The Tale of Brnin, Riau of the Sparrows

In the oldest times of which out legends speak, the time of the Fledging, birds were the only beasts that roamed the earth. All else was small and scuttling ysgly, prey, or esgyn, the perches that grow and sway and bring forth bountiful harvests of food. The affairs of birds were managed by the Great Council, which selected one of its members to rule for four seasons. The Great Council consisted of the largest and heartiest of birds; some like the eagles and owls were faethwr, predators on their fellow-birds, while others like the crows and gulls were amh, and had no interest in eating other birds but would steal from them and defend themselves against incursion.

No sparrows sat on the Great Council, for they were too small; their interests were represented by the larger amh. Each member of the Council was the riau, or king, of their race. The riau came to power in various ways: the eagles sent their best hunter, the owls sent their eldest, the crows sent their cleverest speaker, and the gulls sent the seniormost of their line of albatross-princes.

Brnin, the largest and strongest sparrow the world has ever seen, was well-known even then to his people. He approached the riau of the crows, asking for the Council’s blessing to recognize him as riau of the sparrows. The crow asked why a race which did not sit on the Council needed a riau at all; Brnin replied that by speaking with a single voice, the sparrows could make their wishes more easily known. This would reduce the number of petitions the crow-riau would receive, and Brnin accompanied his request with a large offering of foodstuffs and shiny trinkets of the sort crows are known to favor. The crow-riau took his request to the Council and they agreed that the sparrows might name a riau of their choosing, endorsing Brnin as the one so chosen.

I don’t need to tell you of Brnin’s great and powerful deeds, from outfoxing the Great White Owl to securing for his people the Fields of Endless Ysgly and the Bountiful Esgyn of the Many Berries. He was therefore acclaimed as riau of the sparrows by the elders of every flock. But then a curious thing happened. Whereas before Brnin had sought to strengthen his flock and other sparrows, he now increasingly sought only to maintain and expand his power. He took for himself the best hens from every flock and tribe, intimidating their mates through his large size and numerous followers. He began replacing the elders of flocks and tribes that displeased him or refused to obey his wishes, often appointing much younger and inexperienced–but loyal–birds to those positions. He demanded of every flock and tribe a tribute in imperishable seed, soon accumulating more than he or his many chicks and hens could ever eat.

These actions occurred gradually, not overnight, but they were anathema to the sparrows nonetheless. A sparrow is loyal to its hen and she to he; Brnin’s harem was a mockery of this. A sparrow eats no more than it needs to support itself and its hen and its chicks; Brnin’s hoarding was a mockery of this. But the bird that snapped the branch came much later, when Brnin chose from among his many sons a particularly large specimen who greatly resembled his father. The sparrow-riau declared that he would be succeeded by this chick, known as Tywy, rather than any of the elders or heroes that sparrowkind had produced during his reign. The elders balked at this, pointing out that Brnin himself had obtained his position through deeds, not through birth, but the sparrow-riau ignored them. Eventually, a delegation of elders presented Brnin with an ultimatum: disinherit Tywy or lose their loyalty.

Brnin’s response cemented how far he had fallen: he slew the foremost of the elders in single combat. This violence had no precedent among his kind, and had a great impression on Tywy. The would-be riau by birth condemned his father as a faethwr, a predator, and in turn slew him in a great battle which lasted nearly a month. Impressed by this deed, the elders offered Tywy the crown–through his deeds, they thought he had earned what they once thought him unworthy of. Tywy instead declared himself faethwr for the crime of killing his father, who had once been a great hero, and declared that henceforth the sparrows would have no riau, only elders. He dispersed his father’s hens and his many siblings, gave away the great store of hoarded seeds, and departed, never to be seen again.

For his deeds, the elders named Tywy riau of his people; in the absence of sure news of his death, most sparrows consider that he holds the position to this day. That is why no sparrow has ever sought to be riau again, and why Tywy’s name is often invoked alongside Ellw’s as the greatest hero known to sparrows. Brnin’s is no less popular in the telling, serving as an example through his great deeds but also a warning in his precipitous fall into selfishness and vanity.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

The strictures of the Hamurabash were promulgated by the great orc warlord Hamur during his conquests, which gave rise to the largest and wealthiest empire the world had ever known. They largely supplanted traditional Orcish codes that had preceded them, codes like the Shamashabash or the Ajilabash, though older codes as well as newer ones are followed by minorities of Orcs even today.

In the process of uniting disparate nations (and races) under the banner of the Hamurataal (known as the Hamurid Empire or Hamurid Dynasty in many human texts), Hamur sought a careful balance between order, unity, and tolerance that stood in stark contrast to the xenophobic and violent states that predominated at the time. Passed down along with traditions and interpretations to the present, the Hamurabash forms the core of orcish life to this day, though many of its provisions are misunderstood:

Every man and unmarried woman must be prepared to defend themselves and their community at a moment’s notice, and must therefore have their axe and shield nearby.

Orcish mamihamurs, or experts on jurisprudence, have debated this provision extensively, disagreeing on how far “nearby” constitutes, as well as what may count as an “axe” or a “shield.” Liberal interpretations allow for the weapons to be kept at home, and extremely conservative ones insist that they must be within an arm’s reach. Many orcs carry small and ceremonial (often blunt) hatchet and targes at all times to obey the letter of the Hamurabash if not the spirit. There is also considerable disagreement on women bearing arms after marriage, with many traditionalists arguing that married women irrevocably surrender their weapons to their husband’s control.

Men and unmarried women may worship gods or goddesses of their choosing, but proselytizing and religious violence are prohibited and punishable by death.

Mamihamurs disagree on this provision as well. At issue is whether the act of worship in any sort of public manner counts as proselytizing, and to what extent the preeminent cultural position of Hamur can be interpreted as worship thereof. It has led to outbreaks of violence against public edifices of worship by orcs, mirrored by the growth of padihamurahs, or places where the Hamurabash is publicly displayed and read.

There is no afterlife but the memory of others. Every man and unmarried woman must seek to enshrine their memory to the ages though good and selfless deeds.

Padihamurahs often contain “memory halls” dedicated to the deceased and their deeds. There is considerable disagreement over the extent to which this sort of memory can be bought, with the tradition of wealthy or successful orcs building private memory halls or elaborate shrines in local padihamurahs being alternately tolerated, encouraged, or denigrates.

Modesty is a virtue, as it preserves money and effort for good deeds and prevents violence. Men and women of childbearing age or older must dress modestly.

This provision is similar to those found in many human and dwarven religions, codes of etiquette, and so on, and it engenders the same levels of controversy. Critically, orcish ideas of modesty tend to be culturally focused toward covering the fingers but not the torso; as such, conservative orcish gangs have been known to beat orcs, humans, and others who are not wearing gloves, while at the same time orcish women wearing gloves but no shirt or hat (acceptably modest by orcish standards) have been the targets of violence and sexual harrassment.

Non-orcs are sheep to be protected, not lambs to be slaughtered: the enlightened shepherd shears his sheep; only the unenlightened flays them.

Hamur intended this to prevent the exploitation of physically weaker subjects by orcish conquerors; on that point, virtually all mamihamurs are agreed. The misunderstanding and disagreement stems from the claim by some traditionalists that orcs must seek to subjugate (and “protect”) others even today; vehement disagreements also stem from what might constitute protection or shearing. Can it be economic, or must it be political? What of areas in which orcs are a minority or oppressed? Mamihamurs debate this–and anti-orc xenophobes emphasize it–to an unrivaled extent.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

He was Gorebs, and Gorebs was his name. He had been called a goblin, an ogre, a ghoul, and a barghest, but none of those were really true: he was Gorebs, and that was all that could be said on the matter.

Gorebs had a fearsome reputation, largely on the strength of his occasional devourings. Living as he did in the labyrinthine Stony Hills that separated the densely forested wilderness from the intensively farmed and settled lowlands, many types of creatures wandered by his home, and he tended to eat them when he was hungry (which was often). Gorebs did not discriminate between fish or fowl, hunter or hunted, and generally could see no difference between the squawking of a trapped bird or that of a trapped trapper.

This was neither cruelty nor malice, but it was not innocence either. Gorebs had a fair idea that his prey did not take kindly to be eaten, and did not suppose that he would either if it came to that. But he was hungry, and that could not be denied; it could at least be said that he did not kill for sport or take more than would satiate his slow-simmering gut.

And that was how it was for seasons uncounted: the unwary did well to fear Gorebs, while Gorebs did well to devour what he could when he was hungry. There was every indication that things would have gone on that way, as well. But that was before the comet.

And the comet changed everything.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

In time, the armies of the Remaker arose in the far east. He had learned of the Silent Fortress during a half-finished apprenticeship as a Laconic Guard decades ago, before leaving for the Eastern Wilds (or being exiled thereto, depending on which version of the tale one hears). In the waning days of the Great Dynasty, the Remaker gathered to himself a remarkable number of followers and moved upon the Fortress with intent to take it.

The Remaker’s motives may seem insanity incarnate on the face of things: at the heart of the Silent Fortress lies the Eternal Child, the one who dreams the world into being, and to wake them is to cause the unraveling of the world. That is the very reason for the Silent Fortress and the Laconic Guard who stand vigil over it. Why would anyone, especially a powerful warlord, seek to make war upon it?

An answer can be found in the chaos and destruction of the Great Dynasty, when royal power was fading and the countryside was rent by bandits and brushfire wars. The economy was in shambles, a powerless and insane king held the throne, and the countryside’s many men-at-arms were more preoccupied with putting their choice for Regent on the throne than alleviating the suffering of the masses. It was, as the poet Crusander put it, “a time when the better angels of mankind slumbr’d deeply.”

Against that backdrop, the Remaker offered a powerful millenarian message: by awaking the Eternal Child, the would would be unraveled–but it deserved to be unraveled. A world such as theirs did not deserve survival, and the Eternal Child would soon return to slumber, dreaming a new and more equitable world anew in which all would be happy and healthy and there would be no death and no war.

Several people confronted the Remaker in private audiences, aghast at the audacity of his plan. What if the world was not remade? What if the Eternal Child remained awake forever? What if the new world was worse than the existing, or wholly alien, or did not contain any of the people who had brought about its end?

To these questions, the Remaker’s answer was always the same: “I cannot think of a more unjust world than the one in which we live, so we owe it to ourselves to fight and die for even the ghost of a chance at a better one.”

It was a powerful message, and by the fifth harvest since his rise, the Remaker’s vanguard troops could see the Silent Fortress from their forward positions.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

“So you gave her your personal passwords, your credit card number, and your Social Security number even though you’d only just met?” said Officer Carruthers incredulously.

“You don’t understand!” wailed the quivering lump of pale manflesh in the precinct office. “She had dyed hair…she was so vibrant and quirky, I just…I just felt a connection!”

“Even so, Mr. Daniels, surely you must have had some idea that things weren’t on the level,” added Chief Strong, trying and failing to sound sympathetic rather than annoyed.

“She said she wanted to grind for loot for me in Dungeons of Krull,” blubbered Daniels, “and she wanted to register so we could play together!”

“Gentlemen I believe I may be of some assistance here.” At the sound of that familiar voice, both Carruthers and Strong recoiled. “Not again.”

“Yes, gentlemen, it is I: Sherwood Greg. Collector, scholar, dungeon master, level 25 elven sorceress, head of the Council of Twelve, and overall coordinator for Nerdicon.” The rotund form of Sherman Gregward, as he was known to the state, waddled into the office. If nothing else, he made Daniels look svelte by comparison.

“What is it, Gregward?” snapped Chief Strong. “Can’t you see that we’re in the middle of something? How’d you get in here, anyway?”

“I heard the cry of a kindred spirit in need, echoing throughout the blogisphere,” said Sherwood Greg grandly. “And it just so happens that your man at the front desk is a fan of Glowworm, and now has a complimentary ticket to the cast and crew panel at this year’s Nerdicon.”

The officers exchanged looks of intense annoyance. “Well, we’ve got a fairly straightforward case of identity theft here, Gregward,” said Officer Carruthers. “So I don’t know what help you can be.”

“On the contrary, our mutual friend Mr. Daniels–AKA Armageddetron82–has fallen victim to a recent trend that I like to call the ‘Manic Pixie Dream Girl Scam.’ Namely, a savvy con artist aping the two-dimensional wish-fulfillment female characters so prevalent in entertainment for the purposes of cutting-edge fraud and social engineering.”

“I think we had figured that part out,” said Chief Strong. “What can you do that we can’t?”

“I can offer myself up as bait, of course,” said Sherwood Greg. “For I assure you that seeing the con artist who has been ravaging the local nerdgeek and geeknerd community brought to justice is foremost on my mind, and I am a far more tempting target than either of you could ever hope to be.”

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

The mummified and discolored skin around the glowing points of light that were the lich’s eyes softened, the great sloping brow beneath what long and stringly strands of white hair remained to him lifting in surprise. “Lady Syn,” he croaked in a voice that was tomb and sepulchre doors creaking on their hinges.

“Lord Verice.” Dessicated flesh about the other lich’s sunken cheeks and her own ember-bright eyes grew gentle, even compassionate–and expression they had not worn for countless years of sorcery and undeath. Tentatively, she reached out a hand that was alive with dark magicks and ran it over Verice’s face, recoiling not at all when it rustled across parchment-thin spots or the jagged hole where once had been a nose.

“It has been so long,” Lady Syn said with uncommon gentleness.

“So long.” What might have been a tear, watery and impregnated with vile preservatives, slid an oily path down Lord Verice’s cheek.

“I have…done things,” Syn said softly. “As you can see. Things that not all would be proud of.”

“You have done what you must,” said Verice, sadly but firmly. “As have I.”

“Do you think…that perhaps…we could…?”

Verice shook his head. “It has been too long hasn’t it? Do we even remember how to feel the way we once felt?”

“The memory will have to be enough,” Syn croaked sadly. “Or the memory of the memory.”

Inspired by this image.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

Bear’s wounds were so great that he could no longer walk, no longer use his weapons. The gobs had assumed him to be dead, a piece of worthless fluff no longer worthy of the slightest consideration now that he had ceased to hack and slash at them. Bear had cannily maintained his silence while they were about, but once they had moved on in pursuit of the girl, he cried out for aid.

It was a risk, to be sure. He might attract more gobs, or something worse. But with his body torn up in battle, there was no other way for him to continue to serve the girl as he had since the day she had come home, when they had met on the playroom floor. His service, and the completion of the Unspoken Promise, was greater than any threat from within or without.

“Hello there, little toy bear.” A silhouette loomed over Bear, the size and shape of a small child, maybe half or less of the girl’s age. “Do you need help?”

“That is correct,” said Bear matter-of-factly. “I have lost my charge, she who is as my sister, she who I have sworn to protect and see through from birth to maturity in a promise unspoken to her parents on the day of her birth.”

“That is an awfully big promise for such a small bear,” said the shadow. “I can carry you for a bit, if you like.”

“That would be most kind of you,” said Bear. “I have no way of repaying your kindness, which makes the gesture all the more noble.”

It wasn’t until the shape picked Bear up that he noted something odd. The child-sized shape’s grip was watery and cold, and the presence of shadow and indistinctness of features did not dissipate with distance or the strength of light. “I hope you don’t think it rude of me to ask,” said Bear, after they had walked for some time, “but what might I call you, and what might you be?”

“I am a shade, and you may call me Shade, for you see I do not remember any other name I might have had,” was the reply. “Long ago, something dreadful happened, and I must wander from the Gobwood to Childhood’s End again and again until I can remember what it was.”

“That seems a terrible punishment for something unremembered,” said Bear in a kindly tone.

“It is not so bad,” replied Shade. “And it is much better with a traveling companion. I try to help others when I can, and the Gobwood is always full of those that need my aid.”

Bear saw the wisdom in this, and did his best to engage Shade in pleasant conversation as they walked. In time, the two came to the edge of a great crag overlooking a forested valley with jagged uplifts in the smokey distance. Atop one of them was the ragged shape of a great pleasure wheel.

“The Great Eye,” whispered Bear.

“Childhood’s End,” said Shade sadly. “The end of my journey, and the beginning of yours.”

Inspired by this image.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

Muolih, the Spreading Darkness, He Who Was Cast Down, was destroyed and scattered to the winds at the conclusion of the Greatwar. Though Muolih was forever a disembodied spirit gnashing at himself in the great everdark beyond, his defeat did not spell the end of his influence. There were his lieutenants, of course; foul fallen beings like Phonru the Devourer from whom the Creator had turned His loving gaze, but they were no more than shadows of Muolih’s power: minor warlords who could carve out a fief and little more.

Far moreso than any who sought to carry on his dark work, the great legacy of Muolih was in the servants that he left behind. The Goblins, or Gobs, are by far the most numerous and prevalent, having been fashioned by Muolih in his darkpits as a counterpart to the Fairies and Pixies who are bound to nature and the Creator. The secret of their origin has been lost to time, but Gob legend holds that they are the direct descendents of Fairies and Pixies who were won to Muolih’s cause and altered to serve his needs.

Bereft of purpose after their master’s defeat, the Gobs were nevertheless highly adaptable and intelligent and were bound to artificial constructs like metal and steel in the same way that Fairies were bound to nature. This long-ago loss and continued flourishing (after a fashion) has had an indelible effect on Gob religion and culture, which tends toward dualism and extreme privation as exemplified by the Code of the Gobs that most follow:

These are the laws of the People, known to some as the Goblins or the Gobs.

The People are stained with the sin of their creation and must therefore earn the right to all which they possess.

The People have no name, for as a people they have not yet earned one. Hence they must be referred to only by the names given to them by the Multitudinous Enemies.

The People must earn names and pronouns for themselves through their actions. Only the People who have earned a name will be remembered to their families and to history.

When a member of the People is defeated, or disgraced, they lose their name. It must be earned back through a trial equal to that by which the name was first won, or lost.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

Minosian fools. Do you not see? The compact that we, the Many of the Abyss, made with the citizens of the circles city was always already the seed of their demise. We demanded from them a single child be made to suffer the most heinous tortures so that the rest of the city might know peace and prosperity; that very act and the acquiescence to it that every adult in the city undertook with their coming of age tainted their every last action with the stain of the Abyss.

And what of the price I asked? If any kindness or compassion were to be shown the child, the lives of every come-of-age adult, their souls, and their flesh would be forfeit to me. Grist and blood and sinew to be reshaped to serve the will of we, the Many of the Abyss. They sought to protect against that, building a fortified dungeon to hold the child, erecting a barrier to keep others out, and making judicious use of cantrips and magicks to erase the very memory of anyone who left the city or had birthed a sacrifice-child.

But there is no protection, no plan, no magicks that can stand against our most potent weapon: time.

In time, the child would be shown a kindness and the compact would be broken. It was inevitable, whether in centuries or even millennia. And by binding themselves to we, the Many of the Abyss, at their comings-of-age, the citizens were already perfect vessels for our howling birth upon your plane. For the Many of the Abyss are eternal and patient, and we have built up our dominion here from a single plane-tainted ant to a gestating army which will remake the world in our image.

What can you, fools of Minosia, do against such will, such power, other than break upon it as a wave upon stony shores?

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!

The Crimson Emperor Neris II, for reasons of his own, sent the crack 7th Imperial Legion not to some far-distant battlefield but to a little-known place in the hinterlands of his own domain, a morass known as Mossfallow Fen.

Neris II was the first Emperor by that name since Neris I nearly 250 years ago, and that emperor’s disastrous reign had long overshadowed the name, despite it being the most common given name for noble-born boys for generations in either direction. Emperor Joron III, Emperor Doricus IV, and Emperor Testarossa II had all borne the proper name of Neris but had chosen to drop it in favor of another of their many names or even a nickname. But the Dowager Empress had insisted that her son would make the name noble again, and many at court felt that his rash, impulsive, and overwhelmingly forceful responses to any perceived threat were the result of the burden of his name.

So none dared question Neris II’s deployment of the 7th Imperial Legion to Mossfalow Fen, and when he bypassed the usual Imperial command structure to do so, his bureaucrats obligingly stepped aside. The 7th Legion departed without any of its usual command staff or Imperial Commissioners. Only the Prince-Elector of Kryne, one of the Emperor’s closest confidants, accompanied the troops, relaying his orders directly to the men through their officers.

One month later, a single Legionnaire from the 7th returned to the Crimson Emperor’s court. He was Centurion Joeax, of the Southern Marches, a sunlit and breezy land far removed from the dour overcast of Mossfallow. It is recorded in the histories that Joeax commanded an auxiliary unit of archers in the 7th, and that he arrived apparently uninjured but without his bow, riding a horse with the tack of a much senior officer and armed with a long cruciform heavy infantry sword rather than the short stabbing sword issued archers for personal defense and lat-ditch melee.

Joeax was quickly borne to Neris II, and the emperor demanded that his audience with the man be utterly private. It was a brief meeting, not more than fifteen minutes, and at the end the Emperor’s advisors found that their liege had slain Joeax with his ornate sword of office–the first time it had been stained with blood since the Great Rebellion. In a rage, Neris II demanded that every man, woman, and child who had contact with Joeax and might possibly have heard or intuited part of his message be put to death.

1000 people died in the subsequent purge, and at the Emperor’s orders his scribes and historians did their best to expunge all mention of the 7th Legion from the record. At this they failed, presumably because most assumed that the Legion had risen against the Emperor and that the latter’s overthrow was imminent. But no such challenge arose; Neris II ruled for a further 10 years, but within six months of Joeax’s execution he had sunk into howling insanity with only the briefest periods of lucidity, leaving his son the future Doricus V as regent.

Not one of the 10,000 men of the 7th Imperial Legion including Prince-Elector Kryne was ever seen again save Joeax, nor was a single item of their equipment ever recovered, though many enterprising souls scoured the muck of Mossfallow for the site of a presumed battle. Emperor Neris II had been successful in one sense: not a living soul ever discovered what news Centurian Joeax had borne to his liege.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!