The Troubles

The Troubles. That's what they called it. Or that's what the Fiochmahr clan called it, anyhow, and it seemed a decent enough name for the last few years. Of course, things hadn't been altogether untroubled before that. Not since two hundred years previous, when the Fiochmahr clan had seen its very last Dusk Sage. They'd called him the Ash-Faced One. Cheeky bastard, he was; walked right off out of the clanhold with nary a ceremony of the parting but just a distant sort of look and a walking down the mountain. He'd faded into the dusk, and neither song nor legend had spoken of the passage of him or any other Dusk Sage since.

But tonight wasn't a night for brooding on the past, or feeling sorry for yourself. Tonight was a night for celebration! Tonight, the famous mead of the Fiochmahr clan was open for one and all. Four days previous, the Fiochmahr clan had destroyed the Cheldrun logging expedition sent out from some steel city or another. Pepsid Five, or something like that. Surely that was as good a cause for celebration as any. So old Grim Fiochmahr, Head of the Fiochmahr clan, had declared a celebration, and they'd been partying nonstop ever since. After all, it wasn't every day you put an end to the Cheldrun logging operations in your area, and if the guards had seemed only half hearted at best, well, they just weren't real fighters like the Gogajin were.

Old Grim hadn't always been the head, of course, but the tale he'd told of his escape from the mines of a dark Cheldrun city, and his rescue of a whole group of their women had gone a long way towards boosting his popularity in the clan, even if none other of his companions in the mines had made it out of Geneva Prime with him. Diarmaid, Adar, Rogan, Donald, Baldur, these were the new heroes of the clan. And as for old Grim, well, he had ne always been Old Grim. The mines, and what had happened after, they'd changed him. Aged him before his time, maybe. Or maybe it was that age didn't cling so tightly to his shoulders as he felt it, but he felt it. At least, that was the story everyone told, though it likely found its source in younger minds than his. Two children on the brink of their teenaged exile were particular suspects, but no one could prove their involvement in the starting of the rumour, and the name had caught on regardless. Old Grim it was.

The mead-hall was full of Gogajin, male and female alike, each of them eager to get roaring drunk as quickly as possible. They were seated at a series of long wooden benches that filled most of the room, and already the mead was flowing freely. Boisterous does not begin to describe a room full of partying Gogajin: a few good natured fights broke out, and a few couples decided that their time would be better spent in a dark corner with each other than at the table with the others, and all that was before the boasting competition began. The Fiochmahr clan had a tradition, you see: two Gogajin would tell increasingly wild and unbelievable boasts, and whoever it was that told the wildest, most unbelievable one, well, he or she would have to go out and try to accomplish it. Usually it ended in hangovers and a Gogajin sleeping with someone they wouldn't ordinarily have been inclined to, but a few weeks back, it had brought about the raid on the logging camp, and tonight, well, tonight it was a good bet it was going to...

The partying came to a sudden halt (though the couples in the dark corners didn't bother to stop) when a pair of Gogajin slammed open the doors to the mead-hall, with a group of Cheldrun in tow. They were badly emaciated, half starved, and looked more than halfway dead. About a dozen of them came in - a middle-aged man at their head, wearing the tattered remains of what had probably once been a fine silk kimono - and many more of them were crowded around the entrance.

Silence hung heavily in the air for a long moment before a young Gogajin - only just returned from his adolescent exile - rose to his feet and shouted, "What kind of fucked up shite is this!?"

"You shut your mouth, Hagan!" a middle-aged female Gogajin bellowed back.

A number of other Gogajin joined in then, until finally Grim rose to his feet and banged the table in front of him with an enormous fist. "ALL OF YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTHES!" he bellowed.

Silence.

"Right. You two," he looked to the two Gogajin leading the Cheldrun. "What kind of fucked up shite is this?"

One of the two Gogajin spoke up. "They showed theirselves at the gate a bare few moments ago, askin' fer food and water, uh, Grim."

Grim looked to the Cheldrun. "I wist they ne be speaken Gogajin?" he asked, his regional accent coming to the fore as he spoke.

The middle-aged male Cheldrun in the tattered kimono stepped forward. "Your pardon, sir, but I do."

Grim looked at the man. "... Well, what do ye want, then? Ye must be either very brave or very stupid to come here. Qwich is it?"

"I am Ishikawa Tetsuro of the Ruby Hawk Clan," the Cheldrun said. "My companions and I are... exiles. Refugees. There is no place for us in Katashi Blade's new regime, and we thought it better to try our luck in the wilderness than to die at the hands of a Goshi Assassin, or a bounty hunter... please, sir, we have nowhere else to go. We are hungry, we are tired, and many of us are sick." He swallowed, and what he said next had the feel of an old tree toppling over: "Will you help us?"

Grim took a long moment to think about that, weighing it out in his mind. Of course, in the end, looking at the Cheldrun all helpless and starving-like, there was only one conclusion he could have reached: "... Aye. Ye clepen for me help, and I hear ye." He rose up to his full, massively muscled height. "All right, listen here! Listen here! These wights be safe with kith and kin tonight. None harm nor hounde them here on pain of a beatin' the likes o which you none never seen!"

The other Gogajin shrugged. One of them thought about shouting, "Ah, fuck you Grim!" but thought better of it at the last moment. The Cheldrun did look pretty desperate, after all.

Grim gestured, and a pair of Gogajin, a wer and wyf (a male and a female, that is), came forward and led the Cheldrun away to the Clanhold's guest quarters so as they could stow their things before they came to join the feast.

The feast went on.

------------------------

Later, when the shadows had had faded into gloom, the moon had set, and the only sounds were the frantic scrabblings and brayings of donkeysex in the hall, and the peace of the predawn hours hung heavily over the land, there came a stranger to the Fiochmahr clanhold. Stranger than even the Cheldrun refugees. A mechified. He came creeping through the corridors, almost his entire body made of metal save his face and his middle, the sounds in the hall masking the clunk-clunk-clunk of his footsteps. His eyes had been replaced with gleaming red lenses, and they allowed his vision access to the infrared: it was with this that he tracked his prey.

Gently, ever so gently, he pushed open the large wooden door that led into the room where his target slept. A bounty hunter he was, and a good one. He always got his man, or so they said. This man, well, they'd specified dead or alive, and he figured that dead would be easier than dragging him back through the wilderness, so once he was sure that the middle-aged Cheldrun sleeping on the bed in the tattered Kimono was in fact Ishikawa Tetsuro of the Ruby Hawk Clan, Winston reached out with his right hand and placed it almost gently over the sleeping man's heart.

Then he reached over with his left hand and flipped the switch to activate the pneumatic spike. Or would have, if a grip as strong as steel itself hadn't caught his hand mid-flight.

Winston looked up in alarm. The occupants of the beds around Ishikawa Tetsuro's were not asleep at all, but awake and very very angry.

An angry looking Gogajin stepped forward and glared poor Winston in the face. "I given these wights safety here with kith and kin," he cracked his knuckles, "And unfortunate fer you, I meant it."

An hour later, three Gogajin tossed the bruised and battered body of Winston the Mechified over the walls of the clanhold, and down he tumbled into the brush with the long, loud, trailing clatter of metal sliding down two hundred yards of loose rock.

Grim dusted off his hands, wiped the sweat off his brow, and went back to bed, satisfied that that was the end of it.

But the troubles were only just beginning.

Into the Morning Sun

His name meant 'Sun-Chaser.' His wings were strong, his beak sharp, his feathers sleek. He'd made a game of it when he was barely old enough to be out of the nest: flying as far as he could into the west, seeking the morning sun in those far distant lands where it dwelled before rising in glory at the break of day. His elders had told him that such pursuits were unwise, but Sun-Chaser was sure that if only he flew a little bit further, he would find the golden lands where the Sun dwelled. Where the Dusk Sages had gone. Every day he had turned back, flown back to his nest before he had gone too far out over the ocean to return. And every day, there were fewer Vorax in the nest-village.

As he grew into the fullness of young adulthood, the young Vorax found other concerns to occupy his time: the search for others of his kind, the daily needs of survival on Karia, his own training in the ways of medicine, in herbs and roots and salves, but he never forgot, and each time he saw the sunrise, his heart yearned for the far green country he was sure lay just beyond the horizon.

The night his nest-village burned, Sun-Chaser was wheeling far afield, soaring over the woods south of Stardown. There was a rabbit somewhere in a clearing far below, and he was sure it would make a tasty treat. His first clue that there was anything wrong was a line of smoke rising on the horizon. A sudden updraft of warm air gave him the lift he needed to pull out of his downward spiral. He flapped his wings once, twice, three times, and soared off towards the line of smoke, thoughts of the rabbit pushed from the forefront of his mind.

When Sun-Chaser came within view of his nest-village, horror struck him like a physical blow. He landed on a nearby ridge, shifted to human form, and looked down upon a scene out of a nightmare, utterly silent. His nest-village was simply gone. Something had burned it, but this had been no ordinary flame. The very mountainside on which the village had been perched had melted. The rock itself had become liquid, and of the nest and the one other Vorax who had dwelled there with him, there was only ashes floating above patches of molten rock. He glanced about in panic. Two nests on the edge of the village had been spared, including the nest of the old lorekeeper, but the rest... the rest was gone. There was a pattern to this destruction. The lines of now cooling, hardening magma ran out from the heart of the village in a radial spiral. But what could cause this? What would cause this? Was this some new Cheldrun weapon? Why would they use it here? His nest-village had never opposed the Cheldrun! ... No, surely even the children of steel could not accomplish destruction on this level. It was as if the Sun herself had settled here.

The Sun was rising, there, the faintest gleam beyond the mountains. Grief rose up in Sun-Chaser like a tide, each wave washing higher and higher until he could see nothing, feel nothing but pain and loss. His eyes burned with tears. He shifted, sprung up upon the wind, and letting out a mournful call, he turned and flew away into the morning sun. He knew not how long or how far he would fly - he only knew that he had to get away, and now. Far away. Perhaps somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, he would find what he had lost. He flew.

Into the morning sun.

Hunger

I live the truth of teeth.

Life is a dance of hunger and rest, rest and hunger, light and dark. Hunger devours other wills, leaving only one will, the deepest will, the will of teeth.

The blood of the tree-dwellers tastes like rain, and it spills slow down the lips.
The blood of the brawlers is like mead, bright and sweet on the tongue
The blood of the singers tingles and burns, swimming in the belly and echoing in the bones.
The blood of the seekers is thin and fine - so our stories tell. I have not tasted it. Yet.
The blood of the talkers burns the teeth, but it warms the paws as it wells up and out.

The children of steel taste of rust. Their bones are strange and the marrow thick. They are hard to take - leap! Bite! Shake so bones crack! Clench to stop the wind! And watch for their stings.

Hunger comes from deep in the land, deep in Karia. I hunt in dreams and when waking. The children of steel are hungry and devour and shit it out. They do not learn, they do not grow.

I am hungry, and I eat, and I remember. Those who are within me teach me, their living blood mingling with mine, their last gasps swallowed whole. They move through me, and teach me of their power.

If you have not tasted blood, hot and fresh and flowing, you cannot know. In blood there is memory. In bones the soul dwells. Crack the bones and lick them clean, chew the skin and eat the meat, in the darkness outside their camps, in the shadow of their machines, far from their fire and stings.

I eat, and I learn, and I grow. Karia grows.

I am the hunger of Karia.

Shadows and Mist

There are thin places in the world, places where the boundary between the sunlit world of life and energy and whatever lies beyond is little more than a thin cloth draped over the landscape. At least, that is what Inari’s mother had always told him, but here, in the Forest of Shadows, he believed it. It was a forest within the forest: a remnant of the old growth with a much newer wood grown up all around it. The newer wood held no mysteries, but this... this was something special. Geneva Prime was several hundred kilometers further north, but that was not his destination. The Cheldrun logging operations were closer than that, but they was not his concern, either. Not yet.

A perpetual dusk clung to the forest floor. The sunlight was a dim and faded thing; something there was in the shadows here that resisted revelation; something there was in the shadows here that denied illumination. A thin mist clung to the forest floor, drifting slowly through the underbrush, over root and under bough. Shadows lay across his path in every direction; deep, shifting shadows and shaken, shattered sunlight. A gleam here, a gleam there. A sense of Presence. Inari did not know what would happen when the logging efforts of the Cheldrun reached this part of the forest, but he suspected it would be bad.

Very bad.

The young Prill made his way through the mist, piercing it like an arrow. It took nearly a minute for it to close in behind and vanish his trail. Even as mist and shadows gathered menacingly under the roots of a nearby tree, Inari voiced a quiet prayer, hoping for Karia’s protection, hoping not to offend the spirits that haunted this place.

TeeShee. Were there really such things?

There were two Karian settlements close to the Forest of Shadows, a Zipsum village and a Gogajin encampment, but though the Jevuum were known to prowl the lands around the forest’s heart, Karians did not come to this part of the wood. The old tales spoke of ghostly lights in the mist. It was said that to see these lights was to know the hour of your death. It was also said that when the lights came, a wise Karian could make a bargain with the spirits of the dead. Knowledge could be gained, and secrets learned that had not been spoken since the world was new.

Inari was not a very wise Karian, but he hoped that daring would do just as well.

He came out of the forest all at once, stumbling slightly as a single step carried him through a veil of mist and shadows and into a vast clearing at the very heart of the land. Though the young Prill knew that it was several hours yet before sunset, here, it was night. The stars gleamed like jewels in the black, and an unearthly chill hung heavy in the air. Before him was a vast, cold lake, its waters glowing with a faint blue light, refracting off of the trees, and the brush, and the shadows, and the mist with every shift and every ripple of the wind. Mist clung faintly to the surface of the water.

He stared.

A pathway lay before him, great rocks rising up from the depths of the glowing lake, their tops serving as humble stepping stones. He wondered at the justice of it. Such mighty boulders surely deserved more than that, but there they were. In the middle of the lake was a green island. Green moss, green grass, trees with green leaves, a stark contrast to the purple forest all around the lake. A stone altar sat a short way from the island’s shore.

Inari stepped forward. “I have come seeking the wisdom of those who went before,” he announced. He produced a small knife, cut his hand, and spilled three drops of blood into the lake. “I make my offering. One for those who went before. One for those who dwell in the sunlit world. One for those yet unborn.”

The red of his blood seeped through the lake, colouring its water, colouring its light far in excess of what was offered. A red haze sprang up, and a voice whispered from the shadows like the wind through the leaves, “Go back. You are not of the ones we seek.”

Inari nearly dropped his knife. He had not until this moment actually expected that anything would happen. “I have come seeking wisdom. My quest...”

“Is not our concern. You bear not the Mark. The way is shut. Leave us, Fox-child.”

The red light began to fade.

“Wait!” Inari called. To have come so far and get nothing? This was intolerable. He stepped onto the first of the stepping stones, then the second. “Wait, you can’t just send me away! Elder Winter sent me on a sacred quest.”

The red light went out, and for a moment Inari stood in pitch darkness, only the stars visible overhead and yet illuminating nothing of his surroundings. Then the stars too faded, and he knew no more.

When he returned to his senses, he lay facedown at the border of the Forest of Shadows. The sun shone brightly, and the air was clear. His head hurt like it had been beaten on by a horde of sugar-high Zipsum. Groggily, he sat up and rubbed his head.

“Well,” he said. “That could have gone better.”

A Vorax Sage-tale

Once upon a time a young vorax traveled far and wide in search of new cultural morsels on Karia, as all young vorax do. One day in a distant purpurant* glade he encountered a jevumm. The tiger-creature was about to pounce and devour him when the fledgling called out, "Wait! I wish to hear of your greatest pride so that I may spread it to the far reaches of Karia!" This made the jevumm pause; his demeanor changed, as did his form.

In man-shape he cleared his throat and began to relate a long pastoral poem about the life of a jevumm. The vorax noted down every word, and promised to spread it to everyone he met. In this way the fledgling cleverly played upon the jevumm's own vanity in order to save his life.

Now, the boy remained true to his word; everywhere he went he related the poem. Several other jevumm listened with almost lustful attention to his every word. By the time the jevumm gathered for their tribal meet nearly every one of them had heard the poem. It amazed the tiger-creatures that one vorax had been so proficient in spreading word throughout the entire territory of the tribe. In this way our young vorax had convinced them that the avians were unsurpassed lore-keepers, and most beneficial to their way of life. At this meet it was decided that the vorax were to be hunted no more, and thus fell amiable peace between the races.

So say the Sages.



*Purpurant - adj. Purple with vegetation, Karia's version of 'verdant'

Elder Winter

Elder Winter sat by the bonfire long into the night. The forest grew thickly all around him, great tree trunks seeming to peer down at him and his fire.

The other Elders were long gone now, retired from the vigil. Only he remained.

In his lap he held an elaborately carved wooden mask. Hollow eyeholes peered up at him. Silent. Empty.

Empty.

Still, there was a trace that yet lingered. A faint impression left in the very fiber of the mask that yet carried the distinctive scent of the one who had worn it, long ago.

Elder Winter was the oldest of his tribe, extraordinarily long lived: it was the nature of his Song to long endure the frosts of age, waiting for the renewal of the world that would inevitably come with the spring, when the flowers once again bloomed gloriously beneath the sun.

Winter had been waiting for the spring a very long time.

Still, he could not but continue as he had, waiting for the ones who would bring about that renewal. And though the one who had worn this mask had told him that he would not die before he saw those that would be the instruments of the world’s renewal, the old Prill found those prophetic words harder and harder to believe with every day that went by.

He had been given something important to keep for that day, but he was old. Impossibly old and unutterably weary. His bones ached, and he was nearly blind.

Still he lingered on, day after day, holding to the promise of the Dusk Sage that he had called ‘friend.’

There he sat before the bonfire, watching as the flames died away into embers, the embers into ashes.

When the last ember flickered out, the leaves of the great trees rustled in a sudden breeze, and the stifling, hot air of the old forest was lifted, if only for a moment.

It smelled like spring.

Winds of Change

"Something is changing in Karia Vitalus." The voice was an old man's voice, heavy with the weight of years.

--------------

In the great city of the Cheldrun, two bodies hang by a pair of ropes around their necks some two hundred floors up, lab coats fluttering in the breeze. A man and a woman, both Biomade. Though they were each attractive in life, death had done them no favors. Pale and bloated now, they swung like ghastly piñatas, waiting, oh just waiting for the chance to spill their gruesome cargo onto the streets two hundred stories below.

--------------

Far away, the sun rose over the jungles southwest of Matamos. Just above the canopy grew a single, thick, bare branch; thereupon a strange, sinuous shape rose with the dawn, lifting its cold, reptilian eyes to the heavens in silent contemplation of the wonder it beheld there; for one shining moment, a new star was born above those jungles, rivaling the sun itself in brightness. There and gone.

The Anakarix frowned thoughtfully.

Those who have eyes, let them see.

--------------

"The wind doesn't taste like it used to." The same old man had spoken again. We can see him now: he is a Prill, grizzled and weary, and there is wisdom in his countenance. "The flame that was sparked on the night of the bonfire skies spreads unchecked across the land."

--------------

In the depths of Geneva Prime, a Mechified dreamed of freedom, of revolution. As he looked down upon the body of his Biomade supervisor, the thought rang clear in his mind: ‘We are not your appendages.’

Those who have ears, let them hear.

--------------

A Zipsum raced from tree to tree, trying desperately to evade her would-be-captors. Her cheeks bulged strangely, ill-fitting around the data pad she held gently in her mouth as she ran - what she had risked her life in the Cheldrun city to obtain: the operational planning for the next great logging operation into the jungles of the Anakarix.

Hard metal bullets ravaged the trees around her, turning their trunks to so much splintered pulp, sending splinters flying in all direction: the sound of gunfire was deafening.

Pain. Burning pain. A spear-like shard of wood had lanced into her vulnerable belly. Biting back tears, she raced onwards, and soon she was beyond the reach of the bullet-spitters, and of the angry metal bees that they spat.

The shouts of angry Cheldrun echoed loudly in the woods behind her.

Bleeding from the stomach, agony racing through her mind, she ran on.

--------------

"How did it go?" Rei asked. She already knew, but it was polite to ask anyways. She walked down a corridor of light with another girl about four years her junior. There is both a striking similarity and a striking contrast between the two girls: Rei's hair is off-white and the other girl's is shockingly pink; Rei's appearance is neat and functional, while the other girl's is meant to entice; Rei moves with an unconscious grace, while Aimi's movements are deliberate and calculated, though no less graceful. And for all that, they could be sisters. They are sisters, actually. Two distinct variations on the same DNA recombined in slightly differing ways. It was like that with all six of them: genetic siblings, all of them. Three girls, 00, 01, and 05. Three boys, 02, 03, and 04.

Aimi met Rei’s gaze, doing her best not to giggle at the thought of her meeting with that young man. "You already know," she said. "You're the one who can't turn it off, after all."

Rei nodded faintly and said nothing, allowing Aimi's irritation to pass over her and through her, leaving her self unmoved in its wake. "Yes," she said. It wasn't worth it to argue over this again. She knew that the others thought her defective. "You..." she trailed off.

"If you don't say it now, you'll only mope about how you wished you had said it for the next week," Aimi said, wishing not for the first time that Rei's mental shielding wasn't quite so well fortified. She supposed it was for the best. In Rei's case, it was either intense mental shielding or near-insanity. Even so, it was disconcerting, not having ready access to someone's thoughts. More so in the wake of recent events.

“You like him.”

Aimi blushed. “That’s private,” she said warningly.

“Sorry.” The teasing note was gone from Rei's voice now, vanished like the morning mist beneath the heat of the sun. A pause. “Do you really think of me when you think of madness?”

Aimi caught Rei’s eyes with her own, blood red eyes peering into blood red eyes. “What’s all this about, Rei? You don’t usually take an interest in other people’s missions.”

"Because it is so clear, it takes a long time to realize it,” Rei murmured cryptically.

Aimi smiled bemusedly. “In English?”

Rei shook her head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

For a moment, the shields wavered. For a moment, Aimi caught a glimpse of a Mechified Labor unit, (‘We are not your appendages!’ ) and a desperate sense of... something. It was gone. She frowned. “What was that?”

“Goodbye, Aimi,” Rei said. There was a note of finality in her voice. She walked away down the vast corridor of light, leaving her sister there near the entrance to the briefing room.

Aimi watched her go, confusion writ large in her expression. She wasn’t sure what just happened exactly, but she had the distinct impression that she had just missed something important. “Rei, wait,” she called.

“Go to your briefing, Aimi,” Rei said.

Despite her misgivings, Aimi did as she was told.

She always had.

--------------

“I fear that soon this fire may consume us all.” He shook his weathered head, pausing more from dramatic effect than out of necessity. “The magic of the dusk sages must be recovered if we are to have any hope of weathering the flames.” The old Prill looked at Inari with a serious expression. “This is your task, young one.”

Inari stared at the elder, wide-eyed. His task. His task! Finally, after years and years of demonstrating his cleverness to the whole choir, he had been entrusted not only with a song, but with a Task! A sacred quest! He was not totally successful in keeping the grin off of his face. “I won’t disappoint you, Elder Winter,” he said eagerly. He did not notice the very calculating look in the old Prill’s eye.

They sat in a clearing in the midst of a vast, old growth forest. It was dreary, and the light of the stars scarcely penetrated through the gloom of the place. The ground was treacherous here for any who did not know it well: for miles around the Prill village, sudden rifts and valleys opened unexpectedly in the wood, and sharp rocks were among the least dangerous of the things one might find at the bottom of one of these.

“I know you won’t,” the Elder said. “For the sake of us all, you won’t. Now, have you gathered what we asked for?”

“Water from a well holy to the Jevuum (and plenty of mud besides), a berry from the stores of the Zipsum, an Anakarix’s talon, blood spilled after insulting a Gogajin’s mother, a Vorax’s tail feather.” Inari frowned. “Elder Winter, did we really need all these things?”

Elder Winter’s upper lip twitched, as if he were trying not to laugh. “Indeed,” he said sagely as he collected the proffered items.

Inari looked unconvinced. The two red-furred fox-ears growing up from either side of his head twitched in irritation.

They were needed, mind you. They would make the blessing much easier. It’s just that other, easier to find items would have done the job just as well. Elder Winter put the items into a small leather pouch tied to his belt. “Come, Inari. You have proven yourself worthy of the task set before you. It is time to receive your blessing from the Choir of Elders.”

Inari nodded, his irritation forgotten. “Right.” He thought about it for a moment. They may be doing this to get rid of him, but it was still an honour to be chosen for a Sacred Quest.

Together, the two Prill rose to their feet and walked towards the distant firelight that came from the outer watch post of the village.

The forest allowed their passage only reluctantly, barely standing aside long enough to let them creep through, and closing immediately behind them.

The forest knew much, had seen much. Though it suffered the presence of the Prill, there were few others that walked on two legs that it would allow passage. Wooden creaks and voices like the rustling of leaves raced from tree to tree, and the air grew hot with anger. News had arrived from the distant north: another wood had fallen before the loggers. Murderers. Axe-bearers. Creatures of black smoke and steam.

Even as the song of the Choir of Elders rose into the air, filling all the land around the village with a sense of hope and glory, the trees took angry council together. No, it wasn’t time to act yet. They would watch, and wait, and plan.

For now.

Anakarix

Philosophizing Lizards...

In the jungles of the southwest, unknown to the Cheldrun, there are sprawling cities resting on the top of the jungle canopy like crowns. Made from the woven branched of the Sygola trees, the Anakarix bask in the sun, gaze at the stars and debate the future of their endangered planet. The topics of their debates change as swiftly as the wind, but the habit of their long-lived race are as ancient as the forest itself. The philosopher lizards have been sitting here and thinking since the Dusk Sages first taught them to ponder.

Indeed, in those misty recesses of time, the Dusk Sages produced a remarkable change in this Karian race. Opening up to the Anakarix the avenues of critical inquiry and the philosophical pursuit of truth proved to be an addictive behavior. The Anakarix became so enraptured in their thoughts that they lost completely the secret of assuming their normal human form. Centuries and centuries of breeding have most likely removed completely the ability to metamorphosize common to the other Karians.

The Anakarix don’t regret it for a moment however. As a cold-blooded species, they associate knowledge and waking and cognition with the sun. There is no such thing as an Anakarix morning person, because of their cold-blooded state, and then after noon it is almost impossible for them to bring themselves to work physically because their minds by then are racing on overdrive once they’ve warmed up. Their love of the sun is even expressed in one of their many philosophical schools – heliophilism.

The Anakarix can be a very still and slow-moving people, plodding at best, except for explosions of activity when startled, or angry or when engaging in threat displays. When angered they can become inarticulate and change colors or even have brightly colored flaps of skin erupt from their head or neck, quivering. However, behind these animal displays and behaviors there is an uncanny intelligence, evaluating everything, rationally and disinterestedly.

Their love affair with reason can make the Anakarix seem like a heartless bunch at times, though nothing is further from the truth. Those Anakarix thought to be insufficiently intelligent are condemned early in life to become laborers, guards and foragers and live lives of frustration. However, a grudging respect for the egalitarian nature of inspiration means that any Anakarix, no matter how dim, is able to participate in the public forums. There have been instances in Anakarix history when a despised forager revolutionized a school of thought with an unexpected insight.

While the Anakarix make distinctions based on apparent intelligence they make no distinctions based on heritage, wealth or gender. Indeed, other races are sometimes puzzled by the complete lack of difference between the genders – who knows what’s in that cloaca? The Anakarix can always tell, but they are puzzled by others’ thinking it is somehow important.

Anakarix society is arranged around vast “agoras” or open-air markets and forums that become places of debate. These agoras are usually surrounded by a host of different academies and compounds that host the different philosophical schools in vogue. Young Anakarix spend a little time being fostered to each school before choosing one school at majority for which they will be an apologist the remainder of their life. Each school teaches a distinct philosophical worldview, which purports to explain more adequately than any other the “Truth”. In tandem with their philosophical outlook the schools are distinguished by patterns of life suited to each philosophy. The Renouncers live ascetic lives, while the Diggers extol physical labor, and the Astrologists seek to overcome their sun-dependency to become nocturnal. With the arrival of the Cheldrun a new school has been gaining ascendancy – the Nihilists.

One behavior common to most philosophical schools is a ritualized form of martial art. Their martial arts are taught like tai-chi, in slow motion and without an actual opponent. They emphasize discipline and spiritual harmony over physical prowess, though they are unquestionably effective. Public debates are often preceded by martial displays which are not accorded nearly the same honor as the debate, but nevertheless serve as an opportunity to intimidate your opponent and attempt to gain a psychological edge.

***

Players who wish to play an Anakarix should decide which school they belong to and then begin to detail specifically the philosophical outlook of that school. What is your primary worldview? How do you obtain, filter, classify and make meaning of knowledge? What behaviors or life-patterns are required of members of your school? How often and well do you debate? (How many piercings are in your dewlap?) What relationship does your school have to other schools of thought? Which are similar or in harmony with yours? Which are opposed? How does your school explain the Cheldrun?

Appearance: The Anakarix are giant lizards, the size of Komodo Dragons. Varying in type and coloring from iguana-like, to gecko-like, to crocodile-esque, they are absurdly diverse. Some exhibit the bright colors of poisonous snakes and frogs, others are the muted tones of desert lizards. Most have some ability to camouflage themselves. Though they do not wear clothing they are famous for the many piercings they sport in the flap of skin below their jaws called a dewlap. These piercings, made of Never Gems, represent the victories of an individual Anakarix in debate, thus they are a status symbol and a warning to opponents. As Anakarix age, their scales turn gray and then white, thus the oldest of them are practically albinos.

Example Schools: Anaturists, Astrologists, Diggers, Heliophilists, Laughers, Naturists, Nihilists, Spiritists, Renouncers

Example Names: Asterakalys, Boristakon, Dankonubis, Hackara, Jujukamon, Keracka, Koriakalys, Monikostomon, Oblongata, Pukassa, Saborakalys, Vojashaka

Example Attributes: Armour, Environmental Influence (fog), Heightened Awareness, Heightened Sense, Jumping, Melee Attack, Melee Defence, Mind Shield, Special Defense (poison), Tough, Weapon (poison spit)

Example Skills: Acrobatics, Area Knowledge, Biological Sciences, Climbing, Cultural Arts, Etiquette, Languages, Medical, Occult, Physical Sciences, Poisons, Social Sciences, Wilderness Survival, Writing

Anakarix attitudes towards….
Cheldrun	The riddle of the Cheldrun will be the defining question of our epoch. The school which most adequately explains this conundrum will be remembered as the greatest of all.
Allskins	The paradoxical Allskins are simultaneously the most exalted and the most despised caste of Cheldrun. Their tarnished glory is a moral lesson of great power.
Biomade	The reach of the intellect often exceeds the reach of true understanding. Observe these children of genius to learn the nature of hubris.
Mechified	Wisdom does not value a person according to the same standards. This caste is considered foolish by most, but they have an intelligence which pierces the mysteries of our physical world. A wise person will listen.
Karians	We are the answer to a question which is no longer being asked.
Anakarix	Does the planet know that we have been thinking about it and studying its secrets for so many millennia? Will it care when we are no longer around to ask questions?
Gogajin	The donkey-sons have never wondered why - a habit we simply cannot comprehend.
Jevumm	We can admire the cleverness of the hunters so long as we are safe in our tree-tops. They are the razor’s edge of wit – useful only to cut with.
Prill	The dedication of these singers to the past is remarkable. We commend their preservation of ancient wisdom and wish only that they would explore the possibilities of genuinely new insight.
Vorax	Even from our high vantage point we have never seen or known as much about Karia as these majestic birds. It will be a travesty when the last one is dead.
Zipsum	Life for a Zipsum is too fleeting to permit exploration of deep mysteries. The skip across the surface of the water, blissfully oblivious to the horrible depths below.

The Dusk Sages

In a frenzied Zipsum dance...

Through the savage eloquence of Jevumm poetry...

With a mournful Gogajin ballad...

With tract after philosophical Anakarix tract...

Through the harmonized voices of a Prill choir...

Even in the resignation of a Vorax suicide...

The Dusk Sages are remembered.

Once, like Gods, they strode in and out of the lives of the Karians bringing with them, phenomenal powers, and ineffable wisdom. They controlled the weather, the seasons, the cycles of life and death. Under their gentle tutelage the Karians grew from humble beginnings to masters of lore and guardians of nature. They taught the Prill to sing. They taught the Anakarix to think. They taught the Jevumm to hunt. More than just teachers, they were companions. They flew with the Vorax, ran with the Zipsum and brawled with the Gogajin.

The Dusk Sages roamed everywhere and remained nowhere. It was impossible to discern their numbers, unthinkable to question their motives. They ruled without defending their authority. They remained aloof without anyone charging them of irresponsibility. The did not build or construct as the Karians and Cheldrun do, but their magic permanently altered the land. The positions of the mountains, the course of the rivers, the depth of the forests, these are the monuments of the Dusk Sages.

When the Cheldrun arrived, the Karians looked to the Dusk Sages for advice only to discover that the Dusk Sages were withdrawing. Like a child who, having witnessed the death of their mother, turns to the father for comfort - the Karians were devastated by the Dusk Sages' retreat. For months, the Dusk Sages were silent. Not speaking or responding to the presence of the Karians at all they processed to the west coast and walked into the sea. In streams they simply trickled out to the ocean and were gone.

Behind them they left only a few clues, besides the land itself, that they had ever been to this continent. The lore, which they left in bits and pieces to each of the races of Karia, contained clues to the phenomenal power the Dusk Sages seemed to command. The Prill continue to find new clues embedded in the melodies they compose. The Anakarix, likewise unlock potential hints from the patterns of the stars. The Vorax, once great secret-keepers, are dying without revealing what the Dusk Sages told to them.

The only tangible piece of the era of the Dusk Sages are the masks they used to wear. Every sage, was known by her distinctive and elaborate mask. No one ever saw the face of a Dusk Sage, nor did anyone ever see a mask that was not being worn. But when the retreat of the Dusk Sages was over, the Karians found many masks littering the beaches, cast aside. The hollow eyes of each mask probe the soul of the observer. Once, the holes seem to say, the eyes of Wisdom herself looked through me.

The Night of Bonfire Skies

One night, approximately 200 years ago (exactly 214 years, 7 months and 3 days if you're Cheldrun), the fate of Karia Vitalus was suddenly and irrevocably changed. The darkness of night was interrupted by the blaze of enormous objects burning through the atmosphere, plummeting like fiery stars toward the ground. They were 117 ships, an infinitesimal fraction of the number which had originally embarked on the Flight, and they gouged scars in the flesh of Karia which have never healed. Climbing out of those metal shells, a new people saw the forests of Karia for the first time.

The Cheldrun on Karia are the tiniest remnant of what was once a mighty galaxy-spanning empire. From a people who used to number more than the stars the few that crash-landed on this planet numbered in the millions - which for Karia was still an overwhelming invasion. The colossal starships which burned through the atmosphere each bore hundreds of thousands of refugees and the Cheldrun immediately adopted an aggressive posture toward their new home. Unsure of themselves and their surroundings and conditioned for generations to fear 'The Enemy' the Cheldrun treated all strangers as hostile.

The Night of Bonfire Skies (as it is called by the Anakarix), had a tremendous effect on the Karians. No one had ever seen magic of such extraordinary power as the explosive arrival of the Cheldrun. No one had ever imagined a people so different or with such strange artifacts as the clanking Mechified, or the psychic Biomade, or the Mecha-riding Allskin. Aside from the shock of discovery there was a sense of tragic loss. The arrival of the Cheldrun coincided with the retreat of the Dusk Sages who took with them their mystical control of the seasons and the cycles of life. Life without the Dusk Sages and in frequent conflict with the Cheldrun was much grimmer and riskier for the Karians.

The Karians, typically, had many different reactions to the new arrivals. Some of the more curious Zipsum tribes welcomed the Cheldrun and offered them help learning to adapt to their new home. The Anakarix tended to be cautious and reserved, observing from a distance. The Jevumm took an immediate dislike. Indeed, early Wild Hunts by Jevumm tribes killed sufficient numbers of Cheldrun to create a lasting indemnity between the species. The Prill at first were suspicious of the disruption of natural cycles the Cheldrun caused, but counseled peace. Meanwhile, the Gogajin's initial offer of trade was rebuffed by the Cheldrun which led to open war for a number of years, which the Cheldrun undoubtedly got the better of.

The ships that crash landed that night were dismantled and cannibalized for materials which were used in building the first Cheldrun cities. Neither Cheldrun nor Karian can forget that night. The Cheldrun celebrate it every year as a solemn holiday in which they remember the threat of the Enemy, the desperation of the Flight, and the vow never to return to the stars, which they made on that night. The Karians remember it as the moment when their peace was shattered; when the security and prosperity of the Dusk Sages was stolen from them, and the future of their species, and their home, became uncertain...

Gogajin

Bawdy Brawling Burros...

Up in the misty highlands, dancing to boisterous fiddle music, the rambunctious Gogajin have changed little since the days of the Dusk Sages. True, life is a little harder now. The land doesn’t yield its fruit as easily, and those who go off to serve other Karians sometimes end up enslaved or dead under the advancing armies of the Cheldrun. But the Gogajin have never feared hard work or danger. Nor have they ever changed even the slightest bit because of outside factors. They remain stubbornly free. Stubbornly poor. Stubbornly happy. They will die stubborn if need be.

Gogajin are known as donkey-sons, because in their animal forms they look like oversized, muscular… well, donkeys. They can get as big as thoroughbred horses, and they come in a wild variety of grays and browns. Gogajin have a lifespan of 70-80 years, though they live hard so their later years are often spent as invalids. They have a tight-knit intensely communal society which cares for the young and the elderly even in times of hardship.

However, Gogajin have a wild, uncontrollable adolescence that is spent outside the clan for the clan’s safety. In their adolescence Gogajin are raging hormonal balls of destruction. When the 3-5 year period of adolescence has passed the donkey-son may petition the clan to be permitted to return. The clan subjects the petitioner to tests of stability and self-control before eventually admitting them back in. The alternative is permanent exile, which to a Gogajin is an unthinkable punishment. An eternity away from kin is worse than death. Gogajin that commit crimes or are rejected by the community get exiled. Often those Gogajin kill themselves rather than live alone.

Even beyond adolescence the Gogajin have a rowdy culture. This requires a lot of adjustment when the Gogajin interact with other races – the usual hearty backslap is “aggravated assault” to a Cheldrun. When new Gogajin meet, they posture, they flex and heave and try to stand as tall as they can. If this doesn’t resolve things, they invite each other to engage in absurdly energetic and violent sports that are best played far from furniture or members of other races. One popular example is “catch” – which involves each competitor choosing the largest object he thinks he can lift and throw. If he fails to lift it he loses. However, if he succeeds, the other competitor is obliged to catch it. A dare is a deadly serious matter in Gogajin culture.

Donkey-sons live, work and play hard. They are fond of alcohol and they make many varieties of potent brew which other races cannot stand. They are bawdy and rude. They do not mate for life and they have a communal ethic which basically allows men and women to sleep around quite freely. Gogajin therefore come across as coarse and unrefined to other races. A Gogajin would not understand why his sexual advances were unwelcome to a Biomade woman, particularly given how well endowed he is…

The Gogajin live together in small villages, mostly made up of kin, in highland and mountainous areas. They work the land and forage, but their rough habitats mean they are never farther than a hard winter away from starvation. Thus they send many of their strongest and ablest to work as menial laborers and mercenaries for other races in return for trade. The Gogajin have a very low racial self-image so the highest status among the Gogajin have no trouble being considered servants to other people. Though they are proud and stubborn as a people they do not consider themselves above servitude. This humility means they often get abused by less kind Karians, and they are favored slaves of the Cheldrun.

***

Players who wish to play a Gogajin should take plenty of time to detail her relations to her clan and the many members of her family. To a Gogajin nothing is as important as kin, so the character should have a well developed family background with details about each person and what they mean to the character. Why is this character out of the village? Are you a laborer or mercenary? Are you a slave or prisoner of war? What achievements are your proud of? What happened during your adolescence? Players should put some thought into the character’s spirit. How resilient is it? Has time away from home weakened your heart?

Appearance: Though few people would consider a Gogajin beautiful in human form, most would consider them impressive. They are built like they were chiseled from granite, with muscles that other races don’t even have. They tend to wear their hair long (men and women) in braids or dreadlocks and often full of beads and feathers. They favor loose, light clothing with open necks and no sleeves to show off their form. Kilts are in style among them, and if the weather is hot they are just as comfortable working naked as anything else. In human form they retain the long ears and tail of their donkey shape. As donkeys, they are larger and bulkier than a normal ass would be.

Example Clans: Creideamh, Dilseacht, Fiochmahr, Gra, Griolsa, Muinin, Muintir, Neart, Paisean, Stalcach, Teaglach, Troid

Example Names: Adair, Ahern, Andraste, Bran, Cairbre, Casidhe, Diarmaid, Edana, Fodla, Grim, Hagan, Keena, Kennard, Larkin, Mab, Maghnus, Orla, Rogan, Sloan, Troya, Una

Example Attributes: Armour, Combat Technique, Damage Absorption, Extra Actions, Extra Defences, Jumping, Massive Damage, Melee Attack, Melee Defense, Shield, Special Defense, Superstrength, Tough

Example Skills: Acrobatics, Animal Training, Artisan, Climbing, Cultural Arts, Domestic Arts, Gaming, Intimidation, Powerlifting, Swimming, Wilderness Survival, Wilderness Tracking

Gogajin attitudes towards….
Cheldrun	They are a people without a soul. No love for the land. No kindness for their kindred. Why do they live?
Allskins	Seems like these people have a healthy admiration for tradition and heritage. We can respect their adherence to their lineage despite the odds.
Biomade	These poor bastards have no respect for kith or kin. Their lives are empty and without purpose since they have no blood ties to build upon.
Mechified	Well now if you aren’t born strong as a Gogajin I suppose it makes sense you’d want to try and build yourself that way.
Karians	We are the salt of this earth. We spring up out of the dust so that Karia will have someone to love her. Someone to climb her heights and plumb her depths. We are her admirers.
Anakarix	No sense of fun, these philosopher dragons. What if we like to spin ‘em by the tail? Can’t they laugh?
Gogajin	We are the ones who get the most joy out of life.
Jevumm	Many a Gogajin has gotten tore up good because he underestimated these kittens, but they’ll respect you if you’ve got a torch in your fist.
Prill	Now here are some folks who make some pretty music. If only they appreciated our style of dancing more.
Vorax	Boy it would do my heart good if I could see one of these birds again.
Zipsum	Ha ha! Perhaps the only people with a sense of humor to match our own, these little furballs are as fun as they are fast.

Jevumm

Fire-Fearing Tigers...

In the era of the Dusk Sages the Jevumm were feared and respected. The Sages themselves treated the great cats with caution, bartering knowledge of storms for safety from the hunt. The Jevumm roamed all over the land bestowing a kind of primal order to things, where creatures were categorized by their strength and intelligence. The weak and the dim-witted were prey for the mighty Jevumm, who feared nothing but the lick of fire.

The arrival of the Cheldrun, the Cataclysm of Fiery Skies, has been devastating to the pride of the Jevumm. The children of steel are masters of fire, using it to power their machines, cook their food, burn their fuel and as a weapon against the forest. From the perspective of the Jevumm, the Cheldrun hide their weakness behind the power of flame to usurp the place of the tiger-people at the apex of the food chain. With wounded egos the Jevumm have slowly retreated deeper and deeper into the jungle as the Cheldrun loggers advance, muttering curses and threats, but slinking away from the churning machines all the same.

The Jevumm are perhaps the least ‘civilized’ of the Karians, because they don’t have to be. They’ve always been the scariest race, able to take what they want – produced by others most of the time. They have the least peaceful interaction with other Karians. Indeed, the other races carry torches with them on long journeys to fend off the tigers, and then it rains and they all get eaten. Since the days of the Dusk Sages the Jevumm have been associated with storms and rain, when outdoor fires are put out and people disappear into the jungle without a sound.

Known as tiger-people, the Jevumm are actually quite diverse. Each tribe manifests as a different variety of great cat, from lions, to jaguars, to cougars and every type of tiger. They have a shorter lifespan than humans, dying on average near their 50^th year. Mothers can be quite protective of their offspring, but Jevumm culture sets the 5^th year as a firm boundary line at which point the cub must prove itself strong enough to survive. Fathers often step in at that point and chase the cub away into the jungle. Cubs that are too slow or weak often get killed by their fathers.

Jevumm aren’t very numerous, preferring wild places with low populations where there are plenty of individuals and small groups to prey on. They live mostly solitary lives, though they do gather occasionally in tribes. They are highly intelligent and proud, but also lazy and not courageous. They have sporadic interests that stave off boredom – notably poetry. Think, indolent cats that like to play with their food.

Amongst themselves they have a storytelling culture driven by one-upmanship. When summoned together from their wide-ranging territories for a tribal meet it is customary to share stories of prowess, usually told in verse. Everything between two Jevumm is a competition and it does occasionally get violent, though intraspecies fighting is rarely lethal. Sometimes a tribe will announce a Wild Hunt, which involves many Jevumm working together to bring down large prey or to break up a persistent group. Hunting cooperatively like this, the Jevumm are positively terrifying. Even so, these Wild Hunts have not been successful against the Cheldrun.

***

Players who wish to play a Jevumm should decide what type of great cat and thus what tribe they are from. Different tribes will have different cultures and personalities depending on the variety of cat. Players should take this into account and detail out the relationships of the character to the tribe. What status does this character have in an ultra-competitive society? Players should consider the poetry that they may have written, and how they will relate to the other races, since the Jevumm are not always peaceful with other Karians.

Appearance: In feline form the Jevumm appear like a type of great cat according to their tribe. They often decorate their manes with beads or wear jewelry on their paws, in their ears and noses. In their human form they are muscular and feral looking with pronounced feline features, including ears, tails, sometimes whiskers, and sharp teeth, and nails. They dress in a robust manner which emphasizes their physical strength and grace. Gold jewelry, rich fabrics and clothing which clings are all a part of their style.

Example Tribes: Bathara (Lion), Govelara (Bengal), He’ekara (Cheetah), Kibara (Siberian), Nahamara (Panther), Ostera (Cougar), Yobara (Jaguar)

Example Names: Aburala, Igola, Ihlosi, Isilo, Ithayiga, Kakhona, Leeu, Paka, Shenxisa, Ukaba, Varissa, Xelela, Yomisa

Example Attributes: Combat Technique, Extra Actions, Extra Defenses, Heightened Awareness, Heightened Senses, Jumping, Land Speed, Massive Damage, Melee Attack, Melee Defense, Special Movement (fast), Superstrength, Tough

Example Skills: Acrobatics, Area Knowledge, Burglary, Climbing, Controlled Breathing, Cultural Arts, Interrogation, Intimidation, Performing Arts, Seduction, Stealth, Swimming, Wilderness Survival, Wilderness Tracking, Writing

Jevumm attitudes towards….
Cheldrun	Hiss! The fire-lovers are a plague on Karia. At every opportunity, when they are separated from their beloved flames, we will eat them.
Allskins	The weakest of the fire-lovers, we enjoy the smell of their terror on the breeze.
Biomade	These fire-lovers are mind-sensors. They cannot read our thoughts, but many a hunt has been spoiled because they detected our approach.
Mechified	More than anything we hate these fire-lovers who incorporate the flames into their own bodies, fueling engines that drive them like demons of destruction.
Karians	We are the people that belong, a natural outgrowth of Karia’s will to diversity and strength.
Anakarix	Undesirable to eat, these tree-dwellers are clever enough to make up for their sloth and weakness.
Gogajin	Perhaps the only people with a physical prowess we can respect, they are still no match for us because of their dim wits.
Jevumm	We are the storm-bringers, the lightning-harbingers, the ones who promise death-rain. We are to be feared. You are to be eaten.
Prill	Ha! Singing is no defense against tooth and claw. They eschew their nature to the detriment of their survival. They will sing sad songs while we feast on them.
Vorax	The world is mourning the death of these raptors, but it is their own weakness which destined them for the grave.
Zipsum	So… hard… to… catch… so… little… to… eat… waste of our time.

Concept Art: Karians

Anakarix
The Karians, in general are difficult to find images for.




Gogajin
Not so many great choices for the Gogajin.






Jevumm
You should see some of the pics Google Images pulls up if you type in Tiger + Anime + Girl... The awesome standing tiger posed with a sword on it's back is by the artist Brett Booth. See his work here.






Prill
Plenty of pictures of magical girls, and girls with ears, but not too many pictures of magical girls with fox ears.






Vorax
There just were no images of people with feathers for hair.





Zipsum
How do you search for images of an "aquatic turbo squirrel"?