Announcement

**Velociryx** · January 7, 2006, 14:24

In the south, a new tribe had been born. The squabbling bands of semi-nomadic hunters had been replaced by a single, unified presence under the leader of the vibrant, robust Graath Bloodbane, and never again did any of the men of the three tribes raise arms against each other. In fact, as the years passed by with dizzying speed, the phrase "the three tribes" was used less and less often.

That was a phrase from the olden days. A phrase that described a different time. Now, there was only the Celryn, and they were stronger for it.

For his part, Graath was mightily pleased at what he had done. It was no small feat to unite even two squabbling bands, let alone three. And yet, for all his accomplishments, he was restless. He had many sons, and had chosen one (the eldest, Fyrlynn) to lead in his stead when his time came to go back beneath the Mountain, but he could not help but feel cheated.

"I will never live to see my people flourish as I have dreamed they might." He whispered to himself as he hiked in the shadow of the Great Mountain, enjoying the splendor of his lands, even while the seeds of disappointment sprouted up in his mind.

He did not know it then, but those seeds of doubt were gifts from the Spirit of the Mountain. They were a sign...a crude premonition of sorts. For although Graath could not put words to his disatisfaction, he knew deep down that for all his accomplishments, his was a tiny, still inconsequential tribe in the greater scheme of the world, and that it would take generations....tens of centuries to build the kind of Kingdom he wished in his heart for his People.

He had no words to express such things, and it frustrated him.

Not realizing it, he hiked under the shadow of the Mountain with a faint scowl upon his face, as he pondered things he could not quite comprehend.

In those days, even after the unification of the three tribes of the South, the People of the Root numbered no more than three thousand souls.

OoO

Many Years Later
"Dragons!" Came the frantic cry of one of his runners.

The ancient High Chief looked up, a sour look upon his face, and shot the warrior a withering glance. "Dragons, you say? Where?"

The man threw himself at the feet of the High Chief of the Celryn, and lay shivering with fright. "Save me, Great One! They come from across the water! There is land across the sea, and hints of thunder from there...it can only be Dragon-Sign!"

Graath shook his head. "Up with you! An affront to your Chief, displaying such womanish cowardice before me!" He rose to his full height, still impressive, although it was clear that age had robbed him of the greater portion of his strength. "If there are dragons across the Great Water, then let them come to me!" He hefted his club menacingly. Old or no, it was clear that he remembered very well how to use his weapon of choice.

As it was, no Dragons ever came from across the Great Water to visit the hall of the High Chief of the Celryn, but the rumors persisted, and the lands across the water were regarded for scores of years to come as being haunted....the home of Dragons.

OoO

The rule of Graath Bloodbane was a long and glorious one. He lived sixty-three winters, which was impossibly long in those days, and under his rule, the People at the Root of the World flourished and thrived. The old rivalries were forgotten, and in its place, Graath instilled a sense of tribal curiosity. A burning desire to explore and experiment and learn. To stretch beyond themselves, always.

On his deathbed, he charged his son, who was to take command of the tribe once his father had passed beneath the Great Mountain. Charged him with the sacred task of finding out how far the River Celryn ran, and what lay at its end.

"It runs to the very end of the earth, Father, you know that." His son, Fyrlynn told him lovingly as he placed a sturdy hand on the old man's brow. "To the ends of the earth."

Graath nodded weakly. Age had robbed him of the strenght he had once been so admired for, and he lay wasted on his pile of furs, ashamed that his son had to see him in such a sorry state. "Still....you must....try. Must....seek the answer with....own eyes."

"It is my promise to you." His son told him earnestly. "I swear it to the High Chief of the People of the Root!"

Another nod from his father, and then a sigh. "Why....must men grow old....weak?...we should.....die young....with the fire still in our blood."

Fyrlynn sat with him until the end, listening to the final words of the Father of his People. The Father of the People he would now rule.

Some of the phrases that escaped his ancient lips were wise, others fearful and uncertain, and at the very end, others were simply too soft to hear.

Still, when the end came, Graath was remembered, not as an old man lying wasted on his furs, but as the Great Chief of the men of the South. The father of the whole tribe.

His son, the new Chief, wondered if he would be able to keep his promise to the greatest man he had ever known.

OoO

Attached Files

**Velociryx** · January 7, 2006, 16:39

The Emerald Death

Fyrlynn BloodBane, the Second High Chief of the Celryn, died with dishonor in his heart, for he was unable to fulfill the promise made to the Father of the People of the Root. He was unable to find the end of the River Celryn, nor where it led.

In fact, his reign and rule were as troubled as his father's had been glorious.

The lesser Chiefs of the Southern Tribes had been weakened by the power and majesty of his father's reign, but they were by no means gone, and Fyrlynn, for all his ability (which was considerable, lest we sell him short), was not his father, and in the absence of Graath's powerful, commanding presence, the Tribe of Cerlyn spent a number of winters....adrift, as it were. They had lost their way, and Fyrlynn was at a loss for how to put them back on the path that his father had so boldly blazed for them.

He made many great plans, but few ever came to any real effect. Sadly, most of his time and energy was spent placating the lesser Chiefs and keeping his father's realm intact, so that it might be passed on to another generation.

One thing that Fyrlynn did manage to accomplish during his rule was the formation of a standing force of Warriors, not for the purpose of war, but for the purpose of exploration. These explorers were outfitted with the very best equipment and supplies of the age (sturdy clubs, cut from mature oaks at the base of the Great Mountain, such that they bore the blessings of the Great Spirit that dwelled there, and sheepskin furs to keep them warm on the many journeys that Fyrlynn expected that they would undertake). They were given the name of Graath's ablest and most trusted brother-in-arms, Grog. Grog's Woodsmen, as they spent all the time they could honing their tracking skills in the small forest just west of the Great City of Cerilon.

It was this group....these Woodsmen with a brave and noble name, who were to be the means of fulfilling the promise made to the Father of the People of the Root.

In practice, they spent much of their time staying close to Cerilon as a show of force, lest the petty chiefs who served beneath Fyrlynn decide to take the realm for themselves.

So Fyrlynn passed his sacred charge on to his son (an inept ruler named Hygil, who nearly lost the Kingdom to petty rivalries on a number of occassions), since he himself had failed to carry it out.

And his son passed it on to his son.

Three generations from the rule of the Great One (who was still revered, and nearly worshiped as a God himself....Graath-Bloodbane...He Who Dwells in the Mountain), and still, no Chief of the Celryn had succeeded in fulfilling the sacred charge. No Chief had been able to answer the dying question and challenge of the Father of the People of the Root. How far does the River Celryn run, and where does it lead?

No one knew.

Finally, however, the Celryn were blessed with another extraordinary leader, in the form of Graath's great, great grandson, a sturdy, capable warrior named Wylf (pronounced by our modern tongues as "Wolf").

Wylf saw the decay of the tribe and acted swiftly and decisively to put an end to it, for the fires burned hotly within him. He had all the passion of the Father of the People, even if he may have been lacking in some of the natural ability to command.

It was his passion and decisiveness that made up the difference, however, and these twin things can rightly be said to have pulled the Tribe of Cerlyn out of their listless drifting, and back onto the path of greatness.

Wylf ruled for barely half as long as the Father of the People, but his leadership of the Tribe was so inspiring as to be every bit as memorable.

After executing the troublesome petty chiefs who had sorely hampered the efforts of his forefathers, he led several expeditions of Grog's Woodsmen personally, and participated in an extraordinary number of hunts and dramatic kills, the most famous of which was the stalking and killing of the great Jungle Cat, in the thick tangles of the northern tropical forest.

Nonetheless, for all his prowess in battle, and for all his decisive action against the petty chiefs, he, like his fathers before him, was unable to fulfill the ancient pledge to the Great Father.

OoO

Attached Files

**Velociryx** · January 7, 2006, 16:41

Supernatural...Pah! Wylf spat on the corpse of the Great Cat as it finally gasped its last, and took out a crude bone knife.

Within seconds, he had cut deeply into the animal's chest, and ripped out its heart.

He held it high over his head so that the other warriors present could see, and let out a war cry that would have made the Great Father of the People proud. "We eat well tonight!" He said with a hearty laugh as he painted his face with blood from the enormous beast.

It had been a ferocious battle, and the cat had been so elusive that his men were fearful that it was a demon from the netherworld, sent to spell their doom.

Three nights earlier, the creature had stormed into their camp like a whirlwind of fur and fang and claw. Three of his warriors had died in an attempt to bring the great cat down, and two others were so badly injured that they had to be left behind.

Nonetheless, they had succeeded in chasing the beast away, and had even injured it.

He had a nose for tracking, and so had led his band northward after their prey. When word of this kill reached the Great City, his people would fall down on their knees in adoration for his skills as a hunter, and his memory would live forever in their hearts.

It was farther north than they had ever ventured, and it was good that they were still following the path of the River Celryn. Not only did it ensure they they could find their way back home, but it also just might allow him to fulfill the pledge and promise that none of his forefathers had been able to fulfill. Somewhere, if he kept going, he would find the ends of the earth, and at long last, have an answer for He-Who-Dwells-in-the-Mountain.

It was a bold hope, but then, he was nothing if not a bold man.

He sheathed his knife, and turned to his men, bidding them approach him one at a time, and as they did, he smeared their faces with the blood of the kill, such that they might all be blessed by its strength and vitality, and when they dined on the creature's flesh, it would forever become a part of them, and make them stronger. With this ceremonial act, the hunting and tracking band known as "Grog's Woodsmen" also became known as the "Lions of Cerilon" (a name which endures in her armed forces to this day), and Wylf himself became known by a shortened version of his familial name....Wylf, Bane of Demons, or Wylf Bane for short (In later years, as the tribe's knowledge of the world around them continued to expand, a plant would be discovered that the ancients believed would help ward evil spirits away...this plant would be given the name "Wolf's Bane," after the great leader Wylf Bloodbane).

"Build a fire here...the beast is too heavy to carry, so we will eat well for a few days, and then cart as much as we can carry on our backs and continue further north."

"You mean to try and answer the Great Question?" One of his brothers-in-arms, a warrior named Ternoc, asked him.

"I do. And we will all share in the glory of finding the answer, and the end of the earth!"

The men cheered lustfully at this, and in fact, all were so caught up in their revelry that no one noticed the diminuitive others who had emerged from the thick and tangled tropical forest until they were completely surrounded and had spears pointing at their bellies.

Wylf let out a short, barking laugh at their sudden predicament, and offered the apparent leader of this dwarfish band some of the heart of the Lion they had just killed.

The small man came forward tentatively and spoke a few words.

The dialect was different from the one that the tribes in the south spoke, but there were enough similarities between their languages that they could exchange at least broad ideas, and more, with a bit of practice.

Wylf answered, and the smallish man looked puzzled, and then spoke again.

They continued their back-and-forth exchange for a number of minutes, with the men in Wylf's company looking a bit confused by it all.

Finally, Wylf grinned, and the small men lowered their spears. He turned to his warriors. "These men say that we have rid them of a terrible curse by slaying this great beast, and they wish to hold a feast in our honor back at their village."

"What do they call this....this steaming hot, infernal forest?" Ternoc asked.

At this, Wylf smiled again and wagged his eyebrows as though the answer were some sort of joke. "They call their homeland The Emerald Death."

And so, Wylf and his band were led into the village of Tempek, where they befriended that minor tribe (the tribe of Tempek would be overrun by several hundred starving baboons several years later, but not before teaching Wylf and his warriors several things about surviving in their tropical forest home....it was later discovered that the Tempek were an offshoot of the Pek tribe, and thus, distant cousins to the Celryn themselves, who mourned their passing when they learned of it).

OOC Notes: There was a hut in the same location that the warriors are standing in the picture below. It yielded "experience" for our stalwart band of explorers, and given the terrain, we took Woodsman I and Woodsman II promotions.

~ End of Story #1

OoO

Attached Files

**Velociryx** · January 7, 2006, 19:58

Story # 2 - The End of the Earth

Spaniards

Like his grandfather before him, Terek Bane (his family had stopped using the "Bloodbane" name during the time of Wylf) was a hunter. He enjoyed testing himself against the fierce creatures that dwelled in the steaming interior of the Emerald Death, and frequently led his now-famed Woodsmen into the wilds to hunt.

In his time, he had battled wild dogs, ferocious sharp-toothed demons from the muddy banks of the Celryn, where it ran through the thick, tangled green, and some beasts that simply defied all attempts at description. He had led his warriors on adventures too numerous to count, and stories were whispered about him and the exploits of the Woodsmen in all corners of the realm of his Fathers.

Terek Bane spent little time in the Great Hall. Had he been there, he would have been bored nearly to death, listening to the tiresome complaints of the petty chiefs who served him. That task, he entrusted to a group of able-minded, loyal advisors who were so in awe of him and his talents as a hunter, that he had little reason to fear that they might move against him. Although he never expressed it openly, he was grateful to his advisors, because it gave him the opportunity to be away from it all, and out in the wilds where he was most at home.

In truth, given the time, and the relative peace, calm, and stability that had settled in over the southlands, Terek was the perfect ruler for that day. That is to say, largely absent, and content to leave well enough alone. His lands were not brilliantly administered, but ably enough so by his chosen advisors, who were likewise content to let things remain as they were.

Steady.

Even.

No surprises or shocks to the tiny tribal nation.

In short, life was good, and the people were content with Terek's light-handed rule.

But that wasn't the only reason that Terek was the ideal ruler for his Age.

The second reason was....the Spaniards.

Terek did not know it...had no way of knowing it until he met the swarthy-skinned strangers, but he had a knack for languages. Had anyone else been leading the Woodsmen during the time when they aloof northerners were first encountered, it may well have led to hostility, and possibly bloodshed. As it was, Terek was able to communicate with them, and open the door to cordial relations later on. It was an important meeting in a number of respects, as it set the standard of what was expected when meeting new, robust tribes that shared the vastness of Whilderhond with the Men of the South.

OoO

"My Chief, my Chief!" The runner shouted breathlessly as he approached the campsite. Terek looked up from the fire, where he was roasting the leg of a panther that he and his hunters had killed earlier in the day.

"What's got you breathless, Gul?" He asked the man nonchalantly.

"Strangers approach!"

Strangers.

That was both new and unexpected. Aside from the now vanished Tempek, neither he nor his forefathers had encountered anyone in all the times they had ventured into the wilds.

At this news, he stood and hefted his sturdy club. "Well then...let's go see who they are and what they want."

The men followed without question, as Gul led the way to where he had observed their approach.

A short while later

"Well....they don't look particularly threatening, do they?" He asked to his assembled warriors.

They had crept up to the crest of a low rise, heavily laden with brush, where they could observe the approach of the strangers without being seen (and while Terek did not know this, this, and doing it in such a way as to remain soundless, and not disturb the plentiful wildlife around them, was a trick that his grandfather had learned from the Tempek, upon whose land they were now crouching).

"What's that....thing he's holding?" Gul asked with scorn in his voice. "It appears to be a woman's weapon...so slender and frail-looking."

Several of the men behind and beside him snickered at the comment, and Terek shushed them with a swift motion of his hand. "Whatever it is, it seems to serve them well...none of the men in the band appear to be injured, and you know the whole of the Emerald Death teems with savagery."

That was true enough. During this latest hunt, three of his warriors had fallen to the beasts of the jungle, and none of them had entirely escaped injury, but these men, with their strange weapons and in their smart-looking leather jerkins....they appeared to be totally unscathed. Perhaps even out of place in the wilds.

Terek studied them for a long moment, observing the casually confident way that the leader led his party. A slow, meandering stroll through the jungle, seemingly oblivious to the potential dangers it held (or perhaps very sure of themselves and their ability to handle anything that came their way), and no attempts whatsoever to use the natural cover of the terrain to mask themselves.

And then there was their skin! Handsome and bronze, with dark, curly hair falling across all their foreheads, it was a stark contrast to their own pale, ruddy skin, and wide variety of hair colorings. These men looked as though they could all be related.

Terek had never seen anything like it, and after a moment, his curiosity got the better of him. Motioning his men to remain where they were, he hefted up his club, keeping it at the ready but casually placed at his side, and strode into the open to greet them.

When the dark-skinned men saw his approach, they stepped back as a single body and cast their eyes warily around.

Two of the warriors in the back ranks made their strange weapons ready, drawing out slender sticks and pulling back on a cord of some kind.

The man who led the dark group held up a hand, stopping them from whatever task they were about.

Terek was unconcerned, as the weapons, if you could call them that, didn't look particularly threatening from a distance, and even less so, now that he was closer to the group. He called out a greeting to them in his native language, and the brows of the group before him furrowed in confusion.

The leader of the band said something in return, in a lilting, musical language that Terek had never heard. He studied the man and motioned for him to repeat himself, watching his body language for clues as to what the man might be saying, and listening intently to both the tone and the sound.

Three more repetitions and he thought he understood. It was a question. Who are you and where are you from? Or something very close to that.

He pointed to the south, and held his hands up and apart, representing a vast distance.

The man nodded and spoke again, and somehow Terek knew the man was answering his own question in his native language. Terek repeated the words, and motioned southward again. The dark-skinned man nodded and grinned, a smile that Terek returned.

Communication with the dark-skinned strangers from the north had begun.

OoO

Terek and his band spent several weeks in the company of the Spaniards as they called themselves, trading stories, news, tales of their homeland, and learning each other's language. The leader of the Spanish exploration party, Rinaldo Agado, was pleased to meet their group, especially since they seemed to know so much about the wilds, and he questioned Terek and his men endlessly about the local plants and animals. He was also happy to demonstrate the use of their bows, and when Terek saw the amazing power of it, he was awestruck. It was a fearsome weapon indeed, allowing them to kill at a distance. He took Rinaldo on a hunt with his band during their time together, and saw firsthand that it brought down a panther from some thirty yards distant.

A weapon of awesome power indeed, and when the hunt had ended, Rinaldo graciously gave Terek the bow as a gift, and instructed him in its use.

As he had been with their language, Terek proved to be a quick study, and soon he was the envy of the Woodsmen, with his powerful bow that could fell the beasts of the jungle long before they came close enough to cause him harm.

But it wasn't just the weapons...the whole of Terek's group was quite taken with the dark-skinned strangers, and Terek found himself daydreaming of dark-skinned, dark eyed Spanish women, and wondering if the Spanish tribe might be open to the idea of trading women.

He did not broach the subject yet. Now that people from both tribes knew, at least in general terms, where the other was, he was certain that other opportunities would arise to trade and deal with the Spaniards.

Still, he was sorry when their time together ended, but the stories that circulated through the lands of Cerilon upon the hunting party's return would endure for years.

OoO

Indeed, Terek had a number of other dealings with the Spaniards, and even took a Spanish woman as his wife, who bore him many sons and daughters, and threw herself wholeheartedly into life in the SouthLands, delighting in the differences she observed between her new home and her old, and after he wedded her, Terek stopped going on so many hunts, content to rule his lands with her at his side. She was a constant fixture in the Great Hall of Cerilon, and the petty chiefs would sometimes laugh at him as he stopped all business to stare into her dark, exotic eyes, or pause to play with his many children as they wandered into the Hall.

Some in the SouthLands thought that perhaps her presence among them had unmanned him, and made him lesser, but as Terek grew older, it was plain to see that his bride's influence on him was both calming and soothing, and most agreed that this was a good thing. Once he had stopped his endless roaming in the wilds, he gained a reputation for being a wise and fair-minded ruler....among the best that the People at the Root of the World had ever known.

OoO

Attached Files

**Velociryx** · January 7, 2006, 20:19

Terek Bane's rule was not as long as the Great Father of the Tribe's had been, but it was glorious, and he was a well loved leader, especially in his later years. It seemed that the older he grew, the wiser and more just his rule became, and all was sadness and sorrow at his passing. His body lay in the Great Hall for five days as petty chiefs from all over the lands of the Cerlyn came to pay homage to their great leader.

In a move that surprised the whole of the land, he left his greatly expanded realm not to any of his children, but to his favorite grandson, Thalen of Sorrel. The boy was only fourteen winters old when he took on the Mantle of the High Chief, but he was very wise for his years, and his father, who had no interest nor ambition to rule the lands of the Cerlyn, was a steady, guiding hand for the youngest person to ever claim the title of the High Chief.

Attached Files

**Velociryx** · January 7, 2006, 21:07

The Eng

Thalen Sorrel was an aging, distinguished looking leader when another Tribe of Whilderhond made its presence known to the Men of the South. Like his forefathers, he had taken to traveling with the Woodsmen, but unlike any of his predecessors, he lacked the instinct and ability of a hunter. Instead, he was very much a thinker...always absorbed in deep thoughts, long in their nature. He was perhaps the most far-sighted leader that the tribe ever had, and the plans and goals he passed on to his advisors and various petty chiefs of the lands of Cerlyn both orally and by way of his striking artwork, served as the basis for a great many of the plans brought to fruition by later generations of leaders. And yet, for all his far-sightedness, there were a great many details he left unattended to when he died unexpectedly, not long after the meeting with the Eng. Among them was the fact that he had not produced an heir, and there were whispers in the Kingdom that the line of Graath Bloodbane had grown too weak to continue. That He-Who-Dwells-Under-the-Mountain had grown displeased with the heirs to his Kingdom, and was reaching out from beneath the Mountain to strike down his own kin for their inability to answer the question that had gone unanswered for nine generations.

This was deeply troubling to Thalen, but try as he might, he was no more successful than any of the eight generations of leaders who had preceeded him had been. More than once, he despaired that if the question remained unanswered for much longer, then the People at the Root of the World might simply cease to be, or worse, somehow lose their status as the First People in all the world, and yet....there seemed to be no answer, nor any end to the great river that gave them life and sustinence. They had explored so much of the Emerald Death, and the wilds of Whilderhond seemed utterly without end...how could he answer a question that seemed to have no answer.

He knew he was dying long before any of his court did....felt it in his soul and in his bones....felt something dark and wicked eating away at him from the inside ("cancer" was a term totally unknown to the Cerlyn in those days, but this is almost surely what the leader of the tribe was afflicted with), and when he knew that the time was near for him to return to beneath the Mountain, he began going out on ever-lengthening journeys with his Woodsmen, as though he was all-too-mindful of the sands slipping through the hourglass, and if he did not do something decisive to answer the question posed by his Great Forefather, his People may come to a terrible end.

Sadly, he did not find the answer to the Great Father's question.

He did, however, usher in its answer, and preside over another important Inter-Tribal meeting.

In this instance, both parties were caught equally by surprise. The group of Eng Archers were mired in the swift currents of the Cerlyn (which was quite treacherous in this area of the Emerald Death), and several were in danger of drowning. And for the part of the men of Cerlyn, they were on the run from a gigantic, angry Grizzley Bear, who had, despite the fact that bears did not normally venture into the jungle, pursued the hunting party well beyond its normal range.

So it was that the water-logged, half drowned Eng, encountered the scared-witless, running-like mad men of Cerlyn.

Perhaps it was best that they met one another under such conditions, because the men of the Eng were led by a dour and surly fellow named Hugh Langley, who may have been inclined to shoot first and ask questions later, especially when nearly two dozen ragged, filthy, ruddy-skinned warriors burst upon his group, screaming like banshees. Probably the only two things that saved Thalen's group were the facts that many of Langley's own men were in immediate danger themselves, and the barbarians who suddenly appeared were obviously running away from something even more terrifying than themselves.

The two groups collected themselves, and Thalen ordered his men to assist the archers mired in the currents.

For this, Hugh Langley gave the unexpected arrivals a measure of grudging respect, but he still wanted no part of them, regarding them as little more than filth-ridden animals themselves.

With such an inauspicious beginning, it was no wonder that the meeting with the Eng did not go nearly as smoothly as Terek's meeting with the Spaniards several decades earlier. Nonetheless, Thalen proved nearly as adept at the mastery of languages as his grandfather had, and in relatively short order, understood them well enough to communicate.

These folk came from, as they described it, "beyond the ends of the earth," and Thalen lept at this phrase! Perhaps here then, were men who had answers to the question which had vexed them for nine generations!

Sadly, Hugh Langley was reluctant to give more specific information about where they were from. When pressed, he gestured vaguely to the north and repeated his enigmatic phrase, "beyond the ends of the earth." He also said things like "jolly good," "right then" and "capital!" quite frequently, which left the SouthLanders mystified. And finally, when they departed some two weeks after their meeting, the leaders of the two groups embraced as friends, English-style, which is to say stiffly and awkwardly, in a way that showed respect, but also managed to convey that the other party found you at least mildly repulsive.

And that was the image that the two groups left on each other for centuries to come. The Eng as stiff and stodgy, and the men of the South as raging banshees.

It was perhaps not the most successful diplomatic meeting ever conducted, but it was negotiated successfully enough, at least in the fact that no one died, and both groups left with at least a guarded respect for the other.

Sadly, Thalen would fall victim to the sickness lurking inside him, and die before he ever returned home, sparking a crisis in the lands of Cerlyn....

Attached Files

**Velociryx** · January 7, 2006, 21:36

3550 BC

"The line of Graath Bloodbane has failed!" Jarl Edgeburg shouted at the assembled Chiefs. "We must choose a new leader from those willing and able to wear the Mantle of the High Chief!"

On this point, all were in agreement. What was a bit trickier was the method of choosing a new leader. Each petty chief agitated for himself, and there were half a dozen voices raised at once, all shouting the reasons that they would be best suited to lead the tribes of Cerlyn.

The debates lasted for weeks, and in the end, a solution was arrived at that pleased everyone.

A quest was devised.....or rather, continued.

Each contender for the Mantle of the High Chief would seek out the answer to the Great Father's question, and the man who returned with proof of the answer would become the next High Chief.

For his part, Jarl Edgeburg knew it would be him. He had served with the Woodsmen, and had been with Thalen when the leader of the Eng had said that his people came from "beyond the ends of the earth," and he had committed the location they had met the group to his memory.

Every detail was burned into his mind.

He would lead a group of woodsmen back to that spot and press northward. He would find the end of the earth, and return home in triumph to claim the Mantle of the High Chief, and when he did, it would usher in a whole new era for the First People of the world.

The system devised for proving the claim was ingenious.

There were six worthies who were competing for the prize. Each worthy would travel with a group of warriors selected by all the other contenders, and thus, each man could be assured that the claims of any contender were genuine.

So it was agreed upon, and so it came to pass, and for years, the contenders for the Mantle of the High Chief of the Cerlyn searched in vain for the ends of the earth.

Two died during their quest.

One returned so battered and broken that he was beyond help.

Three pressed on relentlessly, and one of those three was Jarl Edgeburg.

Good to his word, he led his party straight through the heart of the Emerald Death until he emerged on the plain at the far side, and still following the Cerlyn, came upon a staggering sight.

The lush green grasslands and praries stopped on the south side of the river, giving way to harsh, burning, unforgiving sands.

It was a complete, desolate wasteland, and hotter even than the steaming jungle he had just led his men through, and yet, he pressed ahead.

If these burning sands were not the end of the earth, then he could not imagine what would be, but he was determined to find out, so he followed the river (which had turned quite sluggish as it churned slowly through the desert), until it ended at the tallest, fiercest mountains he had ever seen.

This then, was the answer that had eluded the men of the South for a total of ten generations. He had found the end of the world there in the burning heart of the desert.

The mountains, he named "God's Teeth" because that's what they surely were...jagged and sharp, like the great maw of an angry god, the multitude of streams that sprang forth from them feeding into what became the Cerlyn.

Satisfied that he had the answer that had been sought since the tribes of the First People united centuries earlier, Jarl Edgeburg headed for home to claim his prize.

He had earned, and won, the Mantle of the High Chief.

~End of Story #2

**Velociryx** · January 7, 2006, 21:36

The unforgiving lands at the end of the earth....

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**Velociryx** · January 7, 2006, 23:12

Story # 3 - Thunder Beasts

The rule of Jarl Edgeburg was filled up with strife and inner turmoil. He had completed a ten-generation old quest, and earned the Mantle of the High Chief, but that did nothing to stop the bickering and infighting that followed his ascension. As with the second High Chief, Fyrlynn Bloodbane, Jarl Edgeburg found himself beset on all sides at once by rivals and threats, but his line survived those dark days, and even while his enemies plotted against him, he took steps to strengthen the Kingdom he had won for himself, and under his rule, the Men of the South explored more of the world around them, and mastered the art of Mining.

This was an important skill, because while the People at the Root of the Earth had long taken gold nuggets from the Gold Fields west of the Great City, they had never before attempted to actively harvest it from the depths of the earth, and the tools and methods they mastered with this skill suddenly made that possible.

It was, as yet, a long time coming, but plans were laid to make a mine in the gold fields operational (these, based on conceptual drawings taken from the archives of Thalen Sorrel). Additionally, there were plans to begin harvesting the wild maize that grew east of the city. Jarl himself would not live to see either of these events, but his heirs would bring them to fruition, and the Realm would be stronger for it.

As it was, Jarl's major contribution to the Realm was in laying down future plans and discovering the lands beyond the end of the earth. He did not determine the location of the elusive Eng, but he set the stage for that to come later.

OoO

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**Velociryx** · January 7, 2006, 23:13

Seven Generations Later - 3200 BC - Somewhere West of the Burning Sands

The village was small, decrepit, and apparently deserted. A ramshackle collection of no more than two dozen huts, surrounding a crude long house with an even more crudely constructed pallisade.

"It would be barely enough to keep out a bunch of old crones." Rogan Edgeburg mused as he led the Woodsmen through the heart of the village.

His scouts had fanned out in a wide arc ahead of him, and when they reached a point where they could see the far end of the long house, one of them stopped and gasped. The sound drew the attention of the Great Chief of the Celryn. He picked up his pace, and hastened to where his scout was standing so he could see with his own eyes what had caused the reaction.

When he saw, it illicited the same response from him.

The entire side wall of the long house had been staved in. The gaping hole was big enough for six men to stand shoulder-to-shoulder in. He shook his head, not quite believeing what he was seeing. "What could have done this?" He asked in awe. There were no signs of fire, and in fact, the long house showed no signs of having been subjected to that particular treatment. No...this was something....much more crude. Much more direct. The stout logs that made up the long house had simply been smashed to bits. It was as though the Spirit of the Mountain himself had come down and rended the building.

He shook his head and blinked to make sure that what he was seeing was....what he was seeing.

Tentatively, he led his men into the Hall.

There were bodies strewn about in the Hall, but they were badly decayed....nearly skeletal in their appearance.

"Whatever happened here...I think it's safe to say that we missed it."

Several of his men nodded in silent agreement, and the party fanned out to search the wreckage of the building.

They found everything more-or-less intact. At least, as intact as could be expected, given that nearly a third of the building had been shredded.

"Tools, finery...everything is still inside....whoever....whatever did this wasn't bent on thievery...it doesn't appear that anything was taken." One of his party murmured as he inspected the place.

"So who or what would raid a village, ransack its Hall, and then leave everything inside. If they weren't after valuables....then what?"

No one had any answers.

"Let us not remain here longer than we need to." He told the men. "Check the other buildings for survivors, and some sign that points the way to what happened here, then we'll give these people a proper burial. Whoever they were, they deserve that, at least."

"But we....we know nothing of their ways....how should we tend to the fallen?"

Rogan shrugged. "Since we know nothing of their ways, we'll bury them beneath the earth according to our own traditions. Whatever gods they pray to should be understanding enough to know that we will have done our best by them, by doing at least that much. If we did wrong, the mistake is ours, not theirs, and they should be forgiven any transgression on our part."

That seemed to satisfy his men, who duitifully set about their work.

No survivors, and a total of fifty eight corpses, with almost no sign of what had killed them.

Almost no sign.

The ground near the long house had been too torn up to get any good tracks from, but a bit farther from the village, there were readable tracks, although none of the men had ever seen anything like them.

They were as big around as a buckler, and pressed nearly two inches into the hard earth. Whatever had caused such an impression had to weigh at least as much as ten men...maybe more, and it was enormous.

"What creature has feet like this?" Rogan asked, his confusion growing. None of the stories he had heard about the exploits of any of the great Hunter-Chieftens of the line of Graath Bloodbane had ever described anything like this, and yet, he was staring at the tracks...the proof that something huge and terrifying existed, and that they were close to it....or at least close to where it had been.

Deeply troubled by the sight of the mysterious tracks, he followed them into the savannah as far as he could, but the ground became so hard that the tracks eventually simply ceased to be. It was as though the huge creatures, whatever they were, had simply materialized about half a league from the village and charged in to ransack it, killing everyone present, and then disappearing again.

It was dark by the time his men had gathered the bodies, so they made a camp in the ruins of the Hall, with a plan to bury them at first light.

Given the unusual nature of the damage to the village, Rogan posted two guards during each shift, and commanded them to keep a sharp eye out. Whatever had done the damage to the village, he was none too eager to face it, especially in the dark, and on largely unfamiliar ground.

The night was a tense one, but it passed uneventfully enough, and when morning came, he and his Woodsmen set about burying those who had fallen.

The ground was hard and unforgiving in this place, and it took them the better part of a day to dig a grave big enough to hold all the bodies. The men were exhausted after these exertions, but he pressed them onward until they had filled the grave and covered it back over. Then, against his better judgement, he set up camp in the ruined Hall for a second night.

"I know that everyone is tired, but stay alert tonight." He told them. "Whatever was here before, we don't want to be taken by surprise by it, should it return."

No arguments about that point, and his men were as alert as their exhaustion would allow, which was good enough, because the terrible creatures that had slaughtered the whole of this village, did not return on the second night either.

When the men roused from their slumber the next morning, he bid them gather up what valuables they could carry, and they would take those with them. "The dead don't need them, and if we leave them, it will only be a matter of time before someone else happens by to claim them for themselves."

That was true enough, so the men loaded up what they could carry, and continued on their way.

Perhaps two leagues from the village, wading through grass nearly to their shoulders, they saw the beasts, and stopped dead in their tracks, mouths agape in wonder, fear, and awe.

Nothing in all their experience had prepared them for the sight of the great, grey beasts that roamed the savannah.

"What in the name of the Great Spirit...." Rogan began the phrase, but the words simply died in his throat as the beasts turned their direction and made a terrible trumpeting nose before charging.

Nine of them, travelling in a herd, with great tusks that jutted proudly before them, as long as Rogan was tall, and when they charged, it shook the earth itself.

"Run for your lives!" He shouted hoarsely.

That was one command that definitely did not need repeating.

As one, they did, and the men of the SouthLands were introduced to Elephants, or as they aptly termed them, "Thunder Beasts."

OoO
OOC Notes: Found a hut very close to Spanish territory...popped it for 48g. The "taking the stuff from the empty village" was my explanation for those funds

OoO

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**Velociryx** · January 7, 2006, 23:14

In the days before paper and parchment maps, directions to far-off places were given by way of vague description, and arrived at by dead reckoning. Thus, it was not uncommon for long, curious routes to places to be taken, especially when one had never been to a particular place before.

Rogan's first attempt to reach the Lands of Spain was unsuccessful, and cut short by an unfortunate encounter with angry Thunder Beasts, but that did not stop him from trying again in the latter part of his rule, and the crowning achievement of his rule was to chart a course from the SouthLands to the Lands of the Spaniards. Though he did not lead the second expedition to Spain himself, and thus, never saw the shining citidel of Madrid, he heard stories about it from the men who made the journey, and in his mind's eye, he saw the shining spires, and the dark eyed beauties of Spain.

It wasn't as good as the real thing might have been, but he contented himself with the knowledge that he would be remembered for opening the way to the Spaniards, and in that, he was not wrong.

~ End of Story # 3

OoO

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**Velociryx** · January 8, 2006, 11:05

Interlude

In the ancient days, change came slowly to Whilderhond, and the wilds did not give up their secrets easily. The price for each improvement, for each tiny step of progress, was dearly bought indeed, and perhaps that is as it should have been.

The line of Jarl Edgeburg lasted for eight generations, total, and Rogan Edgeburg was the last of his line, with his son assassinated on the very day of his ascension, the Lands of Celryn were cast into a time of darkness and uncertainty. Once again, with no strong leader to guide her, she drifted aimlessly through the currents of time. Oh, it was true that now and again, some enterprising individual with the right mix of talent and ability would rise up to the challenge and briefly improve the lot of the People at the Root of the World, but by and large, they spent the next several centuries adrift, and for it, they grew increasingly less important....less of a consideration in the web of complex relationships that was spinning out on Whilderhond as the robust tribes of our vast homeland reached out to each other.

Adrift as they were, the other tribes began reaching out less and less frequently to the Celryn, and this caused them to sink more deeply into their moor of darkness and uncertainty.

In those days, there were few things to celebrate, but among them were these:

3100 BC - The approximate year when the folk of Cerlyn first began organized attempts to control and farm the wild maize that grew east of the Great City:

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**Velociryx** · January 8, 2006, 11:10

Occassionally, "Grog's Woodsmen" would be sent on a new expedition, and they still found success, although as they increased their contacts with the other tribes of Whilderhond, it became painfully evident that they were long ago obsolete. Nonetheless, no move was made by the rapidly-changing, often shifting leadership in Celryn to upgrade the famed unit, nor do anything whatsoever to improve their lot.

Nonetheless, their stories were still legend, and their successes were often talked about back home. They (the successes of the Woodsmen) were one of the few bright spots in an otherwise gloomy time. Their discovery of Sheltered Bay ~3000 BC, near the lands of the Spaniards was but one example of their success:

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**Velociryx** · January 8, 2006, 11:15

How very sad, that it took nearly a thousand years between the time of Thalen Sorrel's conceptual drawings and actually getting a functional gold mine, but that was a sign of the times, to be sure. Everything just seemed to....stop, and for extended periods of time. There was so much uncertainty in the world in those days, and every aspect of their future seemed to be so very close to the brink of some great and terrible abyss, that no one could muster the strength or force of will to decide. To act.

And so, the world remained frozen, but for those few advancements here and there:

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Announcement

The Chronicles of Whilderhond

The Chronicles of Whilderhond

The Chronicles of Whilderhond

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