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Death or Freedom, A Legendary Tale by Clagh O’Mugnahn, True Son of Dunland

To you, my humble reader, I bid welcome and congratulations. You have the pleasure of reading one of the finest works of literature ever to be produced in the world, and certainly the finest in Gotha. For it is I, Sebastian de Aquila, who the people acclaim as none other than the most infamous charmer, poet, dandy and impeccable lover of Costa Luceste; whose penmanship and swordsmanship is unparalleled, whose poise and grace is unmatchable, and whose sonnets and ballads woo the noble ladies of Aquila.

Alas, my humble bibliophile, I cannot once again steal the show, as I did to Gottfried von Laatzen in the summer of 600. Instead I will narrate to you the description of a man who, after sharing an evening sharing glasses of wine and flagons of dark ale, I have come to admire as a man of action, of tenacity, of effrontery, and of intrepid spirit. He calls himself Clagh O’Mugnahn, which he has disclosed translates to “Stone, descendant of Mugnahn,” in Gothic. It is a fitting name for him as he is by trade a miner. You may be tempted to cease your perusal of this document upon learning that the subject is but a common man, but I bid you to continue, as I have seldom met a soul as gilded as that of Good Clagh. And it is known that great deeds often stem from humble origins, as I portrayed in my critically acclaimed drama Blacksmith of Wood.

That night, as the ale and spirits cascaded, Good Clagh regaled me with the origination tale of his surname. It seems that long ago in the Age of Heroes there was a Good King Caomhán and his loyal knight, the seminal Mugnahn, who lived on the island of Íomhair, on which Good Clagh and his house still live. Good King Caomhán’s rule was wise and just and the people thrived under his jurisdiction, but those from without began to grow envious of Íomhair’s growing bounty. All of these ne’er-do-wells coalesced under the banner of Nathair, a sea-captain who had set his sights on possessing fertile lands. The bannermen of Good King Caomhán and Cunning Nathair met on the field of Réimse Glas to decide once and for all who the Lord of Íomhair would be. At this point in the telling of this tale Good Clagh must have had enough dark ale to kill a lesser man, and yet he still continued though I admit that I may have misheard some of the names given in his account due to my own battle with the spirits of the bottle. Continuing on, Good Clagh details how, at the height of the battle, Good King Caomhán is fighting furiously with the Cunning Nathair but ever so slowly, the Good King is gaining the upper hand. Then, just as it seems that the Good King is about to deal the finishing blow, Cunning Nathair transforms into a giant winged blue serpent, who is hereafter referred to as Nathair Gorm. Nathair Gorm regains their advantage, and the Good King is struck low by Nathair Gorm’s devilish form. The men of Íomhair, suffering greatly against Nathair’s Invaders, begin to buckle at the sight of Nathair Gorm and they begin to flee. It is at the point that the Great Warrior Mugnahn, previously defending his lord’s life against the Invaders, shouts a challenge of single combat to Nathair Gorm. The conditions are thus; if Mugnahn dies, his people shall be free from persecution. If Nathair Gorm dies, the Invaders shall turn back and be exiled from this land. Possibly incensed by his recent fortunes and amused by the absurd proposition that the Invaders would agree to the outcome one way or another, Nathair Gorm accepts. These two titans clash and Nathair Gorm is taken aback by Mugnahn’s ferocity. Mugnahn fights with the strength of twenty men, and bit by bit, he is able to pierce Nathair Gorm’s armored hide enough to deliver the final fatal blow. The Good King’s men cheer and Nathair’s Invaders are shocked by Mugnahn’s ferocity but move as if they mean to continue the battle just as it had left off, that is until they look upon the visage of Mugnahn, who has stripped bare and bathed himself in the blood of the defeated Nathair Gorm. The sight was too much for Nathair’s Invaders to bear and they turned and fled back into the sea from which they came.

It is my opinion that such an outlandish tale cannot possibly be anything but a child’s fable, with a narrative structure similar to Certainty Of Eternity, but Good Clagh told the tale with such impassioned zeal that I could naught by be impressed. Having at this time been into our cups for some while, I bid the Good Clagh good night and slipped silently into a slumber, but I hope to have the pleasure of dining with the True Son of Dunland once again.

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The Observer, Aab’oran Bariq Primer

As those who are familiar with His teachings know, insight was distilled into 142 Precepts that form the foundation of our understanding towards greater enlightenment and the advancement of our Eidolon.

While enumerating and expanding on each precept might provide progress for one already familiar with the teachings the purpose of this pen is to serve as a primer of some of the basic concepts core to the teachings of Aab’oran Bariq.

From that foundation, we will attempt to draw on metaphor, simile, and imagery to help illustrate to those who may not possess an appropriate perspective. That position, the intention to gain perspective, will be referred to as The Observer and will serve as our medium for exchange.

Conceive of, if you will, a feast before you. From end to end is the longest table you can imagine and arrayed upon are all the options to eat that you can both imagine and can not. Dishes lost to time or yet to be thought of, as well as food that exists but yet you have no knowledge. This feast and the food presented is the Verge of your Observer. You can not see more details from your Verge than you are able, unable to perceive what is at the endless terminus of one side of the table nor the details of the dish piled behind others just in front of you. If you choose to remain stationary then your choices are finite but not any less gratifying. From your position, you select an item and you may find that perhaps the fruit you sought has rot on the side which you could not view thus making you ill. Or the fruit was obscuring the pastry you wish you had known about. Selecting the fruit that makes to you ill may mean that you can not select the pastry, or it may mean that while you can still have the pastry your taste of it is soured or compromised because of your illness. This is the seminal issue with the single perspective Observer and why the ultimate goal of pursuing one’s Eidolon is key to Bariq.

Continuing from the example before, previously your Observer was stationary and permitted only their single Verge. But if you allow your Observer to travel, as many of us do, then you will find that it opens up the entire possibility choices within the feast. Now your only limit is the time it takes to travel and inspect this never-ending feast. As such we arrive at our next concern. The meals within the feast do not remain in place nor are they ever present. You may have an option for a roast but that roast will go cold with time and deprive the meal of satisfaction or the unseen hands of fate may remove the cold, or even fresh, roast and replace it with some other item. This means that after long or even unending scrutiny you decide you wish for that roast is may be cold, moved, or simply no longer present. So how do we accomplish our seemingly endless choices, we must create new Verges to share the burden of our hungry trial. When we look up from the table we realize that we are not the only ones around the table. In fact, there are dozens if not hundreds of mirrors of ourselves also looking for the perfect meal. While we all may vary from slight changes to radical anomalies what we all share is a single mind as to what we would find to be our perfect meal. So we begin to coordinate, to call out to one another to gain the advantage of time, distance, and perspective. No longer operating within a single Verge we magnify our pursuits many fold, but we still find limits.

Expanding on the limits described previously, while we have found a unity of purpose our methods are crude. Shouting to one another can create a cacophony that is almost as unhelpful as it attempts to further our goals. Perhaps we must carry the perspective of our Observer over a great distance which compromises time and risks clarity. Thus the concept of Meditation develops. The practice of rising above the din at the tableside. You gain an advantageous perspective that grants not only greater personal view but also clarity among your peers. You can be a single focal point to collect and disseminate the options of choices before you. If others also join you then your relays of information grow in clarity and can travel more quickly to all the endless edges of the feast. But tragically none can remain in meditation forever. While you search for your perfect meal you also must feed and rest yourself. Thus the chain of communication breaks and the collective loses your perspective and personal knowledge when you lower yourself requiring others to learn what you once knew and piece together your progress until you return.

With a method for a clear exchange of information our greatest limitation appears to be our physiological failings. But even those can be advantageous for those willing to wait. For if you realize that your existence and your perception of time is entirely contained within the measure of your expectations you can free yourself of that pressure. There will come a point when your physiology will break, it will cease to function through misfortune, strife, or entropy and when that occurs the prepared Observer will rise and claim a timeless presence among those who Mediate. Providing an unbroken stream of knowledge and wisdom. With a single perfect gesture, they can relay all they once knew, all they know, and all they foresee. They are the cornerstones to our pursuit of our perfect intent.

Thus within ourselves, we possess everything we need to locate the perfect meal the first time and every time. But we must know what we need before we want something that we are distracted by. We must free ourselves of the confines of our expectations. When we first Observed the table we knew it to be a bounty of food because we were told it was food. But we made the mistake of assuming or someone told us that there were options on that table that are NOT food. This could be the cutlery, the dishes, the candles, or the flame. Once we free ourselves of the expectations of limits we can observe the meal that does not exist as a choice in the first place. We can consume the essence that is the concept of the perfect meal rather than the fruit, dessert, or delicacy of our misinformation.

This is the pursuit of Eidolon and by conducting yourself within the expectations of your Atma you may cloud your possibilities with the tradition, bias, and restrictions yoked upon you by those who found themselves yoked by others not knowing any better. If unclear by not the perfect meal you seek is an allegory for choice. They are the choices that are presented to us each moment and in every breath. Sometimes you will have to choose between your loyal friend or your lover as the hand of a madman swings a blade beseeching you to choose. While limited the pursuit of Eidolon allows you to observe that your options may include to accoste the madman, to deliver news that brings them to their knees or has them weep in anguished regret. The truth is that there are rarely any good choices from our single Verge as a single Observer. We must do all we can to elevate our understanding so as to take the single perfect step and bring out our perfect cascade for then, and only then, will we have walked the path.

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Bastione Montcorbier – Gentleman Fencer, Author (Renowned)

Bastione is the master student of renowned sabreur duelist Madame Capitaine Marie du Castellonia, After earning her trust, he became her Second in numerous duels fought from Capacionne, to Hestralia. While traveling with Madame Capitaine he mastered her Art du Sabreur, and is a well known instructor of the style.

He is most famous for penning a manual on the subject entitled Une Introduction élémentaire à l’art du Sabreur which includes instruction on the sabreur, and offers a code of honorable conduct for students, including a set of rules for dueling based on Madame Capitaine’s teachings.

(Awaiting character approval.)

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The Clan-less Clan

In the days before Rogalian occupation, when the Dunns were all free men and women, it was only a little better. The clans fought over resources, over love favors, over blood feuds.
One such clan was MacRairich. Long had they been proud healers and fighters, and their clan leader Fiann doted on his daughter, his only child. Brigid was her name, and though she was fair of face, her beauty paled beside her indomitable will. She learned to wield her father’s moor sword with grace and skill, to tend to flesh and bone and heal the damage it caused.
Three men wished to court her, particularly as her father waned in age, each aspiring to rule both their clans. Their aspirations were no secret and the three turned to fighting over who might have the right to wed her in the end. Their fight grew to encompass their clans and before long it had spiraled into something monstrous that men were dying over.
At the final battle, Brigid herself waded into the fray, dealing each man a wounding blow and causing the fighting to cease. As they clutched their wrent flesh, she spoke so that the depth of her voice was carried to all along the battlefield.
“Ne’er once did any o’ ye seek te ask my thoughts on this. Lives ‘re lost an’ blood spilt fer yer foolishness. As men ye sough’ only te bring death, fer tha’s all ye can do. Ye need a woman, one who c’n bring life te rule beside ye, bu’ I’ll ‘ave none o’ it. None o’ you.”
She left the field, left the men with mouths agape and some hope they’d been put in their place.
Upon returning home, Fiann expressed his disappointment that she had not let them fight it out and allowed the strongest to court her. Brigid’s mother had far kinder words, knowing the wisdom her daughter had spoken, for had she not spoken to Brigid’s father in much the same vein when they had wed? And yet she had given Fiann a chance and found him suiting.
So disillusioned was Brigid that she left her homestead for forty days and forty nights, returning more steadfast and stubborn than ever.
Some time after her return, it was noted that her belly was beginning to swell with child. No pleading, no bargaining, no cajoling, nor threats would loose the father’s name from her tongue. As the days came and went and the moon waxed and waned, Brigid and her father argued in a heated fashion, tempers flaring.
Fiann argued about what the babe might be called since none would know the father and a bastard child would bring shame to their clan. She argued that it would take on her name, for was she no less worthy? Was her blood not equally in the child’s veins?
In due time a daughter was born, and instead of calling her Roisin MacRairich in honor of her grandfather, Brigid called the girl Roisin inn Brigid, after herself. Her father raged, howling that without ‘Mac’ in her name that the baby girl would have no clan. Brigid raged back that it was better to be without a clan, for clan allegiance meant clan wars whenever a hot-headed chieftain declared it so and that healers such as they should have no clan allegiance for was not their duty to all who might need their skills? In true temper she declared that if he did not accept her and her wee daughter, she would leave the clan and leave him without an heir, take her daughter and her skills and her moor sword passed down and never return.
Realizing that Brigid would make good on her threat, Fiann relented. Seasons turned and when he passed away, Brigid took control of the clan. She declared that when her daughter came of age they would no longer hold onto a clan name, but would be healers in truth, putting the lives of men and women above the importance of clan allegiance. Furthermore, since one could always be certain who the mother was, but less so the father, a child could be given the mother’s name, for there was no shame in being born of woman, for that is the lot of every babe. Her wisdom was heard and seen and to this day there are those given their mother’s name, healers without clan, a long line devoted to life moreso than death.

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Le Sorelle Pirati

A sturdy stonework hut somewhere in La Montanara, Hestralia:

“Why do we live here now papa?”, asked the child, scribbling absentmindedly in the dirt using a stick.
“So, I can work and so we can eat”, replied the man as he dumped a bowl of chopped meat and vegetables into an iron pot that hung from a chain above the hearth.
“There was no work on the island, papa?”
“Not for me, paisano.”, the man muttered as he tossed some dried herbs into the pot for flavor. “There’s nothing good in those islands for us now.”
“The islands have bad-guys, papa?”
The man pushed the pot to a different position over the fire so its contents would boil more gently. “Of course! You know about Le Sorelle Pirati, no?”
“No papa, tell me about The Pirate Sisters!”
“The Sisters Pirates.”
“Cosa?”
The man laughed. “The Sisters are the name of all the islands. The islands, they have pirates, si.”
“The pirates are not sisters?”
“They are all kinds, but yes they have a lot of girl pirates, girl captains, and a girl ammiraglia. I think they have a lot of girl pirates for the same reason you were confused by the name. It is an amusing coincidenza, no?”
“Co-in. Coinzi”, the boy struggled with the word while using the stick as a cutlass and dueling the empty wall while his father smiled.
“Can I be a pirate, papa?”, the boy asked innocently while the man checked on the pot. His smile half faded, and he lied in the easy way that only a parent can, “Of course you can, Sergio.”

———————————————–
Organization: THE SISTERS PIRATES
Type: Outlaw
Ties: Many formal and informal throughout Hestralia (and likely beyond).
Tier: 4 (estimated)

History:
There are those (especially that live in the islands in question) that believe the recovery of humankind started from the aftermath of the Age of Witchkings in the islands called The Sisters. These are remote enough to not be easily reached by unskilled navigators, and small enough that they could be reclaimed one by one. This allowed the fledgling new civilization of human refugees from the ancient disaster to raid and conquer their way into the continent and establish the nations we know now. Interestingly, the same remoteness and beliefs about the history of The Sisters is assumed to be why they were the last to join the Unified Hestralia, and even to this day often ignore the rule of Aquila. It is also known that the reason the Sisters Pirates are often held in a degree of reverence is the belief that they are continuing the lifestyle of the original warriors and raiders that launched the recovery of humankind so long ago. (This savage time before the Age of Heroes is poorly understood, and nearly undocumented.)

The Sisters Pirates have been involved in almost every major conflict accessible by sea in the eastern part of the world. They have been known to appear and turn the tide of a battle, but also to betray a side they were hired to fight for. The motivations of these pirates would seem to be strictly profit motivated, but there is some evidence they work, in a roundabout way, to maintain the freedom of Le Sorelle.

The Sisters Pirates are organized loosely after the model of a naval fleet. There is an admiral that rules over the whole organization, four commodores with logistical and political duties but no fleets of their own, and a lot of captains that command everything from whole battlegroups to individual ships.

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Jordermund’s Fist

“Hear, mighty prince, of the scourge that assails us.
Borne on black wings, hatred incarnate,
Child of the storm and child of the wasteland,
The wake of its passage is sorrow unending.”

The people called out to the prince of the mountains.
Jordermund, iron-thewed, blood-hardened, answered.
In the mead-hall of Breitheske the war band was gathered,
Neath smoke-darkened oak, where the elder songs sounded.

Bjorgir, the eldest, veteran and wise one.
Gray-crowned, branded the Unyielding Mountain.
In Jordermund’s youth, long days and nights
Spent teaching the path of the heroes of Njordr.

Skaedve, the Rager, impassioned and eager.
Once mortal foe, now a blood-brother,
Their paths joined together after Helvarsa,
Where together they felled the Giant of Egwend.

One more was there, his face hidden in shadow,
His eyes hooded, his envy unspoken.
He drank with the prince and joined in the skald-song,
Showing no sign of the treachery coming.

Bjorgir the Learned spake of the dragon.
“Terror dwells in the eyes of the monster.
Horror to choke the life from the warrior,
Icy dread spreading, freezing the lifeblood.”

“Biting teeth like swords of obsidian,
Claws long as scythes, wider than axes.
Brothers, will we answer the call of the people,
Strike down the beast born of darkest Malefic?”

As one man they roared the challenge’s answer,
The brave men of Njordr, the heroes of legend.
Death holds no fear for the mighty of spirit,
For those raised on mead, on songs and on steel.

Together they sought the trail of the monster,
In the far frozen wastelands they came to its lair.
Before them, the fortress of ice and black granite.
Jotunkoenig, seat of the King of the Giants.

They entered its halls, where the King waited for them.
But clouded with anger was the giant-lord’s visage.
“Humans, you dare to walk among Jotunn?
Thou shalt pay the price for thy ignoble trespass.”

Wise was Bjorgir, with faith in his war-band.
He stepped forth and offered himself up as hostage.
“Take me as prisoner, to vouchsafe their passage.
If they insult thy people, let my own life be forfeit.”

By the Old Ways, the king was forced to accept them.
Jordermund’s band went into the castle,
As great as the spreading Vale of Helvarsa,
As tall as the mountains that tear through the storm-clouds.

To the highest of towers their quest took the heroes,
Abandoned by Jotunn, now nest to the dragon,
Filled with the bones of cattle and human,
Devoured and discarded by the rampaging horror.

On the rampart they faced it, yelling defiance.
The wind mixing howls of human and hell-beast.
Jordermund and Skaede facing the monster,
The other behind, harrying and driving.

It turned on the harrier with its baleful ice-stare,
His hand faltered, knees weakened, heart filled with terror.
Unmoving, he stared up at black doom descending.
Then the Prince and the Rager leapt onto the monster.

Angered and wounded, the beast took to wing.
Up to the sky the warriors ascended!
To the blackness where stars look down on the world,
Dark blood and rimefrost coating the heroes.

Skaedve took up his mask of the blood-rage,
Onto his face the cold iron settled.
Brutal was Skaedve, his axe flashing forth,
The Frozen Slayer deep in the skull of the dragon.

Lifeless, the monster fell to the ground,
Carrying the heroes back to creation.
At the edge of the rampart its body met cold stone,
The warriors riding the corpse as an avalanche.

Skaedve stood, proclaiming the victory.
His boast cut short, blood from his mouth;
A dagger protruding from the back of the hero
The Betrayer, cruel and jealous, had slain him.

Jordermund’s grief howled through the caste,
Even in far forests stags paused to listen.
Jordermund rose, anger overflowing.
He took up the rage-mask fallen from Skaedve.

Jordermund cursed the name of the Betrayer,
Never again shall the skalds sing his stories,
Only in shame will he be remembered,
The one who betrayed the trust of his comrades.

Jordermund’s Fist rose over and over,
Delivering justice, the maul was relentless.
Broken was the Betrayer, cast down in ruin,
His body unmarked and unmourned forever.

Jordermund’s blood flowed from his brow,
From his chest and his back, from the wounds he had suffered.
His mortal strength leaving him, his spirit still dauntless.
Even as he died, he rose to face Sveas.

At the gates of the Underworld the mighty do battle,
At the gates of the First Ice Jordermund fought Sveas.
At the gates he defeated her, his legend enduring.
Over warriors he watches, and lends us his strength.

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The Child Soldier

A Legend of the Falaisia, along the border of the Throne and Sha’ra

They say that when it arrives in your town, it is heralded by the sound of ghostly laughter. It seems childish, at first, taking small, worthless items, moving objects, upending pails of water. And perhaps that is all it really wishes to do, for it was once a child born of the forbidden union of a Capacian man and a Shariqyn woman. But like so many children born on that border, so many lives caught up in that ancient struggle, violence twisted it into something darker. Its laughter turns to the guttural moans and screams of the suffering of war. It begins to remember what became of it, in its short, tragic life. Its parents driven apart by their families, its father killed in senseless fighting between his brothers and those of his love, its mother driven into the streets in disgrace for bearing a child outside of marriage, only to starve to death. Its own life of fear and deprivation, ended when it was forced into battle all too young, a soldier long before it was truly old enough to understand the war.

Childish pranks soon no longer suffice, for it was never really allowed to be a child, but a soldier. It turns its pain and rage on those it encounters, those still living, whispering thoughts of violence against the self and others into the ears of those it encounters. As violence and fear spreads, its power grows, and it begins to appear in a physical form, its face veiled except for its dark, sunken eyes. A touch of its hand can bring even the strongest man to despair, the sound of its cries are enough to cause even the most hardened soldier to quake in fear, for fear and despair are the only things it ever knew. It will lash out with hands that have been formed into razor sharp claws, rending the flesh of those that come near, for it learned not love, but only war. And wherever it can find those who stoke conflict for their own gain, it curses them, turning them more and more fearful and insane, forcing them to suffer as the victims of their wars suffer. And only when your town is utterly destroyed, torn apart as its home once was does it disappear, moving on to spread its pain and madness to the next town or village it sets its sights on.