The People had been wanderers for as long as anyone could remember, moving from place to place...
Chronicles of Nations - Civ Quest
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User Total Somebodynobody10 1 Omegahugger 1 Vocalend 2 Rockeye 1 hYGP 1 Orion Ultor 1 maximillian 1 Oshha 3 Knight Draco 1 -
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Song of Mas'hta
Orion Ultor
Everything’s Got A Price.
- Location
- East Coast
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Weird where five minutes of bs gets you:
Mas'hta, a child of Mountain and Sea, had been born into this world a beautiful creature; throughout the days of childhood, she had been told as such by many a matron, and during the days of courtship, many a manfolkdid she turn astray…but it all meant nothing, as for all her beauty she sat high on the totem*.
Many a girl in her village sought the attentions of the handsome chiefson, for he was mighty indeed; many an attempt had been made by Mas'hta to gain his affection, yet he remained out of her reach.
Emboldened by these many failures, Mas'hta one day struck a bragain with a spirit most foul to gain this attention; "Beautiful girl," the spirit spoke, "I will give you what you seek, in return for your eggs."
"I will give you more than that," the girl spoke, "I will give you a portion of my food for all my years to come." and sealed the bragain. The next day, the chiefson found in the waters of the river and became pleased with her form, taking her for his wife.
Many moons passed and the seasons changed, and she found herself satisfied by the bargain; then came the day, after years of attempts, she was found barren, unable to grant the chiefson a child of his own.
They sought the words of the herbalist; she had none. They sought the words of the shaman, to seek aid; he had none. They sought the words of the chief; he had none. They sought the words of the spirits; they had some.
"The deal that you struck is the source of your barren fields," spoke a great spirit of their ancestors. "But how can that be, for the deal was in return for some bird's eggs?" Mas'hta asked. "Not bird eggs," spoke the spirits, "but your own."
Fearful of her choice, she sought another bargain with the foul spirit, yet he refused her audience. Dismayed, she sought the path towards a child, seeking high and low for answers.
None came…none ever came, until she found the attentions of Arthyrn. "Oh, great mother!" she cried, "Forgive this foolish girl; all I had ever wanted was a child."
Like many mothers before her, Arthyrn did not answer her directly and it wasn't until the day came a moon past her pleas, that she found herself carrying her chiefson's child, and eventually gave birth to a beautiful daughter in the image of her father.
They lived in peace for awhile, until the day came that it be known that she was gifted with foresight and knowledge. Mas'hta immediatley knew this was the blessing of Arthyrn and was gladdened.
When the girl came to be near age, Mas'hta returned to Arthyrn with the girl, thanked her for her daughter, gifts and all. She was saddened then, when she knew she could not keep the girl for long, as the girl was Arthyrns daughter as well; only gifted for a lifetime.
This girl grew in the world of mortals, and when the day came that she was ancient and crone, she returned to the Mother Above, having earned the right in the eyes of those Above-Here-and-Below the title of All-Seeress.
*If I remember right, in certain tribes it was considered an honored and high position to be found low on the totem pole.
Sunrise Mountain Passage Builders
Rockeye
Plausible Engineer
- Location
- Midwestern U.S.
@Oshha omake
Sunrise Mountain Passage Builders
Covyn is carrying a heavy tree trunk up a mountain with two other men. It's slow, laborious work. When it arrives it will be laid down across the path on one of the steepest sections of the Sunrise Mountain Passage, set into a small hole carved into the mountain's rock. Dirt will then be dug out from below and added above, and then stones laid on top of that, to turn the difficult, slippery slope into safer, easier stairs.
His parents and the elders of his village said that everything has changed from how they used to do things. Farms are different - The compost, digging streams, leaving some fields empty on the word of the priests. And the priests carry stone tablets around, recording which fields lay fallow in which years, how much compost each field receives and how much food it grows, how many days it takes how many men to dig a water stream how long... So many numbers, carefully recorded and added up and considered and planned. When he was younger complained about priests simply standing around thinking all day - what easy work it must be!
But then one of the priests, an attractive woman named Malyn who looked the very image of Arthryn, took him through a day in the life of a priest. They must memorize prayers to each of the goddesses, and the rules for properly venerating each of them. They must learn Arthryn's blessing, the magical skill of bending stone in their hands. They must know about all the work that needs to be done - hunting, fishing, farming, bearing messages back and forth, building and digging, making pots and wicker and carts, how much of it must be done, who knows how to do the work, how much food there is. They must learn to understand and make the carvings that keep track of all these things. They must always remember the teachings of the goddesses and act with those in mind, helping the People in word and deed.
Covyn did not make fun of priests again after embarrassing himself so much on that one day. The priests are People like any other People. They grew up with their parents and the community, and they found that the work of priests suited them. They don't have as easy a life as it might first seem, and they must be clever and insightful to make a good priest.
Seryn the Wise may have been wise indeed, and her insight may have made it so the People have more food and can remember what they have in stone, but the oldest people in his village still act wistful for the days before that, when you simply did your work, ate what was needed, stored away what was not, and thanked the goddesses for your life. They complain that the priests are now counting Arthryn's blessings, not appreciating them. It doesn't help that his village still does not have a proper shrine for worship - just small statues, less than a foot high, placed in a spare house. It's better than nothing, but the goddesses deserve proper veneration, like in the shrines in the older, larger villages. That sets the elders complaining again whenever it is mentioned.
Covyn doesn't understand why they grumble so. Maintaining the streams and channels when water softens the earth and causes them to fill in is hard, difficult work - but even though he is no priest, he can plainly see that fields flush with water grow much more food than fields on their own. He is a digger - ever since he was fifteen. The work is simple, physical, but necessary and useful. It's satisfying to see a deep, clean, straight channel after a hard day's work. When there were no ditches to dig, he would maintain the trails that lead to other villages, keeping them free of the roots and seeds that seek to reclaim the small strip of land. Filling in holes with dirt dug from the land beside the trail with his stone spade.
When it was decided by the high priests to make a passage north, to the mountain outpost of the People, and towards the Merntir, Covyn volunteered. Seeing the Sunrise Mountains, the Merntir, the proper shrines in other villages along the way, was an enticing prospect. And he thought he was just the kind of man to work on such a difficult trail - strong and not particularly clever.
It is truly a great undertaking. Creating a trail on flat land is simply a matter of removing all the plants and trees, but on a mountain that is just the first step. The priests already know the safest path, revealed by Arthryn long ago when they needed to find and defeat the evil tyrant who misled the Merntirish. The path must be cleared of vegetation, smoothed out by digging and hauling dirt, in some places by painstakingly carving into stone. It must be made durable, so that many thousands of feet, many seasons of rain, will not wash it away. Covyn was very surprised when his idea, to make channels through the trail for the rain to flow so only one spot would be washed away in rain, instead of many, was accepted by the priests organizing the work on the passage, and they spent a moon debating the best way to do it! They even had him join their discussions and speak about how to keep the rain from washing things away! Lining those channels with stones was the solution, in the end.
After delivering the tree trunk, Covyn and his friends rest for a bit, then head back down the mountain, past other workers carrying dirt, past stonecarvers making the narrow winding path into a slightly wider winding path, or building small structures where there is room as shelter from the rain, or storage for food to feed the many People bustling through the Sunrise Mountains. As he descends, he pauses a moment at a certain bend. He looks at the plaque some priest carved into the stone here, holding an image of Ymarn looking serene and wise. He looks down the slope on the progress that has already been made. A mile of easy walking carved into the harsh slope of the mountain. A few sections lined with stones to make them more sturdy, or reinforced with wood - most of it simply hard work and rearranged dirt. He looks forward and around at the mountains still surrounding them.
Nature is vast... But still, they make progress of a few feet every day. Making a path through the very mountains themselves sounds like something only the goddesses can do. But the People are doing it, with guidance and assistance from the goddesses, yes, but this is still something grand wrought by human hands.
Covyn decides, at that moment, that he will dedicate his life to the Sunrise Mountain Passage.
Years later, holding his wife Yrmar and his son Covar as they visit the pass, he goes back to the same bend in the trail he paused on that day and shows them the path ascending into the mountain beyond it, and feels pride at the boy's wonder in it. He laughs as Covar announces that he's going to work on the mountain pass, too, when he gets older.
Sunrise Mountain Passage Builders
Covyn is carrying a heavy tree trunk up a mountain with two other men. It's slow, laborious work. When it arrives it will be laid down across the path on one of the steepest sections of the Sunrise Mountain Passage, set into a small hole carved into the mountain's rock. Dirt will then be dug out from below and added above, and then stones laid on top of that, to turn the difficult, slippery slope into safer, easier stairs.
His parents and the elders of his village said that everything has changed from how they used to do things. Farms are different - The compost, digging streams, leaving some fields empty on the word of the priests. And the priests carry stone tablets around, recording which fields lay fallow in which years, how much compost each field receives and how much food it grows, how many days it takes how many men to dig a water stream how long... So many numbers, carefully recorded and added up and considered and planned. When he was younger complained about priests simply standing around thinking all day - what easy work it must be!
But then one of the priests, an attractive woman named Malyn who looked the very image of Arthryn, took him through a day in the life of a priest. They must memorize prayers to each of the goddesses, and the rules for properly venerating each of them. They must learn Arthryn's blessing, the magical skill of bending stone in their hands. They must know about all the work that needs to be done - hunting, fishing, farming, bearing messages back and forth, building and digging, making pots and wicker and carts, how much of it must be done, who knows how to do the work, how much food there is. They must learn to understand and make the carvings that keep track of all these things. They must always remember the teachings of the goddesses and act with those in mind, helping the People in word and deed.
Covyn did not make fun of priests again after embarrassing himself so much on that one day. The priests are People like any other People. They grew up with their parents and the community, and they found that the work of priests suited them. They don't have as easy a life as it might first seem, and they must be clever and insightful to make a good priest.
Seryn the Wise may have been wise indeed, and her insight may have made it so the People have more food and can remember what they have in stone, but the oldest people in his village still act wistful for the days before that, when you simply did your work, ate what was needed, stored away what was not, and thanked the goddesses for your life. They complain that the priests are now counting Arthryn's blessings, not appreciating them. It doesn't help that his village still does not have a proper shrine for worship - just small statues, less than a foot high, placed in a spare house. It's better than nothing, but the goddesses deserve proper veneration, like in the shrines in the older, larger villages. That sets the elders complaining again whenever it is mentioned.
Covyn doesn't understand why they grumble so. Maintaining the streams and channels when water softens the earth and causes them to fill in is hard, difficult work - but even though he is no priest, he can plainly see that fields flush with water grow much more food than fields on their own. He is a digger - ever since he was fifteen. The work is simple, physical, but necessary and useful. It's satisfying to see a deep, clean, straight channel after a hard day's work. When there were no ditches to dig, he would maintain the trails that lead to other villages, keeping them free of the roots and seeds that seek to reclaim the small strip of land. Filling in holes with dirt dug from the land beside the trail with his stone spade.
When it was decided by the high priests to make a passage north, to the mountain outpost of the People, and towards the Merntir, Covyn volunteered. Seeing the Sunrise Mountains, the Merntir, the proper shrines in other villages along the way, was an enticing prospect. And he thought he was just the kind of man to work on such a difficult trail - strong and not particularly clever.
It is truly a great undertaking. Creating a trail on flat land is simply a matter of removing all the plants and trees, but on a mountain that is just the first step. The priests already know the safest path, revealed by Arthryn long ago when they needed to find and defeat the evil tyrant who misled the Merntirish. The path must be cleared of vegetation, smoothed out by digging and hauling dirt, in some places by painstakingly carving into stone. It must be made durable, so that many thousands of feet, many seasons of rain, will not wash it away. Covyn was very surprised when his idea, to make channels through the trail for the rain to flow so only one spot would be washed away in rain, instead of many, was accepted by the priests organizing the work on the passage, and they spent a moon debating the best way to do it! They even had him join their discussions and speak about how to keep the rain from washing things away! Lining those channels with stones was the solution, in the end.
After delivering the tree trunk, Covyn and his friends rest for a bit, then head back down the mountain, past other workers carrying dirt, past stonecarvers making the narrow winding path into a slightly wider winding path, or building small structures where there is room as shelter from the rain, or storage for food to feed the many People bustling through the Sunrise Mountains. As he descends, he pauses a moment at a certain bend. He looks at the plaque some priest carved into the stone here, holding an image of Ymarn looking serene and wise. He looks down the slope on the progress that has already been made. A mile of easy walking carved into the harsh slope of the mountain. A few sections lined with stones to make them more sturdy, or reinforced with wood - most of it simply hard work and rearranged dirt. He looks forward and around at the mountains still surrounding them.
Nature is vast... But still, they make progress of a few feet every day. Making a path through the very mountains themselves sounds like something only the goddesses can do. But the People are doing it, with guidance and assistance from the goddesses, yes, but this is still something grand wrought by human hands.
Covyn decides, at that moment, that he will dedicate his life to the Sunrise Mountain Passage.
Years later, holding his wife Yrmar and his son Covar as they visit the pass, he goes back to the same bend in the trail he paused on that day and shows them the path ascending into the mountain beyond it, and feels pride at the boy's wonder in it. He laughs as Covar announces that he's going to work on the mountain pass, too, when he gets older.
Last edited:
The Stand of The Weary
Throughout the times, even in the primordial times predating the Goddesses, there are stories. Stories of sadness, of happiness, of triumph, of failures, of many more.
Though the ages only records the greatest and wondrous of stories, and though the sands time covers and changes the stories that are left, a singular fact remains. That these stories once existed. That they serve as inspirations, mores, memorials, and more.
These are such stories....
"Elder Bunyn, please." The young hunter of but twenty winters old implored with pleading eyes at the Elder slumped next to her. "Please, get up. Please, we can still make it out of here."
That was a lie, she knew. All around them, the Five-Grove Village is burning. The detestable Boarfolk had breached the defensive line and gone to torch the entire village. Only the several survivors remained, trapped by all side by boar riders. The two in particular huddled in a house that for now, remains unburnt.
"...." The Elder sat, bleeding from numerous cuts in his body. Both of them are, though the cuts are far more extensive on the older Mertnirian. "...Run."
"What?"
"Run, child." His gaze of sixty-five winters bored straight into her green eyes. "Leave me be here. You can run and survive." That is not a lie. A hunter can evade and scurry around without being caught, injured as they are. But Bunyn cannot. "Survive, if only for another day." Left unspoken was the fact that he had meant for her to not be caught, first and foremost. Nothing needs to be said about the fates of the females caught by the barbaric Boarfolk.
"Elder, I don't care. You need to go before I do."
"Why are you so adamant, child? What is there to be gained with my survival?"
"....Great-Uncle, you're the only Elder left out here. You're the only family I have left." Tears, held back once, streaked down her face now. "I-If you're gone, there'd be no one left. Please." Her hushed-plea rang through the hollowed hut.
"Likewise, Tyn." Exerting himself, the Elder stood. "You are also the only family I have left. This war...no, plague, has gone over for too long. But though our family are reduced to nothing, we have something that survives us." He rummaged the weaved knapsack, straps and seams fraying, for a wrapped bundle of a sort. "These barbarians know nothing of Arthryn and her blessings. Of The All-Seerest and her guidance. Of Wryn and her arts. These uncultured swines can only defile." The animated gestures brought coughs of blood from Bunyn's throat. Mercifully, they were mere flecks of blood. The Goddesses protects, even now. "But so be it then."
"W-What?"
"Let them defile our past, the days of old are filled with grief, doubt, and mistakes." Grunting, the Elder took it upon himself to grab a stone spear, the last weapon available, aside from Tyn's bows and a handful of arrow nocks remaining. "But I will not let them take you, our family's last heir. The People's future." The bundle in his free hand is unwrapped, revealing the handful remnants of nightleaf paste, used to numb pain.
"...No. Please." Tyn pleaded louder, ignoring the trampling hooves of the boarfolk and their contemptuous mounts getting closer. "Great-Uncle, no!"
The Elder said no word and did none except to munch on the paste. A risky strategy developed was to imbibe in a severely watered down paste. Some argued that, in the face of extant dangers, reducing the reaction time is worth the ability to ignore pain.
A risky strategy, for the numbness affects people differently. And sometimes fatally, for the lapse in consciousness is the greatest difference in life and death.
"Goodbye, Tyn. Live. For us." With those last words, the Elder charged out of the hut....
...and into the waiting spears of the boarfolk. The largest of them waved to him in an universal gesture of death. Two of the spearboars yelled a wordless battlecry at him.
"Oh Blessed Goddesses, guide my strike true and my foes not." A wave of Bunyn's free hand, coupled with a pained grunt from his throat, batted away the sharp stone heads. With them batted, the first blood goes to the aged man, as All-Seerest guided his speartip straight through the eye of the first boarman. Wrenching the spear from the still twitching corpse, he stabbed it at the second spearboar, a gash on the throat opening a rift of crimson that flooded outward.
The first exchange occurred for mere three seconds.
In the fourth second, the ready archers let loose their arrows on the Elder.
Another wave of the arm send them off-course, but not enough. Two arrow found their mark, embedding sharp flints his in arms and sides.
The display of divine might wavered the resolve of the gathered boarfolk. For whatever reasons, these barbarians do not seem to converse with one another much, making the overt instances of the invoking of the Goddesses damaging to their savage spirits. The leader, perched on top of his animalistic counterpart, knew this well.
Which is why he charged, spear held tight in front, a three-pronged attack with the tusks and momentum of his mount aiming to impale or throw Bunyn's most likely to be battered body to the ground. Resolutely, he put himself on the deadly path to collision. Surprising the assembled warriors, the blessed Elder did something else. Something that everyone, even Tyn whose tear-streaked face watches from the distance - corpses of boarmen littering the ground next to her - did not expect.
Angling the right spear down, he aimed at the boar's right front leg. An improbable aim, made possible by the All-Seerest, that struck true. A crunch and a pained squeal from the mount was the prelude to the fall of the beast. The sheer momentum transferred to its left tusk, which snapped and pushed the sharp broken pieces inward to its own skull.
However, the momentum of the dying beast isn't over yet.
"Ghg!" The right tusk, unbroken, jabbed straight and through at the Elder's side. The boar-rider's spear itself did not waver in its wielder's aim, striking Bunyn just below his chest.
Before the boar-rider could exult in his success, however, a fact hit him. Literally and proverbially.
Bunyn had a second spear.
The rider screamed in pain as the right side of his chest is pierced through, the momentum working against him, to the point that the shaft of the spear broke. The three stopped just before they crashed the thatched hut.
"I-In...in the name of the Goddesses, die." Bunyn gurgled, pale but victorious. His right spear jabbed another hole through the rider's chest. The boarman shuddered, before stilling forevermore. The Elder looked at the procession of the warriors all around him, frightened expressions, yet tempered by the fact that to the victor, come the leader. He can tell, numbed as his senses are, that they are wondering who amongst them can finish him off.
He'll not make it a choice. He'll force it.
"Come then! Do you think you can beat me?" A challenge, something that the boarfolk cannot shake off easily. At that command, even the archers went to grab spears, thinking that their arrows would be batted away with ease. Bunyn doesn't want to dissuade them from their false assumption. Not when they paced towards him.
Tyn did not saw what happened next, running away from the battlement as she did. All she heard were the pained screams of more boarfolk...before silence, accentuated by the crackling of the fire that lit her former village.
No Mertnirian or Arthwydish knew what became of the last of the Northern Mertnir Elders. Except for one thing, that for a moment, for the briefest of time perhaps only known to the Goddesses, no boarfolk attacked from the direction of Five-Grove.
And perhaps that is enough. Enough a sacrifice that an Elder can bring to the future.
A Civ-Quest? Low-Fantasy? Epic Age? The perfect time to drop omakes then. I love the work done in this Quest and look forward to see more. And if the muse is willing, dropping more omakes~
Though the ages only records the greatest and wondrous of stories, and though the sands time covers and changes the stories that are left, a singular fact remains. That these stories once existed. That they serve as inspirations, mores, memorials, and more.
These are such stories....
The Stand of The Weary
"Elder Bunyn, please." The young hunter of but twenty winters old implored with pleading eyes at the Elder slumped next to her. "Please, get up. Please, we can still make it out of here."
That was a lie, she knew. All around them, the Five-Grove Village is burning. The detestable Boarfolk had breached the defensive line and gone to torch the entire village. Only the several survivors remained, trapped by all side by boar riders. The two in particular huddled in a house that for now, remains unburnt.
"...." The Elder sat, bleeding from numerous cuts in his body. Both of them are, though the cuts are far more extensive on the older Mertnirian. "...Run."
"What?"
"Run, child." His gaze of sixty-five winters bored straight into her green eyes. "Leave me be here. You can run and survive." That is not a lie. A hunter can evade and scurry around without being caught, injured as they are. But Bunyn cannot. "Survive, if only for another day." Left unspoken was the fact that he had meant for her to not be caught, first and foremost. Nothing needs to be said about the fates of the females caught by the barbaric Boarfolk.
"Elder, I don't care. You need to go before I do."
"Why are you so adamant, child? What is there to be gained with my survival?"
"....Great-Uncle, you're the only Elder left out here. You're the only family I have left." Tears, held back once, streaked down her face now. "I-If you're gone, there'd be no one left. Please." Her hushed-plea rang through the hollowed hut.
"Likewise, Tyn." Exerting himself, the Elder stood. "You are also the only family I have left. This war...no, plague, has gone over for too long. But though our family are reduced to nothing, we have something that survives us." He rummaged the weaved knapsack, straps and seams fraying, for a wrapped bundle of a sort. "These barbarians know nothing of Arthryn and her blessings. Of The All-Seerest and her guidance. Of Wryn and her arts. These uncultured swines can only defile." The animated gestures brought coughs of blood from Bunyn's throat. Mercifully, they were mere flecks of blood. The Goddesses protects, even now. "But so be it then."
"W-What?"
"Let them defile our past, the days of old are filled with grief, doubt, and mistakes." Grunting, the Elder took it upon himself to grab a stone spear, the last weapon available, aside from Tyn's bows and a handful of arrow nocks remaining. "But I will not let them take you, our family's last heir. The People's future." The bundle in his free hand is unwrapped, revealing the handful remnants of nightleaf paste, used to numb pain.
"...No. Please." Tyn pleaded louder, ignoring the trampling hooves of the boarfolk and their contemptuous mounts getting closer. "Great-Uncle, no!"
The Elder said no word and did none except to munch on the paste. A risky strategy developed was to imbibe in a severely watered down paste. Some argued that, in the face of extant dangers, reducing the reaction time is worth the ability to ignore pain.
A risky strategy, for the numbness affects people differently. And sometimes fatally, for the lapse in consciousness is the greatest difference in life and death.
"Goodbye, Tyn. Live. For us." With those last words, the Elder charged out of the hut....
...and into the waiting spears of the boarfolk. The largest of them waved to him in an universal gesture of death. Two of the spearboars yelled a wordless battlecry at him.
"Oh Blessed Goddesses, guide my strike true and my foes not." A wave of Bunyn's free hand, coupled with a pained grunt from his throat, batted away the sharp stone heads. With them batted, the first blood goes to the aged man, as All-Seerest guided his speartip straight through the eye of the first boarman. Wrenching the spear from the still twitching corpse, he stabbed it at the second spearboar, a gash on the throat opening a rift of crimson that flooded outward.
The first exchange occurred for mere three seconds.
In the fourth second, the ready archers let loose their arrows on the Elder.
Another wave of the arm send them off-course, but not enough. Two arrow found their mark, embedding sharp flints his in arms and sides.
The display of divine might wavered the resolve of the gathered boarfolk. For whatever reasons, these barbarians do not seem to converse with one another much, making the overt instances of the invoking of the Goddesses damaging to their savage spirits. The leader, perched on top of his animalistic counterpart, knew this well.
Which is why he charged, spear held tight in front, a three-pronged attack with the tusks and momentum of his mount aiming to impale or throw Bunyn's most likely to be battered body to the ground. Resolutely, he put himself on the deadly path to collision. Surprising the assembled warriors, the blessed Elder did something else. Something that everyone, even Tyn whose tear-streaked face watches from the distance - corpses of boarmen littering the ground next to her - did not expect.
Angling the right spear down, he aimed at the boar's right front leg. An improbable aim, made possible by the All-Seerest, that struck true. A crunch and a pained squeal from the mount was the prelude to the fall of the beast. The sheer momentum transferred to its left tusk, which snapped and pushed the sharp broken pieces inward to its own skull.
However, the momentum of the dying beast isn't over yet.
"Ghg!" The right tusk, unbroken, jabbed straight and through at the Elder's side. The boar-rider's spear itself did not waver in its wielder's aim, striking Bunyn just below his chest.
Before the boar-rider could exult in his success, however, a fact hit him. Literally and proverbially.
Bunyn had a second spear.
The rider screamed in pain as the right side of his chest is pierced through, the momentum working against him, to the point that the shaft of the spear broke. The three stopped just before they crashed the thatched hut.
"I-In...in the name of the Goddesses, die." Bunyn gurgled, pale but victorious. His right spear jabbed another hole through the rider's chest. The boarman shuddered, before stilling forevermore. The Elder looked at the procession of the warriors all around him, frightened expressions, yet tempered by the fact that to the victor, come the leader. He can tell, numbed as his senses are, that they are wondering who amongst them can finish him off.
He'll not make it a choice. He'll force it.
"Come then! Do you think you can beat me?" A challenge, something that the boarfolk cannot shake off easily. At that command, even the archers went to grab spears, thinking that their arrows would be batted away with ease. Bunyn doesn't want to dissuade them from their false assumption. Not when they paced towards him.
Tyn did not saw what happened next, running away from the battlement as she did. All she heard were the pained screams of more boarfolk...before silence, accentuated by the crackling of the fire that lit her former village.
No Mertnirian or Arthwydish knew what became of the last of the Northern Mertnir Elders. Except for one thing, that for a moment, for the briefest of time perhaps only known to the Goddesses, no boarfolk attacked from the direction of Five-Grove.
And perhaps that is enough. Enough a sacrifice that an Elder can bring to the future.
A Civ-Quest? Low-Fantasy? Epic Age? The perfect time to drop omakes then. I love the work done in this Quest and look forward to see more. And if the muse is willing, dropping more omakes~
Last edited:
The Slung Shot
Throughout the times, even in the primordial times predating the Goddesses, there are stories. Stories of sadness, of happiness, of triumph, of failures, of many more.
Though the ages only records the greatest and wondrous of stories, and though the sands time covers and changes the stories that are left, a singular fact remains. That these stories once existed. That they serve as inspirations, mores, memorials, and more.
These are such stories....
The Founder's Village is, abuzz with activity, as always. Supplies for departing Catclaws and Cateyes are being transported from the Passage by the cartful or boatload. Nightleaf being turned to poison or painkillers. The hustle and bustle continued onwards.
Curyn doesn't mind that. Or rather, his mind is not focusing on the matters of war. Or rather rather, his mind is focusing on the matters to make waging wars better. He shook his head, his greying mane moving with it. With age comes wisdom...and delirium.
"So, Esteemed Elder, what would you want me to do?" Beside him, a Cateye, suborned to him by Cadyn as a bodyguard, stared with a bored disposition. A rather impatient youngling, but he'll need her.
"Nock your arrow, young lady." He pointed a tree, several dozen steps away from the two of them. Barely visible to the two of them, is a small section of wood bereft of its bark. "You know where to aim, right?"
"Yes, Elder." With practiced ease, the Cateye drew, nocked, and fired the arrow in the span of two breaths. It landed dead on the debarked wood. "What's next?"
"Can you drive the arrow inwards?" Said Curyn, as if he was talking about the tides of the seas.
"...." She stared at the arrow, its head piercing the tree. She then stared at her bow. Then, she stared at the Elder, whose eyes betrayed a mirthful expression. "...No?"
"Pah, younglings. Can't even do things properly." Slowly, he reached towards a nearby sitting log. From within its hollowed trunk, he grabbed something immediately obvious to the Cateye.
A sling.
It has...been a long while since she used it, at least, using it to kill. There was no need for a sling, when arrows are plentiful and the engagement not open. Cadyn had occasionally asked them to train with it, since the Blessing of the Goddesses made it so that the sling is able to be shot harder and faster.
But there's a problem of sorts, why no one ever used the slings much.
The slings themselves are too weak.
It's a 'simple' problem, but one decidedly deceptively hard to solve, even to the less intellectually inclined Cateye. For one thing, slings always had a connotation with the bloody warrior-ways of the Lowlands. Crude, perhaps. At least compared to the bows.
The second thing, was an inadvertent conclusion to the application of the nightleaf. Arthwydish or Mertnirian alike could, with ease, break the bones and crack the skulls of the boarfolk with the slings. But the constitution of the boarfolk would still allow them to shrug off the stone slings with ease. But nightleaf? A single scratch leaves a hardened barbarian dropping dead in matters of minutes.
So one could make a sling, woven with flax and hemp more tight and taut... or one could find rocks, sculpt-sharpen them for better impact... but bow and arrow is easier, and more expedient, by virtue of training and practice.
However, Curyn, esteemed and granted with the cunning of Arthryn, has done something else. The Cateye looked with slight awe as she noted at the braided fibre weaves, the cradle of the sling, far thicker than any she has seen made. It's evident as well that the Elder did not skimp on the veneration of Wryn, with patterned decorative weaves and dyed in the harmless residue of nightleaf. The end result is a patterned grey-green sling,
"Do you like what you see, youngling?" The maned Elder smiles. "Now, watch...and learn." He grabbed a stone from the ground, one that he must have sculpt-sharpened himself and placed it on the sling's cradle. With a heave, he swung the sling around, in a circling pattern beside his head some might consider too close before flicking his wrist, letting loose the stone....
...and miss the arrow entirely, hitting a spot right above it instead with a loud thud.
"Let's try that again, shall we?" So the Elder did.
The second rock hit to the left of the arrow.
The third one hit to the right of the arrow.
The fourth one hit below the arrow.
At that point, the Cateye wondered if the Elder has just that terrible an aim without invoking the All-Seerest...
...when the fifth sling-bullet hit the mark with a loud thwack, hitting the arrow in the centre of the wooden shaft, driving the arrow slightly inwards, before snapping shaft into splint pieces
"My aim struck true." He said simply.
"Elder, with all due respect, you missed the first four times."
"You mean, I hit my targets five times?" Curyn still gave a rather mirthful aura, as if the Cateye isn't privy to the inside joke for one. "Tell you what, tell me which part of the tree you want me to hit, let's see if you can learn the trick."
"...." The Cateye tried her best to not sigh at the antics of the Elder. Not the least because it's improper. And moreover, she does suspect something is wrong. After some deliberation, she called her shot, pointing at a branch of the battered tree, almost hidden by the tree trunk itself. "That one branch, Elder." The Cateye could hit that target with some difficulty, considering the smallness of the target.
He frowned a bit. "Well, that's a challenge. Let's see..." He put the sling-bullet in the cradle, holding the sling with both hands, seemingly trying to visualize his target. Several heartbeats passed before the spin of the sling started. And a crack of displaced air resounded outwards as the bullet was released. It was also then, that the Cateye figured out what the trick was.
The projectile, heavy and impactful, simply curved around the tree trunk itself. And with a loud crack, the branch fell, snapping from the blow.
Curyn smiled, slightly strained by the slight sweat he worked up. "Well, youngling?"
"That..."
"Amazing? A blow worthy of Ymarn? Well," He lightly throw the sling towards the Cateye, who hurried to catch the unexpected throw. "I always find that people tend to not bother with how they think. Nightleaf, for example. Our ancestor always found it a hinderance but now..." The unspoken needn't be said. The Elder trailed off before continuing as the Cateye examined the sling closer. "In the same vein, this weapon is like that. No one ever thought much on how to improve it. Not when it was a weapon used by the Lowlanders more for killing humans than animals. Not when it's easier to sculpt-sharpen arrowheads than larger rocks."
The Cateye looked up to the Elder, who seems to be waiting to hear her continue. "So...no one thought of these ideas before you?"
"Incorrect. It's not that no one didn't think about it, it's because it never went past thinking about it." He said simply. An advice, one that seemed natural to come out from his wizened countenance. "Heh, young Evalyn was the one who pushed the idea to me. I merely went past thinking. The Blessing of the Goddesses make it so that we hit hard and strike unpredictably." His eyes hardens, remembering the foes of The People. "An arrowhead cannot crush a charging boar's head, but a slung stone can. A slung stone can also break shields or the arms holding them, with sufficient velocity."
"So what will you do with it?"
"Did I not tell you to 'watch and learn', youngling? I want you to help me test this more." Curyn looked the Cateye with a melancholic look. "I have not long in this world. Sixty eight winters passed by already for me. Soon, I will return to the embrace of the Goddesses, and you will help, ease my burden. I intend to make this my last legacy." He said with finality.
...
And a finality it was.
Curyn, the Innovating Elder and Exemplar of Ymarn, died in the venerated age of seventy one winters. The loss of the Mertnirian villages weighed heavy on him, as he searched for more and more breakthrough. None came. None...but the sling. The year before his death, Cadyn and Evalyn, had set aside the lines for the new line of slings. They helped, But not enough. Not with the endless hordes of the barbaric boars.
But they helped. The Curyn-Slings, as they were called, became widely used. And deep in the woods where the Boarfolk conquered, lies a small shrine. A shrine built by a now old Cateye, where the young Mertnirian Cateyes, those cast out from lands of their youth came back to as their rite of passage.
A small simple shrine of remembrance. For their conquered home. And for their fallen ancestors.
Though the ages only records the greatest and wondrous of stories, and though the sands time covers and changes the stories that are left, a singular fact remains. That these stories once existed. That they serve as inspirations, mores, memorials, and more.
These are such stories....
The Slung Shot
The Founder's Village is, abuzz with activity, as always. Supplies for departing Catclaws and Cateyes are being transported from the Passage by the cartful or boatload. Nightleaf being turned to poison or painkillers. The hustle and bustle continued onwards.
Curyn doesn't mind that. Or rather, his mind is not focusing on the matters of war. Or rather rather, his mind is focusing on the matters to make waging wars better. He shook his head, his greying mane moving with it. With age comes wisdom...and delirium.
"So, Esteemed Elder, what would you want me to do?" Beside him, a Cateye, suborned to him by Cadyn as a bodyguard, stared with a bored disposition. A rather impatient youngling, but he'll need her.
"Nock your arrow, young lady." He pointed a tree, several dozen steps away from the two of them. Barely visible to the two of them, is a small section of wood bereft of its bark. "You know where to aim, right?"
"Yes, Elder." With practiced ease, the Cateye drew, nocked, and fired the arrow in the span of two breaths. It landed dead on the debarked wood. "What's next?"
"Can you drive the arrow inwards?" Said Curyn, as if he was talking about the tides of the seas.
"...." She stared at the arrow, its head piercing the tree. She then stared at her bow. Then, she stared at the Elder, whose eyes betrayed a mirthful expression. "...No?"
"Pah, younglings. Can't even do things properly." Slowly, he reached towards a nearby sitting log. From within its hollowed trunk, he grabbed something immediately obvious to the Cateye.
A sling.
It has...been a long while since she used it, at least, using it to kill. There was no need for a sling, when arrows are plentiful and the engagement not open. Cadyn had occasionally asked them to train with it, since the Blessing of the Goddesses made it so that the sling is able to be shot harder and faster.
But there's a problem of sorts, why no one ever used the slings much.
The slings themselves are too weak.
It's a 'simple' problem, but one decidedly deceptively hard to solve, even to the less intellectually inclined Cateye. For one thing, slings always had a connotation with the bloody warrior-ways of the Lowlands. Crude, perhaps. At least compared to the bows.
The second thing, was an inadvertent conclusion to the application of the nightleaf. Arthwydish or Mertnirian alike could, with ease, break the bones and crack the skulls of the boarfolk with the slings. But the constitution of the boarfolk would still allow them to shrug off the stone slings with ease. But nightleaf? A single scratch leaves a hardened barbarian dropping dead in matters of minutes.
So one could make a sling, woven with flax and hemp more tight and taut... or one could find rocks, sculpt-sharpen them for better impact... but bow and arrow is easier, and more expedient, by virtue of training and practice.
However, Curyn, esteemed and granted with the cunning of Arthryn, has done something else. The Cateye looked with slight awe as she noted at the braided fibre weaves, the cradle of the sling, far thicker than any she has seen made. It's evident as well that the Elder did not skimp on the veneration of Wryn, with patterned decorative weaves and dyed in the harmless residue of nightleaf. The end result is a patterned grey-green sling,
"Do you like what you see, youngling?" The maned Elder smiles. "Now, watch...and learn." He grabbed a stone from the ground, one that he must have sculpt-sharpened himself and placed it on the sling's cradle. With a heave, he swung the sling around, in a circling pattern beside his head some might consider too close before flicking his wrist, letting loose the stone....
...and miss the arrow entirely, hitting a spot right above it instead with a loud thud.
"Let's try that again, shall we?" So the Elder did.
The second rock hit to the left of the arrow.
The third one hit to the right of the arrow.
The fourth one hit below the arrow.
At that point, the Cateye wondered if the Elder has just that terrible an aim without invoking the All-Seerest...
...when the fifth sling-bullet hit the mark with a loud thwack, hitting the arrow in the centre of the wooden shaft, driving the arrow slightly inwards, before snapping shaft into splint pieces
"My aim struck true." He said simply.
"Elder, with all due respect, you missed the first four times."
"You mean, I hit my targets five times?" Curyn still gave a rather mirthful aura, as if the Cateye isn't privy to the inside joke for one. "Tell you what, tell me which part of the tree you want me to hit, let's see if you can learn the trick."
"...." The Cateye tried her best to not sigh at the antics of the Elder. Not the least because it's improper. And moreover, she does suspect something is wrong. After some deliberation, she called her shot, pointing at a branch of the battered tree, almost hidden by the tree trunk itself. "That one branch, Elder." The Cateye could hit that target with some difficulty, considering the smallness of the target.
He frowned a bit. "Well, that's a challenge. Let's see..." He put the sling-bullet in the cradle, holding the sling with both hands, seemingly trying to visualize his target. Several heartbeats passed before the spin of the sling started. And a crack of displaced air resounded outwards as the bullet was released. It was also then, that the Cateye figured out what the trick was.
The projectile, heavy and impactful, simply curved around the tree trunk itself. And with a loud crack, the branch fell, snapping from the blow.
Curyn smiled, slightly strained by the slight sweat he worked up. "Well, youngling?"
"That..."
"Amazing? A blow worthy of Ymarn? Well," He lightly throw the sling towards the Cateye, who hurried to catch the unexpected throw. "I always find that people tend to not bother with how they think. Nightleaf, for example. Our ancestor always found it a hinderance but now..." The unspoken needn't be said. The Elder trailed off before continuing as the Cateye examined the sling closer. "In the same vein, this weapon is like that. No one ever thought much on how to improve it. Not when it was a weapon used by the Lowlanders more for killing humans than animals. Not when it's easier to sculpt-sharpen arrowheads than larger rocks."
The Cateye looked up to the Elder, who seems to be waiting to hear her continue. "So...no one thought of these ideas before you?"
"Incorrect. It's not that no one didn't think about it, it's because it never went past thinking about it." He said simply. An advice, one that seemed natural to come out from his wizened countenance. "Heh, young Evalyn was the one who pushed the idea to me. I merely went past thinking. The Blessing of the Goddesses make it so that we hit hard and strike unpredictably." His eyes hardens, remembering the foes of The People. "An arrowhead cannot crush a charging boar's head, but a slung stone can. A slung stone can also break shields or the arms holding them, with sufficient velocity."
"So what will you do with it?"
"Did I not tell you to 'watch and learn', youngling? I want you to help me test this more." Curyn looked the Cateye with a melancholic look. "I have not long in this world. Sixty eight winters passed by already for me. Soon, I will return to the embrace of the Goddesses, and you will help, ease my burden. I intend to make this my last legacy." He said with finality.
...
And a finality it was.
Curyn, the Innovating Elder and Exemplar of Ymarn, died in the venerated age of seventy one winters. The loss of the Mertnirian villages weighed heavy on him, as he searched for more and more breakthrough. None came. None...but the sling. The year before his death, Cadyn and Evalyn, had set aside the lines for the new line of slings. They helped, But not enough. Not with the endless hordes of the barbaric boars.
But they helped. The Curyn-Slings, as they were called, became widely used. And deep in the woods where the Boarfolk conquered, lies a small shrine. A shrine built by a now old Cateye, where the young Mertnirian Cateyes, those cast out from lands of their youth came back to as their rite of passage.
A small simple shrine of remembrance. For their conquered home. And for their fallen ancestors.
First off, I like to thank @Oshha for giving me the permission on using Curyn for the omake as well as giving pointers on his personality that went unfleshed in the update. It was sad to hear that he died in the middle of Epic Age II, but then again, he was an old Mertnirian back in Epic Age I.
Secondly, the spark for the omake is credited to @Raichu1972, who managed to lite the fires of my muse and caused me to make this ASAP, though the other part is definitely because I want to give a sendoff to Curyn before Epic Age IV dropped.
Lastly, this will probably the last omake I make in the next weeks. I love this Quest but I don't want to overexert myself with the other writing projects that I have, so I'll pace myself for the future. Have a good day, y'all~
Secondly, the spark for the omake is credited to @Raichu1972, who managed to lite the fires of my muse and caused me to make this ASAP, though the other part is definitely because I want to give a sendoff to Curyn before Epic Age IV dropped.
Lastly, this will probably the last omake I make in the next weeks. I love this Quest but I don't want to overexert myself with the other writing projects that I have, so I'll pace myself for the future. Have a good day, y'all~
Maradysh Negaverse omake: Cadlon with a Northern Soul
Negaverse omake: Cadlon with a Northern Soul
----
Your Cadlon is considering attempting to also become the Cadlon of the Northerners.
[O) The families approve of the plan: a leader to guarantee friendship with the northerners for generations to come
Results: Cadlon Bronwyn attempts to become a dual Cadlon, possible further strengthening of relations between the People and the Northeners, ???
[) The families disapproved: too much closeness with the northerners - this idea must be stamped down even if it means speaking against the Cadlon!
Results: -1 legitimacy, -1 stability, block further strengthening of relations, ???
----
When the family heads and - elders jubilantly agreed with Bronwyn The Beautiful on her claiming the throne of the Northerners, it was still expected to be an uphill battle against the entrenched powers that would rather take the crown for themselves.
What they didn't expect was for the news come from one clear summer:
The Cadlon of the Northerners willingly naming her as the next successor to their throne.
This shocked the families immensely - and brought a ring of terror to those who could now see what they hadn't previously.
Their Cadlon was a Northerner - raised by them and only in their older days brought among the People. A fact that hadn't been hidden, but was easily forgotten when listening to the silky voice of the Cadlon.
This hadn't been one of The People starting to rule the Northerners.
This was the opposite.
When the time came that Browyn rose to her second throne, she began to work - in short time, their people were closer than ever.
At the cost of the Northerners learning of their secrets.
On how to ride the boars of The Tusked Kin. How to train war dogs. Of how fast they had already spread their settlements in hopes of matching their numbers in the future.
And then, she began to speak of the Northern Goddesses.
The families were horrified, but some saw a necessity on it: the Northern goddesses were bizarre, but their Cadlon already proved they could be approached.
In fact, they had also learned of how the All-Seeress used to be a Goddess of the Mentir-Northerners and had fought until she lay defeated, only to be allowed to join her sisters among their goddesses.
Could this not also be possible for the Goddess of Light? Have they not already lost so much that uniting under a stronger whole would also strengthen their goddess? Surely that wasn't betraying her, you would be cementing her survival alongside the People.
The Tusked Kin would not approve, however. Who knows what they will do if Cadlon gains traction on this matter.
-----
New Status Effects -
Under Unwanted Personal Union: The People are under the leadership of an outsider - at least for now. -1 legitimacy per turn. The more powerful party can use actions to increase Legitimacy in the weaker side of the union. Turns into vassalage if legitimacy rises above max.
Our Cadlon is trying to convert the People to the heathen goddesses!
[) The People will resist to the last!
Results: Fight against religious conversion, high potential for civil war, if failed lose the game, ???
[) It seems this might be for the best - but let her stay!
Results: Work with the religious conversion while pushing for the Northerners to adopt The Light among their deities, very high chance of Tusked Kin-led civil war, merge with the Northerners, uncontrolled change of values & legacies if successful, if process fails play as Lowlands Tusked Kin.
--
AN: The rolls were oddly bipolar: your Cadlon succeeded without a fight as the Northerners rolled their acceptance with a critical. Unfortunately, they rolled a critical on the power play while you Natural 1'd and instead of a time of diplomatic struggle that should've desensitized Bronwyn from closing the metaphorical noose, she could immediately go to work with bringing your peoples closer together.
On one hand, things are bad. You lost a lot of your exclusive access to certain warfare techs and are now possibly facing vassalage.
However, you have gained a unique possible way out as well: you could work with the process in hopes of assimilating into the Northerners - or Arthwyd if you prefer - and then play as them as your new "successor state" like when the plague broke your former civ and your closer neighbors.
Honestly, the rolls for the Arthwyd have been insane since the Boarslayer was rolled! And this turn... well, this wasn't the only ridiculous thing they got.
---
----
Your Cadlon is considering attempting to also become the Cadlon of the Northerners.
[O) The families approve of the plan: a leader to guarantee friendship with the northerners for generations to come
Results: Cadlon Bronwyn attempts to become a dual Cadlon, possible further strengthening of relations between the People and the Northeners, ???
[) The families disapproved: too much closeness with the northerners - this idea must be stamped down even if it means speaking against the Cadlon!
Results: -1 legitimacy, -1 stability, block further strengthening of relations, ???
----
When the family heads and - elders jubilantly agreed with Bronwyn The Beautiful on her claiming the throne of the Northerners, it was still expected to be an uphill battle against the entrenched powers that would rather take the crown for themselves.
What they didn't expect was for the news come from one clear summer:
The Cadlon of the Northerners willingly naming her as the next successor to their throne.
This shocked the families immensely - and brought a ring of terror to those who could now see what they hadn't previously.
Their Cadlon was a Northerner - raised by them and only in their older days brought among the People. A fact that hadn't been hidden, but was easily forgotten when listening to the silky voice of the Cadlon.
This hadn't been one of The People starting to rule the Northerners.
This was the opposite.
When the time came that Browyn rose to her second throne, she began to work - in short time, their people were closer than ever.
At the cost of the Northerners learning of their secrets.
On how to ride the boars of The Tusked Kin. How to train war dogs. Of how fast they had already spread their settlements in hopes of matching their numbers in the future.
And then, she began to speak of the Northern Goddesses.
The families were horrified, but some saw a necessity on it: the Northern goddesses were bizarre, but their Cadlon already proved they could be approached.
In fact, they had also learned of how the All-Seeress used to be a Goddess of the Mentir-Northerners and had fought until she lay defeated, only to be allowed to join her sisters among their goddesses.
Could this not also be possible for the Goddess of Light? Have they not already lost so much that uniting under a stronger whole would also strengthen their goddess? Surely that wasn't betraying her, you would be cementing her survival alongside the People.
The Tusked Kin would not approve, however. Who knows what they will do if Cadlon gains traction on this matter.
-----
New Status Effects -
Under Unwanted Personal Union: The People are under the leadership of an outsider - at least for now. -1 legitimacy per turn. The more powerful party can use actions to increase Legitimacy in the weaker side of the union. Turns into vassalage if legitimacy rises above max.
Our Cadlon is trying to convert the People to the heathen goddesses!
[) The People will resist to the last!
Results: Fight against religious conversion, high potential for civil war, if failed lose the game, ???
[) It seems this might be for the best - but let her stay!
Results: Work with the religious conversion while pushing for the Northerners to adopt The Light among their deities, very high chance of Tusked Kin-led civil war, merge with the Northerners, uncontrolled change of values & legacies if successful, if process fails play as Lowlands Tusked Kin.
--
AN: The rolls were oddly bipolar: your Cadlon succeeded without a fight as the Northerners rolled their acceptance with a critical. Unfortunately, they rolled a critical on the power play while you Natural 1'd and instead of a time of diplomatic struggle that should've desensitized Bronwyn from closing the metaphorical noose, she could immediately go to work with bringing your peoples closer together.
On one hand, things are bad. You lost a lot of your exclusive access to certain warfare techs and are now possibly facing vassalage.
However, you have gained a unique possible way out as well: you could work with the process in hopes of assimilating into the Northerners - or Arthwyd if you prefer - and then play as them as your new "successor state" like when the plague broke your former civ and your closer neighbors.
Honestly, the rolls for the Arthwyd have been insane since the Boarslayer was rolled! And this turn... well, this wasn't the only ridiculous thing they got.
---
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Maradysh Negaverse - Cadlon Bronwyn the Beautiful
- Location
- Southampton, Great Britain
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Maradysh Negaverse - Cadlon Bronwyn the Beautiful
(Y) [CADLON] Perition to become the Cadlon of the Arthwyd
(Y) [MAIN] Settle Land (North River Fields)
Looking out over the sea, Cadlon Bronwyn the Beautiful of the Arthwyd and Maradysh feels a sense of pride building up in her chest. She had ruled over the Arthwyd for many seasons and had ruled over the Maradysh for even longer.
It was a point of pride in the matronly woman that she had brought both of her people together under their banner. They were far from united, but Bronwyn hoped to change that. Charming, beautiful and persuasive, she is adored by both the northerners and the southerners and she will have enough life left in her to leverage that bringing them together.
And while she held a place in her heart for both of her people, Bronwyn knew that if she were to unite them, the Arthwyd would be dominant. The people of the north were simply larger, more build up with trails connecting all of their villages and a shrine to the goddesses in every settlement.
The Maradysh might have expanded under the reign of her grandmother and father, but their villages were meagre and underdeveloped compared to those of the Arthwyd. And it wasn't just the Arthwyd as the northerners had the Merntir even further north, who were just as large and developed as the Arthwyd.
Speaking of large and developed, Bronwyn strokes a hand down her chest, once again appreciating the body that Arthryn has blessed her with. While every member of the northerners has the blessing, living amongst the Maradysh has allowed Bronwyn to truly understand the gift that the oldest goddess has given her chosen people.
Speaking of the goddesses, that is the key to bringing the north and south together. While the Maradysh have their own deities to worship, only the Boarfolk worship their All-Boar with any true fervour. For the rest, Zaranna is just there to be worshipped and prayed to in hopes of gaining her favour.
The Arthwyd and Merntir worship Arthryn and her Daughters with great devoutness, following their teachings and wisdoms to the point that they have spread throughout the entirety of northern society. While it would be impossible for Bronwyn to change the culture of the Maradysh so radically, she could try converting them over to worship the Arthrynite pantheon.
As she stares out at the sea of her birthplace, Cadlon Bronwyn the Beautiful decides that she will show the Maradysh the glory of Arthryn and her Daughters.
Cadlon Bronwyn the Beautiful of the Arthwyd and the Maradysh is attempting to convert the Maradysh. How do the Maradysh elders respond?
() Embrace the northern goddesses. [???]
() Let things play out. [???]
() Resist the foul influence of the mad goddesses [-1 Stability, -1 Legitimacy, ???]
Moon said:
Pizzaman said:
Veeky said:
Moon said:
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Statue Prison Conversations Part 1
Omegahugger
Inattentive Idiot
You know, part of me wonders of Arthryd has really thought things through, locking the three of them together like that.
"So, we all agree that what we did was justified and mom just totally overreacted, right?"
"Yeah!"
"Change it to great-great-great-grandmother, and it's true."
"She wouldn't even be a goddess if it weren't for my work! I work hard on creating satisfying narratives decade after decade, but as soon as one of them hurts her precious ideals, suddenly it's a grave sin. If I knew this would've happened, I would've gone with the moral that the key to Arth and Vryn's greatness was careful grain management..."
"And how comes she gets to claim that we are all born equal, and then has to physically change my body to match the rest of the People's in order to recieve her blessing? Sure sounds like some birthrights make people more fit than others."
"Right right, and we know that hereditary systems work! The Maradysh have been using it for, like, ever, and funnily enough things have mainly gone wrong when someone not using one was ruling our people from afar."
"... Sorry about the mass murdering of your people, by the way."
"Eh, it's all water under the bridge by now and I say we managed to make good use of the situation in the end. Besides, I grew up hearing stories about how you had to take over from the incompetent priests, you had to learn a lot about ruling in a way too short time. I spent my entire life preparing for the throne and I still occasionally feel like it wasn't enough, it's a wonder nothing else screwed up."
"Good to see the stories I wrote are still being passed on~"
"Wyrn, you always know exactly who is telling your stories and where. That was slightly creepy to learn."
"A girl likes to be told anyways, silly."
"Right, I forgot for a few blissfull seconds. You're a weirdo."
"Speaking of girl things. Bronwyn, I have to ask: You could've had literally everyone in both peoples wrapped around your finger, and yet you choose to go with him? What exactly where you thinking?"
"What? He was nice..."
"Details, Cadlon, details! I need to know the specifics if I am going to inspire an epic like it in the future"
"Well, for one thing he-"
This is definitely an accurate description of how two sibling-goddesses and two Cadlon speak to each other.
Statue Prison Conversations Part 2
- Location
- Southampton, Great Britain
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I blame @Omegahugger for this.
"So how long we are going to be trapped in here? Not that I mind your company, but it is going to get boring after a while."
"Not sure to be honest. Mum said a few seasons so I doubt it will be more than ten winters."
"Ten winters!"
"Eh, it isn't that long."
"That is like a sixth of my life."
"Oh right, you're a mortal. I guess it is pretty long time for you."
"I just hope I don't go crazy."
"Don't worry if you do, we can fix that up just fine. You know, goddesses and all that business. I will personally look after your sanity."
"Urr, not that I don't like you or anything Wyrn, but I would much rather another goddess be responsible for my sanity."
"Aka you are a crazy weirdo that she doesn't want meddling with her mind."
"I would be offended, but it is the truth."
"I'm not really going to be stuck here for ten winters am I?"
"Probably not. I doubt it will be less than five winters so maybe six or seven. Depends on how Mum feels."
"What's the matter Bonnie? Don't you want to spend time with a couple of goddesses?"
"Having gotten to know you Wyrn, the awe has long since worn off."
"Same. Don't get me wrong sis, I love you and all, but the first thing you did when I began a goddess was to prank me."
"Good times, good times."
"Wait, what prank?"
"The cat ears and tails."
"Those were a prank?!"
"Yup. She thought it would be funny so she wrote up a story that I got them as part of my ascension and so I did."
"It was funny."
"Yeah, it was, at least after I got over the shock. I kept them after all."
"And now Bronwyn has a pair of her own!"
"I just wished it didn't take my death to get them."
"Sorry about that by the way, I didn't expect Mum to react like she did. She is generally more chill and laid back than she was when she petrified you."
"I wasn't your fault, well, not entirely your fault. I did sort of do what I got punished for."
"And we do hold the part of the blame for helping you along."
"That is why we are in here with you."
"Yeah, the three of us stuck in the body of a catgirl. Hey, doesn't that make you a catgirl Wyrn?"
"Hmm, I guess it does."
"Please don't remind me that this is my body that we are stuck in, it makes me feel awkward."
"What's the matter Bronwyn? Don't you like having a couple of hot chicks inside you?"
"W-what?"
"Lay off Wyrn. She isn't gay."
"Not until I'm done with her that is."
"W-wait..."
"Knock it off Wyrn. You know that you aren't allow to change people like that without their consent. You don't want to spend even longer in here, especially once Bronwyn and I are out."
"True, true, but seriously Bronwyn, girl on girl is hot. You ought to try it out before turning your nose up."
"Wyrn...Malbyn was into girls...grr..."
"Okay, okay, I'll drop it. I was wasn't being serious (but the offer stands Bronwyn) anyway. I just wanted to tease Bonnie. Just look at how flustered she is. But seriously Bronwyn, you aren't too mad about ending up a statue right? I didn't expect Mum to just off ya like that."
"It isn't too bad. I can't say that I wanted to end up dead, but we all die in the end. I got close to a good seventy winters out of life and having my beauty preserved for future generations is something I prefer to losing it as I grow old."
"That's the spirit!"
"I'm just sort of worried about here happens next. I don't suppose I can continue to hang out with you in the afterlife? I don't want to spend it alone as the 'the girl who got smote by Arthryn'."
"I'll look after you."
"Me too. Us catgirls have to stick together."
"Thanks."
"Sweet. Now I know you don't want to be gay, but can I interested you in something else? I am totally going to write some stories about you once we are out. The sort of stories that everyone people will tell for generations. Any requests regarding what you want future generations to think about you?"
"Well, since you are offering-"
"So how long we are going to be trapped in here? Not that I mind your company, but it is going to get boring after a while."
"Not sure to be honest. Mum said a few seasons so I doubt it will be more than ten winters."
"Ten winters!"
"Eh, it isn't that long."
"That is like a sixth of my life."
"Oh right, you're a mortal. I guess it is pretty long time for you."
"I just hope I don't go crazy."
"Don't worry if you do, we can fix that up just fine. You know, goddesses and all that business. I will personally look after your sanity."
"Urr, not that I don't like you or anything Wyrn, but I would much rather another goddess be responsible for my sanity."
"Aka you are a crazy weirdo that she doesn't want meddling with her mind."
"I would be offended, but it is the truth."
"I'm not really going to be stuck here for ten winters am I?"
"Probably not. I doubt it will be less than five winters so maybe six or seven. Depends on how Mum feels."
"What's the matter Bonnie? Don't you want to spend time with a couple of goddesses?"
"Having gotten to know you Wyrn, the awe has long since worn off."
"Same. Don't get me wrong sis, I love you and all, but the first thing you did when I began a goddess was to prank me."
"Good times, good times."
"Wait, what prank?"
"The cat ears and tails."
"Those were a prank?!"
"Yup. She thought it would be funny so she wrote up a story that I got them as part of my ascension and so I did."
"It was funny."
"Yeah, it was, at least after I got over the shock. I kept them after all."
"And now Bronwyn has a pair of her own!"
"I just wished it didn't take my death to get them."
"Sorry about that by the way, I didn't expect Mum to react like she did. She is generally more chill and laid back than she was when she petrified you."
"I wasn't your fault, well, not entirely your fault. I did sort of do what I got punished for."
"And we do hold the part of the blame for helping you along."
"That is why we are in here with you."
"Yeah, the three of us stuck in the body of a catgirl. Hey, doesn't that make you a catgirl Wyrn?"
"Hmm, I guess it does."
"Please don't remind me that this is my body that we are stuck in, it makes me feel awkward."
"What's the matter Bronwyn? Don't you like having a couple of hot chicks inside you?"
"W-what?"
"Lay off Wyrn. She isn't gay."
"Not until I'm done with her that is."
"W-wait..."
"Knock it off Wyrn. You know that you aren't allow to change people like that without their consent. You don't want to spend even longer in here, especially once Bronwyn and I are out."
"True, true, but seriously Bronwyn, girl on girl is hot. You ought to try it out before turning your nose up."
"Wyrn...Malbyn was into girls...grr..."
"Okay, okay, I'll drop it. I was wasn't being serious (but the offer stands Bronwyn) anyway. I just wanted to tease Bonnie. Just look at how flustered she is. But seriously Bronwyn, you aren't too mad about ending up a statue right? I didn't expect Mum to just off ya like that."
"It isn't too bad. I can't say that I wanted to end up dead, but we all die in the end. I got close to a good seventy winters out of life and having my beauty preserved for future generations is something I prefer to losing it as I grow old."
"That's the spirit!"
"I'm just sort of worried about here happens next. I don't suppose I can continue to hang out with you in the afterlife? I don't want to spend it alone as the 'the girl who got smote by Arthryn'."
"I'll look after you."
"Me too. Us catgirls have to stick together."
"Thanks."
"Sweet. Now I know you don't want to be gay, but can I interested you in something else? I am totally going to write some stories about you once we are out. The sort of stories that everyone people will tell for generations. Any requests regarding what you want future generations to think about you?"
"Well, since you are offering-"
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Feudalistic Tales - Sponsored by the Flock
maximillian
Civilised Sheep
- Location
- Ranch
To the east of the great city a hill rose.
A meagre thing covered in weeds and grass. Upon its top an altar was raised, a construct of hewn rock and carved wood, plain and unadorned.
It was here that the Kings of Baa are ordained, upon the sacred ground where the word of the Great Ram was proclaimed.
The procession would leave the Palace in great pomp and ceremony, the King and his court adorned in fine linens and rare pelts, richly dyed in reds and yellows.
Beads of lapis lazuli, rubies, malachites and amethysts draped over their person.
Great was the wealth of the Baa, and greater still was the King's might.
As they pass the woolly river, the flock begins to shed its finery and discard it upon the muddied path. Until at last they arrive at the altar.
There the high priest would stand, clad in vestments of wool woven into a mesh of gold, a crown of horns resting upon his head.
The horns where of bronze, strings of garnets looped around the right side, whilst large aquamarines circled the left.
In his hands he held a staff, made of two lengths of cedar and cypress, with an egg of clear rock crystal fixed to its head.
Here the King would be flinsed with lengths of thornbush, as he confesses to all his sins and failings.
Then the priests would wash him with the blessed waters, as they sang the tale of first king of Baa.
Kha'ro'uf the mighty he was proclaimed, king of the earth and seas, master of all that his eyes surveyed.
Favoured of the Gods and the spirits of wind, never has lived a more blessed king.
But beset he was by evils untold, a darkness too wicked to behold.
Until holy Ma'qisim'Ili'aan saw fit to grant him a vision, and so his mind took to the skies in the form of a pigeon.
There he saw a red tide without end, an evil in disguise seeking those that cannot it's nature comprehend.
It is a beast with many a head, and for each one cut a thousand sprout to replace the dead.
Terror and dispair filled the heart of the great king, for what hope could Baa or nature stand such a thing?
But merciful was Ma'qisim'Ili'aan greatest of the gods, and unto the King he bestowed a means to change his odds.
Of laws, structures and compacts did he speak, of the rights of Baa and the nature of things he spoke for a week.
Armed with wisdom divine, his kingdom he sought to redefine.
And thus it was that the red menace was driven back to the great abyss, and the hands of Ma'qisim'Ili'aan did all the gods kiss.
So it was that the words of the first divine where engraved upon a six and seven columns of basalt, each of such weight that it takes a score of Baa to left them.
Fu'dael'iseem they were named, and no holier words where ever carved on rock before or since.
Copies of the holy laws, inscribed upon brick would be brought forth to the kneeling king, who would kiss each of them and swear upon the divines to hold them dearer than his own life.
Then the priests would annoit him in the sacred oil, and garb him in the awesome regalia of a king of Baa, a scion of him that gave all the wisdom of Fu'dael'iseem.
At last a crown of silver and lapis lazuli would grace the monarchs head, and thus clad, the procession would march back to the Palace, where the flower of Baakind would swear their oaths to a king in truth.
________________________________
This piece of writing is sponsored by the flock.
The flock: the world premiere providers of feudalism and fine dining!
A meagre thing covered in weeds and grass. Upon its top an altar was raised, a construct of hewn rock and carved wood, plain and unadorned.
It was here that the Kings of Baa are ordained, upon the sacred ground where the word of the Great Ram was proclaimed.
The procession would leave the Palace in great pomp and ceremony, the King and his court adorned in fine linens and rare pelts, richly dyed in reds and yellows.
Beads of lapis lazuli, rubies, malachites and amethysts draped over their person.
Great was the wealth of the Baa, and greater still was the King's might.
As they pass the woolly river, the flock begins to shed its finery and discard it upon the muddied path. Until at last they arrive at the altar.
There the high priest would stand, clad in vestments of wool woven into a mesh of gold, a crown of horns resting upon his head.
The horns where of bronze, strings of garnets looped around the right side, whilst large aquamarines circled the left.
In his hands he held a staff, made of two lengths of cedar and cypress, with an egg of clear rock crystal fixed to its head.
Here the King would be flinsed with lengths of thornbush, as he confesses to all his sins and failings.
Then the priests would wash him with the blessed waters, as they sang the tale of first king of Baa.
Kha'ro'uf the mighty he was proclaimed, king of the earth and seas, master of all that his eyes surveyed.
Favoured of the Gods and the spirits of wind, never has lived a more blessed king.
But beset he was by evils untold, a darkness too wicked to behold.
Until holy Ma'qisim'Ili'aan saw fit to grant him a vision, and so his mind took to the skies in the form of a pigeon.
There he saw a red tide without end, an evil in disguise seeking those that cannot it's nature comprehend.
It is a beast with many a head, and for each one cut a thousand sprout to replace the dead.
Terror and dispair filled the heart of the great king, for what hope could Baa or nature stand such a thing?
But merciful was Ma'qisim'Ili'aan greatest of the gods, and unto the King he bestowed a means to change his odds.
Of laws, structures and compacts did he speak, of the rights of Baa and the nature of things he spoke for a week.
Armed with wisdom divine, his kingdom he sought to redefine.
And thus it was that the red menace was driven back to the great abyss, and the hands of Ma'qisim'Ili'aan did all the gods kiss.
So it was that the words of the first divine where engraved upon a six and seven columns of basalt, each of such weight that it takes a score of Baa to left them.
Fu'dael'iseem they were named, and no holier words where ever carved on rock before or since.
Copies of the holy laws, inscribed upon brick would be brought forth to the kneeling king, who would kiss each of them and swear upon the divines to hold them dearer than his own life.
Then the priests would annoit him in the sacred oil, and garb him in the awesome regalia of a king of Baa, a scion of him that gave all the wisdom of Fu'dael'iseem.
At last a crown of silver and lapis lazuli would grace the monarchs head, and thus clad, the procession would march back to the Palace, where the flower of Baakind would swear their oaths to a king in truth.
________________________________
This piece of writing is sponsored by the flock.
The flock: the world premiere providers of feudalism and fine dining!
Last edited:
The Tragedy of Evalyn The Mighty: Evalyn the Boarslayer
- Location
- Somewhere over the rainbow
The Tragedy of Evalyn The Mighty: Evalyn the Boarslayer
Of once there was the mighty
whose footsteps were so weighty,
whose gods tore heaven a gash,
and whose legacy is so much ash.
Seven in name and seven in deed,
Terrible Vervov atop his steed,
is the end of Merntish Malbyn,
the equal of long and loyal Cadyn.
Vasov in his forefather's mold,
Faces young Cerwyn the bold,
While the rampage of Urth
is met by Evalyn sallying forth.
Each legend has its tale,
which future poets will detail,
but this is the tragedy,
of Evalyn the divine mighty.
Sing in me, Wyrn whose visage
I imitate in this homage.
For Evalyn's tale is long,
and I wish not to sing this wrong.
Her birth was to Zaradysh
but her blessing realized her wish
and among the Cateyes whom
she grew up watching bloom
she was recognized as the greatest
fighter to the east and west
borders of the Arthwryd,
her young strikes swift as a bird
and strong as the northern boars.
Then that same bloody band roars
across the mountains North
bringing war to the Merntir earth,
so the Cateyes and Evalyn head
to the villages filled with the dead
as the Merntir cut a bloody sea
and Vervov summons another three.
Of Malbyn, Cadyn, and Evalyn,
no one alone suffices to pin
that vicious unrelenting Vervov,
who in his ten on twentieth
clash with the three of myth
ends old stalwart Malbyn
leaving only Cadyn and Evalyn.
Despite Evalyn's catlike tread
and sharp eyes on a catlike head,
Vervov escaped, saying only
that Malbyn had been manly
and that he wished for clashes
against the girl with the three slashes.
For ten on twenty seasons more
the two carried on as before,
until all Merntir falls, and Evalyn
finds Vervov among the din
of the burning Seer's village where he
sought to put the survivors to sea
Evalyn fells a half-dozen around
where Vervov stands his ground
to which he dismisses the rest
because only the greatest
can stand this meeting
and that makes things exciting.
Evalyn replies with an upper
a poke, and a pivot to the lower,
which the sparks the memory
of parting words in history
so savage Vervov boasts true:
"There are warriors like you
amongst every people I have met
and I have bested all of them yet."
Evalyn spared no words
to focus on cutting Vervov's cords.
Ten on twenty blows are made
as even Evalyn begins to fade
so moved, the goddess Arthryn
rewards her future-kin
with a final swell
of power enough to fell
the scourge and foe
with a single blow;
as Evalyn lands the divine fist,
Vervov soon ceases to exist,
his final words an elegy
for Evalyn, whose strategy
had exhausted her might:
"Girl with the far sight
and the three blows
Do not make all your foes
as I did, or you too
will see this side of the blue."
But Evalyn could not hear,
what Vervov thought was clear,
so Evalyn did not heed,
and brought tyranny without need.
Of once there was the mighty
whose footsteps were so weighty,
whose gods tore heaven a gash,
and whose legacy is so much ash.
Seven in name and seven in deed,
Terrible Vervov atop his steed,
is the end of Merntish Malbyn,
the equal of long and loyal Cadyn.
Vasov in his forefather's mold,
Faces young Cerwyn the bold,
While the rampage of Urth
is met by Evalyn sallying forth.
Each legend has its tale,
which future poets will detail,
but this is the tragedy,
of Evalyn the divine mighty.
Sing in me, Wyrn whose visage
I imitate in this homage.
For Evalyn's tale is long,
and I wish not to sing this wrong.
Her birth was to Zaradysh
but her blessing realized her wish
and among the Cateyes whom
she grew up watching bloom
she was recognized as the greatest
fighter to the east and west
borders of the Arthwryd,
her young strikes swift as a bird
and strong as the northern boars.
Then that same bloody band roars
across the mountains North
bringing war to the Merntir earth,
so the Cateyes and Evalyn head
to the villages filled with the dead
as the Merntir cut a bloody sea
and Vervov summons another three.
Of Malbyn, Cadyn, and Evalyn,
no one alone suffices to pin
that vicious unrelenting Vervov,
who in his ten on twentieth
clash with the three of myth
ends old stalwart Malbyn
leaving only Cadyn and Evalyn.
Despite Evalyn's catlike tread
and sharp eyes on a catlike head,
Vervov escaped, saying only
that Malbyn had been manly
and that he wished for clashes
against the girl with the three slashes.
For ten on twenty seasons more
the two carried on as before,
until all Merntir falls, and Evalyn
finds Vervov among the din
of the burning Seer's village where he
sought to put the survivors to sea
Evalyn fells a half-dozen around
where Vervov stands his ground
to which he dismisses the rest
because only the greatest
can stand this meeting
and that makes things exciting.
Evalyn replies with an upper
a poke, and a pivot to the lower,
which the sparks the memory
of parting words in history
so savage Vervov boasts true:
"There are warriors like you
amongst every people I have met
and I have bested all of them yet."
Evalyn spared no words
to focus on cutting Vervov's cords.
Ten on twenty blows are made
as even Evalyn begins to fade
so moved, the goddess Arthryn
rewards her future-kin
with a final swell
of power enough to fell
the scourge and foe
with a single blow;
as Evalyn lands the divine fist,
Vervov soon ceases to exist,
his final words an elegy
for Evalyn, whose strategy
had exhausted her might:
"Girl with the far sight
and the three blows
Do not make all your foes
as I did, or you too
will see this side of the blue."
But Evalyn could not hear,
what Vervov thought was clear,
so Evalyn did not heed,
and brought tyranny without need.
I present the thread this as my official delurk. Hope you enjoy 