Paths of Civilization

[pbluekan]

EDIT: Edited for Quality.

So, I wrote a short little omake for you guys. I tried to emulate the style that @Academia Nut used in his interlude, so this is meant as a legend, or a fairy tale of sorts. A few things to know:

Spoiler

Y Môr is welsh for 'the sea.' I decided to write it as a name, because we're tree huggers. In that same vein, Yr Ardd means 'The Garden,' and Gwygoylla is just Gwygoytha with a drift in the spelling ('LL' in welsh is pronounced 'th'.) I've done my best to incorporate some small Celtic influences (fae helping lost children) and some of the Druidic myths that Tolkien included in his designs of the Elves of Middle Earth (beautiful keepers of the woods) along with the moral values of The People.

The chital is a species of deer native to the Indian subcontinent.

Her description is sort of inspired by, you probably guessed, Arwen and Luthien Tinuviel. Her name means "silver" or "Moonlight" in welsh.

Enjoy!

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Now sit, children, and let me tell you of the past. Of the days of Arianwen; the days when The People found their purpose in the world. Of how the past became the present and the legend of the first Steward of the Wild Wood. It is in these days that the wisdom of ancestors and spirits lay.

It was a time of great strife in Yr Ardd, and The People despaired for it seemed the very world was ill, that the spirits of Earth and Water had forsaken their union and Sky had forsaken them both in his vanity. So it was in these hard times that Crow, the Clever Child, chose to invest himself into his people once more, for he saw a cure to their ills and the ills of the land he had brought his people to. A pupil was needed, as great as the hero Gwygoylla, and yet not as She was, for not all things are grown alike.

Thus a child was born at the Falls.

Her mother, nameless and forgotten but for her gift of life and name, was of the northern tribes, come to seek refuge within the great bosom of The People, only to pass as she gave life unto the world; with her last breath, a name.

So came to be Arianwen; the first Steward. Pale as the white sands of Y Môr, with eyes of the greenest grass, hair of good earth, and a laugh of seashell chimes, she was as fey and beautiful as the elusive chital.

As with all The People, with a family or without, Arianwen was cared for. It was the Elders, sentimental as we are wont to be, who raised her; this babe left in trust. So it was that she grew and learned of the world just as you, just as all The People grow and learn, just as a vine grows tall against the wall and learns its contours. She learned of the ancestors and their sacrifices to their neighbor, of the spirits and their capricious gifts and harsh lessons, and of Crow, he whom led the people from ruin and taught what was needed to be part of the world.

The Elders, as we do, knew of Crow and his intervention, yet as with all things Crow, knew not what shape 'twould take. Yet, as fey little Arianwen grew, there were suspicions.

Crow, as is his way, finds the distinct and beautiful, and for all else they are, his pupils have always been gold among the pebbles of the stream. Thus, the Elders watched and observed, ready to intervene, for Gwygoylla, the last pupil of Crow, had sown as much discord as she had prosperity. Chaos, it is said, is a river, frothing and rough but filled with life, and as with a river, chaos must be guided lest it bring all to ruin. Arianwen grew and grew strong, as The People are wont to do, with a belly full of food and a mind full of wisdom, into a woman as different from great Gwygoylla as the wet of winter is to the heat of summer. Though she followed the teachings of the Crow, they were not those of clever and cunning, but of the land, those teachings that clever Crow gave to The People to raise them out of the dust. She was the Teacher and Gardener. The woman who could guide the people as the bank guides the river.

As with all The People, Arianwen found her work; her stone in the foundation that raises The People to prosperity. On the day she became a woman, the very hour, the very moment, 'twas decided that The People would undertake a Great Project, as great a project as The People themselves.

The High Chief and his Chiefs, their councils and advisers, had heard of the sickness of the land. How the trees themselves leaked their fluids away, only to wash away entire with the hills themselves and the next flood into Y Môr. How in places of stinking death, the land itself appeared cursed and lamented by lesser spirits; the denizens wasted and plagued. How death flowed down the rivers poisoning all it touched, even unto Y Môr. How it was in the places of the most blighted of forest that ruins could be found, of people dead and gone, with angry spirits lashing out without Earth and Water to calm them or Sky to guide them.

So it was that the High Chief decreed that The People, we gardeners of the land, would go out and bring harmony and health to the land we called home.

And Arianwen had her purpose.

She was a pupil of Crow, and what The People knew all individually, Arianwen knew in its totality. So it was that Arianwen did the work of ten out in the deep wilds and guided works of The People entire. She went with the scouts to find the sickness and lay shrines of guidance and safety, flitting about, fae as she was, through the smallpaths of river, wood, and hill; finding the illness at its root. She went with the builders to clear the sickness and wash away the death, her strength of little renown, but her determination greater than any man's; burning the illness away root and stem. She went with the farmers to till health into the land, her hand deft and sure with not a sapling out of place; returning life to ashen dust. She went to the Elders to record all she had seen in art and song, story and memory; memorializing it all for The People after she had gone.

Yet still, we are not bereft of her beauty and kindness. Arianwen was a pupil of Crow, and as different as she was from great Gwygoylla, she was cut from cloth much the same. That her line runs true, with fae skin and eyes of life is tale enough. Yet all the same, there are stories of her from those bygone days of lore. Stories of scouts bedded down alone in the wilderness, only to be woken by Arianwen, beautiful as moonlight, for a night of heated passion, waking in the morning with naught but a bruise on the neck and half remembered bliss. Stories of children lost, only to be found by kind green eyes and murmured comfort before being dropped into the nearest village.

Thus is how her line continues. In song and story and with her grandchildren's grandchildren left with the elders as they always have been.

Those of fae skin and eye, beautiful and mysterious, yet part of us all the same; the Stewards of the Wild Wood.

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By the way, guys don't mis-interpret this. I don't know what AN has in store, but the 'Stewards' described here are just people. No magic involved. Druids of the forest if you will. People who wander and care for the forest. That was the legend I was trying to devise here without getting into complications of magic.

 

[Hangwind]

Cursing with Blessings

The fires burned low as the shaman contingent began to put the finishing touches on their work. The carving had been long and difficult, costing them many precious tools, but now it was coming to a close. Still, there was a finishing touch to be applied: The consecration ceremony. While one of the old men continued to laboriously scratch away at the Star Axe, most were engaged in the task of working out what exactly they were going to be consecrating the axe to.

"Difficult, difficult," the eldest among them sighed as he finished listening to the latest idea. "An axe of this sort; it is powerful, but has no balance to its spirit. Three different symbols of power! Madness, to bind so much in a single weapon. What if it fell into evil hands?" The shamans around him grumbled in agreement. Such an axe was dangerous even in the best of hands. Those here could remember the ravages of the Nomads-certainly none would call any of their hands the 'best'!

"It is meant for a people that understand nothing but power," one of the figures rasped. She, for this shaman was a woman, seemed gnarled like a tree in her advanced age. "How could it be anything else? But perhaps we can channel that power as Feygurthyn intends."

The first shaman nodded at her, acknowledging her point. "You have a plan?"

The woman nodded solemnly. "I do. They wish for us to bless their axe with our spirits? Let us do so, and perhaps help them correct some of their ways."

XXX

Feygurthyn watchednervously from his position next to the Thunder Horse chief as the shaman crafters approached the fire, the newly completed axe wrapped tightly in leather. As the lead shaman approached, he nodded to the guards, who promptly doused the fire, leaving only the full moon to witness their blessing. The old shaman carefully unwrapped the axe, allowing the moonlight to fall across it in such a way as to leave the runes as shadows winding across the head of the axe.

"Chief Wendtikwos, you have asked us to bless your axe with our spirits. We have come here this night to complete that blessing-the blessing of the Crow." He may have been old, but his voice still held the sonorous power of the spirits.

A figure stepped forward, lifting it's head to reveal the mask of the Teacher, the first of the Crow's forms. With a strangely detached voice, it doled out its part of the blessing. "I am the Teacher of all. The Land is mine, and all the wealth it holds. I am the spirit of the Trees to my people, and the spirit of the Horses to yours. Thus is my blessing: May this axe hold the Power of the Land to help its wielder in aid of their home." With that, the Teacher reached out its hand, dipped in precious purple, and highlighted the rune for Horse. Once completed, the Teacher stepped back and bowed its head, becoming anonymous once more.

The next figure then stepped forward, this time revealing the face of the Trickster, is strange lines seeming to crawl and change in the moonlight. Its voice was strange too, seeming to shift in time with an unheard cadence, from the shrill voice of youth to the reedy voice of great age, from the deeper voice of a man to the higher voice of a woman, and everything in between. "I am the Trickster, the decider of fates. I reveal myself to you in the Thunder and in its cleansing light. Mine is the power of Justice, in making all things as they should be. Thus is my blessing: May this axe bring Justice to its wielder, giving Power to those that make things right." Like the other figure, the Trickster stretched out its hand and traced a rune, purple outlining Thunder this time.

As that figure stepped back, the final feathered mass showed its face. The Devourer's countenance was grim, harsh lines accentuating a sharp and jagged beak. It's voice was all too understandable; cold and unfeeling, leaving the listener with a primal chill of fear as it seemed to echo emptily from the beak. "I am the Devourer, the death of all that live. I reveal myself in war and death. My Power is that of Destruction and Honor. Have the second, or the first will come all the more quickly and thoroughly, as all that you have ever done will perish with you. Thus is my blessing: May this axe bring Honor to its wielder in life and death." This time, the hand that reached out seemed almost inhuman. Skeletal, but with the bulging veins of great strength. It drew itself on the rune of the Fist, purple dripping in a languid fashion after the manner of blood.

A hush fell on the plain as the final figure stepped back. The elder shaman motioned Wendtikwos forward, offering him the leather covering and the axe that he had been holding. The great chief took it, starting to smile. Then the three figures stepped forward, surrounding the chief and speaking in eerie unison, their voices blending in an uncomfortable chorus. "I am the Teacher, I am the Trickster, I am the Devourer. But more than that, I am the Crow." As each said their name, they took off the mask that they had been wearing, letting the feathery headdress fall forward to cast their face into shadow and remain anonymous. At the same time, they handed their mask to the next person in line, who would fit them together. By the time the Devourer had all three masks, it was clear that they had been made to be one: The pale blankness of the Teacher became the hazy lines of the Trickster which in turn fed into the jagged lines of the Devourer. Finally, the Devourer handed the mask off to the final figure, one that had seemed to appear out of nothingness, who promptly put it on, showing the united Aspects of the Crow.

"i have taught my people many things, but the first was Unity. Many moving as one-this is the strength of the People. Thus is my Blessing: May this axe bring Harmony to its wielder and his people and give them the Power of a single purpose." With that, the final figure stretched out a single finger, this time not following the rune for many as the others had done with theirs, but rather following a simpler design hidden within that rune, the rune for One. With that, the figure carefully pulled the leather wrapping from underneath the axe, leaving Wendtikwos with the naked weapon in his hands and flashing in the light of the moon with black and purple. The Crow walked away, seeming to almost dissolve into the night in a trail of black feathers, his blessing complete.

Wendtikwos smiled, then raised his axe and howled, a cry of victory! He had the blessings of the spirits now, who could possibly stand against him?

-a secret story of the shaman called The Blessing of Deryn

AN: Before you open the spoiler, how do you think the blessing became a curse for the Nomads and Dead Priests?

Spoiler: Behind the scenes

The first Blessing is both the simplest and the least likely to do something nasty to the wielder. Simply put it is designed to give someone a boost in power, but only when they're on their home territory. It won't be helpful anywhere else, but it won't actively try to harm its wielder either. A defensive blessing from a defensively minded people. It also invokes the Shapers of the Land trait our people have.

The second blessing is a bit trickier. It is designed to help "bring Justice". Great if you're fighting for good, less so if you're in the middle of doing something evil. If you're doing wrong, it will actually help empower your enemies to right that wrong. And since it was made by us, it has our concepts of right and wrong, not the Nomad's. It invokes our Protective Justice trait, and will preform preemptive strikes where feasible.

The third blessing is the most dangerous of all. Martial power and honor. This might sound like it should be right up the Nomad's alley, but remember, our honor is different from theirs. Our honor has two parts: Humility in life, and a death while fighting for your people. So if you are proud and arrogant while wielding this, it will first attempt to teach you humility-through humiliation-and then it will kill you while you are fighting for your people. You will have honor (our honor) one way or another, even if it has to drag you there kicking and screaming. Or cold and lifeless. This invokes both the Nobility in Humility and Honorable Death traits.

The final blessing is one of Unity. Basically, it will help the wielder unite their people to their purpose. Great if you have a wise ruler. Significantly less so if you have a bad one. Very much a double edged sword. This one is obviously our Harmony trait coming into play.

Get it now? While the axe would be perfectly consecrated for our people, in the hands of someone with the values of the Spirit Talkers or the Nomads, it's almost certain to be bad.

TL;DR: A blessing in one culture may be a curse in another. We made a Paladin's weapon, then gave it to a bunch of Mongols.

Also, a look into my thought process:
Thunder: Trickster: Justice: Spiritual Power
Horse: Teacher: Land: Economic Power
Fist/Power: Devourer: Honor: Martial Power
Many/Uncountable: Crow United: Three are one: Harmony

 

[Powerofmind]

Bad Juju​

It started rather innocently enough. First, there was the discovery that little Wrryl had killed Merwys' father's dog. The child cried many tears of apology when confronted, and claimed the dog had become feral and violent with him. It was genuine enough, though Merwys, clever girl she was, never played with Wrryl again.

Eventually, Wrryl and Merwys grew up and aged well, Wrryl becoming a very ambitious young warrior, and Merwys, clever girl she was, became a Blackbird, the shamans at a loss to contain her strange enthusiasm for self-defense, even as she had many souls. In that time, Wrryl and Merwys had much to do, fighting against the nomad raiders for glory, and keeping a watchful eye at home.

Eventually, there were no more nomads to fight for a time, and Wrryl had earned much glory, so it was time for him to retire and make a family. Such a man who had won such glory of course took an equally fine wife, much to the displeasure of the wife's father, who was very upset at his daughter's marriage to the lower-born Wrryl. It was around this time that Merwys was called to the area to investigate suspicions of misconduct.

And then, at the dawn one day, the father of the wife, the father's wife, and all of the father's sons were found dead, throats slashed from ear to ear in silence, and their skins needlessly flayed. A murder far beyond mere passions or even raging hate, but something intrinsically wrong. Investigations were performed, a half-exile found with a bloodied carving knife hidden within his clothes and a long history of abuse by the father of the wife. Merwys, who investigated, was praised for her swift capture. She stayed behind anyway.

After a time, Wrryl had grown to some prominence and power, his family taking the father's place as land chief of a few good plots. Another man was found killed, throat cut, and skin flayed. Immediately, Merwys threw her suspicions onto Wrryl, whose many connections and good standing left her seeming the fool. A different man was caught and executed for the grievous misdeed, and Merwys was shamed. She stayed behind anyway.

After a time again, Wrryl had many sons, and was being considered for a place in the province chief's advisors. One of his enemies was found dead, throat cut, and skin flayed. Merwys held her tongue, and silently shadowed Wrryl for many nights. Eventually, in the dead of night nearly a quarter-moon through the investigation, Merwys watched as Wrryl stole into the dark, clutching the bloodied knife. When, the next day, a different enemy of Wrryl was found to have the same knife, Merwys declared what she had seen. As Wrryl was a powerful man, her word alone would not be enough, even as a Blackbird, but she sent word to Valleyhome, to the highest spiritual advisor, to confirm her suspicions.

As the Spirit Advisor was brought into the room with Wrryl, all who saw claim he shivered uncontrollably, though it was unseasonably warm. As soon as the advisor met eyes with Wrryl, he broke into a fit. "There are not enough! There are none!" he cried, ranting and pointing, and as he continued to shout and gesticulate, it was as though a veil was pulled from the face of Wrryl, and all could see what the highest shaman meant.

Long had it been known that some were born with too many souls. With such a plethora of spirits and souls in the world, it was only natural that there would be more than enough to go around. But until then, nobody had ever considered that a person could be born with none.

---

Hello psycho~

 

[Citino]

A Duty Failed, An Oath Sworn
​

You were Tyrwyn, Protector of the Ymaryn and Heir Presumptive to the Stallion Tribes. But neither of those titles brought you comfort at the sight before you, one which had become depressingly common the further you rode.

Before you lay the smoldering ruins of a village. Once it had been an idyllic place, its population small, but kind to those who traveled through it. You remember that you had been through here as a child with your father. Its people had drawn on their rations to throw a small impromptu festival for your party as they stopped for the night. You remember your father telling stories of the 'wild' lands where you lived. The children had been especially enthralled by the stories of the dread nomadic raiders, and the stories of heroism of your ancestors as they had stopped raid after raid from reaching the southlands.

You remembered your pride as you witnessed their awe at your people's duty. The elders of the village had sent your father off with all the respect worthy of the king, their gratitude for your protection from the nomads clearly evident in their every gesture. It had been one of the defining moments of your life, evidence of what your duty truly brought. Your sacrifice had brought peace to so many, the deaths of your warriors saving countless innocents and allowing the children of the south to live without fear.

And so it was truly a bitter experience to see what happened when you failed in that duty. The village you remember so fondly now lay ravaged and broken, its burnt corpse a twisted mockery of all that you so fondly remembered. Scattered throughout were desecrated remains of various men, horror and agony painted on their faces.

Of the remaining villagers, there was no sign. Only evidence of their last desperate flight from the raiders, before they were stolen away.

Behind you, one of your most trusted men approached. "My lord..."

Without turning your gaze from the village, you gave your commands. "Send the half-exiles in to give bury the remains as honorably as they can. Have the blackbirds look for any stragglers. Have the rest of the men set up for the night. We move at dawn."

The man gives a short nod and moves to begin issuing commands, leaving you to your brooding. Normally you would be the one to give such orders, but tonight, you needed to think.

You had failed in your duty. All your people had. The King had sent his armies north to prevent your destruction when the nomads horde descended. Your people had prepared as best they could, but your might alone could not fend off such a massive horde.

The King had known this. And the Kings of the Ymaryn had ever known their obligations to those who served them. Your father still told stories of how the Ymaryn had ridden north in your most desperate hour, when it seemed as if the nomads had been all but guaranteed to win. How the sight of the King's warriors shattering the nomads had restored hope when all had been thought lost. And so, once again, the King had summoned the full armies of the Ymaryn and sent them to your people's aid, to protect those who had always protected them.

But you had all been played for fools. Even as the nomads struck at the north, the treacherous nomad leaders had snuck into the now defenseless south. Even as your people had won a great victory in the north, the south faced disaster. Countless men, women, and children had been dragged off by the nomads, those you had sworn to defend left to the savagery of the nomads.

As you looked upon the evidence of your failure, you felt your fury grow.

How dare those bastards do this! For what reason do they strike at the innocent? They seek 'honor' and wealth, but they do not wish to gain such from their own labors. Instead, they strike a the weak, at those who cannot defend themselves! They always speak of their prowess, of their martial might, and yet when battle is offered to them, they instead strike like thieves in the night, a distraction so they can loot and kill as much as they desire.

You had always felt a disdain for the nomads, but that emotion was nothing compared to what you felt now. Hate, hate beyond anything you had known was possible, flowed through you. But it was not an all consuming hate. It was tempered by your life, by the duty your people took upon themselves.

As your emotions surged, the night seemed to brighten. Looking up, you saw the full moon gazing down upon you. With a sudden rush of understanding, you feel yourself pull your knife from its sheath.

"Hear me, Gods and Spirits alike!" You call out firmly, conviction infusing your words. "I seek to right a great wrong!" You sweep your free hand over the ruins before you. "Death has come where there was no need. The invaders sought only to fulfill their own greed and lust, caring naught for those they harmed. The Ymaryn have ever been peaceful people, seeking only to aid those who require it, and to protect their own. And for all that our people have accomplished, still, we are attacked!"

You turn your gaze up to look upon the moon, "Today, we have failed. Those who lived in peace have found death and despair at the hands of those who covet the rewards of our labors. I have failed those who we shelter from pain." Bringing forth the knife to your hand, you slide the edge against your palm, crimson blood splattering against the ground even as you raise it to the sky. "And so I swear! I swear that I shall not allow this to happen again, that the innocent shall ever be protected under my rule!"

You clench your fist, forcing more blood from the wound, "I swear that this crime shall be avenged. That those who stole away the innocent shall find that Justice awaits them. That all who took part in this crime shall forever regret what they have done!"

You lower your hand to your side as you turn your gaze back to the village. "And I swear... that my enemies shall remember the crimes they have committed until the end of their life."

As you turn to walk back towards the camp, you cannot help your smile as you hear a loud, approving "Caw."


Note: I wondered what the Stallion Tribe was feeling about this, so I decided to write a little something.

 

[random_npc]

The First Smith.

Once long ago, in the days before the metal sleeping in the ground had exhausted its curses, the people were happy and content. There was strife, but the grannies were full and every house had a shrine and the people were secure in their knowledge that they had the blessings of the spirits. Even as the men of thunder came to pillage and raid, the people were content, even as greed and war festered in the hearts of our neighbors the people were content, and each day was much like the one before it.

Until one day, something unusual happened. Somehow the greatest artisan of the age had won a great boon from the spirts. How he had done so a mystery to all, some say he crafted a great gift in a show of piety, others that he solved an intractable riddle in a show of wisdom, or perhaps he never earned it at all, and Crow sought to teach the people a lesson. How it came to but is known only to the spirts, but somehow the greatest of the craftsman was gifted a single Spark of brilliance taken from the forge of the gods and a cryptic warning from its giver.

"The Spark, like all flames must be fed."

At first, the craftsman was overjoyed. Gleefully he burned his wealth, stoking the spark to a brilliant red glow, driving him to create masterpiece after masterpiece, until he was lauded among the people as truly without peer. But every time the pile of food needed to be higher, and the Spark would cool more quickly. Soon the craftsman was offering the very masterpieces he created to the flame, stoking it to still greater heights but rendering it ever hungrier.

Soon the man began to fear that the spark would gutter and die, leaving him with naught but ashes and memories of lost glory. Every day he would create a dozen and one great works, and feed a dozen to his spark. Until one night, staring at the fading glow of the divine he spoke of his doubts. Airing his fears where none but the spark could hear them, and as he spoke he could feel his fears vanish into nothing with bursts of heat, as the Spark began to burn with a greater intensity than he had ever seen. Stoked to still greater heights by the doubts he had fed it.

Again the man was delighted, and without doubt or hesitation, he moved to embrace this new fuel. Feeding the Spark his every ounce of hesitation and fear. Without hesitance to hold him back, and with his spark stoked to a yellow heat, his works became both far greater and far stranger. Ever more bizarre materials would he throw into his works, embracing every whim with no hesitation. Until one day, he used a strange red stone and was inspired. Imbued as he was with a fragment of the divine he could recognize it for what it was, the faded remnants of divine wrath locked away within the earth. This he declared, would be his legacy.

forsaking lesser works he focused the entirety of his brilliance on the red stone but for the first time his divine gift failed. No mere skill could awaken the power, and the man was enraged. Heedless of the cost he stole the sacred dead from their resting place, and fed their bodies to his flame, firing it to a baleful yellow glow. using forbidden secrets and the ash's of their bones he compelled their spirits to tell him all they could have land of the gods. The man grew powerful, and the people grow fearful as the omens spoke of the spirits outrage. but still it was not enough, still, the weapons of the gods slept. But he had ripped form the spirts the nature of the might sleeping within the earth, for it was the star metal itself that he sought to awaken.

stealing into the scared rainbow bridge, passed the sleeping and content guards the man stole from the people the sacred fragments of a fallen star, and fleeing unseen into the wilderness. Fleeing deep into the earth, into a grand and unknown cave in the red cliffs the man set to work. Calling to the sleeping power in the red stones, seeking to rouse it to wakefulness with the divine might of his boon and the power of the still waking star. feeding half the star metal to work his flame to a terrible white furry, and crafting the other half into the first smiths hammer he set about his task. The stone groaned , and wept and stirred but would not wake. With his goal so close the man forsake what few crumbs of sense he had left. Bit by bit he fed all that he was to the flame, His mind his heart, his very name and face joined all of his wealth and works on the divine pyre he had stoked the spark to. Until at that he had left was his mad purpose and the spark burned with an unearthly blue flame, then with a terrible wailing and darkening of the sky he succeeded. Burning away the divine wrath of the sleeping metal it was born anew, and the first mortal iron was forged. The first smith held up his masterpiece, and the people wailed as the last dyeing ebbs of it's curse wrought havoc upon them, ripping away the blessings of the sprits and leaving them naked before the greed and bloodlust of there neighbors.

Driven by the cooling embers of his purpose the man fled from the cave, to show the people what he had wrought, but all who beheld him fled in terror For after burning so much of himself the Smith was far more a sprit than a man and none could stand before his terrible continuance. Again and again he sought to find someone to pass on the knowledge, to fulfill the purpose that was all he had left. Until at last he came to the king of the people. The king alone stood fast before the strange sprit with a face like a forges mouth and a glowing staff in it's charred skeletal hand. The First Smith with his dying breath, thrust the staff of iron into the kings hand, and whispered the secret of iron into the kings ear, crumbling to ash as he spoke the final word.

To this day the shamans still argue over what become of the First Smith after that. Some say his soul was poorly received, punished harshly by the dead he had transgressed against, others say that nothing of him was left, that his very soul had been consumed leaving naught but hot ash to arrive in the land of the dead, and still others say his very mortality was consumed and he arrived in the realm of the spirits as the mad and faceless god of the forge, the truth of the matter is known only to crow. But what is known is that the people where no longer content. Without the blessings of the spirits the evils of the world sought to overwhelm them, and they faced them alone, but they faced them with iron in hand.

 

[Swimmingly]

Galhwyn was walking through the fields above Valleyhome. They sprouted around him, fallow and unused for now. Sometimes he would see flickers of movement from the corners of his eyes, as if the spirits were breathing in their sleep. The spirits of mud and black earth, his mother had always said, grow tired, feeding the crops. Just as men sleep, so must the spirits, for seasons at a time, and when they return the crops they nourish are stronger for it.

So Galhwyn walked, and he looked down into the Valley.

The shamans argued, sometimes, over whether Valleyhome and the garden of water that flowed through it was in fact The Garden, the one Crow had brought from gygo, where the world began. One would say it was, another would call that heresy, and then there would be many appeals to the spirits. Sometimes, if you were lucky, they'd come to blows. Nothing quite so funny as two old holy men slapping each other and quibbling.

All Galhwyn knew was that it was beautiful, and peaceful. From this distance, at least. It was a virtue to bend your back to work, but Galhwyn was not a particularly virtuous boy, and for all his joy and trickery, he appreciated a breath of peace most off all.

A crow fluttered overhead against the pale sky, and Galhwyn yelled the crow-call to it, coarse and raucous as the Spider-Eyed himself.

"CAAAAAW," shrieked something in his ear. Galhwyn screamed like a startled pony, fell off the the path, slid down the slope at the edge of the field, and landed face first in the mud on the next step down.

Up above, someone was roaring with laughter, a crow-laugh that was somehow reedy and rich all at once. When he'd wiped the mud from his eyes and looked back up, the tallest woman he'd ever seen was sitting gaily on the edge of the slope, mindless of the mud. She wore an odd style of clothing, dyed as rich as the sail of a ship, and her hair was piled with gleaming black stone ornaments cut in the shape of feathers. Where the sun cut down, her muscles gleamed - she looked strong enough to pick any two warriors Gal had ever seen and beat their skulls together.

And she was laughing, loud and deep and raucous.

"Crow below, you should have seen your face!" she managed, between gasps. "By freakin' me, that was hilarious!"

Gal pulled together the shreds of his dignity. "Who in gygo do you think you are, huh? Jumping at me like that? I could come up there and-"

She shifted suddenly, and the tiny flex sent ripples of corded muscle racing over her body.

"-ask you to apologize..."

She flashed a sun-bright grin at him. "I missed this. Everyone's all serious where I came from, it's always work, work, work, work."

"You're... from away?"

"Nah, I used to live here a while back. Decided to drop by, see how the old place is doing from the ground, you know?"

Gal scrambled up the side of the slope and sat besides her. Well, if she was a visitor, even one that was just returning, she got some leeway. Practical jokes were sadly frowned upon by most people he knew, and a bit of levity might be worth a few pranks turned his direction.

Also, she was... very pretty.

"So, what do you think?" he asked. "Changed much?"

He looked out over the valley, and the city in it. From here, you could just barely see the specks of cloth as people and goods bustled about, moving out to the farms and back to the town, or pulling slow wagons of wares to the square.

Gal was suddenly aware of a heat on his side. The strange woman was close.

"Oh, immensely," she said. "A thousand years will do that to a place."

And just as Gal had registered that, he felt a hand brush against his neck, and somehow he wasn't doing much thinking for the next good while.

Afterwards, lying there on the grass under the pale sky, Galhwyn closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the woman against him.

"What's your name?" he asked. He somehow felt like he'd forgotten something, lost a train of thought, but then, his mind had been pretty focused on other things.

"I was born Gwygoytha," she said. "But most people call me something else these days."

That word itched at him, clicked with something. A lecture from a shaman, maybe. Something about Crow, and the Garden, and...

A thousand years, she'd said.

"Gygowyn," Galhwyn whispered.

She chuckled, lying on the grass behind him, and it was a woman's laugh, deep and seductive, and it was a crow's laugh, high and reedy and mocking. "You're a real clever boy, Galhwyn."

"Why... why me?"

She clucked her tongue. "Well, I like the way you think! And you were out walking here, and it is such a beautiful day. That's something people seem to forget these days, with their iron tools and weird tax systems and crowded city life. Sometimes, you just have to go for a walk when it's beautiful out. Or, other strenuous outdoor activities. Here, look, you'll like this bit."

Gal rolled up to a sitting position and watched Gygowyn, who was First of Mankind, rise naked to her feet. She was magnificent, like the strength of an aurochs distilled, the cleverness of Crow himself made into a body. Mud streaked her, but she wore it like warpaint, like the blood of enemies.

And then she winked, and jumped, and as her feet left the ground, the black stone feathers in her hair rolled across her and spread. For a moment, she seemed to be a crow-shaped hole in the sky, infinitely distant and just as huge.

And then a ragged crow flapped off and up, wheeling once high above before flying away.

Galhwyn managed a single long crow-cry before the birdshit hit his forehead.

The harsh laugh of the crow echoed back at him as he gathered his muddy clothes. And somehow, despite his wonder and horror and confusion, he found himself wearing a rueful grin.

He'd never be able to listen to a lecture about Gygowyn with a straight face ever again, would he? And they'd ask him, "Young Galhwyn, would you perhaps like to comment on the sacred lore of Gygowyn," and he'd say, "Well, there's this thing she does with her tongue..."

Oh, Crow. He was going to be made a half-exile for heresy, wasn't he?

Somehow, he was having trouble regretting it.

 

[Academia Nut]

The chief for Sacred Forest arrived at the council chambers to find only the king and the Spirit Chief sitting there, waiting for him. A large vase sat in front of and off to one side of the king, and both he and the Spirit Chief looked mildly perturbed. Now more confused than ever by the summons that had brought him here during his visit to Valleyhome, the chief asked, "My king, why have you called for me."

"We would like an explanation as to this product of your province," the king said somewhat scornfully, gesturing to the vase.

Looking at it, the chief beheld an image of a young woman dressed in long robes of dubious manufacture painted upon one side of the vase. Smirking, he said, "Ah, the White Maiden, a staple of stories within the Sacred Forest. She is a young shaman of exceptional spiritual power within the stories, which she uses to defeat demons and pacify angry spirits from within the darkest depths of the forest. Extremely popular, and I am unsurprised that some would start immortalizing her stories like this."

The king nodded at the Spirit Chief, who then turned the vase slightly to reveal a different scene, and asked, "And why pray tell is she topless and groping these other two young women here?"

Looking a little askance, the chief said, "Ah, well, you see part of her power is to absorb power from her companions, and while those details can be a bit lurid-"

The vase was turned again, and the chief blushed and said, "Ah, well, you see, when the children go to bed, the storytellers will sometimes take implication a bit further to excite the adults in the audience, but really-"

Turn.

The chief gawped for a moment as his mind put everything together before he proclaimed, "No! Her puri-" He then caught himself, snapping his jaw shut. Face both red with embarrassment and anger he said, "I will see to it that the villains behind this blasphemy and found and their products eliminated."

Many thousands of years later

"So we discovered a pit covered in a large stone scribed with the ancient symbols of warding, filled with thousands of pottery sherds. At first we thought we might have discovered an burial site for the urns of cremated plague victims, but residue analysis suggested no such thing. As it is, we have assembled together most of the pots and used multi-spectra scanning to work out what they might have looked like when whole," the professor explained to the new grad student as the computer ground away at the compilation.

With a beep the first run finished and output the results on the screen. Those assembled all tilted their heads to the side for a moment, before the professor just sighed.

"Right then, we tell the press that 'the purpose remains unknown, but it was probably something of deep ritual significance, possibly relating to fertility'," the professor said in disgusted exasperation.

A cheeky senior grad student asked sarcastically, "You mean like that cache of dil-"

"Deep. Ritual. Significance," the professor ground out.

 

[Lone Wolf 666]

Spoiler: Tune of this short song

Ymaryn Lullaby
The crops are tended, the salt are collected, and trees are planted
Drink, eat, work,
And dreaming of crow's in thy sleep!
And dreaming of crow's in thy sleep!
And dreaming of crow's in thy sleep!

Riding through the winds, stalking your prey, and saving a life by spells
Ride, stalk, heal
And dreaming of crow's in thy sleep!
And dreaming of crow's in thy sleep!
And dreaming of crow's in thy sleep!

 

[McLuvin]

The Divine Union
A Short First ever Omake​

Not many years ago Fythhagyna, Goddess of Fertility, tilled the fields and tended to all of nature for the People, she ensured that our bellies were full with veal and bread and that no issues were found in the lives the People. The Kingdom was prosperous at her bosom.

Then came the Crow.

It started innocently enough at first. The Crow would come and peck at the seeds in the fields and berries on the trees, Fythhagyna ignored it, for it was but one Crow, large though it was. Yet as time went on, the Crow ate more and more each year, less food was harvested and grown and the other Gods looked to Fythhagyna for answers. But she had none. She had tried to shoot the Crow with an arrow, it had laughed at her, she had tried to hit it with her sickle, again it laughed, finally she had dipped some of her seeds in poison, yet somehow the Crow avoided those ones most of all, laughing a third time at her, even as it glutted itself on the food meant to feed the People.

Finally, enraged, she gathered her bow and quiver, she gripped tightly her sickle and was directed to the Crows forest by the hunting goddess Ayrixyia. She set out to find the Crows nest and slay it whilst it slept.

During her travels she found herself again and again drawn off the road into the deep forests by the laughter of the Crow, meeting great beasts and demons which beset her, aiding many a woman and domestic animal with the birth of their young, many are the tales of her March, many are the tales of her actions. Yet still she could not find the Crows nest.

Worried about returning for the first harvest and the start of the collection of food by the People she decided to finally rest inside the canopy of a tree. Her beautiful form stretched out as she rested amongst the blades of grass.

This was her mistake.

When she awoke she had been pinned under a tree, it had been cut down, she realised, so that it would fall and trap her for a good amount of time. She heard the laughing and saw the Crow, plump and full to bursting, for whilst she had been hunting, he had swallowed up much of the seeds and with his wing beats had blown away the clouds that were full of water, creating a food shortage and drought for The People, reducing the fertility of the soil for his own ends, this is the same shortage and drought that affects us now.

It was then she realised the truth, this was no Crow other than The Crow! The Trickster had tricked her! Having never met the Crow Fythhagyna had never seen his tricks in action, but she had been impressed, if enraged, by his deception.

She lay under the tree for many a day, until she saw a traveling man along the road, she called out to him for aid and so he approached her, a kind and strange smile upon his face. Fythhagyna was beautiful and kinder than most and thus she asked him politely for his aid trying to lift the tree. This he refused, but he offered something else instead.

He offered to teach her how to release herself.

Fythhagyna accepted eagerly, and so she was taught. She was taught how to use things such as 'leverage' to pull at the tree, she was taught to reach inside the earth and pull at the Metal there to mould it and use it to cut away at the tree. She was also taught many other things, for the man sat by her and schooled her on the secrets of the world and soil, hinted at new techniques for her to use for her farms and new ways to breed her cattle and sheep.

When Fythhagyna finally released herself from under the tree she offered to take the man back to her abode and to feed him and clothe him should he teach her all he knew.

At that the man shook his head. He smirked at her and proclaimed that some lessons could not just be taught, but must also be learned, and in flurry of Crows wingbeats he was gone. Only then did Fythhagyna realise she had met Crow, The Teacher. And she felt herself feel all the happier for meeting him, and found herself missing his great wisdom, just as she found herself missing the challenge the Trickster presented her with.

When she returned home she prepared to fight the drought and protect the people, she took up her sickle and went forward to reap what harvest she could with all enthusiasm and to ensure that life returned to the plants and beasts of the land.

That was when it happened.

All across the land, discontent spread, fear bubbled up alongside plain nervousness, mortals looked towards tomorrow and shuddered. They knew something had changed, they knew something was wrong.

Fythhagyna discovered what it was when it appeared outside her door.

Crow, The Devourer.

She realised that he had come to sow misery amongst her farmers and her herders, come to sow the thoughts of an everlasting drought. Seeking to protect them and all beasts, plants and farms she leapt forward sickle at the ready.

She should have been smote by such a being as Crow The Devourer, but she was not, perhaps he had decided to be merciful, perhaps what happened next was all a part of his great trick or one of his schemes, this we do not yet know. They tussled and fought, Crow laughing constantly for hours, before being silent for days, only to start cackling once more. Then on the third week it ended.

Crow laughed, Fythhagyna smiled and laughed back.

Crow whispered in her ear that she was such fun, she whispered back that she wanted a boon for all the trouble he had caused. This shocked Crow, no one had ever been so bold as to ask him for something! Always had men and Gods and all things been his puppets, never being able to ask what fate they had in his grand scheme. So shocked and impressed by the simple but truly beautiful Fertility Goddess was he, that he allowed her this boon.

So she asked him to show her his true face.

Once again the Crow was shocked, even before the Garden had been made he had been split in three, all beings before had feared to look upon the Spider Eyed Crow. He asked her then if that was what she truly wanted. She replied that it was.

And so he showed her, he showed her the face that made Gwy and Goya scream, made Arxyn near flee and had been too hideous for his own world and creations to bear.

She simply smiled back.

You wonder why we still suffer the drought? You wonder why that feeling of doom has increased? Why there is more discontent?

It's because Fythhagyna is too busy with her new husband to care for mortal lives at the moment. Yes she will return, yes she will once again make sure our bellies are full and that life fully returns to the land, but that will be then, for now, she loves the unlovable, she is the only woman to catch the eye of The Crow, and though they may be happier for it, we have yet to see what it means for the world.


------So yeah, my first ever Omake, I did a thing, I couldn't resist it. I just needed to write something about the Divine Union that probably isn't gonna happen, hope this doesn't annoy you too much @Academia Nut

 

[pbluekan]

Alright, boys and girls, have a totally not canon omake. I wrote this a couple weeks back during the temple updates, and I got pretty into the temple description and didn't want to change it. So, enjoy.

@Academia Nut here's an omake for ya.

Spoiler: References/Translations/Reasoning

So a few translations and references for you guys so you don't have to go look them up:

1. Chital - Wikipedia It's a deer from the Indian sub-continent. Why? It's a beautiful animal, the climate it lives in is similar to ours, I used it in my last omake, and it has a really cool name.
2. Gwylwyr - This is welsh for "Sentinels" It doesn't translate exactly but whatever.
   
3. Cedar Trees - Historically they lived in this exact climate. See the Lebanese Cedar They were prized in the ancient world, to the point of being holy objects and feature in the Epic of Gilgamesh. They can also grow to ~120 feet. Also, AN confirmed their presence in this post:
   

   There are definitely cedars, and they have definitely been planting long lived and tall growing varieties next to the holy site they are building at for a while for religious reasons.

   Click to shrink...

4. The Ritual - I know it smacks a bit of sacrifice, but the way I saw it was thus: The supplicant gives a bit of themselves to the soil that the sapling is growing in, symbolizing Ymaryn work ethic and attachment to the land. The sapling growing in the soil is eventually transplanted away and a new one is planted. The sapling taken away "contains the essence" of all the Ymaryn that gave their blood there, and will carry it forevermore wherever the sapling is planted.
5. The Statues - I actually went though a lot of variations on these, thanks to @BungieONI for his help. The other variation is posted at the end. I was pretty set on Fythhagyna, however. I chose to use more Grecco-Roman inspiration there to try and emphasize the comparative gentleness of Ymaryn culture compared to their neighbors, while the contrast of Crow showed the terrible fury of the angered Ymaryn. I assumed our statues would be carved of alabaster, which is extremely easy to carve with our toolset.

__________________________________________________________

The Elder Steward
__________________________________________________________​

Brynwynnen, elder shaman, walked the Shaded Path one last time. His steps were heavy with age and all its regrets; his face and hands wrinkled and spotted by the slow rumble of time.

"Why do you come so far, elder?" asked his escort, a Blackbird fresh to her cloak and mask. She is a small thing, lithe and nimble. Her steps are light, neigh a stone turned by her passing.

"Why should I not?" It is a familiar game in his long years, the leading of the young to knowledge.

The black mask twitched. The young lady had yet to learn the serenity of the morning glade. "Redshore is no small distance from the temple glades." Her voice is layered with gentle chastisement; that tone the young will use evermore and the old will ignore.

"And I have legs."

"Legs that creak."

"So they do," Brynwynnen said with a laugh, "and so I fear that the chital will remain out of our sight this fine day, my dear. I am here all the same, however."

"Have you been here before, Elder?" The young blackbird asks some few minutes later, her lilting voice a strange counterpoint to the birdcalls.

"The Sacred Forest, or the temple, my dear?"

"The temple."

Brynwynnen considered the question for a moment before answering, "I have, and I have not." He waited for a moment, enjoying the silent confusion exuding from the young woman beside him. "It was completed naught but eight summers ago, yes?" At her nod, he continued, "I have not been here to see the temple completed. I was here when it was begun, and lived here 'till I was a young man, but I have not been back in many a year."

"Th-That would- you are-" the young woman stuttered in shock.

"Yes," he said with a smile, "I've seen some hundred summers pass me by. I am a very old man, my dear, though I dare say that's why my knees creak!" Brynwynnen was sure he could feel the heat of her embarrassment from where he walked at the blackbird's side.

The two continued in silence for a time, enjoying the peace of the still wood. The foliage was thick and lush, though orderly in the way of natural things. A cut could be seen here or there to the experienced eye; light touches by human hands to cleanse, invigorate, and guide. Trees, old and ponderous, arched over the path as if to wrap Brynwynnen and his escort in Fythhagyna's embrace. Ahead, rising over the rest of the forest stood the Gwylwyr, the two Guardians of the Gate, and behind them, concealed by a cunningly woven wall of living wood lay the Temple Glade and the Eglwys y Coed Byw; the Temple of the Living Wood.

"What was it like?" She asked, having plucked her courage back up. "The construction, I mean. Could you feel Crow's guiding hand? Fythhagyna's touch in the trees? What was the Temple Glade like before? Have the Gwylwyr always stood? Did King Gonwyllmyn really-"

With a light rap to the shins from his staff, Brynwynnen cut her off. "Peace!" he snapped, though he was hard pressed to keep his lips from twitching in amusement, "Crow save me, woman, I'm old! One at a time!" He paused for a moment, "And remember your lessons. Crow does not act so overtly or in such simplicity. Where on Earth did you learn such a thing?"

"Elder Cynwyn-"

"Elder Cynwyn?" Brynwynnen asked, his white brows drawn together. "Elder Cynwyn is an Arxyn blinded fool of the highest order." He chanced a glance at the blackbird to see her hanging onto his every word. The disagreements between shamans were legendary in their pettiness, after all, and a tidbit of elder gossip would feed the hounds for months. However long ago it had been, Brynwynnen had once been a trainee. He remembered how the grapevine grew. "I once caught trainee Cynwyn 'practicing his technique' with a goat! And you say he educates blackbirds? Phaw!" he harrumphed before turning away to hide his smirk that threatened to split his wrinkles.

"The Glade," the blackbird asked after another few minutes in silence, "what was it like, before the Temple was laid down? I've heard stories of it, that it was Fythhagyna's glade, made beautiful by her coupling with Crow. There is a mural in the temple…"

Brynwynnen smiled, "I was a just a boy then, a little one, but I remember." He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. "The Glade was a quiet place in those days. So far out from the village you could stay there for a cycle and not see a soul. Even during the planning when the wall was seeded and the Gwylwyr planted, it was quiet. But it was a glade like any other, I suppose.

"And why should it have been any different?" he asked, to her unvoiced disbelief. "Are not all things that grow under the eye of Fythhagyna? Would she so favor this over another, even in her own forest? That mural … My clan, we are the Stewards, the forests are our duty, and none more so than Fythhagyna's own. The Gwylwyr were our contribution to the temple grounds, my grandfather and grandmother planted them. The mural was another. A Steward who wished to remember the glade as it had been; to preserve it as they had seen it so others might see the same. Beauty rests in the viewer's eye, after all."

"I-, but why?" the young woman seemed to be lost for words.

"Why?" Brynwynnen pushed her for an answer with a nod.

"Why is the mural not true to form?" she asked after a long moment. "Would that not have been the most untainted, the most beautiful for all?"

He hemmed and hawed for a bit, thinking over the best way to lead her to the destination he had mapped out. Their slow pace had drawn near the Gwylwyr and the living wall. The two great cedars towered high, guided straight and true by human hands. At head height, a visage of Crow screamed out from the wood. On either side of the two pillars, a living wall of wood and green foliage stretched out in a gentle curve. At the far extent of the wall, Brynwynnen knew there to be a third great cedar marking a line that split the temple in two.

"Do you and I not see things differently?" Brynwynnen eventually asked as they stepped past the Gwylwyr to where the narrow passage opened up into a sunlit meadow. Some distance on, a great temple stood at the center of the glade. It was faced in white alabaster, and even at distance, vine like carvings snaked up and over the walls. "Should the color of living grass, or the shine of the temple look the same?" he gestured to their surroundings. "Should these things look the same to you and I? We who are so very different from one another? The true elegance of this world, my dear girl, is in the individual exclusivity granted to each of us."

With a clack of his wooden staff on stone Brynwynnen stepped from the gravel paved path to stone promenade, and there he stopped and turned to his escort-turned-pupil. "Now," he began with a stern scowl, "before we enter the temple's peace, can you answer your first question?"

She blinked at the abrupt turn of conversation. "I- what?"

"Come now, you are young with a young memory. Your first question, answer it."

The young woman tilted her head this way and that as if looking for the question that must have been dogging her steps. "'Why do you come so far, elder?'" she finally asked.

"Indeed."

"You've been here before," she muttered to herself, "but not after the temple was complete. You are an elder, surely you've heard a description or been given a depiction, so …" She trailed off for a moment before apparently landing at her answer: "What you've been told of is not the temple as you might see it but as others might. You wished to see it yourself." She glanced up to see the pleased glint in the shaman's eyes. "But, elder, that is such a distance for a man of your age…"

"I have eyes that work, legs that creak," Brynwynnen said as he doffed his slippers and began to walk to the wide archway that lead to the inner sanctum.

The blackbird could do little but follow in his wake.

The temple was grand, with the understated beauty so prized by The People. A series of arches carved into the likeness of the gnarled trunks of trees supported a vast domed hall. Little idols, murals, and shrines to sundry gods glittered along the walls in little alcoves lit by sunbeams from slanted windows set high above. At the center of the hall, in a spot bathed in sunlight, sat the statue of a nude and nubile young woman before a basin of tilled soil and a living cedar sapling.

Fythhagyna.

She was young, a few years into womanhood and at the prime of her beauty. Her legs, long and lissome, were curled to one side, and one slim arm reached out to the young tree while the other supported her still form, tracing a line from the floor to shoulder. Hair, full and lush for all its timeless rigidity was pulled over one shoulder and reached down to cover one full breast and up to frame the statue's serene smile.

Just behind the statue of Fythhagyna stood another; a vigilant guard over the scene. The shape could just be seen beyond the glare of the sunbeams, its image dimmed and blurred to the eye by the contrast of sun and shade.

Crow.

The statue seemed to flow up from the floor of the temple. Lines twisted and writhing drew the eye away from the figure, even as rough black granite took the form of a crow: spider-eyed and massive in proportion with wings spread wide and maw open in a silent scream. Terrible to behold, the eye flinched from the statue of the eldritch creator; yet, it was placed such that all supplicants to Fythhagyna's fair form were forced to look upon it.

Above it all stretched a great mural of the eldritch carving, writ large.

Delicately etched and painted onto the alabaster ceiling, the encompassing presence of the spider-eyed god was truly awesome to behold. Wings, open with billowing feathers, encompassed all below within his shadow and under the light of his eyes. The floor, set with ceramic tiles glazed and polished to a mirror shine, reflected the terrible mural, keeping even those who bowed their heads in shame or deceit within Crow's vision.

Brynwynnen shuffled his way to the central altar, each step punctuated with the rasp of dry skin on tile. A reed mat and a basket, set across from the statues, awaited him, and there he knelt, his escort waiting at the edge of the ring of arches. Slowly, he pulled the items from the basket before setting each in its place: a trowel and a fork to the left; a fine copper knife and a bowl of boiled brine to his right; a linen bandage and a thimble of honey at his knee.

All so arranged, Brynwynnen, elder shaman, bent and pressed his head to fresh earth.

He remained there, silently praying, and paying his respects in meditative stillness. Some long moments later he unbent his neck and began his ritual. With perfunctory indifference and a sure hand on the knife, Brynwynnen tapped a vein and held his left hand out to water the soil. A long moment passed as the old man squeezed crimson blood into the soil, and then he was done. With a dab of honey and a rustle of cloth, the wound was cleansed and wrapped.

With quick, practiced movements the soil was tilled and overturned, the bloody offering folded into the earth for the cedar to bring into itself. A moment, a rustle of cloth, and a weary sigh later, old Brynwynnen was on his way out of the temple he had journeyed so far to see.

Many summers later, when old Brynwynnen was naught but bones in the earth, an old woman, wrinkled and worn, knelt before Fythhagyna, as a mentor long dead had done, and left a bit of herself to be brought into the trees.

________________________________________________________​

Spoiler: Alternate Temple

The temple was grand, with the understated beauty so prized by The People. A series of arches carved into the likeness of the gnarled trunks of trees supported a vast domed hall. Little idols, murals, and shrines to sundry gods glittered in little alcoves lit by sunbeams from slanted windows set high above. At the center of the hall, in a spot bathed in sunlight, sat the statue of a nude and nubile young woman before a basin of tilled soil and a living cedar sapling.

Fythhagyna.

She was young, a few years into womanhood and at the prime of her beauty. Hair, full and lush for all its timeless rigidity cascaded past a serene smile and over one shoulder. Her legs, long and lissome, were curled to one side, and one slim arm reached out to the young tree while the other crossed her body, demurely concealing full breasts. Upon that modest arm, the three aspects perched.

Crow.

Each was delicately carved of the blackest obsidian and set with six eyes of colored amethyst: Crow in his many forms. The Teacher, with blue eyes filled with wisdom, had its head turned up to whisper the secrets of the world to Fythhagyna's ear. The Trickster, with black eyes glinting in restrained amusement, had its head tucked beneath a wing with only one glittering eye visible. The Devourer, with eyes red and hungry, had its head trained upon the supplicant; jagged beak drawn wide in a scream.

Above it all stretched the spider-eyed face of Crow.

Delicately painted onto the alabaster ceiling, the six eyes of the spider-eyed god allowed him sight of all dealings and prayers. The floor, set with ceramic tiles glazed and polished to a mirror shine, reflected the terrible mural, keeping even those who bow their heads within Crow's eye.