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

[Side Item]

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.

 

[Side Item]

The People of the Herd

Tribal Government: Primitive Diarchy

Spoiler

The tribe's government is led by two chiefs: the High Chief, selected by the clan heads to oversee earthly matters such as hunting, survival, and daily life, and the Spirit Warden, chosen by the shamans to guide the tribe's spiritual path, overseeing magic, rituals, and interpreting the will of the spirits and the sky.

Tribal Religion: The Way of Spirits and Stars

Spoiler

The tribe follows The Way of the Spirits and Stars, a belief system centered on the presence of nature spirits and the guiding influence of celestial bodies. The tribe believes that everything in the natural world—mountains, rivers, trees, and even the wind—contains spirits responsible for the earth's cycles and balance. These spirits are honored through rituals and offerings, as the tribe strives to live in harmony with their surroundings.

Above the world of spirits, the stars are seen as distant overseers, guiding the tribe's fate and the larger workings of the universe. The tribe's shamans interpret the movements of the stars to predict changes in seasons, migrations, the whims of spirits and the tribe's destiny, with important decisions often made according to star patterns.

A central practice is the belief that wearing animal parts, such as teeth, horns, or feathers, grants the wearer some of the animal's traits—speed, strength, or cunning. This is considered a sacred bond with the creature's spirit and is deeply respected.

Lastly, there is a more minor but potent belief in the power of human blood. Ritual sacrifice is believed by some to grant great strength or to channel the spirits' favor, though this practice is rare and often viewed with a mix of reverence and fear. Together, these beliefs shape the tribe's actions, leadership, and connection to their new, mystical homeland.

Settlements

Spoiler

Nomadic

Core Beliefs

Trade Status

 

[Side Item]

The Way of Spirits and Stars

Spoiler

The tribe follows The Way of the Spirits and Stars, a belief system centered on the presence of nature spirits and the guiding influence of celestial bodies. The tribe believes that everything in the natural world—mountains, rivers, trees, and even the wind—contains spirits responsible for the earth's cycles and balance. These spirits are honored through rituals and offerings, as the tribe strives to live in harmony with their surroundings.

Above the world of spirits, the stars are seen as distant overseers, guiding the tribe's fate and the larger workings of the universe. The tribe's shamans interpret the movements of the stars to predict changes in seasons, migrations, the whims of spirits and the tribe's destiny, with important decisions often made according to star patterns.

A central practice is the belief that wearing animal parts, such as teeth, horns, or feathers, grants the wearer some of the animal's traits—speed, strength, or cunning. This is considered a sacred bond with the creature's spirit and is deeply respected.

Lastly, there is a more minor but potent belief in the power of human blood. Ritual sacrifice is believed by some to grant great strength or to channel the spirits' favor, though this practice is rare and often viewed with a mix of reverence and fear. Together, these beliefs shape the tribe's actions, leadership, and connection to their new, mystical homeland.

[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.

 

[Donald Darf]

A stone ant
A removed stone ant carapace
Some stone ant crystal jewelry
Some glowing magical flora
A huntress of The Herd Clans

 

[Side Item]

It had been years since the tribe had made the decision. In the end, the council of clan chiefs had chosen to guide the tribe collectively, but they would also elect a single high chieftain to serve as the final voice, one who would ensure their people did not lose the strength and unity that had carried them so far. It was a decision that had taken time, debated fiercely over long nights, but it had been made in peace, a testament to the bonds Dran had forged during his leadership.

In the course of the deliberations, they came to realize that the voices of the shamans were not loud enough. Shamans were seen as both clanless and above the clans, a status which did not seem to befit their role.

The first high chieftain selected was a man named Ara, one of the most respected among the clan chiefs. He was strong, thoughtful, and married to Enssa, the eldest daughter of Dran. This tie to the bloodline of the former leader, combined with his wisdom and level-headed approach to tribal politics, had made him the natural choice when the council convened.

It was Ara's first act to ask the shamans to join him. He was the first to admit that he had no expertise in dealing with the wonders that now abounded, and felt uncomfortable accepting the role as chief intermediary for the spirits. He requested that the shamans appoint a chief of their own, and he would delegate all responsibility and power as far as the spiritual needs of the people were concerned. The shamans respectfully declined at first, but Ara insisted, until finally and surprisingly one of the youngest shamans stepped forward to argue the wisdom of the approach to the elders. Dal was the first shaman chief appointed, as much because she seemed the only one brazen enough to accept as because her ability to convince the others to join in showed some aptitude at the duties.

Tribal Government: Primitive Diarchy

Spoiler

The tribe's government is led by two chiefs: the High Chief, selected by the clan heads to oversee earthly matters such as hunting, survival, and daily life, and the Spirit Warden, chosen by the shamans to guide the tribe's spiritual path, overseeing magic, rituals, and interpreting the will of the spirits and the sky.

Dran gladly handed over his obsidian necklace of command, relieved that it would not be a burden on the tribe. Dal offered up the idea that each clan chief be given a ceremonial obsidian link, so that when the time came the chiefs could symbolically fashion the next high chief necklace for the succession. This went over well with the (now) sub-chiefs, who began to design their own link shards. Dal then requested that she be given an allotment of the various ores and metals they found inside some ants, to create a set of shamanic jewelry to show her status as head shaman. Ara thought that was more than fair, although he noted that the other shamans seemed surprised at the request.

As the years passed and the tribe settled into their new system of leadership, the time that no one had truly wanted to face arrived—Dran passed away quietly in his sleep. He was an old man by then, his once proud form diminished but his spirit as strong as ever. His death was mourned by the entire tribe, who saw in him not just a leader, but a symbol of their endurance.

The tribe prepared his burial with great care. His body was ceremonially wrapped in the finest furs and adorned with shards of the obsidian-like ant carapace he had worn as a symbol of strength. A procession of his family and the clan chiefs carried him along the path of the ants, to the largest mound they had ever discovered. It rose like a small mountain from the flat expanse of the grasslands, a place of reverence where the tribe had often watched the ants disappear into their mysterious tunnels.

As the procession reached the base of the mound, the tribe gathered in silence. Dran's body was buried at its foot, in a place that would forever connect him to the earth spirits he had revered and the path he had led them on for so long. The shamans, old and young alike, performed the rites, calling on the spirits of the land to guide Dran into the next life. When the burial was complete, the tribe dispersed, leaving only the shamans and the new high chieftains to stand in silent reflection.

Ara watched as the last of the tribe disappeared beyond the horizon, the wind whispering through the grasses like the voices of the ancestors. He stood tall and resolute, but inside, his heart was heavy. His generation would be the last who remembered the old world. They were the last who had lived through the dying days of that land, who had seen the Ice Bridge and crossed it with hope and fear in equal measure.

Now, he was High Chief, charged with guiding the people into a future that was becoming more and more distant from that past. The younger generations knew only the grasslands, the ants, and the strange, wondrous magic of the new world. They had grown up with abundance, far from the harsh realities of starvation and the death of their homeland. Ara knew that with the passing of time, the stories of the old world would become just that—stories.

He did not want that to happen. Dran's memory deserved more than fading into legend. He had been the one to lead them when all hope seemed lost, and he had carried them into this new land. Ara was determined that their people would never forget the sacrifices he had made, nor the lessons they had learned in the old world. But what was the best way to preserve that legacy? What core principle should remain to honor the tribe's past while also looking to the future?

Seeking answers, Ara turned to the shamans. Some were old, like him, and remembered the struggles of the past. But many like Dal were younger, born after the crossing, and their connection to the spirits was fresh and vibrant in ways Ara could no longer grasp.

He asked Dal to gather them together beneath the stars one night, seeking their counsel. The firelight flickered on their faces, illuminating their thoughtful expressions as they listened to Ara's concerns.

"The tribe is changing," Ara began, his voice low but steady. "The generations that lived through the crossing are passing away, and with them goes the memory of the old world. I fear that in time, we will forget what we endured to reach this land. I fear we will forget what Dran taught us."

He paused, searching their faces. "What should we hold onto? What principle should we pass down to ensure that the tribe does not lose its way?"

The shamans considered her words in silence for a long time, the crackle of the fire the only sound between them. Finally, Dal, spoke.

"We cannot hold onto everything," she said. "The past must give way to the future. But that does not mean we lose what matters. What made us strong in the old world was our unity—our ability to survive together. Dran led us with strength, but it was the bonds between us that kept us moving forward in the first place. If we are to honor him, let it be through that unity. Let it be through the understanding that no matter where we go, we go together."

Another shaman, nodded in agreement. "Unity, of course. But even more so the strength to adapt. Dran guided us because he was willing to take risks, to seek out new paths when the old ones failed. The tribe must never grow stagnant. The world may change, but we must always be willing to change with it."

There was a loud harrumphing cough from the eldest shaman. "I crossed the bridge with you, Ara. Then we did not have the luxury of now. Survival was all. I would not want the children now to know the hunger I felt, but I fear the stars have calamities yet to be written we will need to endure. We should make them aware of how important the need to persevere through true hardship is."

This set off a fresh round of debate, especially from the younger members eager to say how much hardship they had in fact suffered. Ara listened carefully, his mind turning over their words. Unity. Adaptability. Perseverance. These were things Dran had embodied, things that had kept the tribe alive. Perhaps they could carry those principles forward, just as they carried the weapons and tools forged from the fallen ants.

The Shamans shall ensure which value is preserved:
[] The Power of Unity
[] The Need to Adapt
[] The Will to Endure

It had been more than a decade since Dran had passed, and the tribe had continued to follow the great ant trail as they had for so many years before. The ants led them across the vast grasslands, through familiar paths marked by towering mounds, and though life had settled into a rhythm, there was an undercurrent of unease beginning to stir.

It started with distant signs of Others. The tribe occasionally saw smoke rising on the horizon, the telltale sign of man-made fires. At first, it was far enough away to be ignored. But then, along their own trail, they began to find discarded food, broken pottery, and tools that were not their own. There were other people out there—people who had come into the land from elsewhere, just as they had. Sometimes, when the tribe arrived at an ant mound they had visited many times before, they found that the trees had already been stripped of their fruit. Someone had been there first.

For years, these signs lingered in the background, and Ara knew it was only a matter of time before they encountered these other people. He had hoped the meeting would be peaceful. He hoped that the tribe's reverence for the earth spirits, their respect for the ant trail, would translate into harmony with whoever else roamed the land.

But when it finally happened, it was far from peaceful.

One afternoon, a group of youths came running back to the tribe's camp, their faces pale with fear. A few were badly injured, and to Ara's shock, a foreign girl ran alongside them, her strange clothing and wide eyes standing out in the midst of the tribe's familiar garb.

The youths stumbled over their words as they explained what had happened. They had broken the tribe's rule forbidding youths from wandering out of sight from the path, and had gone over a hill to play. There, they encountered a group of other youths, not much older or younger than themselves. The initial meeting had been friendly, if awkward, with a language barrier that made communication difficult. Still, they managed to exchange gestures and gifts—showing off their jewelry, touching the strange animals the foreign youths somehow rode, and marveling at their non-fur clothes.

Everything had been going well, until one of the tribe's young men, Jorin—a handsome, impulsive boy—snuck off with a girl from the other tribe. The foreign girl's brother had found them together and had flown into a rage. A fight broke out, one that left several of the tribe's youths bloodied and bruised, and at least one of the foreign youths seriously injured—possibly dead. In the chaos, both groups had retreated, but the foreign girl had followed Jorin back to camp.

Ara stared at the girl, trying to read her expression. She seemed neither frightened nor angry; in fact, she clung to Jorin's side with a shy but clear attachment. Ara could see why—the boy was handsome, with a roguish charm that no doubt appealed to the young foreigner. But the High Chieftain's mind was already racing with the consequences of this encounter.

The other tribe was likely to interpret the situation as a deliberate provocation. An injury or death in the heat of passion could lead to a blood feud, and Ara had heard from his parents and Dran's remembrances the danger that came with vengeance. The foreign tribe might already have sworn a blood oath, and if they were as connected to the land as Ara suspected, they could prove to be fierce and dangerous foes.

In the moments that followed, the council gathered. The debate over how to respond to the situation was intense.

"We should leave now, before the ants depart," said one of the elders. "If we move quickly, we can disappear into the grasslands and avoid further conflict. Let them waste their time chasing shadows."

"Running will make us look weak," a young hunter argued. "We cannot abandon the path because of a few angry youths. Dran would never have fled in the face of a challenge."

Others, like Enssa, Dran's daughter, were more pragmatic. "If we are to survive here, we must avoid unnecessary conflict. We should go to them, apologize, and explain that this was a misunderstanding. Perhaps we can even establish trade or friendship."

But there were those, who saw an opportunity in the chaos. "They have strange tools, different weapons, animals we could use. Why not strike first, scare them off for good? We have more people, and if we attack now, we could drive them from this land and take what they have."

Ara listened to each of them, his heart heavy with the weight of leadership. He could see the truth in all their words—running might save them from immediate conflict, but it would be seen as cowardice. Striking back could provoke a larger war, but it might also assert their dominance. And offering peace, while the most reasonable approach, might not be accepted.

He consulted with Dal overnight, but per the shaman the stars offered no quick or clear answers, as apparently nothing was amiss in the constellations. "Maybe that in itself is an answer: we have not done anything, yet, to upset the spirits, so our current path may be the right one." Outwardly Ara nodded at her words, but inside he sometimes wished that the problems of his terrestrial domain could so easily be solved with unhelpful answers.

Before she could make a decision, a scout ran into the camp, breathless and wide-eyed. "Chieftain, figures are approaching over the hill!"

The tribe gathered to the edge of camp, tension building as they watched the figures come into view. At the head of the group was a tall man, clearly a leader, adorned with an elaborate headpiece topped with strange thin horns that gleamed in the sunlight. He rode atop one of the strange creatures the foreign tribe used as mounts. The creature stood tall, slender and graceful, with long legs and delicate hooves. Its fur shimmered like the grasses in the morning light, and its great branching horns rose like twisted trees from its head. Its dark eyes watched with a quiet, mysterious intelligence, untouched by fear. Behind him, a group of warriors marched in formation, carrying clubs that glowed faintly with jagged tree bark.

Ara's heart raced as the foreign chief drew closer, his eyes scanning the camp with a mixture of caution and pride. His warriors were tense, ready for battle, but they had not yet raised their weapons. This was not yet an attack, but it was far from a peaceful visit.

Ara had only moments to decide how to meet this leader—whether to approach with caution, offer peace, or stand firm and ready for battle. The future of the people could depend on what he did next.
He took a deep breath, glancing at the shamans beside him, feeling the weight of the tribe's history and Dran's legacy pressing down on his shoulders. This was a test of everything they had built, and how they responded could change the tribe's fate forever.

With resolve, he stepped forward to meet the foreign chief, hoping that his choice would guide them safely into the next length of their journey.

Ara's Intentions with the New Tribe:
[] Avoid Confrontation
[] Establish Dominance
[] Open Communication
[] Write In

The other tribe came too fast to make an informed people wide choice, so this is a riot style vote setting Ara's mindset during the encounter, more votes equaling greater weight. Note that if a fight does break out you have all of your available fighters nearby and handily outnumber them.

 

[Side Item]

Core Belief: The Ties that Bind

Spoiler

The people are not a collection of individual islands, but parts of the same great continent. They believe survival depends on the bonds between people, as together they can overcome any challenge. Honoring their ancestors and maintaining harmony within the tribe ensures their continued prosperity in this new, magical land. But, attacks on one quickly are seen as threats to all.

The wind was cool against Ara's skin as he approached the foreign leader and his retinue. He moved with purpose, his high chieftain regalia catching the light, shimmering obsidian pieces glinting off his necklace and the edges of his spear. Behind him, an equal number of hunters followed, their presence a deliberate mirror of the foreign tribe's numbers. His wife made twice that number visibly wait at the edge of the trail, a clear showing of who had the numerical advantage.

Ara was hoping for the best—that perhaps, with enough tact, this meeting could turn into something peaceful, even friendly. But he was not naïve. If the other tribe showed aggression, he was ready to display the strength of the people.

The foreign leader was a young man, no more than half Ara's age. He sat astride one of the strange creatures, his face a mix of nerves and determination, adorned with a grand thin horned headpiece. His guards stood tensely beside him, clutching their strange clubs with the jagged, glowing wood. Ara took stock of them with a practiced eye. Though young, the leader was not lacking in pride, and his men seemed ready to fight at the slightest provocation.

The foreigner spoke first, surprisingly addressing Ara in a stilted version of her own language. His pronunciation was rough, and the phrasing unfamiliar, but it was clear enough to understand. "I am Prince Talar," he said, his voice carrying an edge of arrogance, "And I come to settle debts."

Ara could sense Enssa beside him tensing up at the unsubtle condescension to her husband, but he made a quick motion to stay her hand. Better to treat the foreigner as an equal, than sink to his level at the start. "Greetings, Princetalar. I am Ara, High Chief of the People of the Herd. I am pleased to hear we share a tongue, you distinguish yourself well from your fellow youths. A good trait I am sure for the High Chief of your people!"

One of the older guards in the foreign retinue snickered, then quickly recomposed himself after a withering glance from his leader. "I learned your old tongue from my grandfather, who came with our people across the Ice Bridge generations ago." He said, and Ara could see this was not part of his planned remarks. "And it is just 'Talar.' I AM a Prince, a son and heir to the Queen of the Many Tree Village."

Ara puzzled this over in his head. He supposed that if Essna had won the argument at the council then her offspring would also be princes, waiting in the wings to ascend. But thankfully they had determined that leadership came from your peers recognizing strength, wisdom, and the will of the spirits—not from birthright. Still, he did not let the confusion show and remained quiet as he continued.

"The girl who fled to your tribe," Talar said, trying to launch himself back to his prepared speech. He gestured toward the camp where the foreign girl now sat among Ara's people, and took in the full breadth of the hunters waiting with weapons drawn. He did a quiet gulp and pressed on. "That girl is my betrothed. Her mate price has already been paid. But her brother tells me she was… ravished by your people." His face twisted in a mix of disgust and anger. "Her dowry debt must be repaid, and after that, she must die to restore her family's honor. Normally her brother would have done it on the spot, but I believe your youths prevented him. I will finish his duty in his place."

Ara kept his expression calm, though inside, he felt a surge of doubt. He had spoken to the girl after the incident, and while the story was still incomplete, Ara did not believe that the girl had been taken against her will. In fact, he now strongly suspected that the girl had used the incident to flee her marriage.

"Prince Talar," Ara began, his voice carefully measured, "the girl is with us now, and she has not been harmed. We are prepared to pay off any dowry debts, but if she wishes to join our tribe and live among us, she will not be put to death."

Talar blinked, taken aback. It seemed the possibility that the girl would live with the ant tribe had not crossed his mind. Ara studied him closely. Beneath his proud exterior, he seemed anxious, his posture stiffening the longer they spoke. Ara could see it in the way his eyes darted over the tribe's warriors, in the way his hands tightened on the reins of his mount. His guards, too, were growing restless, shifting their feet and glancing around with growing impatience.

"You misunderstand," Talar said, though his voice had lost some of its earlier arrogance. "I came here to put the girl to death. Afterward, I will enslave the youths that corrupted her. However…" He hesitated, glancing at Ara's weapons and the warriors behind her. "P-Perhaps we can settle this with other treasures in lieu of slaves. My mother the Queen is generous and would allow this mercy, if I but asked her."

Ara's eyes flashed with anger. "The girl is no longer betrothed to you," he said firmly. "In fact," Ara said, an idea coming to her in a flash, "She is to be bonded to Jorin, one of our tribe. She will not be harmed." Enssa suppressed a giggle beside him. This declaration would be a surprise to Jorin, who had been enjoying his caddish lifestyle too much to consider settling with one girl, but Ara would make him realize it was the right outcome later.

Talar's face darkened with frustration, though Ara noticed the nervous glint in his eyes. "She must die," he repeated, though now his voice trembled slightly.

Ara stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. The foreigner's mount seemed unsettled, looking more like it wanted to flee than protect its rider. "Princetalar," he said slowly, "did you come here expecting to face a group of unprotected youths? Or perhaps a weaker tribe who would buckle if you merely repeated things over and over? I do not doubt there are those who would back down as easily as you prefer. But we are not weak, we will not be threatened, and I encourage you to respect that."

Talar opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, one of his guards cried out in alarm. The man seemed confused by Ara's movement toward them, misinterpreting it as aggression. His panic overtook him, and before the prince could stop him, the guard let loose a war howl and dragged his jagged club across his forehead, drawing blood.

The effect was immediate and spectacular. The wood of the club reacted violently with the blood, glowing fiercely as sharp branches and flower buds sprouted from its surface. The other warriors of the foreign tribe stepped back in shock, clearly not prepared to be on the offensive, but the guard, emboldened by the weapon's transformation, let out a wild scream and charged toward Ara.

Ara moved swiftly, sidestepping the first blow and raising his spear. His warriors leaped into action, surrounding the foreign guard as the battle erupted. Prince Talar's mount reared up and he clumsily tried to hold on but slid off to the ground.

The ant tribe fought with the ferocity of hunters, their obsidian-tipped spears and blades glinting in the sunlight. Within moments, they had overwhelmed the foreign tribe's guard. Their superior numbers and weapons made quick work of the attackers, though Ara gave strict orders not to kill anyone unnecessarily.

The only death was that of the guard who had first struck out. He fell to the ground with a cry, his club clattering beside him as Essna wiped his blood from her weapon. The obsidian seemed to thrum in her hands, and Ara was glad he would be aside her in their bed mat tonight. The rest of the foreign warriors, injured and shocked, quickly surrendered, dropping their faintly glowing clubs in defeat.

Talar was left prone alone, his face pale with fear. He turned to Ara, his earlier arrogance gone, and scrambled to his knees. "Please," he begged, "spare me. I am worth a great ransom. My mother… my tribe… they will pay any price for my life."

Ara regarded him coolly, his spear still raised, though he made no move to strike him. "You came here to enslave our youths," he said calmly. "You came to take what is not yours and demand death as payment. Why should I let you live?"

Talar trembled, his earlier bravado shattered. "I… I did not understand," he stammered. "I thought… I thought you were weak. Please, take me to my mother. She will pay for my ransom. I swear it."

Ara considered him for a long moment. Finally, he lowered his spear and nodded. "Very well. You will live—for now. But you will take us to your tribe, and we will see what your mother has to say."

The foreign prince sagged with relief, and Ara motioned for his warriors to bind him and his remaining guards. They began the march toward the foreign tribe's settlement, a half-day's journey from the ant trail.

When they reached the edge of the settlement, Ara was struck with awe. The foreign tribe had established a permanent village at the forest's edge, with rows of crops stretching out before them. Ara had heard of agriculture before, but never had seen it in practice. The wooden housing structures were tall and sturdy, and there was a sense of permanence in the air that was utterly foreign to the nomadic tribe.

As they approached, Ara sent one of the guards ahead to demand parley with the foreign tribe. Soon after, a woman emerged from the village, wearing an even more elaborate antler headpiece than Talar's. She was flanked by a few token guards, but she seemed more annoyed than anxious, her eyes filled with a cold, calculating intelligence.

The woman's gaze swept over the scene before settling on Talar with clear disgust. "My son," she said, her voice filled with disappointment. "I should have known."

She turned to Ara, speaking fluently in the old language. "Thank you for not killing him, High Chieftain. Though I am certain he deserved it." Her expression softened slightly. "Talar fancies himself a warrior like his great-grandfather. I see how well hearing those stories has done him. Born with a full belly and convinced himself he had been on the hunt. Tsk."

The woman—clearly the queen of this tribe—looked Ara over with more respect than her son had shown. "Honor demands that I pay an appropriate price for his ransom, although honestly I'd prefer to just buy back his crown," she said. "But tell me, what would you like in exchange?"

Ara studied the queen for a moment, weighing her options. This was a woman of power, someone who understood the ways of strength and negotiation. Ara knew that this could be a pivotal moment for her tribe—the beginning of something new.

You have 5 Ransom Credits to Trade. Choose from the below options:
[] Deer - The mounts of the foreigners. 1 Credit for a breeding pair.
[] Linen - Plant cloth. Looks comfortable. 1 Credit for enough to outfit a quarter of the ant tribe.
[] Meat and Fur - The foreigners hunt different game, including deer, rabbits, and wolves. 1 Credit for enough meat for a grand feast, and furs and hides to outfit a tenth of the ant tribe.
[] Medicinal Herbs - Collected from the forest, known to soothe pain. 1 Credit for a supply that would last a year.
[] Strange Plants - The foreigners foraged these from deep among the trees. They seem scared of them, apparently their shamans ate some and….all you can understand is that 'things happened.' 1 Credit for a large pot full of flowers and mushrooms. Spirit Warden will be upset if she hears this wasn't picked.
[] Antlers - The horns of deer, these are from the wild 'strange' ones in the deep forest. Look impressive. 1 Credit for enough to craft a set of ruler's regalia. (Can only buy once)
[] Charcoal - You don't fully understand the methods, but the foreigners have found a way to burn their trees twice, and condense the fire for use later. 1 Credit for enough charcoal to last a winter season.
[] Deep Forest Bark - Collections from the trees deep inside the forest, used to make their special weapons. Still glows faintly in the dark. 1 Credit for three clubs worth. (You have kept the club from the guard killed at the battle.) Spirit Warden will be upset if she hears this wasn't picked.

You can also ask if they have something else and I'll let you know if they have it and are willing to part with it. Credits can be divided and used to buy half of the normal amount, within reason.

Please proceed with plan voting.