“Sweet Dreams” Meikke Haakart
Here are compiled a few stories that may help newcomers gain some sense of the world. These are raw, unedited, first source texts, which are not fact-checked or edited in any way. As such, they cannot be taken as historical record but as tales alone, told by one person to another.
The only exceptions to this are the Ship’s logs and University or Gnomic Academian’s texts. Being recorded under the their respected professional oaths, these bear more historical weight; though given the circumstances of their accounts, they are often taken with a grain of salt.
Hellscap
“Ah, sit then, for your pestering, and hear a story you won’t understand.
Once there were two sisters, one just older enough to think herself older, and one just younger enough to think herself not, who played in the garden of their parent’s cottage. The wrestled and tugged at the dandelions, they shrieked and ran, they had a kitten, and all was well.
One day a bright blue bird came; she was lean and pointy in all the wrong places and she glimmered like a cut gem. The younger sister saw her first, and having never seen such a bird, wanted her for her own. So without telling the elder, she crept, so slow, along the garden fence. As she approached, this shimmering blue bird began to sing a shimmering blue song, and the song, like the bird, was pointy in all the wrong places, but shone so bright that the little girl could resist it no longer, and quiet as she could, she climbed up onto the garden fence, and like a cat, she pounced.
Her pounce was good, and the bird was unaware, and all looked right for the younger sister who wanted to bird who was pointy in all the wrong places, until like a vice, her elder sisters arms wrapped around her, pulling her back into the garden, away from the fence and the bird. The younger sister screamed, not the joyous scream of play chase, but a vicious scream, and clawed her sister’s face.
She climbed the fence again, seeking to catch the fleeing bird, but her sister caught her again, and wrenching forward to break the elder’s grasp, she fell.
Her elder sister leapt to catch her, and threw her toes out to catch the top of the garden fence, for unlike the younger, the elder knew some sense of what it meant to go beyond the fence, and knew her job was to keep her sister from such a fate.
Her strong toes caught the fence top, and her strong arms caught her sibling, and there they held, the younger screaming and caught, the older clinging, and it looked as though they were safe for a moment, as the older sister breathed.
But then the glistening blue bird, who was sleek and full of grace, the bird whose call rang deep into your ear, the bird who was pointy in all the wrong places; this bird returned, and both sisters could do naught but watch as she landed atop the elder sisters heel, and with a beak like a scimitar, lashed out and severed the elder sister’s left foot from her leg. The elder sister screamed, and the sisters, together, fell.
At this exact point in time a rune appeared in the air above the girls. The rune was cast in haste, and had none of the grace of the blue bird. The rune was like an uncut, black boulder, dropped into the middle of a high court’s ballroom. It interrupted, it was not meant to be, everything had to stop to accommodate it. And stop everything did. No graceful slowing, this hard-hewn rune thrown in haste slammed everything to a halt. Behind this rune which was running rough-shod over the scene, holding a wand of locust in his massive right hand, wearing a robe of tumuric, standing in the center of the flowering garden, was the girls’ Father.
The bird, like aught else, was frozen by the rune. Unlike aught else, the bird fought it, and in a moment, was free. She jumped from the fence, and in doing so knocked the foot down, on the outside. The foot fell. Father raised his left hand, which held a bole of rock maple, rounded by the teeth of beavers long passed, which crackled and shook in his palm. The fence opened and peeled back, and the girls could see, from upsidown, Father come, and he was all in his terrible power.
The bird jumped onto the rune, and with a cold, bright glint, took one of the lines in her beak. Looking dead at Father with those pointy blue eyes, the bird pulled. The line seemed to hold at first, but the bird set her claws wide, and like a robin at a sturdy worm, she pulled with all her strength, and the line — creaked— and !snapped! off in her beak. Father’s locust wand jumped like a cobra, and the rune was repaired. But all had felt that momentary jolt, when time slipped again, and the girls’ hearts knew the danger they were now in.
The bird smiled, if birds can smile, and called out a different song, a piercing, summoning, writhing song. Father’s wand flowed like a pulsing river, and the bird was wrapped and silenced. Father’s locust wand turned e’re so slight a winding twist, just a gentle little curve, and the blue bird, so aggressively beautiful, so pointy in all the wrong places, was dead. But Father seemed not relieved as he cast the rune of raising and the girls began to ascend.
Afore they had even raised a foot, three more birds, all blue, all pointy in all the wrong places, were on the runes, tearing at them with crooked claw and curving beak. The girls felt themselves drop, and saw Father shimmer, and open deeper into his power, his form flickering as he became less himself and more Himself.
The kitten leapt to attack one of the birds above the girls, and was immediately cut terribly by a flashing talon, and fell onto the girls, all abloody.
Father’s fight with the blue birds rang fast and terrible. Fell magic n’ere seen by the daughters writhed and cut, leapt and struck. The air was a twirling mass of bloodied blue feathers and torn shards of magic, and still they came. With the full force of a parent whose children are in mortal peril, Father became a living God, whose wrath was terrible to see, and whose power knew no bounds, and yet the fight still would not turn in one direction or another. More and more of the dread birds poured in. If Father tired, he gave no sign. If the blue birds number’s dwindled, they showed no mercy. All hung in balance, and the tension grew awful. Give, whispered the Balance of All Things; this cannot last.
Like being inside the jagged line of power it’s-self, a thunderclap erupted all around and throughout, from the doorway of the house, where stood Mother. Mother stood, her eyes dread and cold, and her hands clasped afore her as though in prayer, as a shock wave leveled all in it’s path. Both girls curled up into balls, the younger now clutching to the elder. In it’s wake, Father lay sprawled on the garden, the birds were thrown all wild and wide asunder. But the girls, and the kitten, and the foot —
were gone.”
– Tezura, the Witch of Spree. [Tezura would not explain why she told this story when repeatedly asked what she knew of Hellscap, nor would she elaborate in any way, other than violently threatening the interviewer with unspeakable tortures until he left, whereupon she threw a pouch of dry leaves at him from her window, which he has no idea what to do with. ]
[Excerpt from “Hellscap: A Portrait in Myth” compiled by Gelgen the Bard]
–
Fishwishes
A well-wished fish did flip and swish
about a Wishing Well
and wishing well the well-wished fish
A fisher wished as well.
A burnished bell the time did tell
though tarnish soon did quell
and fisher’s yet unanswered wish
left nothing her to sell
so from her fishless lips did fall
a curse of Wishing Well
and fishers being versed in curse,
the curse was dark and fell
“You wicked feckless, fishless well
I wish the Never-well!
I will thee, fishless well, to smell
for’er of lies thee tell!
And should a coward fish there dwell,
I wish thee ill as well!
Upon dry wishes may thee feast,
and feasting, ever swell!
Till coward wishless wanton fish
should choke this luckless well,
and choke who’er wishes here
with fettid, fishful smell!”
The turn she did and huffed away
from Cursed Wishing Well
Though clear behind; a chiming laugh
that rang from well to bell
Now daily fisher does lament
the curse she did impel
for lives she now and ever in
a fishy stinking, hell.
[Nursery rhyme of Lu’or.]
–
Foxes Two
“Two clean fox kits crept out the den in that early morning hour when they should have been abed. Their parents were all abed and all their kitmates were abed and out they crept, quiet as a hung breath. They crept out for that selfsame reason you crept out when you were a kit, and if you don’t remember why that was, than you may as well tip away now; this tale’s not for you.
As you remember, this was serious business. Not the giggling sneak of a younger kit, halfhoping to be caught and sternly snuggled back to bed. No, this was the purposeful sneak of two with a plan. Two with somewhere to be. They might not know where that was, but they knew they were needed there, urgently.
Down the mossy hill and past the cypress bog they flowed, knowing their silence gave no trace of their passing to the fieldmice who were watched by the owls who would give an annoyed ‘whrrroooooo’ if the field mice were alarmed. The mice felt safe enough, and the foxes were gone.
Another night they may have seen the Coyote hunting at the edge of the bog where the stream started it’s lazy path towards the river, but tonight Coyote had other business, as well she may. The stream gave no ripple, but on the far shore one shell glistened in the dying moon, some turtle just emerged from a swim of her own designs.
Aeoer, being the bolder, tore down the bank and over the bare rocks in the stream and though he had been moving quite fast and seemed not to slow, suddenly he was all astill next to the glistening shell of the turtle who had swum. Irritated at this unannounced departure, Coe was beside him in a blink. The shell, decidedly unimpressed, offered neither applause nor complaint.
Coe flipped the shell over with her paw. The shell skittered down a rock or two and came to rest, upsidown. Aeoer, not to be outdone, took up a sharp rock in his jaw, put one paw on the turtle, and began to draw. Hard to say who guided the stone that night, but there, in the dying moonlight, on the bottom of this dour turtle’s shell, entirely without his own design; Aeoer scribbled out a single, pure rune.
No sound, but a flash of red split the night, so fast that it could almost have been imagined.
Away in the cypress bog, a woody, lonely call:
WhhhrrrrRRRRrrrooooooo.
Coe and Aeoer, looking at eachother, eyes all aquestioning:
Is this where we’re meant to be?
Are we afraid?
Is this fun?
Is this enough?
Aeoer slowly breaks eye contact with his sister, looking away to the Light. There, maybe, someday. But not tonight. He looks back at the turtle, who seems less of a plaything now than a moment ago. He gives the shell a nudge and back to the water, splash, and gone. Coe looks unimpressed now, but she often looks at Aeoer thus. Tail leaping high, she skips away, back towards the safety of den and home, warmth and known. Aeoer, not to be left behind, follows.”
[A nursery tale of Torgai. Often told in a soothing voice, to lull sleepy kits to the peace of sleep. Origins unknown. Many iterations; seems that most parents drag out the early scenes, often much flowery language added, perhaps in hopes that sleepy ears lose focus and drift off to dream. Many versions end with foxes leaving mice. Version here condensed but shows complete plot.]
–
Dun-Words of Kwelth Aorenbearn
Last words of Kwelth Aorenbearn, self-avowed dun-heir to the High Throne. Recorded by Bard Elowen in 4212 of the Prior Age, (858 years ago.) Tone Archives.
Wish you to hear of times past, you say? And think time’s passed, what makes you? Wake you this bright morn and remember yesterday, aye, you do, and from that simple fact you think that yesterday did happen and tomorrow will? Look at a tree, when you do, and say you to yourself, the root did happen, and the tip will, the root being first in the soil and the tip grown? The tree through it’s wide growth should you watch, for the tip was there e’re the root knew it’s form, and by any measures that matter should you see the tip push the root, aye, the tip push the whole world, down, down and away from it’s-self that it may stretch. Aye, even two trees on opposite sides of the world may both grow, and both push the world away from themselves, and yet the world changes shape not, and yet it does, for each tree changes the course of the whole world, and still you think that tomorrow will happen and yesterday did.
‘Of old’ the stories you ask me, those stories happening not still and now as though. If you watch the wide tree’s growth, see you then will that still and now are all that e’re. Weak little fractures are your ‘has been’ and ‘to be’ verb forms, little wedges you try and drive into the Ever-Now and call it split; but far, far greater than your broken little forms and questions is the Ever-Now, and your wee words trouble it’s dance in stillness do not, can not.
I am my Mother’s Mother’s Mother, sitting on the High Throne. I sit there now. She does. All other thrones are but weak mimicry, depend on the subjugation and sight of those they see to be they do, but the High Throne knows not such bounds as a Seen Need, nay! The High Throne needs you not, from Laer to ce’Re. It asks naught of you and give you all. From Aye-Kon to Aramesh, the High Throne rules, and rule there still, though Dun-Heir I be and do, and Rule there, to use your puny word, I Will.
–
Bla’Cliff Four
A bedtime poem for children, common in coastal communities.
Four proud, tall ships
sailed out of Tae
and skirted cliffs
to do so
The last she lagged
and listed star’
as though some load
had shifted
Unto her mast
se’vn goblins leapt
from out the cliffs
of Blackness
They tore her main
came writhing down
like devil-wind
they cackled
The third ship ran
a’head the wind
and left the last
to ruin
But long before
she’d cleared the caves
her shadow seemed
to lengthen
it crept up to
the Bla’caves door
and then her hull
did shudder
And as the mates
of second ship
did watch, they saw
a wonder
her mast did jerk
not ‘fore but aft
and bow did jump
up higher
then mast and bow
and keel and stern
did fall into
the shadow
and shadow leapt
into those caves
left naught behind
but ripples
The second ship,
her mates did fly
spinnaker full
downwind
Under full sail
and full of prayer
they pulled the wheel
to port
but wheel did spun
full free and clear
no even pull
of rudder
mayhaps it were
some honest break
of linkage, mayhaps
not
but full she broached
and broaching rolled
and every hand
was lost
The first ship held
it’s heading true
and Cap’tn at
the bow
looked not behind,
nor dark nor light,
but only straight
downwind
Her braid it crackled
o’re the ‘head
and in her hand
she cradled
as though a child
of her own womb
some ancient piece
of twine
one knot it held
though kinked it was
as though it once
held three
she reefed the mains,
she set storm tri,
she set storm jib
as well
with jaw full clenched
and prayer in eyes
she broke that
final knot
The sky, they say
did shudd’r and heave
as though the Gods
objected
but then it broke:
full of dread force
that none had ever
witnessed
The sea she rose
she spat and frothed
and like a wakening
toddler
she stretched and screamed
she rose and thrashed
and under that
dread wind
she threw that little
toy boat down
the Draketh coast
toward Ten
Cap’tn she saw
that foul rock
and knew they’d
overshoot
So cursing blue
she wracked her brain
and under load
of gale
she ordered fore main
sharp unfurled
and cut the starboard
rigging
With flapping sheet,
and storm full blow
she leap out off
the bowspirt
She caught the
writhing line in hand
and swung the main
towards port
where with a whip
she swung it round
port rail and ordered
“HAUL!”
those thirty hands
could barely move
that sheet against
the wind
but haul they did,
and made it fast
and then began
to wonder
for ship did roll
and pitch and yaw
and all foresaw
a broach
but Cap’tn shoved
the First off wheel
and swung it full
toward starboard
the great ship heeled
full hard to port
dipping both rail
and cloth
Ten it loomed
and ship she skipped
angry towards
it’s face
top mast hit first
and with a wretched
crack, drove deep
the keel
the ship she bobbed
and came upright
but with a
mighty crash
her sopping port
side hit the rock
and tore her hull
asunder
Cap’tn focused
all her rage
deep, deep within
her blood
she boiled hot
and eyes afire
she uttered simply
“No.”
the water parted
round the breech
and Cap’tn steered
for Weep
They came to harbor
new-stepped mast
and sails proudly
full flying
The ship was dry-docked
full four month
afore the breech was
mended
Sail they still
the wicked seas
and Cap’tn’s blood
still boils
but rest you well
and know she’d wreak
that vessel long
before
she’d skirt the Blac’cliffs
ere’r again
and never would she ever sail
one inch Dark of Ten.
–
Troll’s Poem
(From University Archives. Found scrawled on a piece of paper in the pack of a mangled corpse just east of Du. Speculated to be Troll poem, unconfirmed. Only known example of meter.)
Three horns have toad
and four the snake,
Break in the sand
Road forks at tree.
Uphill is cold
and down is hot,
rot close at hand
Bold whippoorwill.
Thirteen did come
but six will go,
So we’ll fix nut:
Drum in between.
–
Tezura, the Drow Witch of Spree
There are many powerful people in Dorst, which breeds a certain respectful attitude despite the somewhat lawless nature of the region. Perhaps chief amoung these is a certain old Drow Witch who lives in Tisane, which she calls Spree, on the point past Lu’or. Though she rarely does anything public, the few times she has have fostered a deep and abiding desire not to offend or upset her.
For example, there was the time a few ship’s wizards were having a bit of fun amplifying their voices back and forth. Tezura did something which caused all sound on the ships to amplify, but stay on board. It quickly became apparent that this effect was both cumulative and exponential. After achieving what all present claim was the quietest sailing ever accomplished, all three ships had to be abandoned before they reached Sarlot, and the crews watched as the ghost vessels literally tore themselves apart with the creak of their rigging.
More dramatic by far, however, was the time there was a meteor shower, and the people of Dorst watched in horror as one fireball outshone all the rest, and appeared to simply get larger and larger. As they prayed and said their farewells, runes began to appear on the fiery disc. Fast and dark and furious, they spread over the entire surface, rippling like trembling water. With a crack that brought people to their knees in Tenor, the ball of flaming rock was gone, and in it’s place a leaf, of something like the same mass, was drifting down, blotting out the entire sky. It rode some updraft out to sea, where it sat; a bizarre and fascinating deck that many explored but none could think of a use for, until it swamped and broke up a few weeks later.
Tezura appeared much more annoyed by people’s gratitude for this than she had by people’s affront about ‘the ship incident’. So annoyed was she by the stream of gift-givers and appreciation at her door that she eventually turned six people into literal toads. Her son and only issue, Jace, eventually convinced her to return them to their natural state, but this took almost three years, and burned away most of the remaining gratitude local folks felt toward her, as seemed to be her intent.
–
The Teapot and the Tortoise
Account of Karkareen’s interview with Besherest, the third-oldest known living Gnome in year 105. Besherest was believed to be 920 at the time of this telling. Recorded in archives of Parrell, a Gnomic academic community, in their ‘Antediluvian Verisimilitudes’ project (ongoing). Believed by then-project head Nilespeet to be the oldest recorded Gnomic tale, though his reasons for this claim are now unknown.
“Ah! Here you are. You said you’d be here hours ago. The tea’s gone cold, and I’m sure the biscuits are just bricks by now. But it goes as it goes, you know. I’m sure you had some reason. Yes, Verisheneer’s girl said you wanted to hear some of the old stories. Well, you’ve come to the right place! Har! Sit you down then, and I’ll tell you of the Teapot and the Tortoise.
There once was a Tortoise named Spinkle. Spinkle was a strange tortoise, because she liked to swim. None of the other tortoises liked to swim, you see. Tortoises are land turtles. They don’t go in the water at all. Well, none except Spinkle, which is why we’re talking about her. Do you see?
Well, pay attention, and you may yet. Spinkle liked to go out for loooong swims. Not just short little dips, no nooo. She’d go out for days and days, just lounging about. She learned the language of the fishes and the language of those half-fishes that live out there and the language of the sea-birds and even the language of the shore-birds. She had to, you see, because even though she liked to swim she was a land turtle and wasn’t really meant for it, right off the wick, so at first she was coming and going quite a bit, and she spent a lot of time on the land. She started to grow moss or alge or some such on her back, and she had to get the shore birds to pick it off. The fish tried, but they’re so flighty, the shore-birds were much more reliable. So the shore-birds would clean the little herbs off her back, and she could swim ever so much more smoothly.
Oh! Oh, is the biscut hard? I’m so sorr- what’s that? a creation story? well, that’s a bit rude. When you sit for a story you should just listen to the story, is what my granddy told me. But as it happens this IS a creation story, so just you sit you down and dip your biscut; maybe you’ll learn what a listen may whisper.
So. Once the Teapot began to tremble like that, Old Spinkle knew that there was nothing for it now, she was in for a longer swim than she’d done – would you stop interrupting! – than she’d done before. She’d have to stay out, for there was no way to swim back through all the tremors in the water. Spinkle couldn’t tell why the Teapot was trembling, but – shh! stop it! SHH! – It really didn’t matter why the Teapot shook, it just mattered that she was there until it stopped. But to Spinkle’s surprise, the Teapot sputtered and spat, and out crackled a whole new blob of not-at-all-Tea. It was a very large blob, and not at all finished, but there it was, and there it jiggled like not-Tea-at-all. Spinkle kept steady, and she floated there while all the jiggling and shaking jiggled and shook. She waited a long time. So long that the shrubbery grew back on her shell, and there was not a shore-bird near to pick it clear. So the herbery grew, and Spinkle watched. She could feel all the jiggling shaking her planttery all about, but there wasn’t a split whistle she could do about it. Har! Poor Spinkle. I shouldn’t laugh. I’m sure it was very stressful. You remember she wasn’t a Sea Turtle, but just a tortoise. That’s a Land Turtle. Most of them don’t swim, just Spinkle. Good. You remember.
The jiggling and shaking slowly settled down, and the water was rather cold. The Teapot didn’t seem like it could pour anything else at that moment, so there was no way for Spinkle to get back home, and she was thirsty. Thirsty and cold and lonely and covered in boscage, was Spinkle. So she drifted slowly and sadly towards the less-jiggling blob that the Teapot had spat out. It was warm. Sometimes what came from the Teapot was warm, you remember, and Spinkle was cold. The closer she got, the further away it got. It dawned on Spinkle that the blob was massive. Much, much larger than Spinkle. And comfortably warm. So Spinkle swam right over, and even though it was still really too hot for good tea, she swam up onto it and brought some of the leftover tea with her. It kept the tea warm, so she kept swimming in the tea.
Every now and then, Spinkle still pokes out to see if the Teapot is ready to pour again, but more and more rarely. She mostly just swims about in her tea, and really, she’s grown rather fond of the blob. Also, the copse has grown quite thick, and makes it rather difficult to swim very far. She scrapes it off on whatever she can find, but it’s quite tenacious. Looking at it scraped on things, she sometimes wishes it would keep her company, but it’s really rather boring.
.
.
.
I can see you enjoyed your biscut. I’m glad it wasn’t too dry. If you show up on time next time, they’ll be fresh.
What? That is the end. Who’s the who? Weren’t you paying attention? My, but you’re a bit daft aren’t you? Have another biscut.”
–
Dark of Ten
an interview with fishwife Vane of Hag, by Bard Lorren.
Canna speak a’ ‘et. Nay, no, good’ll come a’ ‘et. Ther’s na’ a soul will, kna wha’s gaed fer ‘em.
a warnin’? wha’ mar warnin ya be needin? dunna do it. e’re.
fer a book? yer a damn fool, an’ any what need a damn book ta tell em na to ga dark a’ ten’s a bigger fool still.
Nae, tha hell ya wan’ from me? ye wan ta kno ha ol Jae wa’ a gaed man? ha’ he nare straye’, nar dallie’? ha’ he sail a regular root, ta’O’ ta Wee’ fer’ 13 year? Ther’s them wha’ try an’ make ‘et out to be ‘is nature, wha’ happen ta ‘im, bu’ tha’s a damn lie. I wa’ marrie’ tha’ baster’ fer’ 20 year, ye’ think I denna’ kno’ me own mate?
ye wan’ ta hear ha i shoulha’ kno’ na ta le’ ‘im sail on tha’ 13’ mo’ a’ ‘is 13’ yer?
ye’re a ri’ bastar, an i denna care wha’ ye’ say, yer one te stab a dog whe’ ‘e’s down. ye’ set ther wi’ yer ri’ gol’ quill an lookin’ so sorry on yer ri’ liein’ face – ye’d dance a’grave fer’ a story; ye dam’ bard’ all a’kin.
[at this point she takes a large swig off her drink, swallows, and spits a juicy spray all over this Bard.]
The’ hell ye’ wan’? Ye’ wan’ te’ kno how e’ cam back, how the’ all cam back, sail in jes’ a’pretty a’could te’ por’? How te’ thir’ mate’ step o’ the plank te’ the’ dock, took one look a’the harbormaste’s cloak, an’ ran’im through wi’ ‘is blade?
Ye’ wan to hear ho’ the por’ wen’ craz fer tha’ time? How ev’re hand ‘a’port had to’ fight that mad crew? how’ 68 soul lef’ thi’ worl’ tha’ day? How only 5 a’ tha’ crew we’r restrain’, an ol’ Jae wa’a’one o’em? Ha we tho’ we cou’ cure ‘im? We brought ‘im ‘om, boun’ li’ a hog in tha’ bac’ o’ a cart. Wha, ye wan to kno how I tended ‘im? Fed ‘im an talk ta’ im? Stroke ‘is ‘hair ‘while ‘e slept? Ye wan to kno, ye’ sick baster’ how he’d talk so sweet an smooth, an we’d think he wa’ better, bu as’ soon as’ he wa’ untied, he wa’ the wors’ sor’ a’ beast. Anythin’ he saw, he’ take. ‘e saw a woman eatin’ a biscut, an wi’out a word, e’ club ‘er in the hea’ w’ a pike, swore when she drop’ it in the dir’ as she’ fell, pick’ it up, brush’ ‘it off, an ate it a’ she lay a-bleedin in the street. tha woman? she’ were ‘is sister. How ‘e fought’ like a wil’ thing, full maddness were ‘in im, though ‘is eyes ‘nere look disturb’?
Ye wan’ to kno how there were not a scrap a’ ‘umanity lef te ‘im? ha he were worse tha’ a beas? e’n a wil’ dog will respec’ ‘is pack – not tha’ … thing.
Nay, I will’na call it Jae. Jae, mi’ Jae, die’ ou’ a’ sea, an ne’re cam’ ‘hom. Tha’ thing wha’ cam’ bac wa’ no parta’ Jae.
I tri’. Hean’ kno’ I tri. 4 month, ‘e wa’ tied in the’ stor’ room. E’re day, the girl an’ i wo talk ta’ ‘im, feed ‘im, try ta’ understan’. 3 time, we tho’ he wa’ better, e’ sound so good, say all tha’ ri’ thing… it knew. Wha’ ‘ere ‘it wa, it ha’ all’a Jae’s memories, knew how’ta play on mi worn heart, tha’ baster. So we’ let ‘im go, bu e’re time, tha’ same. Broke me. E’re time. An now ye baster come roun,’ pryin and sneakin, makin’ me think i’m helpin’ some o’re soul by dredgin’ this miser’y. I ain, an ye kno I ain, thi’s jes another’ Bard’s slick words, gettin’ the dirt fer’ another’ story ‘er song. Ye’ll bern fer thi,’ ye’ bard baster’.
Nae, ‘e didn’ get ‘way. Laet’ o’night, I hear’ a bang, an when I run ou’ te’ check, door’s open, there’s Jae, layin’ dea’ o tha’ floor, side o’ ‘is head stove in. All I fel’ a’first wa’ relief, an’ then tha’ pain, tha’ guilt, hit li’ a wave. Wha’ sorta’ wif’ e’ relieved o’re ‘er man’ dead’ body?
Angr’? nae, no’ ‘angr. twa’ a’ blessin, what they done. I’d ne’re ha’ agree ta’ ‘et, an they all knew’ tha,’ so the’ did’na make me carry ‘it. Better I don’ kno’ who done ‘et, an’ I ca’ mo’ on w’out carryin’ tha’ knowlege’ ‘eire.
Ye’ve ge’ yer stor’ na, ye filthy scab. Ge’ ye gon, an ne’re darke’ me door again.
[at this point, she threw the purse she had been offered back at this Bard, and stomped out of her own house.]
–
Morsha, Sweep of Tone
Common knowledge of Morsha within Tone. Compiled by Gred, self-described “gaffer” by hanging around Tide and asking questions. (“Sweep” is both the title for the Peak and also the common term referring to any member of the cleaning staff.)
Morsha’s rumored to have come from Undertone, found banging on one of the Doors to Deep by three initiates who got lost exploring, some 550 years ago. She was starving and seemed mad for several years, and the only reason she was kept at Tone was that in her incoherent ramblings she would start spouting poems that literally set the stone walls to ringing and shimmering different colors, or she would burst into song that set hearts aflame, and had strange effects on both light and sound. After a few years, she slowly started moving around, and cleaning her room. The Sweeps were glad for the help, and she seemed good at it, and very dedicated. More than half a millenia later, she is Sweep.
Morsha is deeply reclusive, but terrifyingly loyal and defensive of her staff, and of the constant immaculate perfection of cleanliness within all of Tone.
Morsha has never spoken a word of any known language. It is rumored that some 450 years ago, before she was Sweep, a council called ‘Efficiency’ was rising who wished to cut the Sweep budget by a third. During the joint council meeting where this was being proposed to the Purse, with 5 peaks present, Morsha blew the doors of the room off and started reciting a poem no one understood, but the walls of the cave started to throb in pulsating time with her words, and then gravity waned and started to invert, especially for the young Bard proposing the cut, who was pinned to the ceiling screaming until the Bridgemaster arrived and removed Morsha, which she did not resist. 50 years later she was named Sweep by the Chord. Several similar events have occured in her tenure as Sweep. Once a young noble from ta’Ot was behaving very rudely to a Sweep on Seventh, and eventually turned with a scoff to backhand the young man. Before his blow even began, he was cast up and out of Tide, shattering one of the massive, magically reinforced panes of glass between Tide and Veil, and thrown over Presh into town. He suffered two broken legs, a compacted spine, 6 broken ribs, and a severe concussion. Morsha, whose barked word had clearly done this, was brought up on the Horns and given an explicit and stern talking to. Since she has never given any indication of understanding a word of common or any known language, many were skeptical of this response; but none dared do anything else. She is the only resident of Tone tolerated to have an ongoing, chronic pattern of physical violence against Bards and guests alike. For the last few centuries, there has been a deeper respect of the cleaning and housekeeping staff than has ever existed in Tone, or perhaps anywhere. Additionally, Tone has never been cleaner.
Discounting judicial actions, Morsha has been to four council meetings, ever. Three involved her perpetrating immediate violence against people proposing any kind of minimizing shift to the Sweeps, and once she came to a meeting of a new council called “Voices of the Sea; a Comprehensive Inquiry into the Feasibility and Cost of Aquatic Communication Techniques for the Modern Age,” which was nominally about using fish as messengers, but actually a farce intended to mock another council who were exploring using hawks instead of pigeons to carry small scrolls. No one knew why she was there, and no one knew what to say. The 7 young Bards, who had intended to sit around drinking and mocking the Hawk council, were terrified that she was going to hurt them, and instead ended up spending three hours awkwardly discussing how fish might be made to send messages, while Morsha sat in complete silence and stillness. The first and last meeting of “Voices of the Sea” ended when Morsha stood up while one young Bard was mid-sentence proposing a self-replicating spell to hold scroll tubes to dorsal fins, and walked out.
The entire Sweep crew is stoically, indivisibly, absolutely in support of Morsha. Outside of the Sweeps, no one knows if Morsha actually coordinates them the way other Peaks do, and if so how, and no Sweep will say a word about it. The Sweeps have no visible hierarchy, other than Morsha as Peak. Any concern can be brought to the attention of any Sweep, and will be dealt with in a timely and expedient fashion. Different Sweeps come to pertinent council meetings, sometimes the same for a while, sometimes a different Sweep every meeting. They will open their books if asked by a fiscal council who seem legitimate, but their budget is reasonably modent and as consistent as clockwork, so no one ever finds anything to take issue with.
Morsha is rarely seen in Tide these days, but is often seen cleaning the Baths, the Aerie, and around the permanent residences of Overtone. She does attend all of Slung’s rare performances, both on The Gallows and in any scheduled Private performance he might give, no matter how secret. When someone once asked Slung if he had noticed that Morsha attended all his performances, he simply shrugged and said ‘So do I.’
–
The Triple Clasp
Overheard from one old man to another in a pub in Denor.
How can we know? The clasp holds it’s secrets tight, though it’s long been opened. Divers found it, off the coast of Dorest. Or maybe merfolk brought it up to the coast of Gwaroon. Or maybe it washed ashore on old Montessian herself. Who can say. They say there’s a beach on Montessian where any may go, and find what they seek. Though what you seek may not always be what you find. At any rate, there it is. A claw, wrapped tight around some little three-shelled clam. Or maybe another claw of some unknown bird. Or maybe three arrowheads that hit midair and fused into a block, that some crafter of old hollowed out and hinged. In the first pocket, there was a single strand of hair, they say. Two inches long, they say. But almost two inches across. Yes, hair. They can see the scales on it, just like your hair has, and mine. Don’t be daft, of course our hair has scales. Everyone’s hair has scales on it. No, not those scales, you dolt. They’re like lizard scales. Haven’t you ever looked at your own forsaken hair before? Well, fine. Maybe Your hair doesn’t have any scales. No, no. Fine. Fine. THIS hair, like EVERYONE ELSE’S hair, has scales, and even you could see em if you looked, for there they were. The second clasp had a single note in it. When they cracked it open, that note hummed through the air. It rang all about, and evey one of em heard it clear. Bong. Rang like a bell. But when they opened that third shell pocket, an eagle flew clean through the bar, snatched whatever was in there, and flew right out, quick as a whisker flick. I swear it. I swear it on my brother’s grave. I swear it’s true. A’course then everybody started swearing what it was, they’d seen it, it was a unicorn’s double cock or a leaf a’ king’sfoil or a baby leprechaun or a dragon’s ovary. Who the hell knows, now, but whatever it was, the Eagles wanted it, and now they’ve got it. But hear this. That night, she what opened it wakes up to three great mushrooms with hats on in her very room. They say to her; You chose this path. This is your doing, and you must own it now. She damn near shits herself, as she might, and nods, and they’re gone. She thinks it’s a dream, but then she starts noticing that as she moves, so moves the room. Nay, I don’t mean it sways, I mean she lifts her left hand and the left side of the room gets louder. She tips her head forward and the fire flares up. She sits down and all the chairs creak. And then, I shit you not, she starts to grow whiskers out her chin. Her man says to her, I aint in fer this. I love ye, but this is too much, and he takes off. She’s so broke up over it that she can’t even be in a room, fer fear a what she’ll do nex. So she moves out te the desert. Or maybe she moves up ta the Torgai. Either way, she lives there still, in a wee hut where she just sits all day, with her whiskers and her moods.
–
To Deepest Dark
From “Roots of Stone” a work of historical poetry by the Dwarvish Bard Dalvura. “Roots of Stone” was published as an original work, and Dalvura firmly refused to shed any light on it’s origins, taking any inspiration therefore to her grave. Despite her resonant silence, this poem and several others were sharply contested by most Dwarves as revealing concepts and stories for Dwarvish ears alone. Many Dwarves pay handsomely for any copies of “Roots of Stone” in a broad attempt to limit the exposure and spread of these poems, which has resulted in a blossoming transcription trade and if anything has spread the work. Tone hailed Dalvura as a brave heroine, while Groast all but banned her from returning. She remains a highly contested figure some three centuries after her death. Many believe that this poem, while her original work, is firmly rooted in original Dwarvish creation texts.
To deepest dark
Sans sand or stone
A spark is cast
from flint unknown
The dark it fought
and nested deep
within the spark
secrets to keep
They wrestled there
the dark and light
but wrestling wrapped
a strand caught tight
So spun and bound
the wrestlers lay
one half in Night
and one in Day
Their sweat it shone
and glisten’d bright
the twinkling glow
Torag’s delight
He from his forge
an iron wrenched
in glistening sweat
it’s fire quenched
from hissing steam
the Khazâd leapt
to plumb the dark
where secrets slept
The Khazâd delve
and deeps behold
the far flung truth
from time untold
So listen close
you Khazâd new
and know that what
you hear is true:
Fire still burns
in Sacred Dark
though Sun and Shadow
mask the Spark.
–
Flay (Captain’s Log)
Flay is the common name for the great bay defined by Montessian. Little is known of those waters, and the unanimous practice of sailing vessels is to treat Montessian as a vast rectangle. When sailing west, thread the needle between Nightwatch and Ten, then contine west some 500 mi before turning north, then sail due north until you clear Montessian on your starboard side. Those who brave the seas of Flay do not return. The records of the longest surviving expedition are offered here, for whatever wisdom they may bring.
Captain Órenírie’s Log, Northern Expedition of 4221
8/40/4221, E 8k – Set sail West from Tulia. Smooth wind, should round Nightwatch in 3 weeks days, and then we sail north upcoast.
8/70/4221, N 10k – The wind favors us, and we ride her grace smooth and even now. Nightwatch stares down at us, with threat or promise. All’s well aboard, light chop keeps hands alert.
8/76/4221, N 5k – Hands abovedeck report wings by the mountains, which rises as steep as ever. No port, or any sign thereof, just vertical rock up to towering mountain faces. Hands swear it was a Dragon, who can say. Hawks can look much like far-off Dragons to bored sailors. Seas at 15-18ft, break on cliffs feels quite close to starboard, even if we stay a ways offshore.
8/82/4221, W 9k- The seas rise, as though the mountains have noticed us, and disapprove. Spotted small island off port, rounded it, rocky with no port.
8/86/4221 – W 15k -It is cooler, and dusky. Still no break in the stone wall we chase. Seas at 25-45 ft, erratic. Helm is tiring, crew are on edge. In the seas we know, this would be a storm of story, but there’s no weather to speak of, just very high water. 1st swears she saw an island rise and then fall, between us and shore today. She’s not one to lie, though this Captain’s no idea what to make of such a claim.
8/91/4221 – W 13k – Weather has found us. The storm seemed to pounce down off of the distant peaks, and there is steady lightning, both high and low. Medium rain. Seas are high, after 2 hours of work, the wizard estimates them at between 35 and 75 ft, though there’s no pattern to the waves that she can determine. There is a dread chill in the air, and visibility is under 100 ft, even with the ships lights on full, though the lightning is regular enough to see a ways. There is no evidence of any land but cliffs and rocks. None can stand the helm for longer than half an hour, and must rest immediately and deep after a spell. The waves are unlike any known by this vessel; variant, massive and then minuscule, eruptive, sporadic.
This captain ordered 180 at midday. She will not sail this fine boat and crew into such dark and troubled water, unprepared for this nipping cold that will surely gain longer teeth should this persist. The high rigging has started to ice, and the work to clear it will only worsen, should we have continued. We sail now back.
Honor stipulates that this Captain record what she would rather forget, or at least consign to some backwater of faiery story invented on a tedious if trying journey, but this record is bound and true: upon rising this Captain went aloft to the crow’s nest is is her wont, and looking 80 deg off port bow, she saw the 1st’s ‘island.’ As the waves raged in the lightning’s strobe, she thought at first that the flashes showed some sunken isle, but through her scope she saw that isle rise, ere so slow, and knew it to live. This Captain must here be conservative with her estimate, that history n’ere make her a bluffard, should any meet this ‘isle’ hence and measure, somehow, it’s vast body, but the creature can have been no shorter than half a mile, and this Captain will nail her rank to the claim. This Captain felt no terror as might expect, nor even the desire to call for another’s eyes, but watched alone as a head longer than any ship slowly, so slowly lifted above the waves; a rock of impenetrable calm in the raging sea. No dumb beast this, nor monster, though some wizard of repute may claim otherwise; nay she lifted her great head above the waves and turned, so slow, to lock eyes with this Captain, and none other. The sea as a lovers’ couch was naught between us, and the great green eyes gave a light as of the divine. She held this Captain’s gaze for some time outside of time, and when this Captain regained thought, the great being was gone, and the wild seas about seemed the lesser for it.
This Captain made her call to about-face honestly, after many hours of both deliberation and prayer. This Captain has scourged her heart, and finds no trace of cowardice there, she would sail on had found she the faintest whiff of it. The reasons stated first in this log entry stand, and are more than enough; it would be folly to continue.
Those great illuminated green eyes offer little threat, this Captain believes, but for the first time, this Captain feels something in her heart she would never have dreamt possible to say a day ago:
This sea is not mine to sail.
9/45/4221 – SW 8k – Home port at Thunaile.
Everdark(Expedition Log)
Everdark, known simply as “Night” at the time of this expedition, is an ice sheet of unknown measure. Little is known of it, but the most comprehensive account comes from the following, now infamous, Expedition Log from 3481 of the Prior Age. The Expedition was one of the ‘Quests Beyond’ undertaken by the University at to’Ot in attempts to expand the known world. The three members were
Lorrat, a widely experienced and skilled fighter, tracker, and guide who is credited with the lives of all involved with the Toven Expedition of 3469 and the Bange Expedition of 3476.
Agner, of the most innovative and acclaimed Wizards of the age, specializing in what Lorrat once succinctly described as “Useful Magic.”
Verrail, a meticulous and deeply respected academic, whose name was synonymous with truth and academic rigor. This is no hyperbolic praise, the modern word “veracity,” meaning unquestionable truth, derives from the confidence that was set and proved by Verrail’s research methodologies and documentation. From another, this Expedition Log might be read as overly dramatic or being influenced by the long dark, but from the mouth of Verrail, it is difficult to question. Much attention has been given to the fact that from the outset, her writing style in this expedition log is far more emotional than was her standard, which was notoriously dry and reductionist. Note her emotional description of the dogs in the first entry for example.
“Verrail’s log, Night Expedition, 3481”
1/22/3481 (22f) After 28 days at sea, we came to the great ice sheet, as described by Captains Hourke and Jallain. Here begins our real journey; the crew is offloading our equipment, sleds, and dogs now. Excitement is thick in the dark air among the team. The dogs look warm, if funny, in their little coats and hats and boots. It is a windy day, but clear. Conditions look promising for travel.
1/24/3481 (8f) Our sponsors (and of course Agner,) have our blessings many times over – The self-heating gear makes this possible, and the tents which grip the ice are a gift from the Gods themselves. Despite these boons, progress is slow. We keep a watch around the clock, though no one knows why. We test the ice as we go, though in a day and a half there’s no sign of anything but solid, barren, wind-scoured glass. The wind, my God. This place seems to be made of wind. The dog’s boots, our boots, and the ice hooks are all enchanted to catch the ice, but anything else dropped is simply gone, and the enchantment on the boots is much weaker, as needs be; only a Hook will really stop you. There’s no following or tracking anything dropped, it’s just gone into the infinite night, with not a trace left behind in the howling chill. It’s terrifying, but invigorating as well; one slip without a hook could mean a long, slow death as your clothes and then flesh were eaten away by the tiny claws of Night. I wonder if I would have the spine to take my gear off and let the cold take me first…
1/26/3481 (-42f) We’ve given up testing the ice. After 5 days, it seems assured that this ice sheet is exactly what it seems, without cavern or fracture. We’ve traded caution for speed, hoping that somewhere in this perfectly straight line we travel, we will find something. Thanks to our Agner’s magic, we’ve food and water for as long as we’ve heart, though I can see our team beginning to wonder. The dark deepens. I know this sounds odd, for it’s been full dark since we set foot here, but the dark feels fuller, our light feels pressed upon. I know dark to be simply an absence of light, but this dark feels rich, a darkness unto it’s-self, more than the sum of it’s absences. We were all talking months or years in our planning room at the University, but this Wind, it eats at you, and even through our gear, some have noticed that it’s getting a little chilly.
1/30/3481 (-122f) The first of our three sleds suffered a grievous blow. Lorrat noticed her team had slowed, and when she stopped to look – the two lead dogs’ traces were broken, and the dogs are gone. Beyond being our only transportation, the dogs are family here; bedfellows and friends. The cold must have made the traces brittle. We’ve oiled all the traces and harnesses, and we pray that this is the worst that befalls us on this frigid waste. We also pray those proud canines found merciful deaths. The cold now competes with the wind as the greater demon. We moved one dog from another lead team, so two of our sleds are running on 5 dogs, which will suffice, but it hit Lorrat hard, she loved those dogs dearly. We continue on tomorrow.
1/31/3481 (-154f) Lost four more dogs today. Turned back after the first three, who were the lead set of Lorrat’s lead sled. A caught breath of the constant screaming wind showed beads of red glass scattered on the ice before they whipped them away into black infinity – there’s something out here. Agner set hard wards, shields, and alarms. We’ve set a guard again with bright continuous lights, which tires Agner, but she insists she can do it. Night eats our meager light like a pebble dropped into an infinite ocean. Tomorrow we follow our line back as fast as we can.
1/34?/3481 (no temperature recorded) – we dare not stop. lorrat is gone, her whole team – just blood on the ice. the best of us, gone- never a sound, her light just gone from ahead us. i scream inside as we mush past her sled, starting to list into the damned black wind.
Agner’s shields shattered like spun sugar, and the alarms blared to tell us what we already knew – we dare not stop- i write this as we ride, fleeing whatever demons of the dark are upon us, around us. Agner put much into those shields, of herself, I fear, and she looks hollow now, holding the light. no wolf or any known dread beast walks through shields like those without breaking stride, whatever hunts us is … .. .
i tie this log to my hook and hold it loose, that if i’m taken before we reach the sea it may stand and warn some other
(no date or temperature) – pray for agner i do not think she was eaten i think she fell from light holding the light too long i think she fell and her dogs are just running around me now i stopped to cut them free but i heard behind i couldnt free them all i ran to my sled was drifting i had to! we all run now, there is no light but the sled marker Farsa barked and killed her i had to SILENCE her! I HAD TO! we run but i know the water approaches i’d never hear it over this wind and at first i feared it terribly it slowed me but there are fewer dogs some skattered when i killed Farsa and agner fell and skee and kors are gone i saw just flash of blacker and their blood slick on ice fur hit me smelled like kors traces drag the other dogs trip i pray i run off the damned night into the blessed sea to die just please if any gods hear me please don’t make me die here in Night
[End of Exp Log of 3481]
This Impervious Expedition Log found lashed to Ice Hook by Night Expedition of 3502, one day into Night. They turned back upon finding it, and none have returned.
The Druids and the Dwarves
Recorded by Nallia, who asked at The Grove and was granted this account by a old woman who Nallia believed to be a member of Doce. Unconfirmed.
Despite some minor variances, Torest has been at Balance for many thousands of years, largely due to the tireless efforts of the Druidic Order. When the dwarves started digging at the feet of the mountain 2,400 years ago, there was Imbalance. It was a painful time, and many dwarves and druids died. Eventually, however, as always happens when people live nearby, a druid and a dwarf fell in love, it is not known how, though many songs and poems have speculated. The child of their union, Daresh Telerig, was seen as an abomination by both Dwarves and Druids alike, and never made welcome in either sphere. She bounced between Groast and Torest, enduring distain and many forms of abuse in both places.
On the day of her 17th birthday, she stole the seed from the Order’s Elder Tree. There was only one, and it was under heavy guard; being both sacred to the Druids, and vulnerable. From this theft, Daresh ran to Groast. In the witching hour, she snuck into the dwarf Queen’s throneroom, where using some intuitive combination of Druidic magic and Dwarfish stonelore, she used the power of the Seed to shatter the great throne, the heart of the Dwarfish empire. In the ruins of this impossible act, from the dusty, unnaturally dense rubble, the single leaf of the fresh-sprouted seedling showed it’s tiny, green face. Seemingly unaware of the carnage of it’s nursery, and entirely removed from the ineffable turbulence of it’s very existence here, the new Holy Tree put down roots and grew lovingly up amid the debris. Since Holy Trees only seed every 4,200 years, and the saplings have immense innate power (Read as: more than capable of effective self-defense), this left both dwarves and druids little choice.
Daresh was simply gone. She left no message, and if any Druid or Dwarf heard from her again, it is not known.
After Daresh left, both her families’ eyes were opened to their behavior. Their souls ached in her absence. Daresh’s parents, who had been patently awful to her, were full of rage and grief, mostly at themselves. They directed this anger in large part towards their respective communities. The spat pure fire in council meetings, and left no public space free from the vastness of their rage, demanding that no such atrocity should ever occur again. Given the location and immense, unavoidable, pulsating resonance of the Holy Tree, the Dwarves were unable to look away from this situation even apart from the constant violent ranting of Dwelth, Daresh’s father. A new throneroom was suggested, but this felt ‘wrong’ somehow, perhaps due to the fact that Dwelth literally jumped onto the council table and started pounding it with his hammer when it was first suggested.
Despite their anger, the Dwarves came to love the Holy Tree. It is hard not to, upon sharing such close quarters with what is essentially a living God. Eventually the Dwarves sent a delegation of Elders to Doce, and so began a very long series of dialogues which evolved into the most stable partnership in to’Ren. Now dwarves comprise most of the Druidic Order, and given the long memories of both dwarves and druids, their alliance is unflinching. These events of course gave rise to a series of songs, the most famous of which was The Seed of Telerig (by Vish the Bard, who was also child of a Dwarf and a Druid, some 160 years after The Planting, as it came to be known) the ending of which rarely leaves a dwarf or Druid eye dry.
…
into the mists
her silver hair
behind her lay
the shattered throne
it’s power broke-
gone with Daresh
nothing now
but shards of stone
dust in air
and tears on face
but through the salt
look, look and see
a single leaf
on silver bark
a Spark of Peace:
The Holy Tree.
The Druids have learned that the Dwarves are not interrupting the stone, they are of the stone. They now offer valuable insight and guidance, with all Dwarven delving planned and conducted with Druidic input and veto. Through this, the Dwarves have come more fully into their own ways, and have a far deeper connection with the earth and stone. It is impossible to overstate the value that the Dwarves put on this. The Dwarves offer full support, both military and financial, to all decisions made by the Druidic Order Council of Elders (Doce). Until the rise of the Atrian Empire, this rarely manifested, since the Doce decide to take some overt action perhaps once a millennia. Perhaps their hesitance to act overtly is in part because of the immense power that they wield through their alliance, and the gravity with which all Druids approach the exercise of power. Generally, the Druidic Order appears passive from the outside, though this is the basis of many jests within the order, since their ‘passivity’ is in fact a constant, subtle, often exhausting maintenance of Balance.
The Empire views the Druids as an enemy force, and has committed substantial resources to the destruction of Torest. Their express goal is to convert the land into grain farms. The Druids and the Dwarves obviously recognize the threat, and have taken various forms of resistance. Torest lacks clear boundaries, and as such the approach of Doce has been to empower Torest’s innate and intrinsic hatred of the empire, making it a wildly inhospitable place for them. This “soft” approach has been effective this far. The Empire creates roads, but if they are left untended for more than a few days, they essentially return to the forest, overgrown with roots and brambles.
Groast has a very clear boundary, the massive stone doors at the entrance to their mountain halls. This, combined with their far more overt military practices, has led them to a different and much more direct form of defense (see the section on Groast in Overviews for details.)
The alliance between Groast and the Grove did create one tension between the dwarves and druids, however. The Dwarves see the Grove as an extension of their Halls, and lavish unrestricted wealth and craft on it. It took centuries for the Druids to allow any of this, and there is still an extreme, good-natured tension between Queen Rugora’s court at Groast and the Grove. The dwarves would see the Grove framed in marble, glittering gold, and bedazzling jewels, as they believe is fitting. The Druids are quite happy with the simple, clean huts and log benches which have served perfectly well for much longer than the Dwarves have been here, thank you very much. For better or worse, however, with regard to building Dwarves are nothing if not patient. So, every time a Dwarf visits the Grove, they bring some pocket chisels or a little crooked knife, and surreptitiously work on detailed carvings on every bench, post, and spoon handle they can find. Sometimes they will sneak in gems that camouflage well, and set them into dark but prominent corners. The Druids fought this for a very long time, and nominally still do, but they saw the writing on the wall, and there was really no going back. If 28 of the 30 spoons have the same knotwork carved on them now, it might as well be a matched set. They did, however, retaliate in kind, and started seeding more and more plants in Rost. At the same time, they started talking loudly in court about how all living plants are Sacred, and some much more than others, without shedding any light on which might be “more sacred.” This effectively put a ban on cutting any plant, anywhere in Groast . The Druids are as polite about plant placement as the Dwarves have been about jewels, so Groast is tastefully done, but some rooms may as well be greenhouses, and the Dwarves dare not cut a single one. Since the Druids would never plant a seed without a Window that channels true, natural sunlight into the room, this also means that Rost is a brilliant, cheerful place. Some ambitious but run-of-the-mill plantains, crabgrass, and dandelions also began to make their way into the mortar of the entryways, which the Dwarves weren’t quite sure were safe to remove. With uncommon tact, the Dwarves keep hinting the question of whether they can clean their mortar, and the Druids continue to feign obliviousness, so the weeds stand, which the Druids think is absolutely hilarious.
–
The Sky-Sheep of ca’Net
First-hand accounts in Tone archives, collected in 436 by Adrej’na the Bard for her original work “I see Ewe in the Sky”
Binjek, 175, halfling:
Wool, eu kin no, twarn’t ay who sa’ ‘et. Twa’ Ajessep’s bai, Abroin. Ee waa’ wi’ the sheup an whe the sheup star ta roon, ee loo ep an seen ea grea, grea heead ri’ ep oo tha ‘ills. White et wa’, an wide. Et roose and behin’ ‘et cum another. Li’ greea beg deamo’ a’ tha’ skai, ba’ whi,’ an na’ a-skowlin li’ a deamo, nae. Jes a-floatin. Mer’y an kam, een.
Skearen, 8, halfling:
Aye wa’ ep an tha’ Nar’mos hil, facin’ tha’ Baan’ge. Aye wa countin’ the’ farres’t peak te see wha’ a’em aye could, a’case they ‘eer shed change. Then dow’ the far sloap ca’ a’ whol pak a’em. Whi’ a’ a fresh-barn sheap they war, an driftin a dan eaay as ye’ plees.
Farrel, 43, half-orc:
Yes. I have seen the fluffing sky sheep. They are very large. They are not sheep, but they are like sheep. If sheep stood up, maybe they might look like the sky sheep. I do not know. Actually, the sky-sheep look nothing like sheep. I think the little people call them that because they are white and fluffing, which is right. … …. The Sky Sheep are white and fluffing. The little people are mostly kind of brown-ish and dense. I do not know, I have never seen a Ground Sheep stand up. The Ground Sheep have horns, which is good. The Sky Sheep have no horns. The sky-sheep do not land. They stay in the sky. Perhaps this is good. If they land, I expect my sister A’Hark and I would hunt them, and that seems like the kind of thing we should not do here. In Ma’Resh, we would hunt them even though they are in the sky. Or maybe they only have very small horns that I cannot see, which is the same as no horns. Here, though, if they were on the land, we would hunt them. [ Farrel yells this next to the sky, where there are currently no sheep of any kind] Stay There, Sky Sheep! You are Safe and We Respect You!
(For context, this last sentence is a one that the people of Kroi (almost entirely immigrant Orcs) often yell loudly and aggressively at strangers of all species, including birds and occasionally trees or even rocks. Many may doubt the first claim, but the latter, at least, seems genuine.)