Some Snippets from The World: Yeola-Camay

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Re: Some Snippets from The World

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The Gryffens Grosbeaker and the Gravio Bersilius Grosbeaker are both families of songbird of the sparrow or passer kindred. Both are notable for their loss of one of the three forward pointing toes common to the passers, but have retained both backward pointing toes. Gryffens is a rather stout bird indeed, standing about two palms, or a bolthing in height (6 nt) while the Bersilius is much more gracile of build and taller, standing about three palms, or a bolthing and a half (9 nt).

Neither bird's song is especially pretty sounding: the former's has been characterised as a kind of high pitched burble while the latter's is said to resemble the burping of an habitual drunkard. Grosbeakers prefer a wide variety of seeds, nuts and fruits in their diet, though the Bersilius will also pursue beetles and worms.

Gryffens Grosbeaker is mostly brown with lighter mottling and a characteristic dark patch upon its breast. Bersilius Grosbeaker is light to middling grey of body and has darker blue wings and a blue chevron upon its head. It too has a characteristic dark patch upon its breast.

As with many other families of grosbeakers, both Gryffens and Bersilius may be found throughout the countries of Narutanea.
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Re: Some Snippets from The World

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A tale of Ruadram under the Hills of Lammach, a queendom of Turghun of in the Farther West, even beyond Dar Irenalliê and Westmarche. It is the case in those lands, that a young boy (or girl), when coming of age, is given his first real weapons: spear, bow & arrows, throwing stick & darts. He'll already have a knife, a kit bag and some other needful things for this very important ritual hunt. It is generally expected that a young hunter will come back home with something delicious in tow -- wild boar, a deer, maybe a wild horse or some geese. This is because the gratefully accepted produce of his first hunt will provide the main course for his coming of age feast! But not every hunt turns out quite as expected, and not all meats that could be eaten can be eaten.

Dail Blackwolf’s Hunt (1996)

I am Dail, called Blackwolf and this is how I won the name. I came of age in the winter time, and it was the coldest and harshest that ever was in the memory of my kin. It was so cold and the wind blew so hard that little animals would freeze solid right in their tracks and even a fire built upon a block of ice wouldn’t melt it! On my night, the night I must go and hunt on my own for the first time, moons and stars alike were hidden behind the clouds and nothing could be seen at all.

Raging Stallion and White Stag, my older brothers, gave me my first real bow, throwing stick and spear. They had made them for me and after giving them to me they took me out into the howling wind to a certain place for the weapon rite. They kept hollering at me to get on with it, but it was so cold, every time I tried to cut my arm, the blood would freeze before I could get any to smear on my new weapons. After some time I was able to get enough to satisfy them.

Then, they bid me farewell and sent me away to prove myself. I was so cold, even with every fur I had wrapped around my body and two hats and double boots on! My teeth chattered and chittered the whole time and I kept hoping some beast – any beast! – would dart across my path so I could bring him down and get home as quickly as I might. But that wasn’t to be, so as I wandered among the trees, I tried to keep my mind off the cold by thinking of all the beasts I might track and take down and what name I would take when I got home again. I rememberd when White Stag came home, dragging this huge white beast behind him and how stunning the antlers were and how delicious the meat of him smelled as it cooked! I hoped I could do at least as well.

But by dawn I had seen niether track nor sign of anybeast and I was dead tired and nearly frozen through. I knew I had to keep moving in order to keep warm, but I wanted so badly to rest. Just for a little while. And it was then my eyes closed for a moment, just as I came towards the ledge of a rocky fall. And I slipped! I lost my footing and down I went, wing over head I tumbled. My furs were lost, and three of my boots, my spear went one way and my bow the other and I don’t know what became of throwing stick or arrows. I still had one hat, though, the one my little sister wove for me, and that had gotten stuck down over my eyes, so I couldn’t see anything on the way down.

At last I came to a sliding, hollering stop at the bottom of the hill and I smacked into a big stone there. I lay there, wind knocked out of me for a moment, then groaned and rolled onto my belly and got up on my knees. I pushed the grey wool hat up out of my eyes, and what should I find before me but a pack of winter starved wolves planning where they wanted to hunt next! And no ordinary wolves these, but five of the hugest blackwolves you ever laid eyes on, and their chief was the biggest monster I’d ever seen! I had startled them, but their chieftain adjourned their moot and with great toothy fangy smiles all around, they began to circle round me. Their fangs were far longer than mine, and the slaver began to drool down from their lolling tongues. I thought to myself, I must be what’s for breakfast! But somehow I can’t let that happen!

Next I thought: stupid boy, you’ve no weapons but your own admittedly small fangs and your fists and knees and you’re naked and frozen through. Of course you’re going to die here, and it’s going to hurt when you feel all those fangs rip into your flesh.

Then I turned face to face with the chieftain and told him flat out: “Look brother hunter, it’s looking pretty awful for me right now, but if I am going to die today, I’m certainly going to take one or two of your mates with me!”

At that moment, he seemed to hesitate for a second. I was going to say some other biting remark, but in that instant, one of the lesser wolves had sprung upon me from behind and he tried to clamp his jaw round my neck. But my sister’s hat had gotten bunched up in his jaws and he wasn’t able to clamp on to me – so I reached over my shoulder and shoved him off onto one of his friends. The other three subordinates lunged at once, and I began bashing them with wings and heels and poking at their eyes. I think I even managed to blind one of them.

Then the big chieftain decided he didn’t like how I was treating his mates and he lunged for my throat, scattering the smaller wolves to the side. Before he could get at me, I grabbed his jaw and snout and twisted them back and forth. The cruch of breaking teeth and tearing ligaments was satisfying to hear, and he yelped in pain. I was soon on top of him and we crashed down to the packed snow, he trying to tear my throat open, me trying to choke him or break his ribs. The others stood back, biding, watching us struggle, patiently waiting to see who would live and who would die. I took a chance and pushed his jaw back and clamped my own teeth over his throat!

I bit at his throat with my teeth and smashed his balls with my knees. Boy did he yowl then! The others tried to nip at me, but the big chieftain snarled at them and they backed away. Clearly, he wanted this fight for himself alone, and that was fine by me! He lunged at me again, slashing at my chest with sharp teeth and tried to rip my belly open with his big claws. Before he could do that, I tripped and fell back to icy earth, cracking my head on the frozen dirt.

For a moment I felt helpless and couldn’t move, and the big chief knew I was finished! He leapt at me and sank his fangs into my side – he was trying to eat me! Somehow I got my body to do what I wanted it to do and so I struggled up again and started to fight anew. The other wolves now had sensed that meat was forthcoming, and I saw them running up to me in a great clump. So I made two fists and let fly at any and every wolf that came at me. The chieftain lunged, and I cracked his ribs with my left hand his throat with my right. I could feel his chest cave in and the breath whooshed out of him. He fell. Coughed, his chest heaving. The other wolves fell back, and I watched the life blood trickle from his gaping mouth and he was still.

I crouched and waiting for the others to attack again. I wished otherwise, but I wasn’t dissapointed! They rushed at me, and I forced my aching and bleeding body to fight on. I growled and snarled right along with them, grabbing at the nearest wolf I could reach and smashed his head into the head of another. I clutched their throats and bit and tore them from their necks.

And then it was done! Only one set of lungs was heaving in the frigid air, only one heart was still pumping warm blood, and they were mine! I reeled and fell to the ground into the heap of broken wolf bodies.

When I woke up again, I didn’t know if the setting Sun was of the day of the fight or the day after. It wasn’t quite so cold, and I was happy about that. My mind was blank and I got up and stumbled about. I found a knife and a spear not far away. They looked familiar – oh, right! They’re mine! The fight came back to me and I turned around to find four big blackwolves in a heap and the biggest of all, their chieftain, lying a little apart. All were dead. I looked down at my body. I was red with smeared blood. “I’m sure much of that is your own! Silly boy, taking on five wolves at once! It’s no wonder you’re bleeding from so many wounds, and where you’re not bleeding from hurts like hell and whatever isn’t painful is either bruised or scrapped! Well, let’s get to it old buck!”

So I took up the knife and skinned each of the five wolves with its long slender skymetal blade, and with the skull-cracker at the pommel, I broke out each of their big fangs. I drank their blood, ate the nuts of each of them. I wished I could take the carcasses home -- they'd provide a fine feast, for all that they strapping big boys, but dogs are our kin, and their flesh mustn't be eaten. They nearly killed me, but now they would make me a very strong tracker and hunter. I slept again, now wrapped up in their furs.

When I awoke, I looked around and found my throwing stick and kit bag and the long hood-like hat, but couldn’t find any of my mittens or boots or cloak. Probably lost in the snow, along with all my arrows! The one boot I still had on when I slid down the hill was all torn up and useless. So I gathered all the wolf pelts around me as best I could, crammed my sister’s hat on my head began the long walk home.

It seemed like I stumbled along for days, until early one morning I stumbled into White Stag, who had come to watch out for me. I fell at his feet, dropping my bundle before me. He bent down and picked me up and slung the bundle of furs and weapons over his shoulder and carried me home.

He brought me into the great lodge house and laid me down upon a table, and everyone came and stared at my broken and bloody body. The little ones saw the gashes and toothmarks and asked if I was dead. But I woke up again, wondering at the feel of warm air around me and the sound of fires in the hearths. Old boy, I said to myself, you managed to get home again! When they saw my eyes open they started to ask me questions all at once, and some others started washing me off and tending my wounds. I knew I’d have to tell them the whole tale; after all, a sack full of twenty blackwolf fangs and five huge pelts to go with demanded a careful and detailed regaling!

And so, they sat me up, wrapped a warm cloak around me, shoved a mug of herb tea into my hands and waited eagerly for the story I’ve just told you! And that is how I won the name Blackwolf!
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Re: Some Snippets from The World

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(I always forget about the wings)
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Re: Some Snippets from The World

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My second favorite story of yours, that one.

One question, though. Are the Daine somehow impervious to frostbite?
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Re: Some Snippets from The World

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gestaltist wrote:My second favorite story of yours, that one.

One question, though. Are the Daine somehow impervious to frostbite?
Impervious, no. Very cold hardy, yes. If he was wearing two pairs of boots and two hats, I would hazard the guess the temperature must have been well below freezing. Bloody polar vortex! An ordinary Daine of these lands won't even think of boots until it gets into the low 30s or upper 20s.
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Re: Some Snippets from The World

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Well, the thing is that this guy slept naked and wounded on the snow. I find it weird that he came out of this untouched by the cold. The Daine must be very resistant to cold.
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Re: Some Snippets from The World

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gestaltist wrote:Well, the thing is that this guy slept naked and wounded on the snow. I find it weird that he came out of this untouched by the cold. The Daine must be very resistant to cold.
Well, he did fall into a heap of recently deceased blackwolf pelts! They're pretty big animals and would provide some protection and some residual warmth. Depending on how he fell -- probably pitched forward -- there's also a reasonable chance he'd be partially covered a) with his own hair, whether braided or in locks is almost universally left long and b) with his wings, as these would certainly cover at least his torso.

As a final note, and of course no one would know this just from reading what I've posted here thus far, there are considerable climactic differences between Earth and Gea. For this Dail, living quite a ways inland, it can get pretty cold in winter. Certainly enough to snow. But the overall climate is rather warmer even rather far north. Where he lives, in the Hills of Lammach, probably about equivalent to living in Wisconsin or Illinois, winter lows are probably mid to upper 30s. This particular winter of bitter teens to twenties is probably quite the oddball. (And nothing like a bitter winter in a comparable location on Earth!, which can certainly see temperatures well below freezing.) I doubt very much that he'd survive a bitter cold night in Manitoba or Siberia for all his resistance to cool weather: even if the AFPs in his body keep working, sooner or later his higher metabolism will simply give out and he won't be able to move around and will eventually freeze to death anyway.

Gea is a rather warmer world, where the Great Northern Forest reaches all the way to the coast of the Ocean of Congealed Waters in several places (elsewhere there are broad swathes of steppe and scrubland). The grinding ice intimated by the name is more mythological than anything. I don't think there's been any ice in the north polar region since the wars with the Rime Giants. If there ever is any ice, it's only seasonal and of short duration.

The most northerly people I know of, the Wark Islanders, don't seem to even know about snow or ice. They have only one word for weather phenomenon (chthekhchthack, which seems to roughly translate as tis bloody awful as usual, why do you ask?) -- their world is one of bleak weather, fogs, rain, chilly winds, churning seas; a bleak landscape (they've only got three color words: bgog, grey, legeb, greyer and dmugdmug, which means bleak as you please); nasty fauna (the Wark Island penguin, a vicious and territorial brute and no mistake, the blotchy walrus and the sandy crab) and even nastier food (the rank meat of the blotchy walrus and the naturally pickled, foul smelling eggs of the Wark Island penguin). But only rarely cold enough for ice and snow.

In the distant South, lands I know much less about, I do know that once you get away from the civilised band of countries clinging to the coastline, its ever darker, ever denser forests all the way down to a curious geological feature called The Eye, a whopping great round sea or lake about three hundred fifty miles across ringed by broken hills. Spectacular when seen from space. Probably an impact crater. No sign of permanent ice.
alynnidalar wrote:(I always forget about the wings)
Don't forget about the wings! Very important, a Daine's wings. How else is he going to communicate with his accustomed eloquence or engage in honorable combat with his usual grace if he lacked his wings??
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Re: Some Snippets from The World

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Turghun are a mixed race, being a combination of Daine and Hotai. Some live peaceably enough among their Daine relations and make very fine Hotai trackers and Troll fighters; but many are unsociable enough that they are turned out from home and often live alone or in small bands of rovers. Of those that live alone, they often inhabit the verges of civilisation -- away from villages or towns, in the wilds. Most live in caves or hide shelters; but some have taken to living under bridges, for they've found that bridges are a fine source of travellers to waylay.

Turghun are natural warriors and excel at hunting. Many even find life as herders quite satisfactory for they may remain connected to their kinfolk, but do not have to live with anyone, and they get to whack wolves and bears and other beasties that threaten their flocks, plus get to hunt Hotai, Trolls and other rogue vagabonds whenever they may come nigh to threaten their homes and lands.

Physically, there is little difference between a Turghun and an ordinary Daine. Their teeth are generally more crooked and rather larger in size; their eyes are often yellowish or brownish, though some are grey and they usually have broader, flatter noses and rougher voices. Their hair, which is generally allowed to grow in locks, is generally far coarser and they very rarely braid it, so stiff and coarse is it. Turghun are usually rather stouter and more robust of build and a little thicker in the face, being rather broad of cheek, and their faces tend towards snoutishness. In height, however, the vast majority do not quite reach to the height of an average Daine, but some grow rather taller indeed. These are quite impressive in battle, and few Hotai hunters of any kind will assay one-to-one combat with such a fellow.

Female Turghun are very rare, or it is said, at a rate of perhaps one in three or one in five. Yet they seem to make up for this deficiency by bearing many children. Their appearance is a little more regular and Dainelike, though a little more robust in build than their full Daine relatives. Turghun are generally considered unattractive by other Daine, usually having broader noses or more irregular features, but not entirely repulsive. Teyor find them entirely as repulsive as any Hotai, and apparently can not sense any sort of distinction between the two groups, even though Daine can. The appearance of a Turghun is almost always unkempt in general. Turghun almost always give birth to twins.

Turghun speak the Queranarran tongue and whatever local dialect their Daine neighbors speak; yet their speech is frequently peppered with what can only be words and phrases of the Hotai speech, though undoubtedly made a little more fair!

The names taken by Turghun are usually words or names taken from Hotai lore: Yarggun, Conqueror; Darghan, Battle-ready; Ashkay, Fiery; Matay, Ambushman. Over in the Multiverse Inn, we've met with Iarag, who is one of these Turghun, though one who was born and grew up among Hotai rather than among other Turghun. His name means "Struggle". --- On the Barbarian Thedes

Thought it might be interesting to see what this Iarag looks like.
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Re: Some Snippets from The World

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What do Hotai look like? I don't remember you mentioning them before.
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Re: Some Snippets from The World

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gestaltist wrote:What do Hotai look like? I don't remember you mentioning them before.
I will have to work on a picture for you. Hotai are something of a mystery, even to folks in the World. On the one hand, they answer to every fantasy world's Orc or Goblin races, but on the other hand, there is rather more to them than either Dark Lord's sword fodder or random band of marauding savages. Most Dark Lords in the long history of Gea have generally preferred hordes of readily available and much cheaper to maintain zombie lich fighters; only one Dark Lord has taken the lowly Hotai as his own children and trained them up to fight for him and do all his bidding.

It might here be noted that Hotai is not even their own ethnonym; this is a very old Daine name for them, brought into the Eastlands by those Daine who first came out of the West. The original signification is now long lost. Many Daine and most Men in the East call them by the Teyorish name Yarrow, which means "out of great sorrows". The Galts call them Herch and the Rumeliards call them Horcoi, both old words for "demon"; the Dhargs call them Rishay, "terrors".

So, then, what are Hotai anyway? We know that Hotai are among the eldest of kindreds: After some further ages of stars passed even Olorevasse and Gardavanna were rent asunder by the power of Panthalassê and even the mighty dragons of old diminished and it was into this changed world that the races of Teyor and Daine and Hotai first awoke and throve. (--- Chorography)

The usual story of their creation runs thus: The evil race we usually name Hotai is long known to Teyor and Daine, who have ever fought them, calling them yarrow. These dastardly Hotai were spawned many Star Ages ago by some evil Power, quite possibly even mighty Dwimmerdwere himself, in the West. Their role in the oecumene seems to be sword fodder for the "good" folks of Gea: These Goblins live to no other purpose than roving and destroying whatever they may. They rape and pillage and destroy wantonly; and are checked in large part by the diligence and the love of battle of the Daine of the Farther West, for without them the world were overrun long since. It be a fact that in every land of the North and by every tribe no matter how backward; it is accounted a good deed to slay a Hotai. (--- Chorography)

Calumny upon red herring, Redbritches tell us how he (and, really, most any Daine you'd care to ask) really feels: (They) were bred from Daine and Teyor in ancient time, it is said by a master of the Darkest Arts. They be short of stature, and ugly of visage, long and sinewy of limb and hardy, strong and exceedingly difficult to kill. The mighty of their chieftains, it is said, have featherless skinlike wings; some individuals have feathered wings like their Daine ancestors. Their faces are not pleasing to behold, for they are pleased only in tormenting and brutalizing others and in being the cause of their griefs and woes, they hate other folk, they hate their own masters and their own creator of old most of all, whom they blame for all their present miseries, and they hate others of their own kind as well: their eyes be slanted and yellow like those of a wild cat, and their teeth are sharp, though whether by nature or by filing is not known to the Wise. They love to cause destruction and bring death to every thing innocent and fair; they make no thing of beauty by their own hands or thoughts. Though their weapons are sturdy and true, they be cruel and misshapen things and these savage cowards make common use of poison, arrows and darts when fighting... (--- Chorography)

Sturluson says this of them, in similarly degrading tones of unabashed despite: (Hotai) are known generally as evil monsters and worthy only of destruction. Hotai, it is said, had their origins many ages ago when, during the youth of Teyor and Daine kinds, some of those folk were captured and corrupted in mind and spirit and body through evil magics. Hotai are cunning and intelligent, enduring of hard labors but are also indolent, lazy, rude and are considered to be wholly evil and black at heart. They are cruel, both to other people and each other and have no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Although skilled in metalcraft, stone working and woodcraft, they never deliberately create anything of beauty. They have no arts, in other words; all of the output of their physical culture is utilitarian in nature, and in nature is generally intended to be tools of destruction and torture. Whatever they make is made in mockery and spite of things lovingly crafted by other folks. Music they know not, unless rough work shanties, chanted to the rhythm of falling mattocks or swinging axes be musical. Even poetry is turned to vulgar utility, in the form of a kind of mock heroic elegy, which certain members of the clan, their shamans or men of wisdom, such as they account wisdom, devise in praise of their leaders and fallen heroes. (---De Barbaros)

Finally, Redbritches has this, rather curious tidbit to say of them: ...the One whom we joyously dare to call Father, the One who loves with complete devotion the mightiest Power and smallest bit of wanatomic stuff. The One who knows every Angel, every Man, every Daine, every Teyor, & aye, every ruined Hotai, every beast and spirit of land or sea or air..." (--- Chorography) So there is clearly some kind of understanding of Hotai as, whatever other horrible lies or horrible truths may be said about them, ultimately children of the Creator. Whether they are redeemable or not, I think it safe to say most of the non-Hotai folk of Gea believe them to be irredeemable monsters and ought to be utterly destroyed.

You can see, if you've been reading the recent exchange in the Multiverse Inn, some glimmers of what life is actually like among a Hotai warrior clan and what it's like for a half-Daine half-Hotai to grow up and live there. They are, it turns out, rather family oriented (though in a rather Cosa Nostra fashion); few will admit, but they are actually pretty inventive and pretty clever folk. When they put their minds to it. Also, again, when they put their minds to it, they are pretty fair engineers and builders. They are indeed long suffering and used to long, hard toil. They , too, have their stories, their legends and histories, their epics, their joys and sorrows. They are also paranoid and xenophobic to an extreme extent (even more than the Teyor!) and prone to responding to outsiders with a firm shoot first and to hell with the questions attitude that makes embassies and trade all but useless. Unless it suits their whim or you've got something they really want and have brought enough fire power with you to ensure everyone will get a fair deal.

Turghun, who you have met already, are the result of breeding between Hotai and Daine. They, unsurprisingly, share many qualities with their Hotai ancestry, though elevated by their Daine ancestry. They embody, to a great extent, the best of both peoples -- they are exemplary warriors, capable of unit cohesion and movement that a flock of birds would envy; they have an innate sense of engineering and design principle; they also make fantastic gardeners and herders. They are also quite dingy, more than happy to roll about in the dust and not bother to bathe later; their appearance is scruffy and ramshackle and their behaviour is rather more chaotic and reckless than their Daine relations. Astute and wise Daine will recognise these traits in the Hotai, and the truly wise may thus yet come to the conclusion that Hotai are not mere monsters, but are in fact, people.

We shall see if that connexion is ever made and followed up on!
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Re: Some Snippets from The World

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Following on from Mozartian opera sung in Gibberish...

Now lith and listen, gentle folk! A tale of wisards and fools I shall unfold...

In those far, far off days of ancientry and far, far away, down in the broad lands of Ymalleia, beyond Syansyan, beyond Pinlan and even beyond the lands of Taram lies a most singular kingdom. Isolated up in the hill country and surrounded by swift rivers and deep forests and hedged about by high crags and deep dells live the seven tribes of Ferox. Ever at war with one another, ever trying to conquer one another, ever seeking to subdue all other nations, the only thing their wise old wags could agree upon was that never in the long history of the Vales of Ferox had any of the seven Ferocious tribes been united under a single king.

Now, to speak of the seven Ferocious thedes as tribes is something of a misnomer. For it was more the case that each of them was a race and a nation unto itself. The customs of one differed from the other; they spoke different languages and told different tales and venerated different gods.

One time, the king of one of these thedes, the East Vulgarians, asked his counsellor: "Now tell me sooth: why is it none of us folk of Ferox can ever get along or unite under one king (even if the choice is crystal clear!); why does tha think this is?"

And the wise old wag thought about this for a time and then cast his doom: "Lord, I will answer thee, but first, tha mon command thy bronzesmith to cast me seven mighty chains and join them up with strong locks upon a ring of bronze around the base of base of mighty Yaremenseul. Finally, hang thou the key to the lock from a cord dangling from that limb there of beautiful Yoggsrod, that stands some few paces away from Yaremenseul."

This was done as ordered and the king stood by, looking perplexed. Then the wise old wag said: "Good my lord, now tha mon choose seven brave warriors."

These were chosen and assembled in the king's hall, and the king felt less perplexed about this, because he was used to the company of warriors. Then the wise old wag said: "Now, mon tha chuse one to bide here and send the other six into the lands of the other thedes, and each one must seize and bring hither a brave warrior of those folks."

These were chosen and within the fortnight all six had returned with a raving, babbling captive tied by a rope round his wrists and a halter round his neck. Then the wise old wag said: "Good my lord, now command thy warriors to chain each man of them to one of the mighty bronze chains round the base of mighty Yaremenseul."

This was done and the king said: "But what about yon seventh chain?" Then the wise old wag said: "Chain up the seventh warrior!, the one who remained behind, to the seventh bronze chain at the base of mighty Yaremenseul."

This too was done and the wise old wag said: "Now, let them be!" And the warriors loosed their grip on the halters and cords binding the ferocious foreigners. And at once, they each began fighting amongst themselves, not least of which the brave Vulgarian warrior!

The king was made to sit in his chair from which he could easily watch the proceedings. After a while, he asked: "I already knows none of the seven tribes get along, tha wise old wag! What I wants to know, wise man, is why this should be so!"

"Ah, good my lord, but observe thou the men. Notice how although each of the warriors knows where the key is hanging, dangling from yon limb of Yoggsrod, they strive as individuals. This one is hollering in Churlish, that one yelling in Yahoolian, this one blabbering in Boorish, that one mewling in Barbarian, still another gabbing on in Gibberish and that poor fellow with his nose bashed in is groaning along in Gross. Even our own brave warrior is hallooing in the noble Vulgar tongue (Eastern dialect, as tha soothly knows!). All the men have to do is work together, raise the great bronze ring over the top of mighty Yaremenseul and drag their catenulate burthen over yonder to the key hanging from the Yew of Wisdom, dangling from the limb of beautiful Yoggsrod!"

The king watched as the Ferocious warriors battered each other with the chains, each pulling on his own or shoving the other fellows down; each one shouting in his own brutish and incomprehensible tongue and none of them was able to make any headway.

At last, the seven warriors wore themselves out with their strenuous struggling and factious fighting. First the Boorlander fainted, and then the Yahooligan fell; the Barbarian collapsed, and then the Gibberian lay down; the Churlerian cast himself down exhausted, and then the Grosslander slumped over; and at last, even the brave Vulgarian, of the eastern kindred, toppled. And soon, all seven brave warriors were snoring, bloodied and battered in their chains.

The king was silent for some time before turning to the wise old wag to whom he said: "Tell me now if I speaks well or if I speaks ill. The reason why none of us Ferocious folks can ever get along or unite under one king (even though I still hold the choice is obvious!) is this: none of the seven tribes, neither the Grosslanders nor the Churlerians, neither the Yahooligans nor the Boorlanders, neither the Barbarians nor the Gibberians, and not even us Vulgarians, easterners or westerners, share anything in common at all! Or, if it were even possible that we should share anything at all in common, none of the thedes are able to express that commonality, for this tribe speaks Gibberish and that one Barbarian; this tribe babbles on in Boorish and that one in Yahoolian; this tribe confabulates in Churlish and that in Gross; and even our own folk speak only Vulgarian (Eastern or Western dialects, if you please!)."

The wise old wag said: "Good my lord, tha does indeed speak well and right! Tis as the wise old wags have said for ages: there is strength in numbers, yet many strong men may fail together; and a house united may stand against hosts while a house divided against itself must fall against a single enemy warrior."

And with that, the six Ferocious warriors were given a ring of silver round their necks and sent on their way.
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Re: Some Snippets from The World

Post by elemtilas »

An old story told by the Turghun that live north of Westmarche.

Long years ago, the queen of mighty Canash sent some of her folk up into the north to live. For there, in those lands, it was said that gold flowed down in the streams from the hills and silver was in the hills and all the land was good for the flocks. And they called their new land Estaralliê, the land of silver. And there those people lived happily for many seasons and their children grew never knowing the ancient realm of Canash save in their hearts and in the tales of their story tellers.

Now one time, an ancient horror awoke; an old terror from out of the ancient West. Hotai had come up from their secret tunnels under the earth of Gea and took up abode in the hills and mountains to the west of Estaralliê. Ancient tales told of the bravery of many heroes who had fought against the menace of Hotai kind in the Realms of Sunset, but none expected to see them here in the Realms of Sunrise!

The folk of Estaralliê set about making a defence against the warlike invaders, but war came to them untimely and many were taken as slaves, not least of which Estielle the queen and her sisters. These were taken down, down deep under the hard rock of the western mountains where they never saw the light of star nor moons nor sun again. The rest, the valiant warriors, the broken and injured, those deemed unworthy of servitude, or those who struggled to escape; those were slain without mercy. The land of of Estaralliê was emptied and laid waste; its treasures despoiled and its beasts taken as loot.

Deep in the delvings of the cities of Hotai, the slaves were divided: all the boys were made to either labor in the mines or else be used as victims of their young warriors at their training. While all the girls were distributed among the higher ranking warriors as domestic slaves or concubines. Estielle the lady of Summer, and her sisters Etwellie the lady of Fall, Yavie the lady of Spring and Erevie the lady of Winter, were kept by Risquš, born of fire, their Chief & Herzog and given to his sons for their playthings. The Chief himself kept four others as concubines in addition to his four sisterwives, all of high blood as that is accounted among the Hotai, and they were kept in servitude in small cells for the amusement of their captors.

It was not long after that all the boys lay dead from the abuse given them, and a number of the girls as well. But many did survive, and the sad compensation for the abuses they suffered was the birth of our kindred.

Even now we account Estielle as our first mother and Šakhekanter, the child of winter and eldest son of Risquš, as our first father; and the four kindreds of Turghun descend first from these two and the others from Etwellie & Starkantuš, the bearer of heavy burdens, from Yavie & Yarguš, the conqueror, from Erevie & Torsuš, the warrior.

Even now these four mothers we adore in our hearts, for she and her sisters accepted their abusers with a grace beyond our understanding and loved their unworthy children; and for their abuse, we likewise despise these four fathers and their whole race.

Our fathers taught us bravery and all the arts of war, as befits the sons of a warrior folk, yet were we ever despised by them and our brethren. Misshapen and illformed they called us, and though we took from them the right to be marked as warriors in the manner of the sons of Hotai chiefs, with a gold ring in the right ear, we were never accepted as their equals. Our mothers taught us love and honor and all the arts the Hotai lacked, loving us in spite of our ugliness and malformities of body and spirit.

As many as they could, our mothers would send away to live in the wilds east of the great river, where Hotai rarely sojourned and where we could live in peace. Here in the lands of Estaralliê, where even now we may find gold flowing down in the streams and we tend our flocks these many ages later, our sisters and brothers may yet find us when first they leave the deep delvings of their fathers. ---De Barbaros: xvij
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Re: Some Snippets from The World

Post by elemtilas »

I placed the score of the gnomic Tsarqan up at Musescore. Came out pretty nice, I think.

Spoiler:
Copying to here from another thread on music in the Eastlands...
Pirka wrote:Basically, I'd like to hear anything that concerns your conculture's music. What instruments do they use? Are lyrics preferred or is scat the prominent feature of songs with vocalizations? What is their tuning scale? What Earth style does it most sound like? Any sound recordings for our collective enjoyment? (If you're shy, please know that I for one will never laugh. Ever. Even if you sing horribly off-key and you suck at playing violin or the kantele. I am sure that many other forum members think the same as I do. Like seriously.) So basically anything to do with music, like I said.
I have done some work on music in my world (aptly enough named The World). If you follow this link http://www.frathwiki.com/The_World on down to the section on music there are some sound files that come pretty close to what a couple different kinds of music sound like over *there*.

Instruments are quite varied, and some may be familiar while others are not so. In the Eastlands of the World, the more 'artistic' end of the musical spectrum makes use of the Orchestra as the basic unit of music making. An orchestra, of course, is a large group of instrumentalists all playing music at once. And it's usually (though not always) the case, that they're all playing the same music at the same time. (Wandell's now famous "Interlude for Two Opposing Orchestras" is a striking example to the contrary.) There are three basic types of orchestras in common use: the Orchestra of Sweet Music; the Orchestra of Strident Music and the Orchestra of Horn Music.

(As a matter of convention, I use names of instruments from *here* that most closely resemble the instruments I have in mind from *there* in terms of overall sound, if not exactly in appearance or construction.)

The typical art music orchestra in the Eastlands is mostly winds, and is typically heavy on sweet flutes (i.e. blockflutes, like our recorders). The second largest group are the strings, comprised of ranks of lutes. This kind of orchestra is called the orchestra of sweet music on account of its heavy reliance on softer instruments that are capable of great dynamic flexibility.

The classical orchestra developed from the consort music played by various Daine nations in the East, and so the instrumentation derives from what they favour. Other practices are also heavily influenced by them, such as there being no keyboard instruments and no to few instruments made from metal.

Members of the group sit either on cushions upon the floor or else on low stools and are arranged comfortably in a semicircle. At the front, are three circular wood framed lithophones. One has stone bars, another wooden bars and the third has bone bars.

Behind them is the flute choir, consisting of as many as 40 instruments: eight each of great bass, bass and tenor and 16 trebles. They're arranged aesthetically with the trebles in the middle and the larger instruments around them and at the ends.

Behind the flutes are the stringed insturments. On the audience's left are two to four viols, and behind them, three zithers and one bass zither. Directly behind the flutes are the lutes: four archlutes (two on either side of the choir), eight principal lutes and eight octave lutes (arranged in front of the larger lutes and directly behind the flutes). Behind them are four hammered dulcimers and four harps. Some of the stringed instruments are strung in gut and others in bronze so there is a marked contrastof soft and loud. To give the bronze strung lutes something of a subdued tone, they can be fitted with soft dampers that take the edge off their tone.

On the left side of the orchestra are the reeds. Behind the great bass and bass flutes are eight chalumeaux: four trebles closest to the edge, then two tenors and two basses. Behind them are four treble cornameuses near the audience,then two tenors and two basses. Next to them are three racketts, two great bass and one tenor. Behind them are two treble, two bass oboes and one shawm. Sometimes the rackett players double on dulcians. These reeds and horns are not really all that loud. The shawm is the loudest instrument in the group, and for this reason, there is only one. The other reeds are fairly quiet and buzzy in nature.

On the right side of the orchestra are the horns. Immediately behind the bass and greatbass flutes are six olifants: two each of treble, tenor and bass. Behind them are three or four treble lisards and then two trumpets in the Daine style. Between them and the lutes are two or three bass horns, two bombardons and at the back a matched pair of two mammoth horns. (An olifant is a large crescent shaped horn, generally made of brass, and having a number of keys; it makes a nice warm, slightly narrow sound; the mammoth horns sound kind of like lurer or rana sringha, but are helically curved and made of brass or bronze.)

At the very back are the drums. On either side are the huge bass and tenor drums (like huge bodhrans); in the middle, three or four normal sized frame drums, iron cow bells, sistrums and a jingling crescent. Other assorted noisemakers may be called for, but these are typical.

There *are* keyboard instruments, but they don't appear in the orchestra. Apart from organs, there are exaquiers (kind of like celestas), clavichords and a kind of geigenwerk. There are no pianos and no harpsichords.

Brass horns (bugles, fanfare trumpets, post and hunting horns) exist, but are reserved for other kinds of music. No one has invented valves yet, but keys and vents are frequently seen on brass horns. Interestingly enough, no one has invented the trombone yet either.

Another kind of orchestra is called the orchestra of strident music and is composed of loud instruments. Its music is best suited to outdoor festivals and entertainments, and its instruments are rarely used for "serious" music.

The principal instrument in this orchestra is the orchestrion, a kind of hurdy-gurdy. As many as twelve chamber sized instruments form the core of the orchestra, with two high pitched instruments and four bombardons -- deep bass instruments -- alongside. To this core, several other odd stringed and wind instruments may be added. Commonly, the strident orchestra employs two pairs of bumbasses (two basses and two baritones), two fiddles, two trumpets marine and an assortment of jingles and gongs. Bagpipes, corno saxones, and musettes have been known to mix in with the other instruments as well.

The orchestra of horn music makes exclusive use of brass instruments. A typical group consists of four to twelve bugles and trumpets divided into the usual four voices (descant, altus, tenor, basus) to which a fundamental of kettle drums is added. A large orchestra might have as many as sixteen trumpets (3 descant, 4 altus, 3 tenor, 4 basus and 2 bombardons); eight bugles (4 descant and 4 altus); as well as a full set of twelve kettle drums.

Outdoor festivals often combine, to great effect, the strident and horn orchestras.

* * * * *

Horns
The horns, or "brass instruments" tend to have narrow bores and no appreciable bells, so are kind of subdued.

Mammoth horns: usually made of brass, but may be made from ivory. Their bore is narrower than that of the oliphant, and gives them a more penetrating, focused tone quality.

Bombardons: kind of like stoutish, widish didgeridoos, and they perform largely the same function, providing a warm and buzzy droning effect. Traditionally made from wood or unicorn horn, many are made of copper.

Basshorns: these look kind of like big bassoons with flaring lotus shaped bells in burnished copper

Oliphants: come in assorted but always paired sizes; may be made of brass, but are often made from ivory. Ivory oliphants have long been prized by the nobility, but their small size has generally diminished their role in music. By making the horns out of bronze or brass and by adding large clapper keys, a warm, buzzy, full sounding bass horn has evolved. Oliphants have a rather wide bore, as compared to the narrower bore of the mammoth horns.

Trumpets: modern trumpets, since perhaps the last decade of the 17th century, have been shortish affairs with considerable conicity and a flat, decorated plate in place of a bell. They are used for signalling in the Army and act as a member of the percussion section in the orchestra, playing a rhythmic tattoo upon the lower three or four tones of the harmonic series. The old style trumpets, found in abundance up until the Alarian Invasion and its devastating after effects, were quite long, often folded for ease of playing and were capable of diatonic melody. Though the secrets of their construction have long been lost, research conducted with a couple of surviving ancient instruments has at last yielded playable instruments capable of melodic music making.

Reeds
The cornu saxonum is a sort of shortish and stoutish brass or bronze pipe, slightly conical in shape, with a short bell turned to one side. It is played with a single reed mouthpiece (like that of a reedpipe) and has finger holes along its side with perhaps one or two keys of brass. Its sound is rather pleasant, warm and broadly reedy.

The reedpipe is a sort of longish wooden pipe of straight bore that is played with a single reed mouthpiece. It has several finger vents and as many as four or five keys of brass. Its sound is somewhat muffled and garrulous when played low. When played high, its sound is piercing and clear.

The curtal is a kind of deep sounding double reed instrument. Made from a single piece of wood, it has two long bores made parallel to each other, one, the so-called tenor bore, having the usual finger holes for the left and right hands, the other, the so-called bourdon, has keys and thumb holes that extend the range down from the seven-fingered F to low C. Curtals are made in a range of sizes from tenor down to the largest chorist bass pommer.

Another double reed instrument of deep voice is the rackett. Many bores are drilled through a small block of wood and connected by cross chambers; this allows the rackett to play very deep notes while the instrument itself is no more than a foot tall or so.

A traditional instrument of Rumnias is the caunterellaz, a double reeded instrument consisting of two wooden pipes of unequal length. The shorter is the chanter and has a number of finger holes arranged according to the scale and mode desired. The longer pipe serves as a drone and has no finger holes. It may have vent holes that can be stopped up with wax in order to alter the pitch of the drone. Drones typically have a metal bell or bulb at the end to serve as a resonating cavity. Its tone is said to be warm and buzzy like the droning of bees on a lazy summer's day.

Flutes

Most flutes are of the fipple variety, and so related closey to our recorders and whistles. They are typically made from ivory or wood.

Strings

The quntal is a Gnomic lute. It has five strings and a long neck. Two bass strings serve as a drone-like accompaniment.

The family of cutarres serve as melodic and harmonic string instruments. The instruments are made in a variety of shapes and lengths. The smallest are called cutarinai and may be two feet long or shorter. The huge arch-cutarres have bass strings that are nearly six feet in length. Cutarres typically have no fewer than eight strings but may have as many as two dozen.

Another family of string instruments is that of the orchestrion, which is much like a hurdy-gurdy: a sound box, usually rectangular in shape, has a crank at one end that turns a rosined wheel that causes a number of strings (chanterelles and drones) to vibrate while a tunable keyboard presses tangents against the chanterelles. While not used in the standard flute orchestra, there is also a tradition that groups the louder instruments together into a fine out-of-doors orchestra whose base is the orchestrion.

Keyboard

The shaqtar, or Gnomic chimes, is a kind of instrument with small metal bars struck by small hammers.

The exackier, usually referred to as the checker, is a kind of string instrument activated by a keyboard that throws wooden jacks up to strike the strings. Unlike the harpsichord, there are no quills to pluck the strings.

The harmonestricon is the largest of the keyboard instruments and answer pretty adequately to our organs, having a number of keyboards, pedals, pipes of varying tone color and depth of tone, special effects -- fancier instruments tend to favor bits of gaudy and clockwork animations, along with the usual assortment of effects one can find on any organ -- whistles, bells, roars, bellowing oliphants, caliopes, flame throwers and the like. Organ builders in the World tend to disfavour very high ranks of pipes, so you rarely find ranks much small than the 4' size. They do, however, love to build large! The biggest pipes on any harmonestricon are actually tunnels bored into the rock of the cliffs behind the House of Opera and have both proper and resultant tonalities (if you can even call them that) in the 256' range. Definitely can't be heard by most people, but a number of them can indeed be felt!

Sadly, an act of Parliament some years ago outlawed the use of the Grand Bombardon, with its built-in flame throwing capabilities, that unfortunately resulted in the Empress's Mishap, which occured at the opening of Wandelle's Sack of Pylycundas. This work calls for two full orchestras to vie in a musical joue d' geurre with the Mighty Sperlitzer harmonestricon, which at the time was outfitted with the only known indoor flame thrower in the whole of the Eastlands.

Everything was going along just fine until the flame-thrower came to take center stage in a veritable crisis of state in which her majesty's high and pointy silk hat, which was resting upon her six foot tall hair-do, got in the way of the low CC's flame. Pouf! went the hat, Pouf! went the pomaded hair and the empress herself ran screaming from the House of Opera to dunk her head in the fountain outside.

It was there where a whole cadre of courtiers, MPs and Cupboard Ministers spent a good half an hour patting her hand and reassuring her that, yes indeed, Reginald the Pomatomancer would certainly be able to construct a new hair-piece in time for the opera's second act, if only her majesty could calm herself a bit and let her men get to work stamping out the flare-ups in the upper levels of the hair-do and see to the safety of the caged song-birds that inhabited the lower quarter of the structure.

* * * * *

Wandell's Sack of Pylycundas is an interesting work, not least of which for its undoubtedly high calibre music, but more for a curious tradition that has arisen wherein during one key scene of the opera, the audience actually do not see the action as it unfolds...

It turns out that during the (somewhat) risqué Dance of the High Priestess of Lo! it has become traditional for viewers to cover their faces with a veil or fan. Back in the day, the Emperor's daughter was quite young when the opera debuted and so she wore her veil down during the key scene so she wouldn't see more than a silhouette of the priestess showing off bóth her shoulders ánd her calves in such a rude fashion (oh, the scandal!) -- after all, only country folk, Daine and women in the market go about without any shirts like that! So, in deference to the Emperor's daughter, everyone in the House likewise covered their faces for the duration of the dance.

To this day, it's still considered traditional for audiences to cover during the dance. Of course, no one wears veils anymore -- but everyone carries a fan with them, so, once the Priestess arrives at center stage, FWLWLWLWLWLIPPP!, out rip hundreds of fans. (Just mind those clever lads who've made sure to bring their fancy-dan fans with the wee little decorative holes in the ribs! Gives em a nice view of the Priestess, those holes!)

Of course, given that the role of the High Priestess is always played by a young male Daine has never given anyone, least of all that Emperor of so long ago, a moment's pause as to why they need to avert their gazes so! He's a guy after all! (And much to the disappointment of those poor lads who just spent an extra two dollars on a fancy "Rumeliard fan, with decorative grill-work", just so they could catch a glimpse of the "priestess" showing off "her" shoulders!)

eldin raigmore wrote:That's an awfully minimalist answer, elemtilas.
Can't you elaborate in detail and at length?
Can't say I know a whóle lot more on the subject! The World is not an "alien" world, full of slimy monsters from the dawn of time; not so close to Sawel that folks like to enjoy a cool and refreshing crater of lead for afters; nor so far away from the local sun that the natives enjoy swimming in lakes of molten nitrogen. The physics of planet and sound are familiar places, so tonal systems tend to follow similar patterns *there* as we find *here*.

I have some notes on musical scales. Popular musical scales in use in the Eastlands are derived (at least in part) from the Gnomic music. Any scale, regardless of its origin, is based on a root tone, the tonic, and a number of intervals that comprise the steps of the scale and usually end upon the octave. Octaves may be divided up into any number of semitones that determine the exact relationship of harmonic and nonharmonic spaces in between the octaves. The musics found throughout much of the World divide the scale into 12 basic semitones along with a further number of quartertones, thus giving and extended chromatic scale. The quartertones don't generally figure prominently in the basic scales, but are rather used for embellishment of the basic semitones. There are of course other divisions of the octave, and not everyone uses the octave as the basic boundaries of the scale.

I mention the basic building blocks being root and tonic -- for example *here* in "western" music, you can listen to almost any classical symphony, especially at the end of the piece, where the composer feels entirely obliged to treat one to a fifteen minute bombardment of chordulent succulosity of the c.c.c c-G c-G c-G c--- G--- c--- G--- c. c.c.c.c c.c.c.c-G c-G c-G c--- G--- CC------ sort of thing. In many World musics, what counts as "dominant" is a somewhat fluid thing. In Gnomic Music, seconds and fourths tend to predominate. Some composers like to avoid fifths altogether, others tend to sharpen them at least.

The following are common scales used in the Gnomic music, and some have also been known to musical philosophers since ancient times.

1. Flat-3, sharp-4, flat-6, flat-7: C-D-Eb-F#-G-Ab-Bb-c

This scale is highly favoured by the Gnomes (and thus by art music composers in the Eastlands in general in recent times).

2. Flat-2, flat-6: C-Db-E-F-G-Ab-B-c

Another scale popular in the Gnomic music is the double harmonic scale. It is common to flatten the second and sharpen the seventh a little.

3. Flat-3, flat-6, flat-7: C-D-Eb-F-G-Ab-Bb-c

Also known as the Aeolian scale.

4. Flat-2. flat-3, flat-6, flat-7: C-Db-Eb-F-G-Ab-Bb-c

Also known as the Phrygian scale.

5. Flat-2, flat-7: C-Db-E-F-G-A-Bb-c

This one is favoured by the Etuns, whose music is starting to reach the Eastlands, and is also knows as the maqam Zanjaran (Zankulah), in the music of the Uttermost West.

If you listen especially to the first example I linked to, you can hear the predominance of seconds and fourths as they dance around one another.

* * * * *

As for what exactly is this Gnomic Music, everyone thinks of Gnomes as those red-capped lads folks hire on to dig in the garden or do minor masonry work. And it is true they have developed a certain affinity with root vegetables, rich soils and secluded garden sheds; but their history runs rather deeper and is far more musical than many are aware. Historically, Gnomes and their music have been very little known or appreciated outside their homelands. It is not until the late 18th century that their music became well known. Miners and spelunckers working in the deeps of the Whythywindle and Arnal Mountains are said to have heard the music of the Gnomes, and it is from such accounts recorded during the 17th and 18th centuries that their musical traditions came to the attention of scholars in the Eastlands. It is said to be at once both lovely and somewhat jarring, as if two competing musics were craftily woven together and set as rivals. Certainly the music of Tsuutam served to break open the world of Gnomic music to a wider audience in the century following. Gnomic music is typically divided into three broad categories: Epic, Folkloristic and Court musics, the latter of which is best known and understood among Men. The former two require a knowlege of the local language, and non-Gnomes as a rule do not know more than a couple words of any Gnomic language.

The Court music is the best known of all Gnomic musics among the Wise of the Eastlands. First heard by miners, it is now enjoyed by many folks of the Middle World for its etheral melodies and at times discordant harmonies. The court music consists mostly of dances and airs heard in the halls of nobles or well to do Gnomes.

The classical orchestra for playing court music consists of five to seven musicians. The principal plays upon the shaqtar, a kind of celesta or exackier and is responsible for the melodic and harmonic parts of the music. A second often plays upon the quntal, a kind of large lute and provides a reinforcement of the shaqtar's melody. Sometimes, the second will switch and reinforce the bass line and harmony. The other players share playing upon racks of tuned chimes, bells, gongs, wood blocks, tongue drums, drone pipes and the like instruments. The choice of drones and bells and chimes is determined by the tonality of the piece. Gnomes everywhere avoid wind instruments. I believe it has something to do with the desire to avoid summoning destructive winds down into their delvings.

There are several characteristic dances of the court music. The tsarqan, or "courtly dance" is perhaps the best known, especially on account of Tsuutam's efforts during the 19th century. It is a social dance and may be danced by as many as 24 couples divided into two sides. Tsarqans are often danced in a set of three contrasting movements having different metres and different series of dance steps. Court dances tend to be slow to moderate of tempo and the dancers make use as much of elegant arm and upper body movement as they do of footwork.

The almost waltzlike quality of tsarqans in 3/4 time lends itself to fluid movement, while dances in 5/4 are accompanied by rather much foot stomping and leaping or capering.

Another dance is the taftard, with its energetic leaping bass accompaniment. There are also the very slow ruraqim, or "dance of the earth elementals" and the jolting palanstaq with its lively runs and off-beat stomping rhythms.

The airs, or lyrical pieces, are known generally as sura.

Rastam is the word used for a scale type or mode; but also indicates a musical interval. Seven such intervals make up the steps of the scale: ras, unison; tam, second; qar, third; dever, fourth; qilmo, fifth; balam, sixth; peleg, seventh.

* * * * *

Music in general, leastways in the Eastlands, is homophonic. Within this basic vertical structure, there is some room for horizonal variance (embellishment, rather than polyphony) and alteration between consonance and dissonance.

Musical instruments are typically built in choirs of four voices (descant, altus, tenor and bassus); though there is a marked preference for building larger rather than smaller. Their right sounding choir is rather lower than ours -- we're used to melodic recorders that are a foot long or flutes that are two feet long or trumpets that are four feet long. Those produce music that most Eastlanders would call "high and screechy". The descant recorder *there* is approximately equivalent to our 2' tenor; their orchestral trumpets are of 8' length rather than our 4'. Not all instrument families are built in complete choirs -- trumpets tend to be made only in three sizes, bugles in one, racketts in three and olifants in two and mammoth horns in one. They do have a concept of "keys", like our "D" or "G", and there is a not so subtle interplay between music that gets written and instruments that get built. They tend to negatively influence one another: composers might like to create music in the key of Db, but instrument builders like to build instruments in choirs of D/G and F/C (e.g.), so the composers must be content to write in D rather than Db for orchestral work. But eventually some maker decides that only a little bit of work of adding a key or slider here and there will make a C instrument play in Db just as well, so now the music can be heard properly. Such change is slow. Obviously, keyboard instruments are immune to those considerations, and this is one reason why Gnomic Music has become so prominent -- the music of the orchestras is not able to be so flexible.

Although the basic music is homophonic, the various choirs of instrument types are often set at variance with one another in a piece of music. Usually you'll find flutes and strings in a constant state of shifting in and out of cooperative vs. competitive music. Underlying any melodic and harmonic work of the strings, reeds and winds lie the foundation and rhythmic work of the drones. In most orchestral works, you'll hear drums, gongs, trumpets, chimes, clappers and so forth setting up the basic rhythm of the piece. You might find it strange to see the trumpets listed among the percussion section rather than among the soloists of the melodic section, but this is typical of the style of music. These trumpets provide something of a chordal and definitely a rhythmic accompaniment on the four or five notes they're allowed (by Guild regulation) to play.

Vocal Music is also very much in evidence in the Eastlands. Solo singers generally sing a whole song alone, or else are involved in a kind of round. Mind you, by "song" it is generally meant epic poetry done to a musical setting or a folkloric ballad. Sometimes a band will play along for a while, but usually it's just the cantor and the audience with a few hours to spend inside from the dark. Such epics can take a few days to work through -- a typical epic (say 12000 to 16000 lines) would take 24 to 48 hours of continuous singing. Even the most stalwart of cantors is not up to that task! But every epic cantor has his particular way to overcome this. For example, Ramard wan Bynganfelds (a moderately renown cantor of 19th century Auntimoany) became locally famous for the following: whenever he felt like his voice was becoming tired, maybe after two or three hours of recitation, all of a sudden, the Hero and his Merry Band would find themselves being chased by some fell villains -- doesn't matter who or what, could be stone trolls or savage Daine wildings -- and they whole lot of em would invariably end up careening headlong towards "calamity! the Cliffs of Cloven Cleme!" And there wise old Ramard would wind up with his equivalent of "same time same channel next week!". The trope became so well known, people for miles around started calling it Ramard's cliff-hanging wind-up, and eventually, just a cliff-hanging or even cliff hanger.

Choral singing is also very popular across all races and countries around. This generally involves more what we think of as "songs": several verses, often of a bawdy or humorous nature, with repetitive choruses. "The Merry Wives of Ozmand their Braziers did They Burn"; "Three Jollies of Pycleas"; "Three Milkmaids Came a-Lying" and other faves come to mind immediately. You get that a lot in caravansaries, especially when the local cantor is resting up or preparing for a recital.

Daine are also well known for their singing. Daine in general are credited with having good singing voices, and they sing very frequently. While among Men it is common practice to divide the human vocal range into soprano, alto, tenor and bass, a much narrower range must be applied to the Daine. Most boys have tenor voices and most girls have alto voices. A very few would be able to sing highish baritone or lowish soprano parts. They find the very high and very low voices of Men a little disconcerting. A Daine's range is probably about two octaves to two and another fifth. Vocal music rarely calls for more than a range of about a sixteeth or so.

Daine singing is, like most other song of the Eastlands, primarily monophonic: a single melodic line that the singers partake of. Most vocal music is solo singing. A bard, balladeer or epic reciter sings either a capella or else to the accompaniment of some 'harmonious' instrument such as a lute or lyre or fiddle. Group singing, such as when working or hiking along is also typically unison. Some songs call for two choirs (e.g., boys vs. girls / low vs. high voice) and these will typically be some kind of call and response singing. So still basically unison, but the parts are basically independent and either take turns or interweave with one another. Daine do like closer spacing in their music in general, and use the microtones especially for modal shifting and ornamentation.

They find the way Men sing in four parts most disconcerting. The sense of dislocation they experience at such times seems to stem from a curious artifact of this kind of music: a most curious interplay of complex harmony of sound and the flow of thaumic energies in the locality. The interplay is ephemeral and fleeting, but the music can alter magical currents, create weird eddies, diminish the effects of nearby incantations or enhance others. For what it's worth, many Men find the four-part singing of the New Hymnody a little disconcerting as well, but for entirely different reasons! Most of the musics of Men are homophonic as well. Some natural philosophers have speculated that it was actually Joshua's Own Barbershop Quartet that caused a morphic dissonance in the vicinity of the ancient city of Jericho, thus bringing the walls down and allowing the armies to flood into the place. A similar principle was recently accomplished in Phazzanea of the Uttermost West by one Iaso Zionikos who used huge olifants playing four part musics to crack open the land in the vicinity of the Pillars of Senusret, the plan being to create a bit of a canal in order to re-flood the Midearth Sea. The sea got re-flooded all right, but the power of four part harmony agitated the earth so much that nearly everything from Sinai to Syria was levelled and the great Rift was split wide open. On a positive note, Iorsunborg, Tiferias and Nazariyya are all now ocean-front real estate!

* * * * *

Opera --- vocal music with orchestral accompaniment, all while wearing gaudy make up, wigs, pointy helmets and strutting about the stage while singing Foreign -- has become terribly popular in the East and many composers write magnificent operas based on the craziest of old stories. Hulyus et Antunius Faxunt Praiturias is a favorite comic opera of VVil Shaxespear. Apparently, it seems that the Senators hired a well known hit man to murder Hulyus (who was then autocrat of the Republic), but it turns out they ended up talking with his dear friend, Anthunius, who was Hulyus's comrade in arms. They talk about it over a pint down the popina and hatch their own rather comical plan to dupe the Senators. This involves a rather convoluted song and dance number where they convince Hulyus's own twin brother to stand in for the autocrat on the floor of Parliament where Anthunius will rush in, saxo extracto, and pretend to kill the autocrat per plan, where much chicken blood will be splashed about. Meanwhile, Hulyus is cleverly disguised, in plain sight, as a reporter for the local broadsheet (and in which role he sings out the line in question -- horto io aucqere! elusent' i cuondos di duello! ia ha ha!) The Senators erupt in jubilation, Hulyus takes off his reporter's saturno whence, oclis amphivertis, the Senators recognise the real autocrat's stern features glaring at them!

Hulyus's brother leaps up, Anthunius dabs away the chicken blood and they dance a merry jig for the confused Senators. The game is up now and Hulyus let's in the "dogs of war" -- the personal guard -- who round up all the evil Senators and toss them into the harbour, all to the accompaniment of the rather jolly aria, "Ad Mareas Vadiamo!" Arm in arm, Hulyus and Antunius enjoy a rousing sing-along down the popina with the officers and men and a reprisal of the famous "Bebiamo! Rebebiamo!" chorus, after which everyone exeunts stage right.
Enough on music from the World for now!
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Re: Some Snippets from The World

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A tale of long, long ago...

1.
My world was dying, we Yĩĩtay, my people were fading. The six powers of earth and sky shifted their allegiance and we were no longer the favored. We who abhorred sun and her warmth found ourselves fleeing before her baleful yellow face, even as you Astay, the Others, were growing.

We fled our wasting land when I was little more than a child. Six great vessels of blue and green ice, crystal clear as any gem you Astay might prize, bore us from Sĩtalsalĩn, the Sea of Tears the elders called it, for it was as if our very land were pouring forth its last tears into the new formed water, and from there along the broad river they called Walayjĩlĩin, the River of Home. My father captained our little fleet, guiding our vessels along a sure and swift course. At first, as Walyjĩlĩn flowed down out of the ancient mountains, I would dash from one side of the vessel to the other, and I could see many isolated bergs in the distance. Grandmother, she was Mĩkayam the Memory Bearer, told me all their glorious names.

I’m sorry that I’ve now quite forgotten them! They were the ancient homelands of our kin, even then as I looked out from our vessel, I knew that there was no hope of any of Yĩĩtay crossing the blasted and rocky desert, all brown and grey. Father, in the foremost vessel would peer out now to the left and now to the right, ever searching for any sign of survivors. With every passing berg, his broad shoulders would sag and he would sigh. Even I knew that our old place was the last stronghold of the Yĩĩtay. There would be no other survivors.

- - - -

Ah, yes, my grandmother! Mĩkayam they called her. She knew all the ancient lore, from the time of our distant ancestors when our folk were great and powerful. When the six elements of earth and sky were in our favor! Even when she was young, the elders of her time could feel a great change was coming, but none could say what form it would take. It was Mikayam, even before I was born, who urged our elders to take precautions now and seek Walaywalay, the Home of the Ancestors. Only there would we be safe! she would say. And for long time, they ignored her. The elements favor us, they said. Wind howls as she has always done; Ice grinds all beneath his hard boots; Snow provides us with all we need! Stone is weak, ever ground down by Ice; Water is thwarted, you can hear her bones crack and snap as Wind caresses her face. Even the hated Sun has fled and overhead wheel only the cruel frozen light of stars!

For a long while we Yĩĩtay convinced ourselves all would be well, and the world would continue as it had done since our ancestors came down from Walaywalay.

But eventually, even the dimmest of us came to know that something was amiss. Strange scents came to our homeland upon the rare winds from below our homeland, rumors of change and death. Youngsters were born more rarely, and were often runty and small. Even my brave father, who I always thought of as great and mighty, was much smaller than his granddad. And here am I, one of the last born on the Ice, I am smallest of all of them, though I dare say I’m quite a bit bigger than you!

- - - -

Yes, I was born on the Ice. Tĩtĩlalan they call me. I don’t think you’ve shown me a word for it in your tongue. It means the last spit of snow, the last blast of wind, the last rags of clouds at the end of a raging storm. I once asked my mother about it, but she would never say anything about it. She was always very quiet; she would only look into my eyes with a deep sadness.

Grandmother said it was because mother knew I would be the last born to our people, the last Yĩĩtay. When I was little, I did not care about such things! Old stories and rumors of death and prophetic names: those things never crossed my mind! No, that was filled with the freedom of running through blizzard and diving into snow banks, the bitter gale blowing through my hair and the howling yips of my youth echoing among the higher crags of ice. I was born on the Ice, and in those long frigid days under bright stars I throve! Even as I grew quickly, so the world beyond our home changed and decayed.

And, at last, grandmother was able to convince enough of the elders that our homeland was doomed. And so would we all be doomed if we did not depart. And so we did. I don’t know they did it, but the elders went down to the edge of Sĩtalsalĩn and made there one last great work of ancient magic. From the waters of the sea itself, they raised up the six great vessels that would bear us far from home. That powerful working of magic was their undoing. I remember still the mourning groan that went up from the old folk, for they understood how great a sacrifice was that the elders had made for us younger folk who would be journeying away, though I little understood it at the time.
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Re: Some Snippets from The World

Post by elemtilas »

[tick]

The Raven

or, The Rest of the Story

A dark speck appeared high up in the air above the sleeping trees, midnight black it was against the azure of a clear, late December morning. A bird it was, flying high in the crisp but breezeless air; below him, the valley of the Yppe River passed swiftly by, the ancient Watchtower standing tall and proud upon its rocky promontory and the little town below seemed tiny and distant, like a childhood kingdom of blocks and tin soldiers arrayed upon a bedspread. The bird, black against blue, took little notice of the doings of Men and Daine and he wheeled into the west, passing now over the winter sleeping trees of the Old Woods. He called out once, and heard no reply. A little further on, he called out again, and still heard no reply. "Drat!" Now wondering at the silence, he wheeled about and called out a third time. “Ah! There they are!” he said to himself, hearing at last their reply. “See if I don’t break their lousy beaks when I get down there!”

Tynselyn slowed his descent as his two eggbrothers, Wenselyn and Tambert came into view. He fluttered down slowly and touched down deftly on a broad branch of an ancient oak, home at last after a long sojourn into the distant and unknown lands of the sunrise.

“Well, lads, I have had some adventures, I can tell you,” he cried as they greeted him noisily.

“Well then, don’t keep poor us in suspense, Tynselyn! Do thou tell us about one of thy fantastic adventures!” cried Wenselyn.

“All right, but let’s have no idle prattling or tiresome interruptions!”

“Yes, come now, broodmate,” said Tambert. "Do go on with thy story! We mean no harm by all our prattle,” said Wenselyn. “It’s just that we can’t help it, we gets so excited by thy story telling.”

“Well. Alright.” And in an instant, all talk of interruption was forgotten as Tynselyn began to recount his strange adventure in the great City.

“Yes lads it is true: I flew as far as the great City, far away in the land of sunrise. Like I told you lot before I left, I just had this itch to see what was to be seen there. And you know we’ve all heard the stories about baskets filled with fresh eyeballs and streets paved with carrion and, oh!, it’s true! All true! But let me get on with my tale.”

"Teet!" chuckled Tambert. "Get on with his tail! But we knows that's a pune, a clever play on words, cos tha meant 'tale', a story!" Tynselyn glared at Tambert. Wenselyn nudged him in the side.

“It must have been just past midnight when it happened. It had rained all day and the sky remained grey and blowy all that evening after the rain stopped. But there was me snugly perched in the shutter nook by this big window of a great big house all made of dark grey stones and me belly was full and all, after a grand feast. Coo, let me tell you lads! What a feast there is to be found in the City! Nice squirrels and rats, even cats and and dogs!”

“Were they juicy?” inquired Wenselyn, unable to contain himself, despite his promises to be quiet and attentive.

“Yes, don’t leave out any of the tasty details! I likes a bit of cat when I can find one,” replied Tambert wistfully. “Not a lot of meat, perhaps, and the fur does stick to one's beak, but big eyes all the same!”

Tynselyn ignored the interruption, clearing his throat and speaking over Tambert’s rambling commentary: “As I was saying, you want juicy and tender and fresh! Lads, you ain’t tasted nothing until you’ve pecked over a fresh roadkill in a big town like that! Why, there’s so many squashed rats and gutted cats and baskets full of delicious fish heads, we could eat like kings! Why, I’ve half a mind to relocate our clan to this City after all. Sure, an unkindness of intelligent and handsome Ravens such as ourselves could do very well there indeed. But I digress!”

“Anyway, as I was saying, twas nigh midnight...”

“Wait, I thought tha said it was just after midnight, not nearly midnight,” said Wenselyn, forgetting again about his promise not to interrupt.

“Yeah, very important distinction that, egg brother!” cried Tambert. "Twas one day or another, so to speak."

“Will ye two kindly shut it! What did we agree about not interrupting a poor tired bird who’s trying to tell a story? Right. Twas midnight.” Lifting his wing towards the two of them and raising his voice slightly, he continued: “And before neither of ye two can start up again, this big clock in the tower nearby had just bonged thirteen. Midnight, see?”

“Now where were we. Ah yes: twas a dark and dreary night, or before or after midnight. And there was I at the side of this big window of glass, tucked away by the shutter which was a treat for keeping the wind off me and resting me poor tired self after a long hard day ministering to the recently deceased of the metropolis...”

“Wait,”whispered Tambert. “What’s a metropolis, Wenselyn?”

“I think it means a big city, Tambert.”

“Oh, I see. See, I thought twould have been cleverer by half if he’d said ‘necropolis’, on account of that being a dead city.”

“Aye, that would have been clever if Tynselyn’d said that, chum. But he didn’t, and you did, and somehow it ain’t as clever as all that, and now let’s clamp it afore Tynselyn hollers at us again!”

“Ahem!” Tynselyn cleared his throat, looking at his eggbrothers sternly. “As I was saying, the metropolis, if you two don’t mind! And what should I see inside the dimly lit room through the window glass but some sorry old chap pacing the floor in his nightshirt. Back and forth, forth and back! Weeping he was, and wringing his long, thin hands and moaning on about this sweet Lenore. At first I thought perhaps he must be an herbalist or a pothecary or somewhat, on account of the sweets and bitters, but the way he went on about this sweet Lenore, I said to meself: self, that can only be his lifemate, this Lenore he’s gabbing on about. You know how Men go about those kinds of things. I found that, for some strange reason, I could not for the life of me break away from the scene inside the dimly lit chamber. Here was this fellow pacing the floor before the low fire, and wringing his hands all the while, and here was poor old I perched outside his window pane in the cold of deepest midnight, watching. And finally, he slumped down in his chair before the low fire and took up some old book and tried to read from it. I don’t know what possessed me to, but I thought to me old self, Tynselyn me old self, why are we sitting perched outside this old glass window when for sure it’s nice and warm inside! And so I said to meself, self, well let’s see about that, then!”

“And so I took wing and flew low along the house untill I found the gateway to the house. Twas only a short distance, and I alit by the door. I cocked me head and listened: sure enough, I could hear the pages of an old book turn; I could hear the crackle of the low fire as it burned down; I could even hear the occasional weeping of that poor old sod. And so I tapped upon his chamber door, I rapped upon the wood of his chamber door: once — twice — thrice.”

“Suddenly, all was silence inside, apart from the crackle of the low fire burning down, and then I heard a voice from inside. Muffled it was, for the door was thick hard wood. He’d heard my rap-tap-tapping! It wasn’t loud, but he’d heard my rap-tap-tapping on his chamber door!”

“‘Tis some visitor,’ says he; ‘tapping at my chamber door; only this and nothing more.’ And here was poor old I, still miserable out in the chill of a Yuletide midnight, and there was poor old him, miserable and in the warm! So I tapped again at his chamber door: quarice — quince — sextice!”

“‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;" says he: "Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door: this it is and nothing more.’”

“I could tell by now something had stirred within him! He’d been going on about ghosts of embers on his chamber floor, and vain wishings for the morrow, and rap-tap-tappings at his chamber door, and such a deep, deep sorrow, sorrow for his lost and sweet Lenore. Why, I must say it even got to me, here in me poor battered heart and in me tack-sharp mind.” He thumped his breast with a wing for emphasis: “For many of our kindred have loved and lorn, am I not right in saying that? And then I heard his voice grow louder, louder it became, and stronger.”

“‘Sir,’ said he, ‘or Madam, truly thy forgiveness I implore!’ Implore, thought I, chuckling within meself. No one’s never implored me forgiveness before! And he went on: ‘But the fact is I was napping, and so gently tha came rapping, and so faintly tha came tapping, tapping at me chamber door, that I scarce was sure I heard thee.’”

“And I thought to meself, me, what a loon! And anyway, thou wasn’t napping, tha’s been pacing and weeping and gabbing on all evening! But then I stopped short and cocked me ould head again: I heard soft footsteps falling, I heard soft footsteps shuffling, shuffling across the chamber floor! And then he opened the great oaken door, and all I could see was a great tall figure of black and grey against the warm fire light within. He never saw me: ‘Darkness there, darkness there and nothing more.’ But he never closed the door, and there I stood at the threshold, there I stopped at the threshold of his chamber door, wondering what should I ever do? And there was himself, peering out into the darkness of the entry hall: long he stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal Man ever dared dream before, of that I am sure! But I didn’t say nothing: how could I break his silent reverie, his quiet, expectant reverie? And still our silence was unbroken, of my presence I gave no token, and then he spoke again, a single word he said, one single utterance there at the threshold of his chamber door. And what should that one word be?”

Wenselyn rolled his eyes drolly and whispered under his breath to Tambert: “A bright penny says it starts with ‘ell’!”

Tynselyn continued, unaware of the momentary disruption, so rapt was his attention to the story: “And the only word he spoke there, that one word he whispered was as I knew it must be: ‘Lenore?’ But no reply came back to him, except the echo of his own quavering voice, echoing and bounding off the cold stone walls: Lenore. Merely that, just that and nothing more. And, strange it was, he just turned back and shuffled into the room, his footsteps softly falling, his shuffling footsteps softly falling on his chamber floor.”

“So I thought to meself, Tynselyn old chap, this is good sport and no mistake! So I tapped again, rather softly mind, just to see what he might do: septice. Then waited a bit: octice. And he straightened up, unsure what to make of all my rap-tap-tapping, unsure the source or the motive of my rap-tap-tapping on his chamber door. He spoke again.”

“‘Surely,’ says he, ‘surely there is something at my window lattice; let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.’ And I says to meself: hah! I was at thy window lattice some long time since, and that tweren’t no mystery, so that’s one point off! And anyway I ain’t no particularly thereatful mystery: tha just has to look down to see me! And he went on messing about with the threadbare drapes: ‘Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore, tis the wind and nothing more.’ Wind my arse! Twas me a-rap-tap-tapping; merely me a-rap-tap-tapping at thy chamber door! Only that, and nothing more. But, oh no! Do Men or Daine ever consider looking out for small folks such as ourselves, do Men or Daine ever consider looking out for small folks, noble Ravens and jet, as come to their mighty houses to pay respectful visit? Not a bit of it, lads! No, they never looks for small folks such as ourselves; they only look for others of their own kind. As if.”

“He gave the shutter a heave and it opened with a bang. Let me tell you, I was ever so glad to be at the threshold of his chamber door, and not outside in the shutter nook! But then I decided I might as well make me grand entrance, so I flapped and fluttered me wings and strode into the room like one of them kings of the saintly days of yore ye hears the story tellers gab on about. You know, all haughty like.” Tynselyn sniffed, puffed out his chest and strode haughtily along the branch. “Nay, good gentles, no obeisance or courtesy did I make," he said, lifting his right wing magnanimously. "But on the instant sought out some appropriately high place from which to survey this new realm of mine. There was this statue stuck up above the transom. A broad head it had, and there I perched just above his chamber door, perched and sat, and nothing more. Nah, I figured, let the poor sod wonder what me portentious old self could possibly mean settling down upon some dusty old statue. For my part, I was just happy to be in out of the cold and damp! I turned me head this way and that, you know, see what was about. Never know when a bloke like this won’t leave some bit of delicious lying about! Or perhaps some shiny bauble.”

“Bugger broke out in a smile. I ask yez! Here is regal and elegant I, me feathers all preened and glossy, me beak polished and proud, and he laughs at me grave and decorous countenance. Hah! Then, get this, he starts prattling on again, like some old book: ‘though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou are sure no craven, ghastly from and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shoar!’ Well, I have to admit, I rather fancied that bit about the ‘grim and ancient Raven’ all ‘wandering in from the Nightly shoar!’ Sure, that’s us Ravens to a tee! And he started up again: ‘tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shoar!’ Well I’ll go to foot of our stair, ‘Plutonain shoar’ if you please! This chappy ain’t half bad after all; first it’s ‘grim and ancient Ravens’ and now tis ‘Plutonian shoars.’”

“I say it true, he had me quite ensorcelled with his high and refined speech, so enchanted by his high and refined speech was I that I could but cock me midnight head and stare at him. Then I said to me old self: Old Self, we ought to say something by way of acknowledging this welcome, offer lordly response to this high and refined speech, and so I replied in me most dignified voice: Nevermore.”

“Blast and blow! I said to meself. Drat that high and refined speech! Bugger all high and refined speech, lordly welcomes and all! I had wanted to say Lenore, you know, kind of keep the old game going. But the old biddy’s name flew right out of me old walnut and into that dratted Plutonian shoar. Anyway, he didn’t seem to take no mind.”

“‘Much I marvel this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly!’ says he. Ungainly fowl indeed! Huh. Why, mister, I ought to swoop right down there and peck off thy impertinent nose for a foul comment like that! Then he turned away from me and started pacing about again, going on and on about how no living human being ever yet were blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door, bird or beast upon the sculptured bust of Pallas above his chamber door. Well, mister, you obviously don’t have much experience of us noble and ancient Ravens, when there’s a bit of a nip in the air! And anyway, it’s always Men who keeps barred their chamber doors and I ask you, how is a poor old soul such as meself to get inside the room to perch upon the plastery bust of blessed Pallas, there above your bolted chamber door? So I figured in for a penny in for a pound and I said it again: Nevermore.”

“‘With that one word, he doth his soul out pour. Just that word and nothing more. But other friends have flown before: on the morrow he too shall leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.’ What a sad fellow. I said: Nevermore.”

“He stopped his pacing about, and the only sound to be heard was the soft crackling of the lowing fire, the only sight to be seen were the ghostly shadows leaping, creeping across his chamber floor. ‘Doubtless what it utters is its only stock and store.’ Hah! If he only knew! Anyway, me old eggbrothers, if the King of Birds himself decreed we could choose only one word to speak, stock and store or no, I surely would not choose “nevermore!” ‘Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore: till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore of ‘never — nevermore.’ Huh. As if I’ve ever seen the inside of a cage, like some penny-hapenny songbird!” Tynselyn sniffed again, and fluttered his wings testily. “Indeed!”

“But what a strange old bird he turned out to be: he snatched up one of the cushions from his chair and tossed it down upon his chamber floor, there in front of bird and bust and door. And he sat down upon it, facing me, gabbing on again about this fancy or that, wondering what part ominous old I had to play, a ‘bird of yore’ he said, ‘what means this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore by croaking “Nevermore.”’ Well, mister, I caught meself in the nick of time, but what I should like to have said is you han’t offered this poor bedraggled traveller nor sip nor morsel since entering your charming home, your welcoming chamber door, so it’s no wonder he’s all gaunt from starving in thy tender care and croaking from parch and thirst! So I just gave him me best stare, stared right through him I did! He shifted the cushion and pressed his head back into it and said ‘ah, whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er She shall press, ah, nevermore! But does not, oh grim and ominous Raven, the air grow more perfumed? Denser somehow, as if some unseen censer swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor? Wretch!’ he cried. ‘Thy God hath lent thee, by these angels he hath sent thee respite — respite and nepenthe from my memories of Lenore!’ I clacked me beak — that was it! Lenore. Drat that I couldn’t remember the old hen’s name earlier! ‘Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!’ Yeah, you just try and forget your lifemate pal. I felt sorry for him, I truly did. Can’t be done, let me tell thee from hard experience! So I draws meself up again and quoths: Nevermore.”

“‘Prophet!’ he said. I have to say, I was rather pleased this poor old sod knew some modicum about our noble House of birdkind after all! And ain’t we renown for our wisdom and farsight? ‘Prophet!, thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — on this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore: is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!’ I thought to me old self: self, he’s comming unhinged right there in front of us! I don’t mind telling ye two I was just a touch afeared by him now, sitting there resting upon that velvet cushion, resting upon that velvet, violet cushion upon his chamber floor. So I cocked me head towards him and quoth: Nevermore.”

“‘Prophet!, thing of evil but prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore, tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, it shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore: clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore!’ Yeah, twas clear now. Not mad, just loveshorn and lovelorn was he. This Lenore must have been quite the hen for him to be so sorely afflicted! So I turned me eye towards his and quoth: Nevermore.”

“Oh, I really must have stepped in it that time, because now he sat bolt upright and started screeching at me like some mad thing: ‘Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend! Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shoar!’ Well, I knew he couldn’t reach me up so high, and I had no intention whatsoever to leave the warmth of me perch and go back out into the dark night, Plutonian or otherwise. Even so, I vowed to keep an Eye on him all the same. You know, just in case he went really nutty on me! ‘Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!’ Hah! Too late for that mister, I’ve already been here the better part of two solid hours! ‘Quit the bust above my chamber door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!’ Yeah, just come and get me down mister! I ain’t leaving the warm for all your bawling and screeching! So I faced him dead on and quoth: Nevermore.”

“After that he sighed and seemed spent, subdued somehow. The last words he said to me were little more than a whisper: ‘Oh thou Raven, never flitting, still are sitting, still are sitting on the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door! And thy eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, and the lamp-light o’er thee streaming throws thy shadow on the floor: and my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted — nevermore!’ And with that, his words faded away and his head fell onto his breast. Whether dead or asleep I couldn’t tell. He didn’t move for some time, so at last I flitted down and alit upon the tufted floor, I strode across his tufted chamber floor and looked up into his now peaceful face. I could hear a very soft and gentle breathing: so, he was only asleep after all. Poor chappy, wore himself out. Twas like to bring a tear to me old eyes if I stopped there much longer. So I lifted me ebon wing in salute to the lovelorn fellow, and quoth one last time: Nevermore. What else was there to say, really?”

“And then I fluttered out of the door back into the Night’s Plutonian shoar. So, me lads, that was that most oddest Yuletide adventure ever!”

Wenselyn and Tambert were weeping openly, sniffing, their wings wrapped around one another. Tynselyn had indeed been rather surprised that his two silly eggbrothers had hardly interrupted him at all since near the beginning of his story. He idly drew his talons along the bark of their perchbranch. He cocked his head this way and that, fearing lest his own tears should start to flow. “Alright, alright lads! My heart weeps for the poor fellow and all, but there’s no need for all this sobbery! Tis life after all: sometimes our lifemates leave us alone in this cruel old world, and sometimes we are called first to go. There’s surely no shame in weeping, but all in good measure. Now, what do ye two say to a really good nosh this fine Winter day? It ain’t freshly waggon-squeezed dog, it’s eyes all popping out, ready for the pecking, but I saw a recently departed badger a short way from here? Well, relatively recent, anyway. What do you lads say?”

To that happier news neither could but be cheered and so the three went off in search of the dead badger to enjoy a joyful meal after so heavy and sorrowful a story.
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Re: Some Snippets from The World

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Natural History Time!

One of the more curious birds of the Eastlands is the turonayan, the name of which means "silver-oak-leaf-bird" in Queranarran. It's not much of a flier, though it can flap and flop about a bit. Rarely does turonayan more than hurtle itself up into the low branches of a nearby tree, or else glide and flap from one tree to its neighbour. It is much more at home climbing and clambering among the twigs and branches of tall trees or even rooting about near their mighty foundations where it may easily be mistaken for a squirrel. Unlike a squirrel, which will race up the tree's trunk when startled, turonayan will emit a siren loud squawk before rocketing into the air and flapping its way to safety in the branches above. From there, it will clamber and climb about as well as any squirrel.

The turonayan makes its living by eating fruits and nuts and occasionally scavenging the eggs and younglings of squirrel and birdkind alike. It is one of the toothless birds and in shape and size and colouration does a fair job of silver-oak-leaf mimicry. It greyish-greenish feathers in the Spring and Summer give way, in the fall, to dappled patterns of russet, yellow and brown which it keeps throughout the Winter. Each wing has four short stubby claws that allow it to dig and burrow in the earth, or into rotten bark and wood to seek for burrowing insects and to crack open eggs; its hooked beak allows it to dangle from branch or twig while at rest, nestled safely among the rustling leaves of the tree. Its feathers are small, and many, especially upon its back, are almost hairlike. Its bony tail is long and supports a broad flat plate of small feathers. Although turonayan can fly short distances, it rarely

The turonayan is, at the most, about ten to twelve inches long, inclusive of its curved beak. It is interesting to note, regarding its wing-claws, that the two pairs of claws may be manipulated independently of the other, but only in pairs: the claws may not be moved independently like our fingers because the two sets of digits had become, in ancient times, fused into one but retaining the distinct terminal phalanges. This does not hamper turonoyan in any way, however, since it is able to fold over its medial pairs of claws, much the way Daine or Men may fold their thumbs against their palms & fingers. This allows turonoyan to grasp small objects like nuts or eggs or baby squirrels.
Spoiler:
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Re: Some Snippets from The World

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I love this animal, elemtilas. Such a cool idea. :)
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Re: Some Snippets from The World

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gestaltist wrote:I love this animal, elemtilas. Such a cool idea. :)
Thank you! Amazing what one can discover when out walking and thinking of nothing in particular. Just watching some leaves fall and noting how they looked like anteaters wafting in the breeze and then wondering what an animal might be like that was a sort of half-bird-half-anteater and had wings that look like leaves.

Especially since we've kind of been on to birds of late, though this one hardly counts as a giant!

I haven't drawn any of the other related birds, but I've recorded some of their songs. For example, this turonayan sings this song.
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Re: Some Snippets from The World

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enaye eic dro-uwashwo eic dro-tlâwashwo rerabillandarier enaye eic na-lendonye eic na-gurdonye
le sirisaranye eic and-we-dlagonye eic and-we-lucwenye gamallavehereth lelangam

dro-cro-ngalengem le-tahtahcewshay an loanaido and-we-samanye calicaliyangam

na-slago ru-wesenyavehereth an crenyaris le-crhruacadumas and-we-ateh cowalas

dro-lomayarwarier an crhruacaes ereviene an yirieller and-suelva melloscarhrtes!



Their left wings & right wings intermingled their left feet & right, eld & youth together dance

First blush of new-greening the ever-green leaves of old witness

Song of awakening frogs in deeping night I heard

Deep dreaming of Winter Queen does South Wind caress with soft lips!
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Re: Some Snippets from The World

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Now for some astrology, the study of the luminaries beyond the upper airs of Gea, their movements and their ever changing faces.

Feffâhati-ra Âsta-fana-tehhewas-ca tiwel-ta
ra : Iþelþ aevet dervevó-cam
Merþ Vanayaþ Aestaþ de-ðétiþ ta Iþel i dáeva i dáevy
haþ domyaðét hy i-pra iþerdevó
- - -haþ-ve sedet i dervevó
: ra
Usilas-ca Tarfas wartenti
- - -weytatar-he hamtenar-ca hamtenar-ta
- - -weytatar-he harxar-ca harxar-ta
- - -wartomar-ca itahe palematar
Usilas-cas tiwel-ta stâyâtar
- - -is-he wartoman-ca-han nûhe pattaxâssi.

The Lady Vanayellen thus spake on that day:
“Moon walks midst the forests,
I, Lady Vana did appoint Moon’s course in time past:
He dwells now under Stars
- - -and rests amongst the trees.”
The Moon, a Dervish, dances
- - -and this limb seems (to be) that limb
- - -and this grief seems (to be) that grief;
And his enlightenment is manifest,
Moon arises on that day
- - -and in enlightenment now walks.

Here we meet Vanayellen, called the Lady of Stars and Heavens by the Teyor, became Venzherea to the Daine and Venewis, the Morning Star and the Evening Star to the fathers of Men in the West; coregent of Gea within the confines of All That Is, the Created World, she is the Queen of the Seven, maker of the stars and she sets the courses of Sun the Moons and the Stars; her garments are of the most radiant white and she is the most beautiful of the Powers. (Chorography) (Perhaps this or this aren't too far off.) This is a very Daine way of understanding the Powers, and most Men are only dimly aware that their gods are but shadows and haphazard memories, bequeathed to them by their yesterfathers, of the First Children.

The text itself is of Telerani provenance. Typical of Talarian spiritual & religious texts, direct quotations of gods & saints are given in the related Yllurian language (here, the bits in italics). No one seems to know why this should be.

Here is a purely Yllurian sacred rune:

Ty eþþ égneþ: ve vôrendy róecevaþ, ve mégiþ Þóer,
- - -tráiþþiþþ mégiþ îþerdevaþ!
Ty eþþ Þóer e próvanda hvós dóepeþ névdeva pra dáiva,
- - -hvóþ práivaþtargiþve!
Pravaþtargety, ve próvandaþþeþ mére, îþeldevó ííreyeleþ:
- - -argety pra varerôndóenaþi þeþyontevó!

Thou are fire: o light of the world, o great Sun,
- - -thrice mighty star!
Thou are Sun in High Heaven who shears night from day,
- - -who shines upon us!
Shine on us, o heavenly lady, queen of stars:
- - -shine on our bountiful fields!

The Yllurians themselves are what we might call Sun worshippers. For them, Deity and Solarity are entirely commingled. They erect no temples more complex than a large, slightly elevated platform up on a convenient hill from which they may sing their hymns and drink the soma and watch with joyful hearts as the Deity arises from slumber and brings glory and life to the world for another day.
Last edited by elemtilas on 30 Apr 2018 01:22, edited 1 time in total.
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