The homeland of the Sinn Dhein boasts many mountainous highland regions, lowland vales, ancient forests full of darkness and mystery, green hills rolling on green hills, and numerous rivers and lakes (known as lochs). Standing freshwater volumes are simply enormous. '
The Sinn Dhein nation will become an elective tribal monarchy. The head of state will be the Bhaenrhig or Rhig, the High Queen or High King. The monarch will be elected for a life-term, upon the death of the previous monarch, by the tribal assembly of the Sinn Dhein, which will be known as the Duthchas. The Sinn Dhein Great Ritual, known as the Hyscadal ('the Bull's Vision'), will be carried out by a Treiwynd in order to ascertain who the rightful monarch is. This will involve sleeping inside a bull-hide in order to have a vision revealing the identity of the new monarch. The Hyscadal will theoretically be able to declare anyone in the realm as monarch.
Following this, the Duthchas will be expected to affirm the person selected by voting for the person selected by the dream. The Duthchas may reject the dream's nominee (though doing so could potentially create rifts and divides that would utterly break the unity of the Sinn Dhein kyne and so would be nearly taboo). If, however, the Duthchas is unanimous in its rejection of a dream's nominee, it will be expected that a second Hyscadal would take place and the Duthchas would be invited to vote for the new nominee.
The Duthchas will made up of representatives of the Sinn Dhein clans, and the monarch will sit as its effective head - though this task may be delegated as necessary. Each clan will have a single representative at the Duthchas, generally its chief. The representative can select an unlimited number of delegates to attend the Duthchas's gatherings and represent the interests of the clan there. For particularly large clans, this system will permit the interests of different parts of a clan to be sufficiently represented. When votes take place, each clan will have a single vote. The Duthchas will not be a legislating body as the Sinn Dhein are governed completely by customary law. Instead, the Duthchas will act as an advisory body to the monarch and vote on non-legislative matters of importance, such as declarations of war.
The Sinn Dhein and their clans have and will have no formal judiciary. The druidic Treiwyndyn will play numerous roles, amongst them that of judge and enforcer of the customary law of their particular settlement, region, or clan.
The monarch first monarch, or any thereafter, may establish a precedent of appointing members to a Priyetcyn (a Private Council). Priyetcyn members will have no formal authority but may be delegated power in certain areas. Their primary function will be to act as the monarch's trusted advisors. Priyetcyn members will generally be selected for their expertise and will not necessarily be members of the Duthchas. Though the monarch may choose to delegate duties to these individuals, the monarch will continue to exercise their full, absolute authority simultaneously, and a direct decision from the monarch would over-ride that of any Priyetcyn member.
The Sinn Dhein are a pastoralist people. Their economic life is built around the herding of cattle, goats, and other such animals. Cattle are the measure of material wealth, and cattle raids are an important aspect of economic life. Money plays no part in their economic and everyday life, and all things are done through bartering. Clans may sell their labour or goods in their possession in exchange for goods or the labour of others or enter into a variety of other agreements that ensure the functioning of life in a largely communal manner free of the trappings of money-based market economies.
Ideals
Freedom. Independence. Kyne. Valour. The Clan. Honour. Loyalty.
Personal, individual achievement - e.g. displays of valour on the battlefield, conducting great cattle raids, successfully tricking or in some way besting a for etc. - all add to a person's kyne, and to the greater kyne of his clan and people. Great personal kyne is the greatest achievement and greatest honour for oneself and the clan.
To act in such a manner as to lose kyne - for instance, sacrificing one’s freedom and independence, or being bested by a foe, or losing a prize bull etc. While knowing one's limits and surrendering or fleeing when the odds are stacked against one is no dishonour, allowing oneself to accept enslavement, for it to enter one’s heart, to defend one's enslaver or cooperate with them sincerely and in that way betray one's self, nation, and clan; that is the highest dishonour. One such as this deserves contempt and death and has no kyne of which to speak.
The homeland of the Sinn Dhein boasts many mountainous highland regions, lowland vales, ancient forests full of darkness and mystery, green hills rolling on green hills, and numerous rivers and lakes (known as lochs). Standing freshwater volumes are simply enormous. '
The lost religion of the Sinn Dhein is ancient, their foremost ancestors having worshipped a female goddess with a head of saffron during the great age of the gods. Worship did not immediately wane when the gods disappeared, but eventually the world fell into darkness and all was forgotten. Many of the ancient henges and menhirs were brought low, though a number still remain; ancient relics of a bygone age of glory. Now the Seer is come, and he has spoken to the spirits of the world and communed with the long-gone gods. And the gods shall be worshipped anew.
The ancient Sinn Dhein religion is primarily polytheistic, though it also harbours a deeply animistic element due to the belief that spirits occupy all things in creation — animals, plants, rocks, rivers, weather systems, mortal handiwork, even words. The major gods of the lost pantheon are as follows:
Seihdhara - Head of the Sinn Dhein pantheon. The goddess of war, fire, and love (in all its forms, from motherly love to pure lust). She is believed to be the personification of the Sinn Dhein. She is also known as the Iomaethair (the Bear Mother), the Corcaerdhig (the Crimson Goddess), and the Lasaeroi (the Flame Eternal). The bear is considered her chief sacred animal and symbol, and she is believed to have the magical ability to turn herself into a bear at will. Those born with red hair, or who develop it, are believed to have been blessed by her with general martial and sexual prowess. Indeed, the Blood-heads - a group that existed in the olden days and may well come to exist again - were famed for only accepting into their ranks those with red hair. Red hair is a common - almost universal – Sinn Dhein trait. She is often associated with Elder, Hawthorn, and Birch trees, and the Mistletoe.
M'Gruda - God of life, nature, animals, wealth, and the underworld. The Elm and Cedar tree are associated with him.
Daegeyda - The father god and de facto ruler of the gods. After Seihdhara, he is by far the most important of all the Sinn Dhein deities - and for some, he is even more important than the fiery-haired chief-goddess. Also referred to as 'The Daegeyda', he is the god of magick, wisdom, and fertility. His talents and skills, from fighting to craftsmanship to magick, are famed to be endless. He has a magical stave that kills with a single strike from one side and restores life with a blow from the other. It is so big that it can injure more than one person at a time. His cauldron provides an endless supply of food for the gods and his fruit trees are always ready to harvest. Of his two swine, one is always roasting upon a spit while the other is always alive. He has mated with Seihdhara and other goddesses and has numerous children. He is famed for having slaughtered innumerable ap Morig, but in the middle of the war against them, a short truce was called. The ap Morig decided to get rid of the Daegeyda using his weakness for porridge, his favourite food. They concocted a porridge of superhuman proportions, placing it in a massive crater. It is said that they poured in enough milk to satisfy an entire clan for one year, then added enough fat to supply all the Sinn Dhein for two years, and then put enough meal to feed all the Sinn Dhein for three years. For good measure, they threw in a flock of sheep, a herd of goats, and a passel of pigs. The ap Morig challenged and taunted Daegeyda to eat the porridge or die. The great god leaned over the crater in the ground, sniffed at the mixture of ingredients, put one giant finger into the mess and tasted it, and then, to the amazement of the ap Morig, ate the entire thing. Feeling tired by this, he lay down to nap. Frustrated that their plan had failed, they called for a woman to tempt the Daegeyda. If he mated with her, he would die. They hid behind trees to see what would happen. Daegeyda woke briefly to see the young maiden lying beside him and, although he noticed that she was beautiful, he was still sleepy and satisfied from his meal, so he rolled over and went back to sleep. It is believed, however, that the Daegeyda remained largely dormant ever since, still sleeping off the massive meal. If one wanders into the deepest parts of the forests, one can hear his deep, rumbling snores.
Mac Cugail - God of the sky, thunder, wisdom, and Seihdhara's chief consort. He is associated with the Alder tree.
Ducyffel - Goddess of horses, the sea, death, and fertility. Associated with the Pine tree.
H’Mrorrig - Goddess of poetry, music, spring, dance, fire (alongside Seihdhara), inspiration, metalworking, knowledge, and childbirth – the last of which she shares with Seihdhara. Considered the patron goddess of druids (known collectively as Wyndyn, sing. Wynd), and she is sometimes called the Wyndynobhanrhig (the High-Queen of Druids). Often associated with Fir, Silver Fir, Hazel, Willow, and Oak trees. She tends the cauldron of knowledge and intelligence known as Naethinyb. A tryst with the god Braeniyn during his reign produced a son, Raethin, who would become a leading figure in the ap Morig host of his father. After his attempt to slay the smith god Gilbanu failed and led to his own death, the H'Mrorrig mourned her son's death (even though he was of the enemy) with the first keening; a loud, wailing cry of sorrow that has since become an aspect of Sinn Dhein funerary rituals.
Tymhorau and Raithean – The gods of the seasons. They are a couple who are born in spring as children, then become young lovers in summer before becoming each a mother and a father in autumn, and finally wise elderly folk. They die with the coming of winter to be reborn at the midwinter solstice, alongside the sun, and greet spring as children again. They are associated with the Yew and Holly trees.
Woaghbeigh - The horned lord of beasts and the forest. He has the body of a man and the ears and antlers of a stag. He is often portrayed with animals and wears a torc around his neck, which indicates his lofty status. He can shapeshift into the form of a snake, wolf, or stag.
Leignhu - A strong and handsome warrior, god of light, a skilled craftsman, and a magician credited with making many magical weapons, including a sword that can cut through any object. He also owned a lightning spear that always returned to the hand that had thrown it. He is considered the prodigy of the gods, skilled in all things - a smith, a wright, a metalworker, a powerful warrior, a gifted harpist, and an eloquent poet, he is also a magician, a physician, and a musician, and the inventor of a Sinn Dhein version of chess. A grandson of the ap Morig tyrant, Ghaelon, and son of the god Cihnas and Ghaelon's daughter, Aoghne, he would go on to kill his grandfather as prophesied.
Some minor gods include:
Diabcuraim – Guardian god of the well of knowledge and intelligence, the Naethinyb. H’Mrorrig’s husband.
Theia – Goddess of marriage, marital faithfulness, and family.
Eh’Myr – A minor god of catastrophe and defeat. God of Eigen Moor, where the legendary Chief Eigen was ambushed and suffered a terrible defeat that cost him his life.
Feiyin - A minor goddess believed to be High Queen of the faeries. She is a goddess of love and fertility, is associated with the moon, fruit, pastures, and cattle. She is considered particularly important for healers and herbalists, and is believed to be responsible for the body's life force. She is rather vengeful and displays a sadistic pleasure in punishing those who cross her - for instance, anyone who sits on her throne (which appears to normal people as a normal stone, usually located in glens or groves) is in danger of losing their wits, those who sit three times lose their wits forever. It is believed that she was raped by Aeleyl Ulom, an ancient warlord of Clan ap-Entosh. She ripped off his ear trying to protect herself from him and later had her fae soldiers trap him and bring him to her - she tortures him to this day. It is believed that she fell deeply in love with the ancient hero, Dionin, but that her love was unrequited.
Huirdina - The beautiful daughter of the Seihdhara and Mac Cugail. She is the goddess of the moon, stars, hunting, and forests. She represents wildlife and wilderness, and the ability to tame animals. Her sacred animal is the boar.
Fhaenoh - god of the dead and king of the World Beyond the Veil. A solitary figure, he lived with the dead on a rocky isle off the coast of the Sinn Dhein homeland.
Aggrona - The goddess of battle and slaughter. She was defeated by Seihdhara and now serves in the chief-goddess' retinue, carrying out various duties for her.
Cihnas - A minor god who was able to take on the form of a goat when faced with danger. He was the secret love of Aoghne and the father of Leignhu. Cihnas owned a magical cow that was stolen by a great ap Morig tyrant named Ghaulon. Unable to retrieve the cow, Cihnas plotted revenge. A wynd had predicted that Ghaulon's death would come at the hands of the ap Morig's own grandson. To protect against the curse, Ghaelon had locked his daughter, Aoghne, inside a great, deep mound. The maidens who attended her were under orders to admit no man and were forbidden to speak of men to Aoghne. With the aid of a wynd, Cihnas disguised himself as a woman in order to enter the great mound and seduce Aoghne, who would bear him three children. When Ghaelon discovered the trick, he ordered the children drowned. Only one child, Leighnu, survived. He was raised in secret, and when he was grown he travelled to Seihdhara's court to join his father and the other gods. Leighnu would go on to fulfill the prophecy and slew his grandfather during Brae's invasion of the Sinn Dhein homeland with the ap Morig.
Aerameid - A herbalist goddess, she is the daughter of the physician god Diyaneht and the sister of Michlin. Like her father and brother, Aerameid was a gifted healer - causing Diyaneht to become extremely jealous of her and Michlin's talent. When Seihdhara lost her arm in battle, Diyaneht created a new one for her out of silver, gold, and bronze. But Aerameid and Michlin created another arm out of living flesh. It was so lifelike that Seihdhara was able to regain her throne and position as the chief goddess, even though the injury technically made her unqualified for rulership. Jealousy eating at him, Diyaneht killed Michlin, and Aerameid grieved over her brother's grave. While doing so, she noticed hundreds of plants growing among the flowers on his grave and, realising that they had healing properties, began classifying them. It was a monumental mission, for each type of herb had to be picked and sorted in accordance with its medicinal benefits. Just as she was about to finish, the jealous Diyaneht crept up behind her and scattered the herbs to the winds. Aerameid was never able to recover the herbs and so never completed her work. For this reason, the proper uses for the hundreds of healing herbs are unknown to this day, and Wyndyn have had to experiment and exercise their reasoning over the ages in attempts to recreate her lost work.
Diyaneht - The gifted god of healing and medicine, leading healer of the gods, and a god of fertility. He had two children, Aerameid and Michlin, who were also gifted healers. Diyaneht's greatest moments came during wartime. When the day’s fighting ended, he would bathe the wounded warriors in magical waters. He could heal them so well that they would be ready to resume fighting the next day. Dian could even bring his dead kinsmen back to life. Diyaneht made a silver, gold, and bronze hand and arm for his sister, Seihdhara, to replace the one she lost in battle. The new limb was of cunning design, with jointed fingers and a flexible wrist. With it, Seihdhara could continue to engage in combat. But even with this wonderful arm, Seihdhara was ineligible to rule, since the laws of the land required kings to be in perfect physical condition. Diyaneht's children were also talented healers and made Seihdhara an arm of flesh to replace the silver, gold, and bronze arm. It was so lifelike that Seihdhara was no longer considered to have a defect. Diyaneht, however, felt no pride in his son’s work. Instead, he considered it an insult to the fabulous arm he had made and so killed his son in a fit of jealousy. When healing herbs grew upon the son’s grave, his daughter, Aeramid worked to classify them according to their benefit and their use. But Diyaneht's jealousy got the better of him once again. He came in secret and disrupted her work so that the proper uses for the healing herbs would never be known.
Gilbanu - A god of crafting and smithing. He is famed for using supernatural powers to craft unusually powerful weapons. The speed at which he repairs and forges weaponry with his companions is unparalleled. Weapons of Gilbaru's making are mighty weapons possessing incredible magickal properties. He is also a god of healing and is said to offer a mead during Embilc which grants whoever drinks of it immortality.
Maeihroil: The poet-god and the “Divine Youth.” He is worshipped in the cult of the Divine Youth. The cult features extraordinarily handsome young boys on the threshold of manhood, often in love with women they can’t have. They are skilled in the arts of poetry or music, or connected with healing springs Turaemar: A war god of blood and thunder. He carries a great hammer and is known as the Good Striker. His worshipers, it is said, carried out great human sacrifices to him, burning victims alive in huge wicker-man cages or hanging them upside down from sacred trees. His followers may also offer themselves up for sacrifice, thus earning his favour and protection for the sacrificed one's family and tribe and greatly increasing their kyne.
Drechwr - A god of victory. Was defeated by Seihdhara and is now part of her retinue.
Aengillian - The stunning god of youth, young love, and beauty, known for having coyishly rejected Seihdhara's advances, angering her, before seducing her anyway. He carries a magickal sword and dons a cloak of invisibility, and his kisses take wing and fly away. Four in particular, Ceyin, Piyr, Bleyna, and Aethrar, follow him about in the form of birds wherever he goes. He is known to protect young lovers and cultivate their love.
Eirwyn - God of language and eloquence, and also a god of poetry. He is the brother of Daegeyda, the father god, and father of Maeihroil the Divine Youth. Credited with creating the Eirwyncanan and teaching it to the Arwyndyn, who glorify him tremendously even to this day.
Fyldieas- A woodland goddess who drives a chariot drawn by deer and has connections with other animals.
Babaedna - A goddess of mayhem, slaughter, and battlefield confusion who visits battlefields in the form of a crow and sows utter chaos. She is known to whip warriors into a battle-frenzy - sometimes their frenzy is so great that they do not know friend from foe. She forms part of Seihdhara's retinue.
Bellanes - A god of light and the sun. The festival of Beltane derives its name from and honoures him.
Sruthyfinn - The river goddess after whom the river Sradfynn is named. Her sacred animal is the cow. She drowned when she tried to drink from the the Naethinyb so as to gain supernatural wisdom, but did not have the permission of either the H'Mrorrig or Diabcuraim. When Sruthyfinn tried to drink from the cauldron, its waters rose up and chased her towards the sea, eventually swallowing her up and leaving the goddess dead in its wake. The waters formed a river leading from the well to the sea, which was named the Sradfynn in honour of the goddess.
Beryw - God of therapeutic hot springs.
Gwynnud: A minor god and king of the faefolk. He is one of the kings of the World Beyond the Veil. He has a pack of supernatural hounds, known as the hounds of hell. He can be helpful to those he regards as worthy rulers. He is also a bold and furious huntsman, who leads a pack of supernatural creatures, ghosts, and his hounds of hell on the Wild Hunt. His name means Blessed White Mist. He is also known as Gwyn the Hunter, and in this guise he acts as something of a grim reaper; his appearance signals that someone will soon die. As the king of the faefolk, Gwynnud is connected with the seasonal festival of Beltane, where he fights each month of Bultaeg for the right to marry a fae princess.
Braeniyn - A son of the goddess Ducyffel and a mortal named Viryn. He grew up exceptionally fast and was of formidable strength and was such a sight that he came to be known as Beautiful Brae. When Seihdhara lost her arm and became unable to rule, the gods crowned Braeniyn chief of the gods and Rhig of the Sinn Dhein. Though beautiful, Braeniyn was stingy and crude, taxed the cattle and and other animals so that every clan and household ran short of food and drink, and more or less used the gods as his personal servants. Eirwyn, the god of language and eloquence, was forced to fetch firewood for the entire kingdom, while Daegeyda, the great father god, was put to work constructing forts and defences. Braeniyn would bring about his own downfall through his lack of generosity and hospitality. No sounds of music or poetry filled his halls. No feasts or celebrations were held at his court. His guests were offered meagre food and drink. One day a Fili came to visit and suffered greatly. To pay the Braeniyn back, he composed first Sinn Dhein satire. He performed this poem in front of the entire court, describing the paltry food, drink, and shelter, bringing about great shame for the monarch. Finally, the gods rebelled and brought back Seihdhara, forcing Braeniyn from the throne. It is said that it would be Braeniyn, many centuries later, who would return with the ap Morig to wreak vengeance on the Sinn Dhein and the gods. Though now sealed away with them in the underworld, he will rise again in the end days and a final battle will be had.
Oaollabi - A goddess and fairy queen who possesses a magical harp that presages death for those who hear its music. Her rival was Ciora, the goddess of beauty. In one tale, Ciora cast a spell that turned Oaollabi into a blue boar.
Each individual clan has a clan god, who is the personification and guardian of that particular clan. It is not unusual for the clan god to be the progenitor of the clan. The major historical regions of the Sinn Dhein homeland also have patron gods, as do specific sacred locations or locations of historical import, such as places where significant battles occurred (for the gods are still indirectly involved in mortal affairs, and the happenings in the mortal world are a reflection of happenings in the celestial domain). For instance, the patron god of Eigen Moor, where the legendary Chief Eigen was ambushed and suffered a terrible defeat that cost him his life, is Eh'Myr, a minor god of catastrophe and defeat. Forces of nature, such as the sun, the moon, the wind, forests, and so on, are sometimes worshipped as gods in non-anthropomorphic terms (the sacred mountain, Caer Seihdhar, is amongst these). Things such as trees are considered alive and to have souls and shrines may be dedicated to them even though they are not necessarily gods. Various animals - particularly the bear, the animal of Seihdhara - are held sacrosanct.
Temples and religious 'buildings' are considered alien and an insult to the gods who made the stretched out earth and endless skies. The Sinn Dhein strongly favour worshipping in nature beneath an open sky, rather than inside man-made structures of any sort – even worship within the home is frowned upon. The ancient forebears of the Sinn Dhein have constructed stone circles or stone monuments to their gods, and what remain of these ancient structures continue to be a staple of Sinn Dhein worship; they are the only legitimately recognised man-made religious structure. These structures can be exceedingly large and complex, spreading across hills in generally circular patterns. Sacred groves or springs, which are naturally occurring sites considered sacred, are also places where worship and various rituals can take place, though this form of worship is currently lost to the Sinn Dhein. According to myth, such sacred sites and shrines were usually tended to or presided over by a Wynd during the great age when the gods walked the earth.
Sinn Dhein religion will have no centralised clergy or priesthood in the sacerdotal sense. Instead, they will druids known as Wynden (sing. Wynd)). Due to their close association with nature, Wynden will be believed to have control over the weather and shape-shift into animal form – whether this is true will be uncertain, but will be given credence by the Wynd practice of wearing animal skin or horns or feathers during rituals so as to invoke the animal’s power. Wyndyn will be a rather diverse group – young, old, men, women, rich, poor, of esteemed or relatively humble origins. They will come to form what is possibly the most powerful class in Sinn Dhein society, though the enthronement of a high king will no doubt temper this authority, as would the establishment a Duthchas. The Wyndyn will be free to marry – the concept of celibacy already being utterly foreign and ludicrous to the Sinn Dhein peoples. Wyndyn will often marry other Wyndyn or clan lairds. The Wyndyn, according to legends that will be unveiled by the Seer in time, underwent severe persecution after the departure of the gods from the world, either due to foreign peoples invading the Sinn Dhein homeland or for other reasons. This is natural, for anyone seeking to monopolise power would be jealous of the extensive power, influence, religious sway that Wyndyn have, as well as their ability to incite rebellion. In this dark period, sacred sites where Wyndyn generally gathered were attacked and destroyed, and many Wyndyn were slaughtered. One of the most famous such attacks occurred against a large assembly of Treiwynden near the a’Cheimbyc Hills, which was so brutal that the event became known as the Rape at Byc. Still, the Wynden fought and persevered, though ultimately both they and their religion were swept away by the deluge of the dark age.
When re-established by the Seer, Wyndyn will be of two types. These are non-hierarchical; simply different types of Wyndyn who carry out differing duties. The three types are:
Tweiwynden – So-called ‘clan druids’.
Arwyndyn – So-called scholarly druids, they are split into a number of holy orders.
Treiwyndyn
Clan Wynden - known as Treiwyndyn (sing. Treiwynd -, whose expertise and learning will be handed down from one clan Treiwynd to another over generations, will have the greatest interaction with people on a daily basis. Treiwynd instruction, unlike that of Arwyndyn, will be secret and take place in caves and forests. Preserving their newly unveiled ancient tradition, all religious learning will be done orally and in no other way; Treiwynd lore will consist of a large number of orally transmitted ‘books’ learned by heart, and so Treiwyndyn will be known for their astounding feats of memorisation. It can take up to twenty years of instruction for a Treiwynd to complete their studies. Treiwyndyn will be present at births to bless newborns, carry out prophetic and divination rituals and give oracles, and will also be important religious leaders in the clan hierarchy, legal authorities, adjudicators, preservers of clan tradition, lorekeepers, medical professionals, teachers to the young, and - as they were in ancient times - political advisors (indeed, the authority of Treiwyndyn will be such that they will be able to cause feuding armies to turn back and put their weapons aside even against the will of clan chiefs or warlords, and a custom will come to exist that a warrior must hand their weapon to a Treiwynd on demand, even if they happen to be in the midst of battle).
Treiwyndyn will generally be responsible for organising and leading worship at stone circles or monuments as well as sacred groves, and also prepare and offer animal sacrifices and lead various rituals. During legal disputes, a Treiwynd will nearly always the arbiter, or the leading member of a team of arbiters. They will be exempted from military service and from the payment of tribute to the the Rhig, though it would not be unusual for Treiwyndyn to generally accompany armies (particularly if they are marching against enemies of all the Sinn Dhein).
Treiwyndyn, unlike other Wyndyn, will hold great immediate power on the lives of individuals, clans, and the Sinn Dhein nation itself. Treiwyndyn will play a critical role in the selection of a Rhig through a ritual called the Hyscadal (‘the Bull’s Vision’). A ritual from the Sinn Dhein age of gods, heroes, and great Rhigs who ruled the land from mount to shore, this ‘Great Divination Ritual’ will be reinstated once the Sinn Dhein are a united under one Rhig again. Used to determine who the rightful Rhig would be, the Hyscadal requires a Treiwynd to eat of the flesh of a freshly-slain bull before sleeping enwrapped within its yet-bloody hide so as to divine, through dreams, who the rightful Rhig would be. This ritual will usually take place in a cave on Caer Seihdhar. If the Treiwynd does not have a vision, he is sewn within the bull-hide and placed under a high waterfall to aid him in having it. The Treiwynd in question could theoretically see anybody in his vision, from the lowliest shepherd to the most senior members of Sinn Dhein society. Following this ritual, the members of the Duthchas have the opportunity to cast their votes on whether they wish to elect the one nominated by the vision.
Treiwyndyn will also have the capacity to strip a person of their rights, barring them from religious ceremony and all clan matters and so rendering them an outlaw without clan or purpose. The Treiwyndyn must have a legitimate reason when they do this, but they are the only ones capable of doing so.
Arwyndyn
There will be various holy orders which produce scholarly Wynden - known as Arwyndyn (sing. Arwynd) - dedicated to study and research. They differ from the Treiwyndyn in numerous ways – they, for instance, will have a rich writing tradition. The written language of Arwynden, known as the Eirwyncanan, is a secret language that differs from the spoken Sinn Dhein language. It can also be spoken and, interestingly enough, signed with one’s hands (in fact, it is believed that Eirwyncanan as sign language preceded both the written or spoken language). All works authored by the Arwynden in ancient times were traditionally in this secret tongue, and all their written, spoken, and signed communications to one another will be in it once the Seer re-established them, meaning that their world will be completely inaccessible to laypeople and even other Wynden.
This secret language is believed to have developed during the ancient ap Morig of the Sinn Dhein homeland, during the glorious age of the gods, with the goal of preserving Wynd and general Sinn Dhein lore, magick & spells, law, customs, history, literature, political challenges, and so on. This will undoubtedly mean that the Arwynden will become the powerful arbiters of which customs have been and will be preserved and which ones will simply be allowed to slip from communal memory. The Arwynden do not have a complete monopoly in this regard, however, for their reclusiveness and general lack of participation in daily rituals – left to the Treiwynden – will mean the latter have ample space to contest and challenge Arwynd designs.
During the period of ap Morig occupation, as well as later occupations when the gods left the world, Wynden of all stripes were actively persecuted and active attempts were made to have their books burned. However, the Arwynden of the times were easily able to disperse deep into the Sinn Dhein homeland’s forests, or into the mountains, or to independent clan-lands, preserving the great majority of books. In due time many of these were forgotten in caves or deep in forests, or buried with the dead, though due to some kind of magickal blessing they have survived. It remains for the Seer to travel and gather these important works again.
Interestingly, though the Arwyndyn will only ever correspond with one another in Eirwyncanan, they will correspond with outsiders to their orders in the Sinn Dhein tongue, and will perhaps be the only segment of Sinn Dhein society that will be actively interested in learning foreign languages and corresponding with outsiders.
Human sacrifice was practised by the Sinn Dhein in the past to please and gain the favour of the war of blood and thunder, Turaemar, though it fell out of regular use and was forgotten during the dark age. Both self-sacrifice and sacrifice of others was practised in numerous forms from wicker man burnings to hanging people upside down from trees. This is generally done to gain the kyne of the sacrificed individuals. When a person offers themselves up to be sacrificed, the greater their kyne then the greater the blessing from it. Animal sacrifices are also generally accepted and will become widely practised again, as they were in ancient time.
Wyndyn will generally have the capacity to carry out prophetic, divination, or oracular rituals, gaining inspiration through dreams and various mediums. Wyndyn will sometimes seclude themselves in caves or other very dark places so as to facilitate inspiration and be transported beyond their own mind so as to see into the given god or goddess’ own thoughts. This process of inspiration is all about awe and wonder, and the drive to see into the unknown so as to glimpse even a small ray of the ultimate truth. It is thought that common people are capable of having certain forms of basic premonition through bodily sensations that tell the future. So for instance if one’s mouth is itching, it is a sign that the person will soon be kissed; if one’s ears are suddenly burning hot, someone somewhere is talking about their character.
However, when actively divining, a Wyndyn (and any interested amateur) will have an array of skills and techniques at their disposal, as listed below.
Rhadharc
‘The Sight’ is a basic psychic ability present only in females, suspected to flow through the female bloodline from mother to daughter. Though often cryptic and filled with symbolism, the oracles of those with the Rhadharc are taken with absolute seriousness. Treiwyndyn who possess the Rhadarc play an important role in giving children their Faisehd at birth.
Dreams
While a dream may just be that, sometimes it is far more. As a means of divination, they can come spontaneously, be anticipated, or be induced. A person who believes they have had a prophetic dream can go to a Wynd to have it interpreted. If a Wynd is actively seeking a dream, or someone has come to them seeking to induce a prophetic dream, the dreamer can prepare by mediating, purifying themselves through fasting, and by having an animal sacrifice carried out for them. In some cases, one may enwrap themselves in the hide of the sacrificed animal (as is the case with the Hyscadal). It is also generally good practice to carefully select the location where one decides to sleep. Sleeping in areas like sacred springs, sacred groves, stone circles or monuments – which have greater divine and magickal qualities – is more likely to produce a vision. The time of year is also of relevance, as some part of the year see a greater convergence of the spirit ream on the realm of the living. Moreover, Wynden are generally aware of herbs and can produce concoctions which aid with prophetic dreams – though these can sometimes have strange side-effects.
Shoulder Blade Reading
While the practice of reading entrails is carried out by Wyndyn, reading marks in the shoulder blade of an animal, usually an ox, bear, fox, or sheep, is considered a surer way to see into the future. The lengthy ritual of preparing the bone is passed on from Wynd to Wynd and involves boiling the bone in a special concoction, preparing it, and then reading the marks. Marks can indicate people to be met in future, while holes and indentations could mean death or prosperity depending on their size and location.
Omens
Omens are sought for nearly every activity, but are especially important when beginning a journey. The first animal one sees, its posture, what it is doing, as well as the sex, dress, and actions of the first person one meets on the way all foretell one’s chances of success or failure. Moreover, birds are considered especially geared towards foretelling the future. Certain sacred birds, their flight patterns, positions, calls, and other behaviour, are used to divine the future. Depending on these factors, it could mean anything from the imminent arrival of visitors to death and doom for household and clan.
Casting Lots
A group of sticks (made from the sacred woods associated with the gods), or bones, or stones, are tossed and read. The resulting pattern can foretell whether a sickly person would be cured, can identify a potential spouse, or foretell the good or bad fortune of a person.
Everyday Divination
There are numerous other forms of commonplace divination techniques utilised by lay people and Wyndyn alike – these are usually intended to help find love. Things simple as dancing hazelnuts over the fire at Sambane, the pattern in the ashes of the fire on Embilc, or dreaming of one’s love on Beltane. Scrying, or gazing into springs, into fire, or searching for patterns in the clouds, are all common techniques. Young couples in some parts of the Sinn Dhein homeland have a practice where a shovel is positioned on top of a fire and two grains of wild wheat placed on it. As the shovel grows hotter the grains edge towards each other, swell, and grow. Eventually they pop off the shovel - if they do so together, the couple should marry, but if they jump separately then the couple are to go their separate ways.
Sinn Dhein visionary poets or bards, known as Filim (sing. Fili) will carry out some unique roles in Sinn Dhein society. While they will often be mistakenly associated with Treiwyndyn and their forms of magic by foreigners, Filim will in fact be very different. Their role is ultimately not religious, but secular. Their duties include lorekeeping, versecraft, and the memorisation of vast numbers of traditional and contemporary poems. A Fili’s formal training will take anything between seven to twelve years depending on how gifted the individual in question is. The words of Filim wil be understood to be so powerful that they are tantamount to magick.
Amongst the functions of a Fili in Sinn Dhein culture and society will be to praise or satirise. A person who is praised can expect to be remembered as a great hero or a person of valour down through the ages, their kyne permanently enhanced. If satirised, they would be forever infamous. Satire is considered so damning that people have fallen down dead on learning that they had been satirised. Indeed, the satire of a Fili is considered a weapon in itself, having often been employed by warring clans against each other in the past (and where feuds arise, it still is). The satire of a gifted Fili is thus a serious curse on the one being satirised, and to run afoul of these poets is a dangerous thing indeed to a people who value reputation, kyne, and honour above life. Ancient Sinn Dhein tales speak of Filim actually rhyming people and animals to death, and other tales speak of Fili songs that induce sleep, control emotion, and cause sickness or death.
While praise is for the living, Filim are also expected to compose and recite eulogies on worthy heroes (ancient and more contemporary) and their many valorous deeds. They also memorise the genealogies of their patrons and recite poetry honouring and glorifying past and present heroes of their patron’s clan, their acts of glory, and much else about the patron themselves so as to enhance the kyne of the living descendants and clan of the dead.
It has traditionally been the case that those considered noble (clan chiefs or others high within the clan hierarchy, as well as those who occupy positions of power generally within a kingdom or confederation) were the butt of Fili satire due to lack of generosity or hospitality, or due to giving bad advice or engaging in dishonourable conduct. Satire has thus often been a manner of holding powerful figures to account and pressuring them into abiding by customs or their own laws. Indeed, Sinn Dhein leaders since time immemorial have been known to sometimes act against their natural inclinations out of fear of satire. This is the case more widely also, for the threat of being satirised has often ensured that everyday people abided by pledges, kept their word, and generally saw the more immediate benefits of keeping to customary ways and laws.
Despite their immense power, Filim are expected to use their tongues with responsibility. Satirising somebody without a legitimate cause is considered a serious crime carrying severe penalties – for doing damage to someone’s honour and reputation is worse even than murder in Sinn Dhein culture and society.
In many ways, Filim have been the national poets or bards of the Sinn Dhein homeland since time immemorial. The bardic order, the Cumannfil, was formed during the glorious age of the gods and spelled the first truly pan-Sinn Dhein group to emerge that was involved and concerned with the everyday life of lay people (unlike the Arwyndyn holy orders which, while being pan-Sinn Dhein, were anything but involved with the common person). The Cumannfil contributed immensely to the rejuvenation of Sinn Dhein religion and the preservation of their ways and customs when the gods departed from the world, and though in time they were swept away by the deluge of the dark ages, poetry is still quite important to present-day Sinn Dhein (though they do no necessarily understand why). When re-established by the Seer, he will organise the annual Tionilfil, an all-encompassing gathering of poets, musicians of all stripes.
The Trosychyn (sing. Trosych) are those exiled from their clan and clan-lands by the Treiwyndyn and who have effectively become outlaws. Individuals may be outlawed in this manner for many reasons: going against the judgement or command of a Treiwynd (whose word is ultimately final), breaking customary law, refusing pay an eraic, and various other things. Exiled nobles who have clout may often raise armies and fight their way back into society. Such individuals presently exist, even before the re-establishment of ancient Sinn Dhein religion and culture.
Trosychyn tend to live in the wilderness. Usually, those who remain on the wild-lands have an established tacit alliance with a local clan for both their protection and that of the clan. Traditionally these agreements have ensured that Trosychen did not prey on the clan in question and could be called upon to fight with the clan and defend it if necessary. These tacit agreements may also be struck so that the clan has someone who is already outside the law or not associated directly with it to do its dirty work – murder, revenge, raids, targeted killings, and so on. Being outside the law and having been denied the benefits of obeying it, the punishment of the law cannot be enforced against them by those they harm. The only way to get justice in such situations is for the aggrieved party to track down the Trosychen and dispose of them personally.
The elderly generally occupy positions of authority amongst their descendants, viewed as progenitors and akin to chiefs. This is not a formal designation, for each clan has its one clan chief, but one’s age and the number of one’s progeny are a sign of influence and clout (for sons and grandsons are obligated under customary Sinn Dhein law to care for and obey their parents), and one naturally has authority over one's sept. The elderly of the leading clan family (generally the elderly amongst a chief’s extended family) are considered clan elders and have leadership roles in the clan hierarchy, usually as members of a clan council of some kind. The leading family usually does not necessarily dominate these. It is not unusual for elderly folk to predominate these councils due to the general nature of their authority within their social relations.
The young are considered children of the clan as well as of their parents, and all have a responsibility towards them, to educate them, inculcate within them the clan's particular spirit and ways, as well as a general understanding of Sinn Dhein ways, customs, and laws. Thus raising children is generally the equal and primary responsibility of both parents (not just the mother), followed by immediate family, and then the wider clan.
Different Sinn Dhein clans have different laws regarding lineage – some matrilineal and others patrilineal. Where a couple each comes from a lineage background that conflicts with the other’s, agreement regarding lineage must be arrived at and placed in the marriage contract before the marriage takes place. Lineage is particularly important for matters of inheritance (discussed below) and in ascertaining to whose parent’s side the child is primarily related (important, for instance, for knowing who must seek vengeance if a child is killed, to whom the child goes if both parents are no longer present, amongst other things).
Due to fathers (or their equivalent if the biological father is not present) having to climb Caer Seihdhar while their pregnant wife is giving birth, so as to seek out an omen for the newborn's Ainaim (soul-name), couples tend to move near the sacred mountain around the time of birth. Due to this, the various towns at the mountain's foot are renown for their midwives and medicine-men.
In accordance with general Sinn Dhein custom, if a child is born due to rape or seduction, the responsibility for raising the child falls to the seducing or raping party. The father has responsibility for raising the child if the mother is dead, ill, disabled, insane, or exiled from her tribe. An unmarried mother has sole responsibility for the rearing of the child if the father is foreign, or exiled from his tribe. If a woman is impregnated by a man with no income or lands of his own against the wishes of his parents, she is fully responsible for the child. Likewise, if a man impregnates a woman without income or lands against the wishes of her parents, he is fully responsible for the child. Where both parties are landless and without income, and where they carried out the deed against the wishes of both their parents, the child is aborted. Indeed, an unmarried pregnant woman is obliged, according to custom, to either abort or marry. Prostitutes (usually a position occupied by unmarried Treiwyndyn and considered a socially important position) are the exception to this, and they – male or female – are fully responsible for their children. Ultimately, Sinn Dhein custom does not recognise and does not allow for ‘illegitimate’ children. All children are ultimately sons or daughters of the clan and are raised raised by it.
Children must undergo a rite of passage, known as the Galontaith Seihdhara (Journey to the Heart of Seihdhara), a six-month period in which the young person must journey through forests, mountains, and through the land of other clans, so as to make the spiritual and traditional transition into adulthood. The exact age at which this rite of passage is carried out differs by clan, though all Sinn Dhein have generally accomplished it by the age of seventeen. This rite of passage is carried out by both males and females, and it is not unusual for a person undergoing the journey to rid themselves of their virginity along the way.
An interesting custom and institution common to all Sinn Dhein clans is that of foster parentage, in which children of a household within the clan are given away to another. This practice is designed primarily to tighten the links between two families, though it may also be practised due to a family’s inability to care for a child, and payment was in fact involved.
Fostering means that a child, male or female, spends some part of their childhood in the household of another family, learning a trade, how to fight, or how to govern from them. The child can be sent to the foster family at any time once they have reached the age of one year. The child returns to their blood family on completing their Galontaith Seihdhara. During the period of fosterage, the foster family is responsible for the child’s education (facing heavy customary penalties if it is not imparted properly) and is responsible for any harm or injury suffered by the child.
A slightly different species of fosterage exists where a master of a craft takes students in (sometimes for payment, though this is rare). These students are essentially adopted by their masters, though they are not considered heirs. Should a master wish for their adopted student to be considered an heir, a proper adoption ritual not based on the master-student relationship needs to be carried out. Adoption of this latter variety is not too common, though kin (brothers, uncles, grandfathers, and so on) do adopt children if something happened to the parents.
Traditionally, fosterage to renowned warriors was exceptionally important in imparting traditional warrior values and proper training on young Sinn Dhein. Sinn Dhein, depending on clan, begin their training anywhere between the ages of six and nine (naturally developing into partaking in steadily more daring martial activities as they grow) and have traditionally been expected to master, amongst other things, the following skills:-
Dexterity – Proven through various acts, such as juggling swords.
Strength
Traditional Sinn Dhein martial arts
The ‘Six Feats’ – Hurling weights, Running, Leaping, Swimming, Wrestling, and Chariot Riding.
The Voice – A traditional clan war-cry that differs by clan. This tends to be rather blood-curdling and freakish. The cries of some clans are masterful imitations of the sounds various animals make, while others still are anything but naturally occurring.
The ‘Three Hielanman’s Skills’ – Hunting, Fishing, and Hawking.
Poetry, Music, Heraldry, Diplomatic skill etc.
Rowing, Swimming, and various water-related skills
Sinn Dhein Chess
Weapons Handling – Archery, slinging, javelin throwing, swordsmanship, sword and buckler fighting, quarterstaff handling etc.
Various other games and sports (for complete list, see Lignsid)
At the end of the first phase of their training, before carrying out their rite of passage into adulthood, warriors have to prove their skill. It differs by clan, but examples include participating in a cattle raid from which they must return with proof of their valour – potentially the head of a cow or bull.[/indent ]
Inheritance is a complex affair, particularly since different clans are bound to have slightly different laws and customs on inheritance. Generally, children have the same rights of inheritance regardless of any other considerations. So, in a patrilineal system, the son of a chief wife and the son of a lesser wife, or the child produced during a temporary marriage, have equal right to inherit. However, exiles and abandoned children who are in every way children of the clan cannot inherit. Children of prostitutes likewise cannot inherit from their non-prostitute parent. Certain land is considered to belong to the clan rather than being personal property. It is granted by the clan to individuals and their progeny for an indefinite period. So while this land can be inherited and split between family members freely, it can never pass out of the clan’s ownership. Land which a person comes to possess, and which is not initially clan land, may pass into the possession of the clan eventually or become generally regarded as part of that clan's patrimony.
Inheritance seeps somewhat into clan succession also, though rituals, in imitation of the way Rhigs are selected, may also affect customary laws of succession.
Three kinds o' men wha fail tae ken wummin: young men, auld men 'n' middle-aged men.
The role of women in Sinn Dhein society is odd and often contradictory, largely due to the fact that different clans have different customs and laws regarding women. On the whole, however, women are free to own land, manage their personal wealth, engage in trade and business, marry and divorce at will, and join in as combatants during war. Wealth accrued by a married woman, as is the case with a married man, is considered to belong to both.
Due to some long-forgotten case of harassment or kidnapping or some such, nearly every clan has a women's code largely meant to keep men of foreign clans from harassing a clan’s women.
The Code of the Women of Ol Mirti:
Don’t blether tae mah breests; you’ll nae be meetin thaim.
If ye dae blether tae thaim, you’ll be meetin mah sword.
Mah sicht oan loue daein' is na.
Keep this in mynd: mah fowk kin kick yer people’s bahookie anyday o' th' week.
It's nae th' size o' yer sword that counts, it's- na, wait… size counts.
Women have historically played important roles as active participants and leaders in major campaigns and wars, the heroic fury of Sinn Dhein women in battle having become the subject of many epics. Invaders in ages past often expressed their awe at the primal power of these ‘savage people’s women’, and theor warriors considered it a great victory to make one of them theirs; often, though not always, ending terribly for the warrior in question.
Largely due to the importance of Seihdhara, goddess of love, clans have tended to be very open about interaction between the sexes, and pre- or extra-marital sexual encounters are normal. This while honourable conduct is important, this has given rise to oddities where, for instance, a warrior successfully wooing an opponent's wife is seen as having earned great kyne, and likewise with other not-so-honourable yet successful conduct.
Wid ye lik' tae be buried wi' mah fowk?
***
Wid ye lik' tae donder th' tree wi' me? – Some Sinn Dhein marriage proposals
Marriage is of extreme importance for the Sinn Dhein. A person of marriageable age who is not yet married is looked upon strangely and can be expected to be the butt of many jokes. The first Monday of the Sinn Dhein month Kyffel, known as ‘Chalk Monday’, is dedicated to playing tricks and pranks on single people. The custom is to creep up on them and subtly mark their back with chalk – it is best to do this in crowded places. If caught, the perpetrator/s had better run! As Beltane is drawing near at this time, these pranks are meant to remind the single person of their unmarried state and spur them to marry come Beltane.
Marriages among the Sinn Dhein are polygamous. This is largely due to the fact that polyamory is a central aspect of Seihdhara's nature; the goddess enjoys multiple consorts and is not in fact married to any of them. The development of the custom of marriage is attributed to the minor goddess Theia. Multiple wives and multiple husbands are thus not uncommon. Marriages are the primary form of legitimate procreation and are set up, to a great extent, for the protection of children and to clarify the rights of the husband and wife. The protection of property rights of both parties also factors in. Importantly, marriages are also a form of social capital and a way to forge alliances and cement friendships. Of course, they can most certainly be for love, but love is believed to be somewhat distinct from marriage (perhaps no where made more clear than in the fact of the goddess of love being separate from the goddess of marriage). Due to marriage’s focus on procreation, the question of same-sex marriage has never arisen, and will likely never arise, in Sinn Dhein society. Beyond this there is no real recognition of or differentiation between hetero- and homosexual relations; sex is sex.
In this vein, the Sinn Dhein generally tend to be rather libertine. Fun and dalliances are treated light-heartedly and with innocence. However, it is best not to boast or be open about who one has slept with in cases where someone's spouse is involved, as feuds over these matters are by far the most common. It is also a general custom for women not to bear the child of any other than her official husbands – where accidental pregnancies occur, Sinn Dhein have developed a particularly effective abortifacient which has been used since ancient times; Sinn Dhein mythology attributes its origins to Seihdhara. Where a woman has multiple husbands or extra-marital affairs, fatherhood is generally established through a Treiwynd ritual. Indeed, ‘marital faithfulness’ is not measured by whether one engages in various sexual dalliances with other partners, but by whether one only allows one’s spouses to mother or father one’s children.
Funnily, the customs of many clans permit an established spouse to murder, or hurt, the new partner of their husband or wife within the first three days of marriage. A small eraic may result, but this is recognised as one of their customary rights. This is in fact a growing custom, and clans that were not known to practice it have increasingly adopted it. This has led to the development of a practice where newlyweds go away somewhere together for the first few days of their marriage.
Generally speaking, marriage partners have an obligation to take care of each other and to leave something for each other in their wills. If one’s spouse has other partners, no such obligation exists towards those. It is custom for siblings to get married in order of seniority. This puts pressure on older brothers and sisters to marry swiftly so as not to deny their younger siblings. A way around this where an elder sibling does not wish to get married quite yet are so-called temporary marriages that last exactly one year and one day. These are often ‘trial’ marriages that lead to a more permanent union.
Sinn Dhein customary law, with various minor variations, generally recognises the following types of marriage, in order of importance.
A Clan union takes place where numerous members of one clan marry individuals from another clan en masse. It has occurred on a number of occasions in Sinn Dein history and is generally done when two clans wish to merge or cement their alliance.
A common union takes place between partners who bring the same amount of wealth into the marriage. This is the most common form of marriage, and the spouses are considered in all ways equal ‘co-lords’ of their family.
An unequal union takes place where one partner has less property than the other. The poorer spouse effectively comes under the financial protection of the richer one. It is a way for poorer individuals to marry into wealth and ensure the wealth of their progeny.
A propertyless union is a marriage in which each spouse retains their property separately, rather than having it become family property. The rights of children are safeguarded and they inherit as usual.
A flesh union is the mutual consent of the man and woman to share their bodies, but live under separate roofs. Again, the rights of children to inherit are safeguarded.
A war union is a marriage where a defeated enemy’s spouse or spouses are abducted. This marriage is valid only as long as the abductor can hold onto the spouse or spouses. It is practised sporadically during the eruption of clan feuds.
A warrior’s union is a temporary and primarily sexual union contracted for no more than a night. It is often entered into by warriors taking part in a war or conducting a long raid. The rights of any children that come about are protected, but if the marriage was patrilineal the father is required to formally adopt the child, otherwise the child becomes a child of the father’s clan.
A loony union occurs between feeble-minded or insane people. Considered to have been possessed by a spirit, insane people are often paired together. Insane people generally remain in the care of the clan.
Fertile - As procreation is one of the primary purposes of a marriage, infertile or impotent men (jestfully referred to as ‘unarmed men’) and barren women cannot enter into a marriage. A person who discovers their spouse is infertile can immediately dissolve the marriage. Indeed, virginity is looked upon with suspicion and a defect in a potential spouse as it may suggest a lack of ability in the bedsheets. Those who were or are married and have produced children are thus particularly attractive as their fertility is established.
Wealthy - A person without land or cattle (however little) cannot marry, as they bring no wealth to the marriage.
Healthy - A very fat person (measured by waste girth) also cannot marry as they are considered incapable of performing their duties, and it casts doubt as to one’s martial prowess. As a warrior people, the Sinn Dhein are somewhat obsessed with physical prowess, and so being fat is both a disgrace that lessens one's kyne and a punishable offence among certain clans.
Self-sacrificing and Industrious - Generally, an ideal spouse is one prepared to suffer for the sake of the marriage and future children, and industriousness in caring for one’s spouse and children are virtues.
Melodious, Intelligent, Brave, and Attractive - An ideal spouse should have a pleasant speaking voice, be able to sing, and should be clever, crafty, brave, and good looking. While it is not as much of a focus for a woman, being a capable fighter is considered more of a virtue in women than in men (in whom it is a necessity, and one is not praised for doing the bare minimum expected).
Courtship plays an important role in the marriage process for common, unequal, propertyless, flesh, and loony unions. Even though abductions, in the context of war unions, are considered a form of courtship, Sinn Dhein marriages are generally based on consent built over a long or short period of courtship. Only a warrior’s union, if abduction is considered a form of courtship, does not have a courtship process.
Courtship practice differs tremendously by region and clan, and those that exist are more than can be enumerated, however below are two interesting customs.
One interesting custom practiced by clans in the Sinn Dhein east is for the person who has identified a potential spouse to go to their house accompanied by a friend and throw their cap (usually a tam o’ shanter or a tartan hat of some kind) through the door when it is opened. If the cap is thrown back by the potential spouse it means they are not interested. One should be careful not to rush to throw the hat in case the potential spouse is not the one who opens the door – it would be awkward explaining the mistake to one’s potential mother- or father-in-law!
Another interesting custom, practised by clans in the coastal regions, is that of carving lovespoons for one’s beloved. How this absurd custom emerged and spread is not quite clear, though its practice in coastal regions suggests a link to sailors who, while journeying to far off places, would bring spoons back to their loved ones. This practice seems to have caught on with lovers generally. The lovespoons are intricately decorated with things like keys (symbolising the key to the carver’s heart), wheels (symbolising the promise of industriousness and hard work) and beads (for the the number of children the carver would like).
It is common practice for each of the spouses-to-be to pay a discretionary amount of money to their prospective mother- and father-in-law, who then divided it with the clan chief. A base sum of money is then paid annually to one’s in-laws.
Marriages are most commonly held during the feast of Beltane. Due to the great number of marriages that take place during the feast, it is not uncommon for couples to be married in groups. It is also common, just before the ceremony begins, for the family of the bride to ‘kidnap’ her. The groom and his family must then pursue the ‘kidnappers’ and rescue the bride. Where the marriage is matrilineal, the roles are reversed. In some regions it is believed that whoever actually frees the kidnapped bride would themselves marry on the following Beltane.
Both brides and grooms usually wear the traditional tartan of their clan for the wedding ceremony itself. In some clans it is viewed as a sign of good fortune if the bride’s clothes are accidentally torn before the ceremony. The ceremony itself takes place in the open air, often in a place of spiritual significance, such as sacred groves, near sacred springs, or at stone circles, and all those in attendance go barefooted.
Wedding vows are almost universal, but their substance differs greatly between clans. The pledge of Clan Braeg o’ MgIlsen is as follows
Ye cannae possess me, fur a'm mah sole possessor, but while we baith wish 'n' th' gods decree, ah gie ye that whilk ah kin give. You cannae command me, fur a'm free but ah wull serve ye freely a' ye need and th' honeycomb wull taste sweeter comin' from a free hand I pledge tae ye that yers wull be th' name ah greet aloud in th' night and th' een intae whilk ah smile in th' morn I pledge tae ye th' foremaist bite o' mah meat and th' foremaist dram fae mah cup I pledge tae ye mah living 'n' mah dying, baith o' thaim in yer care and tae speak nae tae strangers o' oor griefs this is ma vow tae ye, th' pledge o' an equal tae an equal
As the newlyweds depart the grove or circle, bagpipes are played and milk diluted with water and drops of blood is often sprayed at them in order to ensure a fruitful union. A recent custom that has spread rapidly expects both newlyweds to throw a handful of sweetened nuts to children. It is believed that this simple act of generosity ensures wealth and happiness for many years.
A feast usually takes place immediately following the ceremony and every guest is expected to bring food for this. Donations of food or other forms of wealth by those who are unable to be at the ceremony are also commonplace. During the feast, either the bride or groom can take steps to ensure marital faithfulness by disappearing midway through the feast and giving the other a drink in secret while whispering to them what is believed to be a charm. A wife may say something along the lines of
This is th' charm ah set oan ye, A woman’s charm o' truth 'n' honour: Ye mah plough 'n' ah yer field, 'n' none bit we forever; Yer bairns mines 'n' mah bairns yers, aan oor honour bound
As marriage is essentially a contract, it can be dissolved by either party at any time, though usually there is some kind of grievance that causes it. There is no social stigma associated with divorce as it is viewed as the dissolution of a contract, like the dissolution of any agreement. In cases where there is no particular grievance that has caused the divorce but both parties consented to the divorce, the length of the marriage becomes important in ascertaining how property is to be split. Marriages that have lasted seven years and more see all marriage property divided equally between the parties. Where one party has not consented to the divorce, or the marriage lasted less than seven years, a team of arbiters carries out an investigation to decide how to split the wealth between them.
Marital faithlessness, defined as siring or birthing the child of one who is not one’s spouse, is sufficient grounds for divorce. Marital faithlessness does not automatically result in divorce however; the aggrieved party must halt sexual relations with the guilty one and then begin divorce proceedings. In cases like this, the aggrieved party generally leaves the marriage with all the wealth they came into it with as well as all wealth the couple accumulated over the period of the marriage. Wealth the guilty one entered the marriage with is retained, and any wealth earned or primarily owned by the guilty party’s other spouses is not factored in.
Some clans recognise some very odd grounds for divorce, such as a spouse having bad breath. However, more common grounds are things like a spouse being obese or infertile. Not being industrious, or showing a lack of adequate concern for one’s spouse and children are also widely recognised grounds for divorce. Participating in criminal activity is also a legitimate ground for divorce, and a spouse who becomes an exile can be unilaterally divorced (the exile’s wealth is generally split between the clan, the exile’s family, and the divorcing spouse). If a spouse believes they were seduced into into marriage by trickery or magick, that can also be legitimate grounds for divorce.
Betraying one’s spouse to their enemies is also a grounds for divorce, as is dishonouring them (this is very broadly conceived and can include things like telling lies about one’s spouse, telling strangers about their personal problems and grievances, having one’s spouse satirised by a Fili, and so on). While marital rape is not entirely recognised, physical and mental abuse evidence a lack pf sufficient concern for one’s spouse, and so can be grounds for divorce (however, in cases like this it is less likely for the abused party to initiate a divorce and more likely for them to take personal revenge in some way, which is a customary response to being injured or attacked).
In all these instances, the initial wealth of both parties is retained, but the wealth accumulated in the duration of the marriage is split in a discretionary manner by the arbiter/s. The seriousness of the grounds of divorce translates into a greater share of the accumulated wealth going to the aggrieved party.
In the case of temporary marriages lasting one year and one day, divorce takes place at the end of the determined period by placing the couple back-to-back. By then walking away from one another, thy give their consent to divorce. Each person takes their initial wealth with them, and all wealth earned in the year and day since the marriage goes to whoever actually earned it.
The Sinn Dhein celebrate numerous festivals, many of them local or specific to a clan or region, but there are festivals that are observed by all, such as those celebrating the coming of the new season – Beltane, Sambane, Embilc, and Lignsid – and those celebrating the solstices and equinoxes.
Celebrated on Samonos 1, Sambane marks the beginning of the winter and the Sinn Dhein New Year, and is the festival memorialising the death of the gods Tymhorau and Raithean. Sambane is a reminder that death is the inevitable fate of all, but that death also promises rebirth come Spring. Thus, Semblane is a time to make peace with the inevitability of meeting with death in the end.
On this day, the veil between the realm of the living and that of the dead – the spirit world – is thought to be at its thinnest, and so it is believed that the spirits of the dead can be communed with better than at any other time. Ancestors are remembered and revered – doors are left unlocked so their spirits can enter, meals are prepared for those who have recently passed, and the hearth-fire is kept alight through the night so the spirits can find a place of warmth and light.
However, it is not only the spirit of ancestors that emerge on Sambane. The vengeful spirits of the evil ap Morig also ride out from where they are imprisoned in the deepest pits of the underworld, searching for mortals to possess and ravage. Indeed, it is believed that the spirits of ancestors battle with the ethereal ap Morig, keeping them at bay from their families and clans – and they do so more earnestly the more they are honoured and revered.
Spirits, due to their nearness to the gods, also have knowledge of the future, and so Sambane is a time where divination rituals spike. There are many types, but dancing apple seeds or hazelnuts on a fire are common for those asking about love and health. Some clans have a practice where each member of a household casts a stone into the hearth-fire. If, in the morning, it is discovered to have moved in the ashes, then whoever threw it would not live to see the next Sambane.
Traditionally Sambane, marking the beginning of winter and the darkest part of the year, was also a time of preparation for the coming period of relative inactivity when clans hunker down in the ice and cold and pray they would survive winter. Sambane also marks the end of the growing season, when trees become bare of fruit, and traditionally the full moon preceding it is called the “crimson moon” because herdsmen must slaughter part of their herd to be able to feed the animals through the sparse winter nights. It is not uncommon for wealthy clans to supply clans-folk with enough fodder for all of winter, and this is also a time when clans take their herds and travel to warmer climes where forage is no object.
The hallmark of Sambane is no doubt the clan gathering to light a mighty bonfire. This is believed to dispel ap Morig spirits by both attracting the spirits of ancestors and strengthening them with their warmth and light. Importantly, this unites the clan, ensuring camaraderie and clan identity are preserved, while also providing an opportunity to forgive old wrongs and turn a new page. Some clans have a custom of rekindling every fire in the clan from the bonfire. Around the bonfire a festive spirit reigns, with men and women, young and old, eating seasonal foods and dancing to keep the ap Morig away and aid their ancestors in holding them at bay. Small sacrifices and wishes are often thrown into the fire in the hopes of earning the favour of the gods.
Coming about on Ambanlic 1, Embilc marks the beginning of Spring, the time of picking the trees and moving the cattle to spring's great green pastures. H’Mrorrig, goddess of spring, is honoured in particular during this festival. A celebration of the strengthening light of the sun, Embilc is also a celebration of feminine mysteries – chief amongst them childbirth, of which the H’Mrorrig is goddess. Having experienced rebirth at midwinter, the gods Tymhorau and Raithean emerge as children in with the coming of Spring, and so Embilc is also a celebration of that.
Occurring on Bultaeg 1, Beltane hails the coming of Summer and light, and is the festival of life (both due to the time of year and the fertility of the earth, and life more generally); in this sense it is in many ways the exact opposite of Sambane. It is a fertility festival celebrating the maturation of the gods Tymhorau and Raithean into young lovers and their sexual union, as well as the creative energies and life born from their love-making. These energies are thought to bless the land, animals, and people, bestowing health and fertility on all.
Like Sambane, Beltane is celebrated with great bonfires and revelry. Cattle are driven between the bonfires as a way of blessing and purifying them, and many young couples daringly leap over smaller flames or dance among them to bless and purify themselves also. The daylight hours of Beltane are the most popular time of year to ‘walk the tree’ (that is, get married).
Beltane night is spent, in emulation of the gods, in feverish love-making. It matters little whether the partners know each other, for on that night all women are Raithean incarnate and all men are Tymhorau. It is not mere sex, however, but a blessed union. Women impregnated on Beltane night are forbidden from aborting, and the child is considered not her child, but an actual child of Tymhorau and Raithean. These Beltane-children do not inherit from their human parents and are instead placed in the care of the clan.
Different clans have differing customs with regards to the selection of the so-called ‘Beltane Rhig and Bhaenrhig’. Some clans choose them and have them perform a pageant before the entire clan, while bolder customs have them take up the role of Raithean and Tymhorau more literally before the entire clan. Some clans do not have this custom at all.
On Beltane, as with Sambane, the veil between the realm of the living and that of the spirits is considered to be nearly inexistent. Rather than spirits of the dead, however, it is the nature spirits that roam free on Beltane – not during the night, but during the day. While many of these spirits are believed to be benign, there are also those that are mischievous – doing things like switching the souls of newborns or beguiling people and animals so as to fool them into a limbo between the spirit realm and the realm of the living where one day is equivalent to centuries in the realm of the living. For this reason, many Sinn Dhein use talismans to ward off mischievous spirits on and around Beltane. Sacred woods are used to light the fire as an additional ward, and offerings of wine, milk, and fruits are left outside festival areas to divert and appease any mischievous spirits who might be attracted to the revelry.
Celebrated from Lembiuod 1 to 20, Lignsid marks the end of Summer and the coming of Autumn, and is the fruit harvest festival. Lignsid is known for bringing many regional tribes together to celebrate for the duration of the twenty days, and in ancient times powerful Rhigs were able to bring together all the Sinn Dhein clans from across the realm. From east to west and north to south, hundreds of thousands of people would pack up and make for the designated location of festivities for the year.
The festivities begin with the Bhaenrhig appearing in a tartan cloak, combining all the tartans of the Sinn Dhein clans and slaughtering a great bull. This also represents the wounding of the gods Tymhorau and Raithean who will die at Sambane to be reborn again at the winter solstice and emerge as children in Spring.
The fruiting of trees is treated with great reverence, and fruits are dedicated to the gods and goddesses. With that, the festival erupts into celebration with all manner of massive sporting contests and feats of strength, different clans sending in their best and finest to compete. These annual games are said to have been instituted by the goddess Seihdhara herself and witness an enormous number of pipe bands massing together to release thunderous deliveries of traditional Sinn Dhein music in the opening and closing ceremonies of the festival.
Sporting contests include chariot racing, weight throwing, hurling, caber tossing, stone put throwing, sword duelling, Sinn Dhein hammer throwing, lazy stick tussling, various animal fighting sports, weight-over-the-bar throwing, shinty, wrestling, curling, rowing, swimming, ba game playing, Sinn Dhein foot with the ball, archery, and Sinn Dhein highland dancing. It is also commonplace for clans to pitch teams of one hundred to five hundred clans-folk armed with wooden swords and shields that, once all clan teams have been sorted into one of two or three teams, engage in a massive mock battle with one another. It is commonplace for this annual mock-battle to result in injury, though it is usually nothing serious or permanent (this capacity to practice restraint and not cause as much harm as one can is considered a mark of battle-prowess by Sinn Dhein). Beyond these events, dancing, fighting, and other unruly behaviour characterise the feast.
Lignsid is more than an opportunity to take part in sports, however, for it has been and continues to be a time when Sinn Dhein come together to celebrate their identity as a people and the loyalty of all clans to the Rhig to other clans, as well as an opportunity for general socialising between clans and people who do not often cross paths. For this latter reason, Lignsid is also a very popular time to engage in temporary marriages lasting one year and one day. Marriage or not, however, Lignsid (for obvious reasons) features stupendous levels of sexual activity. Duels between renowned warriors, and disputes over the champion's portion, are also common on Beltane.
Unlike Beltane and Sambane, Lignsid is a water festival, and just as being driven between bonfires on Beltane purifies cattle, on Lignsid they are blessed by being driven through shallows or, in the case of horses, making them swim across a river. Other customs include dressing sacred wells with flowers and the burial of flowers to signify the end of summer.
This is the longest night of the year and occurs around Seihdhos 21 every year. Regional clans tend to gather together to celebrate this night. Many symbols of fire and light are used to encourage the sun to wax stronger once again. On this night, it is believed by Sinn Dhein that Tymhorau and Raithean, who died at Sambane, undergo their rebirth.
This spells one of the two times of year where night and day are in equal balance, and occurs annually around Acagoil 21. However, with the passing of this day, light will begin to eclipse the darkness of night each passing day. The god and goddess Tymhorau and Raithean are both maturing from childhood, but the two have yet to marry and mate (which they will do at Beltane). Raithean journeys across the Sinn Dhein homeland, waking the land from the slumber of winter and leaving flowers where her feet touch the ground. The ground has now thawed and it is time for fruits to begin emergin – thus festivities around this time involve the blessing of trees and woodlands to ensure a bountiful fruit harvest.
Midsummer occurs around Mragin 21 and is the longest day of the year. The sun is at the height of power and so are Tymhorau and Raithean. Tymhorau is the young dashing warrior, strong and virile. Raithean is with child, glowing with fertility and permeating the earth with it. Light and fire are the themes of this festival, including fire wheels being rolled down hills and into lochs, symbolising the sun’s strength. This is an auspicious time for Wyndyn to gather herbs, especially magickal ones. The spirits of nature are believed to be especially active.
Once more, night and day stand equally balanced, but this time night and darkness are waxing mighty. Tymhorau and Raithean were both wounded at Lignsid but will not perish until Sambane. Their power wanes along with the sun. The goddess, heavy with child, reflects the fruits of the harvest in her swollen belly. All around, the animal world prepares for winter and people shore up their defences and fill their stores for the cold, dark nights that lie before them or get ready to move to greener pastures. Deciduous trees erupt into dazzling colour in a final farewell before descending into winter’s dormancy. The crimson moon is near, when herdsmen who do not think they can ensure their herd's survival through winter slaughter a potion of it.
A' things ur Faetid t'wards termination
Being a warrior people, the most honourable death possible for a Sinn Dhein is death in battle. Depending on clan custom, a person who dies may be buried, cremated, or have their ashes buried. Graves contain items needed for the next world, such as weapons to engage the ap Morig in battle during Sambane and to generally defend oneself on the journey to the spirit world, as well as food, wine, clothing, torcs, and other forms of wealth.
While Sinn Dhein believe in rebirth, they believe this is optional and that one who has led a good life may elect to remain in the spirit world for as long as they pleased, even forever. If reborn, Sinn Dhein believe one can return in any form. The spirit world is believed to be a paradise where the dead wear gowns of silver and gold, and gold bands around their waists, torcs on their necks, and jewelled circlets on their brows. They can sally forth on chariots of fire to do battle with the ap Morig on Sambane and carry out various quests in the spirit world to ensure the safety of the realm of the living.
Funeral customs that require cremation include the sacrifice of sheep and oxen so that their fat can be placed on the body. The carcasses are then placed around the dead person’s body, along with jars of honey and oil. Beloved horses, dogs, and other animals are slaughtered and their bodies are piled on top, and the entire thing is set aflame. The dead are addressed and people wail in mourning. Once the fire is extinguished with wine or mead, the remains are taken out and laid in a golden urn, which is then buried alongside food and weaponry inside a burial cist with a cairn or barrow over it.
Clans with customs that require the burial of the body tend to have the body washed and wrapped in a death shroud before laying it out with burning candles around it inside the home for a period of five to seven days. People visit to lament and mourn the dead person and give praise. Three days after the body is laid out, a small feast is held in their honour featuring sporting events. The body has a bowl placed on their chest into which people place food and gold for use on the journey to the next life.
On the morning of burial, a Treiwynd arrives to measure the body so as to ensure their final resting place is fitted to their size. The Wynd also whispers into the ear of the dead person. What it is that the Wynd says is unknown, though people postulate that they whisper instructions on how to get to the spirit world. The person is then buried supine in a burial cist with their weapons and gifts, and a cairn or barrow is built over them.
If the body of a person could not be retrieved for burial, the family of the deceased can approach a Wynd for an assortment of rituals that will ensure the safe passage of the deceased’s spirit to the spirit world.
Ancient Sinn Dhein used wolfhounds, amongst the biggest, if not the biggest, dogs known to them, for war and hunting. Sinn Dhein still use them for these purposes – a wolfhound is a terror on the field! The other major Sinn Dhein breed is the Border Collie, one of the most intelligent dog breeds. Used primarily as a herding dog, its extreme intelligence also makes it exceptional for various military duties.
Bhaenrhig/Rhig - Queen/King, when addressing the monarch Amlwyg - Heir Apparent, when addressing the heir Tywsyg/Tywsygys - Prince/Princess, when addressing a member of the royal family Chief/Laird - When addressing a clan chief Hynaf/Rhaig - When addressing the heir apparent of a clan. Hynaf for males, Rhaig for females. Larwynd - When addressing Wyndyn, regardless of gender or type. His/Her Grace - When referring to the Bhaenrhig and Rhig The High-born - When referring to the heir The Well-born - When referring to a member of the royal family The Much Honoured - When referring to a clan chief/laird The Honoured - When referring to the heir apparent of a clan The Hallowed - When referring to a Wynd of any type
Our Mother's Gift - It is Sinn Dhein tradition that while a mother is giving birth the father (or, where none is present, an uncle, grandfather, or any member of the clan) must leave and climb the sacred mountain, Caer Seihdhar, and seek an omen from Seihdhara. This omen is considered the newborn's Ainaim (soul-name). For instance, if the weather happens to be stormy and the time that of night, the Ainaim may be 'Light in the Night'. If an eagle flies by on a clear day, 'Eagle in Full-Sight'. These Aainaimin are sacred and provide the person with direct connection with the Bear Mother. One without an Ainaim is considered incomplete. Likewise, on birth every Sinn Dhein is given a Faisehd, a warning or prophecy of sorts - e.g. 'you shall die within a week of killing the red-horned ram' or 'do not eat of the fruit of the cherry tree' or 'Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn the power of man, for none of woman born shall harm Macbeth' or 'Be lion-mettled, proud; and take no care who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are: Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill shall come against him'. So long as one conforms with their Faisehd (and a person may have more than one, as we see with Macbeth) then they are fine, having greater kyne. One who breaks it, however, does damage to their kyne and may ultimately die. 'Aye, ah broke mah Faisehd laddie. Best coupon th' auld reaver lik' a true hielan man eh?'
Children of the Bear Mother - The Sinn Dhein believe the blood of the war-goddess Seihdhara runs in their veins, most potently in those whose hair is red. In war, it is their ultimate purpose to seek out glory, worthy foes to take-on in single combat, engage in valorous deed, and ultimately attain either death or victory. However, this pursuit of individual honour, greater kyne, and acts of valour can sometimes lead to a certain propensity towards disobedience and insubordination, with acts of individual valour and glory being viewed as far more worthy than following commands to the T. 'Ye hielan men! Les sho they degenerates wha comes tae claim thair bides this day!'
Sinn Dhein Ways and Sinn Dhein Laws - The Sinn Dhein have no official legal system. The law of the land is custom and any disputes arising that do not fall within the remit of established customary law are dealt with via arbitration. Where arbitration over novel problems fails (a very rare occurrence), disputes are ultimately settled through duels between the aggrieved parties so as to avoid family feuds and clan wars. This provides for very swift and cost-efficient administration of justice, and the legitimacy of custom makes for ultimately satisfied disputants (particularly since there is a feeling that the ancient ways have been preserved and authentic Sinn Dhein ways and laws have thus persevered). However, results tend to lack predictability for novel issues or recently-established customs, and the legal system as a whole is utterly decentralised and almost impossible for foreigners to grasp (which is particularly bad for business). 'Wance upon a time thare wis... Sinn Dhein ways 'n' Sinn Dhein laws...'
Wisdom Immemorial - In the class of scholarly druids known as Arwyndyn, the Sinn Dhein have a true boon. They are supposedly privy to knowledge from the times of the ap Morig and teh glorious age of the gods to the present in an unbroken chain - epitomised in the Seer. When they deign to allow the light of all that they know to shine forth onto the Sinn Dhein, wondrous innovations result. However, the Arwyndyn are notoriously reclusive and secretive, there perhaps being no class of people who have maintained absolute secrecy as well as they have. 'Ní féidir lyeat dció a scriosaedh. Ní fiyú é seo.'
Clan Aelric; The Much Honoured Chief Cathaoir of Clan Aelric
Clan Agalvae; The Much Honoured Chief Alasdaer of Clan Agalvae
Clan Agronae; The Much Honoured Chief Braendin of Clan Agronae
Clan ap-Dhugael; The Much Honoured Chief Padraeg of Clan ap-Dhugael
Clan ap-Entosh; The Much Honoured Chief Eoin of Clan ap-Entosh
Clan ap-Fhinnan; The Much Honoured Chief Somhairle of Clan ap-Fhinnan
Clan ap-Fhinnan o' Iwan; The Much Honoured Chief Maol-Choluim of Clan ap-Fhinnan o' Iwan
Clan ap-Filigan; The Much Honoured Chief Dhomas of Clan ap-Filigan
ap-Filigan o' th'Reaches; The Much Honoured Chief Saenlig of Clan ap-Filigan o' th'Reaches ap-Filigan o' Balmaen; The Much Honoured Chief Paedin of Clan ap-Filigan o' Balmaen
Clan ap-Gwynnud; The Much Honoured Chief Oeghan of Clan ap-Gwynnud
ap-Gwynnud o' Caernmowni; The Much Honoured Chief Mathghaemhain of Clan ap-Gwynnud o' Caernmowni ap-Gwynnud o' Caluk; The Much Honoured Chief Faerdorcha of Clan ap-Gwynnud o' Caluk ap-Gwynnud o' Clagduff; The Much Honoured Chief Toirdhealbhach of Clan ap-Gwynnud o' Clagduff
Clan ap-Ilinray; The Much Honoured Chief Riochard of Clan ap-Ilinray
ap-Ilinray o' Dnabree; The Much Honoured Chief Raemonn of Clan ap-Ilinray o' Dnabree
Clan ap-MgGonnal; The Much Honoured Chief Padrhaegin of Clan ap-MgGonnal
Clan ap-MgOllman; The Much Honoured Chief Uaithne of Clan ap-MgOllman
Clan ap-Olaidh; The Much Honoured Chief Tadhfen of Clan ap-Olaidh
Clan Aujvint; The Much Honoured Chief Feillim of Clan Aujvint
Aujvint o' th'Marshes; The Much Honoured Chief Chu-Mhaedha of Clan Aujvint o' th'Marshes Laird-Aujvint; The Much Honoured Chief Bhaethghalloch of Clan Laird-Aujvint
Clan Beltan o' Tymthean; The Much Honoured Chief Kaelin Laenouvor of Clan Beltan o' Tymthean
Clan Braeg; The Much Honoured Chief Connell of Clan Braeg
Braeg o' MgIlsen; The Much Honoured Chief Chae-Caenacht of Clan Braeg o' MgIlsen Braeg o' th'Braes; The Much Honoured Chief Duaidhe of Clan Braeg o' th'Braes
Clan Connacht; The Much Honoured Chief Ainrie of Clan Connacht
Connacht o' Cornams-Crest; The Much Honoured Chief Finghen of Clan Connacht o' Cornams-Crest
Clan Culquown; The Much Honoured Chief Conchobhar of Clan Culquown
Clan Dhaebidhe; The Much Honoured Chief Manghus of Clan Dhaebidhe
Clan Dhonnuil; The Much Honoured Chief Celatus of Clan Dhonnuil
Dhonnuil o' Ronnuil; The Much Honoured Chief Nuahdha of Clan Dhonnuil o' Ronnuil MgDhonals o' Glencove; The Much Honoured Chief Uoltaen of Clan MgDhonals o' Glencove
Clan Dochmar; The Much Honoured Chief Vaughan of Clan Dochmar
Clan Esher; The Much Honoured Chief Kellasdindr of Clan Esher
Rhiglaird Esher; The Much Honoured Chief Ruaidhri of Clan Rhiglaird Esher
Clan Fhaerchar; The Much Honoured Chief Gearalt of Clan Fhaerchar
Clan Ghillmhol; The Much Honoured Chief Rhagnall of Clan Ghillmhol
Clan Ghiuari; The Much Honoured Chief Gealle-Mhuire of Clan Ghiuari
Clan Grantaeg; The Much Honoured Chief Eiraemhon of Clan Grantaeg
Clan Guilibraec; The Much Honoured Chief Eoin of Clan Guilibraec
Clan Guinn; The Much Honoured Chief Gealle-Chriosid of Clan Guinn
Clan Gweilaerth; The Much Honoured Chief Lownsaech of Clan Gweilaerth
Clan Haiho; The Much Honoured Chief Fionghuine of Clan Haiho
Clan Laird Loamainn; The Much Honoured Chief Anfuadan of Clan Laird Loamainn
Laird Loamainn o' Fulfraen; The Much Honoured Chief Cuamhai of Clan Laird Loamainn o' Fulfraen
Clan M'Hnaen; The Much Honoured Ceannard Chief Cormac Niall of Clan M'Hnaen
Clan Maengun; The Much Honoured Chief Aemon of Clan Maengun
Clan Mawleh; The Much Honoured Chief Gealle-Bhaethain of Clan Mawleh
Clan MgCrae; The Much Honoured Chief Faehrghus of Clan MgCrae
Clan MgCrae o' Raeth; The Much Honoured Chief Dhaemneic of Clan MgCrae o' Raeth
Clan MgEwaen; The Much Honoured Chief Daethei of Clan MgEwaen
Clan MgGakel; The Much Honoured Chief Daermoidh of Clan MgGakel
Clan MgGrregah; The Much Honoured Chief Aechann of Clan MgGrregah
MgGrregah o' Galams-Stand; The Much Honoured Chief Aenric of Clan MgGrregah o' Galams-Stand
Clan MgIntsaer; The Much Honoured Chief Fhael of Clan MgIntsaer
Clan MgLabrinn; The Much Honoured Chief Gaervein of Clan MgLabrinn
Clan MgLachlainn; The Much Honoured Chief Faolan of Clan MgLachlainn
Clan Mhaeridh; The Much Honoured Chief Diaermodh of Clan Mhaeridh
Clan Mwryfin (extinct)
Clan Ol Mirti; The Much Honoured Chief Lochlainn of Clan Ol Mirti
Clan Oq Haert; The Much Honoured Chief Aonghus of Clan Oq Haert
Clan Rosaec; The Much Honoured Chief Ruathan Muhrdhaenn of Clan Rosaec
Clan Sirjin; The Much Honoured Chief Cainneach Iomhar of Clan Sirjin
Clan Umbruse; The Much Honoured Chief Fionnlagh of Clan Umbruse
Umbruse o' Bruce; The Much Honoured Chief Muraedhach of Clan Umbruse o' Bruce
Identity: He is known by title, never by name. The people call him Ehn Wynd naehn Foariu, the Druid of the Forest, and they know him also as Ehn Wyrd saehn Coirin, the Man in the Trees. As he is capable of seeing a person's secret soul-name, he is also called Ehn Dunitir Ainaimin, the Giver of Names; and due to his seemingly prophetic capabilities, he is known as Ehn Faoihdh, the Seer. Different clans may call him by a plethora of other titles.
Life: The Seer, as far as his people are concerned, is the last of the gods yet walking the earth. A lonely and tragic being, he is the manifestation of their people and continues to exist so long as they preserve their culture and ways - and if they do not, then he, like the innumerable gods who have passed into nothingness before, will also fade into the unknown and leave them in darkness alone. Though he rejects authority, all the chieftains of his people honour him, fear him, and respect him. The wyndyn (druids) defer to him on all matters, for he is himself a living god and directly linked - it is believed - to the voice of the world and the gods who have gone. Though reclusive and retreating, he is not an aloof being. Chieftains and druids seek him out, and the wretched of the earth stop him on the road and speak to him. He may be found travelling often between settlements, either by foot or in a small boat, or retreating into the depths of the forests. Settlements tend to have a small hovel some distance away set aside for him to stay in on the rare occasions he decides to stay.
Potency: The Seer, as any druid, is a keeper of knowledge on a great many matters, from herbalism and rituals of divination to the identifying of sacred spaces for the placing of stone circles or marking stones. While normal druids are knowledgeable on the laws and customs of their specific clan or settlement, the Seer has a sweeping and comprehensive understanding of all of the laws and customs of the numerous clans; an inspiring thing seeing how in an oral culture these matters are in constant flux. Beyond these mundane matters, the Seer is what may be called a 'soulsinger'. He is capable of communing with the essential essence of the world, the spirit, or spirits, that occupy all things in creation — animals, plants, rocks, rivers, weather systems, mortal handiwork, even words. this communion opens up a different plain to the Seer, allowing him to know things that seem to others hidden or unknowable, such as what a person is feeling or thinking, or matters that occur while he is not present, or where a particular person is. It also allows him to carry out some unique rituals of his people, such as the casting of geasa. He is also capable of knowing the secret soulnames of individuals from his people. Soulsinging can have worldly immediate worldly effects also. By calling the spirits to him, he can wield many of the forces of nature - for instance arming himself in vines, or causing stone to rise to his protection or the earth to crack away before him, wind to howl or water to part, and many other such things. The great limitation to his power is that it is highly localised. When in foreign lands, among foreign spirits that are not familiar with him, he is not able to persuade them to do as he asks or tell him things that spirits back on home terrain would. This effectively means that leaving the traditional homeland of his people will strip him of a great amount of his powers. This can only be remedied by extended stay in the foreign location, long enough for the local spirits to come to know, trust, and obey him, which is a years-long endeavour.
Ambition: The Seer has no ambition beyond the preservation of his people and their ways. He is their guardian physically, their guardian culturally, and their guardian religiously and linguistically. Having forged bonds with many spirits over his life, he also seeks their preservation - thus he would oppose the destruction of places where particularly beloved or important spirits dwell, such as ancient trees, forests, hills or boulders, and so on.
The Kavijama | the thing of ink & poetry | The Hibrach
(Sat within HOLDER)
Meghzaal spends far longer than 2,000 years weeping. From his tears of ink his realm, Glossolalia, forms. It is apparent that his inspiration and trembling have taken over completely and he has entered a heightened state of ecstasy beyond the limits and confines of sanity.
5 MP towards Song | 3 DP towards Tattoos/Glyphs | 2 DP towards Art | 5 MP and 5 DP remaining
The Kavijama | the thing of ink & poetry | The Hibrach
&
Lucia
The three moons lit up the shifting heavens of the night, and across the prairie a blanket of calm swamped all things. The streams ran swiftly, their pure cool waters sending out a gentle spray and soft sleepy song. The creatures of the night moved silent and quick, freezing every now and then at a perceived sound or movement… before scurrying on. Here and there a guardian bison stood, like a mountain in the grass, snorting or grunting while the others slept. By the sleeping form of his beloved sat the poet god, a mountain in a temple, his eyes worshipping her every breath and every rise and fall of her chest. He watched the softly shifting tattoos that swirled lazily across her sublime form, now and again pulsing with sunlight and now and then growing as though they were a great gold beating heart. To watch her was to tremble and yearn, and to tremble and yearn was to sigh and weep, and to weep was to paint the walls with his unendurable agony and joy.
And as had been the case every night since his heart had known Lucia’s hallowed name - every night, that was, other than the one that Gibbou had permitted them wakefulness throughout and which they savoured again and again - his eyes knew no sleep and his inky tears painted the walls of the great sunlit temple with her resplendent form. The walls of the temple knew Lucia’s sleeping eyes, knew ever lash and every fold of her resting eyelids, knew the lounging shape of her brows and the frown that now and again broke their repose and sent the heart of that wakeful watcher racing and groaning - your sleeping frowns are fairer far than laughs of wakeful maidens are! -, and those painted walls knew every strand of Lucia’s hair, knew the curve of her cheek, her nose, knew her lips of liquorice and honey, knew the dip of her collarbone and the swell of her arms about her chest, knew the great arc of her hip, her thigh, knew the lines in her palms and worshipped at the altar each of her nails.
Aye, the walls of the temple had become a great endless painting; of Lucia now sleeping, Lucia now awake, Lucia now laughing in the sun, Lucia now weeping, dancing, casting him from her sight in anger, beckoning him back to her with all-encompassing mercy, smirking at some stupid thing he said, staring his way with the dim light of fondness and a distant smile; and those poor old walls forgot a time when they were bare of Lucia’s beauteous visage and form, aye they did not want to think that ever such a time existed. For what were they, those miserable old walls, without Lucia’s aspect scattered across them like droplets of water on a parched slave’s lips? Lucia was lifewater to all she graced, so drink deep ye walls! - and drink deep, oh unsleeping eyes of ink!
If I loved you less I would kiss you more But loving you much I can but adore The purse of your lips And rise of your chest
When Lucia eventually woke, she found him - a mountain! - sitting there still, as he sat every morning, trembling and mumbling madly to himself. And when his eye was kohled by hers he would seem to swell and a smile would spread across his face of ink before he burst forth to welcome her back to the world of wakefulness, raining adoring kisses now on this hand and now on that, now on this shoulder and now on that, and he would whisper of all the walking they had to do and all the seeing that awaited them on the Prairie, and all the paintings he had been inspired with in the night, and all the songs that were yet unsung and all the spirits that yearned to know her today.
Lucia returned his smile, beaming happily as she stretched to welcome the morning. ”Good morning Love. Are you ready for another day?” she asked, twirling her hair with a finger. His response, like always, was wordless as he wrapped himself about her body and clothed her in himself, pressing her wrists as he was wont to do and tightening about her in an impossibly great embrace that seemed to melt him into her and her into him. But even from a distance the god sensed that the Orb was approaching to ruin, yet again, their lovesome embrace and all the plans they had for the day. An inky tendril immediately shot out to obstruct the globular martinet. The thing of magic zipped here and there, and the god’s tendril chased after it, but no amount of zipping and dashing and curling around could prevent the stubborn creation of the magician (who Lucia had mentioned in passing now and again) from finally zoning in on them, no doubt to force some morning training session upon them. The god seemed to sigh as the tendril of ink withdrew and the irritating voice of that ridiculous anti-muse sounded.
“Goodmorning Lucia, are you ready to train? You need to practice your control more and sleeping in won’t help.” Orb chided.
Lucia rolled her eyes as she got up, a smug look upon her face. ”First things first! I need some berries. Then we can talk about training.” she said, walking over to a bush.
“Ah yes, nutrition. Please fuel yourself so we may begin.” Orb responded, zipping around her.
”Yes, yes Orb. These things take time.” she said, slowly picking the ripest blueberries and plopping them in her mouth. ”I’ll meet you at the pool in a bit, okay?” she said to Orb in a sing-song voice.
“This is… satisfactory, Lucia. I will await your arrival.” Orb said, zipping off.
Lucia sighed. “He means well, my Love. Magic is a tantalizing thing, I enjoy trying to get it to work, you know.” she said to him.
‘Can’t I fiddle with his head a bit? Or with his voice - so he sounds nice at least? I won’t break him… too badly…’ There was a short pause, ‘but I make no promises.’ A tendril of ink moved across the blueberries and, finding a particularly large and ripe one, picked it and zipped up to plop it into Lucia’s mouth. A ripple pulsed through the inky robes at the exoteric act of affection. It was not in his nature, but it filled him with inexplicable peace.
”Mhmm, thank you.” she said after swallowing. ”But no, you cannot harm Orb. He means well, even if he can be annoying.” she smirked. The rippling clothes seemed to deflate as the god sighed.
‘Not only is his voice ugly and grating, even the song that emanates from him is a squawking ugliness bereft of beauteous form or meaningful substance. He is all orders and commands and no dance or song…’ then the rhythmic voice of the god erupted into a small chuckle that seemed on the verge of bursting into some ditty, and the black robes rippled up again, ‘hey, Lucie, do you want to sneak off while he’s not paying attention? We can swim in the river again and listen to that wonderful flow!’
“Oh my Love…” she said, twirling. “We’ve done that these last few days, is it any wonder he is so quick to the lesson? I need to train and learn if I am to become better. Only one of us is a god, remember?” she laughed. The robes seemed to bristle at this proclamation.
‘Oh, only in form my dear!- and only by a cruel error of the world! Let whoever claims godhood do so, but I worship only you, my Lucie. What need have you for all these things that this Orb wants to teach you anyhow? All this battering the world into submission and enslaving the elements - it only brings the Worldsong tears! Let us go dance and swim and make merry, and in so doing make the Worldsong laugh.’
She rolled her eyes as she walked out to view the Prairie proper. “You flatter me so, my dear.” she said as the breeze blew in her hair. “I have a need to see most of the world and all its aspects. The lord of magic came to me and offered to have me taught, who was I to refuse? I plan to use both you know, to make them work in harmony. This fondness for music, poetry and dance and the will to use the world. There has to be a way, I know it.” she said, pounding her first into her hand.
‘You don’t need to lock yourself away in this place, love. You can go and see the world right now. We can go - you and me, together. And as we travel we will both learn, and if there is a way to bring dancing and song into harmony with this magic, then we will find it out there and not in Orb’s snore-inducing voice.’ The robes tightened about her in that great embrace, ‘you simply have to dare, my Lucielu.’
She stayed quiet for a time, shuffling back and forth on her feet. When she spoke again, her voice was far away and full of worry. ”I want to, but I can’t. Not yet. Humans have yet to come here, for some reason. And what if mother comes back? I know she will eventually, she told me as much. I can’t… I can’t just up and leave. Who would do such a thing?” she asked, walking back inside. The inky robes deflated once more about her.
‘It is not wrong for the songbird to fly free my love. It is made for it, and perishes in a cage, even a gilded one. No one would blame it for doing so - who with heart or soul would do such a thing?’ He was silent for a few moments, ‘but I will not press the matter more. I am content here with you - your song is all I need, the dance of your heart beneath me and your joyous soul filling the world with laughter and merriment. Remember, in case that droning orb causes you to forget!: never cease from joy, my love, and in the face of all pain and agony never repent from incurable happiness and ecstasy.’ And with that he tightened about her and was quiet.
It was not the only thing that grew quiet. Lucia paused. The Worldsong had... stopped. ”My Love… Why do you stop the song?” she asked, confused. He did not respond, but tightened about her more than he ever had, and pulsed and convulsed as though torn through by great pain.
‘H- hold-’ came his excruciated utterance, ‘m-me-’ and even as his cracking voice sounded, blotches and tendrils of ink were violently torn and ripped away. Meghzaal’s tortured scream reverberated against the fabric of all that was, clawing and gnashing wildly in a manner it never had - why, his voice seemed alive and fighting, seemed to battle and pound, seemed to slice and claw at some invisible and impossible foe -, and his ink was now hands holding tightly onto Lucia, and his gasping visage formed up before her, shedding uncountable tears. ‘Hold me, Lu…’ he groaned. If his beloved could not be his worldly anchor, then who could?
Lucia did as asked, frantically, desperately, her voice full of tears and confusion. She knew not what was going on, only that her Love was in pain; and to comfort that pain was the only thing she could do. ”No no no! My Love, please, what’s happening? What’s wrong? Speak to me, please.” she cried out again. The frantic grabbing and struggle continued for many stretching seconds, but something in the ink god seemed to suddenly rupture, and an acceptance that there was no resisting fate seeped through him; separation had been written upon them and union forever made forbidden. A desolate calm betook him in that instant and he looked her in the eye and, for all the despondency that sought to shackle and carry him away, smiled through freely flowing ink tears.
‘If I loved you less, my beautiful Lucie, I would kiss you more,’ he whispered. He had no sooner spoken those words - the final divine song Galbar would ever know - before his hands evaporated and the rest of him dispersed and passed into nothingness away. Except his eyes, that is, which remained until the last, glimmering and glistening and speaking all that could not be spoken… and then were gone.
Lucia’s golden eyes went wide with horror only a lover could know. ”No… no no no!” She screamed, feeling around for her Love, searching in frustration. Yet, it was no use. Her Love of loves, was gone. Faded before her eyes. Lucia slammed her fists into the ground as she wailed with heart wrenching loss.
Then she heard her name. Her mother’s voice had called her, and she turned just in time to see Oraelia fade away, arms outstretched to her. She screamed again, getting to her feet, going to where her mother had been. She felt around before her, but there was nothing. Not even a trace. She fell to her knees and held her face within her hands as the tears came. And they did not stop for a very long time.
Meghzaal has been painting the Sunlit Temple; its walls are known all of them painted with various icons and impressions of Lucia doing numerous things - laughing, dancing, singing, frowning, sleeping, eating, walking, swimming, etc. He is watching her sleep, and then she awakens. He glomphs her and suggests they go exploring the Prairie again, but they are then assaulted by Orb who wants Lucia to do nothing but train train train. Meghzaal suggests that Lucia and he elope while Orb isn’t watching, but Lucia goes ‘no way fella’. Meghzaal shrugs and contentedly accepts the situation. At that precise moment, the Lifeblood decides to tear him away from his beloved Lucia, which is a rather traumatic experience for both, unfortunately. Lucia is doubly traumatised as, just as Meghzaal disappears, Oraelia appears only to also be swept off. Lucia is left at a loss and weeping for a long time.
Lucia Starting 20 5 Prestige to Lucia due to over 10k characters Ending 25
Oh where are you going, my love with the mask Oh where are you going tonight? I'm going, my lovely, to take up my task By ol' Gibbou's radiant light
By ol' Gibbou's radiant young light, my love I'm off from your lips and your arms And with a spring in my step and the moon high above I am taking up my task
And why are you donning that mask, my love, Oh why are you wearing the mask? I'm wearing the mask, my love, my love, 'Cause that's what humans all ask
My face, my love, is ugly and glum And causes them to cry It makes them cry, my love, my love And quickly- oh! they die
And so my lovely, I'm wearing a mask 'Cause I'm ugly, grey, and glum And if I'm to do what I must do I must wear it or be dumb
But oh, my love, my sweet, my life Where are you going tonight? Where are you going and leaving your wife When the deathsun's out of sight?
I'm going, my love, I'm off to the fight I'm off to the mountain's far In the shade of the moon and the bosom of trees I'm off to the raging war
You're off to the raging war, my love And leaving me alone In the bosom of trees, my love, my love And I all on my own
Oh don't be long, my love, my love Don't be a long time gone For if the great old sun should rise, my dear I surely will become stone
Without you here I would rather be Some dust or seaside stone So oh be quick, and oh be fast Come with the rising sun
Oh I will not be long my dear My heart will flutter home Oh if I lie, my dear, my love In earth, to you I'll roam
I'm off from your lips, my dear, and your arms I'm off to call Thunder down I'm off from your kisses and all of your charms To kill him with my frown
And then I'll be back, oh then I'll be back And then I'll be back my dear With a mask on my back and a grin on my lips And a heart of great joy and cheer
Oh then you'll be back, oh then you'll be back Oh then you'll be back, my dear The moon will be out and the night will be black When you return my dear
Oh the night will be black and the moon will be out When Thunder falls my dear And he'll fall at my frown and he'll fall at my shout And then I'll be back my dear
Oh then you'll be back, my dear only then And I will be waiting here With stony gaze and stony eye If 'twere ten thousand year
It 'twere ten thousand year my love Ten thousand and a day Beneath the moon I'll wait for you Beneath that old sun's ray
Oh where are you going, my love with the mask Oh where are you going tonight? I'm going, my lovely, to take up my task By ol' Gibbou's radiant light
By ol' Gibbou's radiant young light, my love I'm off from your lips and your arms And with a spring in my step and the moon high above I am taking up my task
A ballad recording sadly the farewell of a draug to his beloved as he goes off to up his task of protecting life. He's of to the mountains to fight the trolls who have been killing, rather than protecting, life. Draugs, generally, can now be expected to take up a more active role in counteracting the actions of their treacherous kin.
There is a danger, shipmates, that comes with the explosive birth of magicks into the world; one that mayhaps those Vrool of the ancient Deep did not immediately perceive, and one that even that all-perceiving nonfeeler who goes building and saturating all things in some blind and foolish hope of truth mayn't have. But the tree, the tree, ah! the tree did feel, for how was't not to feel what spelt its doom? Of the tree of the ink god's birth let this be known: 'twas not the crashing waves of callous seas that brought it low, ah, no - 'twas not the howling wind; 'twas not a pelting rain, my friend, or gnashing monsters of the deeps. 'Twas a sorcerous ripple, friend, that burst its side and slew its branch and ah! then sent it crashing down.
Why then, the ocean all was painted black and every Vrool for miles around knew only ink - and ink, you see, is poison when unleashed in such great quantity. But there was a sorcery to the sea about the hallowed Ku that spared the warring race of Vrool and caused instead their ocean home to be eternally encased in oil; and they themselves - for this reason sorcery and the gods should ever be kept apart! - found that in their form, their brain, there grew any oily sac of blackness.
The oceans depths were painted black - for oil, if you must know my friends, is lighter than water; but divine ink can only sink - and so all about the western side of that hallowed Ku stretched out an endless ink expanse; and what was darkness and what was ink a man could only guess. And all those ocean things that witnessed the terrible falling of the tree were coated all of them in ink; but only those sorcerous types came to have power over the darkness that now clawed into their flesh a home.
To all of this was the glorious and ever-victorious Okarzunkaxoxondrom witness and party, for by his sorcerous and awakened will was he coated in the ink of gods, and felt he well the growth behind his core brain the oily sac of ink and blackness with which he would now and forevermore paint the cretinous forms of his good-as-dead challengers dark - a worldly darkness that called on them to hark the coming eternal darkness with which the Glorious and Ever-Victorious would acquaint them with. And nay, for this was not all - beneath the gnarled and twisted skin of the almighty Vrool did colour burst and churn; and aye he admitted that for the briefest seconds those colours were beyond his power; but ah! no sooner had he willed then it was within his grasp and power. And he, the Vonu-speaker before whom all wept and wailed, waxed vibrant and cruel, gaze unbending and tendrils spreading and, ah! He waxed mighty indeed!
Through the inky depths flowed he, the Glorious and Ever-Victorious, he! and all about slinked out of sight and hissed and spat but dared not steer themselves before - he! 'I, the Glorious!' Breathed the mighty one in hallowed vonu, 'the Ever-Victorious; my tendrils waxen and grow, my vibrant form manifests; my sorcerous will is known to all! All bends before my gaze o-' 'Okarz Rux, what are you mumbling to yourself there?' An immense vrool emerged from the darkness. The infinitesimal Okarz froze in place for what felt like a long period, his many minds clamouring to be heard. 'J-just gathering samples, Xuxa Rux. Who would have thought that that thing was the Hidden Blackgod all along.' A click closer to a cough emanated from him, and Xuxu Rux clicked sagely in agreement. 'Indeed, Okarz Rux. And I am disinclined to be of the view that this case shall be without ramifications of a considerably unfavourable classification.' 'I- uh. I would disagree with your- uh. Assessment of the sit- condition of this state of affairs, Xuxu Rux. The fall of the tree can only be the portent of terrible things to come - even if, in its fall, the Hidden Blackgod has seen to bless us so greatly.' 'But Okarz Rux, you have not, by the nature of what you have spoken to me presently at this very moment, shown any form of disagreement or disinclination towards what I have not long before your speaking spoke. If I may be so bold, Okarz Rux, I would go so far as to say that your words and what I have previously advanced may well be the locus points of two perpendicular formations.' Okarz' many minds assessed the information as he blinked at the massive form of the other vrool. 'You must excuse me, Xuxu Rux, for I believe I have observed a salmon in a south-easterly-downward direction from our current location.' And so saying, the Glorious and Ever Victorious Okarzunkaxoxondrom left behind him another felled foe - the might of his words and his impenetrable logic had laid to waste all of that inferior warlock's protestations and fumblings. Thus was the impossible mind and genius of he!
The tree from which Meghzaal was born collapses due to the explosion of magic into the sea. This brings about an inky ecosystem immediately west of Ku. Many creatures living here will now have various ink-related traits, though only the vrool possess ink sacs, allowing them to pump out blasts of ink for various purposes. While most creatures in the region have ink in their skin now, only Warlocks have the ability to control it for camouflage purposes. Okarz makes a return, and we discover that he is now a Warlock. It has done nothing for his size though. He discusses fall fo the tree with a giant warlock, but the words of the other warlock are so impenetrable and abstruse that he swiftly excuses himself on the pretence that he has spotted a salmon.
- Free: Create a large undersea ink ecosystem, to the west of Ku.
The Kavijama | the thing of ink & poetry | The Hibrach
&
Lucia
Gibbou had made it to the western shoreline of Toraan by the time a thought struck her like a lightning bolt. She nearly fell out of the sky as she turned around, a finger stuck up into the air as if saying, “Eureka!” She needed a way for the Hir to move about! After all, she was kind of tiring from this constant flying back and forth - she couldn’t very well serve as the delivery girl for this thing! She had to do something - some kind of spell or blessing or…
Her train of thought brought her to the ground, which by now was in the middle of the Blood Basin. A distant Alminaki caravan passed by, eyeing her curiously. Gibbou sighed and sat down in the sand, drawing schematics for how she wanted the horn to move around.
It took only a moment or two for Fìrinn’s perception to locate the moon goddess, and as she sat in the sand a sudden gust of wind blew across the plain, directly behind her. A moment after it passed, the voice of Fìrinn rang out, clear and true:
”Gibbou.”
The god of Truth hovered above the sand, as still as a statue, while its mantle-claws idly traced signs and sigils in the coarse grains below. It looked down at Gibbou--if one could consider Fìrinn to be capable of looking at anything--expectantly, awaiting the inevitable burst of surprise that its sudden entrance would garner. Fìrinn predicted that she would react very similarly to her sister and was eager to put this notion to the test.
“Wah!” squealed the Moon goddess and peered in every direction, holding her horn up defensively. Her eyes fixed on the expressionless form of the Truth god and squinted. Slowly, she stood up and made a diplomatic wave of her hand. “H-hello. D-do I know you?”
”After a fashion, yes. You spoke with my night-self, just as I spoke with your day-self--I am Fìrinn, god of Truth and Reflection. I am the twin of Àicheil.”
The response was simple and fast, accompanied by its mantle-claws giving a gentle wave like Fìrinn had seen so many mortals do to one another. It was still a strange concept, to the god’s mind, but it would likely have the desired effect of pacifying any surprise that Gibbou might have retained.
”I am here because I have seen your plans, mother of the moon. A calamity is due to befall we who stand above all others, and I am spending the remainder of my time ensuring that mortalkind do not suffer through the uncertain future alone: I come to offer you a boon and a solution to your problems.”
“Wait, calamity? Wah?” She looked down at her horn. “I was just looking for a way to make this move by itself. What kinda calamity’s going on?”
”That is something that I do not know. Have you not felt it upon the wind, and in the currents below? Have you not looked down from your moon upon this Galbar and felt the consternation? There is a change simmering beneath the fabric of this world, and I do not know that reality’s Truth includes us in that change. Perhaps it is nothing, or perhaps it is everything--I can only say for certain that things will cease to be how they are, and they will become something new.”
Fìrinn’s response was--for once--intentionally cryptic. Those gods who had not felt it must have been concerned with more immediately pressing concerns and the alignment of reality with their truths. It would not do to interrupt such noble work, but Fìrinn could also no longer afford to tarry and mortalkind still required adequate protection for what was to come.
”I hear and feel each prayer. They float across the subtle weave like rays of moonlight, collecting deeply within the embrace of the holy Tairseach--and it is through these prayers that your gift to mortalkind will find locomotion. Through mirrors and reflections; through zeal and righteous fervor.”
“You really are your brother’s brother, huh,” Gibbou mumbled with a rake of her head. “You could’ve just said ‘something’s coming, but I don’t know what’.” She sighed and shrugged. “But nitpicking’s mean, I’m sorry. So, uh, you wanted in on the Hir project?”
”We are Twins, but not brothers. It may be challenging to explain to you, given your relationship with your sister, but we are not like you in that sense. Àicheil takes on the male pronoun simply as a matter of becoming more approachable--to speak with my twin is challenging, as you well know. Every advantage he can get is one he must take, for the nature of the Dream is to find infinite meaning in a shallow pool.”
Fìrinn’s mantle-claws traced another pattern in the sand, etching into the coarse grains of earth the holy symbol of the Two-as-One. Within that triquetra it drew another symbol, and just as quickly as it was drawn the entire design bubbled and writhed as if suffused with an intense heat until only glass remained, and within that glass was contained a reflection of a mortal man--the caravanner from earlier.
”I do not require the worship of mortality to be content with my role in their survival and flourishing. I desire no credit, no mention, no accolades--I only wish for mortalkind to continue to align reality with Truth, and in so doing become the most ideal versions of themselves and shape the most ideal version of Galbar. I only offer this gift to ensure their livelihood and to align your Truth with reality.”
Gibbou frowned in confusion. The talk of alignment of Truth with reality seemed to fly over her like the clouds themselves, so she offered a polite nod and a confident, “Yeah, totally!” Then, she got out the horn for Fìrinn to bless. “Well, whatever your reasons, mister Fìrinn, your contribution to the Hir project is most welcome! Just for you, I’ll make sure nobody knows you helped!”
Fìrinn’s mantle-claws picked up the shard of glass from the desert floor, and its true hand touched the shard gently, aligning it with the rays of light so that within it the Hir was reflected. Then, with a surge of divine energy, it reached through the glass and into the reflection of the horn, infusing it with aureate hues and a corona of light. Then, the light shifted, and the reflection was gone--but the glow remained within the strange horn.
”It is done. The merit of the work exists within the work itself, Mother of the Moon, not in being known or seen to have done it. The legacy of what we leave behind and what changes we make are what defines us, and long after our last footsteps upon this fertile soil have been washed away by the tiny pitter-patter of mortal feet what we have made and what we have done shall remain. You live in your day-self’s shadow, hoping that the transitive property of success shall pass through all you do if only you emulate her and follow in her footsteps. You worry that you are incapable of protecting mortalkind, and that all you have done will be insufficient or forgotten. These things are not your Truth, child, and continuing to cling to them will leave reality a less fulfilled and realised place.”
Fìrinn’s mantle-claw reached out to the Moon goddess’ shoulder, resting upon it supportively.
”You are Gibbou, Mother of the Moon, Guardian of Mortalkind. You are not just Gibbou, sister of Oraelia, and Shadow of the Sun. Eternity stretches out before you like the vastness of the open sea, and each wave that you make will return to that great demesne before you are gone. That you made them at all and laboured so fiercely to give them protection is Truth enough; think not upon the fact that they will end. It is the fate of all but we to end one day, but in the brevity of life they find meaning. In your love and your Truth they find gentle solace. I taught the concept of openness to your elves, Mother of the Moon. Perhaps you may follow in their footsteps?”
It seemed as though the words of Fìrinn had taken Gibbou completely off-guard, for she stood quite still, torso almost huddled together a little in a somewhat defensive manner, with her neck pulled gingerly down between her shoulders. Large, moon-white pupils looked up at the empty face of the Truth god and showed clear signs of increasing moisture. However, it didn’t last longer than a minute, and as quickly as the change of emotions had come, she gently pushed Fìrinn’s hand off her shoulder and went, “W-worry? Hah! I’m not worried! I mean, with this here, mortalkind will be perfectly well protected! I-I don’t need their praises to let me know I’m good enough, and I certainly don’t need you telling me that I’m anxious about stuff! Stuff that I am confident about, by the way! I’m not jealous of my sister - you are completely wrong!”
”You linked minds with my twin, child. I know your mind as he did--a moment of perfect clarity, suspended within glass. I hope only that you become what you can--what you are meant--to be. Mortalkind will thank you for your efforts, in time. They already sing your praises in their thoughts and in their dreams. I could show you each prayer, each dream, each fluttering feeling within their breast as they look up at that wondrous orb in the night and wonder. But perhaps that is for another day, another time. Is there anything else I may do for you, to align reality with your Truth?”
The offer was not heard so much as it was felt, waves of compassion and empathy vibrating through the air as Fìrinn’s meaning and intent made itself known within Gibbou’s mind. It was a brief embrace, free from judgement or guilt or ulterior motive: a resonant chime to open the mind to what lay beyond, if she was ready. Today was not that day, however, and Fìrinn knew that before it asked. Sometimes, asking the question was all that was required to get the answer.
“Pfft! Yeah, right - mortalkind are singing my praises… Half don’t-... They don’t even know me! Even the night elves, my own people, don’t like me. All because I was, was such a--...” It seemed that the emotions invoked previously by the Truth god’s kind words hadn’t quite dissipated yet. She did her best to rub the quartz-like tears out of her eyes, but failed miserably. “Why, why am I even still here? I don’t need this right now! I-... I have a purpose, a mission, and I won’t be distracted anymore!” She kicked off, stopped midair and floated back down to the ground. “Goodbye!” she spat angrily before soaring off again. Another moment passed before she once again returned, picked up the Hir and went, “Forgot the, the damn, thing. Ugh!” And then, she soared off - but northwards instead of westwards.
Fìrinn looked upon Gibbou as she departed--and then returned--and departed again. It seemed to stare at her impassively, as if deep in contemplation, before simply vanishing from that sand-filled basin and making its way west. There remained more work to be done, and many places yet to do it in.
A few hours later, Gibbou crash landed in the Prairie to the north. She hadn’t lost control of her flying and the fall hadn’t hurt her at all - her train of thought had simply taken her focus off of her journey and she had felt like lying down to think. For the time being, all thoughts of Adrian and the Night Elves had faded to the back of her mind as she pondered the words spoken by Firinn - what was her truth? Who was she doing all this for? Mortality? Oraelia? Herself?
Was her mission to protect mortalkind or was it simply guilt for killing the very first life in the world?
She cringed. She hated these thoughts, but chasing them away did nothing but intensify them. The more she wanted to forget them, the clearer they became. She had to fasten her mind to something else. She propped herself up, Hir dangling faithfully at her side. She gave it a reassuring pat and said, “I sure am glad I made you durable, little guy.” She then stood up and walked in the direction of what she believed to be a temple of sorts on the horizon - maybe meeting someone would get her mind off of all this.
“You have to force yourself, Lucia!” Orb lectured. “You have to will it to come! To be! Do not be weak!”
She stood next to the pool, Lucia with an angry look on her face as Orb hovered around her. Sweat dripped off her brow as she had her hands cupped in front of her, a small flame dancing between her hands. It took her weeks even to manage that, now Orb wanted her to make it bigger. The tattoo’s upon her face looked agitated, angry even. Her Love still wore her, or she guessed she wore him.
She gritted her teeth. ”I’m aware, Orb.” The flame grew slightly larger, but then winked out and she gave a frustrated sigh before sitting down. Orb landed in front of her silently.
“You know,” he began, “That was an improvement Lucia. Forcing mana to be what you want it to be, to take from the flows, is no easy task. Your progress is moving… Swimmingly.”
She laid back, wiping the sweat off her forehead as her tattoos shimmered back to an exhausted state. ”You keep saying that, but I don’t really see any substantial improvement. Why couldn’t it be easier, like… singing or dancing?”
Orb was silent, as if processing the question. “That’s just how it is.” He said finally.
Lucia sat back up, a comb of solar energy materializing in her hand. She began to comb out her tangles as she looked at Orb again. ”You think it would be easier, since I can use the sun to make stuff. Isn’t the sun made of fire? Like, honestly.” she mused.
“Hello?” came a sudden echo from the entry hall of the temple complex.
Lucia suddenly snapped her head in the direction of the voice and got to her feet, comb shimmering away in the light. A visitor! She could hardly contain her excitement! In her haste, she left Orb behind as she made her way to the stairs, where the voice came from.
In the entryway stood a plum-skinned female, with hair like a deep blue night, clothes like the darkest abyss and a pair of dark disks over her eyes. Bright pupils through the black glass hinted that she had noticed Lucia approaching, and she waved a greeting. “Hi! Sorry, I came in to seek, uh, refuge from the, uh, Sun! Woah, gotta tell ya, it’s so bright out there.” She strolled up the stairs and extended her hand. “Hi, the name’s Gibbou - Oraelia’s my sister and I’m from the Moon, ya-da, ya-da.” She looked around. “Nice place you’ve got here, miss Mortal. Built it yourself?”
Lucia’s tattoos lit up, shimmering with excitement as she looked at her Aunt in the flesh. She looked at the extended hand and not really knowing what to do with it, she instead went in for a hug, saying, ”I know your name, Mother spoke so highly of her sister, my Aunt!”
“Your what-now?” replied the moon-goddess, every inch of her momentary confidence blown away like smoke on the wind.
Lucia pulled herself away and looked at Gibbou again. ”I am Oraelia’s daughter, and she told me that you are my aunt! I was wondering when this day would come, and now it has!” she said happily.
Gibbou blinked. Then, jumping backwards, she shouted, “OREY HAS A DAUGHTER?!” She leaned back in, put on a star-bright glare and held a quivering, tightened fist a few inches from Lucia’s chin. “You better start explaining to me just when you were born, missy - my sister would never, ever keep something so important a secret from me, so if you’re lying about this, I swear…”
Lucia’s happy smile faded, replaced by a look of shock, then confusion. ”She never told you about me?” she asked aloud. ”I was… Born when this Sunlit Temple was created. Maybe around… uh… I don’t really keep track of time here…” she said softly, holding her arm. ”I’m Lucia… By the way.”
“No mention,” Gibbou confirmed and pursed her lips. After looking Lucia up and down again, though, she pulled away again and dusted her shoulder off cinematically. “But you do look like her, and I saw her recently, so she could’ve made you after that.” With a sigh, she clenched her fist so a spot on the stone floor twisted and molded into a small stool, upon which she sat down. “I don’t see a reason for you to lie about being her daughter anyway, so… Sorry. I’ve had a rough day.” She laid her face in a propped-up hand. “... And wouldn’t you know it, this is just another thing to add to that list of more things - woah, well done, Gibsy, protector of all life.”
Lucia sat down on the floor, a look of concern on her face as she looked at Gibbou. ”She did mention she came from the moon.” Lucia said at first, before continuing, ”There’s no need to be sorry, I came on too strongly, I think. You seem troubled… Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“No, it’s… It’s just…” She sucked in a deep breath through the nose. “Do I have the aura of a protector? Actually, before you answer that, do I remind you of your mother, my sister? How alike are we? Is she nicer than me? Does she maybe give off a better feeling of guardian… -ness?”
Lucia blinked as she thought. There was something deeply troubling her aunt, that much was obvious. She would have to approach this carefully. Just like with Qael. She stroked her chin and said, ”You remind me a lot of mother, you both look the same with some differences. I can’t say how alike you are, I haven’t gotten to know you yet but I can say that I do know you are the nicest goddess she’s ever met and one of the few she loves unconditionally. You’re her sister, how could you not be nice, if not nicer? As for a guardian… I feel safe at night knowing you’re up there. I like to watch the moons, your moon in particular. It makes me feel… at peace.”
Gibbou frowned. “You’re just saying that to be nice, aren’t you? You don’t even know me and you still say these things like we’re friends or something.” She drew a quivering breath and shook her head. “I’m-I’m sorry, that was awful of me to say.” She stood up from her stool and it retracted back into the floor, not even leaving a scar in the stone. “I’m sorry, coming here was a mistake. I- I need to go somewhere, anywhere. My moon, probably. The silence up there is… It’s soothing. I’d show it to you, but, uh… You’d die.” She sighed and hung her head. “Like a lot of things I come into contact with, it would seem.”
A look of pain flashed across Lucia’s face before she stood up, hands in her robe. That hadn’t gone right. She pursed her lips before saying, ”That’s okay Gibbou. You don’t know me, how could you? I haven’t been alive for very long… But I didn’t just say those things to be nice. I meant them. You don’t have to be friends with someone to know they’re a good person but I apologize if what I said was upsetting. Please don’t go…” she said sadly, ”I’d like to get to know you and I can’t if you’re up on the moon. I know my Love would too.”
“Look, I really appreciate your concern, Lucia, but I’m not really sure I’m, y’know, the mood to meet more mortals - I have a bad history with most of them, see.” To illustrate her point, she started moving towards the exit again.
”My Love isn’t a mortal though!” Lucia called after her.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” replied Gibbou and spun around at the absurdity of the claim. Well, at least she had stopped.
”Have you met Meghzaal, before?” she asked, swaying back and forth.
“Gesundheit,” said the moon goddess politely, feeling an odd sensation of déjà vu.
She smirked, her tattoos blazing to life as she said in a melodic voice,
“You’ve seen him you see, For I wear him all the time, And he’s never one to leave me, So please stay and listen to his rhyme?”
And with Lucia’s speech the robes of ink trembled and pulsed, and a rhythmic sigh echoed throughout the temple of the sunmother. Blotches of ink dripped and swirled upwards, tendrils snaking away into the growing cloud of shifting colours above the tattooed Lucia - and even when her god was gone and her body was revealed in its original sublime splendour, a tendrilous inky hand grasped at her wrist or this finger or that, as though to lose contact was to lose all. As the cloud grew the sigh became a louder and more complex trilling - joyous, hopeful, but containing an inescapably agonised undertone, as though calling from across great distances to the absent beloved. In that twisting nebula, the ghost of a visage seemed to form - the hint of eyes, the thought of a nose, the inkling of a mouth; and with the mouth came words.
When you have lived and raged to a great age Those embers dance and sing the death of rage To rage and weep does not befit the moon With many tears we bring ourselves to ruin Far better ‘tis to leap and twirl and prance Release that rage and madly sing and dance! Hear it from one who walked with tears the way Unleash your silent lungs and swing and sway!
And even as the song reverberated throughout the temple - with a melancholy that pervaded the walls and a paradoxic electric energy that seemed to have the pillars gently vibrating with the tune - the cloud of ink & poetry slowly mushroomed and flared, and through the clouds a vaguely humanoid thing of ink and smoke came leaping - a slow, long leap - towards the moonmother. A hand came forth, and the inky many-coloured face of Meghzaal appeared from the inky mists. His eyes glistened and tears of ink seemed to flow freely down his liquid cheeks. ‘Come, let us dance and sing our woes away - oh let’s jump the maelstrom and watch where joy and misery play!’
Gibbou recoiled defensively and eyed the inky form up and down. “Ah! Oily! Wait, no, I don’t really want to dance right now, can’t we just--...” Her hand was snatched up regardless and she was pulled into a spinny dance. “No, waait!” But the love-mad bard was listening to a higher song, and - ah, gods! - heard not her cries of protestation and refusal, so taken up was he in that eternal song and dance.
The trilling sigh took on a greater urgency, there was a beat to it now and the electric energy seemed to suffuse the entirety of the temple complex. Gibbou on his left and Lucia on his right, the poet rose up in a great bubbling cloud, and all about them ink and colour exploded, and sound converged on them in endless rhythmic waves, permeating their hair - why, now even their hair seemed to leap and twirl with the ecstatic song! The shifting nebulae of bursting colours and gushing sound rocked all about them and danced, urging Lucia and Gibbou to be the heart of the song, the core of the dance. Lucia, once again, was caught up in the moment, going along with the dance in her own way.
My love's a woman lovely in her bones, When worldsongs hum, she hums right back at them And when she moves, all songs are sighs and moans: She gives the formless form, the wind a stem To watch her dance is to know majesty To see her sway is to rout sanity Between her blessèd mad there's only amity!
Her dance is war - a war without a truce Don't close your mouth, there's power in your pleas Her dance is life, her sways are light and loose; The head goes swinging by her gliding knees; And swirls go flying, she from them removed Her hips stir life - it need at all be proved She moves in circles, and those circles moved.
The clouds can weep, and earth be swept away I'm victim of a dancing not my own What's godhood for if not to kneel and pray? I swear I've worshipped all her hairs, her bone And never thought to count out time in days This inky gaze was made to learn her ways I measure time by how a body sways.
Gibbou awkwardly blew along with the gust that was the dance, frequently trying to protest throughout the song, but never feeling it to be appropriate. Finally, once the last verse had been sung, she broke out, “C-can we please stop? I’m not, I don’t--!” She was spun in a pirouette. “No, please listen, I don’t like this! This is not helpful!”
The song suddenly halted and Gibbou was released back to the ground, and Lucia too was gently put down. Meghzaal blinked down at the moonmother quietly, trembling and not daring to make a sound, before slowly collecting himself and rolling up behind Lucia, away from sight. ‘S-sorry.’ He trembled. ‘G-gets out of hand sometimes.’ Lucia shot a glance behind her, flashing her Love a reassuring smile. She then looked at Gibbou again and shifted awkwardly as she looked to the floor. Her tattoos seemed to shrink, fading in color. ”I-I get carried away too.” she sniffled, ”I feel terrible, I’m sorry Gibbou.”
Gibbou frowned. “No, no, it’s alright. I know a thing or two about getting carried away, too, and-... Well, I think I’m starting to understand how those I, uh, carried away are starting to feel. If anything, you at least got my mind on other things, so, uh, thanks.” She offered the two of them a lopsided smile. “Say, uh… Any of you want to just sit and, like, exist? Just take in the peace and sound of the world for a minute?”
Lucia looked up, surprised. She began to nod, ”I- We would love to.” she said. Meghzaal’s hand flowed around Lucia’s arm and he peeked out timidly at Gibbou, before bringing a hand up and covering his face so as not to see the goddess or be seen, and said nothing.
“Great.” The moon goddess went over to a spot in the shade and sat down, leaning backwards with her arms propping her up. She stared outwards at the great prairie and closed her eyes, trying to focus her sensations on the soundscape and scents of the surrounding world. There, she sat with a small smile on her lips.
Lucia walked over to a spot near Gibbou, but kept a respectable distance. She sat down in the sunlight and then beckoned for her Love, who had maintained distance though a tendril of ink remained enwrapped about his Lucia’s arm. At her beckoning, however, he seemed to melt from his place and appeared almost at once about her, in the vague form of robes that clung momentarily to her before congealing by her far side; keeping her between him and the dance-hating goddess who disliked song (not that he blamed her, mind you, or held it against her! Far be he, who knew well woe, from pouring contempt on another’s sorrow!) Lucia took his hand in hers, the tattoos on her skin glowing intensely as they shimmered. The god’s grip tightened around hers and his form pulsed and lost definition briefly, before condensing back into humanoid form. Tiny birds of ink broke away from his back or hair and whistled and sighed about her before disintegrating into clouds away.
Gibbou straightened her back up, crossed her legs and bent her neck slightly forward. She slowed her breathing down until it barely existed anymore and intertwined her fingers in her lap. In contrast to how she had looked the rest of the day, really, she appeared most peaceful here, even in the shade of the baking sun outside. The bard looked out at the prairie, but he did not see as Gibbou saw, or hear as she did.
The world was abuzz with a bursting melody that wept to see them sat idly - here it was singing its soul out every minute, every second, that the world may know the endless song and dance, and here they were, who heard it, sat unmoving and unmoved! If those who heard were thus unmoved, what then those who could not hear? Ink burst from his eyes at the thought and he sighed, and his chest shivered and shook, and his hand tightened around that of his beloved to contain himself from bursting up once again and joining that cosmic melody. But even the sighs of the silent god caused the seed of love and ecstasy to burst in the hearts of the animals and winds and earth all about, and birds fluttered towards them chirruping now by Lucia’s face of sunlit night, perching briefly between the moonmother’s quartz-coloured laurel crown before zipping away and flying off with the god’s rhythmic sighs.
Other creatures approached also - the bison now and now the elephant, the great elk with antlers sprawling like trees upon its head, the spritely gazelle danced towards them and looked upon them with her glistening great eyes as though she too, like Meghzaal, wished to shed ink tears - and they sang their soul-felt heartsong to them; but could the moonmother hear? Or were all but his beloved and he deaf to the stirring song and dance of the cosmos? ‘Oh!’ The god moaned, and was in tearful silence once again.
The moon goddess squinted her eyes further closed. Then even tighter. However, the more the song went on, the harder it was to concentrate on that ever-waning silence. Eventually, she, too, started sobbing quietly, before she finally burst out: “Do they have to sing so sadly?! It’s actually making me depressed!” She pointed at an elephant. “Mister elephant, would you please at least sing in the major scale?”
Lucia looked over at Gibbou with sad eyes. ”You can hear the Worldsong too? What am I saying… Of course you can.” she briefly looked away, ”My Love, when he awoke, the silence made him sad so he awoke everything to the song. Even now, he wishes to be with it. It’s hard for him to be quiet and still.” she looked back at Gibbou. ”I’m so sorry Gibbou, this isn’t how I wanted our first meeting to go.” she said softly, on the verge of tears. She gripped her Love’s hand tighter. The god pressed her hand gently and a quick and liquid smile moved his face, and he planted a kiss upon her shoulder to comfort her.
‘But silence has a music too, sometimes. Here now,’ he breathed deeply and looked out at the prairie, gently shushing, and all around them (though not beyond, for who has the power to shush the Worldsong entire?) the cosmic song began to fade and the animals all hushed and flitted off, and the sunlit Prairie was bathed in a great and baffling silence as spirits held their breath or placed their ethereal hands about their faces to stop the melodious deluge from bursting out.
How still, how silent is the world That once could not but dance and sing - I love when silence is unfurled That great and dreadful breathless thing!
Like crashing waves and roiling skies The singing, soothing wind and breeze And jungles with their great green sighs; The silence has an unheard wheeze.
How still, how silent now we are For silence brings a sweetness too A singing that is, oh by far As rhythmic as the cosmic spew!
Now we may sit in the sun's shade Or winter's moon may wash the moors And we may in the wet sea wade Or lie beneath wide heaven's shores
There in the golden grass along The flowing prairie in light bathed We see in silence winter's song That yet in summer's light is swathed
But I do love the full moon's gaze Just as I love that old sun's smile So let us sit in silent daze And watch and hear it for a while.
And he closened himself to Lucia and watched with trembling hands the sprawling and silent prairie. The kaleidoscopic heavens shifted slowly and turned, and colours came by in their turn and left. They sat there in absolute silence - why, even the natural chirping of birds and crickets, and the rustling of the grass in the breeze, seemed muted as though one were sat upon a comet or a deadstar in the endless silence of the spaces that the sad old moon called home. But eventually Meghzaal’s voice broke the awesome silence. ‘B-but, uh. If you don’t mind me asking,’ he peered at Gibbou from behind Lucia, ‘what has made you so sad?’
“It’s--... Well…” She hung her head. “I just feel like I’m, I’m no good as a goddess, as a guardian of life. All around me, I encounter, or more often, cause pain. I make stuff, but it never seems to be right enough - my trolls were all so sweet until, well, they weren’t, and I don’t know what happened to them anymore.” The inky god perked up at mention of the trolls, “I’m rash, I’m stupid, I’m not even worthy of looking my sister in the eyes, and, and…” Tears like twinkling quartz dripped down in her lap. “My sister does everything so much better than me and, well, everybody loves her. Meanwhile, I’m just here causing trouble. I-... I even ruined your dance!” Her face collapsed into her hands, through which rivers of moonlight flowed like runny glass, accompanied by sobbing to match the earlier worldsong.
Lucia remained quiet, unsure of what to say. She wanted to go to her aunt, to give her an inkling of comfort, but she did not know if it would go well. Gibbou said it herself, she hardly knew her. She put out a hand towards her, but pulled it back as her tears silently flowed. ”You didn’t…” Lucia began, ”There will be other dances.” she went silent again. She then turned to her Love with pleading eyes, as if begging him to do something. She had no idea how to attack that other part, for Gibbou’s heart hurt and she was only mortal. There was perhaps one who could do something, and that was her mother. But was it right to call her? Perhaps not right now. She had to prove to Gibbou that she was her niece, that she could become something more than just a stranger. But how?
Lucia’s pain seemed to reverberate through Meghzaal’s liquid form, her wants and plights clear to his heart - for they were naught but his wants and plights. Effervescent tears bubbled out of his inky eyes and drifted away, forming up and building up before them into a great ocean nightscape. The full moon shone brightly in the scene, and the waves slapped and kicked gently - but for all the sound, it was somehow silent. In nearby shallows a great creature with a terrible visage formed and stood, its maw gawping, and immediately the scene was filled with glorious poetry and song springing from that hideous face and mouth. All at once the sea seemed to buzz with energy and the moon above seemed to shine with a greater radiance, swaying in the black heavens. And a song was born and a music sounded and the seas bubbled and churned as from their depths a great darkness rose.
The darkness sang and the draug sang too, and he seemed to lose himself in song and stepped forth, away from the shallows and into the ocean depths. But he did not sink or drown, but danced on the water and swayed and swirled about a great black tree that was forming - and singing! - out of the sea. And the tree unfurled and burst to unveil a blossoming flower from which emerged a great glowing creature - a mere child - that spoke with a sound so lovely and so sweet that the draug could only laugh with joy and weep. The two sang and the little creature within the inktree swayed and hummed in place, shaking its head gently from side to side.
And soon the draug was not alone, but was accompanied by one, two, three, more! They danced and sang about the tree in a strange moment of coming together for the lonesome trolls. And in the scene Meghzaal grew and the draug were soon no longer just draug, but something changed. The scene shifted as they sang and danced off to the west, and the world burst with colour and sound as the birth of the Worldsong sent the cosmos into an unending deluge of swaying and song, an eternal and joyously agonised melody; and the sky too exploded with eternally shifting colour.
All this that had come about due to the single creation of an inspired moonmother unfurled in ink before them and then- disappeared, leaving nothing but the gently gazing moon in the inky sky, and a song.
(Let me not say HOLDER)
And as the song faded, the inky scene too began to fade until nothing was left but the bright full moon. It swelled briefly before disintegrating into a glorious cloud of colour and joyous sound, and then was gone. The inky god looked shyly over at Gibbou. ‘Y-you didn’t ruin it. The song… the dance… me. Without that singing troll calling me out, I would never have been. If you had not made it, the world would not sing and dance and the sky would not be so… vibrant. And I would never have known Lucia; her love has given life sweetness and… fresh, joyous pain.’ He brought Lucia’s palm to his lips and placed a kiss on it again. ‘The moon - your moon, Gibbou - and your night are muses that cause the hearts of poets and lovers everywhere to swell. Beneath that dark blanket, hear the world’s lovers worship one another - and in worshipping one another they worship you! Hear them pine with words so lovely and so sweet. I have looked upon the sun with joy and watched the restless toil of day, but night has always brought me calm and rest and is the breeding ground of love and poetry. And so for those things, that I with my limited knowledge know, I thank you Gibbou.’
The moon goddess looked up from her palms with huge, round, white pupils. “Do, do you mean it? My… My little draugs did that? They did that for you?” A fresh wave deluged its way down her cheeks and she hastened to rub it away. “Do you mean to say that I, I, my creation helped create those, those dancing lights in the sky? Helped teach those animals how to sing? Helped…” She rubbed some more tears away and took Lucia’s hand. “... Helped my niece find love? All because of my sweet, little draugs, and, and, and my moon?”
Meghzaal’s colours shifted and he smiled, covering his eyes with a shaking hand and hiding behind Lucia once again. ‘The pain that wracks you, moonmother, lies to you. I-It is not a pain you can mix with joy - i-it is not…’ he looked to Lucia, ‘love. It is a pain that wants to destroy you with its lies. Oh! You mustn’t let it!’ There was a sudden desperation and intensified fearful trembling to his rhythmic voice, ‘you m-must fight it off - and the world itself s-sings and dances in defiance of those lies. Y-you don’t need my words for proof, the world itself is proof.’
“So I’ve done something… I’ve done something! In your face, Firinn, I--!” She paused for a moment. It seemed as though her fervor had cast her to her feet and sent one of her fists up into the air. She retracted it and shrunk somewhat. “I guess… I guess he was trying to warn me, huh, about these exact feelings.” She turned to the other two. “Lucia, mister Meghzaal, I’ve drowned you in so much emotional baggage that shouldn’t even exist, and probably not made your day any better by doing so; and yet, the two of you helped me without me even asking. Is, is there anything I can do for you in return?”
A small smile came upon Lucia's lips as she shook her head. “I'm just happy to help you, aunt Gibbou." she said. "And please, it's alright to cry every now and then, whether alone or not. It's good to lean on others in times of need." she said, subsequently leaning back into her Love, who blushed a thousand hues of red and pink and brought his hands about her, placing his fingers on the tattooed Hand of Ink & Poetry that decorated her navel.
‘I-if I may, moonmother... decorate you too.’ He mumbled inaudibly into the back of Lucia’s head. Gibbou blushed.
“What… What kind of decorations did you have in mind?” She pulled down the sleeves on her arms to reveal her numerous white lines and markings, almost like tattoos in themselves. “If you’d like to colour me like Lucia, I’m afraid I’m already marked.” She suddenly snapped her fingers as if remembering something. “Although… Do you know what you could decorate?” She pulled forth the horn on her hip. “This!” The inky god looked up and observed the strange horn and shivered.
‘A- a cup?’ He asked, extending an inky tendril towards it to examine it. ‘A cup with a wondrous song. Ah- ah!’ He shook and convulsed around Lucia, who giggled, ‘it overflows! Why have so many added to its tune and song?’
“Oh, it’s because this is Hir, the druid maker! It lets mortals perform miracles in the names of a select few gods so that mortality can keep itself safe when we can’t! To make sure this power is wielded by the nicest and kindest, too, me and Orey added a little piety clause - all power must be saved up from doing good deeds. Neat, right? Got loads of companions who’ve added their power to this thing!”
The tendril of ink flowing about the druidic horn curled up above and squeezed itself so that two ink droplets of shifting colour dripped inside, immediately causing the horn to glow a thousand different tints before returning to its original colour. But every now and then a sudden pulse of wild veins of a thousand different hues rippled across it, eventually forming into the unmistakable form of the Hand of Ink & Poetry, before disappearing again. ‘Poetry is a sickness, and it is a cure - the former’s madness, the latter love that’s pure. To the druids of the world I give this wild madness - or what all will think is madness; a tongue that speaks with poetry that they may be friends to the Worldsong, and so that they may learn the cosmic song and dance also. I give them, too, the Hand of Ink & Poetry and all the arts of ink for them to uncover, its glyphs and its carvings on rock or skin. I give them these things to uncover and make.’ And with that the tendril withdrew and the ink god looked at Gibbou timidly, his thoughts returning to decorating her. ‘I, uh. I don’t ask to decorate you as I have my beloved - t-that is her honour alone. But p-perhaps an ink of... night and moonlight. Between your shoulder blades or on the nape of your neck. M-maybe that will go well?’
Gibbou’s blush deepened. “W-well… Since, since you’re so pushy, I guess I have no choice! Between the shoulder blades, then. Oh, and thanks for the blessing on the Hir. Druids’ll be, like, the best protectors and advisors out there! This’ll be incredible!” She giggled happily to herself, only joy filling her dried, reddened eyes now. She hung the horn from her hip again and loosened her shirt, turning away from the two others before letting the shirt drop a little down the back to reveal a back of blueberry skin with moonlight markings going straight down the spinal cord in two parallel lines.
The god rose, taking his beloved with him, and flowed towards the moonmother where he gently set her and himself down, staring at the two parallel lines. He sat looking for a long time, waiting on the sun to set and the three moons to show themselves in the heavens, so that when the prairie entered the depths of the darkest night he began to weave an obsidian ink from the dark of night that congealed in one hand, and into the other the twisting light of the three moons curled up and blossomed. Only then did he begin, whispering inaudible verses into the little spaces between them and every now and then trembling and burying his head into Lucia’s hair before continuing.
He eased the parallel lines already present into the new tattoo, coaxing them both into new forms with the moonink, and then applied the ink of night to bring about a weaving tapestry of moonlight and darkness that came together to form the Hearteye and the Hand, the very same pattern that decorated his beloved’s abdomen.
The Hand of Ink & Poetry and the Hearteye
Lucia had, in the meantime, been preoccupied looking up at the newest moon. It hadn’t been there last night and it looked so… Strange. Her eyes eventually found their way back to Gibbou and she gave an audible gasp as she looked at the ink. “So pretty, auntie.” she said. “You’ve done good work my Love, as always.” she said again. Her own tattoos grew and expanded as they shimmered with warmth. The god blushed his hues of red and pink and mumbled inaudibly - not as pretty (if only as pretty!) as you, my dear, my dear - into Lucia’s shoulder as he lifted Gibbou’s garb back up to cover her.
“It turned out nice?” asked the moon goddess timidly and stringed together the neck of her shirt again. “Thanks. Thank you so much, mister Meghzaal. What will it... will it do anything? Or is it more for decorative purposes?”
‘I w-will tell you. But, uh. What is a… mister?’ Asked the nonplussed bard. Gibbou blinked.
“Oh. Uh… Good question.” She paused just long enough to make it awkward. “I don’t know. I’ve just kinda always said it. I, I can stop if you want me to.”
‘Oh! I see.’ He closed his eyes for a few moments and hummed before opening them again, ‘then I will call you srita Gibbou.’ Then he turned to Lucia and put a finger to his lips, frowning. ‘It doesn’t feel good to call you by anything but your name,’ he smiled at last, ‘and I think it only right.’ With that he turned back to the moonmother. ‘I will tell you what the mark I’ve placed on you will do - it will have your back! Whenever you weaken, whenever that lie returns to destroy you, it will shine bright for you - with all the good and purity you bring to the world, and with all you have given reason to sing and dance and adore the gazing moon. It will always have your back, srita Gibbou.’ His hands were trembling and his smile shook, and so he quickly brought a hand to his face and coiled himself up behind Lucia. ‘S-sorry!’
“That’s…” she started and tried her best to swallow another wave of deluges. “That’s the nicest thing someone beyond my sister’s ever done for me.” She stood up and stepped into the moonlight. She let it trickle down and bathe her in its luminessence. She held out one of her hands, and the light encapsulating her coalesced there into a small, white stone that then swallowed its own light and became dark as the dome above them. She turned and handed the stone to the pair. “Here… Let me return one of the many favours you’ve done me today.”
Lucia tentatively took it within her hand and looked it over. ”Oh how pretty.” Lucia gawked before looking up at Gibbou. ”What’s it do, auntie?” she asked with a smile.
“This is the Nightstone! I figured, y’know, since you two like dancing and singing in the light of the moon, then I’d give you something to help keep you awake.” She leaned forward a little and wiggled a finger warningly. “But only for one night, okay? You need to make sure you get loads of sleep outside of this one use. Using it more than once a week will mess with your circadian rhythm, got it?”
Lucia’s eyes widened as she showed it to her Love. “Oh this will be perfect! Thank you aunt Gibbou!” she said with genuine joy in her voice. “I’ll remember to get sleep, I have a feeling we’ll be using this a lot.” she giggled. The god exploded into a deep crimson behind Lucia and swiftly dissipated into a cloud that seemed to plant kisses all over the body of his beloved before congealing back into inky robes about her. Inky birds joyously chirped their thanks and adoration around the moonmother for a few brief seconds before diving into Lucia and joining the god worn by his beloved. Lucia giggled as this happened, a wide smile on her face as she stood up to face Gibbou.
”I’m glad I got to meet my aunt.” she said. ”I… Uh… Hug?” she asked unsurely, opening her arms up.
“D’aaaw… Of course!” She wrapped her arms tightly around Lucia’s torso and giggled. She rubbed her cheek softly against hers and whispered, “You really are Orey’s daughter, huh; I can tell from your hugs.”
Lucia squeezed her back tightly, the tattoos on her face growing larger and warmer as they pulsed. Gibbou was soft, and carried with her a sense of peace. It was a wonderful feeling. ”Thank you, auntie. I feel so loved.” she sniffled.
“You are - both of you are.” She squeezed tighter for an instant before pulling away and gave the dark sky above a smile. “I suppose I should start heading back now. I should deliver this horn soon.” She turned to smile at the two. “I guess this is goodbye for now, huh?”
With a sad smile Lucia nodded. “For now, but I have a feeling we will meet again. I wish you a very fond farewell, aunt Gibbou.” she said with a grin. The moon goddess offered a nod to the both of them.
“Don’t worry. It’s not like the gods are disappearing anytime soon!” With that, she set off. Lucia and her beloved watched the moonmother go, and the god tightened around her. No, they were not going to be disappearing anytime soon.
Part I; or, In Which Firinn Is A Dick
Firinn offers a solution to Gibbou’s trouble with her artifact, and also offers a (poorly received) insight into her personality. Gibbou tries not to take the words to heart, but flies off to her next destination with many thoughts weighing her down.
Part II; or, In Which We Ignore All That Poetry
She travels to the Prairie of Sol where she finds the Sunlit Temple and Lucia. Gibbous is uber-depressed and shocked at Lucia’s claim that she is Oraelia’s daughter. Gibbou asks Lucia what she thinks of her - seeking reassurance after her encounter with Firinn, but Lucia’s kind response does not appease the goddess who suspects she’s not being honest - because they’d only just met! Gibbou goes to leave in a huff, but Lucia halts her by offering to introduce her to her beloved. Meghzaal emerges and tries to cheer everyone up with a good song and dance, but Gibbou is grumpy and tells him to shut the bloody hell up, which he promptly does and curls up in a foetal position behind Lucia. TT--TT They then sit in silence watching the Prairie, but it just ain’t quiet enough for Gibbou, so Meghzaal tells everything to shush for a bit. When they’ve been all quiet and peaceful for some time, he asks her why she so flippin’ depressed like. She says she’s said ‘cause she’s a horrible terrible bad thing, nobody loves her, she’s a mess, she can’t create nuffink properly; she’s just everything terrible in the world. Ufft. Lucia tries to reassure her, but is feeling a bit stumped and considers calling in the cavalry - Oraelia! But she doesn’t do it quite yet and turns to the resident poet. He puts on a nice show for them, an epic theatrical performance showcasing how awesome Gibbou is and how just one of her creations - the draug - has completely changed the face of the world for the better. It also shows how the mere presence of Gibbou’s moon is cause for joy and inspiration everywhere. This cheers up Gibbou and she asks how she can repay them - Lucia tells her ain’t nothing she needs to do, this is what family is for. Meghzaal is like, let me draw on you. Gibbou is like ._. wat? Uh. Why don’t you draw on this cup I have instead? And so Meghzaal blesses the Hir with many bardic and inkly things. Then he turns back to Gibbou and is like, lemme draw on you bro. She’s like damn dude, you pushy. Fine. So he tattoos a hand between her shoulder blades. ‘Wat’s it do, mister?’ Says Gibbous. ‘Wat’s a mistah?’ asks Megha. ‘...>-< I’unno.’ Says Gibbous. ‘Okay. I’m callin you srita!’ says Megha. And then he unveils that the hand is an awesome new anti-depressant. Gibbou is really touched by that and makes them a Nightstone so they can stay up aaaall night ‘singing’ and ‘dancing’ wink wink. But only once a week, ‘cause we gotta keep it real. After that Gibbou goes off dramatically to her moon, leaving behind a very happy couple.
Lucia: Earns 5 Prestige due to over 10k post bringing her total to 20 Prestige Orb: Earns 5 Prestige due to over 10k post The Hir: Earns 5 Prestige due to over 10k post
Fìrinn:
0MP (Two Free Title Weight: Reflections) --
Prayer and Reflection II: Enhance the Hir so that it may be found in the reflective surface of a freshwater lake when earnest prayer and pious behaviour calls to it through a dedicated ceremony.
Gibbou: 1MP/1DP
-1DP: Create artifact - The Nightstone: A small, black stone that blesses its user with the following power: All-Nighter I: Allows the user to stay up for one night without the need to rest. Subsequent uses over multiple nights will instead make the user tire during the day and eventually need to sleep the whole day off to stay awake during the night. This effect takes seven days and seven nights to normalise regardless of whether one has used the stone multiple times or not. (⅖ for the Respite port).
Meghzaal: 0 MP | 2 DP | 5 MP towards Song | 3 DP towards Tattoos/Glyphs - 2 DP to Grant the Hir a Title: Draught of Ink & Poetry I - Those who drink from the druidic horn will gain a proclivity towards Poetry that many will view as madness. They’re likely to speak in poetic riddles and, due to the natural affinity to the Worldsong this will create, will come to hear voices that only other enlightened artists can (contributing to their perceived madness). This eases the realisation of Spiritsinging to druids, but this title does not grant Spiritsinging. This title also blesses druids with knowledge of the Hand of Ink & Poetry and the arts of ink, glyphs, and tattoos - i.e. they will know that ink can be made of near anything and that the substances that go into making ink can bring about related qualities and traits, and will know how to tattoo themselves and others and draw glyphs. (2 DP towards Art)
- 1 MP (reduced to 0 by Domain) to carry out some other godly feat: Carve a tattoo of the Hand of Ink & Poetry and the Hearteye, made of moon-ink and night-ink, between Gibbou’s shoulder blades. This tattoo will have Gibbou’s back so that whenever she weakens, and whenever the lies of sadness and depression return to destroy her, it will protect her by re-emphasising all the good and purity she brings to the world, and with all she has given reason to sing and dance, either due to the inspiration of the moon or by other means.
- 1 MP (reduced to 0 by Domain) to create an extraordinary species: Inklings are little creatures that float around the Temple of the Sun as little blobs and tendrils of ink. When people approach and attempt to communicate with them, they generally react by putting on a generally beautiful and poetic mini-theatrical display, similar to what Meghzaal showed Lucia and Gibbou.
Gibbou & Meghzaal:
- 2 MP (reduced to 0 by Portfolios) to carry out some other godly feat: Night is moontime, and will now be imbued with the combined energies of Gibbou and Meghzaal; it will always be a time when poets, lovers, dancers, and all people generally, are more inspired towards artistic production.
Okarzunkaxoxondrom the Glorious and Ever-Victorious
Okarzunkaxoxondrom sat in place, unmoving, his limbs curled up beneath him and his multitude of eyes wide open. 'Go get a clam Okarz. Go get a lobster Okarz. Go catch a fucking seaweed Okarz.' The relatively tiny vrool muttered venomously to himself. The rather young vrool was of a generation that knew little of the olden days of freedom (except for the heroic tales told and retold), before the vroolix race was all of it subjugated and brought low beneath the yoke of one enterprising tyrant or another. Gone were the days of liberty, when a vrool was born free and lived free and could carve for himself a territory and call himself king of himself. Now it was go get a salmon, Okarz and come wipe my beak because I'm an imbecilic sea-slug that should be swiftly and mercilessly exterminated along with all my progeny and whosoever holds an inkling of relation to my mishappen fucking visage, Okarz. It was a fucking disgrace.
The great race of vroolix, terrors of the deep, glorious givers of battle, reduced to a grovelling bunch of over-inflated minions and parasites with far too much fat and little muscle. Why, such behemoths had no need to give battle, they merely had to roll over (if they could manage the feat!) and what passed for battle among them was done. Of course, Okarz did not blame the thousand and one vying tyrants for wishing to further their power and influence through the subjugation of others - indeed, it was efficient and intelligent - but in so doing they had destroyed that old world of nobility and glory, the very world that gave these tyrants their nobility and glory, so that now there could no longer be magnificent vroolix. The age of magnificence was at an end, and this was the age of grovelling and humiliation. It was a fucking disgrace, the destruction and abasement of the vroolix race!
And so, Okarz did blame the tyrants for this despicable state of affairs, just as much as he blamed every vrool that was content to grovel and live in the shade of another. Despised is the master, despised is the slave! - that was Okarz's principle in life, and by the many-tentacled-progenitor-whose-name-may-only-be-whispered, he would die by it. 'Oi! Okarz.' Ah, a fatuous codbrain deigns to creep into my resplendent presence. 'Okarz you fucking molluskspleen, stop mumbling to yourself and get the fuck here right now!' 'Of course, glorious Suxuklixuc, I was just keeping an eye out for that salmon you wanted!' 'You useless piece of seaweed excrement!' The bulging Suxuk gurgled, striking Okarz between his sets of eyes, 'stop lazing about and get to work!' Okarz bowed and took the beatings, stroking the bigger vrool's ego with words of praise and submission. 'As you say, oh vast and terrible Suxuklixuc, oh mercy smiter of vroolix in the fray, tearer of limbs, you of the many and endless prize-beaks,' the words seemed to mollify the larger vrool, who gave something akin to a harrumph and left the tiny Okarz alone.
The noble, glorious, and ever-victorious Okarzunkaxoxondrom drew his tendrils beneath himself, glorying in his triumph as his hated foe receded from view. Oh, for the days of old! Oh for the days of the noble and magnificent of the vroolix race - it was among those great ancient ones that such as he belonged, not among the impish mockeries of today! It was a fucking disgrace.
The mighty Okarz sits reflecting on the glorious days of old, when vroolix were free and not ruled by tyrants. A principled and noble vrool, Okarz shall bring down the tyrannical order through his brave and courageous rebellion against the status quo.
Note: The term 'vrool' is singular, plural, and refers to the whole group. The term 'vroolix' is, in fact, incorrect.