holds true for the government present in the Grovelands as well, and is even reflected in the very name of the region. In being called the Grovelands it is showing an assumption that the region is tied together by a consistent geographical feature rather than a polity, and this is a true assumption -- as there is no central or overarching government in control of the Grovelands or its people.
In place of a centralized or even decentralized government, the Grovelands is a smattering of collectives formed in familial orchards, intrafamilial hamlets, towns and even small mayoral cities. Each entity performs its own governance, with the Grovelander culture holding everything together rather than politics or law.
Despite this very loose feeling organization, the Grovelanders do feel loyalty not to a nation, but to themselves and their way of life -- banding together to fend off Gjornenahabblestrjikn raids, marauders, pillaging or conquering kingdoms and other things that may interfere with their free commonwealths. To ensure this consensus when the entire Grovelands or majority of the Grovelands is involved or in need of a decision, the cultural process of the Pledge can be called.
The Pledge is usually called by a Goblin chieftain or Human mayor, but can be called by any individual of the Grovelands. Once called, if the reason is deemed worthy of attention, the vast leaders (and others who wish to have a voice) of the Grovelands all migrate to the ancient monument of “The Gurk”, a stone statue dedicated to one of the Grovelands long past heroes, and location of the first official treaty between the Goblins and Humans.
Here at the monument, the leaders vye and express their opinion on the topic. Here generals can be elected, consensus can be reached on problems, and rivalries can be put to bed. This concept of The Pledge helps string the Grovelands together even further and provides some unified front against encroaching problems.
During a pledge, votes (if required) are tallied towards decision using finger stones, or stones that are as long as a finger and no wider than three. The same finger stones have been reused over the decades, and the process is relatively simple -- after the debate is over and everyone is ready to make their decision they toss their finger stone into a pile with others who agree with them, sometimes in front of a to be elected person, or sometimes at “The Gurk” to signify indecision. The stones are then counted and the highest pile simply wins the vote. This process gave rise to the sayings “missed it by a fingerstone” and “a decision set in stones.”
The Grovelanders themselves are considered relatively open minded should it not interfere with their daily lives but tend not to get involved with things beyond their cultural border, aside from the spare intrepid adventurer.
Religion
The Church of the Brothers Harmony
The Church of the Brothers Harmony is unique in that is is not a physical church, nor does it have a central location of worship or authority. In the eyes of a Harmonist, the church is the collective body of all things, and worship involves prayer to the Brothers Harmony as well as self temperance and attempts to live in harmony with all else.
The Harmonist philosophy is to remove the idea of the self and embrace the sea of all else as if it was in fact you -- for in a way it is. This way of thinking favors simplistic living, where respect is given to all things -- even to livestock or hunted animals to be consumed. Harmonists as a result have developed many prayers of respect to grant to various things for various events.
While there is no formal church body or dates and times of worship, some Harmonists take it upon themselves to serve as hermetic pastors: a figure of religious guidance for small communities. These pastors attempt to uphold the ideals of Harmony, which include forgiveness, grace, peace, acceptance, selflessness and humility. They tend to live slightly displaced from the rest of the community so as to convene peacefully with the world's natural harmony in meditation and prayer.
Further, Harmonists believe that upon the death of any life that its life essence or soul will return to the Valley Unifax to be forever with the Brothers, while the physical matter that had formed its body shall be sent back into the flow of Eae't to be reborn as something new. In tandem with this belief and their belief in the creation story, they also hold the promises of the Brothers Harmony, that they will return someday, and Harmony will reign supreme.
The symbol of the Harmonists is usually one of dualities, or a natural icon. The religion is the most popular religion in The Grovelands. In the face of oppressive religious or political regimes, Harmonism may suffer the role of victim or scapegoat and have felt persecution in religious communities.
The Cult of Iac
Incoming...
Economy
The economy of the Grovelands is vibrant and unregulated, with a lot of trade passing through the port cities and border villages. Taxes are levied in select cities by their mayoral electives, but are noticeably absent in most tribal territories, hamlets, and some even towns. One of the most sought after product produced in the Grovelands (besides their harvest) is tobacco and whale oil.
Territory
A local map will go here, with provided information on cities, terrain features, and information on local states will go here. The bare bones minimum for this section will require general information on local territory.
Terrain
Geography
Unsurprisingly, the Grovelands is renown for its thick twisted forests of oak, pine, beech, birch and maple as well as many open groves. It is rather hilly, however, and when digging deep the soil is considered rocky. Because of this, apple orchards and other hardy plants are grown in the suboptimal soils, giving Grovelanders their nickname “Applekin.”The hilly forests and groves aside, the Grovelands is also home to many fens and swamps, often at the base of a wooded hill or shady grove. In the west, a gentle shore hugs the Grovelands, making sea travel into and out of the Grovelands easy.
The further East one goes in the Grovelands, the thicker the forests gets, until they in turn reach the borders of Beyonder itself. This proximity gives the Groveland forests a certain mystical and mysterious shade that bejewels Grovelander folk stories with strange happenings, unheard of beasts and magics, as well as other imaginative fables.
The Grovelands itself is in a northern temperate zone, and as such experiences a short but warm summer, a long and beautiful autumn, a snowy winter, and soggy spring. The colors in the autumn are so famous that their oranges and blazing reds that contrast twisted black trunks are often painted by explorers and are easily sold in markets elsewhere.
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Notable Locations
Souton
Salty waves and cobblestone streets describes the squat city of Souton. Run by an elected mayor, Souton is one of the favored ports in the Grovelands and is renowned around Western Yzaille as the safest port to resupply in while on a passage north as well as one of the best places to get Grovelander goods.
Its road system is considered a nightmare by most, with the buildings having been built rashly close to one another in non uniform patterns and styles. Souton is a melting pot of seafaring cultures that dominate the western coasts of Yzaille and as such it resembles the many groups of people that call it home -- giving it a mosaic look.
Considered the largest municipality in the Grovelands, it is also famed for its cuisine -- having blended a mixture of local favorites with the signature dishes of nations far beyond the groves.
While large, squished, and a pattern of many, crime is relatively low. The locals are considered tough, sensibly rowdy, and able to defend themselves easily, and that coupled with a dedicated street and port watch makes most criminals think twice before starting trouble.
Due to the possibility of sea raids past, present and future -- Souton is also one of the few places in the Grovelands that boasts an actual standing military. The small yet expert force is paid for by the locals, and serves as a further deterrent against deviant behavior from near and afar.
Bedford
Similar to Souton and positioned more to the south (and away from raids), Bedford is on par if not ahead of Souton as the Grovelands largest fishing community. Being so embedded in its fishing culture, scrimshaw can be seen on almost every window among the cobblestone streets and squished buildings. Tales of sea beasts, vindictive whalers, and other salty yarns spill through the drinking shacks and parlors.
A favored dish of the Bedford residents, and one that has spread far and wide (although contended where it began) is a healthy plate of breaded white fish and roasted potatoes, sometimes served with lemons traded in from the southern kingdoms and duchies or pickled cucumbers minced in a mayonnaise.
Worcester
Worchester is the largest inland municipality in the Grovelands. It’s central position in the grovelands make it an excellent stop for anyone passing through or for local farmers looking to sell their goods. Unlike most settlements in the Grovelands, Worchester boasts a wall and is divided in half by the Millville river. The Millville is slow moving at the surface but quickens as you go deeper, making it perfect for powering mills for grain and other threshing needs.
The Millville river was named after the small upriver hamlet where legendary figure John Dover was supposedly born. The folkhero Dover is accredited with creating the river when he had beat his opponent in a rock skipping match for the hand of his bride. He was said to have been so incredibly strong that he had skipped a boulder that ripped through the land and turned the lake into the contemporary river.
The legend goes on to suggest that Dover in his old age founded the western half of Worchester and his old opponent founded the eastern half.. The two halves eventually coming together as one Worchester. A small, sibling rivalry still remains between the two halves, but it is relatively harmless and more of a sense of pride.
Attleborough
While it doesn’t boast the melting pot style of Souton, or the markets of Worchester -- the smaller town of Attleboro is important in that it is one of the southernmost settlements.
Deeply set in the swampy south and pushed between bogs full of cranberries, sunny pumpkin patches, and hilly apple groves, Attleborough is a quiet and simple place -- serving almost as the tiny gate to the rest of the Grovelands. The only true reasons anyone goes to Attleborough is for family, or to try their famous cranberry breads and pastries.
Being set in the eastern corner of the south, Attleborough also boasts an eerie cemetery land -- said to be haunted by the forces of Beyonder. Most notably is a tiny stone hut that has sat on its ancient foundations longer than anyone can remember.
The Cacoree Territory
Situated east of Worchester and north of Attleboro, the Cacoree territory is the claimed lands of the Cacoree goblin tribe. Being one of the largest tribes in the Grovelands, it also has the largest claimed territory of operation.
The forest here is incredibly thick and dark, with sparse underbrush and towering trees with everclosing canopies and understory. This sort of environment favors the Cacoree style of ambush hunting as well as pushing skittish prey such as deer into ambush zones through controlled herding. This open grounded forest also provides plenty of space for the yurt complexes the goblins are known for, even using larger trees as central pillars for multiple story yurt complexes known as Cacoree towers.
The Cacoree themselves are known for being one of the most involved tribes, commonly trading with humans and being foremost present in interracial politics between the two races. They are also considered very aggressive towards policies, mayors, and outsiders who would favor pathways that lead to the Grovelands losing its distinct level of freedom -- often being the first to answer pledges, first to raise arms against invasions, and the first to attack traitors to the Grovelander way of life -- not eager to relive the persecution faced during the years of the ____ Empire.
Ashton
Souton isn’t the only settlement full of different peoples, and Ashton is a monument to this. Settled by seafaring [Sigmoo bug peeps] peoples, Ashton is a small home away from home for the [blank] culture -- now mixed with the pleasantries of Grovelander tradition.
It is located west of Worchester but inland of the western coast. [details wip]
The Northern Shores
North of Souton, along the coast, the shores of the Grovelands turn rockier, with splatterings of outlets and islands pocking the ocean waves. This gentle break up of the ocean is home to various fishing towns and villages. Here life is a lot slower than in the other regions of the Grovelands, even reflecting in the slower accent and “a-yup” way of talking. While these northerners hold the Groveland way of life dear to themselves, this sub community is considered a lot more relaxed. Seafood is the staple diet of the northerners, being famous for their lobsters and crab.
The Northern Mountains
East inland of the Northern shores is where the hills turn to towering mountains. It is here that a lot of minerals are harvested and livestock becomes staple over crops. Cows and pigs are often seen, with cheese being a major product of these lands. It gets colder here and the snow of winter stays longer the higher you go.
The people here reflect a mix of the culture of the rest of the Grovelands as well as the Northern Shores people, but with reliance more on animal products than seafood. They often consider themselves Mountain people, and refer to the other Grovelanders as Flatlanders. The farms here are famous for their cheddar, milk, and maple products.
Factions & People & Characters
Gerald Thatcher: A now aged folk hero of yore. He became famous when he slew a dragon that was terrorizing the Cacoree territories almost thirty years ago. He is now an old crippled man.
Joseph Thatcher: The son of the fabled Gerald Thatcher. Living in his father's shadow and in the dust of poverty, Joseph Thatcher quickly grew a reputation for being a nobody -- resorting to the bottle and the easy way out at all times. He is no stranger to trouble, and while he has the best intentions in his heart, he is not an innocent soul, not anymore.
Eustace Harper: Joseph Thatcher's best friend and a native of Souton. Being a lazy slob of a man, he found no stain with associating with Joseph and still doesn't. Some say it is his reckless actions that get Joseph tangled in the most trouble, but he is always saying "He doesn't have to fuckin' be here if he doesn't want to!"
Elizabeth: A woman with a muddled past, she finds herself saving herself from her own mind by running a boat for rent out of Souton. She is deeply religious and holds superstition close to her chest. Whatever she had done in her youth, she sails away from it in her middle age.
Yerdiax: A once notorious killer and murderer. His youth was stabbed with plight and mental illness that eventually lead him to a life of blood, anger and money. In recent years the shame had finally caught up with him, and now he quests for redemption -- be it in the form of a guardian angel to those who would suffer a similar fate in his childhood, or otherwise.
Ruth Brimfield: Estranged ex-lover of Joseph Thatcher. They had met when he had moved with Harper to the south and had several run ins. It was only in the past year that Ruth had grown tired of Joseph's drunken behavior and fearing it could grow violent had separated with him, but not entirely.
Patrick Brimfield: Ruth and Joseph's infant child, he is in the care of Ruth and is the object of Joseph's guilt and the only tie that keeps Ruth in contact with him -- if but barely.
Notables
Cloudlings
Cloudlings are strange cotton ball sized and shaped animals. They are made entirely of a cloud-like material and are known to be extremely gregarious, even imprinting themselves on Grovelanders -- especially the more adventurous and fun. Their ecological role is one of a pollinator, as they saturate their tiny bodies in sugars at every available opportunity -- pollinating flowers in the process. With the introduction of civilization, however, cloudlings are a renown pest as well as pet -- often getting into liquor stores and wine cellars, where they saturate themselves to the point of asexual reproduction in a form similar to mitosis. Many cloudling swarms have been made from a carelessly left open basement door giving a thirsty cloudling clearance to high spirits.
The cloudlings communicate through tiny “zzt”s, pops and crackles, being able to discharge tiny bits of static electricity. They often bumble into each other in the wild, creating tiny droplets of rain or harmless discharges of static. They don’t have much in the ways of defense, as they have no natural predators and are very hard to destroy. Their true lifespan is unknown, in no short part due to their similar appearances among themselves and random spurts of clone-like reproduction. Personality wise, these social pollinators tend to be not only gregarious but suffer from animalistic gluttony, bold ego, and often aggressive defense of those they are imprinted upon with little regard for their own safety. More than once there have been stories of tiny cloudlings saving a favored child from a stray dog or coyote by giving the attacker a shocking zap up the nose.
Cloudlings prefer colonizing inland areas with plenty of vegetation and that aren't too dry, barren, or hot.
Daffotales
Daffotales are an extraordinarily rare and unique species of daffodils -- if they are even related. These flowers usually grow alone deep in the forests, rooted where shafts of bright light spear through the canopy. They wiggle when approached, as if dancing -- and then proceed to either retell a story they were told/overheard, or fancifully tell the story of something they had witnessed. Some daffotales are extremely gregarious and will spill every story they can think of without regard for privacy, while others demand a story in return for their own -- a way to expand their repertoire.
How they came about is heavily rumored. The goblins claim they are the souls of lost children who had disrespected the most sacred parts of the groves and put into the ground by punishing nature spirits. This explanation sometimes includes adults, while Grovelanders themselves sometimes claim that they are the souls of stillborn children that had been buried in the forest -- or sometimes even the victims of starvation.
The Seer of Yarmouth
Hidden in the rocky islands of the north is said to be an aging seer. The seer is said to be able to tell you how you are to die and can be identified by the layers of goats wool and rattling jewelry that they wear. Their precise location is unknown, but rumor has it that during misty low tides, you can hear the oracle herd bleating goats on near the islands of Yarmouth.
Using this method of search along with the help of northern shore locals, Rachel Piper was said to have made the journey to the seer when she was a young teenager. Whatever happened at the home of the seer, if it was found or not, changed her forever -- turning her into the brave, fearless adventurer that common legends know her as. Most assume that she clearly found out how she was to die, and knowing when it wasn’t to happen -- rushed forward into danger without any regard for it.
The Gurken
No one is quite sure how the Gurken got their name, with it being an old word for ‘Cucumber,’ but it stuck. Despite the mundane name, the Gurken are revered not only in the Grovelands, but across Eae't as enigmatic and legendary envoys of whatever forest they are found in.
They are shy and quiet, going so far as to wear a wooden mask over their faces at all times. Their bodies are short (roughly 3-4 feet high) and completely made out of soil and moss, with strong wood acting as bones. Sometimes small plants grow on their soil covered bodies, giving them the look of a floral mosaic. Many naturalistic religions harbor them as sacred, or even outright worship them as the physical representation of a nature spirit. Sometimes decades will go by between sightings of a Gurk, but spotting one is always considered good luck, especially in times of need.
Despite their mythical reputation, the Gurken are also very childlike in their mannerisms, being naive or curious -- often sighting stories recall them playing with wild forest creatures and admiring plants. In legend, ancient dryads often refer to them as children of the forest, and when one goes questing -- it invokes the image of a young, child adventurer on a noble journey of great importance, an occasion rarer than a Gurk itself. In common fables, Cloudlings are rumored to be good friends of the Gurken, so many artists depicting a questing Gurk with wooden (and almost toy like) sword and shield almost always have a cloudling by their shoulder.
Justice
How crime and punishment is processed depends greatly on where you are in the Grovelands. Each municipality, tribe and hamlet is unique and holds absolute authority on how they wish to deal with the subject of justice. Of course as in most societies, fairness is universally sought out in each case.
The process of determining guilt is as varied as the people of the Grovelands but the most common and easiest process is to prove someone’s guilt to a judicial figure -- be it a mayor, an actual judge, an elder, or religious leader. Some cities such as Souton actually use a jury of locals to determine guilt, while other places, such as Attleboro, uses a single judge elected from the town’s elders.
Punishment is varied as well, with richer cities using jailhouses to hold minor convicts and drunks for a few days, or simply fining them -- but the most common punishment for major crimes is exile or banishment from the settlement and sometimes the entirety of the Grovelands. The choice is most often up to the judicial figure or municipality law and although rare, the most heinous of crimes have at times been met with fatal mob justice.
The Leviathan
The very mention of its name brings fear to the south shore sailors. The fortunate truth of the beast is that it is more often mentioned than ever seen, but when it is, it is said to be like the ocean itself had opened its maw to swallow entire ships whole. No one is quite sure where the Leviathan came from, or if there is more than one -- but at least one terrorizes the southern reaches of the Groveland coast and beyond.
While most encounters are anecdotal, the common theme is a surprise surfacing followed by a crashing mouth fitted with countless teeth reaching in rows that ring even down the throat. It’s skin is said to be pale like the ocean on a still day, making it that much harder to comprehend when it breaks out of a mound of waves with lifeless black eyes the size of carriages.
If the Grovelands could be summarized in one word it would be ‘simple.’ This holds true for the government present in the Grovelands as well, and is even reflected in the very name of the region. In being called the Grovelands it is showing an assumption that the region is tied together by a consistent geographical feature rather than a polity, and this is a true assumption -- as there is no central or overarching government in control of the Grovelands or its people.
In place of a centralized or even decentralized government, the Grovelands is a smattering of collectives formed in familial orchards, intrafamilial hamlets, towns and even small mayoral cities. Each entity performs its own governance, with the Grovelander culture holding everything together rather than politics or law.
Despite this very loose feeling organization, the Grovelanders do feel loyalty not to a nation, but to themselves and their way of life -- banding together to fend off raids, marauders, pillaging or conquering kingdoms and other things that may interfere with their free commonwealths.
The Grovelanders themselves are considered relatively open minded should it not interfere with their daily lives but tend not to get involved with things beyond their cultural border, aside from the spare intrepid adventurer.
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Geography
Unsurprisingly, the Grovelands is renown for its thick twisted forests of oak, pine, beech, birch and maple as well as many open groves. It is rather hilly, however, and when digging deep the soil is considered rocky. Because of this, apple orchards and other hardy plants are grown in the suboptimal soils, giving Grovelanders their nickname “Applekin.”The hilly forests and groves aside, the Grovelands is also home to many fens and swamps, often at the base of a wooded hill or shady grove. In the west, a gentle shore hugs the Grovelands, making sea travel into and out of the Grovelands easy.
The further East one goes in the Grovelands, the thicker the forests gets, until they in turn reach the borders of Beyonder itself. This proximity gives the Groveland forests a certain mystical and mysterious shade that bejewels Grovelander folk stories with strange happenings, unheard of beasts and magics, as well as other imaginative fables.
The Grovelands itself is in a northern temperate zone, and as such experiences a short but warm summer, a long and beautiful autumn, a snowy winter, and soggy spring. The colors in the autumn are so famous that their oranges and blazing reds that contrast twisted black trunks are often painted by explorers and are easily sold in markets elsewhere.
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Notable Locations
Souton
Salty waves and cobblestone streets describes the squat city of Souton. Run by an elected mayor, Souton is one of the favored ports in the Grovelands and is renowned around Western Yzaille as the safest port to resupply in while on a passage north as well as one of the best places to get Grovelander goods.
Its road system is considered a nightmare by most, with the buildings having been built rashly close to one another in non uniform patterns and styles. Souton is a melting pot of seafaring cultures that dominate the western coasts of Yzaille and as such it resembles the many groups of people that call it home -- giving it a mosaic look.
Considered the largest municipality in the Grovelands, it is also famed for its cuisine -- having blended a mixture of local favorites with the signature dishes of nations far beyond the groves.
While large, squished, and a pattern of many, crime is relatively low. The locals are considered tough, sensibly rowdy, and able to defend themselves easily, and that coupled with a dedicated street and port watch makes most criminals think twice before starting trouble.
Due to the possibility of sea raids past, present and future -- Souton is also one of the few places in the Grovelands that boasts an actual standing military. The small yet expert force is paid for by the locals, and serves as a further deterrent against deviant behavior from near and afar.
Bedford
Similar to Souton and positioned more to the south (and away from raids), Bedford is on par if not ahead of Souton as the Grovelands largest fishing community. Being so embedded in its fishing culture, scrimshaw can be seen on almost every window among the cobblestone streets and squished buildings. Tales of sea beasts, vindictive whalers, and other salty yarns spill through the drinking shacks and parlors.
A favored dish of the Bedford residents, and one that has spread far and wide (although contended where it began) is a healthy plate of breaded white fish and roasted potatoes, sometimes served with lemons traded in from the southern kingdoms and duchies or pickled cucumbers minced in a mayonnaise.
Worcester
Worchester is the largest inland municipality in the Grovelands. It’s central position in the grovelands make it an excellent stop for anyone passing through or for local farmers looking to sell their goods. Unlike most settlements in the Grovelands, Worchester boasts a wall and is divided in half by the Millville river. The Millville is slow moving at the surface but quickens as you go deeper, making it perfect for powering mills for grain and other threshing needs.
The Millville river was named after the small upriver hamlet where legendary figure John Dover was supposedly born. The folkhero Dover is accredited with creating the river when he had beat his opponent in a rock skipping match for the hand of his bride. He was said to have been so incredibly strong that he had skipped a boulder that ripped through the land and turned the lake into the contemporary river.
The legend goes on to suggest that Dover in his old age founded the western half of Worchester and his old opponent founded the eastern half.. The two halves eventually coming together as one Worchester. A small, sibling rivalry still remains between the two halves, but it is relatively harmless and more of a sense of pride.
Attleborough
While it doesn’t boast the melting pot style of Souton, or the markets of Worchester -- the smaller town of Attleboro is important in that it is one of the southernmost settlements.
Deeply set in the swampy south and pushed between bogs full of cranberries, sunny pumpkin patches, and hilly apple groves, Attleborough is a quiet and simple place -- serving almost as the tiny gate to the rest of the Grovelands. The only true reasons anyone goes to Attleborough is for family, or to try their famous cranberry breads and pastries.
Being set in the eastern corner of the south, Attleborough also boasts an eerie cemetery land -- said to be haunted by the forces of Beyonder. Most notably is a tiny stone hut that has sat on its ancient foundations longer than anyone can remember.
Ashton
Souton isn’t the only settlement full of different peoples, and Ashton is a monument to this. Settled by seafaring [Sigmoo bug peeps] peoples, Ashton is a small home away from home for the [blank] culture -- now mixed with the pleasantries of Grovelander tradition.
It is located west of Worchester but inland of the western coast. [details wip]
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Culture
In one word, Grovelander culture can be described as quaint. While it is true that the Grovelanders are considered tough, direct, swear-ready, defiant, and harbor a take-no-funny-business attitude; their rough and tumble vocabulary, accent and outlook is just a symptom of their accepted way of life. Embracing their relatively peaceful and free way of life means that to ensure their warm and cozy living remains such a way, that they have to adopt a level of roughness needed to keep it as such. They question authority and social "set in stones" freely, never fold (be it bravery, patriotism or arrogance) to external pressures, and are always ready to defend their homes and ways.
This is not to say that the Grovelanders are a very serious and stern people, as humor and comedy is not only a social goldmine among them, but a respected and enjoyed art. Because of this, Grovelanders are both intimidating in a sense that they could be in an obligatory brawl one moment, while wisecracking the next with the very same people they were just fighting with.
Other than humor and a sense of toughness, the Grovelanders respect families and familial loyalty, be it with your actual family or a close knit group of friends which serve as your adopted family in a sense. Those you care about and enjoy being with are some of the first priorities in Grovelander culture, a symptom of their way of their close living and free way of life. This sense of companionship often extends down to the many pets of the Grovelands, often taking the appearance of a loyal cat or dog.
The last two things every Grovelander respects is the Grovelands themselves, and its cuisine. The quickest way to upset a Grovelander is to insult or destroy the Grovelands in an unnecessary fashion, but the quickest way to please a Grovelander is with good food.
Key ingredients to every Grovelander’s feast include various seafoods, butters, cheeses, potatoes, yams, cranberries (and jellies), beef, chicken, hazelnuts, turkey, venison, moose, garlic, onions, corn, pumpkin, maple, tomato, bell peppers, wild rice, spinach, green beans, peas, cabbage, carrots, oats, apples, ciders, and an assortment of breads, whiskies, bourbons, beers and pastries. Some common dishes include shepherd's pie, meat pie, steamed clams, baked fish, and an assortment of maple desserts. While not eaten, tobacco is also a regularly enjoyed crop.
As assumed, maple plays as vital a role in Grovelander culture as their other signature foods. During the height of winter, maple season begins -- and as such, festivals and large communal feasts follow the labor intensive work of turning the maple sap into syrup and sugar. Communities gather together for the large boiling fires and moving of barrels, just to reap the tasty rewards as crafty elders put forth their most creative maple dishes.
Other important seasons include the harvest season of autumn, and following the last harvest of the season is the traditional harvest feast. Usually centered around the fattest hunted poultry of the season (usually a turkey), the community comes together to put forth the best of their season in one large cornucopia feast. It is unheard of for cranberries and pumpkins to not grace the feasting table, being as integral to the tradition as the bird.
In the morning the Grovelanders usually sit down for a breakfast consisting of eggs, bread and a slice of meat (usually bacon or sausage), this can be washed down with chilled milk. Lunch is usually a simple meal full of vegetables and proteins to keep the Grovelanders working strong -- this could be a salad or seafood tossed with cabbage. Finally supper comes last and is usually a quiet affair (outside of feasts) done with close friends or family. Here the Grovelanders take their time and put forth their best dishes and desserts. Since suppers come earlier in the day (around 5), Grovelanders may have a snack before bed -- usually leftovers or a pastry over hot cider (spiced with imported Cinnamon if they can afford it). During this post-supper time, Grovelanders enjoy their many hobbies such as playing instruments -- often acoustic or stringed instrument -- for their close ones, whittling/carving, sports, singing, story telling (and sea yarns), and in the cities: watching theatre or drinking at a local bar.
Due to the many seasons of the Grovelands, the Grovelanders have an array of usual outfits to wear, from billowy buttoned/toggled shirts over rolled up trousers and shoes in the summer -- to fur or wool lined heavy coats in the winter. Most outfits are considered fit for either man or woman to wear -- with little regard for any gender role, and so it is common for men and women to wear the same form of outfits in the Grovelands. One such popular outfit in the Autumn is heavy pants with boots strapped over, with woolen socks and shirt, and maybe a long Autumn colored cloak over the whole ensemble. While there is no one way to do facial hair, Men’s hair tends to be cut short -- but even then, with the medley of hair and skin tones that make up the Grovelands, such uniformity in length is outdone by the variety of hair possible.
When discussing community, it is also important to discuss the family structure of the Grovelanders. As mentioned previously, Grovelanders have a deep respect for both familial ties and friendship, making their families as liquid as they are solid. Bringing friends into close family events is normal for Grovelanders, and as tight knit they hold their direct family, they are also independent enough to often find themselves making their own families or lifestyles at young ages (usually by their late teens and early twenties). It is usually unheard of for a Grovelander to stick around their parents home past adulthood without a good reason such as being a help for a farm, business, or medical/emotional trouble; the former two being the most common in rural boroughs and hamlets.
Other than this sense of independence yet respect in regards to family, social rules and cues regarding families are as varied family to family as the many personalities of the Grovelanders is. In the spirit of this variety, humans are not the only race that can call themselves Grovelanders (though often they are), as a sizable goblin population also shares the groves with the humans.
Goblins of the Grovelands
Much like the other goblins populations of Eae't, the goblins of the Grovelands prefer to separate themselves from the other races. Their usually deep self segmentation from the other races, however, does not run as deep in the Grovelands as it does elsewhere. The traditional goblin philosophy is the disregard and abandonment of the technical progress of civilization and to shun the large civilizations built by the other races in favor of a simpler more traditional living in union with the spirits of nature. This is often mistaken by the other races as a sign of stupidity, savagery or primitive living -- these assumptions not helped by the goblins’ stubborn nature against correcting or conversing with outsiders.
However, these stereotypes do not hold completely true in the Grovelands. Oddly enough and in spite of the Grovelanders harsh and straightforward honesty and way of talking, the Grovelands are a surprisingly open minded people, and in giving the goblins that level of respect, the goblins reciprocated. They lowered their defenses enough for the two peoples to coexist happily and converse in the grovelands -- with the humans living in their boroughs and the goblins in their discrete tribal locations.
Trade is common between the two camps, and while there are territorial disputes between the two at times, their coexistence is relatively peaceful. This level of cooperation with goblins is rare, and as such, the goblins would rather keep what partnership they have garnered with the human Grovelanders and in turn usually appear to aid the Grovelanders when outside change is threatening to disrupt this balance.
Other than that, the goblin Grovelanders also hold a deep respect for the grovelands, as well as their own sense of humor -- which can be found rigid or dry in their stark and serious goblin Grovelander demeanour. Unlike their human counterparts, the goblin Grovelanders utilize shamanism -- and while they respect the human religions, they harbor their own shamanistic religion based around the direct worship of the nature spirits. This pan-goblinic religion steeped in harmless rituals and deep respect for nature, the ancestors, and the spirits is called many things depending on the tribe and location. The common name in the Grovelands is simply “The Shaman’s Path.”
The Goblins themselves rely less on harvest and farming than the humans, but instead hold a tradition of hunting in the thickest parts of the woods -- isolated from passerby. Their sacred hunting bows are used to take down the many deer, turkey’s and moose of the Grovelands. What farming is done is done in spotty segments of the forest, where shafts of light break through the canopies.
Their respect for the forests goes in so far as they refuse to harm the trees of the land, opting to only use fallen branches and logs for their unique settlements. Because of this unique outlook on wood-use, their tools tend to be fire hardened and their buildings take the form of stretched hide and canvas rather than logs.
These yurts can be so large as to have different smaller yurts stuffed inside, or have a shawl wrapped around a ring of tiny yurts as to protect from wind and snow. Added to this, the goblins tend to decorate their yurts with colorful paintings of their communities past, present and future.
Leading these colorful settlements is the elder of each clan, along with their shaman. It is a rare sight for one of these elders or shamans to make their way into a Grovelander city, but not uncommon for them to have contact with smaller hamlets and farmsteads near their clan’s homes.
Military
Being denizens of an uncentralized cultural land, there is no official military force that blankets the Grovelands, nor is there any official levy. The defense of the Grovelands falls squarely on the desire for the locals to keep their land the way it is, and as such, in times of trouble, the people of both human and goblin territories rise to its defense.
The military can be split into two camps -- goblin warriors, and human militia. Some goblin tribal warriors have plenty of seasoned practice in the art of small skirmishes and wars from experiences of violent troubles between disagreeing tribes or territory disputes, and as such are well trained in their instruments of violence.
The goblin warriors are armed with a vast array of possibilities, from hammering clubs of wood and metal, to the ever present spear and javelin (preferring retrievable throwables to bows). Their hide shields are often painted with visceral colors, and their bodies tend to match. Flexible and thick clothing or hide can be used for armor, but their true edge lies in their ‘no hesitation’ tactic of fighting, making them fierce, fearless and extremely aggressive warriors -- able to strike where most would hesitate. They are unpredictable and extremely dangerous ambushers, often choosing the battlefield through expert tactics, deception and baiting.
The humans similarly may be well trained in their particular weapons of choice, or even violence itself -- the life of a hunter, or a farmer defending their stake from raiders and ne'er do wells providing ample opportunity to learn self defense and offense. This coupled with the trained police force of some of the cities and the fisticuff happy bar nights, the humans of the grovelands are not as naive in the art of violence as one would expect at first sight.
Complementing the goblin’s own fighting style, the people of the Grovelands are expert ambushers -- able to use their vast hunting knowledge and puzzling terrain of the thick forests and sudden groves to their advantage against foreign troops. Bows, axes and even swords find their way to the hands of the Grovelanders, using these personal weapons to better maneuver in the tight quarters of the forests and breaking up any uniform enemy. Maneuverable shields of banded wood are popular, as are strong nasal helmets. Body armor tends to be padded cloth between thick quilts, or mail between two quilts -- whatever keeps their body safe without making them too large or heavy to make their way through the forests and fens.
Despite the Groveland’s ability to field a large amount of belligerents, as each family has something to lose in the event of an invasion, the Grovelanders both human and goblin avoid large open battles -- sticking to the tactical use of their dense forests, swamps and hilly environments to ensure the victory. Traps, ambushes, and unexpected angles matched with the fierce tenacity and defiance of the denizens is what wins them their battles.
As far as their coast and naval engagements are concerned, without a centralized military or government, naval engagements are rare despite their mass of boats. Only when a major threat is imminent and a navy is truly required is when the Grovelanders attempt to join the municipalities and port towns into a militia fleet. Such a fleet focuses on using the Grovelander hooks and harpoons to link themselves with enemy boats, turning each ship into a tiny battlefield where they can unleash their aforementioned tenacity.
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Legends and Other Notables
Goblin Physiology
For clarity on a Goblin and what a Goblin looks like: a Goblin stands on average around four feet tall, have sharp facial features, a lack of facial hair, black hair, long sharp ears, brown to reddish eyes, and pale green skin. They can be fit, fat, skinny, muscular same as any human.
Cloudlings
Cloudlings are strange cotton ball sized and shaped animals. They are made entirely of a cloud-like material and are known to be extremely gregarious, even imprinting themselves on Grovelanders -- especially the more adventurous and fun. Their ecological role is one of a pollinator, as they saturate their tiny bodies in sugars at every available opportunity -- pollinating flowers in the process. With the introduction of civilization, however, cloudlings are a renown pest as well as pet -- often getting into liquor stores and wine cellars, where they saturate themselves to the point of asexual reproduction in a form similar to mitosis. Many cloudling swarms have been made from a carelessly left open basement door giving a thirsty cloudling clearance to high spirits.
The cloudlings communicate through tiny “zzt”s, pops and crackles, being able to discharge tiny bits of static electricity. They often bumble into each other in the wild, creating tiny droplets of rain or harmless discharges of static. They don’t have much in the ways of defense, as they have no natural predators and are very hard to destroy. Their true lifespan is unknown, in no short part due to their similar appearances among themselves and random spurts of clone-like reproduction. Personality wise, these social pollinators tend to be not only gregarious but suffer from animalistic gluttony, bold ego, and often aggressive defense of those they are imprinted upon with little regard for their own safety. More than once there have been stories of tiny cloudlings saving a favored child from a stray dog or coyote by giving the attacker a shocking zap up the nose.
Cloudlings prefer colonizing inland areas with plenty of vegetation and that aren't too dry, barren, or hot.
Daffotales
Daffotales are an extraordinarily rare and unique species of daffodils -- if they are even related. These flowers usually grow alone deep in the forests, rooted where shafts of bright light spear through the canopy. They wiggle when approached, as if dancing -- and then proceed to either retell a story they were told/overheard, or fancifully tell the story of something they had witnessed. Some daffotales are extremely gregarious and will spill every story they can think of without regard for privacy, while others demand a story in return for their own -- a way to expand their repertoire.
How they came about is heavily rumored. The goblins claim they are the souls of lost children who had disrespected the most sacred parts of the groves and put into the ground by punishing nature spirits. This explanation sometimes includes adults, while Grovelanders themselves sometimes claim that they are the souls of stillborn children that had been buried in the forest -- or sometimes even the victims of starvation.
The Seer of Yarmouth
Hidden in the rocky islands of the north is said to be an aging seer. The seer is said to be able to tell you how you are to die and can be identified by the layers of goats wool and rattling jewelry that they wear. Their precise location is unknown, but rumor has it that during misty low tides, you can hear the oracle herd bleating goats on near the islands of Yarmouth.
Using this method of search along with the help of northern shore locals, Rachel Piper was said to have made the journey to the seer when she was a young teenager. Whatever happened at the home of the seer, if it was found or not, changed her forever -- turning her into the brave, fearless adventurer that common legends know her as. Most assume that she clearly found out how she was to die, and knowing when it wasn’t to happen -- rushed forward into danger without any regard for it.
The Gurken
No one is quite sure how the Gurken got their name, with it being an old word for ‘Cucumber,’ but it stuck. Despite the mundane name, the Gurken are revered not only in the Grovelands, but across Eae't as enigmatic and legendary envoys of whatever forest they are found in.
They are shy and quiet, going so far as to wear a wooden mask over their faces at all times. Their bodies are short (roughly 3-4 feet high) and completely made out of soil and moss, with strong wood acting as bones. Sometimes small plants grow on their soil covered bodies, giving them the look of a floral mosaic. Many naturalistic religions harbor them as sacred, or even outright worship them as the physical representation of a nature spirit. Sometimes decades will go by between sightings of a Gurk, but spotting one is always considered good luck, especially in times of need.
Despite their mythical reputation, the Gurken are also very childlike in their mannerisms, being naive or curious -- often sighting stories recall them playing with wild forest creatures and admiring plants. In legend, ancient dryads often refer to them as children of the forest, and when one goes questing -- it invokes the image of a young, child adventurer on a noble journey of great importance, an occasion rarer than a Gurk itself. In common fables, Cloudlings are rumored to be good friends of the Gurken, so many artists depicting a questing Gurk with wooden (and almost toy like) sword and shield almost always have a cloudling by their shoulder.
The clearing in the jungle was now neatly paved with stone. A proud Orb stood atop the stone foundation, a large hole that lead right to the jungle bedrock beside it. It had taken a while, being limited to percussive and abrasive methods of removing the blocks of stone, but it had been done. Orb looked over to where they kept their pile of stuff and grinned, happy to have the wind play on their bare face while they worked. Building was one of the few things that kept their bad thoughts at bay.
“Shrub!” They called out, “I think the foundation is completed, what do you think?”
Shrub had been laying down on the newly made stone tiles, soaking up the warmth reflected by the material and bathing in the sun that fell incessantly onto their forms. She turned her head lazily toward Orb’s direction and stretched a hand towards her friend, squeezing at the air before letting her arm drift back down.
Orb smiled, “I think so too,” She filled in before looking out, “Do you think we should have the sides be smooth slopes or jagged steps?”
’Owb.’ Mouthed Shrub in response, suddenly jumping up to her feet and running over to Orb’s side to pet her friend’s head.
Orb scrunched under the barrage of petting and grinned, “I need to teach you more words.”
’Owb I Owb you Owb Owb… Ow… O…. Or-b. Rr. Rrrrrr.’ Shrub pouted and hugged Orb.
Orb squirmed as Shrub grazed two bumps on Orb’s ribs and then returned the hug for a brief second before pulling away, “Stone.” Orb said slowly, picking up a rock and handing it to Shrub, who immediately brought it up to her face and gave it a kiss. Following that, Shrub put her free hand on top of Orb’s mouth and nodded.
“Stone,” Orb said into Shrub’s hand, “S-T-O-N-E.”
’Stone?’
“Yes!” Orb said into her hand.
’Yestone!’
“No, just stone!” Orb tried to correct.
Shrub threw the stone over her shoulder and pressed her finger gently against Orb’s forehead. ’Orb Shrub I No You Stone Yestone No, just stone. Just Stone. Just Stone. Ooooowbbbbbuuuu.’
After a while of staring at Orb, Shrub picked up the baby griffin from the makeshift nest they’d made it, and held it up to Orb. ’Stone.
“Infant,” Orb corrected, holding up a finger. They squatted to pick up a rock and popped back to their feet, presenting it, “Stone.”
’Infant.’ Shrub frowned and pointed at Orb, ’Orb,’ Then at herself, ’Shrub,’ And finally at the baby griffin, whose feathers had begun to grow sizable, ’Infant. Infant…. Are? Stone.’
“No, no, Infants are premature models of an adult form,” Orb corrected with a rasp.
Orb then noticed something in the corner of their vision. At some point in the conversation, an unusual bird had landed on the edge of the stone paving - one they had never seen before. Perhaps two feet in height, with brown and red feathers, and a beak that was an unusual shade of yellow. It observed them silently.
Shrub turned her head sharply and sniffed the air, then looked in the direction of the strange bird, who smelled like a more refined and soft version of a Griffin, and her leaves began quivering.
Suddenly the plant wrapped her arms around one of Orb's and looked up into her friend's eyes with wide, starry ones of her own. 'Owb Orb!!'
Orb followed Shrubs cues and patted her -- rather stiffly -- on the head, "It's a bird." Orb said matter-of-factly, "Likely a local species designed to hunt larger prey items."
No, a voice echoed in their minds. I’m unique.
Shrub's leaves stood on end. She looked like a very lush cactus. In her mind's eye, she merely saw images representing the bird's message. And she saw a very weird leaf she'd never seen before. She wanted to lick it but she was also afraid it would be poisonous. So she erred on the side of naivety and crouched down, beginning to crawl slowly towards the bird, so as to not scare its gentle heart.
Orb seemed confused for a brief moment, only to be snapped out of their awe by their companions sudden crawl. They quickly caught up to Shrub and knelt by them -- ultimately scooching to keep up with the plant. They took Shrub's hand and put it over their mouth "What are you doing?"
’What are you doing?’ Shrub replied, then licked Orb’s cheek summoning an eye roll, ’Orb.’
Orb let Shrub's hand go and stood back up. Dusting their cloak off and turning their face away from the bird, they spoke out loud, "What is your designation?" Orb rasped, moving away from the scene and towards their discarded pack.
[color=brown]Arryn, Avatar of Kalmar, the God of the Hunt, Arryn replied. He looked to Shrub. You smell of Li’Kalla, he said within both of their minds, and then turned to Orb. You smell of Orvus, K’nell, and… the bird paused. Something in his eyes seemed to darken. Narzhak. Explain yourselves.
"It isn't polite to discuss another being's odors," Orb replied as they rummaged through their pack before extracting their pale blank mask. Securing it over their face and slipping their hood back over their feathers, they turned back to Arryn, "We are here to build." A certain anxiety seemed to worm out of the back of Orb's mind as they reapproached Shrub and stepped directly in front of her, "That's all."
Shrub looked up at Orb her leaves freezing and coming back down to rest against her head. She quickly stood up and looked back, seeing the blurry figure of the waddling baby griffin a few steps back. Curiously, she pointed at the baby and then at Arryn with an adoring grin on her face.
Why do you have a griffin? Arryn asked her.
A bunch of seemingly endless blurry images, scents and sensations flooded into Shrub’s brain, depicting her journey from the Endless Tree to Kalgrun through involuntary Griffin air traffic, and how she borrowed a newly hatched griffin from a nest because it was clinging to her and she liked feeling its tiny heartbeat whenever she hugged it. Outwardly, Shrub tilted her head and stole a few glances at Orb’s hood-covered head.
And you, Arryn asked Orb, Why are you here?
“To build,” Orb answered, “That really is it.” Their voice was as sad as it was stern, immediately making Shrub hold their hand and look up at their masked face in concern, having felt the strange vibrations coming from the tone of Orb’s voice. “We aren’t looking for help or trouble.”
Yet you come bearing the scent of two gods that have caused trouble for my master and his creations in the past, Arryn countered.
“I apologize,” Orb held their head up to look at the bird through their mask, “But I do not originate from either of those gods, nor do I possess any tasks to be processed in their directive. I am Orb, this is Shrub, we are here to build, and that is all there is to it. If our presence in this location is not preferred, we can relocate...”
You do not originate from them, but you have encountered them - whether you know it or not, Arryn insisted. His gaze shifted over to where Orb’s supplies were piled. He swiftly flew over, landing on the metallic cage. I was mistaken, the bird suddenly realized. Narzhak’s scent comes not from you, but from this. Where did you get it?
“Same as I encountered you,” Orb insisted back before looking over at the cage and freezing momentarily, “That-- that is a very bad object.” Twisting anxiety leaked out of their heart, “Given to us- me before... it is a very bad object.” Orb stuttered, “It is best just to leave it alone.”
It is best that you tell me what it does, Arryn pressed. I can see inside your mind if necessary, so there is no point in hiding the truth.
“It requires the consumption of a species member to work,” Orb tapped their fingers together, stomach twisting as their mind replayed horrible images from the beach, “What it does after that has never been tested, and... won’t ever be.” They looked away, heart dropping as they found Shrub’s face, “Can we discuss a new topic?”
Disgusting, Arryn commented. How did you get it?
“I really don’t wish to converse on the matter,” Orb felt a heat form behind their eyes, a wobble in their chin.
Suddenly, Orb felt a presence invade their mind, and images begin to flash before their eyes: within a few seconds they relived the events of that day - Narzhak’s messengers, the ‘sacrifice’, the ‘gift’, Tiben’s death. Then the presence left, and it was over.
Orb’s face was a shade of red, silent tears dripping off from behind the mask as they stood violated. Shrub looked helplessly at Orb and felt her own eyes tear up. In the end she wasn’t able to do anything but hug her friend close. Instead of squirming away like they usually did, Orb just seemed to stand there and accepted the hug, silent as ever.
Arryn did not - or pretended not to - notice their discomfort. It is admirable that you and your friend turned down Narzhak’s offer. It is also admirable that you persisted despite his death. It seems I misjudged you. Then he paused, and after a moment, spoke again. I will offer you my aid.
“I...” Orb began, squeezing the raspy words through a tear, “You all... just take what you want from me whenever you want it.” Orb fell to the ground, landing on their behind, “Here... there... everywhere.” Orb pulled their legs up to their chest, turning their whole body into a lump of cloak.
Shrub fell along with Orb and twisted and turned her body so there was as much contact as possible against Orb. She tried to get Orb to lay down on the floor and cuddle up to her while waving dismissively at Arryn.
“I just want to build,” Orb said almost silently, “I didn’t want help, I didn’t want trouble, I said that this time...”
I was trying to make sure something like what happened to you would not happen here, Arryn explained. You are not the first of Narzhak’s victims. Now that I know what the threat is, I can remove it. I will take the artifact away, and I will trouble you no more.
“Destroy it,” Orb said without looking up at the bird.
I will try, the bird nodded, But a lot of power was used to make it. If I can’t destroy it, then I will ensure it won’t be used.
“Observe the material it is constructed out of and unbind it,” Orb instructed simply, their raspy voice on old, cold tears now -- a methodical tone returning to their words, “That’s what I was intending to do.”
Divine constructs are not so easily unmade, Arryn explained.
“You’re conversing with a divine construct,” Orb countered softly, “They can be dismantled.”
Anything can be dismantled. That does not mean it will be easy, or that it is within my power. Some things are harder to destroy than others. The power used to make you is nothing compared to what was used to craft this. But as I said, I will try.
“I understand relativity,” Orb finally looked up at the bird, “I also understand that I will in fact destroy it if it remains in my custody, can you not offer me the same guarantee?”
I cannot, but neither can you, so don’t lie to me, Arryn stated firmly. [color=brown][i]Even if you have all the time in the world, and even if there is a way for you to destroy it on your own, you may lose it, or you may die. Any fool can bash your head in with a rock and take it from you, or Narzhak himself might try to reclaim it.”[/color]
“And what about you?” Orb asked with a hollow voice, “Are you going to just take it from me?”
This is about more than just you. If you lose it, then what you seek to prevent may happen anyway, and other creatures will suffer for it. I will take it, but I will give you something in return. And unlike Narzhak, it will not demand a terrible price.
Orb went silent and looked at Shrub for a moment, they seemed at a loss for words. Their hand sneaked behind their mask to wipe their face in silence. Shrub frowned and turned her head slightly to give Arryn a sideways glance, then rolled her eyes and waved her hand again, dismissing the bird before turning back to comforting Orb. The cloaked figure shifted, allowing the comforting while facing away from Arryn, heart pounding in their chest.
You do not realize it, Arryn continued, But both of you are in danger.
“I know,” Orb rasped quietly, “I am very scared.”
The Griffin you took, Arryn looked to Shrub, has a mother. By now that mother will have returned to the nest to find the hatchling gone, and is likely searching for it as we speak. It will kill you, and it will take the hatchling back… but the hatchling has already accepted you as its mother. Do you understand the problem?
“Are you going to hurt us?” Orb looked at Arryn, nearly blurting the words.
Why would I do that? Arryn asked. No, I won’t. But I can help you, if you want. In exchange for taking this item from you, I can give you a blessing which will make it harder for the predators of this land to track you. It will not guarantee your safety, but it will prevent the mother griffin from finding you, and you will be less likely to encounter danger.
Shrub huffed silently and nuzzled her face into Orb’s cloak. “You should know why; you tore into my mind,” Orb answered.
I saw only what I needed to see, and I looked no further, Arryn countered. The rest of your secrets are still yours. Now I am offering you my protection, and this will come at no cost beyond what I have already asked.
Orb looked at shrub as if asking for her opinion. Shrub looked up at Orb’s mask and pursed her lips, then gave a half-hearted shrug and a nod.
“Agreeable,” Orb surrendered.
Arryn outstretched his wings, and a light breeze briefly passed over them, but there was no significant change. It is done, the bird declared. I will leave now. But first, I will give you some more information, he pointed a wing north. If you head in that direction, you will eventually find a species of mortals which have similar intelligence to yourself. If you learn to communicate with them, you may be able to find a place there. If you would rather live in isolation, you can remain here, or pick a different direction. And with those words, Arryn wrapped his talons along the much larger Goregrasp, and took flight, leaving the two behind.
Orb stayed in silence for a while longer. Eventually their glove hand reached up to their hood, ripping it off their head. Taking their mask on the other hand, they tossed it -- the solid frame smashing and skidding across the stone. Their face was downcast and filled with a mix of sadness, anger and nauseous relief. Shrub barely gave Orb a second before her hands found their way to Orb's face and she began to feel around, very efficiently beginning to replicate her friend's expression, then trying to sculpt Orb's face into a smile, getting a tiny grin.
Orb built a foundation and has been having fun with Shrub, the interaction keeping them from dwelling too much on the horrific death they witnessed and the guilt that consumes their soul. Arryn shows up and forces Orb to relive these experiences anyways and then proceeds to be brick headed about it while Orb cries and is genuinely trying to get him to go away without him stealing from them or hurting them. It does not work and eventually Arryn takes what he wants (Goregrip), tells them where to find elves, gives them a blessing and leaves.
Orb then sits in silence, replaying the fact that they were just violated yet again by a deific presence.
Kalmar -1MP and 1FP to found a holy order “Team Awesome” (better name pending), consisting of Orb, Shrub, and Baby Griffin. -1MP (discounted to 0 via hunting portfolio) to bless Team Awesome so that wild animals will have a harder time smelling them or noticing their tracks.
Her voice was like a grind and a screech all rolled up into one. Urangtai winced, the metallic voice bouncing around his head and rattling his brain. He clenched his fist, “What!?” He snapped.
Zhong Meiyun, a slim woman was dark Xiaolian hair and a silver speckled nose, looked surprised at the sudden outburst. The two were standing in the street, a half eaten square of sweetgrass powdered flatbread in Urangtai’s hand and a basket of hot seconds and thirds in Li Meiyun’s. The woman cautioned a glance over Urangtai’s clearly irritated face, “I was just wondering if you liked my sweetbread?” She gave a weak smile.
“Oh,” Urangtai tried to concentrate through her scraping voice. In truth, he had always enjoyed Meiyun’s food as well as her soft voice -- this was all new to him and in truth, the sweetbread was awful. It tasted rotten and smelt none too good either. Urangtai seemed to teetar for a moment, “Well...”
Meiyun cocked her head and Urangtai cleared his throat, “You’ve made better.”
The woman’s eyes squinted and she huffed a breath, slapping the half eaten bread from Urangtai’s hands, “I don’t know what is with you today, but if you’re trying to hurt my--”
Urangtai seemed to flinch deeply under the assault of her ringing voice, a pained expression forming across his face, “Could you please stop talking?”
SLAP!
A wide eyed and furious Meiyun held her hand up, a red mark forming on Urangtai’s cheek. Her jaw was hanging in shock and hurt, she looked as if she was about to say something but instead clenched her jaw closed. She expelled a hot breath through her nose and stomped off, not granting Urangtai another glance. A single word hissed from under her breath as she turned the corner out of sight.
“Jerk.”
A lead ball fell in Urangtai’s stomach. Today had been a strange day, and now with an angry Meiyun added to it, he was ready to call it the worst day of his life. First he woke up with a twist in his stomach, as if his body was warning him about today -- then he was nearly sacked after snapping at his boss, a strong woman married to none other than Batbayaar. For some reason her voice just irritated him beyond belief today, a trait he was surprised to find repeating itself with every woman he had met that day -- even Meiyun’s.
He swore under his breath, he had never seen Meiyun so angry, and the worst bit was he couldn’t help but still feel irritated at her voice. He knew he didn’t have the place or the right, but there it was -- her screech just seemed to linger in his skull, same with all the others. A throb formed in the front of his head, a headache. It was as if he spent the whole night drinking, and it was getting under his skin.
His whole day was awry now. There was no walking Meiyun back to her place from the palace as he did every Li’s day, no helping Doctor Zhou by delivering her the herbs that grew alongside the fields, no helping set up and daydreaming about the smithies, nothing. He held his head, he was just glad his father wasn’t here -- he must look like a lazy slob. With dark ringed eyes, Urangtai decided it was probably for the best if he just went home to go to bed.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and slouched as he walked down the empty streets. There weren't many people out right now, there wasn’t many people in general with the city being many times larger than the population that filled it. Urangtai didn’t always mind, sometimes the quiet was nice, it let him think.
Pinching the bridge of his nose and sighed, he really messed up today. He groaned loudly, his eyes shut and his knuckles white as he pinched his nose as he thought through his mistakes of the day, “Snap!”
“What ails you?” A kind voice like silk suddenly asked. Urangtai froze and slowly let go of his face. Opening his eyes he was met with the red striped face of a stranger. The stranger was a man maybe ten years older than him, with an attractive smile and kind eyes.
“I’m sorry?” Urangtai stood up straight.
“You were just swearing,” The man let out a friendly chortle, “I just assumed...”
“I didn’t think anyone was around,” Urangtai defended.
“Me either,” The stranger leaned against the wall of an empty building, and squinted, “You... you’re Li’s grandson, right?”
“I am... who are you?”
“Huang,” The stranger grinned, “You grandfather taught me the morin khuur.”
“Really?”
“Yeah!” Huang stood up straight, “Where ya heading? I’ll walk with you.”
“Oh!” Urangtai barely got the word out before he found himself walking alongside Huang, the man looking up at the sky, in search of birds. Urangtai cleared his throat, “I was just heading home?”
“Home?” Huang looked back down at the young man, “So early? Did you hear about the little get together in the palace courtyard today, why don’t you come? You look like you could use it.”
“Oh... no that’s okay,” Urangtai shook his head, “I have to work the fields tomorrow, plus I’m already nursing this headache.”
“Headache, huh?” Huang clicked his tongue, “Well you know the best cure for a drinking headache is a little more drink.” He winked and gave Urangtai a playful tap on the shoulder.
“Well, no, it’s not from drinking.”
“Ah,” Huang made an embarrassed face for a split second, “I just assumed again, I’m not prone to headaches myself.”
“Neither am I, usually,” Urangtai head his head and Huang pinched their own chin.
“Well, what’s it like?” Huang suggested, “Did you hit your head?”
“No, nothing like that-- I just woke up with it-- well no I didn’t really wake up with it, it started at work when my boss started talking to me.”
“Ah, was he chewing you out?”
“She, and no not really. Just every word she said seemed to cause my head to reel.”
“She, huh,” Huang bit his finger.
“Yeah, she,” Urangtai turned to Huang, “Why?”
“Well,” Huang tilted his head back and forth, reluctant, “Just an old tale comes to mind is all.”
“Really?”
“Yeah but it’s just a tale,” Huang defended, “What you should really focus on is drinking water, I hear that helps with headaches, maybe some meat.” Huang bit his finger, “Ever drink milk from the teet of a Tree-Eater?”
“Ew, no.” Urangtai made a disgusted face, “You’re a strange man.”
“Maybe, but it works,” Huang wagged a finger, “Not that we have any around here.”
“True,” Urangtai stuffed his hands back in his pocket and silence fell upon the group again. Huang made an uncomfortable face and started to turn to a different direction as the road split.
“Well I gotta make that get together,” Huang started, “Feel better.”
“Wait,” Urangtai stopped and turned to Huang, “What was the tale, anyways?”
Huang hummed and raised his brow, “Oh, something about... now stay with me on this one, but they say that when the heart has made up its mind, everyone but the one who captured your heart just seems to be in the way. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why married men seem so irritated.” Huang shrugged as he backpedaled, “Doesn’t make much sense though, but then again what does.”
“What does,” Urangtai gave a single silent chuckle before shaking his head, “See you.”
With that he was all alone again, his head still throbbing as he walked. Hoping the fresh air would help, Urangtai decided to go a really roundabout way, only reaching his part of the city, perhaps an hour and a half later than expected. The roads in this part of the City of Dreams were wider, with more people hustling about -- it being so close to the palace. The new noise didn’t help much and before long Urangtai found himself holding his head with his eyes closed once more.
THUMP!
Urangtai’s eyes shot open, something warm and soft bouncing off of him. There on the ground in front of him was Song, the woman having fallen on her behind. Urangtai felt both a tinge of guilt for knocking her over as well as a thread of annoyance at bumping into her of all people.
Momentarily, Song’s face betrayed similar annoyance up until the point where she looked up and recognised her assailant. She giggled and smiled from ear to ear. “Oh, hey, boo!”
Urangtai froze, something was different. It was as if a great stake was removed from his skull, if but momentarily. Song’s voice came in crystal and clear, subsequently dispelling his throbbing pain if but for a second. He blinked, eyes narrowing around Song, too frozen to even think about helping her up, “W-what did you say?”
Song cocked her head on the side and furrowed her brow at the reaction, her smile weakening a little. “I, uh, I said ‘hey, boo’, heh-heh. Is… Is that weird? I’m sorry, I’m on the ground and everything and--”
There it was again, her voice parting the seas of pain that crashed upon his mind. He felt it was almost dramatic, but the results were worth exploring. Urangtai’s head seemed to lift off his shoulders, slightly more free from the weight of the day’s headache, “Sorry, I guess I wasn’t feeling very well.” He held out his hand.
Song’s heart skipped a beat and she slowly stretched out her hand to take it. Her face flushed a light pink, and as she was hoisted to her feet again, she shuffled them awkwardly. “W-well… If you’re sick, you should rest, y’know. Wou-... Would you like me to make you some soup?”
“N-” Urangtai stopped as he stared at Song’s anticipating face, her eyes seemed more concerned than wild (as they usually looked) and her voice was a cool ointment. He felt he was going to regret this but, “Yeah, sure... if you don’t mind.”
“Yeah… Yeah, no, I understand. Kinda weird for me to--” Song froze and then visibly recoiled in surprise. “Did you just say yes?”
“Only if you meant it,” Urangtai took a step back, his headache slowly ringing back in his head as he did. Song’s eyes darted around.
“U-uhm-- Of course, I did! It’s just you’ve--” She shuffled her feet and and poked her fingers together sheepishly. “You’ve never said yes before…”
“Oh,” Urangtai looked down, her voice pushing his headache away once more, “Never, huh? Really?” He felt a little bad, as if a snake of guilt was worming its way into his stomach.
Song quickly grabbed his hand and shook her head. “No-no-no! I didn’t mean it like that! It’s okay, really. You said yes, so all is forgiven.”
Urangtai felt a certain relief, maybe in more ways than one, “Well, if you don’t mind then?” He didn’t realize he was still holding her hand as he tugged towards his house. He opened the door and the two stepped inside, hands still linked together sweetly. Song’s face was still that hot shade of pink and in a quivering, uncharacteristically timid voice, she said, “You, uhm… How about you just lay down and, uhm… And I’ll just get cooking, hmm?”
Urangtai nodded, ushering himself to his bedroom, his hand almost reluctantly leaving Song’s.
Song gulped. Her heart was threatening to skip out of her chest and flutter to Heliopolis. Even as she reached for some dry scallions from a cabinet and some garlic. She prepared a cupful of oats and some water. She then lit a fire in the hearth and hung a clay pot over it. She filled the pot with water and sat staring awkwardly into the flames. Thoughts clogged her mind like thick sap. This -had- to be Yullian’s work. Something like this had never happened before and-- and what was she supposed to do? She had always asked - over and over and over again - and never once had he actually said hello.
Who could blame her for not actually planning for the next step?
Song timidly cut some garlic with a clay knife and shyly hummed to herself. “S-so… You, uhm… You come here often?”
"I- I live here," Urangtai's voice came from the room. There was rustling as if he was moving around.
“Oh! Heh! Right!” Song’s mouth flattened as she stared longingly at the knife in her hand. Snap her imagination. Another time passed. She asked, “Do yooouu liiiiike, uh, lots of garlic or not as much?”
Urangtai appeared in the doorway, the bags under his eyes seeming to have partially faded away. He pulled a chair out for himself and sat down, mere feet from Song, “I like it,” He answered.
Song pressed her lips together, the drumming in her heart rolling along uncontrollably. “S-so… Should I add, uh, a lot?”
Urangtai seemed to snap from a thought, “Oh, yes. Please.” he stammered, “Do you like garlic?”
“YEAH! I-I mean, uhm… Yeah, I suppose.” Another silence filled only by the dunk-dunk-dunk of the clay knife hitting the tabletop. “Urang, have you… N-no, never mind.”
The man flickered his eyes in confusion, “Have I what?”
“Nuh-nothing! It’s nothing, really. It’s stupid and dumb and stupid and oh God, I said stupid twice, and ugh! I cut the garlic too big, sorry, sorry, sorry!” She tried to aim her knife to properly part the already microscopic specks of garlic.
“Oh oh!” Urangtai’s eyes widened with worry, a hand reaching out to steady Song’s shoulder as she hastily chopped near her fingers, “You’ll cut yourself.”
“I--!” Song’s finger dodged the sharp blade as Urangtai’s hand clasped her shoulder. She blinked and turned around, staring into Urangtai’s eyes. Her lower lip quivered and her breathing flew in and out her mouth like bees around their hive. “H-how’re you feeling?”
Urangtai went to tell Song that he was actually feeling a little better, but as he did, Song’s eyes were pulled from him to right behind him. The wall of the kitchen seemed to shake for a moment, two black eyes appearing on it. With a wink the eyes disappeared back into the kitchen wall --
“Woah!” Urangtai was suddenly cut off as he lost his footing, the floor slipping out underneath him. He landed into Song, knocking them both to the floor. Remembering the knife, Urangtai squeezed Song close as he rolled them out of the way just in time for the blade to clatter against the floor tiles. Urangtai’s heart was pounding against Song, “I’m so sorry,” he was wide eyed, “I guess I just lost my footing.”
Song stared wide-eyed back at him. Part of her seemed to squirm lose, but the other slowly began to wrap a pair of arms around his back, locking the two together. Her cheeks were at this point practically glowing like two small stars and she swallowed. “It’s… It’s okay. It happens.”
Urangtai went to stand up, only to notice the tug of Song’s arms that gripped him, he gave her a nervous smile, “Um, Song --” Her voice seemed to keep him lingering despite his clear move to leave her grasp.
Song immediately let him go and looked away. “SORRY! Sorry, sorry, sorry - it was just the heat of the moment, andIjustreallywantedtototototo--” The girl looked over at the now boiling pot. “OH, look! The water’s boiling!” She rocketed to her feet, grabbed the minced garlic, oats and uncut scallions, sprinted to the hearth and dropped them into the boiling water. She stirred around chanting sheepish ‘dum-dee-dums’ and tried not to look at Urangtai.
“Oh-oh,” Urangtai sat up, face flushed as he thought on something, “Do you believe in myths and little tales?” He suddenly asked.
“Huh?! Oh, uh-- sure! Which? I mean, uhm, depends on which.”
Before he could answer, there was a sudden knock on the door. Urangtai scrambled to his feet and walked by Song to get it. A few steps more and he was pulling to door aside.
Standing in the doorway was Meiyun, a slant tucked in her cheek and her hands folded in front of her, “Hey Urangtai, I just wanted to apologize for slapp- oh!” She leaned to the side and peaked in, “Hello, Song!” She looked back at Urangtai, “I didn’t know you had a guest, I’m sorry to intrude.”
“No it’s--” Urangtai held his head and blinked, “It’s fine. Really.”
Song shot Meiyun a venomous glare and faked the best smile she could, looking a little like a grinning tigress. “Heeeeeeeeeey, Meiyun! Wow, so nice of you to drop by. Look, reeeeeeeaaaally sorry to say this, but we were juuust in the middle of something. Could you come by a little later, maybe?”
“Oh,” Meiyun looked surprised, “If that’s what Urangtai wants...?”
The man was now holding his head in both hands, gritting his teeth. The woman in front of him twisted from side to side uncomfortably, “Urangtai?”
“Yup, hm?” He looked up and blinked, his eyes wide.
Meiyun let her brow fall, “Maybe I’ll come back l-later, then?” Her voice was more confused than anything else.
“N-no,” Urangtai managed and shook his head, Meiyun mimicking the head shake in confusion, “I wanted to, uh...”
“Be alone with Song,” Song finished mercilessly and grabbed the door handle. “Have a nice evening, Meiyun!” Then she slammed the door shut.
Urangtai seemed to jump at this and turned to Song, his headache slowly fading once again as Song’s voice tickled his ear, “What are you doing!?”
“Wuh-uh-- I was just… We were busy and, y’know, I didn’t want her to interrupt.”
“Ugh,” Urangtai held his head, “I need to sit down...” The man lumbered over to the kitchen table and plopped defeated into the chair, head throbbing. A tendril of particles broke from the wall and out of sight, slithering alongside the floor and up Song’s back. The little hair of particles flicked at her ear.
“Tell him you just didn’t want him to exert himself, tell him you saw his pain coming back, tell him to relax... Let him soak in your voice... also,” The tendril flicked to the other ear, “Bring me a bowl after, that smells amazing.” The tendril slithered back down and snapped back into the wall.
Song swallowed. “It’s just… I didn’t want you to exert yourself… I saw your pain coming back, and, well… I just want you to relax, okay? You’re such a handsome, hardworking man, and you just need to take a day off on occasion, don’t you?” She found a bowl and scooped into it some of the shabby porridge.
Urangtai seemed to melt in his chair, the bags fading from his face as she spoke into his ear. He soon found himself nodding along and then eating her porridge. He didn’t say much, clearly exhausted until finally, “Thank you.”
Song gasped and had to look away as hot, wet tears moistened her eyes. “Y’know… You make me so happy.”
“Your voice...” Urangtai managed, closing his eyes as he leaned back in his chair, “I never noticed how nice it was.”
Song gasped again and giggled. “R-really? Then…” She put her head on his shoulder. “Would you like me to sing for you, too?”
There was a soft bump against her head as Urangtai succumbed to sleep, a gentle snore rumbling from him -- the day proving to have been too much.
Song giggled and went over to the cupboard. She took the biggest bowl she could find and filled it with porridge.
Yullian would get the biggest tribute for this!
Yullian: 1MP and 4FP
None spent. Here we see Urangtai suffering the effects of the cookies... where female voices not of Song gives him growing headaches and ruins their food for his taste buds. Maybe more evil than tricky, but it is also tricky.
Urangtai is suffering headaches brought by the voices of women and their food. He meets Huang who tells tricks him into thinking it could be because he likes Song, whose voice doesn’t cause headaches but rather lets them fade away. Song uses this to get him all alone and trick him into feeling like only Song cares and that she is an angel in disguise. Yullian plays back up, things get creepy. Onto step three...
Amid chittering quolls, snapfruit saplings and young patches of sweetgrass, Yisu sat hunched in her new birthday dress. It was plain and blue, but her mother had sewn it just for her and that made it special enough in Yisu’s eyes to match even Lord Wenbo’s Shengshese outfits. Yisu’s eyes were closed, and her knees were pulled up to her chest as she sat nearly in a nap. The day was exciting but long, and with the sky turning dark and Moksha peeking out between the clouds, Yisu’s young mind could barely keep her awake much longer.
She stirred and patted her messy alabaster hair, “Rice cake?” Her eyes opened and she knitted her brows, “Rice Caaake?” She shifted onto her feet and spun around, tiny red circles under her tired eyes, “Rice Cake??”
She stuck out her bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. She shoved little fists into balls and stomped towards her parents’. The walk was short, with her father having taken the closest house to the Tendlepogan-esque fields.
Yisu pushd the door in, the orange glow of a soft fire hitting her. The foyer was really the living room, with a cozy set of chairs and footrests, plus her own mother sitting by the fire with a spool of wool. Seeing her daughter stumble in with hands rubbing her eyes, she let out a sigh, “Yisu, I was just about to call you in -- it is far past your bedtime, missy.”
“Mom, have you seen Rice Cake?” Yisu pouted, ignoring her mother’s warning.
“No dear,” Yisu’s mom put the wool down, “I’m sure he is fine, now off to bed.”
“But mom-”
“Do you need your father to tell you too?” Yisu’s mom rested a hand on her hip. Yisu pouted, but her mother didn’t seem to back down.
“Okay...” Yisu shuffled into the house, finding the long hall that separated the various rooms. Yisu’s mother called out to her from the living room, her voice a harsh whisper.
“And don’t wake up your brothers!”
Yisu stuck her tongue out in her mother’s direction and made a face. Puffing up a little, Yisu quietly strolled down the hallway, her eyes falling on the closed door that separates her from her own bed. Her eyes trickled to the right a little more, the door to the cellar was ajar. She pursed her lips and silently shuffled over to the basement door.
Peeking through the crack of the opened door, she shivered -- it was dark down there. Something moved, her heart slammed against its cage and she jumped back with a loud yelp.
“Yisu!” Her mother whispered harshly, a couple of thuds indicating that she was now on her way.
“Mom it wasn’t me, there is something in the basement,” Yisu pointed at the door pleadingly as her mother came angrily down the hall.
“You always think there is something in the basement, Yisu,” Her mother ushered her away from the door.
“But mom, I really think I saw a monster this time.”
“Yisu, you’re being silly.” The mother pursed her lips.
“Mom,” Yisu whimpered and her mother sighed.
“Would it make you feel better if we put a new pebble on the house guardian’s shrine?”
Before Yisu could nod, the basement door suddenly snapped open, forcing a loud shrill scream from Yisu and a surprised yell from her mother. All at once, a pillar of cloudlings flooded out of the basement, popping wildly as they crackled their way to every open window, door and crack in the building. They smelt of the wine that Yisu’s father kept in the cellar, especially one specifically saturated cloudling painted a dark maroon. It bumbled through the air drunkenly as the other cloudlings had already cleared the house. It landed on Yisu’s nose and she giggled.
“Mom, it was just Rice Cake.”
Yisu’s mom stood with wide eyes, “Just?”
A deep rumble vibrated in the back of Batbayaar’s throat. He sat atop the roof of the academy, legs folded and his fists open in his lap. His chin was tilted up, Moksha washing over his face. By his right knee was a clay tablet with three gentle lines of poetry adorning it, and by his left knee was a minimalist hand-sized painting of his older brother and his father.
He tucked his thumbs flat against his palms as he held them open, the light of Moksha seeming to pool between his fingers. As he meditated, thoughts of his father kept invading his mind -- the large man riding on an albino tree-eater, a victorious grin twisting the blue stripe that dominated the left half of his face.
Batbayaar lifted his left hand, tracing his own stripe. A watery tear caused his finger to stop its journey. He wiped it away from his cheek and opened his eyes. His pupils dilated, having opened to the sight of the swirling nebula that now served as the final memory of his life before Chengweng. Thoughts fell to his wife, who was likely putting their daughter to bed as he thought, his eight sons were likely already asleep having worked the fields of heritage. He sucked in a shaking breath, it wasn’t easy being the only one of your family to decide to stay. He also couldn’t let the remaining dreamers forget the ways of the elder clans, and as the youngest of his father’s -- it was his duty to keep the traditions.
He could still see his mother crying, a sight he had only seen once before. His gut twisted. He was the mountain, he was the stone, but even then he could feel the tug of erosion in his heart. He clapped his hands back together and closed his eyes, refocusing on Moksha.
He could feel the anger and the frustration that kept him silent during the day swirl as easily as the nebula. He could feel his distaste and his concerns, his hesitant acceptance of Ming’s leadership, and his own queries over his Elder Wenbo’s ability in light of her appointment.
Pop!
Batbayaar’s eyes shot open, “Cake?”
”CRACKLE-POP-POP-POP-POP-POP-CRACKLE!
Suddenly a flood of cloudlings passed over him, nearly causing him to tip over as they blasted by. A surprised laugh chuckled from his throat, the first since he had left his home. Finding his feet, he watched the stream of cloudlings swirl onwards. Tucking a newfound smile in his cheek, he sent after them.
Nergui let out an exhausted groan and stumbled through one of the academy’s many exits. Planted along the cobblestone walkway of the academy gardens was a myriad of different flowers, with two meter tall obelisks standing at every corner. All of it slowly swirled to a black stone platform in the center, a white and black obelisk standing side by side. As she passed through the door proper, she plucked a pebble from her pocket and dropped it into a ceramic bowl by a miniature black obelisk.
Her gait was more of a sleepy stumble than one of an uptight scholar as she made her way down the swirling path. Finding the center, she kicked off her leather boots and slipped on quoll fur slippers before stepping on the black platform. She fell to her knees and walked on them all the way to the twin obelisk shrine. She dipped her head three times before the empty bowl that sat in front of the shrine, then dipped her head twice - leaving her forehead against the cold stone on the second dip.
“K’nell, My God -- keeper of my family, receive me and my prayer,” She kept her eyes closed as she sat back on her ankles, hands set on each knee. Sucking in a breath, she opened her eyes -- Moksha swirling between the obelisks.
“I’m scared,” She admitted, “I feel alone.” A tear fell down her cheek, “I miss my grandfather, and I pray he isn’t mad at me. Tell him that I had to, tell him I didn’t know I’d be the only one to go.” She held a fist to her chest, “Forgive my candidness, my God.” She sucked in a breath, “Recieve my mind, so I may see them again when my day comes.”
Nergui sat in silence, her eyes fluttering all around the arms of Moksha before she finally let out an exhale she didn’t know she was holding, “I don’t want to be alone. I thank you for Master Zhong Wang, and the others -- I do... but I can’t help but feel...” She flicked a finger across her Temujinite nose, “Alone.”
“I pray, God K’nell, that you take away my loneliness, take it away, take it far away -- I don’t want it, my God,” She whimpered, “It weighs upon my mind-”
Suddenly a loud crackling wave washed over Nergui, the white flood of cloudlings wisping through the air. Dancing on popping sounds and tiny raindrops, the cloudlings soaked through Nergui’s clothes before continuing their nighttime journey.
Nergui sat drenched with wide eyes, “T-Thank you, God!” Was all she managed through a surprised chuckle, her tears dry. Jumping to her feet, she quickly ran after the cloudings.
“AaaaaUUUGGGHGHHH”
Ming groaned loudly, landing backfirst into her bed. The bushels of grass pushed against her spine, releasing the day’s work and causing her to ache. She whimpered silently, letting her body drain of its exhaustion. She turned her head as she laid starfish, eyes peeking out of the open window and at the starry sky above. She shot out an exhale from her nostrils as she saw Moksha swirling away.
“I’m supposed to meditate on you, huh?” Ming said quietly, “Expose my weakness and my secrets I bet, too.”
Without turning her body to the window she closed her eyes, “Well I’m afraid you won’t find any here... I’m the great General of Chengweng.” She shot another sgh from her nostrils and her nose pulsed with a little pain. She flinched, “The greatest, beaten down by a nose bleed.”
She huffed silently, Moksha swirling the same as ever, “I just want a little respect.” She surrendered, “I’m trying my best-- I can say that because I am. I know, I KNOW, I could do better, I know.” She bit her lip, “And I’m trying to get there, I really am.”
Moksha didn’t reply,
“Well it isn’t my fault that Batbayaar wasn’t chosen,” Ming gulped dryly, “Maybe he should’ve...” She cast her eyes away from the nebula, “But he didn’t, I did, because I asked -- and I’m trying my best. He can... he can just get over it!”
She looked back at Moksha, “I know he is bigger and stronger, and knows more about this than I do, but this is a new world. This isn’t the plains anymore. A new world needs new leaders... Who cares what he thinks.” Anger tinged her voice and she clicked her tongue. A long silence fell between the two before she gurgled out of frustration, “I do.”
She raised a hand to her forehead and groaned, “I do, I care what they all think. I know how they see me, I’m not blind.”
Moksha was silent.
“Well fine!” Ming almost shouted, “You tell me what to do then!”
As if answering her, flickering shadows blinked across Moksha and Ming’s eyes widened with shock. A chorus of popping filled the night air, forcing Ming to sit up, her fingers holding her nose gently.
“What the...”
Zhong Wang stood in the open plaza that intersected the residential and market quarters. Here the night wind was strongest, and the view of the night sky was the best -- in his opinion at least. His eyes carefully studied Moksha above, to think that’s where they all will go someday.
He sucked in an impressed breath, and to think that here he is until then. He put his hands on his hips, he went from a lowly student of his father to being the master of all academic research for the dreamers in a single day. He could feel the pressure on his shoulders as strongly as the butterflies in his stomach, though.
Something about the responsibility caused his gut to clench up, forced hunger from his mind and dried his eyes endlessly on the infinite writings of Shengshi and his own. Even now he wasn’t sure if he was hungry, full, stressed, or even relaxed. He pinched the bridge of his nose, if he didn’t have Nergui, he wouldn’t know how well he would be faring in his position. Sure he had the knowledge, but the ability to actually do is a lot harder to keen than the ability to know.
His gut clenched as his mind skimmed over all the things that could go wrong, and what sorts of disasters he would be responsible for should he ever hiccup in his position. Some days he could barely look at the other dreamers, their faces no longer holding the friendly visages of family but rather the scared looks of people his actions would directly affect.
“Oh Lord,” he moaned, eyes rising to Moksha, “You know my pain.”
He sighed, “It’s just... been so long since I’ve...” He stifled on his words, “To relax just seems forbidden.”
Zhong Wang’s eyes rested on Moksha and he closed his eyes in an attempt. His body swayed slightly in the night wind as he focused, trying to picture the great swirling mass in his minds eye. He strained and then slowly relaxed his shoulders -- and as his muscles went limp, he swore he heard something. Two gentle violin’s playing against each other, hidden behind the sound of the night wind. A small smile formed on Wang’s lips as the music played in his mind. It reminded him of a story his father used to tell him in jest.
A long time ago now, Chagatai had gone to Zhongcheng and Wenbo in a fit of frustration: he needed to write a song for his teenage crush, Altansarnai. His brother’s agreed to aid him, and spent all night constructing the perfect song for him to use to woo his beloved -- only to find out on the day he went to sing it to Altansarnai, that she too had gone to Zhongcheng and Wenbo for a song to sing to him. In Zhongcheng’s clever way and Wenbo’s wisdom, the brothers wrote each of them half of the same song -- turning their meeting into an entwined duet of their truest feelings.
Zhong Wang smiled, picturing the scene between the fiery couple, their words fresh in his mind as if he were there. He gently sang out Chagatai’s opening lines.
“Blue hair so as the sky, Blue hair so as my soul.”
”Blue stripe so as river’s low, Blue stripe so as heart’s sigh.”
Nergui’s voice surprised Wang and he turned to the woman, a gentle smile on her face, and a rush of cloudlings crackling behind her. Zhong Wang’s brow furrowed and his eyes widened in surprise, “Cloudlings!?”
The apprentice went to speak, but was cut off by Batbayaar’s deep voice, calling out as Chagatai once did:
“Blue hair take my love, Blue hair take my heart.”
”Blue stripe never part, Blue stripe my dove.”
Nergui’s singing voice nearly tripped as Ming’s and Yisu’s joined hers. She turned to see Batbayaar’s family standing next to the general, all wearing surprised smiles. Batbayaar walked over, arms wide as he pulled his wife into an embrace, his voice joining Zhong Wang’s.
“Blue hair you’re my night, Blue hair you’re my day.”
”Blue stripe always stay, Blue stripe never flight.”
“Blue hair never go, Blue hair as above.”
”Blue stripe my love, Hello from Wen-bo.”
The impromptu group broke into laughter as the line finalized. Zhong Wang could feel his stress falling from his shoulders as the cloudlings crackled along, and Nergui gave him a friendly grin. The woman felt her worries wash from her as easily as the dye was running from her soaked clothing.
Batbayaar laughed loudly as he held his family tight, his sons punching each other playfully, his little girl clinging to his leg. Seeing Ming standing idly between his family and the other Scholars, he reached out with a hand. His knuckle bumped her shoulder and she turned to him. His smile was gone, and she gulped. Her flicked his nose twice and gave her an approving nod, causing a smile to form on the general’s face.
“Thank you, Lord K’nell.”
Yusi, a young dreamer, loses her cloudling amid a field of sweetgrass, quolls, and other things brought over from Tendlepog. She finds him having gotten in the wine cellar and creating a burst of new cloudlings. These cloudlings slowly bring together a quartet of narratives and personal feelings among dreamer characters, ultimately ending with Zhong Wang, Ming, Batbayaar, and Nergui singing a song under Moksha and finding the answers to their prayers.
After being introduced to Yullian over a terrible supper, Song found it hard to go about her day regularly, too eager for the promises Yullian spoke to her. Eventually giving up on a regular day, she retreated back to her ‘humble’ room in the palace, content with simply waiting for nightfall and avoiding anyone who may jeopardize her giddy mood.
A simple favour in exchange for the love of her life? How could she say no?! It was almost too good to be true!
A seed of doubt planted itself in the fields of her heart - was it too good to be true? Was she about to say yes to a favour that would impact her life for the worse? Would she have to act out pranks in the divine’s name?
The seed sprouted a painful thorn, but the heart retaliated viciously. No! No matter what she would have to do, as long as Yullian held up their end of the bargain, it would be worth it in the end! Accelerated thumps in her chest brutalised what remained of the doubt.
“Urangtai,” she whispered quietly to herself and giggled.
“Hello there, miss,” A silky woman’s voice all but whispered, the alabaster head of a handsome middle-aged woman poking into her room, “Do you have a minute?”
Song snapped out of her trance and spun around with a quiet ‘eep!’ “O-oh! Sorry, uh-- Sure!” She went over to the door, eyes looking down in light embarrassment.
Crinkles formed in the corner of the woman’s eyes as she smiled and stepped into the room. Without saying anything,she quietly closed the door behind them and pressed an ear to it for a moment, “I think we are as alone as can be...” her voice sang the last few syllables.
Putting their fists on their sides and standing upright, the woman cleared her throat, “Right-o then, lassie. We have a man to woo, don’t we?”
Song blinked. “Wuh-what did you say?”
“Don’t play silly,” The woman sneered, “We agreed that we would make your lovely lover fall head over heels for your very voice, image, what have you in return for a little diddy of a thing later on, remember?”
“Wait, did you hear tha--” Song stopped herself. “Your Holiness, is that you?!”
Yullian winked and adjusted her dress, “The one and only. You’ll find that a god such as myself isn’t bound by the restrictions of physicality, how better for you to have yourself in my favor, eh?”
“Not bound by-... I mean, yes! I’m really happy, I mean, honoured to be in your favour. No, wait, honoured that you find me worthy! Snap, I sound like great-uncle Wenbo…” Song scratched her scalp in frustration.
“I’ve seen the old codger and I have to say you’re much more fun,” Yullian offered idly before tapping her chin, “That gives me an idea for later.” She shook her head, “But for now, I’ve put plenty of thought into my favorite mortal’s plight and I think I have come up with a several step plan to snag your smoocher.”
All confusion and agitation evaporated like water on lava and Song’s face was inches from Yullian’s in seconds, grinning so broadly one would think her lower jaw would fall off. “Tell me!”
“Look at you,” Yullian poked Song’s nose, “Adorable... like a kitten.” Taking a step back Yullian folded her arms, “Well the first step is rather simple, and you’re going to help me do it -- shouldn’t be more than a fraction of a minute.” Closing her eyes with almost a smug aura, “I’m going to unlock my true godly potential and peer into the minds of mortals -- with yours to start...” She trailed, “Is that okay?”
“Peer into--”
Yullian waved a hand and laughed, “It doesn’t really matter, I’ve already done it.” They kept their eyes closed and made a few exaggerated ‘oh’ and ‘oo’ faces, “My, he is a handsome one isn’t he?”
Song shook her head and covered her temples, her face rouging like a ripening mango. “You-you didn’t see everything about him, right?! RIGHT?!”
“Oh, of course not,” Yullian softly reassured, “I’m not the type to peek.”
Song swallowed. “Y-you mean it, right?”
“So here is what I’m thinking for our first step,” Yullian put a friendly hand on Song’s shoulder, “Do you like to bake?”
There came a hum. “Yeeeeaaah, yeah, I suppose.”
“Good, good,” Yullian nodded, “Because you know what they say -- the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” Yullian leaned in, “I just made that up right now, pretty good, huh?”
“Is it really? Wait, so does that mean that when Urangtai eats other women’s cooking--” Her black eyes might as well have been sickly green from the envy they scowled out into the air. “Tell me more.”
“After he tries my very special baking I made in your place, I don’t think he will be eating any other woman’s cooking,” Yullian tapped her chin and waved a hand. Suddenly a platter of silver completely smothered in steaming cookies appeared in her hand, “The first step is simple -- just give him these cookies. Make sure he eats all of them, now, at all costs -- understand?”
Song eyed the plate. “That’s a lot of cookies. What will I do if he doesn’t want all of them? Can I help him?”
“I don’t see why not, a little sharing helps a relationship bloom after all,” Yullin tapped their chin, “But no more than four for you, got it?” Yullian’s face softened and they hooked an arm around Song, “Listen, Song, Wen Song, the one and only -- You love Urangtai, yes?”
“With all my being,” Song confirmed.
“I know, I can feel it on you, I really can,” Yullian nodded, “Don’t you think...” Yullian stopped and bit their lip, “Well what I mean to say is, don’t you think it is about time he shows you juuuuust a little in return? Surely eating a rather tasty plate of cookies is the least he can do, no?”
Song tapped her chin. “... You do make a very good point.” She took the plate in her hands.
“Perfect,” Yullian grinned, “Now remember, only four for you -- the rest for your lover to be. Oh! And save one for me, I am a sucker for taking the last cookie.” Yullian rolled her eyes, “Well off you go!”
Song nodded eagerly and spun around, charging at the door like she held a grudge against it.
“Oh one last thing,” Yullian suddenly piped up, “Keep in mind this is but one step in our little foray, keep the faith.” Yullian winked. It was uncertain whether Song truly had heard them, for she was already out of the door by the time their sentence had gotten to “little”.
Moksha was clear in the night sky and Urangtai has just pushed his final steps of his journey. His entire body ached from a long day in the fields, his mind aching even more with desire to be working at the smithy instead (a task rather hard without ore). He longed to try his hand at metal, he truly did. He put one hand on the face of his door, his youthful frame slouched with exhaustion, “What a day.” He yawned and pushed the door in.
Stumbling into the cold house he had claimed amid the residential quarters of the city, he fumbled past the tinder he kept on his table -- sure he wouldn’t need it if he just went straight to bed after his wash.
With a groan followed ever step, he made his way to the small room where he kept a clean wash basin and plunged his head into it. His alabaster hair blossomed around in the water, only to slap against him as he pulled himself out for a breath of air.
“Snap.”
He craned his neck and tugged his shirt off. Slapping a palm onto his wash rag and dipping it into the cold water, he lifted an arm and went to scrub his rather odorous underarm when he suddenly heard the squeak of his door.
“Hm?” He hummed loudly, “Who’s there?”
“Uraaaaang!” came a melodious call, followed by the nutty smell of baked goods.
Urangtai flinched, what was she doing here... at this hour!? He scrunched his nose, “Song! It’s a little late, don't you think? I was just washing up for bed.” He paused, “Wait how did you know this was my house?”
“Late? No-no-no! Never too late for a midnight snack!” she offered happily as she walked into the wash-room and nearly shoved the plate into his hands. “Here! I made these for you!”
Urangtai flinched as the hot plate was shoved into his bare chest. He made a face, his wash rag slopping onto the floor with a wet slap.
“Song...” Urangtai looked over the smiling woman, “I’m not very-” He hesitated, her eyes boring straight into him, her smile faltering only slightly as he spoke, “What I mean to say is, I’m not very hun-” He lifted the plate, “That’s a lot of cookies.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll help you eat them,” Song giggled helpfully and picked one up to feed him. “Open up and say ‘aah’.”
“I just- ppbt” He scrunched his head back on his neck, “Can I get dressed first?”
“Why? It’s just a snack,” she smiled back and allowed herself to ogle him for a moment.
Urangtai rolled his eyes, “Come on,” He sucked in a sigh and walked out of the wash-room and into the large dining room that sat silent. It was spacious and rather empty, save for a small kitchen area and a thick wooden table with four chairs. He pulled one out for Song and placed the cookies on the surface of the table.
“Stay here,” He looked at her intensely, hoping his words would sink, “I’m going to get a fresh shirt.”
Song looked a bit disappointed, but nodded with a quiet, “okay”.
Urangtai slipped into his dark bedroom, closing the door behind him. He slapped a hand to his forehead and looked forward dumbly. In the room, lit only by the starlight outside, he longingly looked at his messy bed -- his body creaking and protesting. He puckered his lips, how he longed to feel his pillow. He took a step forward, eager to touch the fluff of the fibers.
“Uraaaaaaaang?”
He closed his eyes and begrudgingly snatched a shirt from an idle chair, why was he putting up with this. He pulled his shirt on and walked back out into the dining room.
Song seemed to beam like heliopolis when he came back. Judging from the crumbs on the tabletop, she had already had a cookie. She made an innocent face and giggle. “Sorry, I had one. They’re just so tasty - and for you!”
“I... bet,” Urangtai sat down carefully across the table from her. He pinched one of the cookies into his fingers and lifted it lazily -- Song’s eyes following his every move. He took a crumbling bite, the cookie having a snap to it as well as a warm and chewy texture. He made a face, “These are really good.”
“Because I made them with my special handsome Urangtai in mind,” Song winked. “Have some more!”
Urangtai shrugged and had two more, “So...” He started awkwardly, munching on a third, “Just felt like making night-time baked goods, huh?”
Song blinked, then nodded eagerly. “W-well, of course! Y’know, found some leftover flour, some nuts, some water. You know I really like to bake - it’s weird that I don’t do this more often, really.”
“No!” Urangtai said a bit too fast, “I mean, if you do it too much, it won’t be special any more, right.” He put a half eaten fifth cookie back on the platter and folded his hands, “but... uh... thank you.”
Song’s eyes went sparkly. “You think this is special?” Her cheeks flushed. “You make me so happy, Urang.”
“Oh,” Urangtai sunk in his seat, “But like as happy as your family and friends make you, yeah?”
Song cocked her head to the side and frowned. “N-no, Urang - a little happier than that. Way happier, actually.”
“Well,” Urangtai gulped, “Thank you for the cookies, really, but I think I’m feeling full.”
“Oh, come ooooon. Have another! Here, I’ll take another one to help you out.” Song reached for her second cookie. Urangtai made a helpless face and held up his hands.
“I don’t know, Song, it’s late and my stomach really is full -- I worked all day,” He shook his head, “They are good though, don’t think they aren’t. Best I’ve ever had, really.”
Song’s face flashed frustration momentarily and recovered into a slightly uncanny grin. “W-well, are you sure? They’ll be stale tomorrow.”
“Maybe one more,” Urangtai tucked a slant into his cheek, “But really, I’m not that hungry.” He snatched another cookie and nibbled at it slowly.
“Oh, since when did ‘being hungry’ give you a reason not to eat cookies?” Song defended with a forced laugh.
“Haaa.” Urangtai’s eyes betrayed a certain fright as he finished his cookie and stood up.
In a desperate move, Song leapt to her feet, grabbed as many cookies as she could hold in her hands and thrust her hands towards Urangtai, holding them still before his frozen stature. “Please! Just a few more! There aren’t even that many left!”
“Song,” Urangtai’s eyes widened even more, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but are you feeling alright?”
“Amazing, how about you?” she replied as if she wasn’t currently holding cookies against his throat like a myriad of knives.
Urangtai took a step back and held up two palms, “I’m... tired, I think.”
“Eating helps you fall asleep, I’ve heard,” Song replied and took a step closer.
“Why... why are you so insistent I eat all these cookies?” Urangtai felt a thud as his back hit the wall.
“Because you will-- I mean, I made them for you and spent a really long time doing so!” Song sucked in a breath. “Now eat.”
“I- I don’t want to eat,” Urangtai’s eyes were so wide he was almost cross eyed. Song pulled away as if stabbed. “W-why do you hate my cookies so much? Is it because -I- made them? Do you hate me? You hate me, don’t you?” Tears began to well up in her eyes.
“No! No that’s not it,” Urangtai waved his hands.
“Oh, are you denying it now? I’ve seen the way you look at--” She choked on her tears. “-- other women. I bet you would eat Meiyun’s cookies for hours!”
“That doesn’t even make sen- what?” Urangtai grasped for words, “Song, we aren’t even...” He looked at her tear stained face and gulped, “Fine, what if I have a few more?”
The tears dried up like they had been seared with a blow torch and Song’s sobs gave way to relieved giggles as she neatly plated the cookies in her hands and offered the plate back to Urangtai. “That makes me so happy to hear!”
“Okay but after, you have to leave,” Urangtai tried on a stern voice, “Okay?” He picked up a cookie.
Song hung her head. “... Only if you eat every single one,” she pouted, then blinked. “Oh, wait, every single one but, uh, one!”
Urangtai was already two cookies in, “Whash?” He said through the crumbs as he stuffed another one into his mouth, leaving two on the plate.
Song stared into his frightened eyes and sighed. “Oh, you are so adorable when you eat…”
Urangti’s brow fell as he swallowed, his hand reaching for the final two, eager to get this over with. Song suddenly remembered what she had just said and slapped the cookie out of his left hand. “NOT THAT ONE!”
“Ow!” Urangtai said, nearly choking on his final cookie, “What was that for?”
Song blinked. “Uh! Uhm! That-... Thaaaat one’s foooor… Mom! Yeah! That one’s for mom. Gotta save one for mom, am I right? Mom’s always happy to get a cookie, and wouldn’t wanna disappoint mom!”
“I guess,” Urangtai wiped his sleeve over his mouth, “Cookie’s are all done, then, yeah? No more surprises?”
“Surprises? Oh, sure! Yeah, no more of those! I promise!” Song replied eagerly, though squinting eyes kept scanning Urangtai searchingly.
Urangtai wore a confused face, “Um, shall I walk you out, then?”
Song slowly pulled away, wearing a wholly disappointed expression. “... Yeah, I guess.” She tucked the clay plate under her arm and followed Urangtai to the door. There, she turned to him in the doorway and made a shy smile. “I had a lot of fun tonight.”
“T-thank you?” Urangtai seemed at a loss of what he was witnessing.
Song giggled sweetly. “Let’s see each other again some time.” Then, she remained standing in the doorway, simply staring at Urangtai’s face with the same searching expression and half the smile.
“M-maybe,” Urangtai leaned back, “I’m going to be busy lately though, how about I let you know?”
“You definitely will, though, right?”
“You’ll know!” Urangtai forced a smile and backed into his house.
“Will you tell me yourself?” Song pleaded and began to step back towards the door.
“Oh, of course,” Urangtai quickly agreed, nodding, “Goodnight?”
“Uh, yeah,” Urangtai put a hand on the door and slowly started to close it, “See you later, then.”
“Alright, make good on your promise now!” she managed to say just before the door was slammed shut and locked. Urangtai’s eyes widened in post-shock and he slowly walked into his dimly lit house, wishing he had a roaring fire and maybe a shield or two. His heart was pounding and his stomach was queasy.
“What did she put in those cookies,” He twisted slightly, “I think I ate way too many.”
Song goes home early, too excited to seduce Urangtai once and for all. Yullina shows up as a middle aged woman. They discuss their plan, and Yullian gains the ability to read mortal minds. She then gives Song a plate of cookies and tells her that Urangtai must eat every single one of them for the first step of her plan. Song breaks into Urangtai’s house and essentially forces him to eat a lot of cookies, we end on a creepy note where urangtai’s stomach hurts and Song is like O-O
Yullian: 2MP 4FP
1mp spent on the ability to read mortal minds 0mp spent on special cookies, discounted with the mischief port. Find out what they do next time (shhhh ;) )
The dark haired Nebulite stood over the sleeping form of Orb, their cloak bundled around them like a cocoon, revealing for the first time how lithe Orb’s figure really was. This didn’t even register in Tiben’s mind, his face a wash with anxiety and fury, a bloody animal tied behind him. He frowned at the sleeping figure and raised his foot, jostling Orb with a shaking kick.
“HUH?” Orb rocketed awake, eyes twinkling behind their mask, vision darting too and fro.
“They left without us!” Tiben shouted.
“Context!” Orb hissed back, holding their still waking head.
“Shengshi, the others, Polyastera” Tiben paused, “Laurien.” The last name was said with a grain of disappointment.
Orb sat up and leaned back on their hands, “No... They couldn’t.”
“Oh they can, and they did,” Tiben threw his hands up and started pacing, “The bastards left a number of us behind.” He punched a nearby tree, a loud crack and a spattering of white blood smudging over his knuckles. Orb flinched, they had seen Tiben angry plenty of times, and each time was never any less scary. He was a nice man with a thoughtful mind and a caring heart -- but that temper.
Quietly rising to their feet, Orb shuffled, “What about the others, our supporters?”
“Some left,” Tiben breathed through his nostrils and rubbed his bleeding hand, “Some stayed, waiting for me to return from the woods. I knew I shouldn’t have left.”
“We needed food-”
“I know we needed food,” Tiben snapped and rubbed his temples, “But this is not good.”
“Well, can we catch up?” Orb suggested. Tiben just gave them a silent look and Orb shrugged, “What if we leave too.”
“What do you mean?”
“We take our supporters, your son, and we go-”
“My son isn’t coming,” Tiben interrupted angrily, his voice seeping with venom, “The depraved bitch stole him onto the ship.”
“Well okay,” Orb tried to remain calm, “Just our supporters then, we leave the islands for good. Find a new land, build great structures, live how we want to live, away from all the politics.”
“Maybe,” Tiben surrendered, “But how in the world do you propose we do that?”
Orb pinched the bottom of their mask, “I can think of something... just give me some time.”
Tiben sucked in a large breath, his fury slowly subsiding, “I’ll gather the others, just be ready by tonight-- can you do that?”
“Seven times over,” Orb rasped proudly, inciting a weak grin from Tiben.
“Well at least our cause didn’t lose you.”
The loyal nebulites crowded around the shore of the island. Orb’s old paddleboat served as the centerpiece, with the cloaked figure standing atop it next to Tiben. The ring of followers were a wash of murmurs and worried whispers. The sky was purple above, just dimming enough for the green swirls of Moksha to appear next to the stars.
Orb seemed transfixed on the new sight, a hidden smile plastered behind their mask. But on the breezy sands of the beach, they were alone in their admiration, with the others sick with worry. As the whispers turned to hushed voices and rambles, Tiben finally raised a hand.
“We are all that’s left of our group,” He announced, eyes falling on the one hundredor so Nebulites. Slanting into his cheek he sighed, “We missed our opportunity, and I only hope those who didn’t are still nursing the ideas that we held dear in the face of Polyastera’s claim to rule.” He held out a fist, “She is unjust, she is self serving, she is cruel. The Nebulites were born with the intelligence to spot these flaws but clearly a select few of us were dropped a few times to lose the sense to go against the holder of these flaws, but not you all. You stayed true to your birth, your wisdom, and to the greater good.”
There were some sharp agreements, and a few curses thrown out at the mention of Polyastera. Tiben sucked in a breath, “Our way of life can never go back to how it was at the very start, you all know this, which is why you are here. Polyastera has left, but she will return and bring whatever machinations she had been blessed back with her and even if she doesn’t, she has set a precedent that will echo through time. We have no choice but to abandon this land and strive to build a better civilization elsewhere, one that can stand up to whatever her and her bastard sucklings manage to curse this world with, and one that can someday return in full and claim the life that is now lost to us. She has no right, and should she ever rear her ugly head to push her false rule, we will be ready to cut it down.”
There were some confused mutterings but also some baritone cheers and Tiben held up a hand, “But we are not without guidance in this new quest.” He waved a hand to Orb, “The Queen of flies was too blinded by their own greed to notice a great friend and ally standing under our tree. This is Orb, first and last of their kind, the thinker of the Eye. They have agreed to help us build our new life.”
Orb waved a hand, eyes twinkling, “I’m very excited.” Their rasp was swelled with a joy that not many others shared in the moment, but they nodded and thanked them with genuine appreciation.
“And where are we building this new life?” A voice called out.
“The continent to the north,” Orb answered quickly, “It is the closest.”
“How will we get there?”
Orb shuffled slightly, “I have configured two possible solutions to that problem. First we could spend the time and resources to build the appropriate amount of vessels to transport us there.” Orb tapped their mask, “Secondly, we could try and contact a god in a similar fashion to how the others contacted Shengshi. If there is a god of the hunt, a god of these isles, and a god of rivers, there is likely to be a god that shares our ideology or at least can provide the appropriate source of aid to our cause.”
“Which ideologies shall we project?” Another voice called out.
“Freedom, to choose our destiny,” Tiben answered, “Strength, to power through any trouble to come, and might, to ensure that no one can ever take what we build from us.”
He looked up to the sky, his eyes almost lost as they fell on Moksha, “So I pray on behalf of my people, for a God of might, a God who knows conflict -- a God to see our civilization rise among the dregs of whatever the Bastard Queen plagues this world with -- and should we need it, a God who will give us the vigor to take back our lost people and keep us safe from vipers who would see themselves above all others.”
There was silence. Then, a low, droning hum rose over the gathering's heads. At first, it did not seem to come from any one spot, but as it grew in intensity, it became clear that it spread from Tiben's person. It resounded stronger and stronger, filling the air with stifling vibrations that lightly shook the nebulite's body. A breath of torrid heat rolled over the shore, followed by the smell of blood and metal. And, all of a sudden, a voice like the rumble of an earthquake pierced the tremors.
”Pray and you will receive. Light a pyre of death, and my heralds will come to you. They bear what you wish on grey wings. This is my word.”
The voice fell still, and the tremors in the air were gone. Minutes passed in silence, the group in a heart thumping stupor. The first to break was Orb who roughly jabbed a finger into Tiben’s rib, forcing him out of his awe-stricken trance. “We need flammable material and a heating source.”
“Right...” Tiben blinked, “Gather driftwood,” He commanded to the others before looking at Orb, “Can you get us fire?”
Orb nodded with vigor, “Easily.”
A large bonfire was light on the beach, the tendrils of range flame licking to the night sky above and illuminating the brooding masses. A certain level of solidarity seemed to bind the nebulites in a communal anger, as if the words of their new patron carried just a hint of tinder for the raging fire in Tiben’s heart, spreading it among the loyal. Orb didn’t feel it, but they could definitely tell the others did. Insults were whispered about the nebulites who had left them behind, threats were made, vows cast into the fire.
“They won’t get away with this,” A bulky nebulite swore to Tiben and the fire, “If their hubris doesn’t cut their throats...”
Tiben put a hand on the man’s shoulder, as if stealing the rest of his sentence and surrendering it to silence, “Should we meet them again, there will be a clash -- but we will be ready..” Was all he said, his voice an eerie calm.
The night around them was silent. For a long time, the rustling of the waves and whispered howls of the wind were the only sounds to answer their voices from the darkness. The distant lights in the sky come and went behind the drift of thin clouds.
One of them was moving.
Large dark shapes swept over the Garden and Moksha overhead. The crack of leathery wings swooped down from above, arced over the nebulites' heads and landed on the sand far from the fire in a series of soft thuds. The unnatural light had followed it, growing to an orb of pale spectral luminescence. It bobbed some feet above the ground like a ghost, and the dim contours of grotesque shapes emerged as hints in its halo.
"Pyre of death," an innebulite voice drawled from the shadows, a hoarse, primal mockery of speech, "we searched, we smelled. The pyre."
"Long lost in darkness," another rejoindered, just as broken and monstrous, "We could not find. We smelled the anger, but there is no death."
"You did not listen," a third gnashed, "The pyre of death. This fire is bare. You did not give sacrifice!"
"Sacrifice," an entire chorus moaned, "Sacrifice! Sacrifice! Give sacrifice!"
The crowd stood in silent horror, with even Tiben at a loss for words -- gasping like a fish. Orb, however, seemed to be analyzing silently, their twinkling eyes darting at every nebulite and then into the darkness.
“Parameters,” Orb finally piped up, all eyes falling on the cloaked figure, “The initial instructions were unclear, what parameters do you require for sacrifice?”
"Something that lives must die," the darkness growled, "In the pyre, that is the way."
Orb slowly nodded, “Parameter accepted.”
Tiben narrowed his eyes and was about to object when suddenly Orb picked up a big ocean smoothed rock. Orb had no trouble lifting it, the weight pushing their feet into the wet sand below. Everyone looked at Orb with a certain confusion, only slowly understanding when Orb let the rock fall back down.
The stone made a loud thud, forcing frightened squirts of water to jet out of previously unseen holes. With a happy rasp, Orb dove at the first one and shoved their hand through the sand. With a yank, they tugged out a mollusk and casually tossed it into the fire. It took a second, but the roar of the fire was soon overtaken by a slow sizzle and the pop of the shell. A few stomachs rumbled at the smell.
Orb turned away from the fire, facing the endless night once more, “Parameter completed.”
"Small!" the voices howled, "Poor meat, poor life!" Yet they fell quiet, and one spoke. "But you have given. We can see you."
The ghostly light bobbed and advanced, and with it a pack of living shapes crept into the fire's light. They were horrid things unlike any the nebulites had seen before, crawling on six legs or pulling themselves ahead with enormous clawed batlike wings. Flickers from the pyre danced over coarse hides covered in swollen malformations, over blunt heads with too many eyes, and glinted off iron plates and spikes lodged into living skin.
Amid them walked a robed figure, the only one standing upright. Its hands were metal and wood, and its head a blank lantern.
"You called, we were sent and we came," one of the creatures rasped from an unseen mouth, "What is your wish?"
“We wish to leave,” Tiben finally found his voice, the commanding nature of its grain falling back into place, “To be placed on the continent north from here.”
The creatures exchanged looks, then one of them, still largely hidden in the shadows, handed a sack made of skin to those at the fore. A six-armed beast took it and pulled out something that looked like a metallic model of a ribcage, with recurve iron bars ending in inward-turned spikes.
"It is granted," the being said, and tossed the object to the ground at Tiben's feet, "Any who wears this in the skin and eats the flesh of kindred will have the blood of divinity. Spill it in the water. The iron fish will come and take you where you lead."
It fell silent, and one of the winged monsters took up the word. "You have the wish of strength. You can speak one of dominion. We listen."
Tiben hefted the iron ribcage up, his arms flexing under the weight.
“Can you elaborate on the instructions?” A confused Orb rasped.
The six-limbed creature rose on its hindmost pair of legs. "Take it around your body. Let its teeth dig into you. Eat the meat of those that are like you. Your blood will be divine." As it spoke, it mimicked placing the contraption around its chest and pushing the spikes into its body. When it was finished, it snapped the mouth on the underside of its head and fell back on all sixes.
"We listen," the winged one repeated.
Tiben closed his eyes, his nose scrunching up with what could have been disgust, he cocked his head, “You wish for me to eat one of the few people we have remaining?” The iron mess dropped with a thud onto the beach as Tiben opened his eyes, “Was there at some point in this interaction where you figured me to be a mookish buffoon? I haven’t been entrusted to this exodus because of my habit to consume my fellow at the first beast to suggest it.” He pointed a finger, “I prayed to a God of might, not to a God of sinister jokes.”
The horrid cortege rumbled. Some of the creatures rose on their crooked legs, spreading and flapping their wings, whipping up clouds of sand. The rest crept back into the darkness along with the tall lantern-headed wight.
"Weak," they clamoured, "You cannot grasp might! You do not earn it!" "You did not listen! You gave poor sacrifice!" "You fear the strength of blood!" "You cannot take what must be done!"
"You prayed in vain! You called us for nothing!" The winged monsters crouched, splaying out ahead, "You pay!"
In a flurry of leathery beats, they were on Tiben, claws and teeth falling and closing. A blink later, they were rising into the night, blotting out Moksha until they were gone. Further away, the lone light of the lantern drifted up behind them. The crowd burst into horrified screams and wails, with Orb completely frozen in fear.
A fraction of a second ticked by in complete horror before Orb found their adrenaline and rushed to Tiben’s mangled body. He was a sputter of wet, gasping breaths and leaking blood. Orb peered down at him through their mask, eyes frozen on the rage that burned behind Tiben’s mutilated face.
“C-” He coughed, “Cowards...” His eyes widened and then closed, his chest falling. Orb hesitated a moment, but then placed a shaking hand on the side of his face, black gore rolling through their fingers. Gliding the hand down, they placed it over Tiben’s heart, a weak pulse pushing back against their hand.
“This is my fault,” Orb whimpered a rasp.
“No...” The negative was a soft whisper, barely pushing through Tiben’s shredded lips. Orb seemed to shake, the crowd around them still in a state of panic, with most having run off in fear. Slowly a twinkling drop found its way out of Orb’s mask, landing on the body below.
“I can fix you,” Orb shook, “I’ll make you better.”
Tiben didn’t respond, his hand weakly falling on top of Orb’s, fingers limp. Orb shivered, slipping their hand free and placing it over a gushing wound. Tiben’s closest friends lingered by the kneeling Orb, doing their best to stem the other wounds with palm leaves and even sand -- but Orb just sat there frozen, their hand covering a deep gash, Tiben’s heartbeat pulsing through their fingers.
An hour ticked by before Tiben’s heart finally stopped, two hours ticked by before Orb was finally moved by another nebulite, a gentle shake forcing them off of Tiben’s lifeless body. Orb refused in silence at first, but was eventually coerced to stand up, their cloak drenched in blood, their only friend a shredded mess.
Orb’s knees weakened and tears dropped out from under the mask. A hand comforted their shoulder, a voice simply telling Orb that ‘Tiben did the right thing,’ and that ‘His efforts will be remembered.’ Orb shook the hand off without a word and slowly began to wander off, stopping for an instant, the iron cage slumped in the sand before them. With a heave, Orb picked it up and continued their walk forward.
Days went by without talking. Orb would slowly forget what their own voice sounded like throughout each day, curing it with random mutterings and monologues. The iron cage was always by their side while they worked in solitude. The other nebulites seemed to have forgotten them quickly, the shock of Tiben’s death enough to scatter the once praised plan. The exodus was as dead as Tiben, but even still, Orb didn’t want to stay, they couldn’t.
It didn’t feel right anymore, it never did, but now it really didn’t. Their godly benefactor had abandoned the settlement to Laurien, who then abandoned the settlement themselves. Tiben was their one and only friend, the only one who showed care or interest in their well being, and now he was cold and dead -- because of Orb’s own plan.
They looked down at the iron cage, divine demands of cannibalism wasn’t a factor that Orb had considered, and it cost their friend their life. A seed of hate curled and fought a nauseous depression in their stomach, watered by guilt. Sometimes Orb would find themselves crying without warning, even as they worked.
Their new project was simple enough. They had collected their paddle raft and began modifying it for longterm oceanic travel. They widened the base, formed a hull of sorts, and increased the paddle leverage and deepened the rudder. They managed to fit enough rations and water to survive the straight cross to Kalgrun and even managed to calculate the additional weight of the iron cage.
Keeping the cage almost felt like an ironic justice. To activate it you needed to eat the meat of another one of yourself, but Orb was the one and only -- the cage was useless to them. Orb sucked in a shaking breath, all this thinking poking tears back into their eyes.
More days flew by, and by the start of the third week, Orb was ready. The sea was calm, like the surface of their heart. Orb just hoped it wasn’t as stormy on the inside. With little fanfare, and no one to see them off, Orb set out for Kalgrun.
Orb and Tiben realize they were left behind with a number of their supporters. Tiben’s ex-lover had stolen his son onto Shengshi’s ship. The pair decide that they and their supporters will leave the eye for a new life -- Tiben leaves Orb to think about ‘how’.
They decide to pray to a god of conflict to aid them in theirs and to help them leave the eye for Kalgrun.
Narzhak demands a fire(pyre of death) and so they build one, then his messengers arrive and clarify that it was not a fancy way to say fire and want a sacrifice. Orb demands parameters. The parameters are easily loopholed, and Orb grants them a single mollusk as sacrifice.
The beasts accept it and then give Tiben an artifact that will bring them to Kalgrun, IF and only if he eats another nebulite. Tiben is disgusted and insulted by the suggestion and lets ‘em have it. The beasts are as stubborn as Tiben and claw and bite him into a mangled mess before leaving.
The nebulites are in full panic while Tiben is bleeding out quickly. Orb fuddles over him for a couple hours. Tiben dies. Huge Orb monologue. Orb leaves the eye on a boat, taking the artifact with them.
Narzhak:
Starting: 8 MP, 13 FP
2 FP spent on forming the Grey Heralds, a band of kostral and skestral that act as Narzhak's messengers.
2 FP (discounted from 4 by the Cannibalism portfolio) on the Goregrasp, an artifact that gives its wielder's blood a spark of divine power as long as they eat others of their kind. This manifests as unnatural strength, an increased lifespan and the blood itself having some miraculous properties when spilled, depending on the wielder's creator deity.
Fear froze over Urlango’s body. The thick sharkskin that protected him seemed thinner than ever, and his mighty stone spear felt like a twin. His kin stood to his left and his right be he couldn’t help but feel as if he was alone in an ocean of sharks. Him and his kin stood in a field, all in a line with their various weapons ready.
Across the field a group much smaller than their own stepped forward in unison, each footfall sounding like a pounding drum, or was that just Urlango’s heart? A good few of them bore scars made by beasts Urlango had never seen, their bark and reptile hide armor glistening with ornaments that made him pale. Dinosaur teeth, firebird feathers, the canines of great bears -- these Selka of the west knew no fear. They marched with their K’nightly brothers, all of them holding impressive ivory clubs marked with tales of their deeds. None of them wore any fear, anxiety, or hesitation -- but the eyes of flawless hunters, the eyes that the legendary figure Panganeem wore as he witnessed the grave of his daughter.
Urlango gulped, maybe they should have heeded the warnings of Yupilgo. Before doubt could settle deeper in his mind, his clan father yelled out a battlecry and rushed forward with a stone axe. His brothers charged forward, Urlango in step. He felt the vibration of the unified charge, and his spirits were almost lifted, but then the K’night’s made their move.
Not a sound passed through their lips when their line split in two, several in the back suddenly hucking javelins. The spears vanguarded their charge, a sickly squelch as they slammed into his kin. Blood sprayed, one of the javelins popping through his older cousin’s skull. The staining scarlet entered his eyes and he was temporarily blinded.
As his vision returned, he saw something that could only be described as monsterous grace. A single K’night had worked his way into the center of the clan’s formation. His face was calm and in a perfect line as he moved, his club batting away spears and axes, a free hand countering with a sharp slice of obsidian.
An axe arced towards the K’night’s face, but he quickly ducked under it, rising again with a thrust of his club. The ivory pounded against the bottom of his attacker’s jaw, forcing teeth through tongue. An elbow quickly followed, slamming into their throat and as it swelled, the club came back around and pushed the aggressors snout in with a crunch.
A spear lunged, but the K’night stepped aside and grabbed its shaft (dropping their knife). A club came at their back, and the K’night suddenly yanked the spear in the way, impaling the clubber through the gut and then pushing the spear back, knocking the spear man off their feet. A hunting blade came for their hamstring, and in one swoop, the K’night snapped the head of the captured spear off the shaft and drove it into the skull of the attacker, using the momentum of the swing to follow up with his club, nailing the stone tip in place, the victim convulsing to the ground in a spray of drool and blood.
Urlango dropped their own spear, his knee’s shaking as the K’night’s fellows broke into the center to aid him. The cold glare of the K’nights fell on him, and he decided it was time to go.
Without checking to see who else may still be alive, Urlango turned tail and began to sprint towards the tree line, a million thoughts racing through his head. Yupilgo and the K’nights had warned his clan that it was to stop their abuse of the fisherman along the coast or face retaliation. A verbal treaty had been agreed upon between his father and the Hyummin council, nearly absolving them of their crimes save for the steep victim’s tax levied. But his father wouldn’t have it, his father continued to harass, ravage and kill the other clan’s in the territory -- and the day they sold a single Selka to slavery, they all knew the Hyummin would be back.
Bobbo sees all from his mantle in the great blue, though, and his words found his father’s ear first. Kirron had whispered their crimes to the K’night’s of Tyuppa, the very group who had saved them from the first Hyummin retaliation and mediated the treaty between the two parties, and this time they were there to ensure that no more crimes were to be committed against their fellow Selka at all costs.
Urlango gulped, and they did.
Here is a post resolving the issue of the murderous clan mentioned in the Yupilgo post. Enjoy.
I'm not really a bird.
[center]-0-
Where did I play,
A land of twisted branches,
A kingdom of clay,
A swamp of memories,
A never-ending day,
Where did I run,
Across the dawn,
Through the sun,
Across the sky,
Through laughs and fun,
Where did I walk,
Pristine grass green,
White cliffs of chalk,
Pools of sky so blue,
Orchard stones that talk,
Where did I sit,
By the gates of silver,
Near endless pit,
By forever horizon,
You may remember it.[/center]
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">I'm not really a bird.<br><br><div class="bb-center">-0-<br><br>Where did I play,<br>A land of twisted branches,<br>A kingdom of clay,<br>A swamp of memories,<br>A never-ending day,<br><br>Where did I run,<br>Across the dawn,<br>Through the sun,<br>Across the sky,<br>Through laughs and fun,<br><br>Where did I walk,<br>Pristine grass green,<br>White cliffs of chalk,<br>Pools of sky so blue,<br>Orchard stones that talk,<br><br>Where did I sit,<br>By the gates of silver,<br>Near endless pit,<br>By forever horizon,<br>You may remember it.</div></div>