The Meteor
Long before the time of men and spirits, before the familiar mountains and lakes of Seylinia had come to be, a lone icy rock streaked through the starry expanse above. Meteoroids are the journeymen of the galaxy; they rarely spend too long in one place-—though, it bears mentioning, they are occasionally caught at just the right time and place to be brought into orbit by some star or body and become an asteroid, or perhaps a moon. Most are built out of cold space rock; the inert, elemental material of the universe.
This particular meteoroid, though, bore an unusual payload. If you were to split it open, you would find a nugget, perhaps a crystal, of vibrant, glowing blue, at its very heart. It is hard to say what exactly the nugget was made of — gas? Liquid? Solid? As it happens, there was no one around at the time to ask these kinds of questions, so they have no answers. But nonetheless, it was there.
And in the great stochastic universe, where such a small and nomadic body as a meteor might very well fall for an eternity without encountering anything else, this very particular meteor happened to find itself on a crash collision with a planet. A planet, which, by luck of the draw, bore reservoirs of liquid water, into which our meteor plunged at terminal velocity, after piercing the atmosphere with a great deal of dramatic flair, shards breaking off in every direction and spiraling down towards the surface, pelting down onto rock and choppy ocean, carving great craters into the surface and spawning radial waves large enough to swallow mountains whole. All in the space of seconds too close to perceive, the main body of the meteor carved The little creatures that swam in the sea perished by the millions, if not in the moment of impact, then in the months afterwards where the life-giving sun was blotted out by haze. The largest part of the meteor--the heart of it, with that strange blue stuff inside--pierced the great sea and then the seafloor beneath it, boring a tunnel into the thin oceanic crust. And if you looked closely at the seafloor, you would see the faintest traces of blue, just ever so gently pulsing, glowing out through the murk of the deep.
Time passed; the protozoans and the plankton regenerated, and many more fantastic creatures large and small came to be in the great wide ocean. And as in all things, the very tiniest creatures, effervescent and ever-evolving, were the first to feel the change. From the depths of the ocean arose the first bioluminescent plankton, twinkling little blue lights riding on the waves like stars in the sky. It is the nature of such tiny things to be swallowed by others-- krill, snails, minnows, fish--and so on, and in this way the blueness began to traveled through the cycle of life, imparting its gift.
One day, a mighty leviathan of the sea, one which is so ancient that it has no name, died of old age and its carcass fell down, down, down, to the ocean floor— and it alighted in the center of an odd, old scar, a crater long since smothered by sediment but nonetheless perceptible. Countless creatures, from the smallest tardigrade to the fearsome giant squid, flocked to the leviathan’s grave to eat their fill, and when they were done, there remained nothing but a skeleton, white bones speckled with glowing, living blue as though dusted with sand. As the remains began to sink into the sandstone floor, a bulge emerged from the rock at the center of its ribcage, glowing brighter and brighter by day until the deep-sea denizens were forced to give the area a wide berth. They were not accustomed to so much light. After some time, the bulge began to take on the shape of an egg, and just barely perceptible within, the figure of an embryo, swimming in slow circles. From that egg hatched the first ur-dragon, the first truly magical being, a creature so vast and powerful that it ruled over the world for an eon.
There have been too many ur-dragons to count, in the great and unknowable history of the land and all the creatures on it. Memory holds the knowledge of only two: first, in ages long past, the ice-drake, Unbagran, whose remains lie in the impenetrable Endpeaks. And now, the many-headed one, she of the fire age, Asgael, who has reigned for the millenia since his fall. And there are some that say that her time, too, is coming to an end. That a new age is upon us, and a new dragon will be birthed. Though what kind, none can say.
Ishtar's Prayer
“What do you want so desperately?” She asked them.
“We want the bowl of desert, and all the sand to fill it with. We want to soar like storm clouds, heavy with the promise of unborn rain. We want to unfold like a blade of summer grass, and bend beneath the burning sun.”
The Founding of Ciuihn
Ah, little bird, you want to hear the story of Asmahan and Eloir again? Well, if it will put you to sleep. Long ago, in the age before time, the great goddess Asmahan let her river-fingers flow across the Marhashi plains. Yes, squirrel, we call it a desert now, but it was not always so. In the monsoon months, gusty rain swept the plateaus, filling her to the brim, and the people rejoiced for the fertility of the earth. Now, in the West, Asmahan had a sister, Tinuuru, whose rivers ran not with water but with molten lava as red as sunset. As Tinuuru’s lava touched the sea, it hissed and spat and turned into earth. Her island was an ever-growing land, small just as Feyzanur and Seylinia once were. The sun god Ka was mightily jealous of Tinuuru, you see, because though he too burned hotter than fire, he had never learned the secret to making things grow. He watched from above as Asmahan’s peoples cultivated plants, saw the faces of their flowers follow him across the sky. But when he took a sunflower into his hands, it burnt and crumbled into ash. For you see, pigeon, Ka was the same kind of fool as any man. He could not see that Asmahan’s sweet waters alone could no more create anything than his light alone; it is the two of them together, with the earth, and the pig shit, and the germ of the seed, which brings things into being. Anyway, Ka was jealous, and so he schemed to find his way into Tinuuru’s house, in her volcano, where he could learn from her the secret of how to make things grow. Tinuuru saw him coming up to her home and grew very excited, for she had watched him in the sky just as the flowers did, and she found him beautiful. Tinuuru ran to her sister to share her excitement. “Asmahan,” she told her, “Ka is coming to see me.” Asmahan, however, was suspicious of Ka, knowing his obsessions and his shortsightedness, and snuck up to Tinuuru’s mountain to spy on the couple.
Ka spoke to Tinuuru for hours, and she let him, because she was enamored; they were alike in many ways. Eventually, Ka realized that she would never tell him the secret. He did not know that this was because there was no secret at all. But it angered him anyway, and he resolved to cut her heart out, and search in it for the answer he so desired. Hours went by as he lulled her with conversation, and when she leaned back to laugh, he took his knife and made to drive it into her chest. Asmahan, though, had not wavered in her vigil, and sprang out from her hiding place, tackling Ka and pushing him away from her sister just in time. Tinuuru screamed as her sister and her admirer wrestled on the ground, and the mountain at her feet began to quake. Asmahan knew her sister like she knew her own heart, and she knew what was coming. As soon as she could stand, she turned and ran. Ka followed right at her heels, and chased her across the continent as Tinuuru’s rage boiled over. The explosion that resulted blanketed the entire world in ash; fire rained down for seven days and nights, and Asmahan’s gentle people in the Marhashi withered and starved until a brave prophet named Ishtar saved them. But that is another story. Ka became obsessed with finding Asmahan, and she was forced to flee for ages, until her feet were bloody with running and her flesh was cracked and dry. But then, pigeon, Eloir found her. Eloir, the fleet-footed fox, lived in the white northern snow below the Ma’adiman, and she is the protector of all Feyzanur’s people. Genasi, halflings, dwarves and goliaths alike brought her offerings as their protector in the harsh Feyzanun winters. When she saw Asmahan, she put herself between Asmahan and Ka, growling at him fiercely. Ka laughed, for he did not see how such a little fox could defeat him; after all, she was a goddess of the cold, and he was a god of the most burning heat. But Eloir called upon the world she knew, and it turned in her favor, away from the burning sun, and into the frosty night. Even when the sun is nearest, darling pigeon, we will never feel the sweltering heat of Ka’s unfettered presence; even when Ka is closest to us, we are protected. And so at last, guarded by her beloved white fox, Asmahan lay down to rest. Around her pooled the greatest lake, Kyrr, where she still sleeps to this day… and they say that on a quiet day, far from the eyes of people, a white fox will slip from the forest to drink from her waters, ever vigilant, ever watching.
The Badlands
The canyons could stretch on forever. You know they end, somewhere, but the weeks have worn on you. It has been unusually cloudy in the badlands, a cold fog as thick as mud, and you have too often lost your way without the sun, the rings, and the moons to guide you. You make a fire with buffalo dung, and quickly butcher the ground rat you shot, leaving the heart and liver on what you think is the north side of the fire. It wouldn’t do to neglect the local spirits, not with the abysmal luck you’ve been having. The rat is gamey and greasy, but you are not exactly in a position to complain.
The next morning, the clouds are thicker than ever, and you wonder if it might rain. As you walk, you scan the canyon walls for a way up and out—usually, it’s much harder to travel on the ridges, but it’s well worth it to avoid the floods. In your distraction, you come around a corner, and before you is a tall canyon wall, curved in on itself like an amphitheater. For seats, it has small, mushroom-like formations that balloon out of the rock, like little thrones for small gods. No sooner do you think that than you blink, and there is a peculiar little creature perched atop one of the mushrooms. You blink again, and there are six of them, each seated on a rock, a council of oddities. There is a horny toad with grey pigeon wings, a blue tongue flicking in an out; a prairie dog with the head and feathers of a barn owl, head turning about in that strange way owls have; a three-headed buzzard with feathers the color of the noonday sun; a peccary with the head and ruff of a male buffalo, its nose pierced with a heavy silver ring.
You immediately kneel before them extend your open palms in supplication. “I am but a wayward traveler from the West,” you say, “forgive my intrusion on your meeting.”
The prairie dog-owl fluffs itself and blinks. “You are Anju, and yet you walk on two legs. Curious, young traveler. What is your name?”
Your mother’s voice echoes in your mind, reminding you that the spirits can always smell a liar. “I am called Serran, ancient one.”
The toad-bird’s tongue retracts back into its mouth. “And what is your business in our lands?” it croaks.
I seek passage,” you begin, and hesitate. The buzzard’s three heads snap to the side in concert, beady eyes trained on you. “A threat has been levied against my people, and its source is unknown to us. We believe it to have originated north of here, in the Firth. My people… consider these lands to be cursed. I volunteered to travel through them because I thought, half a centaur as I am, I might live.”
“Child,” the buffalo-pig murmurs, with the pitch of an old, old woman, “it is not these lands that are cursed. It is the Anju. I see that in time your people have lost the knowledge of how this curse came to be. You left us an offering last night; let this story be a gift in return.” They nod towards the center of their circle, and, hesitantly, you approach and sit cross-legged there.
The Mamut
Nothing is as bitter as winter on the Tos’ar, you are quite sure. The snow blows consistently onto the left side of your face, freezing your cheeks numb even through your hides. You know that your destination was just downriver, and you have found it many times before in the summer, but never before have you needed to make the trip this late in the season. To your despair, the river is more or less invisible beneath ice and snow. The rocks you usually use as landmarks are veiled by the flurries. Dire circumstances, to say the least.
A noise to your right. You turn, wobbling into the wind, trying to train your ear on it. It must have just been the wind, you think, wrapping your cloak closer yet and trudging on. Or perhaps a tree falling. You shiver.
There it is again. You squint through your hood, and there is a shade darker than the trees ahead of you, and it is moving.
“Who goes there?” You shout.
It shifts again, and a point of light emits from its hand. You take your hand off of your bow, relieved. “Laresh? Is that you?”
The figure draws yet closer in the blinding snow, and you begin to make out its shape. He is taller than you by a head or two, covered in a warm, shaggy coat. His own coat, you realize, as you identify the two tusks protruding above his collar. A Mamut. Gods and spirits, you must really be lost.
“Follow me,” the Mamut’s raspy voice comes faint through the storm. “This will only get worse.”
You reach out your arm to show your agreement. The Mamut turns, his light burning ahead of him, and makes his way off through the trees. You follow. Soon enough, the form of a small wooden-stone cabin appears in the distance, another light burning orange from within. Smoke is rising from the chimney.
“Come in,” the Mammut shouts, stomping at his doorstep and waiting until you have caught up with him. He lets you into the small mudroom tacked on to this humble structure, and you shed your furs and boots.
“I am Rivky,” you tell him, for lack of anything better to say.
He grunts, a cloud of steam rising from beneath his trunk. “Best keep your names. I haven’t spoken in years, and won’t be speaking much more tonight.” He pauses. “Lucky I felt you coming.”
You incline your head. “I do not know much about the ways of your kind, and I apologize if I have intruded. Your hospitality is likely saving my life, and I owe you a great debt for it.”
He snorts again, and leads you into the main room of the cabin. There is a strong fire burning there, with no wood to kindle it; the smoke you saw outside was not smoke but steam, rising from a pot of stew. The interior is sparse but cozy, filled with the practical implements of a life led alone. Aging meat and drying herbs fill the level above the Mamut’s head, and judging from the smell, some have been added to the stew pot. As you might have suspected, there is no furniture of any kind, only a few implements for cutting or processing or drying which are elevated from the floor. The floor itself is wooden, warmed by some rough hides, and spotlessly clean. The only thing passing for decoration is a perfectly sharpened and oiled glaive mounted above the doorway. The grain is so fine it must be of S’darnaean make. You wonder to ask how a Tos’arein Mamut druid might find himself in possession of such a weapon, but your host appears otherwise occupied in the process of ridding himself of his outerwear, ritually removing and blessing each piece before storing each on its hook. Underneath his leathers are a surprisingly fine woolen tunic, and a quilted vest of the same undyed grey, which he leaves in place.
He seats himself on the floor and resumes a task of grinding walnuts in a mortar, which he then adds to the stew. He stirs it a few times, and huffs his satisfaction. You rummage your wooden bowl from your pack, because it strikes you that this man probably does not have guest settings. You eat together on the furs by the fire, him from clay and you from wood. The stew is filling, if not quite salted to your taste. You reach into your pack for some; you always travel with it when you can.
The Mamut grunts. “Not much salt up here.”
You hum in response. Rock salt must be difficult to obtain; surely traders do not come to this man’s little cabin often, if ever. You pull the little sachet from your pack and weigh it in your hands.
“Do your people use it?” You ask.
The Mamut nods.
You slide the sachet across the floor to him. “Easier for me to find.”
He grunts, lowering his head.
You push the sachet further, insistent. “A small repayment.”
Finally, he nods, pocketing the sachet. “My thanks.”
You smile. The stew warms your belly, and you feel the aches of the day’s trudging through a blizzard fade. You sleep well in the skins by the fire, and only realize much later that the druid’s skill at his craft had eased your way in more ways than one.
Thien's Gambit
“You have lost your mind, Thien. Your wife will never see you again. I will never see you again.”
Thien’s face is as sanguine as Thom’s is harsh—though his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Come now, Tondu, I wouldn’t have expected all this gloominess from you. You of all people have never doubted me.”
“This is a suicide mission!” Thom bursts out. He quiets, regains his hold on himself. “I’m sorry. I don’t really believe I can change your mind.”
Thien laughs; it’s strained. “You’ll come, then?”
Thom is silent. He glances off west towards the setting sun, and then, habitually, turns his head east. He does not meet Thien’s eye.
“You must have seen the ships by now. They are glorious, Tondu. And how can I steer them alone? You have always been the left hand, my friend, and I the right. We can set the world back on its axis. But I cannot do it without you.”
Thein’s ever-youthful charisma suited his features, even at this age, Thom thought. He felt like they were acolytes again, poring over the old books. Thien had always had something inside him that went deeper than even Thom’s unwavering faith. The old priests knew it too, and so they took Thien west for special training, to become the sword-sworn paladin that sat across from his oldest friend today, trying to convince him to go and fall off the edge of the world together.
He would do it, of course. But they both knew he needed to push back. It was, after all, his sacred duty.
“Anchor me, Tondu.” Thien reached out and clasped his friend’s hand, strong and warm.
Thom folded along a well-worn crease, easy. “If you’ll have me, Ndo.”
Thien smiled a real smile, all soft around the eyes. He clasped Thom’s hands in his own, and they stood, together.
“Are you ready?” Thom asked.
“As ready as a man can be,” Thien said, and they shared a lingering gaze.
Together, they wove the enchantment that would bind them. The words came easily to Thom, even after all these years, and the feeling of Thien’s spirit slotting in next to his was as easy as breathing. Even after so long apart, they had not grown incompatible, and it was easy for Thom to feel like the neophyte who had caught the eye of a small, nervous newcomer across the table and felt drawn to him as though by magnetic force. That familiar southeastern pull met Thom’s northwestern one, and they swirled together into a stable current, energy flowing in a steady gyre between them. It felt like coming to rest at last. Thom had forgotten how much he missed being able to see the twoness of everything.
They left at dawn, an auspicious fleet of four. Thien and Thom stood together at the helm, Thom to the left and Thien to the right. The high of the bonding had not yet worn off, and Thien’s excitement was infectious; for the first time, Thom fully experienced the self-certainty of utter and complete religious devotion. It would not last.