The Color of Iroquois Blood

[Veracitas]

Game Stats: Monarch Level, Large Map, Random Civs

Story will be divided into four parts, chronicling the Iroquois civilisation through the ages. Currently, much of the first part (ancient era, before founding of the first Iroquois ciy) and a little of the last part (modern era) have been written.....

[Veracitas]

The sun shone fiercely upon shimmering water that seemed to glow with divine portent. Along the shore, half-naked women were preparing the meat—fresh deer that had been caught by the fierce hunters only that morning. Children bathed and laughed loudly, while the early adolescents sat stoically along the waters edge quietly conversing amongst themselves, trying to pretend that laughter and other such trivialities were above them. All the while, they would sneak covert glances at the opposite sex. The men took siestas in the scorching afternoon sun, deeply satisfied with the morning’s hunting efforts.
Today, the gods smiled upon the Iroquois people.
According to our ancient oral history, our people had been wandering since the
beginning of time and earth itself. We were a cursed people, doomed by the gods to lead a perpetually nomadic existence. Life was never certain—one day, we would see salvation; the next, damnation. It was never known where we initially came from, but our most epic tales would tell of lands permanently encrusted in ice, nations built entirely on an endless and frozen sea, and battles with gargantuan, thick-coated demons armed with massive, pearl-white blades at the mouth. Here, by the glistening lake and under the tyrannical gaze of the sun, such fables struck me as altogether ludicrous and laughable. But such is the work of myth and the incredible imagination of the human mind. As a child, I would soak up such stories with a burning interest like fire, all the while imagining in my mind how I was the lone and chosen warrior on the ice, fighting the ferocious saber cat and talking to the animal gods. Or, perhaps, I was the fearless Chieftain, spearing down a giant monster and saving my huddling, scared, and precious people from starvation and extinction.
I thought then, of our people. I wish I could call them noble, but there were so many things that we did—in our everyday lives—that rendered us ultimately pathetic. Savagery and blunt brutality ruled our people on all fronts—on the hunt, between the Tribes, and even at home. Perhaps one of our greatest societal banes was ritualistic cannibalism—to take a man, burn him slowly over the fire, and systematically tear apart his flesh for consumption. Until our people could overcome what I saw as childish barbarism—and what others saw as holy tradition of the millennia—we could never end our aimless wandering, searching for a perfection that cannot be attained.
From my perch on the low hills by the lake, I could see the expanse of the world around us. To the north, fertile plains stretched on, colliding with a river only a little further up. Behind me, to the south, a lush jungle seemed to expand into eternity. Below me, our tribes nestled in by the lake shore against the hill. Teepees were strewn haphazardly about. Clan markings were easily noticeable, for they had been painted in bright animal blood: Turtle, Bear, and Wolf. Inner satisfaction—the knowledge that you weren’t a meal away from death—and the buzz of daily life added a sort of warm vibrancy to the air, and I inhaled deeply. From up here, our people seemed so small, so insignificant. It had always been thus, and would probably always stay that way. I smiled in the face of the tyrant sun, bathing in its ferocity. As I lay my head back against the rocks, my thoughts floated to times passed, and I remembered...

I was only a little boy when father showed me the map.
One day, I was huddling in our teepee, recovering from a horrible sickness. For as long as I could remember, the Tribes had been wandering the seemingly endless jungles, suffering through the most terrible plagues, hunger, and internal strife. Sometimes, the foliage above would be so thick, we wouldn’t see the sun for days. Our broken people wandered in the darkness like a blind otter in a cold, unforgiving sea. And when the sun did come, it was no blessing, for with the heat would come the insects, and when they came, they came in hordes. With the insects came the terrible plagues that threatened the very survival of our species.
It was night. The camp was, as usual, quiet, a veritable sign of how a people could be mentally, emotionally, as well as physically subdued by the tyrannical natural forces that surrounded them. You could hear the crackle of the fires, the sizzle of the meat being roasted for dinner. Today, we were lucky—most days, there was no meat. If you listened closely, you could hear the hushed whispers of voices, people telling stories of a more glorious past—and, consequently, of a more glorious future—by the firelight. The light of the fire danced on the intent faces of the listeners, as the story tellers whispered the hopes and dreams of a civilization.
I was usually among those listeners, but tonight, I lay in a half-feverish dream in the corner of my teepee. I heard a loud noise, and my mind was jostled, not knowing if I was still asleep or awake. Shivering in a cold sweat, I watched the lonely fire outside through a crack in the flaps. It played on my imagination—as free as a wolf on the boundless tundra. Suddenly, a voice called my name…
Father strode in holding a small totem—the Mighty She-Bear, our Clan’s god and protector—and a faded piece of folded bearskin. He came over and checked my condition, and when he was through, he looked me straight in the eye—as any true Iroquois does when talking to another man. “You’re doing much better now, son,” he said with a smile, “now, there’s something here I have been meaning to show you.” Sitting down next to me, he partially unfolded the ancient bearskin which I found to be intricately and beautifully painted with the reddest blood as bright and inspiring as the fading afternoon sun. He then began to speak, and I greedily listened, all thoughts of fever gone from my head.

“Listen closely, my child, to the mysterious whistle of the wind, and she will whisper in your ear—as soft and delicate as a lost lover—of tales and deeds long since forgotten in the memory of mortal men. Long ago, when the whole of the infant earth is cold as ice and the animal gods rule with an iron fist, man huddles in the dark corner of Oblivion. But one day, Mighty She-Bear descends from the heavens to visit man in the dark corners of Oblivion. ‘Come with me, and I shall show you the land of warm rivers and cool plains,’ she beckons in firm but gentle tones of benevolence. Man is frightened, and dares not move an inch, for what mercy could anyone hope from an animal god except quick death before becoming just another meal in the inexorable quest to conquer the eternal hunger?
“But Mighty She-Bear radiates a brilliance and beauty that man has never before witnessed in his dark corner, and something magical awakens within his soul. He takes Mighty She-Bear’s outstretched paw—three times as large as his—and instantly, she turns into a beautiful Iroquois girl.
“‘Come, we must leave this dark and forgotten place,’ she says softly. Immediately, she turns and quickly prances out of Oblivion. Man follows at a run, his heart and soul burning with a strange and despotic desire.
“Outside the cave of Oblivion, the smell of a cool glade permeates the air, and man inhales deeply. He finds the Iroquois girl lying naked among the flowers with her arms outstretched, eyes closed, and a deep smile on her face. He comes up to her, but she—basking happily in the sun—seems not to notice. He reaches out to touch her, but then the Iroquois girl opens her eyes and laughs, playfully hitting away man’s outstretched hand. ‘You silly brute!’ she exclaims, before once again running off.
“The seemingly endless chase finally brings man to a peaceful river under the glaze of the setting sun. There, the Iroquois girl bathes, and the glistening water reflecting off the sun makes her body glow a magnificent red. There, in the warm waters of the river, they make love.
“Afterwards, they lie together in the calm of the near-dusk. The Iroquois girl turns to man and says “I will have you join my Clan.” With that, she picks up a sharp rock and pierces her palm. Man watches intently as the blood slowly trickles down her arm, and, when it hits the water, it blossoms out into the most brilliant red he has ever seen. The circle of crimson is like the sun, the color of fire.
“Man quickly cuts his own palm—the dull burgundy trickles smoothly like wine—and they lock hands. The Iroquois people are born.
“Some time later, the Iroquois girl gives birth to a healthy daughter. Man is joyous, and, for many seasons after, the Bear Clan live happily in their paradise. But, one day, the Iroquois girl says ‘Lo, the Ice comes, we must leave this place.’ Once again, man is loathe to leave, but he is destined to follow the Iroquois girl wherever she may lead. As they leave, the angry gods—jealous of man’s happiness—send down sleet and hailstorms to engulf the paradise in Ice.
“For Æons, they wander the tortured realms of the Ice. One day, exhausted man believes that he can no longer go on. They are starving and have not eaten for weeks, and their daughter is on the brink of death. The Iroquois girl turns to man and says ‘There is no other choice, you must kill me and use my flesh so that you and our daughter—our people—may survive. Know this, you will be cursed to wander the earth for millennia, but one day, you will find paradise again. It is there that you must settle, build, and make our people great and proud.’ At this, man gives wild protest, but suddenly, the Iroquois girl turns once again into the Mighty She-Bear. She suddenly starts to attack man, ripping a painful scar deep into his chest. He quickly grabs a spear and lunges it deep into the animal’s brain.
“For many days, man weeps and despairs on the unforgiving ice. But man remembers the words of the Mighty She-Bear, for the wish of the dying is sacred to man’s heart. With the meat, he and his daughter escape starvation, while, with the skin of the fallen goddess, he vows to make a map so that all future generations may remember the pain and sacrifice it takes to be an Iroquois. With his own red blood, he makes a tiny dot on the lower right hand corner of the map, writing The Year One, so begins the Exodus of the Iroquois.”

* * *

When he finished, father had a glazed look in his eyes. He glanced at me, and when he saw me staring at him intently, he finally broke out of his reverie. “And so,” he said, clearing his throat, “that is why we Iroquois have been wandering this earth for as long as anyone can remember. At heart, we are restless explorers, searching for a paradise we may never find.”
With this, he took me outside and unfolded the whole expanse of the massive bear skin. The cold, dried blood of warriors centuries lost burned deep in my mind like a beautiful flame.

* * *

Night had fallen when I had finally awoken from my dreams. I shivered in the growing cold…

[Veracitas]

I wasn't liking how Part 1 was turning out, and I got a real block in my head trying to figure out how to take it to the next step, so I decided to just start on Part 2, which is much later, after the first Iroquois city of Grand River is founded. maybe i'll revamp part 1 later....if i see that it's worth it..if not, oh well...

soo...here's the first part of the second part...

[Veracitas]

Sunset was nearing, but from his army’s position in the mountains high above
Tenochtitlan, War Chief Hiawatha could see across the mighty Campeche River to where the heart of the Aztec empire was nestled. Earlier that season, Hiawatha and his army had departed from the nearby Tuscaroran fiefdom of Shawiangto despite the protests of the Tribe Chief who ruled the city, at least in name. But everyone knew that it was war and blood that truly ruled an Iroquois heart.
Assembling this army had cost the lives of half the population in the still primarily barbarian city of Shawiangto. Iroquois explorers had left the city of Grand River centuries ago to satiate the undying Iroquois thirst for discovery. They had stumbled upon the small village of Shawiangto, and the Tuscarorans who inhabited it had been so impressed with the Iroquois—with their strict warrior codes and their elaborate religious ceremonies—that they established nominal ties with the other nations. Nowadays, the Tuscarorans were vassals to the Onandaga who were the most diplomatically powerful of the Iroquois nations.
Hiawatha was of the Mohawk—“The Man Eaters.” The name had been given disdainfully by the pagan Narragansett, shortly before a legion of Mohawk Braves had invaded their villages and brutally wiped them out. The heads of their leaders were stuck onto spears and roasted slowly over the fire. Hiawatha was only a boy at the time, but he still remembered watching the frozen looks of horror on their faces before their expressions gradually melted away into a uniform blackness over the hours. He could still hear the women screaming in pain behind the walls of the broken longhouses in the smoldering village remains. Hiawatha’s lips curled into an insidious grin as he surveyed the teeming mass of humanity before him, just across the roaring river.
A man on horseback suddenly pulled up beside Hiawatha, and he broke out of his
reverie. The man had a puzzled frown on his face, as if he could see into Hiawatha’s mind. This was especially bizarre, since the man didn’t have any eyes.
Hiawatha always felt uncomfortable around Dekanawidah. Not only was the old man grotesque to look at—the empty sockets where eyes should have been—but he had a speech impediment that often made his voice sound like an evil daemon. The fact that the Huron holy man often seemed to rant off bizarre prophecies also didn’t help much. But over the years, Hiawatha had learned the value of keeping the old lunatic around.
“sTell mee, mi-ghty Ayawentha, what iss it that you ssee?” asked Dekanawidah, in the sinister tones of a venomous snake. He stretched a single, bony finger out towards the city beyond.
Hiawatha stretched out his soldiers in a futile show of confidence before the blind man. “I see my prey, soon to be prostrate before my mighty warriors,” Hiawatha responded in tones too bold to be authentic.
“cann an Irh-okkwois think of nuh-thing elsse but in termss of hunn-tuh and hunn-tid?” hissed Dekanawidah.
“It is always better to be the hunter than the hunted.”
“Yess, be that az it may, but know…know thatt the hunn-tuh can kwikkk-ly become the hunn-tid.”
Hiawatha’s thoughts then turned to the Onandaga, who held the pre-eminence among the other nations in the Iroquois neutral city of Grand River. He knew that the Tribal Clan Mothers of the Onandaga wanted him dead. He had narrowly escaped an assassination attempt before fleeing with a small group of soldiers to faraway Shawiangto. Even the Mohawk Tribal Clan Mothers had severely objected to Hiawatha’s planned war with the Aztec Empire, and they had even threatened to revoke Hiawatha’s Sachemship as Mohawk War Chief. Hiawatha had always hated how all the Iroquois nations were ruled by its females. Weak, fickle things whose moods were ruled by the phases of the moon, he wished that he could take all the Tribal Clan Mothers and damn them to hell. Or, better yet, damn them to lifelong servitude in his longhouse. Hiawatha grinned at the thought, but suddenly, he realized that even his longhouse belonged to his wife and her Clan—for all Iroquois property was held by the women. His blood boiled with frustration. Even if he managed to wipe out Tenochtitlan, what would he do? If he returned to Grand River, his political enemies would name him traitor for breaking the sacred peace with the Aztecs and wipe out the remnants of his victorious army. And who knew if he would even make it back? The nearby Aztec city of Teotihuacan would be out for his blood if they knew that their beloved capital had been razed by the Mohawk War Chief.
With these troubled thoughts in mind, Hiawatha turned to the sage, who seemed to be staring at him through his empty sockets. Hiawatha shivered. “What am I to do, mighty Prophet?”
“Ahhh…Ayawentha, you musst nott worry sso…ahll wihll bee the ssame in the end...we sshall all burn in the holy fire…”
“But what am I to do, now??”
“…the holy fire will burn and the world will drown…drown…” Dekanawidah suddenly started to move his lips rapidly, and the strange sounds of a foreign tongue came spilling out. For a second, Hiawatha considered slaying the man now. But as suddenly as it had departed, Iroquoian came back to the prophet’s lips.
“You musst…Rek-con-cile, Ayawentha…ssometimess, friendsship and loyalty tasste ssweeter than blood…even Irh-okkwois blood,” and with that, the man suddenly began mumbling lunacy again.
Once more, Hiawatha’s hand floated to his axe, belted on his side, but he thought better of it. As the strange chant of the prophet cast an eerie glow over the settling dusk, Hiawatha watched as the city began to light up with a hundred burning torches. To him, they looked like insects dancing through the night.

* * *

From his position above the now slumbering Iroquois army, the Jaguar Warrior had decided he had seen enough. He quietly made his way down the mountainside, disturbing not even a single leaf—even though beautiful autumn foliage was scattered all over the ground. As he made his way towards the city, he thought of what Montezuma would say. He wouldn’t be pleased at all, that was for sure. The Jaguar Warrior had distinctly seen the mohawks that over two-thirds of the army sported. But it was never a warrior’s place to think and question. It was only his place to fight and to serve. With that in mind, he calmly made his way through the wild long grass to the glimmering city ahead.