Cradle of the New Dawn (A Civilization Quest in a Primeval Fantasy World)

The world was unraveling.

The people had once tilled the land, had once known the rhythms of seed and harvest. There had been a time when their valley was rich, when crops swayed golden in the breeze, when the rivers ran full and clear. But that time had long passed, and the memory of it was beginning to fade from the minds of all but the elders. What once had been a thriving home was now a barren wasteland, where the earth cracked and crumbled underfoot and the rivers had run dry. The warmth of the sun had waned, leaving the days cold and the nights colder still.

So they had abandoned the farms, the villages they once called home, and had taken up the life of wanderers. It was a bitter thing, but the land had left them little choice. They followed the herd, a massive group of shaggy, resilient beasts with thick hides and long tusks. The beasts knew the way to food and water better than the people did now. So they trailed behind them, hunting what they could, scavenging when they must, and praying to the spirits that they might survive another winter.

But this winter had been different. The cold had come earlier, biting with a ferocity that even the elders said they had never known. The game was scarce, the herd restless, and the people hungry. They had wandered further than ever before, searching for sustenance, when the first whispers came.

There were stories passed by traders and fellow wanderers. Whispers of a great ice bridge that had formed far to the north. It was said that the bridge led to a new land, a land untouched by the blight that had ravaged the earth. A land where magic thrived, where the soil was fertile, and strange beasts roamed under skies brighter than any the tribe had ever known. It sounded like a dream, a distant fantasy, but for a people desperate to survive, even dreams could take root.

The elders had called the council together that night. They huddled around a small, crackling fire, its meager warmth barely enough to fight off the cold. The flames flickered against the gaunt faces of the tribe, casting shadows that made them look older than their years. Eyes filled with uncertainty and exhaustion turned toward the council as they spoke.

"The herd has changed its course," said one of the younger hunters. His voice was rough from days spent in the cold winds. "They're moving north, further than we've ever gone before. I think they sense something—something that draws them on."

"It could be the bridge," said Elder Asa, her voice calm but her eyes alight with the fire of hope. She was the oldest among them, her hair long gone silver, her face lined with the years of a life lived hard and well. "The stories say that the beasts can sense the magic before we do. If they are moving north, it could mean the bridge is real."

"Or it could mean nothing," growled Dran, a hunter whose broad shoulders and scarred hands spoke of many battles fought and won. "We follow these beasts because they know where to find food and water, not because they are wise. Chasing after some tale of an ice bridge could lead us all to our deaths."

The people murmured in agreement and disagreement alike, their voices rising and falling with the uncertainty that gripped them all. Elder Varga sat quietly for a time, his brow furrowed in thought. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, ears listened.

"We have no future here," Varga said at last, his voice carrying over the wind. "The land is dead. The herds will not stay much longer, and when they leave, we will be left with nothing. If there is a chance—a chance—that this bridge exists, that it leads to a new land where we can live and thrive, then we must take it."

"But what if the bridge is a trap?" Dran asked. "What if it leads to nothing but ice and death?"
Varga's gaze was steady as he met the hunter's eyes. "Then we will die fighting, as we always have. But we will not die here, slowly wasting away in a dead world."

There was silence for a moment, the cold wind howling through the trees, carrying with it the scent of distant snow. The people looked to one another, fear and hope warring in their hearts. It was the children who spoke first. They had no memory of the fertile lands their parents had once known. They had been born into this world of cold and scarcity, and for them, the promise of a new land was worth any risk.

"We should go," said Lira, a girl of no more than twelve winters. Her voice was steady and sure, and she stood tall despite the cold that gnawed at her bones. "We can't stay here."

The council looked at the girl, then back at Varga.
One by one, they nodded their agreement.

And so it was decided. The tribe would follow the herd across the ice bridge, leaving behind the only world they had ever known in search of something new, something better.

What beliefs did the people hold to in the Old World (Choose up to 2):
[]Nature Spirits – The people venerated the little gods that oversaw the elements around them.
[]Animism – The people believed that the strengths and abilities of animals could be gained by wearing their skins, feathers, and teeth.
[]Astrology – The people trusted that the stars guided their fates and the destinies of the world around them.
[]Blood and Sacrifice – The people knew the power inherent in the body, and that shed blood and bones were a way to strengthen, not a sign of weakness.
Note: There won't be one winner for this choice, as the people believe all of these. Votes will indicate how strongly each belief is held.

The journey north was long and grueling. The wind was fierce, biting at their exposed skin, and the cold seeped into their bones no matter how many patchy furs they wrapped around themselves. The landscape grew more desolate with each passing day, the ground covered in a thick layer of frost and snow that crunched beneath their feet.

But still, they pressed on. The herd led the way, their massive bodies breaking through the snow and clearing a path for the people. The beasts moved with a sense of purpose, as if they, too, were drawn to something beyond the horizon.
After many days of travel, they saw it—the Ice Bridge.

It stretched out before them, a vast expanse of shimmering ice that glowed with a pale blue light, almost as if it were alive. It connected the land they stood on to another far in the distance, a place obscured by mist and clouds. The air around the bridge was colder than anything they had ever known, but there was something else there too—a faint, almost electric hum that filled the air and made their skin tingle.

The people gathered at the edge of the ice, staring out at the impossible sight before them. The herd had already begun to cross, their great hooves clicking against the ice with a sound that echoed in the still air.

For a moment, no one moved. They stood frozen, unsure if they could truly trust this bridge of ice and magic.

Then Varga stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the distant shore. "We go," he said. And with that, he took the first step onto the Ice Bridge.

The people followed.

The crossing was treacherous. The ice beneath their feet was slick and unforgiving, and the winds that howled around them were so cold they felt like knives cutting through their skin. But the bridge held. Step by step, they made their way across, the strange hum in the air growing stronger the further they went.

As they walked, some among them thought they saw things in the ice—shapes and figures that moved just beneath the surface. Faces that seemed to watch them as they crossed. But when they looked closer, there was nothing there. Only ice and the reflections of the stars above.
It took them days to cross, but at last, they reached the other side. When they stepped off the bridge and onto solid ground once more, they were met with a sight that took their breath away.

The new land was unlike anything they had ever seen. The air was warm, filled with the sweet scent of flowers and the hum of life. The earth was soft beneath their feet, covered in rich, green grass that seemed to glow faintly in the light of the sun. And the sun—it was brighter here, its rays strong and warm against their skin. The sky above them was a deep, endless blue, dotted with stars that shone even in the daylight.

"This place… it's alive," whispered Lira, her eyes wide with wonder.

As the people moved further into the new land, they began to see more wonders. There were trees here—tall, ancient things with bark that shimmered and leaves that glowed with an inner light. Strange flowers bloomed in every color imaginable, their petals swirling with magic. And then, as they crested a hill, they saw them.

A herd of ants, some the size of a bison. They moved in perfect formation, their obsidian black bodies gleaming in the sunlight, their legs carrying them over the land with surprising grace. The tribe watched in awe as the ants marched toward the horizon, their path cutting through the land like a river.

"This land…" said Varga, his voice full of awe.

But with this new land came new challenges.

They could not remain wanderers forever. They needed to find a place to call home. And so, the people gathered once more in council, this time under the bright stars of their new world.

There were three voices that emerged from the debate.

Elder Asa, ever the voice of reason, urged the tribe to settle in a valley they had passed earlier in the day. The valley was lush and fertile, with a river running through its heart. "We could grow crops here," she said. "The land is rich, and the river will provide us with water. We could build a new life here," her voice steady and full of conviction. Her hands, though gnarled by age, gestured toward the valley with a kind of reverence. "This valley reminds me of the stories my own grandmother told me when I was a girl—of the lands before the blight. The land is good here. We could cultivate it, we could settle, and for the first time in years, we could know peace."
Her words carried weight, and many of the tribe nodded in agreement. The valley was indeed beautiful, with its fertile fields and the clear water of the river. It seemed like a place where they could finally rest, where they could build shelters that would not have to be abandoned in a season, where they could grow their food instead of relying on the unpredictable bounty of the herd. But not everyone was convinced.

Dran stood, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow in the firelight. His eyes glinted with an intensity that had not faded since their days of wandering the old world. "I understand the appeal of settling," he said, his voice deep and commanding. "But I say this is not the time to grow roots. We have lived as nomads for so long—what would we even know of farming now? Look at the creatures that walk this land." He gestured out toward the herd of ants, now a distant line of shimmering movement along the horizon. "These beasts—these giants—there is something about them. I say we follow them, just as we followed the herd that led us across the ice. They know this land better than we ever will. There is power in movement, in keeping pace with the world as it changes. We are now a people of the hunt. If we return to settling we may grow stagnant, and this land may turn against us."

And then there was Lira, standing at the edge of the circle, her eyes fixed on the towering mountains that loomed in the distance, their peaks piercing the sky like jagged teeth. She was not one of the council elders, but she had become a voice of hope among the younger members of the tribe. She had been the first to speak in favor of crossing the ice bridge, and now, she stepped forward again.

"I think we should climb the mountains," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "There is something calling me there. The air feels different when the wind blows down from the peaks. I don't know what it is, but I feel it in my bones—it's magic. It's old. The sky seems closer in the mountains, and maybe we will find the answers we seek there. Maybe there are gods are waiting for us at the top."

Several people shifted uncomfortably at the mention of the gods. They had prayed so often for salvation in the old world, and their prayers had gone unanswered. But here, in this land where magic thrummed in every blade of grass and strange, impossible creatures roamed the fields, it did not seem so far-fetched that there might be something divine in the mountains, watching and waiting for them to come.

The council deliberated long into the night, the fire burning low as the stars wheeled overhead, bright and full of promise. The air in this new world was different; it was rich with life, with possibility. No longer did they feel the weight of the dying world pressing down on them. Instead, there was a lightness, a feeling of something new and unknown waiting just beyond the horizon. But with that feeling came uncertainty—where should they go now that they had arrived?

The people dispersed then, each member lost in their own thoughts as they returned to their tents. Some whispered to one another in hushed tones, debating the merits of each path, while others remained silent, gazing up at the bright stars that filled the sky with a light they had not seen in many years.

And as the sun climbed higher into the sky, the tribe began to choose their path. Whichever way they went—whether they settled in the valley, followed the herd, or climbed the mountains—the tribe knew that they had already made the most important choice of all.

They had chosen to live.

What did the People Decide:
[] Settle in the River Valley
[] Follow the Giant Herd
[] Ascend the Mountain

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Inspired of course by AcademiaNut's Paths of Civilization, this quest will see you guiding the development of a people who find themselves in a magic soaked new world. Each turn will (roughly) follow a generation in the existence of the people, chronicling how their societal values develop, and how they discover and interact with the magic around them.

The People of the Herd

Tribal Government: Primitive Diarchy

Tribal Religion: The Way of Spirits and Stars

Settlements
Core Beliefs

Trade Status

The Way of Spirits and Stars
[x] Follow the Giant Herd

The decision had been made. Dran, the warrior who had long stood for strength in motion, had convinced most of the tribe to follow the great herd of ants. Though Elder Asa had taken a small group to settle in the valley, and Lira had led a few brave souls into the mountains in search of magic and the gods, the majority of the tribe, hungry for survival and unwilling to abandon their nomadic ways, had chosen the path of the herd.

For twenty years, the tribe had followed the massive ants as they marched across the vast, rolling grasslands of this new world. The ants moved with unerring purpose, tracing a trail that stretched from one end of their domain to the other; one complete circuit took about seven seasons to complete. The ants' movement was slow but steady, their massive black bodies gleaming under the sun as they pressed onward. Every few weeks, they would reach a giant mound, each one resembling a rocky hill, where the ants would cluster and rest for a time before continuing their journey.

The tribe watched in awe as the ants moved in perfect unison, countless of them marching in lines so straight and orderly that it seemed as though they were guided by a divine hand. The people of the tribe, who had once feared starvation and extinction, now had a new belief—they saw the ants as divine spirits, emissaries of the earth sent to guide and protect them. They kept their distance, fearful of angering these spirits but also reverent, believing that the ants held the secret to the land's magic.

The first few months after the decision to follow the herd were tense and uncertain. The tribe had no understanding of the ants' behavior or the patterns of the land. They feared they had chosen a path that would lead them to ruin. But gradually, as they settled into the rhythm of the ants' journey, they began to understand the lay of the land and the creatures that inhabited it.

The grasslands stretched out endlessly in all directions, a sea of tall, swaying grasses punctuated by the occasional rocky outcrop or cluster of trees. The air was sweet with the scent of wildflowers, and the sky above was vast and open, painted with clouds that shifted in shapes the tribe sometimes imagined as the forms of ancient gods.

Though the ants commanded the tribe's respect, they were not the only source of sustenance. The grasslands teemed with life. Grazing animals—sheep with thick, coarse wool and goats with twisting, curving horns—wandered the plains in large herds, while flocks of brightly colored birds with long, marvelous plumage filled the sky. The tribe found that hunting these creatures provided them with ample food, and over time they became skilled at blending into the grasslands, moving with the quiet precision of predators who had learned to live in harmony with the wild.
The birds, in particular, were a prize among the hunters. Their feathers were not only beautiful but resilient, and the tribe used them to craft cloaks and headdresses that protected against the harsh winds and sun of the plains. The brightly colored plumage also became a sign of status, with the most skilled hunters adorning themselves in feathers of deep red, iridescent blue, and shimmering gold.

At first, the tribe was cautious around the ants. They followed at a distance, never venturing too close for fear of disturbing the divine creatures. The ants were so large that even the slightest misstep could crush a person beneath their weight. It was said that if an ant caught sight of a human too close to its path, it might see them as a threat and summon others to retaliate. Whether or not this was true, the tribe did not wish to test the idea.

Still, there were times when an ant would fall. Whether from exhaustion, injury, or some unknown cause, an ant might collapse and be left behind by the herd. At first, the tribe hesitated to approach these fallen giants, fearing that to touch them would be to offend the spirits. But hunger and curiosity eventually overpowered their fear.
One day, when an ant fell near the edge of the tribe's camp, Dran himself approached the beast. It lay motionless, its massive black carapace glinting in the sunlight. Carefully, he touched the ant's shell and found that it was smooth and cool to the touch, unlike anything he had ever felt. It was hard, almost like stone—like the obsidian shards they had seen in the old world.
Dran called for the others, and together they worked to peel away pieces of the ant's shell. What they discovered astounded them. The outer layer of the ant's body was made of a thick, glassy substance that resembled obsidian, but it was stronger, sharper. Beneath the shell, they found strange ores and rocks embedded within the creature's flesh—silver veins of metal that shimmered like moonlight, and stones that glowed faintly with an inner light. But what surprised them most was the meat itself. It was dense and rich, unlike any animal they had ever eaten, and it was edible.

That night, the tribe feasted on the fallen ant's flesh, their fear replaced by reverence. They believed more than ever that the ants were not merely animals but spirits of the earth, sent to guide them. They began to see the fallen ants as gifts from the gods—offerings of sustenance and resources that they were meant to use.

The tribe quickly learned how to fashion tools and weapons from the materials they harvested from the fallen ants. The glassy carapaces were worked into razor-sharp blades, spearheads, and arrowheads, stronger and more durable than any stone they had used before. The strange ores found inside the ants were fashioned into jewelry that glittered with the light of the strange new world.

The crafting of these items became a sacred task. The tribe believed that by shaping the ants' remains into useful tools, they were honoring the spirits and continuing the cycle of life and death that had sustained them for so long. The weapons they forged were not merely objects of war or survival; they were symbols of their bond with the earth and the divine.

Over time, the tribe's reliance on these materials grew. The weapons made from the ant's carapace were light and deadly, and their tools allowed them to craft shelters and hunt with greater ease. The jewelry they fashioned—rings, bracelets, and necklaces made from the glowing stones—became symbols of status and power within the tribe. Dran himself wore a necklace of obsidian shards, each piece gleaming like the stars in the sky, and his warriors followed suit, wearing similar adornments to show their strength and connection to the spirits.

Despite their growing use of the ants' remains, the tribe never lost their reverence for the living creatures. They continued to follow the herd at a respectful distance, never interfering with their movement or venturing too close to the giant mounds where the ants gathered. The tribe believed that to do so would be to invite disaster, for the spirits were not to be trifled with.

The herd moved in a great circle, tracing the same path year after year, season after season. The tribe learned to follow this cycle, setting up temporary camps at key points along the ants' route. Every few weeks, the herd would reach one of the giant mounds, and the ants would cluster around it, disappearing into tunnels that seemed to lead deep into the earth. The tribe did not know what the ants did inside these mounds, but they respected the creatures' need for solitude and took the opportunity to rest and gather their strength before the journey continued.

The land around the mounds was fertile, and the tribe often found that the wildlife was more abundant in these areas. The grass grew taller, the trees thicker, and the streams that ran from the hills were cool and clear. It was as if the presence of the ants brought life to the land, renewing it with each passing season. The tribe hunted the local animals, gathered the fruit that grew in the shade of the hills, and marveled at the beauty of the birds that filled the sky.

The tribe's connection to the ants became more than just a way of life; it became their identity. They were no longer the people of the dying world, wandering aimlessly in search of sustenance. They were the People of the Herd, the keepers of the ants, the chosen of the earth spirits. Their tools and weapons, their jewelry and clothing, all reflected their bond with the land and its divine creatures.

And yet, even as the tribe flourished, there was a growing sense that their journey was far from over. The ants continued to march, year after year, always following the same path, never straying. But some among the tribe began to wonder—what lay beyond the great circle of the herd's journey? What mysteries remained hidden in the vast, untamed lands that stretched out beyond the horizon?

Dran, now older and more seasoned, still wore the obsidian necklace that marked him as the leader of the People of the Herd. But as he stood on the crest of a hill one evening, watching the sun set behind the distant mountains, he felt a stirring in his chest. He had led his people well, had kept them safe and strong. But the land still held secrets, and Dran knew that one day, the tribe might be called to leave the path of the ants behind and forge a new one of their own.
For now, though, the People of the Herd would continue their journey, following the earth spirits as they had for twenty years. They had found their place in the new world—between earth and sky, life and death, movement and stillness.

The years had weighed heavily on Dran, though he carried them with pride. His once thick, black hair was now streaked with silver, and the muscles that had once rippled beneath his skin had softened with age. Yet his eyes remained sharp, as did his mind, and he had not lost the respect of the people. He had led them for twenty years, and under his guidance, the People of the Herd had grown strong, skilled, and prosperous. But now, as his body slowed and weariness crept into his bones, Dran knew his time was drawing to a close.

And with that knowledge came fear—fear not for himself, but for his people. What would become of the tribe once he was gone? He had seen other tribes fall apart after the loss of a strong leader, tearing themselves apart in power struggles and factional disputes. He could not let that happen to the People of the Herd. They had come too far, overcome too many trials, to fall into chaos now.

It was for this reason that Dran called the council together. The tribe's most influential members—elders, hunters, artisans, and shamans—gathered around a large fire as the sun dipped below the horizon. Dran sat at the head of the circle, the obsidian necklace around his neck glinting in the firelight. His daughters sat close by, their faces solemn but composed.

"We must speak of the future," Dran said, his voice steady despite the weight of the words. "I am growing old. I have served as your leader, but I will not live forever. We must decide what happens after I am gone."

The murmurs of the tribe echoed in the night, their voices low but tense. They had known this moment would come, but none were eager to face it. Dran's leadership had been the cornerstone of their survival. The question of what would come after him filled many with uncertainty.

Dran's eldest daughter, Essna, was the first to speak. She was tall and strong, with a sharp mind and a will as fierce as her father's. "The blood of a leader runs through our family," she said, her voice clear and confident. "My father has led us well, and I have learned from him all my life. Let his legacy continue through his bloodline. I will lead the people as he has, with the same wisdom and strength."

Some of the council nodded in agreement. They trusted Dran, and by extension, they trusted his family. They believed that Essna, and perhaps her sisters and offspring after her, would carry on his legacy, preserving the tribe's stability.

But others were less certain. A respected hunter with a reputation for pragmatism, spoke up next. "A family can grow strong, yes, but it can also weaken," he said. "What if Essna leads us well for a time, but her children do not? Do we wish to give one family absolute power over all of us? I have seen this go badly in other tribes. Leaders should be chosen for their strength and wisdom, not simply because they were born into it."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group. The idea of hereditary leadership made many uneasy. Dran himself frowned, unsure whether he truly wanted to burden his daughters with the responsibility he had carried for so long.

It was then that Yara, a shaman with deep connections to the spirits, raised her voice. "Perhaps the answer lies in shared leadership," she said, her eyes gleaming in the firelight. "We have many clans among us, each with their own strengths and traditions. Let each clan have a voice in leadership. Form a grand council, where each clan is represented, and let the tribe be guided by the wisdom of many rather than the will of one."

The proposal sparked an immediate reaction. Some saw wisdom in the idea—shared leadership could prevent power from becoming concentrated in a single family. But others, who remembered the time before the ice bridge, warned of the dangers. "Councils can be slow," said voices heavy with experience. "Indecision breeds conflict. Clans hold grudges, and a the council itself could easily become a battlefield of words and rivalries. We need to be decisive if we are to survive."

Finally, another shaman who had been silent until now, spoke up. Her voice was calm, though it carried with it the weight of the spirits. "There is another way," she said. "The clans need not fight for power, and the bloodline need not be absolute. Let the clan chiefs choose among the tribe a chieftain they will follow. Or, if you think that is still too likely to lead to infighting, perhaps we shamans could choose the leader…as the spirits see fit, of course. The spirits have guided us here; they would know who is best to lead us forward."

Her suggestion brought a hush over the council. The shamans were revered among the tribe, seen as the intermediaries between the people and the divine spirits of the land. Some found comfort in the idea of leaving the decision to the shamans, trusting that they would select the leader who was most favored by the spirits. Others, however, feared that such power would place too much control in the hands of those who might be swayed by personal interests or ambition.

In the end, Dran raised his hand for silence. "This is not a decision we will make lightly, nor quickly," he said. "We must think carefully on this matter. Whatever path we choose, it must be one that will keep our people strong and united. We will speak again soon, but for now, let the matter rest. We are not yet without a leader."

The council dispersed, the debate left unresolved for the moment. But as Dran watched his people walk away into the night, he knew that the question of succession would not rest easily on anyone's mind. The future was uncertain, and the tribe would need to find a solution before the inevitable came to pass.

The People would be led by:
[] Hereditary High Chief
[] Grand Council of Clan Chiefs
[] High Chief Chosen by Clan Chiefs
[] High Chief Chosen by Shamans

—-
Voting is open.