Heroes of the Wild Hunt

[Kaiser Omnik]

Heroes of the Wild Hunt

Chapter I : Seeking Dawn (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MIfGjOe53QY)

"Awake from the long night, champions.
The senseless wanders have come to an end.
Remember dreaming about flying,
The fleeting images are so much more vivid than the shades of this murky sea...
Tear away the cloak that veils the truth of your soul, do not be weary!
Lift your heart and lift your spirit,
From where you are you can see the promise of life beyond.
Don't you hear them?
Already the choruses of prophecy echo across the waves and the reefs of the Lost Shore, foretelling the dawn of the gods.
Follow the silent guidance of the distant stars,
Come into the light of the rising sun; the darkness will fall!
If only you believe, you shall not lose your way."

The voyage through the Other is a perilous and terrible endeavor that can shred every bit of will and vigor from even the fiercest of souls. But the Ancient Host has persevered. Against unrelenting tempest. Against the chilling bite of the mist, gnawing at the entire body. Against soul-eating hunger. Against the tentation of lethargy which draws so many travellers towards the far reaches of the ocean and into the mouths of hell. Against all odds, the company hasn't strayed from its path. Due in no small part to the ties they forged in their eternal hunt...
But there is also this hardly perceptible voice - a woman's voice, to be sure - which has recently accompanied their few moments of quietude. Not unlike a siren's song whose music they can barely touch before it scatters to the winds, yet whose brief embrace leaves a lasting impression of warmth on their soul. What remains each time is the thought of a distant promise... Which nevertheless feels so close.

---

The aspiring gods suddenly come out of their reverie. The bewitched canoe has hit the beach. Majestic cormorants soar high above the violet-tinged sand dunes of the Lost Shore. Odd moss-covered monoliths, entirely unrecognizable, apart from the fact that they seem to have been part of much larger constructions before, are disposed on the borders between the worlds. Sieur Hellequin is the first of the Host to step on land. Hellequin, the unflinching leader of their clan; whose true visage is masked, his traits reflecting to his followers what they see in him; whose tongue speaks truths that pierce nigthmares and commands the eidolons and phantasms of the Other into submission. Hellequin, who always looked so noble and refined despite the circumstances, with his slender coat adorned with feathers of the Thunderbird and the fur of the Wendigo, and his headband weaved out of moonlight by Rai. Hellequin, who brought the Host together and assisted each and every one in honing their skills in anticipation of this very day.

As the others follow, he presses them to go out in this new land to put their plans into action. It is finally time, he says, to spring the trap on the demon whale.

Turn 1 begins and so does your quest to ascend to godhood. No Divine Acts may be spent this turn. You may invent locations, people and monsters as you choose - and as is fitting for a hero's journey, of course! The quest needs not take place on a nearby island, beach or cove, but you shouldn't stray too far from the landing point of the canoe, as you may get lost...(in other words don't RP your character going to the other side of the world unless you have a very good reason). Good luck!

[ArlEammon]

Tosk's Mission
This place was not like the others. Tosk could tell. It was unlike all the others, and was filled with a strange new energy he could scarcely recognize. He could feel the power of the Tribes in this place, of the Mammoth and the mighty Sabre Cat. He could feel their presence more strongly than he ever could have in the Other, yet that did not mean they were in this place.

Hellequin told them to go forth and spring their plan into action. Tosk bravely went forth, bringing out his bow and began a lesser hunt, yet this lesser hunt would be a stepping stone towards the Great Hunt for Seh-Wa-Nah. Tosk had begun his plan already, to hunt for the Tusks of the mighty Dread Boar. He had the creature's scent in his nostrils already, as a mighty hunter he knew the scent of the Dread Boar well, already knew it had been here, but where was it now?

As SabreCat, he possessed unmatched scent, he began to track the Dread Boar by scent alone, and he was attempting to find anything more. Tracks, perhaps droppings, finished meals of other prey, SOMETHING. He needed to find the Boar for his plan to succeed.

[Raz_Fox]

The Wanderer

Listen well, beloved. This story begins very far away and very long ago, on a nameless plain before a dark forest. Beyond this forest rise the mountains, and beyond them the tall trees of the Tunan, and beyond the Tunan, proud Sanann rising high above the waters.

A man walks alone on this plain with his cloak rolled up on his shoulders, lacking weapon and walking-stick. His hair is caught up into braids, his legs are long, and his feet are quick on the plain. Far behind him is the sea, but it is not the sea that laps at the heels of ships and is the delight of silver-armored fish. No, he walks from a place where no man is allowed to go, and where no woman can travel, save on their dying day. I cannot tell you where his footsteps began, for his boots hardly disturb the grass. They are spirit-boots, you see, made from some creature that he'd quite forgotten, and spirit-boots tread lightly upon the world. Everyone knows this. If you look, if you peer quite hard at him, you'll see what lies behind him. Not clearly, not clearly at all, but our eyes can't be tricked forever.

On he walks, on and on and on, day and night, for this man does not grow tired like we do. Rather, you might say, he is tired all over, and yet not tired at all; this is how spirits are, when they walk among us. He does not stop to sleep, and he does not stop to eat, for spirits don't know that they need to do these things unless you tell them. He does not even stop when he sees movement on the long horizon, but he is wise in this, for the land there is not like the land here. If you stand on that pale plain, you can see everything on it, stretching on for miles upon miles, every tawny-eyed lion and every fleet-footed doe. The wind rustles the long grass and stirs the dust into whirls, and brings the smell of the hunt to him.

He comes, in all due time, to a caravan traveling across the plain. They have no wagons, merely dappled horses with heavy hooves that churn the grass into mud, and they have no merry games, for they are grave with purpose. They wear their undershirts in the sun, and drape their long jackets over the backs of the horses, and are quite miserable in their thick snow-boots. Their armor is hidden in their packs, and some have there hidden breastplates of wood, and some fortunate few have mail-shirts of long-rusted bronze, made by the clever smiths of Sanann. When they see him, they let their hands rest on their war-clubs and their spears, but they let him approach, for this is right.

The wanderer is not tall, and he is not extraordinarily broad of shoulder, but he is a spirit all the same, and their horses can smell that on the wind; they are unsettled, they whinny and raise their hooves. He makes to walk through them without a word, eyes downcast, long legs tramping along, and the horses yield before him. But one of the travelers raises one hand, and says to him in a voice as firm as iron, "Wanderer! Long-walker! Where are you going, and where have you been?" This is the greeting that they use upon the plain, and it stops the man before he could pass their last horse. He turns his head and points onwards, through the forest, until he points to the highest peak on the highest mountain standing faint above the clouds. "Traveler! Shoe-breaker!" She continues, for it is a she, with hair cut short about her shoulders, and two war-knives at her hip, and paint streaked down her right cheek. She is Cebain, a warrior of the Kael who had long made war in the north, Cebain Ash-Foot. "What do you seek, where do you go?"

"I am going to find a weapon," he says, slowly. His voice is rich, but without the passion that becomes youth; strong as stone and heavy as death. "I shall walk until I find it." Then he passes their last horse, and he walks on for but a moment, the grass beneath his feet hardly bending. And it is now that the leader of the caravan, a pale boy with sun-tousled hair, speaks one word to the traveler. Sanann.

This is the magic of the boy's voice: the wanderer stops. He stops, and he turns again, and all can see the knowledge-lust across his face. The wanderer and the boy watch each other for a moment, and Cebain sees the grass wind-tousled through his eyes, and knows him for what he is. The wanderer then speaks, his voice quiet. "Tell me of Sanann," he says, walking back to him.

The caravan continues on, winding its way towards the forest, barely visible on the edge of sight - and that two days' long journey, at the very least. "My name is Camlan," the boy says as he rides beside the wanderer; the wanderer gives his name as Relain in turn. "And I seek the kingdom under the mountain, the stone upon which the waves break. When the rightful kings sat upon its throne, the gate was never forced, the king's warriors never lost a battle against their foes, and the rivers about it flowed with gold. The whole mountain was made hollow inside, like wormeaten wood, by the craftsmanship of wise men. Its birthrights are the lights that never fade, and the gold that never darkens, and the secrets of making blades that will never shatter. Sanann!" He says, his voice wistful and bright. "The throne is mine by right; my father was Pendain, descendant of Merrin, sea-king and forge-master."

"And you are not enthroned." Relain does not ask questions, it is not his way. It is very rude to speak like that, child, keep that to mind. But you must forgive spirits when they speak like such, for they have not had mothers to teach them winsome words, or fathers to teach them how to speak. "You travel to Sanann to make war."

Camlan stiffens, and now Cebain Ash-Foot speaks for him. His stiffening is not the fury of a proud boy, although he is proud. It is a strengthening of the self, a bracing against distant storms. "The throne of Sanann – I was told this before the death of a great man – the throne must pass through death," Cebain says, riding beside Camlan and Relain. "This is its curse. The sea-wolf came on silent sails, and took Sanann by the secret ways, and a great man escaped with a newborn child. And now the child returns by the crippled pass, and behind him follows Cebain of the Kael, and after her Kakaneillo the whisperer who knows the secret arts, and Ohtanoto the strong, and Tairain the swift, and the brothers Hoar-armed, and the warriors of the Ushtael besides. We are the Household of Camlan Sannath, and we will force the gate."

Relain speaks, after a long league. "I am the hunter who does not sleep, I am the sailor who needs no rest. I ask only for the weapon I seek." Then Relain is silent, and does not speak further. But I shall tell you what he plans in his heart, beloved. He believes in the tale spun, but only because he has been told to believe. On the shores of the sea which cannot be sailed, he had met a blind-woman stacking stones, one on top of the other - or so I have heard, and so I have been told. He saw her struggling with a great stone, and he bent his back to lift it, and so brought it to where she wished. In return, she gave him the wisdom of the honey-makers, and told him of a weapon that would grant his every wish. Go east, she bade him as she smeared the honey upon his lips, and follow the first man who speaks to you of Sanann. So shall you live, and the sin of Merrin undone.

He believes in the rivers of gold, and the gleaming armor of their warriors, and he believes that he knows its cause. And he knows, without a shudder of remorse, that he would tear out the heart of the mountain to catch the demon whale, Se-Wa-Nah. For, you see, this was his quest, and he would see a thousand die to give life to his brothers, to see his sisters live once more.

As to what he did – hush now, my beloved, and listen. I will tell you more, if you promise to sleep.

[Raz_Fox]

Wandering Song

Now's long the road that leads to hearth
and cold the maiden's wind-
Sanann the tall shall be our hall
when victory we've winned.

Now under Camlan brave and bold,
from frozen peaks we fly,
the world flat before our feet
and empty all the sky.

Our eyes are keen, our bodies hale,
ne'er shall we call retreat;
our limbs have autumn's fearsome strength,
the wind does bless our feet.

For mead and honor, honeyed sweet,
we ride all through the night:
Sanann we'll see with grateful eyes,
and then we all shall fight.

Now's long the road that leads to hearth
and cold the maiden's wind-
Sanann the tall shall be our hall
when victory we've winned.

The traveler with darkened face
we met upon the plain:
his songs do roll across the grass
and keep from us our bane.

His strength is vast and fails not
through night and day alike,
to cross the ford and brave the gale,
and bridge the yawning dike.

His skill is deft and never brought
To fail by whorl or crack.
The sword is sharp, the pike is long:
Now neither do we lack.

Now's long the road that leads to hearth
and cold the maiden's wind-
Sanann the tall shall be our hall
when victory we've winned.

Cebain the tall does call us on,
her voice the cracking whip,
for we have leagues before us yet
til Sanann's mead we sip.

Now quick the hoof and quick the heel
through forest dark and dim.
The mountains rise above the trees;
Be supple now the limb.

To gods of old we give our hearts
And to one nearer still:
we pray, Relain, watch o'er the path
that goes across the hill.

For spirit is as spirit does
and from the blesséd sea
come wind, come life, come mariner
to make the villain flee.

Now long's the road that leads to hearth
but we will be there soon-
Sanann the tall shall be our hall
beneath the pale moon!

[Orbiter]

Land ahoy, A path in motion
Arasusta looked around in the earth others have come before him those pillars stood there as if to confirm it, he bowed in remembrance and jumped close to the top of one of them to look around, there was no sign of the whale. But he knew that he wasn't a great hunter, but it would still be for the best to try looking around the area before moving.

Creeping closer down he saw some kind of burial mound and something rotten was nearby probably judging from the smell that hit his nostrils. But before he could go look closer he heard a buzzing sound followed by someone talking, "Hey you" turning behind he saw a big bee? or wasp probably the latter. He tilted his head out of curiosity, while the big humanoid wasp looked at him unmoving she seemed tired somehow "Nice to see i got your attention i need you to help me, i promise to offer you my own help and rewards if you help me", Arasusta thought about it an ally would be good and would probably help a lot against the demon whale, he nodded with fervour it was a deal.

"Good follow me boy" the wasp started flying close to the ground, Arasusta was running besides her keeping up as she sped up it looked like she was pretty fast with those wings, but at this speed they probably would reach the place they needed to be, whatever it was he dint ask her. It seemed like an easy plan help the wasp get help in return. After a long time he felt a rushing as if his body was on fire yet he couldn't find the source, he almost stopped as it seemed he was at the same time starting to drown in the air.

The wasp stopped noticing him having slowed down before waiting as he caught his breath again, soon enough he was running against her as they came into the distance of some kind of giant tomb like structure, all around them the misty bog seemed deathly silent save the occasional cricket chirping for a while before stopping.

The wasp stopped as she pointed to the top where a giant statue was "There is an artefact on the top, we could get it with ease, provided we are able to dodge any creatures and traps that are placed", taking a deep breath he stabilized himself as he listened closely to the sound of his half breath and her instructions, it was time to focus for this task blinking he spoke fast to get ready "Okay you lead the way i will follow", the wasp nodded and started walking sharply towards the tomb with him in tow.

[TechnOkami]

Chanda's Quest

Two naked feet stepped into the light purple sand, shimmering in the misty sun. Eyes behind a curtain of raven hair looked upon the surroundings, upon her kin as they all left to find their method to bring down the beast, but lastly at Sieur Helleuqin. Then her head turns down to look upon the shore, upon broken monoliths and worn stone. Her feet arose, moving forward with purpose down the long shore of violet. She walked and walked until the cool, salty air of this spectral sea became warm and dry, until the sea was replaced with naught by land. There would soon be not a single drop of water, as all around her was covered in grains of sand, and the once dull mist evaporated into a single focal point of blazing heat above. The same strange monoliths dotted this place too, however. One wonders what this all used to be, and if it was Se-wa-nah's fault for its current state. Perhaps. Perhaps not. Why things were they way they were however was not the most important matter on Chanda's mind though; she was interested in two things primarily: the death of the Demon Whale and how she would go about it.

She continued walking, her black form like a specter upon the shifting sands, she an ebony flower floating across a purple wind. Such was her hair and such was her dress. She should know, for it was none other but her dear sister Rai who wove her clothing. Onwards she walked, stone monolith past stone monolith, all buried deep beneath the sands until she came upon not a monolith but a stone temple. It was taller than the other stone formations, but only a little. She walked around the desert-worn temple until she found an entrance. She peered into the black abyss, light-less and long with only a hint of light at its end. She stepped up to the opening, her feet lifted out of the sand and now treading upon the great stairway. She climbed step by step, foot in front of its kin until she stood in the door way. She let her back rest upon the cool interior of the temple, herself weary from the travels on foot coupled by the voyage she and her kin had been on, and before she could resist the temptation, she was soon fast asleep.

Day soon became night as the blazing heat of the midday sun gave way to twin crescent moons, with the intensity and brightness of a moon fully filled, for even though they were but thin slivers they both worked hard to exude that level of brightness. Chanda's eyes opened not too soon after, and before her was a world of dark, much cooler and much less lit than before. Her eyes though seemed well adjusted to the dark, and though the light was not nearly as intense as the sun, the dual moon's light was enough for her to see clearly. She ascended from her temporal resting place, and looked upon the dark corridor, barely lit with the pale moon's light. She begun her venture into the temple, and for whatever might lie within. For the death of the Demon Whale and for the ascension of she and her kin to more powerful forms... it was all worth it, no matter the hardship. She would survive it, and be stronger for it.

[Raz_Fox]

Journey

Settle, child, settle. I cannot tell you everything that happened on the road to Sanann, for there is too much, too much to tell. How could I tell you of the bridges made, the streams forded, the trees cut down, the battles fought? Oh, yes, there were battles, for the land was dangerous and wild, and they moved through the territories of many tribes. Let me tell you, instead, of a night, one like many.

It is a dark night, without a moon, without rain, and the starlight above is choked by branch and bramble. The Household of Camlan Sannath are letting their horses rest on the height of a hill's crown, and have laid out their long coats to sleep upon, and many sleep with a weariness deep in their bones. Frost still clings to their boots, for they had dared the crippled pass, and that in the deep days of winter! Cebain counts every head, accounting for every one of the household, making sure none had been lost in the heights and on the slopes. She moves like a shepherd. Camlan, himself, plays his flute in the darkness, the song lilting and sad, a lament for every man he will lead to death; Kakaneillo lets the runes fall through his hands, his pale eyes burning in the dark, murmuring of the tower falling and the wall broken by a thousand hands. But it is the prerogative of mystics to speak doom, and he cannot yet see his own clearly.

Relain is working with his hands by the fire, as he did and does, carving a length of wood into a blade, nocking cruel notches into its edge so that it will rip and tear. There is not yet any fire within him; it is one of Cebain's blades, perfect in every detail. And as his hand runs up and down, carving and peeling, he listens to every prayer made by the name of Behan the White Horse, and the brothers Belak and Peles who watch over brave fools, and Kyamokou who stole fire from the moon, and he hears every prayer spoken to Relain the dark.

Now, you must understand, they do not pray by his name because he is fearsome and tall, because he demands their praise, or because they know of the power that will be his when he comes into his own. They pray by him because he was not of their world, and because he had chosen them, and every doomed venture requires a god to guide the dead away into the webs of spiders. He had cared for their horses, he had gathered their wood and carried their burdens and tended to their wounds, and he made them weapons of wood and stone to wear at their hips. His songs had pushed them on, the deep rumble of rowing-songs guiding their feet as they traveled through the gale and through the dark. In the blizzard he had been the cave-finder, the path-maker, and the way-leveler. And for all this, he asked for nothing, simply that he come with them to Sanann and that he be given a weapon. Why should they not pray by him?

Relain gives no word when Cebain sits next to him, shoulders slumped in weariness, staring into the fire. They sit together, alone, for some time, I cannot say how long. The flute is sorrow in the dark, sorrow that Camlan must ask others to bleed for his cause. Cebain speaks first, for Relain speaks little, and the history of the land weighs on her heart. "This land was once bright and plentiful, if you can believe that." This makes Relain raise his head, and look at the trees, which are all about him dreary and solid and without any magic of their own. "We have our histories, they tell us this: once, stones were not just stones, and horses were real horses, and the butterflies on the wind remembered everything they heard. The stonefoxes offered aid to those who dug, and the corn whispered secrets as the wind tossed the heads. The world was full of something- something we have lost." He looks to her, without word or emotion. "Merrin, Merrin," she sings, after a moment of silence.

Merrin, Merrin, had heart of stone,
Merrin, Merrin, had age in bone,
Merrin, Merrin, slew his kin,
Merrin, Merrin, let the Auroch in.

Relain stirs, some half-forgotten memory returning to him, his tongue running over his lips unbidden. Cebain starts in fright, like the rabbit who has seen the hawk spread its wings. "The Auroch," he breathes with fervor, one sapphire eyebrow arched. "The great horns! The rippling crimson! The fire in the breast! Before we hunted the whale..." Before his unseeing eye are things that you should count yourself lucky to know nothing of, child; his hand curls, as if clutching the spear.

"We," Cebain repeats, herself filled with knowledge-lust. "Who were we, wanderer?" Did he have tribe, and wife, and hound besides? Certainly, he has the bearing of some exiled lord, cast out by tribe and family, she knew. And yet nothing of them had he said, and only now does he say-

"We were the Household of Sieur Hellequin, the Host Who Sought The Whale." There is still vigor in his voice, a vitality of the hunt and the sea, more than the vitality that possessed him when there were burdens to be carried and when there was a need to be filled. For a flickering moment, the fire dances in his eyes which do not reflect anything, but are deep and endless, and for a moment he speaks without hesitation. "Amon stood upon the bow, and we rowed, we rowed, we had spear and bow and net, and Amaron my kinsman rowed by my side, and before us Sieur Hellequin, and behind us Chanda and Tiasana, and at the keel little Rai. We still hunt, but the hour grows late." He did not speak to her of how everything in this waking world cut him, how the wind on the heights had sought to shatter him as if he were made of snowflakes, of how he dared not sleep for fear that he would never awaken. Such is life for the spirits made flesh, and this is why they touch lightly upon the world. They cannot bear to be in the world full for fear of going mad.

"And the weapon you seek in the armories of Sanann – this too is for the whale?" The sword is examined, handsome Relain smiles, and he hands it to Cebain. In the dark, she takes it, feels the leather wrapped around its smooth handle. She judges it worthy, smiles, tells him so.

"We all have our duties in the hunt," he says. "How could I do any less?"

The fire dies in the third hour, but the song of Camlan rises to the moon, and Cebain waits for him on her bedroll, as Relain carves in the dark. You will understand this when you are older, my darling.

[ArlEammon]

Tosk's Mission
Deeper into the wildlands. . . Tosk thought as he continued his hunt. He noticed several unimportant predators and prey along the way, various boars, wolves, and voracious cats. The boars that opposed him were shot with the bow, the Cats who attacked him were slain in hand to hand, Tosk was a great hunter, after all. After making inroads across the island where he first began, he noticed something odd. There were more predators than before, but they did not attack. Perhaps these beasts would listen to reason with him?

Tosk smiled at the incoming creatures, an assembly of various predators and prey. There were indeed, Mammoth and Sabrecat, the tiger, the boar, the wolf, the lion and condor, among others. Tosk smiled and gave them greeting in strange animal sounds he was capable of reproducing with exact precision. "Brothers of the Wild, I have come seeking the Dread Boar and the Dreaded Seh-Wa-Nah. He has threatened some great evil things that I would have him not do." The beasts gathered around Tosk'Mehkarae, "We have come to give you greeting, stranger. We have seen you take care of our outcasts for us, and for that we give you thanks. The Dread Boar is in another island, a few days sail from here. Speak with one of our brother whales for a ride."

Tosk could tell these beasts were no ordinary beasts. They were close to the edge of another world altogether, and thus they were intelligent, like Humans. Tosk did not have time to speak with and interact with these animals, he had the Boar to catch. Nevertheless, Tosk bowed. "Thank you, noble beasts." Tosk responded. He would go catch a ride inside the brother Whale.

[Doc Kraken]

Fog on the Shore

Not the first to touch the Lost Shore, but far from the last, Chagathu stepped forth from the canoe. The spirit took a long look around, studying his surroundings with care. One hand traced a pattern across a monolith, feeling the textures of this new land. The spirit shook his head.

“Curious.” He muttered, and started off down the beach. He did not look back, and he did not turn aside, but the spirit cast his gaze back and forth before him as he went. The beginnings of a plan had taken root in Chagathu’s mind while he was on the canoe, and it would not let go. For in his heart, Chagathu was a thief, and all thieves must steal.

He came at last upon a rocky outcropping where the sound of waves dashing themselves against the shore filled the air, and there he stood for a time. The salt wind felt good against his face as he stared out across the sea. The Host had come to a strange place, a land he was entirely ignorant of. The hunt called out to him, but in his heart he longed to forge ahead, to see the sights unknown and hoard secrets yet uncovered.

After a few moments, Chagathu began to hum quietly, swaying back and forth in time with the crash of the surf. Stooping, he plucked a clump of seaweed from the beach, running his fingers through the tough fibers. Held one way, the damp bundle resembled a great fang, sharp and terrible – the tooth of Se-wa-nah itself. Held another way…

The spirit began to sing in a low, murmuring voice, hands flashing through the air like seabirds. As he gestured, the air seemed to thicken under his fingers, salt spray drifting up past the mounds of kelp and scattered shells. For the hour approached when he and his kin would steal immortality itself, and Chagathu would not begin a theft without preparations.

[Raz_Fox]

Meeting

There is a sacred place in the Tunan, my child, a hollow by the singing river that taught men how to sing in the days before the Auroch passed through the land, driving the shining salmon and the burning antelope before its horns, stripping the voice of the land from itself. This is why the trees no longer whisper to themselves, for they are dead and can no longer speak to each other concerning their convocations and their rituals. This is why the stones no longer grow, as they once did, stretching their roots out far and their mountain-branches out high, and why water no longer sings. They are dead.

In this sacred place, my darling, there is a totem, and it is of the kind that you must never disrespect. It stands as tall as a tree, and was made by the first men, just as the mighty gates of Sanann were. Above all the eagle stretches its wings, and beneath it roosts the raven who leads the souls of warriors to the spiders of the Weaving-goddess, and beneath it springs the deer who is most graceful of all the creatures of the forest, and beneath it stands the wild bison who is the strongest of all creatures of the plain. Beneath them all, the stone-fox digs, his face twisted into a laugh, for he hears all the secrets of men who whisper into the ground beneath their beds. And on this day, a dark day in the ending of winter, an evil man comes to this place.

There is a cloak of seal-skin caught about his shoulders by a golden broach, and his dark hair is cut short about his ears, and there is ash smeared beneath his eyes, for he is a man who seeks to strike terror into those who see him. The sword at his belt is fine, and his shirt of mail is as old as Sanann itself, now falling into rust – but no arrow shall pierce it yet, and no spear either. His smile is a wolf's smile when it sees the rabbit far from its hole, and his eyes are too cunning for his head, and there is light deep within them. On his head is a twisted thing of gold, decorated with all the lovely things of the earth, a crown easily washed free of blood. He dismounts, and looks up at the totem, sneering with the security of a man who knows he is better than all the gods that ever cared for beast or stream. He is the sea-wolf, the king of Sanann-that-stands-by-the-sea.

The sea-wolf gestures about, to the bushes, to the high trees, to the opposite shore of the silent river. His men, who carry hunting-bows and arrows fletched with the feathers of white seabirds, scatter about and seek their hiding-places. Two stay by him, and they are the kind of men who are chosen for their cunning and their consummate skill at violence; one has at his hip the Horn of Merrin, carved from the greatest horn that ever did pass through the workshops beneath the mountain. The sea-wolf spits upon the ground before the totem, and then sits between the paws of the stone-fox, the tip of his scabbard dragging upon the ground. The sea-wolf waits.

Hoofbeats echo through the mist before too long has passed, and before him come six riders. Their horses are not proud war-horses, but they will do, they will do. In their lead is a boy, barely a man, with the golden hair of a man whose forefathers came from the far north, and the sickly-pale skin besides. Beside him, a woman painted, a charm against death hanging around her neck; two knives she carries, and a warclub besides. On his other hand, a dark man whose hair is the color of raw-cut sapphires, who carries a blade at his side and whose eyes do not waver. Two brothers ride behind them, white feathers bound behind their spearheads, and between the brothers a man lean of body and hard of eye, who carries hawk-fletched arrows at his hip and a bow of horn in his hands.

They dismount. Camlan steps forth, dressed in mail and blessed with an eagle's talon about his neck. "You know well," he says, after a long moment of silence, "That the throne of Sanann passes by blood. That you took the crown from my father's brow, once his head no longer sat on his shoulders. That I have come to kill you in turn. But I am Camlan, master of the Household of Camlan Sannath, and I am not my father; give up the crown you took, and the things of Sanann's armories, and I shall let you flee. Give up my throne and you need not die, not yet. The ravens will mourn their loss."

The sea-wolf laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs, for he did not believe in his heart that Camlan was a true man. Now he sees only truth in the boy's eyes, and as is the nature of all evil men, he finds it so very amusing that he cannot breathe. He covers his face, and beats his thigh, and mocking howls. "I give you my offer," he finally says, face still covered. "Bow to me, and I might not kill you."

Camlan stiffens. He drives the heel of his boot into the grass, standing like a mountain. "No," he says. "Never. Not for my own life would I do this. I tell you again: surrender what is not yours, and I will let you flee."

"But it is mine," the sea-wolf says, rising to his feet, palms open and teeth white. "There is no difference between us – I even was as young and callow as you when I led the men of the north to glory across the whale-road. I earned everything I have through the wound-worm and the wood-bane, the sword that makes widows and the fire that ruins cities, and you seek the same. If you will not bend, I ask of your host: are you willing to ride to death behind a child?"

He waves to Cebain, insolent in his cunning. "Whatever he has promised you, daughter of the heights," he says, "I can give threefold. I am king of Sanann, and what wealth remains in its treasuries is mine. The last coats of mail, the last blades of ancient men, the rings that are the delight of warriors' hearts, they are all mine to take and give as I please. Bend the knee, and you will find me a much finer master."

"You cannot give me a king to serve in pride," she replies, and flashes her teeth in return. "Your house is a den of thieves and unjust men. Where is the craftsman? Where is the smith? They were the glory of Sanann in its grand days. No, neither you can give me, and neither a just throne."

"Content yourself being the bride of a corpse," the sea-wolf returns, his hatred bright. "You!" He says to the man by Camlan's side, then. "Whatever he has promised you, I shall give fourfold, even if it be land or ships or crowns." Now, child, he does not mean this. Any man willing to betray once would betray again; he would throw them in chains from the heights, once Camlan lay dead. But in this he makes the mistake that will kill him, for he meets the eyes of Relain, and for just a moment, the sea-wolf sees the endless dark of a spirit's eyes, and for just a moment, Relain sees the secret of the sea-wolf, the fire guttering deep within his eyes. And the sea-wolf is filled with utter panic.

Many things happen all at once. The sea-wolf cries for his archers, the blade of the sea-wolf is drawn, the wandering spirit steps forward to seize the sea-wolf whose eyes shine with unnatural light, and the storm falls upon them all at once, dark clouds driven fast by the wind. Camlan, roaring treachery, draws the ancient bronze of Sanann, but too late, for the sea-wolf has fallen upon him in terror- but Relain is there, and catches the sword on his outstretched arm. There is a terrible moment where Relain trembles, forcing himself to obey the Veiled World, to not be broken and die far from the sea, and then the sword sinks in his flesh to the bone. With a roar of pain, he strikes the sea-wolf with his bare hand. The sea-wolf falls, rolls, panting in pain as the rain turns the ground soft beneath him. And the Horn of Merrin is blown, and the sound of it shakes the totem, makes the river raise from its banks with the terror of the chase, drives the trees to terror, and calls the archers of the sea-wolf to battle.

The arrows sing from their strings, and Relain throws Camlan to the ground with one arm, even as his warriors leap forward with a cry of vengeance. A arrow pierces Relain's shoulder; Tairain's answer strikes an unfortunate sea-rover between the eyes, the shaft burying itself deep. Another arrow sinks into Relain's gut; Cebain crosses the river in a leap, knives bright, and the archer is dead before he can draw back the string fully again; the sea-wolf is up and running. A third grazes Relain's head, staining his braids with spirit's-blood, too pale to be mortal; he catches the haft of an axe with the blade of his sword, the pain of the clash nearly driving him mad, for he has never endured the like; blood freely slicks his arm. Again, again, Relain defends himself; the sea-wolf's man knocks the sword from his hands; the arrows have stopped but this is little consolation; the gleaming bronze strikes from beneath, tearing through; Camlan rises as the axe falls from the fingers of a dead man. "To me, to me!" He cries, standing before Relain, sword held ready.

Battle is a swift thing, and battle in a sacred place is over swiftest of all. The sea-wolf is already upon his horse, and his hornsman the same; they spur their horses on, riding as if pursued by ten thousand terrible things. The archers bleed out into the grass, defiling the green by their crimson. Cebain wades through the river, and Tairain is already at Relain's side, tending to the arrows. Relain does not cry out again, though the arrows tear his skin as Tairain does what he can to remove them. And now Camlan is at Relain's side, wiping the blood from his brow, his sword discarded. "Treachery," Camlan says, and there is fury and sorrow mingled in his voice. "How could he do this under the eyes of the gods? May they curse him!"

"There is something in his eyes," Relain whispers, and is unsettled deeply as they bind his wounds.

[ArlEammon]

Choumachi
The whale graciously accepted Tosk's request, and thanked him for taking care of the outcasts. "Across the sea is the continent of Choumachi, called Choumachi by the Paltoio." Tosk entered the whale's massive mouth and awaited. Eventually, and Tosk did not know how much time passed, the brother whale brought Tosk to the continental shore of Choumachi. Several men with scraggly beards and spears noticed Tosk emerging from the iced shore. "Fare thee well, brother Tosk." The whale said good bye and then left.

Finally, Tosk noticed others. These people who looked like him. He didn't know of many who did, mostly just animals. He smiled, and wondered what adventures this new land would bring him in the future. For now though, he was sure that the Dread Boar was here, in this island. He was unsure how that could be, but nonetheless, he trusted the Wise Beasts of the West.

"Greetings "Men". Tosk said, with an unusual strain on the word. He had not said that word often.

[Raz_Fox]

You want to know of the battle for Sanann? Well, before I speak of such things, you have to understand what came before. Anyone who would leave out the admonitions of the night are no storytellers at all.

The Household of Camlan Sannath camp on the plain before Sanann. They are nearly a hundred strong, followed by the plains-men and the men of the Tunan who desire vengeance against the cruel rovers that have stolen their kin and made war against them. There would be more, but for this: that Camlan commanded every man with child to return to his tribe, and that every man who could not account for his presence should return to his kin. So a hundred they have, and twenty torches, and vain hope.

Camlan can see, looking out from the edge of the camp, the lights of the shanties of Sanann. All beneath the mountain, running precariously up its western arms, are the tents and shacks and workshops of the slaves of the sea-wolf. Here are her smiths, her masons, her weavers and her porters; here are the men who shoe the horses while wearing copper coffles, the women who wash the raiders' feet, the crones who wash the blood from fur-trimmed tunics and the cripples who bow their heads when the sea-wolf passes. He swears that he will free every one of them, and drives his nails deep into his trembling palm.

Relain is working, day and night, to make the host ready. He knows how to make the long knives of the Kael, and he knows how to make the bows of Tairain's people, and he knows how to make armor for those who would have run into battle naked but for paint. The sash tied about his arm is stained deep, and no matter how often it is changed still it becomes stained; he wrestles with the pain, and has forced it to its knees, forced it to submit to him. This is the source of his smile, now: that he has conquered it.

It is the last night; Relain has run out of wood, and finishes his last blade, a gift for a young bravo named Hinatha. It is stronger than the spear Hinatha had carried, and will tear horrible wounds where it strikes; it is light in the hand and firm in the grip, in the best tradition of the Kael. And it is now, as he runs his finger along the grooves, that he is approached by the boy with the sun-tousled hair. Camlan rests a hand upon his uninjured shoulder; Relain does not start, but merely sets down the weapon. "I did not thank you," Camlan says. "For saving my life. If you had not had your wits about you, I would be dead. Even now, at night, I dream of the arrows, and it troubles me- but I need not worry, for you are with me." His grip tightens, but not from fear. The resolute and firm are often tight. "But you do not have to be. By my side, I mean – you are injured, and I would not lead you to your death, Relain of the Household of Sieur Hellequin. I have promised you your weapon, and who would carry it to your kin if you were to die? Stay here, and wait for me to take my throne. No man could ask any more of you."

Relain is like a trusted stallion beneath Camlan's hand; his breath is steady, his gaze even. He says Camlan, "No. I will stand by your side. I will fight for you. And if I should die, you will take the weapon to my brother, Amaron. You will find him by following the tongues of men." A thought strikes Relain, and he shifts in his seat, sifting through all that he has made for the army of Camlan. "Here, and this also." He takes a ring, hollowed from the heart of a tree. "I made this for a dark-haired woman, but I entrust it to you. Give it to the woman your heart deems best." Camlan is silent as he takes it, serious of face, for this is the first he has seen of a man beyond the face of the loyal servant.

"My friend," he says, and he is honest, as he is in all things. "My friend, one thing more I ask of you, then. When I sit in the throne of Sanann, and we have slain the usurper, I would have you make me a weapon more fitting to my hand – the symbol of my kingdom reborn. I have considered, you see, and my heart is tired of swords." He rests his hand on the pommel of his sword as he says this; it is beautiful, made by cunning men far from the sun. "They are not weapons befitting a king, but rather, they fit a boy seeking vengeance upon the slayer of his kin. A king must be ready to build, strong of arm and careful of eye, and his weapon must be in all things first a tool – I am sure of this. Make for me a hammer, my friend, the hammer of the king of Sanann. I will take to it readily, I am sure."

"I will," Relain says. "Though I need one to know. My mind is not my brother's; I cannot create, I may mimic." He hesitates for a moment, and then continues, "My friend."

Now Camlan leaves to seek out Cebain, and have words with her, and to offer up a ring hollowed from a tree's heart. One of his Household passes him along the way, and when he reaches the workbench of Relain he is carelessly welcomed, for Relain thinks to himself that Camlan has returned to say something else, or that Hinatha has come for his sword. He is not prepared when a hand strikes his bandaged shoulder, when he is turned to meet a face, pale-eyed, wild-haired.

"I sought the bees when I was young," Kakaneillo says, and Relain sees that the whisperer's eyes are red from tears, and his bared chest flutters like a bird on the wind. "I wanted to know, I wanted to be able to see, to understand the runes; I thought this was best, I thought this was best. Their wisdom is sweet at first, but be glad, be glad! You are not burdened by fate." Both hands are now on Relain's shoulders, a grip of iron, and Kakaneillo is breathing swiftly. "I have seen, I have seen, I have seen- woe to me, that I saw such! War falls upon the changing rune, and across, and the knowing is mine – this is death, this is ruin, and it must come to pass. Yet, yet, the throne endures, and it is clean, and its rule is just. Fire hides where it cannot be found, can you find it? Not by eyes, not through eyes, that is just a mirror, sight from afar. The waves break upon the shore, and leave little glass on the sand; he drove it where it could not escape, woe to the dead world!"

Relain seizes him in turn, hands hardened by toil gripping the pale flesh. "Release me," he says through teeth grit against pain.

"You cannot be released, not now, not since you made the choice. The choice, the coin on the path, the sword unsheathed; one rune falls upon the other, knocks it askew from the fire. Now lies only death on the path, and it is what comes after you must choose. Swear to me. Swear by me. Swear by the king with a corsage of white over his throat!" Kakaneillo draws close, so close that his breath washes hot on Relain, tears running down his cheeks, mad-eyed. "Swear by me, the goat's-foot head!"

"What must I swear?" Relain roars, the deep bellow of the oar-singer who must keep time across the endless sea. "What must I swear?"

"Swear," Kakaneillo screams back, even as men awaken in the camp, even as there is the tramp of running feet, "That you will not forget, that you will never forget, fire-winged. I bind you to the day, to the run ascendant, to the one you hold in your arms, to the sound of the wound-sea. As it is seen, as it is heard, as you taste death on your tongue." To those gathering about, he gestures, stepping back as he weeps madly. "I charge to you the burden harder than mine! Remember these men, the shape of their faces, the roll of their words, the fire in their breasts. For their sake, that you will drink down death! Swear by me, the sundered, marked by the sign of the goat and the gift of the honey-makers!"

The warriors who do not fear the secrets of the whisperer make to seize Kakaneillo, but Relain raises a hand, and they do not. He does not understand the seer, but he thinks that he understands tears, and this moves him. "I swear by you, Kakaneillo," he says, softly. "Whatever you have need of me to do, I will."

"Let it be done, then," Kakaneillo says, the fervor leaving his withered frame, his shoulders falling and his fingers hanging loose. "Hail Camlan, exalted forever." And with that, he slips from the fire-lit circles to bury his runes, to dress himself in his breastplate of wooden slats, and he cries no more. What will be done will be done, he whispers last of all to his runes, and he is as immortal as the throne of Sanann now.

Relain does not sleep, either. And even if he could, he would not. But now you must, child- in memory of he who could not.

[Orbiter]

Drawing closer in time

The wasp was good three times she was ambushed by some strange beast's and all three her spear cut them in half. It looked like the veil was thin here as he wasn't really here yet not physical yet, he existed yet not and he dint seem to have as much power. She stopped as if noticing his own difficulties "It seems like you are having trouble in this world even if the veil still exist's here no matter how we proceed try on surpassing your own limit exist's" Arasusta dint speak as he moved with vigour this talk reminded him of his early days in the host. Before moving he noticed a grasshopper it was sitting there before taking a big jump and going down. It reminded him of back when he learned how to help defend the host. His own mix of attacking circling an opponent with his footwork first, but that grasshopper gave him an idea he could perhaps mimic like jumping directly to his opponent how would that work perha-, he snapped back to reality as the air was filled with howling of some kind.

Thats when he noticed in the shadows or more accurately felt some strange shadowy wolves had surrounded them the wasp was clutching her spear, it looked like this was a fight they wouldn't run or win easily. As they wolves circled them he started jumping around in short jumps like the crickets do, he attacked by landing on the wolves clawing and kicking them before jumping away to the next and the next one, to many times his heart seemed to jump from his chest from the fear they would surely catch him as they came closer each time.
But he as well managed to react each time so far to either kick them away or jump, from he own view he was getting the hang of being in so close to the other world even if he was still in the veil somehow. After a minute or so he noticed that the wolf's were thinning in number, and thats when he noticed.

He had drifted away in his frenzy, but there were less enemies around him. Seeing no reason to continue fighting he left hopping away very fast, as his heart raced and his mind worried where would he find the wasp, and was she still alive?. But faintly he remembered the tomb and how she said it was filled with something, perhaps he would meet her there if she was still alive besides so far she had held her own ground perhaps this time wouldn't be any different, and if not the tomb might hold something to help him.

Not wanting to waste any time to travel he brought in his mind how the grasshoppers jumped great distances on their own, it was inspiring to him in a way he hoped to do the same jump away, taking a deep breath he relaxed before jumping towards the big tomb, the land wasn't as good he felt something breaking under him and then pain coursed his legs, it looked like the force wasn't absorbed as he though it would, and had given away he couldn't move.

He dint know for how long he was there, but before long he heard noises coming from one of the stone doors someone was coming looking around there was nowhere to hide. Arasussta prepared himself for whatever was to come next, thankfully it was the demon wasp who seemed surprised to see him.

They glared each other before she spoke without breaking her gaze "Looks like you managed to survived as i saw you would, but you should be more mindful of your environment when you fight, even the great mantises to the weakest snails know this."

Arasussta continued glaring for a while before speaking he was in pain, but she dint seem to care about that "Well.....i admit going like a berserker wasn't my greatest idea, nor the fact i jumped up here still i paid for it, if you wish could you help me get up?."

The wasp seemed to consider it and for a moment he thought she was gonna leave him, but she came and took him flying up, a few moments passed before speaking "I have come here before and i have a secret opening to the statue from there we can move, impressive jump by the way i wasn't sure how you managed it, but the price was a bit steep don't do that again, unless you are sure you can handle the pressure."

Arasussta dint move nor speak on the way there, he had done something foolish but they were here either way now so it was no use thinking about it. As they got closer it was easy to notice the fact that the statue was very big and insects seemed to be coming out from some kind of egg, there were spiders scorpions centipedes butterflies and more, but there was no kind of bee or wasp like creature coming out from it, it looked like that was done on purpose but why? a vendetta? or simply out of spite they included almost every kind of insect. He couldn't tell but he found the statue oddly acceptable.

Some moment's passed before they arrive on the base of it there was a staleness in the air and his legs seemed to be a lot better, but still hurting. There were two pillars that led to the top of something like a veil and on their bottoms there were two centipede like statues, "So what should i do now great wasp?", the wasp dint speak but instead motioned him to go to one of the statues "We turn them towards whatever is our side of left together on, three...two..one..go!" it took a great deal of effort but he managed to turn the statue to the left together with her, a bell chime was heard and then water started coming from the top spraying everything.

The demon wasp seemed bothered but dint speak instead she pointed up and started trying to climb the pillars, Arasussta understood at that moment why she had him go with her this challenge of sort needed two persons and she was unable to fly to the top after it started raining water. Meanwhile the water was coming less often now but he was wet as well, letting out a sigh he put all his power to his fingers as his gauntlets broke into the pillar stone, he started climbing the pillar of stone it was slow and it seemed like forever he climbed as the water seemed to get stronger threatening to throw him down, this time how ever he knew that the fall might kill him his legs were better, but the height was bigger than he though it would be.

Slowly ascending he finally reached the top where the water was on him so strong he almost lost grip there was some kind of machine, and the wasp wasn't there to help him. Having nothing to lose he took a grip on the machine as best as he could and turned it, left as she had said slowly the water came to a close from his pillar. But he noticed that there was still a lot of water coming from her own and the water level looked like it was dangerously close to her. This would be the most foolish thing he did, he got up on the pillar on one foot and jumped on the other pillar above it towards the machinery bypassing the water that would normally stop him, as the water hit him he used his grip on the machine he turned it off like his own.

As the water stopped running he let out a sigh and sat close to the edge waiting for the wasp, where did so much water come from either way?. He would ask her, letting out a breath he looked up there was a small hole to the dome like ceiling, but he would think about that later he closed his eyes to rest, a couple of moments later he felt a buzzing in the air and heard a sigh close to him, he smiled the wasp was finally here.

"I dint expect you to come so soon up here," only half truth he expected her to be here soon just not that soon. "Well i dint expect you to do something reckless like jumping from your pillar to mine to turn off the water, but time is of the essence come i will take us top, but i should warn you i don't know what lies beyond this room."

Arasussta nodded he was ready, he had to be done quickly and get back to the others soon he had a whale to help hunt. Taking deep breath he jumped to her as she took grip of him and started flying up to the ceiling, it looked like the distance was bigger than he though like most things in this tomb.

"So why did you need me for help minus that challenge, why not one of your own kind?" the wasp dint speak and for a moment he though she dint hear him.

"As a species we are loners, but a few of us do go into groups, its rare but it happens, still i din't want to get help from my own, as it would mean a bigger share of loot among doing other things as a favour since it would mean i am weak, but for me its one of the things i might be asked to do which i would hate and i fear of doing." She put a strong emphasis on hate and fear in such a way that he understood that he shouldn't inquire. The rest of the trip was uneventful, they reached the ceilings entrance and flew straight to the other side.

The place inside was very bright, the light was coming from the top where some kind of crystal was, around them towards the right there were also some insects surrounding a pedestal something was there, but looking left he saw giant fleshy eggs surrounded by crystals he could look in them and the silhouette of something was in them, an interesting dichotomy.

She spoke first "These eggs are not why i am here, but the formations that grow around them, as of now you have my help with your hunt." Before he could answer she pointed to the pedestal "That there was an artefact i heard about in the past, it helped the user control vast swarms of insect's it would make a potent weapon if you manage to get to it, but beware you would need to repair it as it was broken the last time i heard about it, and don't think of even touching that swarm they are known to eat someone to the bones in minutes."

Arasussta smiled he had her help, so far she was more or less stronger than him, her help would be appreciated. But that artefact was interesting, but his legs were still tired and hurting he needed some kind of idea to cross the swarm, perhaps fire or a way to trick it.

[Ipphli]

Very well. I shall tell you the story of Amaron, and how he first came to be known to our people.

Unlike his fellows, Amaron jumped ashore right behind Sieur Hellequin. Fidgeting from foot to foot, he sprinted off into the woods as soon as their leader’s back was turned. Sieur had tried and tried to work with Amaron, tried to get the young godling to come up with a plan for aiding the Host in bringing down the demon whale. Each time, Amaron had laughed, claiming he would come up with a plan when he had to, and not a moment before. ”What good is planning,” he claimed, ”when we don’t know what to expect?”

Now, with Sieur’s talk of going out to implement their plan, Amaron knew it was time to go, before Hellequin could start on yet another lecture. And so it was that Amaron wondered towards the towering obelisks, fascinated by the designs he found carved in their sides by nature and by craft. After so long at sea, he marveled at the sand beneath his feet, the plants that slowly grew thicker and larger all around him. He found comfort in the solidness of the earth beneath his feet; it felt comfortable, felt right.

Always seeing something else to study, to admire, Amaron soon found himself in a land of rolling, grassy hills. Forests and rivers were sprinkled throughout the land, while tall, majestic mountains formed a backdrop for it all. The sights left the godling speechless for a time: the shimmering gold of the sunlight on the grass, the rich brown of the soil, the vibrant green of the forest leaves, the deep purple of the distant mountains. Such colors as Amaron was sure he’d never seen before, especially not like this. ”Here, here is where I’d like to live, after the whale is defeated,” he said to himself. For the first time that he could remember, Amaron had a goal, something he felt worth striving for.

The sound of voices broke him from his reverie. Curious to see the people that lived in such a beautiful land. Climbing the nearest hill with ease, Amaron found himself staring down at a number of strange structures: tall, cone-like buildings with magnificent drawings covering the outside walls. And the people! Tall and fair, their skin and hair kissed by the sun. He saw children running and screaming with delight, small animals dancing and barking at their heels. He saw men and women going about laughing and talking with each other. Everywhere, people were smiling, enjoying themselves. Nowhere did he see anyone preparing for a fight, or doing mindless chores.

With a grin, Amaron began to descend the hillside. ”Here, here are people I can live among, people after my own hert”, he said to himself with a laugh. As he got closer, a cry went up from the people nearest him; they had spotted him, although he appeared as a spirit to their eyes, with his body not quite blocking the view behind him. By the time Amaron arrived at the edge of the village, everyone had gathered to see their strange apparition. An elderly man stepped forward, wrinkled and balding, but still standing straight and strong. Looking Amaron in the eyes, he nodded his head once in greeting, but remained silent.

Fortunately nothing could dampen Amaron’s spirit. Still smiling, he returned the old man’s nod before speaking. ”Greetings! I was walking amongst the hills, and I was attracted by the sounds of your merry-making. May I join you? Oh please say I may.” The people looked amongst each other, startled by his words. Finally, after much whispering amongst each other, the old man broke into a smile. ”Yes stranger, you may join us. Come, you will sit with me. I am Nayati, son of Hassun. What may we call you?” ”I am called Amaron.

So it was that Amaron joined the people in their festivities. For three days the village laughed and made merry, regaling the godling with stories and songs. In return, Amaron did the same, although many of his own stories were darker and grimmer than their own. He danced with the women, and wrestled with the men. He played with the children, and ate and drank with them all. And so for a short time, Amaron was content.

Let us end our story there, for the moment. Let us leave Amaron his happiness while he still has it.

[Ipphli]

Now I will tell you how Amaron grew to be the god we know him to be today. Yes, of course gods grow; you did not think they were born gods, did you? They may be born powerful, but like anything, only experience can teach wisdom.

On the fourth day, Amaron arose late in the morning, as was his wont. He discovered the men had all left before the sunrise, and the women and children were working at various chores. Dismayed, Amaron ran to the nearest group of women. ”What are you doing? What of the singing, the dancing? Why do you not celebrate today?” The women looked at each other for a moment, and then laughed. One of them, seeing the distress on Amaron’s face, sobered and told him, ”We cannot afford to celebrate every day, silly man. Someone must collect food, prepare it, cook it. Someone must make and mend clothes, take care of the houses.” Shaking their heads at such foolishness, the women went back to work.

Amaron was dumbfounded. These were supposed to be people like himself, people who enjoyed the fun things in life. The more Amaron dwelled on the matter, the angrier he became. When the men returned, they found Amaron sitting at the edge of the village, angry and sulking by himself. Nayati came over, sitting down next to the spirit. ”What troubles you, my friend? Has someone upset you?” Still angry, Amaron lashed out at the elder. ”What troubles me? Everywhere I go, it’s always work, work, work! You have such a precious gift here, and you waste it doing chores and meaningless tasks day after day. What is the point in life if you don’t live it to the fullest?”

Nayati was stunned, but after a moment just shook his head. ”I am sorry you feel that way my friend. I tell you, theses ‘tasks’ that we do are not meaningless, while singing and dancing are not the only ways to judge a fruitful and satisfying life. I hope someday you might realize that.” With that, the elder stood up and walked away, leaving Amaron to sit and ponder his words. When the time came for the evening meal, he went and joined Nayati and his family as he always had. However, instead of being greeted with smiles and kind words, there was a ominous silence that greeted him.

Realizing he had upset his hosts, Amaron tried to assure them that he was apologetic, and that he would carefully ponder their words. Such statements had always worked on the members of the Host, so why shouldn’t they work on these mortals as well? Silence was all that met his words. The true blow came when the food was passed around the circle: every time a bowl should have been handed to Amaron, it was instead handed to the person beyond him. Face turning red with rage, Amaron jumped up from his seat. ”What is the meaning of this? What kind of hosts are you, that you ignore and neglect your guest?” Nayati looked across at the angry godling, shaking his head in sadness. ”What kind of guest refuses to aid his hosts? Only those who contribute deserve to partake of the efforts of others.” With that, his hosts went back to their silent meal. Angered, Amaron stormed off into the night, refusing to lower himself to such meaningless tasks.

The next morning, before dawn, the men came to where Amaron slept and asked if he would care to join them in their hunt that day. The godling merely rolled over, ignoring them. ”Two can play this game. They will give in eventually, and then we can return to the way things should be,” he thought to himself. And so over the next several days, that’s exactly what each side did, ignoring the other. But while he had no need for food or drink, Amaron found that he desired such things. What he did not realize was that, while he thought he missed their meals, what the godling truly missed was their companionship.

Amaron tried to win back the villagers the only way he knew how: charm. He begged forgiveness, pleading for them to forgive him. Such tactics had always worked on the members of the Host, after all. He put all his skill with words in trying to convince them, but they would not be moved. Disapproving looks and silence are all that met his every entreaty. Finally the godling gave up, at a loss as to what to do. So he did something he had only rarely done before: he stopped, sat down, and pondered the situation. Eventually, overcoming his anger, he realized that no amount of words would prove his sincerity; instead, he would have to show his intentions with actions.

So, the next morning, Amaron awoke before all the others. As the men walked out of the village to begin their daily hunt, they found Amaron silently waiting for them. Inwardly pleased, Nayati said nothing, merely giving Amaron a single nod of his head towards the rear of the line. Smiling for the first time in days, Amaron fell into step with the others. While he had never hunted before, and often made mistakes that caused the others to laugh or curse, the godling returned from the hunt that day exhilarated. He began to sense what it was that Nayati had meant about joy coming from things other than singing and dancing.

Over the next few days Amaron improved his hunting skills. The people were speaking to and eating with him again. After a week, Nayati declared that they would be moving the village the next day. Amaron had heard that the people moved, but he did not realize it happened so readily. All that day the village prepared, and Amaron did his best to aid them however he could. The next day the village moved out.

It was then that Amaron learned that there were other uses for the skills he had learned hunting. But that part of our tale will have to wait until another day.

[Raz_Fox]

The Gates of Sanann

Do not be afraid, child. Come closer, wrap yourself in the blankets, and do not look to the shadows. Let the fire keep you warm, and let my arms keep you safe, as I tell you about death.

This is the flaw of the sea-wolf that you must remember: he cannot believe in true men. He says to himself that no man can be earnest enough to ride to death, that no man cannot be swayed by cunning advisors. So he has sent men to hold the harbor-gate, and his men sort through his slaves and tramp through the shanties in search of spies, and clever men search for hidden doors in the side of the mountain. There are, of course, men holding the vast and broken gate that once was the finest door in the world, but he has not brought every bow he has to that point, and neither has he brought the long spears and the caltrops to hold the gate. So it is that when the lookouts see the gleam of Camlan's spears, approaching fast, he does not believe in them. This is a distraction, he says to himself, something to keep him from noticing their true assault. Or perhaps they will burn the shanties down and slay the serfs, and seek to starve the sea-rovers, to besiege him with merely a hundred men - this is the word of his heart. This is his folly.

He watches the Household of Camlan Sannath come closer still, riding through the shanties, not turning to the left or the right. And as they draw close, silent and terrible, it is obvious that every man under Camlan's command rides with him, and that there is death in their eyes. Camlan himself, riding up the slope in the vanguard, draws his sword, and the only sound for a long moment is the press of hooves and the breath of desperate men and the drumbeat of their hearts. And the sea-wolf, standing by the vast shattered doors, orders in panic that the line be held- that men be brought up from the harbor- down from the heights- that every whoreson who follows him should hold fast, or he'll kill them himself-

The Household meets the sea-rovers in that moment, and there is blood on the road into the mountain.

The first push drives the sea-rovers hard, sending them tumbling them up the mountain-road and broken down into the shanties, pushing as deeply as an arrow sinks into flesh. The long spears of Camlan's host drive their foes before them, and their breastplates are proof against the arrows of the foe, and their swords tear terrible wounds in dissolute flesh. They rally, they push, everything is chaos and the slaves of the shanties watch dumbfounded.

There is a desperate moment when everything is in the hands of the gods, when the sea-rovers come in from every side, from the shanties and the slopes and the gate. Some of the Household have lost their horses, some of the horses have lost their riders, the sea-rovers press against the brave, the horses scream and trample the foe. Everything in this moment depends on taking the gate, on slaying the sea-wolf who hides behind his warriors, and glory shines about the youth with the sun-tousled hair whose voice rises above the din, urging his loyal household onward, onward, the clarion driving his enemies to flight. In that moment, war is glory, there is nothing but the desperate striving and the victory over the foe, and Camlan is a god with a head wreathed in pale fire. He springs up against the gate, and his sword is flickering death, and there is a war-cry rising from his throat.

A stray shot, a flash of white; the arrow is buried in Camlan's throat to the white fletching, and he topples back into the arms of his shadow. His sword slips from his fingers, and on his face there is an innocent's sad confusion.

The desperate moment reaches its peak. The sea-wolf howls victory; Relain holds his friend fast, his own throat choked; a maiden of the Kael with a ring on her finger looks up to see the death that is worse than her own; those before the gate hesitate, waver, worry whispering in their heart that the battle is lost. Then the oarsman's song begins, and it is one word and it is a furious bellow and it is steady, it is the heartbeat, it is what drives those at the gate forward into the teeth of their foes as is the right of the bereft Household. "Camlan. Camlan. Camlan."

The Household is now at the gate, and they fight with the chant on their lips. The prophet dances from foe to foe, his face utterly calm, never flinching, for he knows his death. The war-maiden screams the name, heedless of the sword that sinks deep, trailing blood behind her path; it is not all hers. The native Hinatha, whose father died enslaved in the shanties, carves through the press with his finely-made sword; the archer Tairain, his arrows flying true, stands behind one of the brothers Hoar-armed who carries his brother's bloody pike; the fiercest of the Ushtael, his axe cutting through bone with every strike, scatters the cowardly sea-rovers before him. And before them all, driven by madness, heedless of any who stand before him, tear-striken Relain strikes through them like the lightning that lights the plain afire. He carries the sword of Camlan, his arm's blood running down his hand, and he looks onwards, onwards, to the sea-wolf only.

The sea-wolf tries to stand his ground, to fight alongside his thanes. The first of the Household to reach him, a pale-eyed warrior with honeyed lips, is slain; the sea-wolf takes his sword in both hands and brings the blade down upon the whisperer's head, and the skull is cleft, and so he falls dead. So, too, the second to reach him, whose axe is broken with a stroke, and whose heart is pierced with the sea-wolf's deft blade. But when Relain cuts through the his thanes, heedless of how deeply their spears pierce him, the sea-wolf turns and runs.

The line is broken, the battle for the gate grows fierce and bloody; every sea-rover is alone in the chaos of war, every man of the Household of Camlan Sannath stands shoulder-to-shoulder. Relain heeds it not; he follows the sea-wolf, and Cebain dogs his heels. Now, for the first time, Relain sees Sanann for what it was: caves within caves, rough-hewn, without glittering golden streams or fine-arched ceilings. He does not care, for he is on the hunt. Through the caves of Sanann the sea-wolf runs, past broken torch-sconces, across steps broken with the detritus of years, and behind him come Relain and Cebain, and they cut their way past every sea-rover in their way. So what if they are cut? They do not feel it. And so they come through the mountain to the stairs that lead to the throne-room of Merrin that looks over the sea, and before it there is battle between the sea-wolf's guard and the two followers of Camlan.

The sea-wolf does not tarry, for fear that his pursuers would make a break from the press to slay him, even if it meant their death. He curses Camlan, curses his men for not being stronger, and draws a knife perfectly balanced for throwing as he pauses on the spiraling throne-stair. The door is narrow, they will not evade it, he says to himself. And when he sees Cebain Ash-Foot step through the door, bleeding from a dozen wounds, cut by spearhead and sword and pierced by arrow, the sea-wolf throws the knife, and it buries itself in her chest to the hilt. She stumbles back down the stair, and her head falls into a spider's web; she goes to meet her beloved.

Still Relain comes, bearing the sword of Camlan, and the sea-wolf offers him all the gold of Sanann, even as he draws his sword once more. Their swords clash; the sea-wolf offers him the loveliest maidens taken from the serfs, the finest ships that ever crossed the whale-road, the coffers of Sanann itself, only if he is allowed to live. Still Relain comes. The sea-wolf cuts Relain's hip, he cuts Relain's breast, he fights furiously and makes his unearthly opponent bleed. Still Relain comes.

Now, you must understand this: Merrin, the greatest and most sinful king of Sanann, loved the sea. He could not bear to be without the sight of the sea; gold he hated, and silver he gave freely to his thanes, and all day he would look upon the sea. So before his throne, that great throne hewn rough from the bones of the mountain, he had carved a window, and a terrace, so that he might rise and look out on the sea that he loved. And it is on this terrace that Relain comes to die with his foe, driving him back until he stands with nowhere to run. There is no hope in Relain. The pain has consumed him, the pain and the loyalty to a golden-headed boy.

Spirits cannot be caught by the webs of spiders, but are blown away by the wind. Relain knows this, my child, and he accepts it. Until he sees the fear in the sea-wolf's wide eyes, and the light caught guttering within them, and the light spread out as far as his eye can see beneath them. He hesitates for a moment, grinning with the knowledge of the dying and the hope of stolen fire, and then rushes at the sea-wolf, the sword of Camlan held high.

But the sea-wolf is cunning, and the sea-wolf is vicious like a fox in a trap, and he strikes one last time. He ducks beneath the blow, and cuts Relain's chest open to the bone, and Relain stumbles forward; there is nothing beneath his foot, and he falls- he falls- the sword of Camlan falls from his fingers, and there is nothing but despair on his face as he falls into the caged light.

Were he any other, the story would end here, with the last laugh of a dead spirit who is blown away by the wind. Were he any other, you would be hearing this story with a collar around your mother's neck, and nothing but rags to wear, and a wolf and his pack to please as you grew older. But this is his nature: he is Relain who is loyal to death, and who will never stop. And so, he clings to life for one moment longer, even as he strikes the water and it breaks him, breaks will and bones and spirit and everything but loyalty burning so fierce that it is all he is. The sword sinks, that which was Relain is torn apart and shattered, and the sea-wolf spits and turns away.

He pierces Cebain again as he passes her, letting the dark blood pool around her, and bounds to the gate. He will be victory, he says to himself, and he is right. Behind him, the sea becomes lesser, until there is nothing but sunlight playing on the waves, and the songs of the sea are nothing but echoes, and the glass beads on the shore are washed away.

[Ipphli]

Gather around, and I shall tell you the tale of how Amaron guided our people, turning us into what we are today.

The day after the village, and their guest Amaron, had begun to migrate after the herds that sustained them, disaster struck. The Kesdiyin, a rival tribe, descended on the peaceful village. Caught by surprise, the enemy was upon Amaron before he knew quite what was happening. Combat was not an unknown concept to the godling, and the weeks he’d spent hunting had honed his body and mind. But to know something is not the same as to experience it. Never before had Amaron had to fight another sentient thing, to damage and perhaps kill in the name of self-protection.

The Kesdiyin and the villagers had no such problems. The two sides battled as only feuding tribesmen and rivals can. While the women and children huddled around their sleds, the men fought on. Amaron stood amidst the whirling melee, at a loss. It was then that Amaron first knew true pain: not pain in body, which the godling barely felt, but pain in spirit, in his soul. He watched in horror as his friends began to be struck down. So it was that Amaron experienced another first: fury, such as makes the storm upon the plains seem a light wind.

Picking up a discarded club, Amaron strode into the fray. The Kesdiyin could not stand before him as he lashed out, left, right, and center. He had become as a whirlwind of death, striking down any that dared stand before him. In moments the surviving enemy were fleeing for their lives, screaming to their gods for deliverance from such a spirit of vengeance. In his rage, Amaron would have followed them, even to the ends of the earth. But a new sound cut through the red fog clouding his mind: that of weeping.

Already those that survived were going about tending to their wounded and crying over the dead. His club falling from nerveless fingers, the godling slowly made his way back to the villagers. He found his way to Nayati’s side. The elder, seeing the pain and confusion on Amaron’s face, sadly shook his head. ”So it has always been. Always there are those who would rather steal and murder than hunt and gather peacefully. I thank you for your aid, friend; without you, we would have been lost.” Amaron looked about at the carnage and destruction wrought in so little a time before responding.

”Why do you not leave this place, put such enemies far behind you?” he asked. Nayati shook his head. ”How could we leave these lands, the home of our forefathers? You would have us abandon them, leave them here alone? They are tied to this land, as we are. No, we cannot leave. We will continue on, as we have always done. And if it is our time to leave this earth, then so be it.” Amaron shook his head, a grim resolve settling on his heart and across his face. ”Then I shall find you a new way to live.” Nayati smiled and nodded his head, in his heart believing such a thing would never come to pass, but said nothing.

Now, Amaron was not sure how he would improve the villager’s lives, only that he should. He began traveling away from the people, through the wild places, hoping a plan would come to him, as he always claimed it would. It was in these untamed places that the godling met the spirits of the earth, and of the plants, and of the animals. He approached the earth spirits first, but found they mostly ignored him, preferring to sleep the time away. Only after much badgering and prodding did one of the spirits rouse from its slumber. Standing up, the ground shook and roiled as far the eye could see in any direction.

The godling Amaron trembled inwardly, but still he forced himself to smile and call out to the spirit looking down at him. ”Greetings, friend. I wish to speak with you.” When the spirit answered, it sounded as though a mountain crumbled into sand. ”Why do you disturb my slumber?” Gathering his courage, Amaron called back, ”Know you of the people who travel across this land, seeking only to survive, while their enemies kill and steal from them? I would ask your aid for them, mighty earth spirit.” The earth spirit took long to answer, so long in fact that Amaron feared it had fallen asleep once more. But finally it answered him. ”You would ask for my aid, but not for yourself? Such caring should not go unrewarded. Tell the people they may use my bones and flesh to make their homes, and they shall be a fastness against their enemies.” With that, the spirit touched the godling on the forehead, passing such knowledge as it had to him. Amaron thanked it profusely as the spirit went back to his slumber.

Next, Amaron approached the spirits of the plants. Many refused to listen to his pleas, but some lent ear to what he had to say. ”Oh gentle flora spirits, I come to you on behalf of the innocent people, who seek only to live their lives in peace upon this land. Please, can you help them?” The spirits whispered amongst each other, before one of them spoke, and it was like the wind whistling through the leaves. ”What would you have us do? We cannot travel with them, cannot protect them from their enemies.” Amaron was at a loss; he had hoped the spirits would offer aid, as the earth spirit had. Pondering, a memory came to him of animals eating of the fruits of the plants, and an idea came to him.

”Oh spirits, you might feed them. If you would but grow for them, the people would not need to travel, and could build their homes so that they might be forever protected. The spirits rustled and whispered angrily amongst each other, before the same spirit spoke to Amaron. ”And why should we grow for them, when all they seek to do is cut us down? You would have us be slaves of the people.” Thinking quickly, Amaron shook his head. ”You misunderstand me friends. Yes, they would use you for food. But in return they would foster you as though you were their own children. They would tend you, water you, keep the other beasts from devouring you. They would cover the valleys and hillsides with you. You would be more prosperous than ever before.” After much more whispered debate, finally the spirits nodded. ”Very well. We shall grow for the people, if they give proper respect and care to us.” Overjoyed, Amaron thanked the spirits, and then continued on his way.

Finally Amaron went to the spirits of the animals. Like the spirits of the plants, many ignored him, know of his history of hunting and killing them. Finally, after he had nearly given up hope, a small group of animals approached Amaron. Their leader was a mighty rothe, broad of chest and with the largest horns the godling had ever seen. It was this spirit that spoke to him. ”You are the one who speaks for the people?” Unsure of their intentions, Amaron simply nodded. The rothe looked at its companions, who all nodded to it. Finally it spoke once more. ”We have heard of the deal you made with the plants, fostering in return for providing for the people. We would offer the same. We are tired of lives of constant vigilance, always wary lest predators take our lives from us. We would live fostered by the people, and are willing to give of ourselves enough to keep the people fed and clothed in return.” Amaron could not believe his ears, and readily agreed to such an arrangement.

So it was that Amaron returned to the people. It was then that he taught them all he had learned and been told, by the spirits of earth, and plants, and animals. He showed them how to use the earth and rock to make their homes, how to grow and nurture the plants, how to tend the animals. Nayati was amazed, as were all the people. It took him a long time to find the words to express what he was thinking and feeling. ”My friend, you have done what we all thought impossible! You have shown us a different way, without forcing us to leave our home. Now we may live in peace, in one place, protected from our enemies. Now we may grow and harvest our own food, never worrying about having to spend all our days hunting and foraging. How may we ever repay you for these gifts?” Amaron merely smiled as he replied, ”Just remember to show the spirits the proper respect for the gifts they have provided of themselves: the shelter the earth has offered you, the food and clothing the plants and animals give you. Respect them, as you wanted to be respected by an ungrateful guest.” Laughing, Nayati and Amaron clasped each other as brothers. With that, Amaron felt the pull of the ocean once more.

Knowing it was time to return, the godling said his farewells, promising to return if he could. Sensing something of what his friend was returning to, Nayati offered his own weapon to Amaron. Touched, Amaron accepted the club. As he walked back towards the Host, he was approached by the rothe spirit he had met before. Bowing its head, it spoke softly, ”You have done well, for us and for the people. I, too, would offer you a gift, one such as has never been seen before. Take your club, and break off my horns.” Aghast, Amaron shook his head. The spirit smiled as he replied, ”All will be well. A gift freely given will not harm the giver. Take my horns.” Unsure, but not willing to insult the spirit by refusing, Amaron took his club and, with two swift blows, knocked the horns from the spirit’s head.

Picking them up, Amaron studied them intently as the spirit addressed him. ”When the time comes, you will know what to do with them. We will meet again, in this world or the Other. Farewell.” Amaron looked up just as the spirit was leaving. Imagine his surprise when he saw the horns regrown upon the spirit’s head. Shaking his head in wonder, the godling gathered up his gifts and proceeded to travel back to the shores, where he had left the Host a very different person.

And that is how Amaron taught our people how to live, safe and secure. Of course there are other stories about Amaron, but those will have to wait for another time.

[LordConcrete]

As always, he arrived late, smooth waves brushing against the side of the boat. His first step onto the shore, a black, well-shined shoe taps onto the water, vibrations pooling through the liquid.
Naukto looked down, carefully, step by step, walking across the warm sand, sinking, lifting, sinking.
He saw the others ahead of him, walking, into the land ahead. Reluctant, to join them, he felt a connection to the sea. Eyes twinkling with insight, as blue as the skies, he continued inward, strolling slowly. The sand gave way to land, as his feet padded loudly upon the grass of the floor. The great monoliths of the beach, became hidden too him, though he would remember them always, a landmark for his journey.
The Hunt for the whale, he feared, would lead to naught, if ever they did succceed. Nevertheless, he followed, warily, inspired by himself as the whale would lead to greater knowledge. Pat, pat, his footsteps disturbing the land, small insects scuttering on the earth. Finally, he remembered. His time in this world was limited, not a single moment was to be wasted then! Without a moment's hesitation, he began to jog, rapidly advancing into a sprint. His athletics were not impressive by any means by the standard of those in the Ancient Host, but he was fast by mortal means. Faster than you would imagine, especially on foot.
"Se-wah-nah? This creature I must find, but first, to find the people of this island."
And on, he walked, slowly at first, until he encountered a tree. This tree was unlike all that he had seen.
A monumental ancient, shooting to the heavens, grasping at the sky, rooted itself firmly. Wide, strong, and resolute, Naukto could determine the age of this tree. Despite, his own horror, he grasped at the side of the tree, and gently, he pulled, yet no bark broke. It had simply, melded off, forming a distinctive sheet. Naukto wondered what hath happened, and examined the sheet. Before his eyes, the bark turned from brown to green, and from green to blue.
It curled itself, wrapping itself slowly into a scroll. Then suddenly, it was capped, golden casing trapped the top and bottom, and regardless of what he did, he could not open such a case.
This tree shall not be forgotten.
He voved this, and a vow by the Prince will never be forgotten.
He sought help, and his luck was undiminished, as nearby was a tribe of indigenous people. Perhaps, one of them could open the scroll. He had done all that he could, but perhaps with better tools, materials of strength, would be able to open the scroll.
And he saw, the tribesman working next to the water, the ocean blue. Berries, she gathered, and the men fished, large silvery creatures caught by their rods of wood. And he saw, the rods, and he saw that it was used to catch the fish of the sea, and the baskets the women held were to carry the berries, they grasped so softly, and intently.
He walked forward, carefully brushing off the leaves, pines, and sand off his now-dirtied clothing. He waved to the tribesman, and they waved back.
Who are you, and what do you call your people?
The man responded with a small sound, his fur clothing wrapping warmly around his body, and he pointed across to another, a taller man, one who Naukto could already tell was well-fed. A large decorative arrow mounted upon the man's head pointed into the sky, as he fished from the river, next to the sea. Into the scenery rose twin mountains, isolating this tribe.
The leader, or whom must be the leader, rose both arms, and bowed deeply to Naukto, whom he could already tell was not one like himself.
"We are the Havartim, and I am Havat Duke. We live a solitary life, and, over those high mountains, we migrated long ago, and while life here is good, we wonder what is over there."
"I shall help you, but first I ask of you a favor. Please kind, Havat with the straight arrow, could you, examine this."
And so he did, and Naukto handed him the scroll, and Havat tried to open it, and he looked, and he was stunned. He did not move from that spot for moments unrecorded. He handed Naukto the scroll. "Do you see that it is open, and what is inside of it?"
"No, you have yet to open it. It is such a wondrous looking scroll, but I do not know how to open it."
"No, no-no, you don't understand, I did open it." Havat looked again at the scroll, but suddenly it was closed again.
Naukto threw the scroll into the water, and it floated, slowly at first, back to Naukto.
Naukto thought to himself, that perhaps that we're was a way to defeat the whale, without using weapons. A shriek ran out from within the town, and he saw that there was a man, dead stricken as by a disease, covered by small black dots. And so, Naukto condemned his soul to the sea. And so the man returned to where all must return someday. Even Naukto was affected, as the village came together to mourn that fallen. And Naukto grabbed a piece of charcoal, and drew into his scroll, the man, capturing the image into his parchment.
And he had opened his scroll, and inside his scroll was all the experiences he had ever experienced, and all the memories. All the pain, the good and the bad. Flabbergasted, but particularly overwhelmed, Naukto closed it, as the golden light from the inside of the scroll shined blindingly.
The villagers had been staring at him, and he knew what to do. He would help these people, not, because they had done him a great favor. No, he would help these people, because it was the right thing to do.
Naukto had found himself within the scroll, and thus he dubbed it the "Scroll of Enlightenment."
He threw pieces of wood into the sea, and the people saw that they did float, and that it would allow them to travel around the mountains, if only they were to get enough of it.
"Build a boat, my Havartim, and see the world, perhaps after seeing it, you will hope to forget it."
Naukto closed his eyes, and fell to sleep, wrapped in warm furs of the people, and warmed by the fires of the burning sick man.
His last waking thought were of joy and of sadness.
The people were growing and advancing their fish supply of food plenty enough to support them. But, they had wanted to see what lied beyond the Nva mountains. And so, if they wanted more to see, and more to know, he could not stop them. And it was so.

[Orbiter]

A friend gained, an enemy made

Taking a deep breath Arasussta stayed around for a while before turning to ask the wasp who was busy looking the eggs closely before moving to the next one. "I might die with what i am about to do, if i do indeed die could you help the host with the hunt of the whale?" his voice was shaking as he finished his question he shouldn't be so reckless with his life but he would be loyal till the end, the wasp seemed to be surprised so much that instead of speaking she nodded.

He sighed and got closer to them he relaxed and tried to make them get used to his presence it din't seem to work as the swarm gathered towards him but dint pass the imaginary limit that seemed to be in place. Thats when he had a though these eggs could be used against the swarm probably a bad thing to do, but perhaps worth it. Taking a deep breath he moved towards the eggs and threw them to the insects as they started going into a frenzy one of the eggs cracked and a small mist filled around it, the insects died almost instantly the wasp on her part seemed horrified and started gathering crystals faster on her satchel before speaking fast enough to surprise him "GoTaketheArtefactFast".

She dint need to say it twice he had started running holding his breath and kicking the egg, producing more mist forwards as the egg was cracking even more louder and he was running out of air. This was bad but with another great jump he reached the metalling panpipe and a music started playing as he removed it from its pedestal. The insects immediately started swarming on him not to bite him but move him towards the exit they came from, the wasp caught him as they threw him and a loud bang was heard above them as if the heavens rebelled, but the wasp was flying ever faster as a roar was heard.

Soon enough they were far away from the tomb of the old, "Heh sorry about that, but it was worth it i got it!" the wasp on her part seemed to ponder if it was worth it to slap him silly most probably before settling for speaking to him "Please dont do that again, anyhow now that you got the panpipe of the insects you should try finding a way to call insects and move them with it" Arasussta nodded and started with a low tune nothing more than a few crickets seem to come to him as he played that tune.

Not seeing a reason to stop he brough in mind the buzzing of the bees and tried to play a similar sound to that but before he even tried the panpipe on its own started playing its own strange tune. Bees seemed to come mantises and crickets gathered around him even moths came to him. Not stopping he started exploring moving them in a specific position before telling them to move in another with the instrument, it was hard but it seemed like concentrating on what insect he needed and was lacking the panpipe would call on its own, and order them with basic orders but not complex ones.

Still having his artefact he started gathering a swarm as he moved, with some luck a bit enough swarm to bring down the demon whale, the wasp was singing her own tune as she moved with him it was a long way back to his brothers.