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Sworn to the Scythe: A Peasant Quest

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Honestly, at this point, is anyone unaware that most animals are weird fantasy analogues, and we're just calling smeerps rabbits because it's convenient to use a familiar name?
 
Man, I don't even know that the grass is the same grass that we have. It could be small red twigs with tentacles instead of green leaf things
 
[X] Attempt to lie. [Roll 1d20, success if 12 or above].

NO GOOD CHOICES IN DIE YOUNG QUEST
 
Why would scorpion fin soup be popular in Hamayan? They are native to the Hadit river. :< (TRADITIONAL VASPUKARANI SMILEY WITH HAT)

AKuz said:
Man, I don't even know that the grass is the same grass that we have. It could be small red twigs with tentacles instead of green leaf things
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The grass is...well, it's grass. Of a kind.
 
Alright, no more playing around; Refuse won, let's meet our wise deacon.
 
I do think that, if you want people to notice that the world you've put us in is weird, offhand hints like this:
Cetashwayo said:
"Scorpion's fin" is not a typo.
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Don't seem as effective as more in detail sections, such as our earlier adventure hunting Razorworms:
The ground starts to bubble. "Stand back!" She advises you as she holds an iron rod at the place where she poured the urine. Suddenly, something big and white shoots out, maybe a foot long, grasping onto the iron rod. It's a fat worm ending in a thick off-white shell, that grasps hard onto the iron rod and doesn't let go. It squirms in every direction to get away from the acrid stench.

"Haha, I got it this time!" The worm shakes in every direction and Aisha lifts it up into the air away from the ground. After a few seconds, she kneels and dashes the shell against a sharp rock protruding out of the ground. The worm goes limp, loosening its grip on the iron rod. Yellow liquid seeps out of the shell. "You see how that goes?"
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On that note, I'd like to say I think you've done a pretty good job with the worldbuilding so far; It's not quite as up-front about the somewhat alien nature of the setting as Morrowind or Nausicaa, but that's just a downside of using a written medium rather than a visual one.
 
Vindictus said:
Don't seem as effective as more in detail sections, such as our earlier adventure hunting Razorworms:
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Well it's meant to be off-hand in this case; I don't mean for it to be some kind of big shift in storytelling that I'm doing.

That was just one line I wanted to highlight :V

Vindictus said:
On that note, I'd like to say I think you've done a pretty good job with the worldbuilding so far; It's not quite as up-front about the somewhat alien nature of the setting as Morrowind or Nausicaa, but that's just a downside of using a written medium rather than a visual one.
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What are ya gonna do, it's a story rather than a cartoon. It's actually more fun this way since you bring people in with the familiar and then contrast the unfamiliar more subtly than in a visual medium where freakiness can be quite easily discerned.
 
Vindictus said:
I do think that, if you want people to notice that the world you've put us in is weird, offhand hints like this:

Don't seem as effective as more in detail sections, such as our earlier adventure hunting Razorworms:


On that note, I'd like to say I think you've done a pretty good job with the worldbuilding so far; It's not quite as up-front about the somewhat alien nature of the setting as Morrowind or Nausicaa, but that's just a downside of using a written medium rather than a visual one.
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By default I assume all weird-sounding animals that aren't specifically described are some kind of extinct fauna. I imagine the river scorpions as Euryptidae until told otherwise.
 
They're almost definitely aquatic at least, given that's one of the few areas where fins are useful; The alternative, of course, is that they're flying scorpions, which would be pretty cool actually, if not exactly biologically plausible IMO.
 
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Year Eight: Deacon
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    • YEAR EIGHT: DEACON​

    "I…" You hesitate before bunching up your lips and striking a battle pose and declare "I won't tell you! You can't make me, Tatala!"

    Tatala steps back a few feet before pursing her lips and crossing her arms, tracing a finger across the door of the barn a few feet away from your head. "Right. I can't make you." She says slowly before tilting her head. "But you know, it wouldn't take much to talk to your sister and make sure your little spat stays…permanent." She says as she edges up closer to you.

    You back up against the outer wall of the barn, eyes wide. "W-what would you do?"

    Tatala backs up a bit and paces back and forth, hands behind her back, before putting a finger up to her chin. "Hmm…" she murmurs, before lifting the finger up. "I know! I could always tell her about your plans to leave the village right after the deacon leaves, with that Dyada of yours."

    You scratch your head and say "I don't have a plan to do that?" I mean, maybe you do later but it would be mean to Aisha and…no, you can't just leave now. You have to leave a bit later. When you know how things work…out there. Maybe you can talk to Aisha about it?

    "Hey!" Tatala says as she snaps a finger in front of your face. "Off daydreaming? I just told you I'm going to go and tell Aisha if you don't tell me what you're hiding!"

    You throw your hands up and shrug, relaxing your brow and saying with a sigh, "Slave mentality, what you gonna do?"

    Tatala's lip trembles as she shoves a finger in your face. "I don't know what's going on with you, but unless you want me as an enemy you better say what's going on!"

    You straighten yourself out, shoulders up and hands by your sides, your chin slightly tilted upwards. "Sorry, but I'm not a slave...mentally...Slave mentality! I'm not a slave. Yeah." You declare with all the firmness of an eight year old with serious trouble grasping the correct usage of the word.

    At that Tatala emits a shout and pushes you back into the wall, causing you to trip and fall onto your face. Your lip quivers, but then you bite down hard and stand up straight. Your eyes are half-lidded as you say, "I'm not gonna bend. Or break. Cause that's what slaves do. Sorry."

    Tatala glares at you for a few moments before starting to run off, but she trips on a small hole in the ground and falls flat on her face, and as you realize what happened you drop your pose and rush down to help her, kneeling by her side and lending her a hand.

    "Tatala, are you okay-" Your question is cut off by a hand punching you in the face. It's sloppy, but you fall back on the ground. When you push yourself up, Tatala is there, weeping.

    "Look at -look at what you did." She whimpers as she stares down at her dress, covered in dirt and dust. "I need to go clean this up. I need to go clean this up." She repeats to herself before starting to run off again, but you grab her by the arm and pull her into a hug.

    "It's okay. Slave mentality is hard on everyone." You console her as she sobs into your shoulder.

    "Why couldn't you tell me? No one ever tells me anything? I thought…" She says as you rub her back.

    "I can't tell you, Tatala." You say as you pull out of the hug and stare at each other. Her face is red from the tears.

    "I thought we were friends…" She mumbles and you shake your head.

    "What?!" You blurt out. "We are friends! I just don't wanna tell you!"

    Tatala starts to wipe her tears and pushes herself up. "No, I understand. You don't want to be friends with someone like me. You can't trust me."

    Still sitting, you kneel in front of her and grab her by the sleeves. "Wait, Tatala, don't say that! We're friends, please, I just can't-"

    She turns her face away from you and starts to cry again. Maybe you could just tell her one small bi-

    Click click click CLACKITY CLACK CLACK CLACK CLACK

    "Oh no." Tatala's voice is suddenly completely different and she's stopped crying. Without a word, she rushes off. Something falls out of her sleeve.

    The clacking of the gragger takes your mind away from everything else. Dusting yourself off, you sprint towards the center of the village. In your haste, you don't have time to register the object that Tatala left behind.

    It's a water skin.

    ​

    Everyone else is already gathered. It takes a few moments but you find your family. The whole village has been gathered in a semi-circle around the gragger, the circle of mud-brick hovels around them. In the center, Tatala, her mother, and the Proctor stand, each sitting on a single wooden bench. Baba Nasa sits behind the Proctor on a separate stool. Although Tartessa and Tatala have nice, but simple dresses, the proctor has a square breastplate you've never seen before, adorned with what you assume is writing of some kind, or some other symbol. His round-hat has been replaced with a tall cone.

    Your mother and father are to their left, standing, along with Aisha and Yokan. You squeeze in, though not before a quick whap from your mother for being late. To the right of the proctor is Mani, and then Kenno and his family. You wave to Boros but he's not paying attention, and you notice his father has buried his fingers into Boros' shoulder. His mother hunches behind Boros, avoiding eye contact.

    Then there are the Rotors, standing proud in colorful dresses and robes. The Lankus are last, covered in mud from well duty, and of course missing are the Kirgisus. The taxes from the moa were just too much for them and…it's just easier not to think about it. You did the right thing. Yokan's ear is fine. It wouldn't have been if you saved the moa.

    Everyone is waiting, watching the road, while your uncle Mogo cranks the gragger. Finally, there is a distant trill like a summer insect, followed by a series of bugle calls, and then a louder trill. The trill seems to dig under your skin and you start to develop goosebumps. You glance about, but no one else has the same reaction.

    The trill comes closer and closer, and then suddenly stops. Then, the sound of a moa's rapid clawbeats becomes louder and louder, along with a dust cloud, until the cloud arrives at the entrance to the palisade.

    There stands a man riding a black moa; he is clothed in purple and blue, with pointed shoes, long riding robe, and conical hat. His hat has a central crest bisecting it, with red grass and grey fur on either side. He has a long face, a closely shaven beard, and little painted dots covering the left side of his face. After looking more closely, you see they're actually pox scars painted over.

    Holding his reins in his left hand, he lifts his right hand up and hoists into the air what looks to you to be some kind of strange, mini-rifle. It's much smaller, and has some kind of drum. He makes a cocking sound and-

    BANG.

    You had no idea just how loud guns were. I mean, you knew, because Nakar has shot the village's rifle, a few times, but that was…awful. You sink to the ground massaging the ringing pulsating through your ears before your mother forcibly drags you up. You have to scrunch your eyes from the pain of the shot, although no one else seems fazed.

    "Listen," he shouts in a gravelly voice, "here arrives your deacon, his holiness, the most reverent one, the reverent one of Amalgast, the shepherd, the shepherd of Pugranasi, the wondrous, the wise, the good, the blessed, the excellent, the brilliant, the holder of this minyar, the one Barmanu! You will be good to him, you will be kind to him, you will supplicate before him and you will behold his company, and all his requests will be answered! Proctor, approach!"

    Harman rushes over to the rider, who pulls off his glove, offering it to Harman. Harman takes it and holds it up to his face before returning it. The rider lingers for a few seconds, the moa shifting back and forth, before he puts his glove back on and nods, riding back out of the village.

    He returns with three identically dressed riders, each with a moa. There's the fat one, the short one, the tall one, and the…original one. Scarred one. Yeah. They take up positions in a square around the gate of the village.

    Then in rides a man on a moa that looks like no one you've ever seen. His skin is darker than yours, but not as much as Halacha's…kind of, muddy, you would say. He looks kind of soft, with smooth skin on his face and no beard, just a small moustache. Two pieces of glass sit on his nose, although you have no idea what they're for. Are those…speptacles? Spoctles? You remember learning this from Harman but you were too hungry at the time to remember.

    He's wearing what looks like a towel around his head, and instead of the riding robes, he has a strange tight shirt with a scarf tucked into it and baggy pants. He doesn't seem to look at anyone in particular, instead holding the moa's reins with one hand and writing in a journal tucked up against its neck with another. Weird.

    The next sight through the gates has you hold your breath. A clunking wagon pushed by two young, shirtless men with towels on their heads rides in; one of the shirtless men has a mask fully covering his head and fresh whip scars across his chest. The wagon's roof is richly embroidered with some blue fabric. There are no windows; instead the entire wagon's side is lined with a diamond-pattern wicker screen. You can't see from here, but you figure someone must be inside. The Deacon?

    You notice that although there looks like there's a little window on the side, there are no doors for this wagon. Is the Deacon inside all the time? Why?

    The wagon moves forward with the square of riders, stopping right before the gragger, which is moved aside to make room for them. The strange man with the journal gets off his moa and starts walking off before a rider grabs him by the neck and shouts at him in a language he doesn't understand. The journal man gets back on his moa, although he has a frown now.

    The proctor kisses the ground in front of him, and then everyone does the same, including you, though you take the opportunity to taste the ground a little bit. It's kind of salty. Your mother pulls you up because you're kissing too long, though.

    A soft, man's voice comes from the wagon. It is slow, wispy, and faint, with wheezing at every sentence. "There are a number of authorities on the passage regarding when Amalgast approaches the villagers....outside Arhan...and told them that he was ready to bring them unto the fold, but-....the villagers...responded that they did not know his fold, despite the fact that they had seen his army many times. My favored interpretation...Ulkan, says that it was a test sent by God. And so God tests me by having such a motley assortment arrayed...before me."

    That sends a shiver down your spine. You hear Harman swallow and your mother breath in. Baba Nasa steps forward and clears her throat before speaking, "Your holiness, most reverent one, I am glad that you are here to grace our communion. We offer you hospitality as is your station over us and plea that you treat us with all the mercy and grace that is known to you. If there is anything that I may personally do, please inform me."

    There's a moment's silence from the wagon before the deacon speaks. "There was a famous interpretation...that I totally despise on the matter of beauty in the book of creation. Consider that the statement given by Rodinkey does not...in fact say "To hold the flower is to see beauty", but in fact, "To have the...flower is to see beauty". The mere appreciation is not enough, you must possess beauty….to fully appreciate it...because beauty, as my counter-point to the orthodox interpretation argues... is control. That which is beautiful...is that which can be controlled...and I am not one to spend time on...frivolities suggesting that beauty?...is intrinsic to the flower itself."

    Baba Nasa nods to that. "Would you like me to fetch you flowers, then, most reverent one?"

    There is some kind of…breathing from inside the wagon, and you try not to think about it. The voice says "That would be...best, as it most serves your...unique role as an anachronism in an ana....chronistic mass. Please find me a jade lily for my own collection, and...saffron tongue for my wife. She is a an absolute bore in...that respect, preferring not variety but...familiarity. It is toxic, wouldn't you...agree?"

    "I-" Your baba pauses for a few seconds, licking her lips, before continuing, "I believe so, my deacon." She nods again a few times and then, watched by a rider, fetches a basket before walking out of the palisade alone, hunched over, head down, to look for flowers.

    You don't know what to say. Your Baba reduced to hunting for flowers…

    You hear a series of raking coughs; all eyes turn to Nakar, who has a hand over his mouth. You've never seen him this afraid before.

    The voice from the wagon speaks, "It is unfortunate...I would say, that a number of competing interpretations exist on the matter of health, and its manifold passages...within the holy books. I would say that the Honguls are wrong, but...they are always wrong, so that is no great...revelation. I suppose what I can add to this, is that Nakar, if you are to cough....again in my presence, I would prefer you do it...hanging upside down from a pole."

    Nakar just nods a few times, saying "I would agree, most reverent one, you are most wise." He swallows again and then shuts his mouth closed against another bout of coughing.

    There is silence for a time before Harman clears his throat and asks, "Most reverent one, if I may-"

    "You may...not." Says the voice, unchanging in its softness. "I would imagine that if I had asked you to speak...I would have, but the passages on this matter are...most confused. Consider that madman Mukhan, who was most....obsessed with treife interpretations and heresies...of all sorts from the Amalists to the Idol worshippers...to the howlers who believe that the conqueror...from the Heigelrich constitutes an aspect of...God. Even he knew the boundaries, and yet you...Harman, who is most...faithful to me, I would hope, struggle with such simple theological ...qualities as shutting your mouth."

    Mogo speaks up, "Most reverent one, I think he means to say-"

    There's a rattle from inside the wagon that turns to wheezing. "I...contort at the vagaries of peasant life in this...plateau. Imagine if Rodinkey had...never been capable of protecting his wife from Babarak and had gone down in history as a....cuckold; certainly then those immense asses who...proclaim themselves to be the pinnacle of theological...interpretation in Warabad would have had to figure out a new way to...ravage our holy books in the same way that they do...little boys. And yet...you...who could not even protect your...wife from some Cheshvan...revelers...seeks to..interpret...my Proctor's...words."

    Mogo kisses the ground and walks back a few feet. You start holding onto your mother's hand, but you realize as you try to tighten your grip that she grips back twice as tightly. Your father's moustache twitches slightly while Yokan and Aisha stand lightly shaking. Only Boros has some measure of relaxation, his eyes half-lidded and his face motionless. When you look closer though, his chin is trembling.

    You turn back and face forward, breathing in and out slowly. You are not a slave. No slave mentality. No slave mentality, no slave ment-

    "Vashti..." The deacon's voice gasps. You slowly but surely strain your neck to face the wagon. "The newest...addition to the communion. I must...congratulate your mother?...on seeing you through this far. I suppose she's already...killed one so God has granted her reprieve on this...try. Even the stupidest women are...protected by his grace."

    You don't say anything to that. You…can't say anything to that. You just sort of stretch your lips out and nod your head up and down.

    "You've inherited the family's...ability for conversation, I see." The deacon murmurs. "I must say that the Pulagus...have fallen far. Once, in the far past, some...demented branch of your line was capable of amounting to a...failure? on a battlefield in a place that only the twisted...cousins of our fair Jurists remember. Now, it seems, you can't even...take care of my moas. It is what I have told Huthu here, the poor...Sipahi from the Mare buried in his journal. These communions are...dying because they are not...scientific."

    You start to shrink, shoulders lowering and head bowing down. You manage to say, "Yes…I agree, most…r-reverent one."

    "She agrees…?" The deacon rasps. "She agrees. I am glad to have...someone named the ...excellent on my side. The Vasht. Vashti herself was known to be...excellent. It's why she destroyed the entire...civilization of Babarak. Washed it away in her tears and...rage?... Quite a story, isn't it...? However, we have a....problem. You bear her...name, but as far as I can tell you can't even...manage to work up the will to speak...clearly. What have you done to earn the name...Vashti?"

    "I-"

    He interrupts you before you can say anything, "You see, I am curious, in fact...Huthu…?" He calls the Sipahi, who rides over with his moa. He says something in that language, Huthu mumbles something back, and then there's a rattle from inside the wagon.

    "Do you know....what Huthu just told me….?" The deacon says through wheezes, "he told me that...in the Mare, excellence is known as Gundurus...and it is based purely on ability to...navigate. They spend their whole lives in the sea...I am told, although those who tell me are...fools, because it is clearly...exaggeration?...But the point of this...interpretation of his people, and if we consider it as another...interpretation to add onto our three, is that he sees it as a matter of...native...ability. Now, let me teach you...without any...expectation of...return on this...investment?...the three...interpretations...commonly held."

    "Let us speak first of Mukhan...heretic of heretics. He too says that it is a matter of ability...but this ability is to be earned...not born with...but? But. Let us...consider that he says, that this earned ability, is based on piety. This is attained through hard work, and he says...grit. A...simple...understanding..." A pause as the deacon is seized by wheezing.

    Finally, it subsides. "So he is not so...radical after all. Iopar, now here is a...Hongul at his finest, he says excellence is based on tapping into the primal forces...the spiritual? the uplifting, the purpose of...mankind, of the...nation, to stir ourselves up and to...rise up. The emotions...of the soul...hungry for belief...wondering where...the world has gone...without their...will…" The Deacon breaks out into a fit of real laughter rather than the rattling wheezes of before.

    A soft cluck transforms into a rasping whistle that echoes throughout the palisade. Your mother's palm sweats. You keep your eyes on the wagon, but your ears behold a cacophony. Chattering teeth, feet shaking on top of pebbles, swallowing and beating hearts. The riders shift uncomfortably and the shirtless man with the mask over his head makes a whine of pain. There is no wind. The scratches of Huthu's pen against the paper of the journal is audible. Your mouth has gone dry, your lips are parched.

    A final rasping cluck ceases the deacon's laughter, as he speaks again. "And finally...we have Orjan...who as always, sticks to his...rationalism, he says it is simply a matter of...logic and reason, and that...we need to understand that in order to reach a...higher enlightenment…? we must first understand...ourselves. His introspective reasoning has stirred up the...hive, I am told, and the...Patriarch, sleeping peacefully as he is...so far away from the problems of...the mass, agrees. So...tell me...Vashti. What interpretation is...yours?"

    Yes, Vashti. Please give your best guess as an eight year old girl to a centuries old philosophical question.

    [] The Interpretation of the Grand Mare: Excellence is inborn ability developed to its fullest. Know your limits and push them as far as you can.
    [] The Interpretation of Mukhan: Excellence is earned ability, based on piety and effort, built on work and rigorous self-improvement.
    [] The Interpretation of Iopar: Excellence is spirituality, passion, and purpose, pushing yourself to changing the world around you.
    [] The interpretation of Orjan: Excellence is study and introspection, enlightenment and rationalism, understanding the world around us and ourselves.
     
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    • [X] The Interpretation of Mukhan: Excellence is earned ability, based on piety and effort, built on work and rigorous self-improvement.

    Proper peasant works as hard as they can.
     
    Well, that could've gone a little better. Anyway, for the bulk of people and endeavors I'm going to say that excellence comes from invested effort and experience.

    [X] The Interpretation of Mukhan: Excellence is earned ability, based on piety and effort, built on work and rigorous self-improvement.
     
    [X] The interpretation of Orjan: Excellence is study and introspection, enlightenment and rationalism, understanding the world around us and ourselves.
     
    WHY IS THE DEACON ASKING AN EIGHT YEAR OLD ABOUT THEIR PERSPECTIVE ON PHILOSOPHY LIKE HOLY SHIT THIS IS COULD YOU HAVE CREATED AN ANY MORE STRESSFUL FUDGING SITUATION
     
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