The Ages of Man [IC|Closed]

[G-Tech Corporation]

The Ages of Man

For centuries man has fought man, and empires have risen fallen. Two thousand years and more of history passed like leaves in the autumn, the only records those of ruins and parchment. Before kings and gods though, there was only man. Beneath the pale moon he walked alone, kin beside him alone, no mysterious forces to know, no politics to maneuver, no plots to be entangled in. This is the story of those first men; how he tamed beast and field, turned earth to his will, raised high his cities, and brought low his foes. Ere tilled was furrow or blade was wrought the wanders traveled the face of the world long ago, writing no books but singing many songs, the air of the world still fresh and new-made. Unbreathed. To the heights of greatness he will rise, for so it is ordained, but who will rise, who will fall, who will prosper and who will perish- these questions are not woven into the tapestry of the times. Only the weaver can know what strands will enter the pattern. Welcome, to the Ages of Man.

---

The sun stirs bright and hot over the lands of the Abaygarans, her rising at the break of day as a clarion call to action for those who walked in her light. Behind the slight walls of mud-brick their village flourished, though most of the people still lived in outlying agricultural settlements. To their west a great bay stretched, the furthest side only visible on the clearest of days from the tallest of buildings. To the south and north rolling verdant hills, sparsely wooded, greeted the eye, and to the east the view was similar, save for the burbling river as wide as twenty men laying down that protected the city from raiders from the east.

At the mouths of the two rivers, amidst the teeming floodplains, the lush city of the Gesnir sits, bounded on either side by one of the raging torrents and their countless smaller tributaries. To the south the sea stretches to the horizon, turbulent and whipped by the wind, but of little concern to the people of the sunlit village. Amongst the uncounted streams they farmed contentedly, little care given to their defenses, for the few wanderers they see have never been violent. North the river delta stretches for many leagues, farther than any man of the town has traveled, and the coast runs through similar heavily wooded marshlands for many days to both sunwards and sunsink.

In the cold islands the Frumlida make their homes, a folk of fishers and sailors. Their land is hard and farming it is difficult, but the timber of the island is good wood, and fit for building many a crude rafting vessel to traverse the chill seas. Their cultural achievements are few, but their raiders are the hardiest soldiers known to the people, and strong enough in battle to have turned back any foes the people might face. A stout wall of wedged stone surrounds their low village, erected with labor by their forefathers, and the harriers of the south stand ready. Their island is isolated in the frozen oceans, but to the north and west a larger landmass beckons, while a chain of smaller islands runs away both south-east and north-east.

Before the seas meet colder waters, the Yai'hila'yoni make their homes in a small line of coastal islands. Though their islands are fertile and warm, they are somewhat crowded, with man and woman having to make do with progressively less space than their ancestors. Even so, the sea still gives its bounty, and none go wanting. Here the coastal isles support many men, and to the north a great expanse of land stretches upon which no Yai has ever set foot. Their hollow log canoes have carried the Yai far, and there are other islands still to be settled to the west of the main islands. To the south the sea stretches forever, and no canoe that has ever tried to find land beyond it has returned.

Upon the southern tip of a range of high peaks the folk of Skjete make their place of refuge, a fortified city upon the heights where no man may approach it save at his peril in time of war. From this gentle hillock the rolling plains of the south provide good hunting for the highlanders, and though they hold the mountains sacred, they know the peaks upon which they rest stretch beyond the reach of the eye northwards. To the direction of the rising sun a gentle series of lakes runs along the edge of a great steaming woodland, the deepest emerald green in hue. To the west the mountains recede northwards at a slow pace, the view from the village stretching out over rainland plains.

Xigaze live a life apart, above the plains at their feet. Their hilly region, rising to jagged peaks in the west, is tough to farm in, but protects them well against any foes. Two volcanoes long extinct have marked their region with black stone and blasted cooled lava flows, from which the more militarily minded warriors have fashioned weapons of cool black stone much better at cutting than flint or bone. To the south and north east tropical jungles loom, though the east is a clear grassy plain. Their numbers are few, and increase only slowly, for finding sustenance in the barren hills is a difficult task. But they are not an easy people.

The Hordark are a wild folk, the Higvitorian, men who can run for days and fight a battle at the end. Disdaining the simple life of the men of the cities, their families march across the plains in the endless pursuit of game, seasonal crops, and yearly plunder, if they can find soft men to take from. Their fierce nature lends itself well to the military lifestyle- unlike more agriculturally inclined peoples, their men are not limited by the cycles of the seasons, and only the times of the game. Sometimes this independent spirit can lead to disagreement between the roaming folk, but so far this has never been an issue. Across the barren scrubland between jungle and a baked desert they roam, one to the south, the other the north-east. The plains are fertile with small game and even wild beasts like lions, but it has been many moons since the last city the Hordark raided was scattered to the wind. Perhaps the war drums should beat anew.

In scattered bands the Mor Ceann thrive, their wanderings within the fertile glens of the eastern hills and mountains. Woodland and scattered meres are their companions in their sojourning, a large people but divided into three to avoid beating down the land. From their fertile homeland to both north and south plains stretch, high steppelands in the shadows of the rocky peaks. A somewhat disorganized society that is free and free-wheeling, political unity is a luxury that must be fought for every few generations, though as a consequence the armed forces of the Mor Ceann have never faced a foe in battle they could not defeat with ease.

Deep in the heart of a vast swampland live the Vaurais, men of the mud and earth and overhanging trees. A solitary people, they are very stable and slow to change, and wise in the ways of the world. Even the few scattered traders that most people receive rarely penetrate the heart of their jungle home, muggy and humid and full of fens and bogs. If ever a foe tried to pursue them here it would go ill rapidly, for those untrained in the ways of the open expanses of water mixed with tree roots would never find their way out again. On all sides the city of the swamp-men is surrounded by trackless marshes, save to the south where the boglands give way in the far distance to thickly covered grasslands.

Within the lee of an immense bay the Eredhri make their city, the river running past its doorstep only slightly brackish from the salt of the nearby ocean, curved about the nestled village in the shade of the hill. The distance across the bay is not great, but no man has ever felt a need to travel so far, away from the wooden stockade that surrounds the village, or the farming homesteads scattered about the urban center. The land is dry about the village, and not what a man would call fertile- but the great forest to the north feeds the wood desires of the city easily, and with three sides of the city protected by water, the village is all but invulnerable to brigands. Her warriors are, as such, not well-armed or numerous, but they have little need to be. The large lakes of the east surrounded by plains have never seen a hostile soul near them, nor the rolling hills of the south.

Upon the heights of the great plateau, south of the peaks of the sky and upon the endless dunes of grass, the Rathrit make their journeys. Tales tell of dry lands to the west, and immense forests of very tall grass to the east, but their cycles rarely take them so far. Men of pride and wisdom, their society is well-governed and ordered, even compared to those who make their houses in stone instead of hide. Their warriors are stronger than many of the weaker non-herders, but in recent years the land they wander has grown drier, and the winds from the west are hot. Flocks are stunted, enough to eat off of, but not the hardy strong beasts the pastorialists had once known. No breeding stock has been found for many winters, and the Rathrit face difficulties before them. They are a hardy folk though, used to trial and tribulation, and meet it with equanimity.

Last, but not least, the Kurren ride in the vale of the mountains, the stone giants rearing in the west that hide the setting of the sun and the northern skies. Next to a great river they make their homes amidst the grazing grounds of many horses, a source of both food and breeding stock for their herds. Bareback riders, their men have never been caught by an enemy they did not want to fight, and though their numbers are few they are held in the eyes of many to be quite sophisticated. Their lifestyle under the blue sky in the open air is sometimes credited for keeping plague from their numbers, and they are a people who sing many songs as they ride the endless plains stretching, south, east, to both north-east and south-west.

[Greater Mobile]

The Vaurais. The children of the swamp. The men of the mud. (Introduction)

Rain pelted the unnamed village the Vaurais called home for the third night in a row. The heavens and the Earth were indistinguishable, as the black night sky mixed with the dark swirling waters of the swamp.

The people gathered in the center of the settlement, their piercing bellows and screams joined the orchestra of beasts that sang through the night. The people, as always, were desperate for relief.

Women danced as their sorrowful songs filled the air, and the men seemed to be dressed for battle. Their spears, crudely constructed out of wood and bone, bounced into the sky as they joined the dance, as if they were attempting to pierce the veil of the storm in order to set free the captive heavens. Their grass clothing and painted faces were not things of beauty... but in the swamp, beauty was almost unknown. It took second place to the brutal law of the wild.

As the dance continued, two of these midnight warriors brought a crying man into the middle of this circle, followed by another entourage of their brothers in arms. The man was held up, his arms stretched out wide as if to plead his innocence. However, the Vaurais knew no innocence. For the swamp did not forgive. The swamp did not forget. The swamp demanded a sacrifice.

An elderly man, adorned with a necklace of alligator teeth and the peculiar jewelry of carved bone began to preach over the crowd. They continued to sing, but the man was obviously directing their attention. He brandished his knife and raised it up into the air in a theatric demonstration of arms, before he buried it deep within the chest of the captive man as he cried out for reprieve. The old man cut away at the sacrifice, and removed the mans beating heart from his chest, raising it high above the savage crowd that screamed and sang louder than the thunder of a thousand storms. The heart was bestowed upon the chanting men, as they partook in the ritualistic cannibalism that they had always known.

When the congregation had begun to settle, the body of the sacrificed was released into the bottomless lake that the settlement lied on. The Vaurais believed that this sacrifice, as well as the many before it, would serve to please the spirits of the swamp and stop the relentless downpour of rain.

That night, the rain broke. The village awoke in praise when they greeted the sun as they reemerged from their shanty homes. The old man, the one they call "Jama" (or, "elder") had once again bought his people relief.

[The Grim Reaper]

The Kurren

A shining chestnut horse strode proudly against the current of the river, its mane flowing in the wind. Compared to the modern horse, it would be relatively stocky and short - but compared to nomads who travel on foot, or the beasts of burden used by settlements, the proud stallion would be a godsend to the aspiring hunter.

Generally speaking, the Kurren Nomads as a whole formed a group about as tightly wounded and as large as an average nomadic warband. However, they use the term 'band' to describe a familial group focused around anywhere from one to five stallions and their mares and foals. The Kurren hunters claimed as their own the fastest and fittest of the herd, usually young adult stallions recently turned out of their bands, with their families sharing older or younger animals. The horses were the basis of the Kurren lifestyle. Their luxuries were made of horsehide from sick or frail horses, or their bone, or their sinew. They ate horsemeat as a staple, and supplemented their water with fermented mares' milk, the most complex foodstuff the Kurren had readily available to them. The milk was placed in horsehide sacks, and kept agitated by the daily riding of their owners.

And the Kurren moved as quickly as the horses did. They rode almost their entire waking lives, sharing immense cooking fires between bands when they stopped for the night, tended by teenagers young enough to ride with their parents and sleep during the day as cooked meat was stored away for the next day and switched for raw meat.

The Kurren had two types of bands - hunting bands and core bands. The hunting bands concerned themselves with directing the Kurren migration, picking off weaker horses for meat and wild beasts in the distance, rotating around the core at great distances. The core bands kept the herd steady, forming the upper echelons of the herd hierarchy and overseeing the young foals, as well as meeting the craft and childcare requirements of the Kurren. Most Kurren would move from a core band to a hunting band and back to their original core band over their lives.

The Kurren have a tendency towards encouraging intermarriage between themselves and all other tribes they came across, although even those who married into the Kurren were expected to take on a traditional Kurren name. Because of this intermarriage, many Kurren bands are diverse in a way that perhaps no other nomads or cities are.

Abhay was one of those that had remained relatively representative of the original Kurren tribe, from a somewhat larger band known as the 'Misra'. He was considered relatively influential - a fit hunter, and more importantly, an incredibly good rider. It was said he could see what his mount saw from an invisible 'third eye', and could feel the ground through his feet and hands as if he were running along it himself. They were exaggerations, of course, but not ones Abhay felt compelled to dispel. Abhay did, however, have a keen natural aptitude for recognizing even the tiniest of changes in the body language of the horses he rode and rode alongside, and as a result had become a respected member of the smaller hunting bands that were required to direct the herd.

Directing the herd was a slow, and arduous task, one that was performed constantly and without cessation. While the core bands generally could keep the horses moving, and together, it took the work of the hunting bands to keep the herd moving in any specific direction or with any particular urgency. That being said, the hunting bands themselves were not often particularly urgent.

Generally speaking, the Kurren aimed to meet a settlement or tribe often enough to replenish their ranks, and allow their elderly, their sickly, or the 'ride-sick' (those who wished to settle down with the stability and safety of the cities the Kurrens occasionally heard speak of) to exchange themselves for the fit, the stircrazy, and the young, looking to make their way in the world or earn a marriage price to help support those of their family remaining behind. A single Kurren marriage often called for the exchange of a healthy Kurren stallion, a king's ransom for the average farming family.

It was pursuing these lucrative meetings that drove the Kurren to travel for eternity, and people like Abhay to help direct the herd.

Today, they continued on their journey to the north-east.

[The United Eastern States of Europe]

The Skjeti

Man and woman alike knelt beside the great range at dawn's break. In the most northern point of the city, the high priest leads the prayers. They thanks the God'sforreturning the dawn and continue their everyday business. Men grabbed their weopans and went to the vast plains to hunt. The women and holy men began their arduous task of trying to break the stony soil.

The Skjeti grow very little food and rely on the plains and their bounty. Strange creatures resided there. Some had short tusks, snouts and grunted at the men. Others had thick white coats with black heads and large horns. What little food was grown was eaten quickly. All they managed were sprigs of white topped with green leaves.

The Skjeti city of Sjåland isn't Skjeti at all. The Firentish bodies were piled up outside the town as an appeasement to the God's. The old Firentish buildings were torn down or burned over time, and replaced with the Skjeti's own attempt at architecture. The buildings themselves had originally been just poorly placed wood with various resources making up the roofs. This caused the cold to kill many that winter, and the buildings were remade.

They used what wood they could find and stuffed any gaps with mud from the plains. They tried using the stony soil, but it just crumbled in the wind. The roofs are predominantly grass from the plains, but assortments are still popular. No Firentish buildings remain and the world will never know of their treachery.

Religion drives the people most. Any none believers or heretics are killed before the God's. Reproduction is done purely out of marriage and their isolalation protects them most. The city was rather spread out, with no barriers to define it's end. Religious centres, farms, and even residences reside on the hills almost as much as the mountains.

The cities ruler had called for several forms of action. He called for a map of what they know of the land, which is little. He called for stronger weopanry rather than just sharpened sticks and hurling rocks. The smartest minds in the village were stumped at his requests, and it would take years to develop.

[Finland SSR]

The Rathrit, Episode 1 - In the Light of Rathu

H-hello...

My name is Athor. I am the second son of Akha, grandson of Hiyan, and descendent of the legendary Ighur, founder of the Rathrit tribe. I currently count 150 rises of the moon as my age, and I am already old enough to help out my father in his work. He constantly reminds me that someday, I will have to take his place. I fear that day, because leading the tribe, as father usually reminds me, is a job that only the greatest men can accomplish fully. Yes, my father is the leader of the tribe, and a lot of people refer to him as Chief Akha. Most people see him as a very spiritual man, and I have to say, that was quite the case. He constantly searched the skies and the plains for any signs or messages from the gods, and often consulted the tribe's shaman, an old man called Hayushi.

That day, I was leading a herd through the great plains of the plateau. It was a cloudy day, and Rathu was blocked by the clouds, fighting a great war against the dark invaders of the skies. Not a common sight, but I liked it, because it was less hot today. Only a mild warmth, and a chilly breeze. However, there was far less luck on the ground. The lands were providing the herds of sheep and camels less and less food every day, and that was not great. Fearing that I might wander off too far from the camp searching for grass, I went back home, walking on foot and leading the dozens of sheep that I had to control. In the center of the camp, looking from a small hill, I saw my father standing in the center of it, watching the sky.

My father looked like no ordinary man. Wearing a long bear coat he inherited from his father, the man stood over 2 heads taller than me, towering over all men in the tribe. the most important detail of his looks is the long scar on his left cheek - the first thing he tells about to almost every foreigner. Over 50 moons ago, when I was still just a very young child, Father, along with a group of men, went hunting on his own, as the food resources were low at the time. According to him, he was attacked by a giant wild boar which wandered into the nearby area from the east. The sound of it's footsteps could be heard across the entire planet, and it could have turned the entire Rathrit tribe into dust, if only he did not come in and save them. I sometimes think that the story is a bit exaggerated, but the scar is a living proof.

"Father, the lands are becoming less and less useful by the day. I returned home because there was no more grass in the west direction, or at least as much as before." I said after entering the village. Father did not even turn his head, just stated:

"Can you see the times that are closing on us?" I briefly shook my head, then he continued. "Rathu is fighting a bloody battle, but so far no blood has dropped in entire moons to nurture our lands. Ever since the death of your older brother, our time is being counted."

I was terrified. So he means that we will have to move on? Again? Just like many generations ago, they, led by Ighur, had to leave their previous areas. According to a tale, the entire population was about to starve out, but one night, Ighur saw the god Rathu shoot an arrow in the sky towards their new lands. He led them out of famine and exhaustion and into these lushes. Father continued on.

"Our livestock is nothing like before. And we haven't found anything in hunting for days now."

"So what are we going to do?" I interrupted Father. He thought for a minute, then turned his head to me and said:

"Bring Hayushi here. He has to tell us the will of the gods."

I nodded and ran off towards an another hut, the one farthest away from the center of the village. It was the smallest one in the tribe, as only a single person occupied it, and had a few torches lit up in front of it, so it was hard to miss. I quickly jumped in, and right before opening the "door" (more just a piece of hanging cloth), I notified the old shaman:

"Shaman Hayushi, Chief Akha needs your help. He needs you to explain the signs that the gods are saying."

Something in the hut moved, and as I moved back, an elderly man walked out of the hut. It was Hayushi. His grey and balding head and short beard made contrast with his much darker clothing. According to him, he has lived for thousands of moons, something I did not really believe, but he really clinged onto it. Most people still respect him - he is one of the wisest and oldest men between all of Rathrit.

---

"Oh, the great Shaman Hayushi, I fear that Rathu is giving us an another sign, just like he gave one to the legendary Ighur. The plains around us are depleting, our beasts are nowhere near what they used to be, and even though a great battle is being fought in the skies, no drop of blood has yet fed our lands." Father said to Hayushi in a really poetic manner. He was a master at creating good speeches. Hayushi did not say anything at first, just looked to the skies, drew a cross on the ground, thought for a minute and finally spoke in an old and rather light voice:

"Yes, it is terrible. Rathu is telling us that we will not be able to last here any longer. He tells us that we should look for better lands."

"Does he tell us what direction we should go?"

The old shaman thought for an another minute, then said:

"He believes in us and our ability to decide for ourself. Oh, great chief Akha, may your wisdom shine again, because the gods think that you should be the one to decide."

---

For the next few days, I no longer worked on the herd - my brother Inkush took care of them, as I had to help my mother and my younger sister, Ilyna, to sew better clothing for the scouts chosen by my father. According to some old tales, there is a land of grass and wonders to the direction of the rising sun, where some Ishikyut had once travelled and survived for a year. Those were mainly just folk tales, but if they were true, then it would be wonderful. Although the camels that they have are not fit for environments described there, it would be okay for the sheep, and there should be plenty of wild animals to hunt. Six brave men were chosen for the job - they will ride the best camels into the direction of the sunrise and report on the things that are there.

Meanwhile, information of Rathu's will was also sent to an another tribe, led by my uncle, named Juthan. They will also have to prepare to leave, assuming the news from the scouts are positive to us. I hope that they do, because I don't want to die in a famine, one that happened twenty moons ago and where Yahtzi, his older brother, died.

And finally, one morning, the men left, to the eastern direction.

[Liecthenbourg]

The Temple of the Sacred Flames, The Abaygarans

High Priest Barantus stood upon the steps leading to the temple with quite a stern expression on his face. A cool sea breeze blew past his person, his floor-reaching robes of turquoise swaying back and forth rhythmically in the wind. To his left and right crackled two flames on braziers that were located at the top of the steps. Below him at the base of the steps a crowd was already gathering and Barantus run his fingers across his bald scalp and he scrunched as the smoke from the fires came towards him. The Man of Faith tugged upon his cloak and called up the peasantry and wealthy alike, each of them requiring to place a small circular clay disk into a basket upon entrance to the temple, under the watchful eye of the guards of the faith whom held onto the baskets. Barantus used these to count the people in the town, as it was mandatory for all to give thanks to the Matriarch in the Temple of the Flames.

Before turning in towards the temple, Barantus gazed out towards the hilly forests and he could see a moving group of people approaching the city - it was certainly the labourers whom had travelled out to cut down the trees upon the hills; these would be used for houses, piers, boats and even a new wall for the city of Gerha. They were returning, he determined, for the thanks to the Matriarch but would certainly be bringing lumber to the carpenters and builders of Gerha, most under the watchful eye of the wealthy Zazarra; the most important woman, nay civilian, in the city. She was a beauty to be sure, her family line long and proud and her wealth had been accumulated over a great few years as the city of Gerha expanded. A sudden call from the temple snapped Barantus out of his trance and the elderly man cursed slightly as he came back to attention and walked into the temple, placing down a small clay disk into the basket held by the guard of the faith. Below, now all the people had come for their entrance into the temple; many having broke their fast on bread and fish that was common and staple, whilst others would boast of aurochs and venison but all were equal within the halls of the Temple, for the Matriarch had deemed it so.

[Kuhlfros]

Introduction

The Eastern Glens and Hills,The Mor Ceann, MacNaois Klann

Bearnard, son of Tàmhas, the Old sat at the black, charred remains of a bonfire from the night before, the mist of the morning blanketing the valleys below, making the hill's peaks rise lightly over the fog like islands in the clouds. His face showed years of wisdom and a certain amount of kindness, it would not be long until the klannsmen rose from their tents around his families, and ensured their fires were put out before they went out into the wilderness again, packing away their tents and supplies on their sled dogs

Hours later the klann left little remains they were camped on the hill, ashes and some scraps of food and bones, and they rode off to the south where the plains where fertile as their nomadic group had done for ages, making off the land and following the beasts that was traveling south in migration.

The Eastern Glens and Hills, The Mor Ceann, The Ó Conradh Klann

Meanwhile in another part of the glenns of the Eastern Hills, the O Conradh klann circled around the chief of thier klann, Síomón LongEyes, known for his sad, misty blue eyes, Siomon was a man fully grown, and years leading the klann and had bore his own children. He had explored some of the world and greeted and traded with settled men.

Just this last night however, Siomon had a dream, he dreamed of himself building a home like those who had settled, Now he told his kin that dream and what he had interpreted from it. He declared, "The future of the Mor Ceann is to be settled, we must learn those with homes and grow our own foods, will you my kin, support me? Before I bring this up to the chiefs of the klanns and the high chief. I must know if my kin and blood support me. So will you kinsman, build homes and change our history in our glenns?"

The Eastern Glens and Hills, The Mor Ceann, The Giolla Mhuire Klann

In the Giolla Mhuire klann, The Lady-Wolf Ailbhe lead, the young woman was as hot blooded as the color of her long hair, which grew to her hips, a fierce look for a woman with green eyes. Recently married to a man of the O Conradh klann, she was beginning to show the signs of pregnancy, however that did not halt her, she believed herself a warrior and her klann to be made the same as her. Selected for several reasons, her strength and skill in combat, her stunning beauty, and her wit and loud voice. A woman of perfection some of her kin call her.

With her klann, they road north to the plains up there, to conquer, she wanted the strength of the Mor Ceann to be known, and she believed she could be the one that would re-unite the klanns to one with this show of superiority. She had declared to the klann as they marched or rode upon sled, "We will find enemies to the north and new things, learning from our mistakes will make us stronger, it has been a mistake to live so peacefully and run from fights, here now, we travel for ourselves and pride of our people, blood must be spilled for our fires to burn brighter my kin, will you follow me to victory?"

[Krugmar]

The Burgstede, Cynesetlíde, Lídann

The Burgstede was a rather modest building, its walls wooden and its high roof thatched. Inside was a great hall where all the community had gathered to vote for the next Frumgára, the chieftain of the tribe. The people had divided into the three great cnéoris, voting tribes that existed within the community. Each was descended from and named after a Lídmann hero, there was the Eormenþéod tribe, the Brádæx tribe and the Fiscaþ tribe. These tribes were not always harmonious internally, as they were then divided into the families that connected kin by blood, though they represented a strong united front when the voting occurred.

There were three candidates, known as Ealdors, as always. Ealdor Wulfheah of the Eormenþéod, a mighty warrior who had participated upon dozens of successful raids and whose hair was beginning to grey, the sign of widsom. Ealdor Beagmund of the Brádæx, a stout and often angry man who was in charge of lumber operations. Finally there was Ealdor Weorcgyth the Todd of the Fiscaþ, a sailor and fisherman of renown who was known for his kindness and charity towards others. Each candidates had their merits and downfalls, and it was up to the people, regardless of tribe, to vote for who they thought would lead the village successfully. Each Frumgára reigned for ten years, and then they would step down and have to become reelected.

Ealdor Wulfheah stood up first, "If you vote for me, we will take what we want from the other islands and rule these lands!" he shouted, earning a tremendous roar from the crowd. Next to stand was Ealdor Beagmund, "We must work hard for what we want, build strong and build well!" he shouted, though he gained less support from those gathered. Ealdor Weorcgyth the Todd stood, most thought him the least likely candidate to lead as he was rather young and viewed as weak. "My friends, we must explore the seas and find new lands to take from, not just subsist on what the Lídes give us! We build a mighty fleet, and charter beyond the mists!" he shouted, earning far more shouting that Beagmund had received.

The candidates sat down and the man who had the best hearing in the village, Sigehelm, stood at the front. "Now is the time for voting, begin!" he said, before being drowned out by the shouting. Each villager would shout at the top of their lungs the name of the candidate, and whichever candidate received the most and the loudest shouts won. Sigehelm motioned for them to stop after thirty seconds, "Ealdor Wulfheah is the winner, he is our new Frumgára!". The choice had been made, and the village would once again be led in the direction of a Eormenþéod cnéorismann.

[Terminus Alpha]

Loni'ans¹, Yai'hila Village

Nani looked back from his boat. Back there, lay his home. From his little fishing craft, he could see the little dark figures in the distance, children playing on the beach. Further from the shore, he could see the homes of his people, huts of mud and sand and palm wood. He could see the smoke of cooking fires, and it was then that he realized something. He followed the smoke into the skies, and noticed that they were clouding the skies, blocking the sun with their heat. This had never happened before, the smoke had always vanished from the sky before it reached the sun.

He would have carried on his thoughts, but he felt a tug upon his net, and hauled up his quarry of fish. It was smaller than ones he remembered catching in thee past, but more than enough to help feed the tribe for a while. As he drug up his quarry from the sea, he returned to what he was wondering beforehand - why smoke now blocked the sun. Things like this had been happening more often recently, the animals upon the islands of the Yai'hila were fewer in number and ran more quickly compared to those in years past. The forests had also bore less and less fruits over the years, changing from the vibrant oranges, yellows and reds of the fruits to the bright greens of leaves.

Perhaps these changes happened because of the tribe's lifestyle? Maybe the fish were more vibrant because the Yai'Hila needed them more and the land less. But that didn't strike him as right, the tribe had lived the way for as long as anyone could remember. Perhaps the Great Serpent of Evil was coming again? But if that was the case, then the spirit-priests would tell the tribe, surely. There was only one answer that calmed is inquisitive mind - the Yai'hila had too many upon one island! Yes, that was surely the answer!

He knew what he needed to tell the leaders next time he saw them - that the Yai'hila needed to spread to a new island. They would surely agree, being the greatest of the tribe.

---

One month's time later

Nani was once a simple fisher, but now he was trusted with the souls of one hand². They were heading west, to the islands where none yet lived. These islands were sure to be able to hold the population of the hand he was leading. Each would be settling upon a new island, and once they sent someone back to the main island, they would be joined by another household, who would help to populate the islands and help the main island rebound.

As the shores of Loni'ans faded, and as of yet unknown shores emerged, Nani knew that he would be remembered not as Nani the Fisher, but as Nani the Spreader.

¹: Translates to Home Island or more literally as "House Land."
²: The Yai'hila count by fingers, so one hand equals five households, in this context.

[The Raven Crown]

CHAPTER I: Will the door remained closed?

Dsongga Potala, Ü Xigaze

"First bow."

"O Sribam brug."

"Second bow."

"O Sribam brug taag."

"Third bow."

"O Sribam brug taag xongo."

The calming and soothing voice of the Monk echoed throughout the courtyard of the Monastery of Divine Descent . The courtyard was not particularly large, it was surrounded by walls of grey stone. The ground had been laid with flat and smooth stones from a river that lead out from Lake Po Ta La, various crude tapestries hung from the shrine at the head of the courtyard that lead into the Monastery. The shrine was rather beautiful, a simple chorten carved of the black stone abundant throughout their lands.

The people where practicing the Ritual of 50 Bows, which was to be completed every two days before the sun set. They were praying to the Brug Thumbthen (literally: "divine servant of the heavens": God of Weather), a powerful and mystical monk who had lived nearly a century before. The Monastery had other similar rituals, these rituals were often long and demanding - in the harsh lands the Xigaze existed in the pious were rewarded with good fortune.

Tradition was an important institution to the Xigaze - their home with little foodstuff and harsh climate often tested their limits, however their traditions founded in practicality, like fasting during the Daag Fan "Dark Week" when nothing would grow to save food. The traditions gave them something to cling onto - and they did well in their self-centered and isolated universe, not a single stranger had neared their valley cloaked by snow, fog, and mountains in nearly seventy-five years by the earliest recollection of some of the elders.

With the ritual over the Monks retired to the Monastery with their white robes and the Citizenry with their simple up-down-mesh garbs retired to their homes. On a mountain over the valley, nestled just above the water two men carry a body up the slope on a 'stretcher'. They reaches a flat and open outcropping, on the side of the mountain their is nestled a shrine with a crow skull mounted on it, it is in the form of a door and is painted black - this door symbolizes the journey into Chaag (Land of the Dead), for here is where the bodies of the dead are deposited.

A third man bangs a drum. They deposit the body on a platform just in front of the shrine, and after saying a quick prayer vacates the area. For the rest of the night one could see thousands of crows, messenger of Uhchaag'khaod (Lord of the Dead) on that outcropping. In a land where no soil is wasted, especially on the bodies of the dead, the deceased are disposed of by other means.

In the Dsong P'o'od, the residency of the Sy Dponpo (king/chief) looks over the Feast of the Crows Ritual, his people are familiar with the situation they exist in - they must survive with what they have, yet they make good use of their materials, and have mastered an austere lifestyle that still has time for pleasantries such as the arts, construction, and innovating to use conserve material in their sparse homeland. If his people really wanted to flourish more they would have to open their doors if it would to others. Elders told tales of travelers coming and speaking of bountiful lands - he envisioned a great path-work of roads, leading to ever corner of the land, bringing travelers and their goods to Dsongga Potala. However many dismissed this as idle daydreaming, there certainly weren't enough peoples on this Earth for that to happen.

The questions were clear to the Sy Dponpo.

Would the doors remained close? Could the Xigaze survive in their mountains on their own without the assistance of others? Would people who were focused inward be able to turn some attention outward?

[G-Tech Corporation]

Year 5

Between two rivers the mighty city of the Albii sits staring out at the churning waters of the sea, her fertile vales of grass and low trees part of a large networks of mud-flats and farming communities. Firstborn of the sons of men, as her people thought, she had endured for many years without incident or foe breaching her dried brick walls. From her small port fishing scows occasionally brought back hauls of little silver fish to feed the people, but the sea was stormy so many men did not risk the perilous waters. To her west the overflow of the river of the Sunset gradually prompted verdant fields to become boggy marshes, passable but treacherous. To her north and east, wide plains beckoned, though far to the east the fringes of semi-tropical woods could be seen, from which loggers would occasionally bring rafts of timber down a small stream. To her south an endless expanse of sea was all even the most sharp eyed could see.

In the lands of the men of God and the walled city between sky and sea, the sun rose new and brilliant. A prominent symbol of their divine master's favor, it had risen without cloud, an auspicious omen. With the lapping waters of the ocean to both the north, the south, and the west, the Victorians had an enviable defensive position, though the salt spray made their fields less fertile than some, and fresh water had to be drawn from wells on the hillsides. To the east of the city, whose walls were erected of jagged fitted stones from the mountains, the high cliffs of a single white spur rose to scrape the heavens. Her sides were heavily forested with warm pine stands and groves, which supplied the town below with both food in the form of plentiful game and timber for construction. To the north-west across the small strait the land continued, somewhat arid though with stands of more tropical trees; none of the Victorians made their homes on the hither shores, but such things could change with ease.

In the lands of the Gesnir, all is not well. Normally a stable and harmonious people, some three households to the far east of the city have been preyed upon by wild animals and lost sons and daughters. Their voices are loud with grief as they condemn the city-dwellers for sitting idle and doing nothing, and anger is in their hands as they demand justice.

Within the high village of the Skjeti peace too has been disturbed- four men have begun talking night and day of the evil they did to those who took them in and sheltered them, saying the gods would not have wanted the people dealt with so treacherously, and that the guest right of hospitality had been violated. Though not all listen to them, their words have the support of some, who think the people becursed of the divine for their foul deeds.

High in the glens of the Mor Ceann, a fracture has cracked the social fabric of the wandering people. Few men and clans prove willing to heed the words of the man who would settle and forsake their sojourning heritage, and several hundreds declare such an idea as anathema to what it means to be part of the clan. They are violently opposed to the idea, and seem on the verge of leaving the clan to wander alone if this idea is carried forward.

Upon the isles of the Frumlida, an innovation has been discovered. Men find that when rock is scraped bare then heated by fire, and submerged by careful channels in cold sea water, it cracks and shatters like a bone under a beast's jaw. This method of mining is much faster than gathering boulders, and seems capable of providing usable quantities of stone for building.

As the people of the Rathrit march east, their trail is marked by the corpses of their fallen flocks. Some of the herders are uneasy at the expiration of so many creatures, and forging off into the unknown; though at least breeding stock remains, this will be a lean season indeed for the wandering pastorialists.

[Greater Mobile]

The Vaurais

The Vaurais people were slow to change their ancient ways. They clung to the traditions of their ancestry as if it were the only choice. All aspects of their culture flowed on, almost unchangingly. With it, brought ritual, sacrifice, and knowledge of the world around them.

---

Vaurais Village

If the swamp were a living beast, disease would be its teeth.


"Jama! Jama!" a voice called out through the Vaurais village as the noon sun beat down the marshland reeds. A man, aged 14 but a man no less to the Vaurais, ran to the imposing shelter the elder called home. He was bid to enter by a guard, and there he met with the leader of his people.

"Jama," he exclaimed, "It is my mother. She has fallen ill with liasi ("the fever")."

The elder had many tasks that he carried out throughout his day. Not only was he the leader of his people, but he was their voice to the spirits and their healer. It was his duty to protect his people from all forces, worldly and divine.

"I see," he said earnestly as he bid a woman in the house to bring him a basket that was overflowing with various swamp flora. He reached into the basket and retrieved a handful of bright green foliage. "Take this to your mother, and make with it a tea. She must drink it with every meal until she feels well. May the spirits guide you, my child."

"And may they speak through you, Jama," the man said as he humbly took the herbs and exited the building.

---

The village had become even more bustling than it was only half a decade ago. Children played in the streets as their mothers kept a careful watch, and a new generation of young hunters had come to take the place of their fathers, and their bounty was plentiful.

These hunters seemed to be in competition with each other regarding how much food that they could bring their people, and they began going further from the village than anyone had since the beginning of anyones memory. They separated into their own distinct bands and sprawled the swamp, setting up camps miles around, just to find the biggest alligator, the fattest raccoon, and the leanest otter. They felt a divine duty to deliver the fruits of the swamp to their people, and they did their duty well.

[Finland SSR]

The Rathrit, Episode 2 - The Unknown Plains

Soon, I will reach the age in which I can become an adult, a fully pledged member of our tribe, and my family is the one who is the most anticipating it. Father is thankful to Rathu for bringing a future chief of the tribe to the earth, and hopes that I will make a good warrior and a good leader, while my mother is, like always, proud of me, growing up to being such a fine man. Myself, I don't really want to go there just yet. After all, just a few years ago I was still just a naive boy who listened to others' commands, I don't know if I have changed a lot in those years. However, my family has already started searching for a future bride. I fear that as well. I never liked talking to other girls - I was usually a loner, my friends called me "Athor the Silent".

Meanwhile, our situation has not been turning for the better. Animals are dying left and right, and we are still not aware what is causing it. Hayushi often states that it is possible that the God of Night, Ittilku, has managed to beat the great god Rathu, and is plotting to get rid of us, humans. I hope that's not true, and I even started praying to Rathu, hoping that he is alright. However, it was not that bad, as my father liked to remind me. According to him, Ighor had to lead the Rathrit is much worse conditions, and that there is always hope.

A few days ago, we started climbing down a large rocky formation. According to messengers, Juthan's other tribe had crossed this area a moon ago. Quite a few people were frightened. Most people called it "the end of Earth's plate", and across it, evil and demons lie. Akha denied it as nonsense, as according to him, Ighor led the Rathrit on the Earth plate many years ago, and before that they were still living in harmony. However, there were problems with bringing down animals. It was too steep for them to climb down, unlike for humans, so we stood there for six days until my brother found a path to climb down. Even then, we had a few casualties, but all in all, it was alright. Though during the climb, I tried to stick to my parents for safety - I didn't want to end up like those animals.

Right now, we started setting up a camp down below, next to a large plain field and near quite many forests. Those were a new sight. Trees were very rare in our previous living place, so we had to build our houses from furs and skins back then. According to one of the pathfinders, it rained here recently, so that was good news. The livestock also liked it here. Scouts were also sent to check out the current location. Look around, search for the other tribe which was supposed to settle down quite close, and possibly find any interesting stuff or maybe any other people or demons to trade with or loot...

[The Grim Reaper]

The Kurren

A loud song was heard across the plains as the Kurren awoke. With so many people moving so rapidly, the morning song was used to rouse people from their sleep and give people time to get moving. They ate breakfast on horseback, being cooked through the night on what was left of the burning coals.

The morning sound was a harmonic, guttural sound, like the braying of horses - without lyrics, and without meaning but for the emotions and the adrenaline it produced. It, no doubt, struck fear into the hearts of potential prey animals, but on horseback, the mobile hunting bands of the Kurren could easily chase down and ambush animals during the ride.

Abhay was already on the back of a stallion - generally, the Kurren rotated through horses daily, to acclimatize their herd to being ridden by many handlers, with even young Kurren children riding alone for some time most days, on younger horses.

While the Kurren were used to travelling, it was always bittersweet to return to the ride from a favorite pasture. Nevertheless, Abhay stretched himself to the sun as he put his stallion through the paces.

"Abhay." "Oi?"

Another man came up aside Abhay. "Sameer."

The man named Sameer looked at Abhay. Sameer was tall, and paler than Abhay - most likely had some blood from one of the many foreigners in the Kurren ancestry. He had a look of contentment on him, a stark contrast to Abhay's silent confidence.

"I was talking to one of the point bands." A point band was a hunting band that concerned itself mainly with reconnaissance, surveying the land in front, picking off only as much food as was required to minimally sustain themselves for the day. They saved time to make sure that the Tribe would move in relative freedom. Today, Abhay and Sameer would be on point, along with two other hunting bands.

"Oi?"

Abhay was always curt in the mornings. Sameer grinned at the man. Sameer's partner was Abhay's sister, and the two of them had been friends for many, many years, even if you exclude the ceaselessly awkward unilateral morning conversations. They were inseparable, and almost always went on the hunt together.

"They think we shouldn't be moving north. The mountains will be difficult for us to handle."

"We wouldn't go that far."

"No, but we don't know what the terrain surrounds the mountains. We may have to decide between going through them or doubling up on ourselves."

Abhay grunted. Doubling back on themselves was a dangerous thing to do - not to mention exceedingly boring. It wasted time that could be spent searching for other tribes, and forced them to graze on old pastures and live off old hunting grounds.

Sameer pulled up closer to Abhay, matching his speed, and pulled a hide sack from his hip. Abhay did the same, almost without looking, and they switched the two sacks between them, and then back, at full pace, as they broke away from the core bands. Behind them, the other members of their hunting band quickly flanked them as they both took a healthy swill from the sacks.

Koumiss. Fermented mare's milk. It was the traditional way of starting the day for the Kurren, the low alcohol content of the drink keeping it relatively sterile and clean. Easily obtainable by simply milking the females of the herd, Koumiss and the Kurren are one and the same. The act of passing one's Koumiss hide to another and back was a coming-of-age ritual for the young Kurren. Young Kurren riders would ride with a friend, reaching full pace with their parents or a Kurren elder, and switch their hides. They would then pass each other on the opposite side to switch their hides back. It was a test of basic skills, to be able to match speeds and negotiate the path ahead capably enough to carry out the switch twice, and forced young Kurren to learn to rely on others - they succeed together, or fail together.

For older Kurren, the act took on a new significance - to drop one's hide is both embarrassing and costly, requiring one to obtain another hide from the core bands and to drink from their riding partners' hides for the day. And so, it was a show of a trust so strong that it can be relied on beyond simple necessity.

All across the Kurren Tribe, the Kurren would be swapping their hides, getting together for the ride, as they headed due East.

[Liecthenbourg]

Piers of the Pious, The Abaygarans

Mighty piers of oak jutted out of the city and into the sea and here many of the open canoe boats, crafted by carpentry from the timbers brought forth by labourers, were being stocked with spears and javelins for use in the sea. But a famed man of the fisherfolk, Gezzakah, was seen sitting upon his overturned canoe. His fingers twisted and turned and he worked like a spider building her web with sinews and even some twigs being used by the veteran of the seas as he continued twisting and turning and twisting again. None paid him any mind as he sat their solemnly at work.

High Priest Barantus strode along the Piers, having emerged from the alleyways of the new mighty wooden homes constructed, too from the pines and oaks felled by the proud Abaygarans. A second layer of wall, this of logs of pallisades, had also been erected and that resulted in the "city" of Gerha. Just over five-hundred and five followers of the Matriarchs lived in Gerha, if Barantus' count was correct. With the addition of the second wall, it began to, in the priest's eyes, divide the people as a caste. He noticed that many of the wealthy fisherman lived behind the first wall, their homes close to the sea and slowly professions changed as they grew closer to the parts of the city beyond the second wall - where a plethora of farmers and hunters made their abode. It was curious, curious indeed.

Gezzakah bid the priest hello as he walked by him and Barantus smiled and continued on his trek across the coast. The hero of the fisherfolk stood up and clutched his creation in his right hand, it drooping down quite lengthily towards the ground. He clambered onto his boat as it was pushed into the shallow coast and soon he paddled out, generally farther out than any had gone to fish before; straying from the coast rendered most spears useless. Holding his creation in both his hands he dragged it across the water and hoped to the Matriarch it would work.

A grand party of a dozen men had assembled by the opening of the second wall. This group had been partly created as per the instructions of the wealthy and also in part by determination entwined with visions from the Matriarch. Yerras, the self-proclaimed leader of the party had high hopes of discovering what was in the lands the Matriarch had shown him; the hills near the city. Having convinced his friends of the vision and telling the wealthy of the potential prosperity the Matriarch had shown him, he had been eager to set off. And so he did before the sun reached its peak in the sky.

[Kuhlfros]

The Eastern Glens and Hills, O Conradh Klann, Mor Ceann

Siomon stood again in front of his klann angry and saddened by the reactions of his kin, but he was still a leader and thus had to act as such, he declared to them that day. "I cannot deny my kin as you would so willingly do, therefore, for now the O' Conradh klann will not settle.....but I cannot deny my dream either, it means something to me...so I will step aside as Chief of the klann, and call for the selection of the new chief. But I also leave the O Conradh klann, any member of my kin whom are willing to follow me, even if it is a mere hundred, fifty, or even ten people who believe that there are signs for our journey to end. Anyways, My family will remain here, and build a home and try to grow our own foods like the settled men do. Farewell..."

After that Siomon and a small amount of other klannsmen left to build their own settlement, and name their own klann the Siotan klann, the abandoners of the sojourn. For now they lived in tents and harvested whatever foods they could find.

Meanwhile the O Conradh klann choose their next leader, which was between two men, a gray-beard who called for the old ways and harshly ridiculed Siomon, and a young man who believed they must remain in the old ways but also for victory (OOC: Similar to that of the Ailbhe idea, of rejuvenating war which was picking up some popularity)

North of the Mor Ceann Homelands, the Plains, Giolla Mhuire Klann
Ailbhe the She-Wolf, she was called now, a mother of two boys, twins in fact. And ruthless warrior, In the north, Ailbhe sought blood, and she would find it in small nomad groups and settlements. And the people were ecstatic in their victories but Ailbhe warned them, "Our foes are weak and their destruction was imminent, we have greater and more powerful enemies we must face if we are to stand victorious in uniting the Mor Ceann.

She had instituted also a ceremony, which honored dead warriors to an afterlife, claiming a place of great wealth and fortune to those who fought and died with weapon in hand. Perhaps it was just a lie to inspire the warriors to fight with less cowardice and more bloodlust. Or perhaps she truly believed it.

South of the Mor Ceann Homelands, the Southern Plains, Macnois Klann
Bearnard grasped, his son, Teigue's hand with his failing strength on his bed. The Old man was dying at last and Teigue was Bearnard's hope of the klann, Bearnard believed Teigue would lead the klann to great things.

In the past five years, the klann explored the plains, trading and meeting new peoples as they had always done, journeying far and wide. But in recent months, their leader, Bearnard had fallen ill. He was an old man after all. And the klann was clamoring for support of one another for the next leadership of the klann.

In Bearnard's dying voice, faded and weak, he told Teigue, "You are the Mor Ceann's hope, You are a respected leader and warrior in the klann, you must be the next chief and lead to greatness, perhaps the old ways are come to an end, but perhaps not and we must explore more for the world and find ourselves...I do not know, but perhaps you will my son.....good luck." With that Bearnard's eyes closed and hand went limp, and the leader of the Macnois klann died.

[The United Eastern States of Europe]

Sjåland

"The Gods shall not have mercy!" A scrawny man stood in the centre of town, yelling dissidents to the people. "Firentish blood still stains our soil! Why else will our food not grow? Why else would the mountain peaks cry upon this city? The God's wrath and sorrow rain down these slopes too often!" Men and women nodded whilst others ignored him. The village chief was called to the scene.

"What is the meaning of this?" The chief was named Kureli, a wide man with a thick jaw. "The God's bless us with winter harvests and bountiful hunts fool!"

"The winter harvest is always poor, and the plains are far from here." Someone hurled a rock at the scrawny man, angering half the crowd. A riot was breaking out. The chief ordered his personal guard to suppress the riot. It lasted for three hours before finally ending.

The next day, Kureli assembled more guards. More and more men patrol the city, many of them hunters. The bountiful hunts were now dwindling as less men went to hunt. The new weopans had still not been developed despite the years of work. Some ideas were made, but development was difficult. It seemed it would take even longer with the uppity populous.

The map was crude and half finished. It had taken years and the chief demanded accuracy. A small increase of population had occurred with a new generation being raised in the harsh conditions. Kureli had a simple plan to keep the people in line, fear. He arranged a meeting in the town centre.

"My people! Why must we fight amongst ourselves. The God's favour us above all else, no matter our past doings. Remember, we are not alone. We found the Firentish, what's to stop others finding us! We must be strong, and not weaken ourselves from within." The speech was met with adequate applause whilst some of the scrawny mans supporters just shook their heads and left. Dark times were ahead.

[Terminus Alpha]

The New Island

Jo'Nani was truly his father's son. While once his father was a simple fisher, he was a higher caste hunter, the highest rank that a non-ocean eyed could achieve. He mostly spent his days running down the large fowl that roamed the jungles of the new isles, birds of medium size and bright colors. They were easy for even the most green hunter to catch with his bare hands, but they were defensive, fighting with claw and beak to escape, and in many cases they did. They were also of the size where a man could not throw his spear at them without startling his quarry, so most simply ignored the birds in search of bigger, more prestigious prey.

Jo'Nani did not.

He was fascinated by the birds he hunted, learning much about them and telling his fellow fowl-hunters of his discoveries. He knew that they roamed in flocks, one cock leading many hens, and that when the cock died, the hens were quick to find a new mate. He also knew that they ate nearly anything, pecking equally at seed and worm. They were also not that bright - cocks could be distracted with the sound of a rival, and hens were often in their nests once they had mated. The eggs of the birds were particularly delicious when cooked as well. It is through these observations that Jo'Nani would begin something unheard of among the Yai'hila - domestication.

Jo'Nani had learned enough that by his ascendance to manhood, he was ready to begin. He lured a cock back towards the village with a cock-call, and once the bird had run off expecting a rival, Jo'Nani sprung his trap. While the cock was gone, he and a group of fellow fowl hunters killed the hens and swiped their newborn chicks. The hens would be cooked and eaten, but their chicks had a different fate awaiting them. The fowl-hunters would raise them, hoping that some of the wildness in their hearts would be tamed by the Spirit of Man.

[The Jonathanian States]

Ni Albii - Chapter 1

Once more the sun rose over the eastern plains. The lush realms sprawled far and further. Somewhere there, beyond the horizon and sunrise, chief Harold knew, was their long-lost homeland. He sighed. The promised land would be neither his nor of his own sons. That much he knew, even though he tried to ignore it. He might not see it, and neither might his sons, but he would have to place down the stones he was carrying, the stones for the long path down home. One day, he knew deep inside, one day the Albii shall rise and return. He praised the gods that had, as far as he knew, promised that to his people.

He watched a group march out to the woods, most likely to gather materials for constructing a new house or just some tools and weapons. As his glance came to the sea, he sighed once more. He had always mistrusted the great blue... Many a man or woman had attempted to brave it through the ages, and none had gained much, none had been brought any close to their ancient home.

He headed down for the steps. Stepping through the town, he watched the younger men, including his own son train at arms. It had been long gone since the last attack, but that had been the case before that attack as well, and had they not been ready, it might have ended differently. He nodded at the fighter watching over the youths, and requested to join some of the older warriors in training. A chief had to lead by example, that was the Albian way his father had taught him. And so had his father and father's father, supposedly.

[Kisinger]

The Higvitorian
Gichen's Hordark
Southern Plains

Gichen and Tlemcen, two warriors circled each other among a silent crowd in the middle of the Hordark camp. One would walk away alive and the other would breathe no more. Numerous times had Gichen fought to maintain his position of L'Hordark but only this once was he worried of losing. Both men bare chested stood apart from each waiting for the other to strike.Finally Gichen charged forward but to his dismay Tlemcen moved to the left and tripped him as he fell he knew it was the end. Tlemcen ahad jumped on him pinning him down with his knees on his elbows and punched and punched, after a while Gichen stopped moving but Tlemcen kept punching and punching filled with rage and bloodlust, he kept punching till his hands had started bleeding and he could barely move his arms.

Once he stopped he looked down upon the former L'Hordark whose face you could no longer recognize. He smiled and stood ove him he looked around at the stunned crowd, he knew the warriors wanted to raid but instead had been subjected to hunting and harvesting. "Warriors! We head to Raid and Pillage! We go to follow the ways of our people! Break Camp and head to where the sun sets!" He exclaimed. The warriors cheered and the slaves and the slaves and women began breaking the camp.

Hidrian's Hordark
Northern Plains

L'Hordark Hidarian watched as his people starve, wither away, and die. It had happened for too long. Raiding season was upon them and the people hadn't feared the Hordarks in untold seasons. He knew it was the right time to raid but the warriors had been depleted and their food was running out. He quickly mustered his men to find food Souh as that's where they intended to go. Away from the Northern desert and towards the more lush Southern Plains as it bordered the jungle.

"We move South!" He yelled out, little was heard in return as the solemn people went about packing the camp heads down. Hidrian had wondered why he hadn't been challenged but in truth the warriors were to weak to challenge him after living on near starving conditions for so long.