Smoke swirls around a fire with meat roasting above it. A young girl sitting upon the lap of a shaman wearing beaded leathers asks, “Where does your glowing light come from?” as she points at a small sphere of light circling around his head. With a smile, he replies to her.
“The Dwarves long ago taught us this secret of the star-stones. Perhaps they can tell you more of it.” He then half-turns towards a stout figure who has appeared at the edge of the camp. Only the glint of the firelight off the figure’s eyes is visible.
A deep voice issues from the figure, “Indeed… it be the dark sight, also known as the ‘Mikrik Sokis’ in the tongue o’ my people. I ken be tellin’ you tha lore o’ it right enough.” He then steps closer into the firelight, drawing his hood back to reveal his brown hair and long braided beard. Sitting before the fire, he tears free a piece of meat from the spit then reaches into his pack and tosses a peach to the young girl before gesturing her closer.
She walks over, unafraid, and settles down in his lap. With a chuckle he eats the piece of meat before gazing into the sky and pointing at blazing white star upon the northern horizon. “Long ago, Kertigen crafted a fantastic topaz, as clear as a diamond. It was so brilliant that the light of his forge was caught and purified from its ruddy glare to a bright yellow light. There it glowed for many a year, absorbing and casting out the light.”
“One day, he decided to see what else this gem could do. So he took it out into the skies, and let it absorb the sun’s light. He then returned to his forge and forgot about it. That eve, he heard a commotion and stepped outside to see what it could be. To his surprise, the gem was floating above the ground, and glowing as pure a white as Berengaria’s soul. However, its light soon faded.”
“Pondering this, Kertigen returned to his forge, where he crafted a marvelous silver chain and a peg of gold so pure it was white. He then returned to the gem, only to find that Katamaba’s shadow had caused them gem to go completely black. Muttering, he set aside the chain and peg and went to bed.”
“Well, he had hardly put his head down upon his pillow, before one of his ravens let out a mighty ruckus. Cursing, he stepped outside to see the topaz clutched in its beak, but the raven could not let go. With a swift movement, Kertigen’s hand flashed out and snatched the darkened stone from its beak. As he held it out to the side the light of Xibar and Yavash flowed into the gem, combining to produce a pure light white, similar to what happened when the sun’s rays struck it.”
The girl grins widely at this, her chin covered in juice from the peach.
“Not wanting to lose the light, he quickly took up the peg and chain, and flew into the heavens. There, along the northern horizon he attached the gem. However, he placed to so high in his joy at finding the light again, that it is only visible during the nights after the sun has been long and high in the sky.” The dwarf’s voice fades as he finishes the tale, winking at the shaman.
Frowning, the girl looks up at the dwarf, “But you didn’t say how the stone thing makes light!”
“Right you are lass.” He then chuckles heartily, “Jest makin’ sure you be payin’ attention.”
“Now, long ago in the ancient dwarven fortress of High Hold, dwarves mined the mountains for their wealth, using torches to light the way. In a peaceful time between conflicts, some degree of trade occurred between the Albarians in the distant south, and my peoples in the Hiimarhand Shel. Through this they came into contact with several astrologers who taught them new techniques for scribing astrological symbols onto items.”
“One day, a promising young dwarf, recalled the story of the topaz, and embarked upon the task of seeing if she could replicate to some extent what Kertigen had done. This was not in pride, but in honor to what he had done. The task took her the lifetimes of many humans to complete, some two hundred years.”
“However, it resulted in a topaz that could shed light in dark places, created almost entirely in the same manner as Kertigen’s accidental creation had done. First, a suitable topaz was selected and prepared. Then the symbol of the Shardstar was scribed upon it, allowing it to change light like Kertigen’s gem had. Then it had the sigil of the sun scribed upon it then empowered with magic so it could absorb and hold light. A mage then focuses light into the gem until it is so full of energy that not one more iota can be poured into it.”
“Finally, in order to seal the light in, the dark moon is scribed upon the gem and sealed into place. This then holds the light until it is ready to be used. When the user is ready, they merely have to raise the sokis into the air, and the bindings of Katamba fill fade, allowing the light to pour out. The gem will then follow whoever raised it until its energies are snuffed and the gem fails, the light spent.”
Looking down, the girl has fallen asleep. With a gentle smile, the dwarf picks her up and carries her to a tent where he settles her amongst the furs. Returning to the shaman, he nods before resting a hand upon his shoulder and walking back into the night.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
Tales from the Windswept Peaks: Bones
Sitting next to the dying embers of a fire, a young nomad carefully cleans the last gore from a set of boar tusks. He then sets them aside and grabs a burin, delicately carved from an oak limb and set with a small topaz.
Tilting his head back, his eyes stare into the sky for several minutes, observing the constellations. He then looks down, and picks up the bones, his eyes closed as the chants softly under this breath. Slowly red lines form over the tusks with the passage of the burin, forming lines of some significance across their length.
At last, the nomad is finished, and he sets down the burin in place of a slightly curved bladed knife. For hours his hands move over the tusks, whittling away the material as the chant continues under his breath. The magic guiding his hands has taken the place of the firelight, the embers now cooled to darkness. Grey shadows stretch as the false dawn starts.
Finishing his task, slender curls of white and brown showered across his leggings and boots, he reverently sets aside the blade. Rubbing his thumb over each of the four pieces, he gives a brief nod before filling a small clay plate with some white liquid, which he gently rolls the bones in, some of the last remaining red symbols flaring briefly before disappearing. Taking an identical plate, he pours black liquid into it, repeating the process, and causing the last of the symbols to flare before fading. Two bottles are filled with the leftover liquids, and then the nomad rises.
Turning to the west, the half-crescent of xibar is still faintly visible. Once again taking up his burin, he studies the moon intently before rapidly scribing each of the many sides of an almost spherical bone. Over an hour is taken, one sigil slowly flaring to life at a time, this process repeated sixty three times.
Xibar has set by now, and the warm reds of the summer morning start brining color to the surrounding steppe. The nomad unsheathes a slender knife crafted from bone from its strap on his thigh. Below it a bloodstained bandage is visible, the cloth as of yet unstained from daily wear. Holding the bones high, the knife flashes quickly, and a single line of blood forms from a shallow cut on his hand. Clenching his hand tightly for a moment, the bones held tight in his grip, the nomad mutters a quick prayer to his ancestors and spirits of the gods. The knife is returned to its binding, and he then opens his hand as he kneels down to the short grasses.
The cut upon his hand is gone and there is no evidence of blood as he reverently casts the bones along the ground. For a brief moment, the nearly spherical bone is highlighted as a blue flash in the symbol of a star is shown. His head bowed, the nomad offers thanks to the spirit of the fallen boar, before collecting the bones and placing them in a soft leather pouch at his hip.
Tilting his head back, his eyes stare into the sky for several minutes, observing the constellations. He then looks down, and picks up the bones, his eyes closed as the chants softly under this breath. Slowly red lines form over the tusks with the passage of the burin, forming lines of some significance across their length.
At last, the nomad is finished, and he sets down the burin in place of a slightly curved bladed knife. For hours his hands move over the tusks, whittling away the material as the chant continues under his breath. The magic guiding his hands has taken the place of the firelight, the embers now cooled to darkness. Grey shadows stretch as the false dawn starts.
Finishing his task, slender curls of white and brown showered across his leggings and boots, he reverently sets aside the blade. Rubbing his thumb over each of the four pieces, he gives a brief nod before filling a small clay plate with some white liquid, which he gently rolls the bones in, some of the last remaining red symbols flaring briefly before disappearing. Taking an identical plate, he pours black liquid into it, repeating the process, and causing the last of the symbols to flare before fading. Two bottles are filled with the leftover liquids, and then the nomad rises.
Turning to the west, the half-crescent of xibar is still faintly visible. Once again taking up his burin, he studies the moon intently before rapidly scribing each of the many sides of an almost spherical bone. Over an hour is taken, one sigil slowly flaring to life at a time, this process repeated sixty three times.
Xibar has set by now, and the warm reds of the summer morning start brining color to the surrounding steppe. The nomad unsheathes a slender knife crafted from bone from its strap on his thigh. Below it a bloodstained bandage is visible, the cloth as of yet unstained from daily wear. Holding the bones high, the knife flashes quickly, and a single line of blood forms from a shallow cut on his hand. Clenching his hand tightly for a moment, the bones held tight in his grip, the nomad mutters a quick prayer to his ancestors and spirits of the gods. The knife is returned to its binding, and he then opens his hand as he kneels down to the short grasses.
The cut upon his hand is gone and there is no evidence of blood as he reverently casts the bones along the ground. For a brief moment, the nearly spherical bone is highlighted as a blue flash in the symbol of a star is shown. His head bowed, the nomad offers thanks to the spirit of the fallen boar, before collecting the bones and placing them in a soft leather pouch at his hip.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Tales from the Windswept Peaks: Observations
To the readers of the Tales, I will now introduce myself, and tell you a bit more about the Tales. I am Kraggur Kveldcharn, a scholar of the Moon Mage guild. For several years now I have followed the Nomads of the Arid Steppe, living their ways, following both their seers and their normal people.
The Tales are glimpses into moments I have witnessed or been told about in the lives of Nomads. Unlike the other so called “sects”, the Nomads are not a body of magicians, but an entire nation of individuals. To call the Nomads Moon Mages makes as much sense as calling the inhabitants of Riverhaven or Shard Moon Mages. The difference is that many of the leaders, oracles, and soothsayers are able to seek the future through their various methods. Many fall into the category of Skindancers, who seek the probabilities through the cast of rune-inscribed bones, or through spirit journeys conducted in their yurts. Others practice darker arts more akin to necromantic practices and are considered insane – the Bonedancers.
As such, the seers of the Tribes are drawn in three distinct ways. The first is toward their individual tribe. These range from the Bensu to the Windwalkers, and for more information I will refer the reader to the Trabe Plateau, where Guildleader Cherulisa and the nomad in the yurt will be glad to answer questions about the tribes. Even though centuries have passed since the unification of the Tribes, these identities have not died. They are aspects which contribute to the whole that no longer endlessly war as they did before the coming of Kir Dor’na’torna.
The second is as the Nomads of the Arid Steppe. Within this are their roles as advisors and leaders to the nation that wanders the high plains and mountains west of Hibarnhvidar. This separates them from the other sects, which are groups of lunar magicians working towards their similar ends. It is this role, and their distance from Throne City and the usual machinations of the residents of the “civilized” lands which gives them pause in their allegiance to the guild.
Third are the bonds that tie them to the Moon Mage Guild. It is undeniable that Kir’s actions greatly benefited the Nomads. These ties are loose, for the Nomads defy single leadership as they are nomadic. Sect members wander Kermoria, and likely other places abroad, yet as a whole entity, they comprise a sizeable enough contingent of the Guild that they cannot be overly coerced.
Guildleader Cherulisa spans the gap between the second and third areas. She was a member of the Council before she resigned to take residence in the crystal spire atop the Plateau and breaking the second Kir’s influence over the Tribes. As such she is painfully aware of how many nomads feel about the role of the guild and its attempts to steer the Nomads.
Returning now to the Tales, I will leave it to the reader to discern which I have been told, and which I have witnessed myself. I hope that these writings may inspire others to look into the histories of their own guild and attempt to discern the lore and actions of their members.
Signed by my hand,
Kraggur Kveldchar,
187th day of the 394th Year AV
The Tales are glimpses into moments I have witnessed or been told about in the lives of Nomads. Unlike the other so called “sects”, the Nomads are not a body of magicians, but an entire nation of individuals. To call the Nomads Moon Mages makes as much sense as calling the inhabitants of Riverhaven or Shard Moon Mages. The difference is that many of the leaders, oracles, and soothsayers are able to seek the future through their various methods. Many fall into the category of Skindancers, who seek the probabilities through the cast of rune-inscribed bones, or through spirit journeys conducted in their yurts. Others practice darker arts more akin to necromantic practices and are considered insane – the Bonedancers.
As such, the seers of the Tribes are drawn in three distinct ways. The first is toward their individual tribe. These range from the Bensu to the Windwalkers, and for more information I will refer the reader to the Trabe Plateau, where Guildleader Cherulisa and the nomad in the yurt will be glad to answer questions about the tribes. Even though centuries have passed since the unification of the Tribes, these identities have not died. They are aspects which contribute to the whole that no longer endlessly war as they did before the coming of Kir Dor’na’torna.
The second is as the Nomads of the Arid Steppe. Within this are their roles as advisors and leaders to the nation that wanders the high plains and mountains west of Hibarnhvidar. This separates them from the other sects, which are groups of lunar magicians working towards their similar ends. It is this role, and their distance from Throne City and the usual machinations of the residents of the “civilized” lands which gives them pause in their allegiance to the guild.
Third are the bonds that tie them to the Moon Mage Guild. It is undeniable that Kir’s actions greatly benefited the Nomads. These ties are loose, for the Nomads defy single leadership as they are nomadic. Sect members wander Kermoria, and likely other places abroad, yet as a whole entity, they comprise a sizeable enough contingent of the Guild that they cannot be overly coerced.
Guildleader Cherulisa spans the gap between the second and third areas. She was a member of the Council before she resigned to take residence in the crystal spire atop the Plateau and breaking the second Kir’s influence over the Tribes. As such she is painfully aware of how many nomads feel about the role of the guild and its attempts to steer the Nomads.
Returning now to the Tales, I will leave it to the reader to discern which I have been told, and which I have witnessed myself. I hope that these writings may inspire others to look into the histories of their own guild and attempt to discern the lore and actions of their members.
Signed by my hand,
Kraggur Kveldchar,
187th day of the 394th Year AV
Monday, May 18, 2009
Spring in Forfedhdar
Spring, 394AV
I sit in an armed camp amongst the western end of the Journelai Shel, watching the road between Kwarlog and Hibarnhvidar. Trade between the cities has evolved into armed caravans bearing supplies from the north towards Hibarnhvidar. The best I can tell is that Kwarlog has avoided the worst of the attacks so far. Perhaps the indominable snow-clad might of Asketi's Mount and the Monastery near the road is enough to keep the undead generally driven back.
While the dwarves have many hidden routes to make sure material and men reach Raven's Point and Ain Ghazal, the major roads to the east lie clogged with hordes of undead. Repeated attempts to purge them from the shoulders of the Himineldar have been met with limited success, and even Hibarnhvidar's gates have been briefly overrun at times. They must have found some ancient unguarded seam of rock to traverse, or their arts let them establish gates and threaten the city itself.
Business with the western nomads and the Dabru on Ratha have kept me away from the city for a length of time now. I heard the foul Olvi Tachid led a recent assault that led to great casualties amongst the defenders before the undead were driven out from the halls. It is not certain yet if Inner Hibarnhvidar was breached yet or not, yet I have heard that Grutan donned his plate and entered the fray as well. If only I had the opportunity to see him fight in person!
However, it is good that I have heard that the defenders of Ilithi came to our aid as well. Our aid to their city nearly a year past now is being returned, and I hope closer affairs between the two lands will be possible. Even in peaceful times, both lands must guard against the Dragon Priest threat, as those dwelling within the walls of Raven's Point as well aware.
Another storm is brewing from the mountains, so I must draw this to a close, but I will also add that my meetings with the Nadamian family went well. Several shipments of arms and armor are on their way from the isles, as well as bundles of healing herbs. While it might not be a major help in the grand scheme of things, it will aid those who they can reach. A definitive date for their arrival has not yet been set, but I believe it should arrive by summer.
Signed by my hand,
Kraggur Kveldcharn
I sit in an armed camp amongst the western end of the Journelai Shel, watching the road between Kwarlog and Hibarnhvidar. Trade between the cities has evolved into armed caravans bearing supplies from the north towards Hibarnhvidar. The best I can tell is that Kwarlog has avoided the worst of the attacks so far. Perhaps the indominable snow-clad might of Asketi's Mount and the Monastery near the road is enough to keep the undead generally driven back.
While the dwarves have many hidden routes to make sure material and men reach Raven's Point and Ain Ghazal, the major roads to the east lie clogged with hordes of undead. Repeated attempts to purge them from the shoulders of the Himineldar have been met with limited success, and even Hibarnhvidar's gates have been briefly overrun at times. They must have found some ancient unguarded seam of rock to traverse, or their arts let them establish gates and threaten the city itself.
Business with the western nomads and the Dabru on Ratha have kept me away from the city for a length of time now. I heard the foul Olvi Tachid led a recent assault that led to great casualties amongst the defenders before the undead were driven out from the halls. It is not certain yet if Inner Hibarnhvidar was breached yet or not, yet I have heard that Grutan donned his plate and entered the fray as well. If only I had the opportunity to see him fight in person!
However, it is good that I have heard that the defenders of Ilithi came to our aid as well. Our aid to their city nearly a year past now is being returned, and I hope closer affairs between the two lands will be possible. Even in peaceful times, both lands must guard against the Dragon Priest threat, as those dwelling within the walls of Raven's Point as well aware.
Another storm is brewing from the mountains, so I must draw this to a close, but I will also add that my meetings with the Nadamian family went well. Several shipments of arms and armor are on their way from the isles, as well as bundles of healing herbs. While it might not be a major help in the grand scheme of things, it will aid those who they can reach. A definitive date for their arrival has not yet been set, but I believe it should arrive by summer.
Signed by my hand,
Kraggur Kveldcharn
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Tales from the Windswept Peaks: Soul
Icy winter winds still blast the mountain peaks as a nomad struggles to ascend a mountain. Below her, along the steep-sided valley, lie the tents of her people, and even farther below are the herds of her tribe.
Struggling, she slips and falls for several yards before precariously catching herself and resuming the climb. Gradually, she reaches the peak, her hair covered with dirt and sweat, blood flowing freely from cuts and scratches.
The tassels on her leathers are whipped to knots as she turns her head to the heavens and shrieks a clarion call as piercing as a hawk’s cry. From the other side of the peak, appearing from thin air, a stout figure wrapped in a fine robe steps next to her, the glint of chainmail appearing from under the collar. Reaching into a sack, the figure draws a finely crafted metal knife which she takes.
Grabbing the nape of her hair, she sharply draws the knife, cutting loose her braid of hair. Loose blond strands snap free in the wind, and her shorter hair now whips around her face. Swiftly she bends and ties the cut braid to a pole set at the summit. Along side that she lays a bracelet woven from mountain flowers. With fierce pride she cries out again before sitting down and closing her eyes, and bearing her left shoulder.
The figure shrugs its shoulders in a wry manner, indicating that it is pleased before crouching next to her. Swiftly implements appear on the ground next to her, and the figure begins its work. Blood soaks into the folder leather at her shoulder as the figure works, gnarled fingers and hands steady despite the shifting winds.
At length the task is done, and the figure collects its tools and then disappears in a flow of black shadows. The woman stirs, and then draws her leathers up again, before slowly descending the mountain. Yet the tattoo becomes briefly visible, a golden eagle with its wings stretching down her arm and up her neck, with the pinion feathers just brushing her left eye socket.
Struggling, she slips and falls for several yards before precariously catching herself and resuming the climb. Gradually, she reaches the peak, her hair covered with dirt and sweat, blood flowing freely from cuts and scratches.
The tassels on her leathers are whipped to knots as she turns her head to the heavens and shrieks a clarion call as piercing as a hawk’s cry. From the other side of the peak, appearing from thin air, a stout figure wrapped in a fine robe steps next to her, the glint of chainmail appearing from under the collar. Reaching into a sack, the figure draws a finely crafted metal knife which she takes.
Grabbing the nape of her hair, she sharply draws the knife, cutting loose her braid of hair. Loose blond strands snap free in the wind, and her shorter hair now whips around her face. Swiftly she bends and ties the cut braid to a pole set at the summit. Along side that she lays a bracelet woven from mountain flowers. With fierce pride she cries out again before sitting down and closing her eyes, and bearing her left shoulder.
The figure shrugs its shoulders in a wry manner, indicating that it is pleased before crouching next to her. Swiftly implements appear on the ground next to her, and the figure begins its work. Blood soaks into the folder leather at her shoulder as the figure works, gnarled fingers and hands steady despite the shifting winds.
At length the task is done, and the figure collects its tools and then disappears in a flow of black shadows. The woman stirs, and then draws her leathers up again, before slowly descending the mountain. Yet the tattoo becomes briefly visible, a golden eagle with its wings stretching down her arm and up her neck, with the pinion feathers just brushing her left eye socket.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Tales from the Windswept Peaks: Beacon
An ancient crone stops suddenly in midstride before falling to the ground clutching her head. Hurriedly, the other nearby nomads run and delicately lift her, bearing her to her tent. She lays there whimpering as healers are swiftly summoned. Days pass and none of the normal remedies work. Finally, seeing no other recourse, the nomads seek aid from the seers.
The seers quickly take her to the highest peak near where this section of the mountains where the tribe is camped. There she is laid upon the finest wolf furs at hand, while they weave their magic upon her. One stands aloof, his face held to the wind, seeking the omens carried upon the howling winds.
Suddenly a hand shoots forward from within his robe, deeply scarred and worn from the years. The actions around the crone stop immediately.
“She sensed the beacon shining from far in the east. I too sense it as a challenge to rival the very heavens. It is laden with the prayers of all the gods, and has no place within the cosmos as we understand it. The shrieks of countless souls fill the crone’s second sight, blinding her to our world.”
He quickly incants a spell, and suddenly the crone’s body relaxes. He motions for the nomads to carry her back to her tent.
“That should allow her to regain control over her second sight.”
Raising the hood of his robe, he then sits, back to the group and loses himself in meditation.
The seers quickly take her to the highest peak near where this section of the mountains where the tribe is camped. There she is laid upon the finest wolf furs at hand, while they weave their magic upon her. One stands aloof, his face held to the wind, seeking the omens carried upon the howling winds.
Suddenly a hand shoots forward from within his robe, deeply scarred and worn from the years. The actions around the crone stop immediately.
“She sensed the beacon shining from far in the east. I too sense it as a challenge to rival the very heavens. It is laden with the prayers of all the gods, and has no place within the cosmos as we understand it. The shrieks of countless souls fill the crone’s second sight, blinding her to our world.”
He quickly incants a spell, and suddenly the crone’s body relaxes. He motions for the nomads to carry her back to her tent.
“That should allow her to regain control over her second sight.”
Raising the hood of his robe, he then sits, back to the group and loses himself in meditation.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Tales from the Windswept Peaks: The Pillar
The wind howls and screams outside of a hollow cave in the mountainside. Around a fire sit several nomads while a few guard dogs bask sleeping in the comforting heat. Snow drifts are piled on either side of the trail running past the cave mouth except where the winds have blown it clear.
As one, the nomads start a drifting chant which focuses the mind then lets it float free. In the back of the cave a young nomad stiffens, her face exhibiting an image of sheer horror before it relaxes to a state of resigned unhappiness. Slowly she speaks of what she sees:
“There is torment as freedom is bound in our image and name… a fragment of the heavens locking in an ancestor’s soul in name. He screams for he has become bound, yet by binding him, he in turn binds the heavens. The shard has shifted and is now part of us.”
As one, the nomads start a drifting chant which focuses the mind then lets it float free. In the back of the cave a young nomad stiffens, her face exhibiting an image of sheer horror before it relaxes to a state of resigned unhappiness. Slowly she speaks of what she sees:
“There is torment as freedom is bound in our image and name… a fragment of the heavens locking in an ancestor’s soul in name. He screams for he has become bound, yet by binding him, he in turn binds the heavens. The shard has shifted and is now part of us.”
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