Acropolis II - Stories of the People

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Acropolis II - Stories of the People

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All Stories must be literary in format. By themselves, stories do not affect in-game events.

These are the stories the People tell about their lives and their gods. Some are true, some aren't. Some are only true if you look at it a certain way, and some are only true for the meaning they hold in the hearts of the People.
"It is not the literal past that rules us, save, possibly, in a biological sense. It is images of the past. Each new historical era mirrors itself in the picture and active mythology of its past or of a past borrowed from other cultures. It tests its sense of identity, of regress or new achievement against that past.”
-George Steiner
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Ristra
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Post by Ristra »

Is that the last of the kids off to bed?

Did you hear what happened, up on the plateau? Damnit I shouldn’t laugh but, by the Tree, it’s funny! Funny when it’s someone else, so it is!

One of those bandit-types found himself a way up there, looking to get up to no good, as they do. So, he was skulking around and who should he see tending one of Ristra’s bushes, but Saysee herself. Mind you, she’s out tending the plants, so she’s not all dolled up in her priestess finery. Who knows if that would’ve made a difference?

So anyway, this brigand, he thinks he’s found himself a bit of a treat, you know? He struts on up to her, swaggering his stuff but with his knives all on show so even if she’s not keen, she’ll get the message like.

Saysee looks him up and down and sees the lay of the land. She turns to him to flaunt her stuff, all showing-off like so he won’t pull them knives – but behind her back she’s mashing up some chillis in her fists.

The guy’s all atonto, ready for some fun and as she glides in towards him, he can’t believe his luck, so he can’t, and is pulling off his clothes like there’s no tomorrow. Saysee’s hands reach out and find their target, and she calls down the wrath of Ristra upon the fool.

What? No, of course Ristra didn’t kill him – that’d’ve been over far too quick, so it would! Far worse than that- he cursed him, so he did, and cursed him bad!

Every time that fool takes a piss, or if the thought of a woman even crosses his mind, well- you can hear his screams from Root to Tip! Funny as …..
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Post by Nyx »

"Just last week, it was. You know where the southern stream lets out into the grasslands, and those herders got that village set up? Well, one of the herders, the big fat one who thinks he's better than everybody else,"

The listener interrupts, "You mean Chief Nymon? Nieman? Whatever?"

"Yeah, that's the one. So anyway, he hears tell of people hearing jaguar calls from out the jungle. All the herders was scared to go near the trees. I would be too... you don't cross a jaguar... but some of the herd got spooked and ran TOWARDS the jungle."

"Towards? Gods, cows are stupid. If they et nothin' but the dumbest animals alive, no wonder those grasslands folk be so stupid. Slow and sedate, just like their food."

"Okay, so ANYWAY, the herders ain't as stupid as they look... they stay right there in the grass where its safe. And then fat chief Nymon comes waddling down from his building and starts to name them cowards, and shoves 'em towards the trees. They'll have none of it, though, and they all leave him there. So the fool... you won't believe this... he waddles his happy ass into the jungles after his missing cattle."

"..."

"Yeah, I thought you'd have naught to say."

"... well... what happened?"

"What ya mean, 'what happened?' He got et by the jaguar, idiot. His greed lead him in there, and his greed got him killed. Remember that, the next time the stupid grabs ahold of you, and you want to go get back what's your'n. It ain't your'n, you was just holding on to it for a little while. That jaguar, it was an agent of fate, it was. Didn't sneak up on nobody. Announced itself for miles around... you know what a jaguar call sounds like... can't be mistoook, and ya gots plenty of time to get away from it. Any idiot what can't listen to the wisdom of that, deserves what culling he gets, if you ask me."
To seek the breast of darkness and be suckled by the night.
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Post by [Syl] »

TURN I

Word spreads of the superior craftsmanship offered by the Shalish and some tell stories of the wealth the tribe has amassed.

The People hear stories of predators in the night, feeding off the flesh of the Afflicted -- those who have succumbed to Evil, knowingly or not.
"It is not the literal past that rules us, save, possibly, in a biological sense. It is images of the past. Each new historical era mirrors itself in the picture and active mythology of its past or of a past borrowed from other cultures. It tests its sense of identity, of regress or new achievement against that past.”
-George Steiner
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Post by Ristra »

So Ristra’s up there in his tower, and he’s got all these little bottles (smallest bottles you ever saw) lined up in front of him, and he’s pouring one into another and dripping that one into a third and there’s explosions and bubblings and the most vile smells you can imagine. He’s mixing this with that and the other, and suddenly there’s a whoosh and this big purple snake starts rising up out of the bottle! Before you know it, it’s wrapped Ristra with its coils, so it has, and its head is there weaving in front of Ristra’s, and it’s hissing at him, fangs dripping poison.

Then bam! It strikes straight for his eyes! But Ristra, quick as a snake hisself, grabs its neck before those fangs can sink in and he gathers it all up in his fists, and he’s twisting it and wringing it and squeezing the juice out of it, right into one of his wee bottles there on the table in front of him.

And that was the very day, my friend, that the first purple chilli appeared. Rare, they are, might be only two or three grow up on plateau in a whole season, but they’re supposed to be lethal!

Lethal deadly, that is, if you’re not used to your chilis! But if you are, well they just blow your mind, so they do! You see things that aren’t there, you know? Some say they let you cross over – no, not like that you idiot- I mean so you can see things happening in other places, maybe in the other places, you know what I mean?

Ah shut your face! No I’ve never had one, but I bet they’re better than this swill we’re drinking here!
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Post by Aisha »

Col looked out over the crowd that had gathered in the Kara. Nearly all of us. The Gont have strong faith. Which was the topic of his sermon today.

"The faith of the Gont is as strong, as solid, as heavy as our mountain. We travel throughout the lands, and we get visitors all the time. Traders, relatives, friends. And we are sometimes struck by their lesser belief. Yes, they do believe. It is only the mad, or those who have suffered head injuries, who deny that the gods are with us. But to the Gont, it is different. Shen is with us more surely.

"The reason is clear enough. Shen is not merely our god. Shen is our home. Our home is the body of our god! Shen Mountain is steeped in His holy spirit! It comes off of the the earth as heat comes off of a rock after the sun has set. It bubbles out of the ground and rolls down the hills in the water we drink and bathe in. It is what ripens the fruit on our trees, and fills us when we eat the fruit. It fills or hearts and souls with His love; his wisdom; his guidance.

"In a way, it is sad that others do not feel and know their gods as surely as we do Shen. Not that they are to be pitied, of course. Their gods give them other gifts. All the gods have their own ways, and all are worthy of praise. But I cannot imagine anything greater than having the spirit of Shen living in me. My constant protector, guide, and companion."
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Post by Ristra »

So, you like oul Shanachee’s stories, do you? I like telling ‘em n’all, but my throat’s far too dry to be telling another, so it is.

Why, thank you kindly – that might just do the trick. Ah!

So, did you ever hear about the run-in Ristra had with those three demons? Ha! That was something, I’m telling you! Three brothers they were, so it’s said, and they really weren’t nice! Canker, Old Blue and Throt they were called, but by the Tree, the name hasn’t been invented yet, that I’d call them.

The three of them took a mighty dislike to The Kochu, started following them around in their wanderings. I’m telling you, The Kochu started dropping like flies, so they did. The old and the weak first, but soon enough, the young and hearty too. I won’t put you off your dinner, giving you the details, so let’s just say they got almighty sick first. Both ends, you know? And that was just the start.

Well The Kochu, they’re fine when they’re fighting an enemy face to face in battle, so they are (more than fine!), but this situation they found themselves in, scared them stupid, so it did.

So, The Kochu, they’d hung their hat in Ristra’s hall, as it were, but they’d never had to ask for his help – truth be told they didn’t even know how to go about such a thing! But for the first time in living memory, they interrupted their regular trek, and they headed straight for the plateau. Dumb as pigshite they might be, but they got that one right! And those stupid demons weren’t far off pigshite neither, for they followed them right up.

Well The Kochu, they were screaming out for Ristra and praying and singing and wailing, anything they thought might grab his attention, you know? And Ristra’s up in his tower not hearing a word of it (– no purple chilis yet, remember?) But them demons, the moment they set foot up there and start spreading their foulness, he knows!

Ristra comes racing out of that tower in a cloud of dust, and he’s onto Old Blue before they even see who it is. One foot on his throat, one on his crotch, Ristra grabs hold of his feet and drives these vicious curved spikes through his heels, just below the ankles. Canker and Throt have scarpered meantime, so they have, but they don’t get far! Canker gets a ring through his nose and one through his sack, too, just for good measure. Throt gets hooked too – in through one eye and out through the other!

So, Ristra drags them screaming back to his tower and hangs them from chains linked to their new jewellery. He disappears inside and there’s this almighty banging and clanking and crashing and whatnot for a few days, and out he comes with the most fiendish chain ever invented. Spiked it was – thousands of razorsharp barbed spikes covering every link, and this he proceeds to wrap around his tower, and round his captives too, pinning them to the walls. Bright red demon blood welled out of a hundred thousand wounds, so it did, coating those spikes and raining gently down.

Needless to say that was the end of those demons hassling The Kochu, so it was!

So, you wanna know how to scare the crap out of a demon? Look there, my friends, what do you see wrapped around that barrel of ale? Aye! Get yourself some string, and tie a load of dried red chilis to it, and just wrap it round whatever you want kept safe. No demon’ll ever, ever cross (a) Ristra!
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Post by cedar »

"Baskets? You've got to be kidding me! See that guy over there?" A man in a woven cedar bark skirt was chatting with a woman whose hair was slicked down with grey mud. Behind the woman were thirty or forty wicker baskets, strong looking and made of different colored reeds, arranged in pleasing patterns. The pair were only one match in many; the clearing they stood in was filled with loud exchanges, angry protests and changing of one trade for another. Cedar-clad Shalish dominated the scene, and it was evident. Everyone wanted the glistening cedar, strong as stone and flexible as a wind...already cedar canoes were sailing across the wide nearby river. The graceful crafts almost flew across the water, seeming to make no wake at all.

The man in the woven skirt pointed down the clearing to another pair bartering. One man dressed with bird feather edging was presenting a set of obsidian-tipped lances to a man also dressed in bark. The bird man was making an offer on a pile of cedar planks laid out before the two. The planks glistened in the sunlight, the grain so fine it glowed without being oiled. They made the entire clearing reek of resin; which to the Shalish, was a sweet nectar. Bird man wasn't please with the smell, and he was buying high. He needed these planks and the wood was going fast. Everything cedar was in demand this season, the Shalish had a monopoly on a harvest that was said to be have been amazing. The planks were a fine example, as was the canoe the woman with the mud-slicked hair wanted. Bird man quickly handed over the lances and gestured to his fellows to begin packing the planks for the ride home.

"He must've spent the last season making those lances, and all he wanted were some planks! If you want a canoe, Sister, you've got to make me a better deal." Hawks were starting to admire the canoe. It was almost twelve feet long, perfectly balanced...it screamed to be raced across an ocean of waves. The woman with mudslicked hair considered for a moment, and then opened one of the baskets revealing a pottery interior. "You think I didn't come prepared? Ten are filled with honey, ten with salmonliver oil and ten with cattail pollen flour. Five are filled with sweetreed liquour...our finest brew. But for this trade, I wish the canoe and four cedar bows."

The man thought for only a moment and then accepted. He knew that his profit was high today, and all thanks to his god! He shook hands on the deal and left the owner to fetch the bows. Each was of cedar heart wood, deep red and glowing like fire. Sinew bowstrings and a leather arm guard were included, although arrows were not. The bows would be taken care of as the artifacts they were, for it was obvious wood like this came only a few in a lifetime. Each member of the trades left the clearing happy, most thanking the cedar totem.
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Post by Ristra »

"Tell me! Tell me NOW, you shiggin barbarian! Tell me WHY?"

Fluid spattered all around as the frantic stranger's heel drove down onto old Shanachee's throat. Pus-filled blood (or was it bloody pus?) from the missing hand hissed and crackled as it hit the cold ground.

"Why! By! The! Tree! Why! Green! To! Red! Eh?"
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Post by Serenity »

The flames danced and flickered as the Tombo gathered for the evening service at the Shrine of the Evening Flame. Annie looked over the gathering, her eyes briefly lingering on Aliya, noting the coming-of-age teen further isolating her self from friends and family. Firmly returning her attention to the service, Annie scanned through the oral tales she knew, once again choosing to tell the ancient myth of the Chrysalis and the Transformed.

“The stories say that in rare instances, once in several generations, there is born to the Tombo a child who begins to change, to transform…”

Aliya listened to the familiar tale more intently than she had before, although like all the children of the tribe, it was a childhood favorite. Who wouldn’t want to be the chosen of Serenity? But now…now that just maybe it was happening to her

“…the sages do not know what happens once this change begins. The records say these children all seem to go off on their own; searching for the Chrysalis, another clan of Serenity in a place where it is supposed the change takes them over completely and they cocoon themselves until they are fully Transformed. But the location of this clan, should they truly exist, is not known here in the plains. Perhaps they are in the roots of the great Tree; or perhaps in the crown. All that is written is that these children start to take on a hardening of the skin and then disappear.”

Aliya resolved to finalize her preparations that evening. Annie might understand, but her parents had instilled enough of their own fear at the unknown mutation of their daughter that she felt safer hiding it from everyone. Better I go off on my own than to bring disgrace and dishonor to the tribe, she thought. Who am I to think I am chosen? And yet
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Post by Orlando »

There was a beautiful Fusang maiden, devoted to Orlando. Everyday since she was a child the maiden would go to the meadow, a place awash with tall grasses and straight, tall trees with big white blooms. In this place, she would meditate and pray to Orlando.

Orlando was pleased with her so he graced the maiden with happiness and beauty. The god would sing songs to her on the wind and feed her the bountiful fruit from the trees to sustain her. The sun would shine on her and she would laugh at Orlando’s antics as he made the animals dance for her. Orlando loved the maiden well and cherished her life.

As the maiden grew in grace and beauty, she came to the attention of a mighty Fusang warrior who actively pursued her. Yet she rebuffed all his efforts. The warrior would follow her into the meadow and in secret, would watch her devotions and become jealous and enraged at her attention to her god, as if Orlando was her lover true.

One day, as the maiden left the meadow for home, the warrior stepped out from his hiding place and confronted her with his jealousy. She denied him once again and in anger and pain, the warrior stabbed her with his spear.

In an instant, the sky turned dark and the wind whipped around the warrior. With a growl, the ground trembled and up through the earth grew another tree, knarled and bent, big white blossoms pulsing. In the bark of the tree, the warrior could see the canines of the beast in the trunk, snarling and biting, dripping with ire and fury. The warrior, fearful, tried to run but the roots of the tree snaked around his feet. The wood of the tree began to split and break as shards of wood like spears themselves, broke away from the trunk and were hurled at the warrior. They tore into the warrior's flesh, impaling him to the ground, killing him.

At once, the sky cleared and the wind calmed. Out of the bent tree came Orlando with the blossoms and fruit in his hands. He bent to the dying maiden and placed the blossoms on her wound. As he was about to place the fruit in her mouth, she stopped him and begged him not to save her life but to take her with him to his throne in the afterlife, as she wanted nothing more than to be with him. Her life, she said, kept her apart from her Orlando. The god, unable to deny her, removed the blossoms and dropped them to the ground, now stained with her blood. Orlando held her until she died and when her spirit finally left her body, Orlando carried it with him to the great beyond. She now lives again in the brightness of Orlando’s love.

The tree stands there still although unlike the others of its kind, it is bent from Orlando’s anger. It is knarled to show the teeth of a rabid dog.

Where Orlando dropped the blossoms, new trees have grown, bent and knarled as the first.

It is said that the spear the warrior used to kill the maiden was made of the wood from one of these trees as the wood is fine and strong for many weapons and tools.

The fruit of the tree is small and sweet, but plentiful, and comes after the blossoms and at a time when the winter food stores are just about depleted.

Every year on the anniversary of the death of the maiden, the tree brings forth a bounty of white, fragrant blooms, signaling the beginning of spring and the planting season.

The blossoms are tinge with red. The blood of the maiden.

The tree is called the Dogwood.
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Post by Serenity »

The old woman sat on her stool, weaving stalks of wheat into mats; baskets of various pristine grains surrounding her. Her seamed face lit up with a toothless smile, as one of her more wealthy regular customers regally approached.

“Greetings, Mother Dreschen. I see the rice and grain of the Tonbo are pure and rot free, unlike those grown elsewhere. How do your people grow such rot free harvests?”

The old woman chuckles gleefully at the question, and rubs her hands together. “Ah, child. The harvests are as blighted among the Tonbo as among the other people of the plains. But Serenity provides. Have you not heard of the thousand diaphanous wings?”

Shaking her head, the well dressed woman settles herself nearby to listen, along with others who had overheard Mother Dreschen’s storytelling chuckle.

“The harvests of the Tonbo are generally abundant, but for many years the people were weak and ill, due to eating a diet comprised of grains both pure and rotted. However, there was never any time to sort out the rotted husks before storage, and as supplies dwindled through the year; even the rotten grains were consumed.

“Recently, the women were transferring the rice from their gathering baskets to the wattle-roofed storage granary, when a great gathering of dragonflies flew past. So many of Serenity’s totem were there, that a gentle breeze was created in their wake.

“As the breeze passed by, basketfuls of rice were being tossed into the granary. The breeze caught several handfuls of the rice and diverted them; tossing them separately upon the ground. It was noticed that all of the rice blown away was either dried out or rotted, so the practice was implemented of tossing the grains into the air when a breeze is wafting and letting the granules fall back down, before gathering for storage. The heavier grains fall back, while the dried out husks and any rotten bits of grain are blown away.

“Not only does it work on dried out and rotten rice, but it works for other grain and we have noticed far fewer pests in the stored rice and grain as well. The Tonbo have grown stronger from eating better, and we share what we have learned with those who will listen and follow suit.”

Her story told, Mother Dreschen sets her weaving aside to cup a handful of rice and let it trail through her fingers back into her basket. “Is this not a wonderful sample of the generosity of Serenity? How much would you like to take with you today?”
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Post by cedar »

The boy stood illuminated in the clearing. He looked to the Crown far, far above. His Grandfather had noticed the boys constant Treegazing...he would need to be educated. And soon. Before the aging man was a patch of dry soil circled with small stones. To one side was a pile of sticks sorted by length and width, leading up to a few resinous split cedar rounds set aside by themselves. Leaned against the stone wall surrounding the Stump were rows and rows of the very special syrupcedar. The bonfire, his sacrifice to the Spirit, would be glorious.

"Come here, Grandson. I have something to show you."

The Grandson took a final gaze at his beloved Tree, and returned to the world of Men and Trunk. He walked over to his Grandfather, and flopped onto the ground for a cross legged sit. "What do you have to show me Grandfather?" the boy's gaze saw nothing out of the ordinary, and met his Grandfather's eye who asked, "How do you find fire?" The boy was caught off guard for only a moment. Learning from the old man was often left to the Boy, making decisions and figuring things out for himself, with his Grandfather only to guide his way.

"Power is hidden. Certain stones will give us arrowheads, others beautiful lamps and pipes. Certain stones react to each other, revealing the fire hidden inside." The Grandfather nodded, "You are wise Grandson. Stones are a strong ally for the shalish, our people. They have many uses indeed, and fire is one of the widest used by our people. Tell me, what is our closest friend?" The boy thought only a moment. "Cedar." The Grandfather nodded again. "Our totem, and the meaning of our name shalish. Some say shalish is the old name of the cedar trees, the name the oldest of Gods used."

"Grandfather, what did you wish to show me?" The boy wished to watch the clouds...his Grandfather was telling him nothing he didn't know. "I've got something really...unique." At this the boy perked up. He looked at the fire pit in front of him, the pile of wood and logs and his Grandfather sitting crosslegged in front of him, grinning like a boy himself. The boy knew better than to take his Grandfather's bait and steeled himself. Sitting patiently, awaiting the thing he was to see. The old man smiled wider and sighed in acknowledgment, "Ahhh..."

"Now."

The old man took up a woven pouch from his lap. "In the old times, when our tribe escaped tragedy and destruction, all they took for the journey was Cedar. This is what my Grandfather told me, what he had been told by his Grandfather, all the way back to the first tribe, who lived in the old times. He told me that the people ate nothing but Cedar, drank nothing but Cedar. He said our tribe planted groves along the way, as a line straight to our origins; a map for future generations. He told me that certain tribesmen could even speak with the trees." The boys eyes were wide with wonder. Here was knowledge he had never been told, things that were only for him to know, to pass to his own grandson someday.

"Here is a small part of what that first tribe brought to us, what the shalish can be used for."
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Post by Ristra »

“Hoooooeuuuuuuuch. Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhyakkk. Hyuck.

Thank ‘ee lads, thank ‘ee thank ‘ee thank ‘ee thought I was a goner there, so I did! Any chance of a wee drop to wet the throat? Ah! Thankye most kindly!

What’ve ye done w’it? By Tip, give me another drink will you? Never thought I’d have a run in with one of those, so I didn’t! Huch huch.

Dead? DEAD? You’re having a laugh aren’t you? You can’t kill one of them, so you can’t.

Go and have a look then! Aye, just as I thought- your corpse isn’t there, is it? Give me another drink and I might think about telling you about that was about.
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Post by cedar »

Chanting villagers surrounded the pyre. Two bodies carefully wrapped in cedarbark bindings and painted with the ancient symbol of the first Tree rested on top. The clearing reeked of the cedar-syrup soaking the wrappings. Sickly-sweet and oily, smelling of Cedars and other, the golden liquid seeped to the bottom of the bonfire, coating the fine-grained wood harvested last fall and turning the pile into a shimmering altar. His part completed, empty pails in hand, Grandfather walked through the gathering of his People toward Grandson. The young man strode forward even as his Grandfather approached, passing him in the midst of the chanting villagers.

The boy sat at the base of the bonfire, kit in hand. He twined his bowstring around the cedar spindle, set it in the notch of the fireboard, took his stone socket in hand and began his labor. Funeral rites were a sacred thing, passed between Grandfather to Grandson, from the time the People left the first Tree. It was a form of love-making, coaxing flame from where it was hidden in the wood. The hand holding stone pressed to his knee, Grandson's free arm worked smoothly, pulling his bow back and forth in perfect time with the chanting of the villagers. Soon the wood began to sing, adding pitch and speed to the death-chants. Smoke poured from the notch and as the words reached climax, he lifted the baseboard, and tipped his coal from the notch.

Concussive force knocked the funeral-gathering flat to the ground. Cedar-syrup ignited in an instant, before the last chant could be completed. Flame and light poured upward with no smoke; a pure, blinding, flash of all consuming fire. Only a moment later, when Grandfather had picked himself from the ground did he see that the pyre was gone. The two bodies had been taken from this world, consumed by the secret that lived inside the wood.
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Post by Nyx »

Once, there was a beautiful Amazon girl. No maiden was she, but then the Amazons never cherished that trait in their girls. But this day, she came across a stranger hunting in her jungles.

All know that Nyx' beasts hunt the evils of the world and destroy them. We've heard the story of plantation owner and the story of the spoiled son. But this day, we know why.

The girl was hunting, as is common among her people, and she came across a stranger, as I said. But the stranger was dirty and foul. He smelled so bad, it was a wonder he'd managed to sneak up on anything, much less kill it. But, it seems he had. But instead of caring for the meat, and thanking the spirit of his kill, he was just... well... you wouldn't want to eat the meat now, is all I'm saying.

So, the girl followed the man back to his village. The whole place was filled with similar. Dirty, foul folk, desecrating themselves, desecrating each other. But that's not the worst part. Amazons hunt in the wild. Put them in a jungle, or even the plains or the mountains, and you'll never see one who doesn't want to be seen. But in a village, there's only people around. Why would they know how to hide there? And this girl didn't.

And so, she was seen by the filthy. And they caught her. And they did to her what they'd done to each other. And when the girl died, Nyx was enraged. Instead of hunting them down, she simply burned the whole village from the jungle. Nyx's righteous fire will cleanse the taint from that place, so that whatever life springs from those ashes will again be pure and live in harmony with what's around it. Living, dying, killing, being killed, all in harmony. The way the Autarch made the world in balance.
To seek the breast of darkness and be suckled by the night.
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Post by cedar »

Gosh....I wonder how tall...

"Grandson!"

At the call from his Grandfather the boy was torn away from his beloved Tree. He rolled and fell from his favorite ledge, the one with an uncluttered view of the sky. The light was dim, filtered through the cedars outside the stone walls. A sandy beach ran to the small lake from which the Stump rose. As he strolled down to his lashed canoe, the boy sensed or felt the return of the influence exerted from the Stump. Recently the boy had noticed how he could now put the sense of thinness to the back of his mind. It still took much effort, but like acquiring any new skill the more he moved the static noise, the easier the pushing was. He hadn't mentioned the sensation to his Grandfather, but the old man had noticed. In the boy's eyes was the timeless deep, the first sign the boy had given that he could be destined for more.

As the canoe sank into the soft white sand, out strolled the Grandfather from the temple within the Stump. He was holding a long cedar drawknife and a birchbark pail. From head to toe, the old man was covered in thick splotches of something black, shiny and smelling thickly of spice. Or rot. A huge grin was plastered on the wrinkled visage as he motioned the boy into the temple. "Grandson! You have good timing. Come, I want to show you something."

Candles infused with cedar oil dimly lit the interior of the old-growth stump, spaced evenly around the rippling walls of blackened wood. The boy immediately noticed something different about the walls. They were still black but...they shined. The candlelight reflected off every surface of the wood as if they were wet. At once the thinness broke loose of his partitioned mind. Colors were thick on his tongue, sounds were bright in his eyes. The world violently shifted focus as the sensation threatened to break the young mind. With an effort that took a seeming infinity but was really only a moment, the boy locked the feeling back into place. "I am glad you noticed, Grandson! Yes the walls are what I wished to show you. Last night our totem, the great Shalish, visited me in a dream. He showed me that..." The Grandson interrupted, "...that the wood of the Stump would grow a thick mold, a powerful healer, and it was called treacle."

The silence inside the Stump was heavy.

Slowly the Grandfather asked his son, "How did you know Grandson? Were you visited by the Shalish as well?"
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Smoke-like clouds eclipsed the moon, casting shadows across the riverbed below. A darker shadow moved steadily upstream, boy sized and carrying only a wrapped bundle tied to his lower back. Black pitch covered his body, etched with spiral designs and dominated by a massive cedar-needle "tree" stretching from groin to chin. The Grandson moved quickly, barely splashing in the shallow water, toward the narrow passageway and the pool of the Stump.

Thinness returned as he reached the low rock enclosure from which the river ran. The boy stretched and took lung-deep breathes as he prepared the partitions in his mind for the coming experience. Stooping sharply the boy duckwalked across the pebbles and beneath the ancient slab of rock, and allowed a small amount the thinness to escape his partition. Colors swept across his tongue as the way suddenly opened into the pool and the Stump. His canoe was tied to the beach, and he quickly reached the opposite shore, mooring his cedar craft in the white, sparkling sand.

In the daylight this place felt hallowed, tonight it radiated otherness as firmly as the boneyard near his village. Crusts of pitch fell from his body as he crossed his legs and began to pray. He looked through the hollow roof of the stump and gazed upwards across the length of the Tree, his beloved, his soul, the only place he truly belonged...

Slowly the thinness reached forth...
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