Part 1. The Plains
I remember the plains, where the blood-red sky kissed the golden-green fields and the sounds of tribal drums drifted along the warm winds. I remember the nights when firnis blossoms danced in the sky and the bonfires danced in the eyes of almond-eyed maidens. I remember the wild hunts where we stood shoulder to shoulder with Serinjah from many nations and stalked the fields with bow and spear.
We lived as our people had since time unwritten until the "civilized" men came. They came in suits of fluted metal with feathered crests and painted shields, riding steeds in finery only bested by the riders themselves. They built walls of brick and mortar and there they built an outpost on the plains. They introduced themselves as knights of Albar and they spoke often of "honor." I was nine years of age.
The tribesmen were justifiably reluctant to make friends because the Albarians spoke in strange ways and they walled off the lands where our people hunted, but the elders were weary and tired. Word spread of distant tribes lost in slaughter to the horse knights. The Albarians came to us and offered trade. They taught us the exchange of pressed gold. We brought them furs, sibanac, and timber and we soon became wealthy in coin.
Our wealth would not last long, for then came the famine...
((to be continued))
Lono's Tale
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Re: Lono's Tale
Part 2. Of Famine
And life continued in the plains. In those days we flourished in trade. We took the pressed gold from the Albarians and raced across the plains to barter with the elves in the distant forest. We celebrated with sweet elven wine. We armed ourselves with fine elven craftsmanship and donned elven mail. In the night our village glowed with elven magicks.
Our mutual love of competition and pride in our cultures gave us something to relate to the Albarians with. We challenged them to horse races and they introduced us to onionball. The children threw pebbles up at the soldiers on the wall and with good-natured chuckles they threw the pebbles back. The Albarians taught us to wager with coin, and gambling became our pastime. Dice became popular, but both Albarian and Plainsman favored the races.
It was then that times grew bad. Dark clouds cast shadows on the plains and brought heavy winds and rains. A chill passed over the land and the crops died in the field. Pestilence struck the cattle and the beasts of the field and we began to starve. The elders warned that Malachin had cast judgement on us. We had abandoned our ways and traded and wagered with coin. They said that He had sent Nargun to bring chaos and death to us on the Four Winds.
Meanwhile the Albarians stayed comfortably in their shelters of stone. They slept under warm furs near cozy fires and waited out the cold. We watched as caravans passed our villages with foodstuffs to supply the knights. They grew fat as our skin grew tight on our ribs.
And life continued in the plains. In those days we flourished in trade. We took the pressed gold from the Albarians and raced across the plains to barter with the elves in the distant forest. We celebrated with sweet elven wine. We armed ourselves with fine elven craftsmanship and donned elven mail. In the night our village glowed with elven magicks.
Our mutual love of competition and pride in our cultures gave us something to relate to the Albarians with. We challenged them to horse races and they introduced us to onionball. The children threw pebbles up at the soldiers on the wall and with good-natured chuckles they threw the pebbles back. The Albarians taught us to wager with coin, and gambling became our pastime. Dice became popular, but both Albarian and Plainsman favored the races.
It was then that times grew bad. Dark clouds cast shadows on the plains and brought heavy winds and rains. A chill passed over the land and the crops died in the field. Pestilence struck the cattle and the beasts of the field and we began to starve. The elders warned that Malachin had cast judgement on us. We had abandoned our ways and traded and wagered with coin. They said that He had sent Nargun to bring chaos and death to us on the Four Winds.
Meanwhile the Albarians stayed comfortably in their shelters of stone. They slept under warm furs near cozy fires and waited out the cold. We watched as caravans passed our villages with foodstuffs to supply the knights. They grew fat as our skin grew tight on our ribs.
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Part 3. The Race
Even as death shrouded the plains the tribesmen continued to dance and laugh and gamble on races, maybe even more so than before. What else was there to do?
With food scarce our horses began to starve. The Albarians were more than happy to take back our gold as we lost race after race. Our pride was wounded, but we continued to compete. No tribesman would win again until the day of my race. I was eleven years old.
I had starved myself for two weeks, trading my rations for feed for my horse. He was the same white as the wind-blown snow and fast as Malachin's arrow. And I was little more than a skeleton. I weighed so little.
On the day of the race, however, the winds had stopped and the sky was an empty grey all around as though the gods themselves hesitated in their breath. The man I raised was a knight with a well-groomed mustache he was rather proud of. As I pulled ahead of him I could have sworn it retreated down his lips as I watched over my shoulder. As I crossed the finish I could hear him cursing.
And so with childish exuberance I went to collect my prize, but it was not forthcoming. With a spit upon the ground at my feet the mustache turned his back on me instead. I burned with rage! Though the man was twice my size I tackled him. I was still clawing at him when my tribesmen yanked me away by my leather tunic.
The mustache spared no time rising from the ground and his boot landed square on my chin. It was Kirin, a young mother of two, who tried to defend me, placing her body between him and I. It was the last mistake she would make as another knight pierced her through the stomach and out the back with his saber. Her blood showered me where I stood.
We were outnumbered and out-armed. We had no choice but to retreat, leaving Kirin's body behind.
This time the elders preached restraint. Again they were ignored. We were on the warpath.
Even as death shrouded the plains the tribesmen continued to dance and laugh and gamble on races, maybe even more so than before. What else was there to do?
With food scarce our horses began to starve. The Albarians were more than happy to take back our gold as we lost race after race. Our pride was wounded, but we continued to compete. No tribesman would win again until the day of my race. I was eleven years old.
I had starved myself for two weeks, trading my rations for feed for my horse. He was the same white as the wind-blown snow and fast as Malachin's arrow. And I was little more than a skeleton. I weighed so little.
On the day of the race, however, the winds had stopped and the sky was an empty grey all around as though the gods themselves hesitated in their breath. The man I raised was a knight with a well-groomed mustache he was rather proud of. As I pulled ahead of him I could have sworn it retreated down his lips as I watched over my shoulder. As I crossed the finish I could hear him cursing.
And so with childish exuberance I went to collect my prize, but it was not forthcoming. With a spit upon the ground at my feet the mustache turned his back on me instead. I burned with rage! Though the man was twice my size I tackled him. I was still clawing at him when my tribesmen yanked me away by my leather tunic.
The mustache spared no time rising from the ground and his boot landed square on my chin. It was Kirin, a young mother of two, who tried to defend me, placing her body between him and I. It was the last mistake she would make as another knight pierced her through the stomach and out the back with his saber. Her blood showered me where I stood.
We were outnumbered and out-armed. We had no choice but to retreat, leaving Kirin's body behind.
This time the elders preached restraint. Again they were ignored. We were on the warpath.
Re: Lono's Tale
Part 4. On The Warpath
We retreated into the sacred cavern where it is said that Malachin first came to the tribes and brought them the flame of Bragon after the fall of the First City and there we gathered the tribes. We forged an alliance of five nations and the war drums were played. There in the ever-burning flame we forged new blades and the shamans painted our faces. There we made our plans and our anger was honed into a weapon.
I rode into battle bareback upon my alabaster steed dressed only in leather breeches and light breastplate of wooden beads for mobility. Over my shoulder was a bow, in my hand a long spear and in my belt a short saber, and my face and arms were covered in warpaint.
As the Albarian knights noticed our approach the trap was set. With those others whose steeds were fast enough we lured them into an ambush, attacking and then retreating as though we had underestimated their numbers and fled. The Albarians realized their mistake first when the volleys of arrows struck from the nearby hills, but we were not finished. Our swordsmen appeared from out of the forest and flanked the Albarians from the rear. This is how we won the early skirmishes, by using our knowledge of the area against them. If we only knew that this would only anger them.
As we settled in the siege camps outside their outpost, assured in our belief that we had all but won, a horn blew from the North. We would have never imagined there were so many Albarians in all the world, an army of knights and spearmen and peasants wearing nothing but quilted fabric and carrying pitchforks, pickaxes, and scythes. Caught between the inexhaustible army of Albar and the walls of the outpost our battle was lost. The lucky were butchered on the spot. The rest were hauled away to be tortured for information. I was not one of the lucky ones.
Getting caught on the end of a polearm, I was struck from my horse where my head was dashed against a stone. I remember the feel of wet blood in my hair before everything went black.
We retreated into the sacred cavern where it is said that Malachin first came to the tribes and brought them the flame of Bragon after the fall of the First City and there we gathered the tribes. We forged an alliance of five nations and the war drums were played. There in the ever-burning flame we forged new blades and the shamans painted our faces. There we made our plans and our anger was honed into a weapon.
I rode into battle bareback upon my alabaster steed dressed only in leather breeches and light breastplate of wooden beads for mobility. Over my shoulder was a bow, in my hand a long spear and in my belt a short saber, and my face and arms were covered in warpaint.
As the Albarian knights noticed our approach the trap was set. With those others whose steeds were fast enough we lured them into an ambush, attacking and then retreating as though we had underestimated their numbers and fled. The Albarians realized their mistake first when the volleys of arrows struck from the nearby hills, but we were not finished. Our swordsmen appeared from out of the forest and flanked the Albarians from the rear. This is how we won the early skirmishes, by using our knowledge of the area against them. If we only knew that this would only anger them.
As we settled in the siege camps outside their outpost, assured in our belief that we had all but won, a horn blew from the North. We would have never imagined there were so many Albarians in all the world, an army of knights and spearmen and peasants wearing nothing but quilted fabric and carrying pitchforks, pickaxes, and scythes. Caught between the inexhaustible army of Albar and the walls of the outpost our battle was lost. The lucky were butchered on the spot. The rest were hauled away to be tortured for information. I was not one of the lucky ones.
Getting caught on the end of a polearm, I was struck from my horse where my head was dashed against a stone. I remember the feel of wet blood in my hair before everything went black.
Re: Lono's Tale
Part 5. The Dungeon
I still remember the acrid stench of the dungeon, the smell of blood and bile and excreta. I can still feel the damp frigidity of the jagged stone walls on my back and the burn of the shackles that became uncomfortably familiar. At night when I sleep I still sometimes hear the screams of the men who were lead off to torture and execution. Some begged for their life and others begged for the mercy of death. In this place brave men were made into cowards and cowards, having nothing left to lose, showed the courage of fools. As for myself, starving and plagued by pneumonia I slipped in and out of my body and joined the apparitions who waited on the cusp between that cold place and the dead lands with Cherga's hand on my cheek.
Even my own rhythmic gasps for air became a distant instrument in the symphony of chaos and death, so I was hardly aware of the incoming sounds of marching as the sun came up on the seventeenth day. It was the excitement of those few others who yet survived that brought my ghost back into my body. Chains jangled as we all at once pulled our shattered bodies up the stone walls to see through the bars into the searing light of day, too dehydrated to cry.
Like glowing gods in red and gold the shields of the Salkamarian Legion stood like towers on the horizon. They came as thunder with shouts and the bashing of shields until as if one body they paused together. In the center, the men shieldbearers turned like a massive iron gate and out from the fray came a man on a white pony with red finery, flanked on each side by men bearing the pennant of Salkamar, a symbol I didn't yet know then. The man in center, I would discover, was Commander Balbinus, and he was known in Salkamar for both his strict military discipline and for the unique helmet he wore, cast in gold, with a long red crest that was so long it dragged on the ground when he was unmounted.
What happened next was lost to me. My struggle to remain conscious had failed and I slipped down the wall, crashing to the hard ground below. There I felt vertigo as I was swallowed by blankness.
I still remember the acrid stench of the dungeon, the smell of blood and bile and excreta. I can still feel the damp frigidity of the jagged stone walls on my back and the burn of the shackles that became uncomfortably familiar. At night when I sleep I still sometimes hear the screams of the men who were lead off to torture and execution. Some begged for their life and others begged for the mercy of death. In this place brave men were made into cowards and cowards, having nothing left to lose, showed the courage of fools. As for myself, starving and plagued by pneumonia I slipped in and out of my body and joined the apparitions who waited on the cusp between that cold place and the dead lands with Cherga's hand on my cheek.
Even my own rhythmic gasps for air became a distant instrument in the symphony of chaos and death, so I was hardly aware of the incoming sounds of marching as the sun came up on the seventeenth day. It was the excitement of those few others who yet survived that brought my ghost back into my body. Chains jangled as we all at once pulled our shattered bodies up the stone walls to see through the bars into the searing light of day, too dehydrated to cry.
Like glowing gods in red and gold the shields of the Salkamarian Legion stood like towers on the horizon. They came as thunder with shouts and the bashing of shields until as if one body they paused together. In the center, the men shieldbearers turned like a massive iron gate and out from the fray came a man on a white pony with red finery, flanked on each side by men bearing the pennant of Salkamar, a symbol I didn't yet know then. The man in center, I would discover, was Commander Balbinus, and he was known in Salkamar for both his strict military discipline and for the unique helmet he wore, cast in gold, with a long red crest that was so long it dragged on the ground when he was unmounted.
What happened next was lost to me. My struggle to remain conscious had failed and I slipped down the wall, crashing to the hard ground below. There I felt vertigo as I was swallowed by blankness.
