I'm sorry I haven't been posting. Work has been very stressful, and as soon as I get home, my brain just turns off. I'll get something done soon
Schylerwalker Member
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Present!
It would make things a lot easier to read if everyone's names were either separated by a space, or made bold.
Are you controlling our population growth, or are we raising it when it makes sense?
I check in like two or three times a day. XD Offer to help replace monitor still stands.
The Kingdom of Brightland, Brightwater
"Admiral!" Forthwine turned. The sky was dark, the waves grey with ash. Occasionally a burst of solar sorcery or the flash of a ship's battery illuminated the wasted hellscape. Dozens of vessels were locked in grim, desperate combat. It was difficult to tell who belonged to which side, or indeed, if any sides were to be had. Armored warriors and otherworldly creatures swarmed the decks and rigging. Behind this bleak tapestry, Thronehold burned. "Admiral!" He kept turning. He felt drunk. In one fist was a saber drenched in blood. In the other was the standard of Empire, somewhat diminished as its holdings rose up in open defiance of the Crown. Standing at the bow of his flagship was his wife. What? That was impossible. Beatan should be safe at home in their country estate, far from the fighting. Flag and blade dropped to the deck. He reached out his hand... "ADMIRAL!!!" His eyes opened.
Forthwine Bannammar listened to the sounds of Brightwater. The river rushed past, ropes creaked, cookfires crackled. With the ease of long practice, he rolled out of his hammock, bare feet landing on dry rushes. The hammocks were one of the few things they'd been able to salvage from their ships. Most of the settlers had taken to regular sleeping bags or bedrolls. But Forthwine had practically grown up being swayed to sleep in a hammock. Even if there was no gently moving deck beneath him. Standing nearby was Thatlas, his first mate. Former first mate? A spare man, lean, bald and bony, his face a gruesome map of pockmarks, burns, and other old scars. Normally stoic, he looked concerned.
"You spoke in your sleep, sir," he said, blunt as always. Forthwine moved slowly over to a basin of water and began his morning toilet, saying nothing. Thatlas hesitated, watching his captain. His Lord-Protector. Forthwine washed, shaved, and brushed his hair and beard with the meager supplies available, and then dressed in hose, tunic, and jerkin. After a moment, Thatlas moved to help him pull on and lace his knee-length boots and buckle on his sword belt. The sword was unfamiliar to Forthwine, awkward in his hand. A heavy cutlass, taken off some corsair on the Sorrows. His own saber had been lost at Crown Bay. His eyes were distant, remembering...
"The rest of the council has been waiting. Your overslept." Short, to the point of being a trifle rude. Forthwine glanced over with some concern. He was no longer a young man, his auburn beard and shaggy mane of hair going grey at the ends. His face was worn and tanned, lines of worry and doubt creasing his broad forehead and square jaw. Grey-blue eyes surveyed their surroundings with calm determination. "Have a care, Thatlas," he said, his voice a soft rumble. "It will not do for the people to hear you address me thus." Thatlas rolled his eyes in response, leading the way. They wove through the muddy lanes and alleys of Brightwater. The buildings were for the most part assembled from the broken down ships of the refugee fleet, though by time and necessity, local timber and stone had been slowly added to the construction. Canvas served as awning, ship's rigging for clotheslines, windows from captains' quarters decorating their one chapel. Children ran past or squatted in the mud. Mothers quickly pulled them aside, curtsying as the Lord-Protector strode past, their eyes turned down. In fear. Shame. Guilt. Hope.
Forthwine and Thatlas entered a pavilion sewn from canvas and old battle-standards, a confusing fusion of vivid iconography and drab practicality. Inside was the rest of Forthwine's "council." Loegaire slumped by the entrance, sweating through his heavy yellow and red robes. He mopped a ragged kerchief against his gleaming pate, watery eyes flicking across the tent's occupants. Old Sir Chann de Stroy stood rigidly to attention opposite from him, torn surcoat over rusty mail. His long mustaches drooped over a face as solemn as a basset hound's. Seated at the camp table were a man and woman, as opposite as night and day. One had once been immensely fat, but the long voyage had been particularly hard on him. Now his skin hung from his frame in loose folds, his eyes were great yellowed disks above black bags, and his hands never seemed to stop shaking slightly. But he was kind, and wise, always with a smile and a treat or a toy for the children. Opposite him was a woman shaped like a steel cord, her hair cropped short like a boy's. She was all hard edges and sharp looks, her one eye dark and untrusting; the other was covered by a simple leather patch.
"Denys. Mallory." They began to rise, Denys with stiff jerks and quiet grunts, Mallory almost before Forthwine had finished speaking. "Be seated, I bid you," he said gruffly. Denys relaxed with a relieved sigh, Mallory eased back in to the camp chair in a stiff, awkward position. The Lord-Protector stood at the head of the table, arms folded before him. "My wise councilors and trusted companions. I have assembled you, the best that Brightland has to offer--" (There was a muffled snort from Thatlas) "--in this, our most dire hour. Few of us yet remain, here, on the edge of the world. But Aureth provides." "Aureth provides," the assemble echoed, to varying degrees of enthusiasm and piety. "By the Grace of the Goddess, much work is ahead of us." He gestured to Thatlas, who reluctantly stepped forward. He spread out a crude blueprint on the table.
"Here, and here, is where we'll begin the digging..." Thatlas muttered, pointing at various points up and down the river. "The dam'll go down upstream, above the bend. This local wood's not as sturdy as what we're used to, but it's more flexible. We've not found anything close to yew, but..." Mallory nodded, her face guarded. "Those curious deer might provide useful material for recurve bows. In time. And those horses are some of the finest stock I've ever seen. We'll have knights in a generation, Goddess willing." Chann shook his head, slowly, sadly. "Fine horses do nay make knights. Courage, loyalty, a noble heart..." That, and mail, swords, and lances. Which we are low on as well, to be sure. Forthwine turned his head, eyeing Loegaire and Denys. "Something troubles you, my lords?" The priest wrung his hands. "Are food stores are critical, your grace. Many will starve if these plans are not completed before the harvest..." Forthwine nodded, his mouth set in a sad line, but his words were harsh. "There are berries, birds, and rodents. Let them bring slings and snares to the fields. If the work is not complete, we will all starve come the next few years."
Denys and Loegaire shared a look, but did not argue. Thatlas nodded, as if that settled the matter, and rolled up the charts. "I'll assign a work detail, yer lordship," he said, with begrudging courtesy, and then hurried away. Mallory followed like a shadow, not meeting the Lord-Protector's gaze. Forthwine watched them go, wondering if he was making the right decision. Only the Goddess could tell him, and she wasn't talking. Had Aureth finally forsaken her chosen people?
Thatlas, who was the council's "Steward", set about his assignment swiftly. He gathered as many able-bodied workers as the settlement could spare and set them to the task of digging irrigation ditches and channels from the river in to the fields, where a vast network of farms would be plowed and tilled for the generations to come. Upstream, the river would be partially dammed, to begin creating a reservoir for fish and a floodplain to further nourish the farmland. The dam would also serve as a mighty bridge, in time, but such a construction could take years to fully complete; the irrigation ditches were the primary concern. To feed the workers and the rest of the works in the meantime, foraging parties were sent out with sacks, slings, and crude traps. They avoided the savanna for the most part, sticking to the more gentle plains in search of berries, rabbits, and the like.
Work was incredibly painful today. I will attempt to post tonight. Failing that, tomorrow for sure.
Please don't make rewrite my post. q.q
When I first started writing up the post, I was feeling very tired and uninspired and didn't think I'd get much done. Then it went on for far longer than I thought it would. xD
The broad leaves overhead swayed gently in an ocean-birthed wind. It smelt of good clean salt and sand. This smell mixed with the earthy scents of the forest-clad island; rich black earth, crushed needles, blooming flowers, pulped berries, the scat of the many wild animals who called this place home. For the most part, these animals lived in a quiet harmony with the Aslanta, who were little more than animals themselves. Slithering across rotten leaves and moss, rolling in the sand, frolicking in the waves, the Aslanta were foragers and even scavengers. Most were too lazy to do more than pluck berries or gather mushrooms. Their native island was small; while the Aslanta had no idea what a mile was, their island was a little over fifty to a side. Therefore, over several generations of the primitive creatures, they had explored the entire landmass, and discovered which plants and fungi were safe to eat, and those that most assuredly were not.
However, the Aslanta's favorite food would always come from the sea. Many Aslanta wandered the beaches, threading their way through the tough red-barked trees and hardy shrubs that flourished there, clambering over rocks and searching tidal pools. When they found a crab, or a clutch of mussels or clams, they would begin to smash the shellfish against a boulder or hardwood, with an almost childlike glee. Their bright laughter, innocent and joyous, provided a sweet counterpoint to the staccato pounding of shell against stone. From the sea itself the Aslanta would chase fish, mostly trout and salmon, even occasionally following them upstream during spawning season. This was a risky move, and often even a game for the bolder of the Aslanta. For the island did support a sizable black bear population, and they emerged from their caves, hungry and grumpy, and their tolerance for the mischievous salamander folk was low when they had just awoken.
An extended group of Aslanta dwelt on the northern shore of the island. Most Aslanta lived in groups of three to six, groups which freely interchanged members on a weekly or even daily basis. By nature, they were polygamous and often incestuous, though this was more due to the small population the island could support, and pure accident. Not that any of these simple creatures seemed to care. The largest Aslanta group numbered a nice round twelve. Their home was near the mouth of a river, which created a somewhat marshy delta. In this marsh was a secluded grotto, a limestone cave with ledges above the submerged tunnel the Aslanta used to enter and exit their home. On these ledges were simple beds of dried needles, surrounded by shattered shells and fishbones.
It was a day like any other when the Wind blew. But it was also a day unlike any other. It was a day that would be lost in the mists of time. It was unlikely that any Aslanta of future generations would remember this day. It was unlikely that any current Aslanta would remember this particular day. For their minds were simple, like unmolded clay, childish and fluid. That was, until they heard the wind. The family group of the northern shore were going about their usual activities. Most were swimming in the waves or foraging in the marsh, lazily looking for easy-to-find victuals. A few more were running up and down the beach, for the sweet simple joy of it, their gurgling laughter echoing across the waves as they kicked up plumes of sand. The last few were secluded in the shadows of a broad-leaved maple, engaged in more intimate recreation.
One of the runners stopped suddenly. The two chasing her bowled in to her, and the three went tumbling in a mess of flailing limbs, pained grunts, and surprised laughter. The two males immediately though they were moving on to another game, but the female impatiently pushed them away, her tail slapping across the startled face of one of them. They sat back in the sand, breathing heavily and watching her with wide, pale eyes. She stood, brushing the sand off. This was confusing to them as well; they looked down at themselves. Slowly, uncertainly, they too brushed the sand off of themselves, even picking away bits of seaweed and marsh muck. The female continued to ignore them. She began to walk away, mounting a large rock. Adopting an almost rakish pose, she leaned forward, watching, listening. One by one, her eleven kin stopped what they were doing. One by one, they all stood still, looking in the same direction that she did, looking, straining their poor ears and eyes.
For the Aslanta do not have good vision. They do not have particularly good hearing either. Their strongest sense is of touch. Of Feeling. They felt the water slowly drying on their velvety skin. They felt the salt waves gently lapping against their feet. And they felt the Wind, cold and mournful, dancing across their bodies, going in to their very bones, whispering a promise of things to come. It whispered a story across their sinuous frames. Of the joys they would know. Of the horrors they would witness. The female, who they had all now unconsciously acknowledged as their leader, shivered. She did not want to know things. She wanted to play. To have fun, to continue her ordinary existence under wave and sun. And while she would still know this happiness, she now too learned that all must work before they could play. At least a little.
She slid down from her rock, and waved the Aslanta over. It was an unfamiliar gesture to them. She repeated it, walking a little closer. Hesitantly, they began to make their way over a few at a time, until they were all gathered in a loose circle on the beach. Their leader pointed towards their grotto. They all turned to look at it, then back at her. She swept an errant leaf off of on their shoulders. This pantomime was repeated an embarrassing number of times before they got the picture. They descended into the grotto, emerging dripping in their subterranean home. With tentative, self-aware motions, they began to clean. Gathering up the shells, neatly arranging the beds. They brought in fresh needles, from a variety of trees, to create sweeter smells. Some gathered flowers. Others berries, many of the kind they didn't regularly eat. Many were distracted, but the Leader understood this. It was their nature. If she was to have their loyalty, work and play would have to occur in equal proportions.
So they took turns, beautifying their home and cavorting in the marshes. The flowers and berries were crushed and spread along the walls. Swirling patterns of bright colors mixed with darker palettes, creating an abstract impression of the intermingling of ocean, tide, and forest. Boughs of spruce and manzanita, their twigs snapped off, were arranged with thick bundles of hemlock and fir needles, and then further spread with softer broadleaves. The Leader gathered many of the shells and bones. Her followers watched in awe as she showed them how to make bowls and plates from which to eat their food, and utensils to lift it. One of the younger followers defiantly sank her teeth into a raw fish's side, the guts and flesh squirting out around her face; the Leader just laughed. She leaned forward and kissed the top of her follower's head, then affectionately began to clean off the mess.
With this done, there was one last thing they must do. The Leader took them all outside. They followed in an obedient line like ducklings, sometimes darting off the trail to pluck a new interesting flower. She led them in to the woods a ways as the day died; the shadows deepened, ferns tickled their calves, and their feet made no sound in the thick moss and mulch below. The Leader collected cedar bark, fungus from under the bark of a birch tree, hanging moss from a spruce tree, and scraped some resin from a snapped off branch. She did this all in a slow, dream-like state, the others watching in anticipation. They were uncharacteristically quiet, though some did chatter or chirp to each other in hushed tones. They stopped in a clearing. With an air of imperious command that brooked no argument, the Leader silently bade the others to sweep aside the fallen needles in the center of the clearing, as well as the dead brush and limbs. They did so. Then she bid them gather stones, of just this size, and arrange them in a circle. They obeyed. Then she gathered her materials and went to work.
In moments, a trickle of smoke rose from the circle. Then a tiny spark. Many of the Aslanta yelled, and a few fled to watch from behind wet trees. The boldest, the young female from earlier, ran forward to stop their Leader. The Leader turned; in one hand she held a burning brand. The young challenger stopped and fell to her knees, eyes wide and full of terror. Behind the Leader, the fire blazed larger, filling its stone cage and casting wild, flickering shadows around the clearing as the sun sank behind the waves. The Aslanta slowly emerged from their hiding places and approached. The Leader waved them forward, encouragingly, her smile huge and her eyes flickering in the firelight. Soon, the Aslanta forgot their fear, for here was a wondrous new toy. And in mere moments, the group went from dread to joy, and all were engaged in a wild dance around the fire. They danced for hours, and filled the forest with a simple song, though it was perhaps more complex than it had been a few hours ago. And when the fire had burned low, they made their way home, gathering more supplies to make more fire, and more tools. For work and play must occur in equal parts, for the Good of the Tribe.
However, the Aslanta's favorite food would always come from the sea. Many Aslanta wandered the beaches, threading their way through the tough red-barked trees and hardy shrubs that flourished there, clambering over rocks and searching tidal pools. When they found a crab, or a clutch of mussels or clams, they would begin to smash the shellfish against a boulder or hardwood, with an almost childlike glee. Their bright laughter, innocent and joyous, provided a sweet counterpoint to the staccato pounding of shell against stone. From the sea itself the Aslanta would chase fish, mostly trout and salmon, even occasionally following them upstream during spawning season. This was a risky move, and often even a game for the bolder of the Aslanta. For the island did support a sizable black bear population, and they emerged from their caves, hungry and grumpy, and their tolerance for the mischievous salamander folk was low when they had just awoken.
An extended group of Aslanta dwelt on the northern shore of the island. Most Aslanta lived in groups of three to six, groups which freely interchanged members on a weekly or even daily basis. By nature, they were polygamous and often incestuous, though this was more due to the small population the island could support, and pure accident. Not that any of these simple creatures seemed to care. The largest Aslanta group numbered a nice round twelve. Their home was near the mouth of a river, which created a somewhat marshy delta. In this marsh was a secluded grotto, a limestone cave with ledges above the submerged tunnel the Aslanta used to enter and exit their home. On these ledges were simple beds of dried needles, surrounded by shattered shells and fishbones.
It was a day like any other when the Wind blew. But it was also a day unlike any other. It was a day that would be lost in the mists of time. It was unlikely that any Aslanta of future generations would remember this day. It was unlikely that any current Aslanta would remember this particular day. For their minds were simple, like unmolded clay, childish and fluid. That was, until they heard the wind. The family group of the northern shore were going about their usual activities. Most were swimming in the waves or foraging in the marsh, lazily looking for easy-to-find victuals. A few more were running up and down the beach, for the sweet simple joy of it, their gurgling laughter echoing across the waves as they kicked up plumes of sand. The last few were secluded in the shadows of a broad-leaved maple, engaged in more intimate recreation.
One of the runners stopped suddenly. The two chasing her bowled in to her, and the three went tumbling in a mess of flailing limbs, pained grunts, and surprised laughter. The two males immediately though they were moving on to another game, but the female impatiently pushed them away, her tail slapping across the startled face of one of them. They sat back in the sand, breathing heavily and watching her with wide, pale eyes. She stood, brushing the sand off. This was confusing to them as well; they looked down at themselves. Slowly, uncertainly, they too brushed the sand off of themselves, even picking away bits of seaweed and marsh muck. The female continued to ignore them. She began to walk away, mounting a large rock. Adopting an almost rakish pose, she leaned forward, watching, listening. One by one, her eleven kin stopped what they were doing. One by one, they all stood still, looking in the same direction that she did, looking, straining their poor ears and eyes.
For the Aslanta do not have good vision. They do not have particularly good hearing either. Their strongest sense is of touch. Of Feeling. They felt the water slowly drying on their velvety skin. They felt the salt waves gently lapping against their feet. And they felt the Wind, cold and mournful, dancing across their bodies, going in to their very bones, whispering a promise of things to come. It whispered a story across their sinuous frames. Of the joys they would know. Of the horrors they would witness. The female, who they had all now unconsciously acknowledged as their leader, shivered. She did not want to know things. She wanted to play. To have fun, to continue her ordinary existence under wave and sun. And while she would still know this happiness, she now too learned that all must work before they could play. At least a little.
She slid down from her rock, and waved the Aslanta over. It was an unfamiliar gesture to them. She repeated it, walking a little closer. Hesitantly, they began to make their way over a few at a time, until they were all gathered in a loose circle on the beach. Their leader pointed towards their grotto. They all turned to look at it, then back at her. She swept an errant leaf off of on their shoulders. This pantomime was repeated an embarrassing number of times before they got the picture. They descended into the grotto, emerging dripping in their subterranean home. With tentative, self-aware motions, they began to clean. Gathering up the shells, neatly arranging the beds. They brought in fresh needles, from a variety of trees, to create sweeter smells. Some gathered flowers. Others berries, many of the kind they didn't regularly eat. Many were distracted, but the Leader understood this. It was their nature. If she was to have their loyalty, work and play would have to occur in equal proportions.
So they took turns, beautifying their home and cavorting in the marshes. The flowers and berries were crushed and spread along the walls. Swirling patterns of bright colors mixed with darker palettes, creating an abstract impression of the intermingling of ocean, tide, and forest. Boughs of spruce and manzanita, their twigs snapped off, were arranged with thick bundles of hemlock and fir needles, and then further spread with softer broadleaves. The Leader gathered many of the shells and bones. Her followers watched in awe as she showed them how to make bowls and plates from which to eat their food, and utensils to lift it. One of the younger followers defiantly sank her teeth into a raw fish's side, the guts and flesh squirting out around her face; the Leader just laughed. She leaned forward and kissed the top of her follower's head, then affectionately began to clean off the mess.
With this done, there was one last thing they must do. The Leader took them all outside. They followed in an obedient line like ducklings, sometimes darting off the trail to pluck a new interesting flower. She led them in to the woods a ways as the day died; the shadows deepened, ferns tickled their calves, and their feet made no sound in the thick moss and mulch below. The Leader collected cedar bark, fungus from under the bark of a birch tree, hanging moss from a spruce tree, and scraped some resin from a snapped off branch. She did this all in a slow, dream-like state, the others watching in anticipation. They were uncharacteristically quiet, though some did chatter or chirp to each other in hushed tones. They stopped in a clearing. With an air of imperious command that brooked no argument, the Leader silently bade the others to sweep aside the fallen needles in the center of the clearing, as well as the dead brush and limbs. They did so. Then she bid them gather stones, of just this size, and arrange them in a circle. They obeyed. Then she gathered her materials and went to work.
In moments, a trickle of smoke rose from the circle. Then a tiny spark. Many of the Aslanta yelled, and a few fled to watch from behind wet trees. The boldest, the young female from earlier, ran forward to stop their Leader. The Leader turned; in one hand she held a burning brand. The young challenger stopped and fell to her knees, eyes wide and full of terror. Behind the Leader, the fire blazed larger, filling its stone cage and casting wild, flickering shadows around the clearing as the sun sank behind the waves. The Aslanta slowly emerged from their hiding places and approached. The Leader waved them forward, encouragingly, her smile huge and her eyes flickering in the firelight. Soon, the Aslanta forgot their fear, for here was a wondrous new toy. And in mere moments, the group went from dread to joy, and all were engaged in a wild dance around the fire. They danced for hours, and filled the forest with a simple song, though it was perhaps more complex than it had been a few hours ago. And when the fire had burned low, they made their way home, gathering more supplies to make more fire, and more tools. For work and play must occur in equal parts, for the Good of the Tribe.
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