I like this story a lot, but it's questionable how well it fits with the established canon - or rather, it specifically subverts something in the established canon, using and acknowledging the canon but presenting an alternative worldview. Since it does so in the form of a story-within-the-story which might itself be a myth, I think it should work for anyone's preferred interpretation however. Here goes:
Nyxkin Wrote:The little fire crackled happily in its ring - a real fire, that rare and special luxury made for the children in celebration of a good hunt and good luck finding dead wood, nearly dry - and Raevonyl hugged her daughter to her heart. "A story?" she asked, teasing slightly. "Are you sure you want a story, Ephyra? Even after all the others of a hundred moons and twelve?"
In answer to the teasing, Ephyra just snuggled closer; to the question, she simply answered, "Yes."
Her mother gently stroked her hair and drew her even closer, resting their heads together so her lips were right beside her daughter's ear. Ephyra's eyes shut softly, and her mothers' seemed to close, but still by ancient habit she kept them open just a slit, to watch in case of coming danger or eavesdroppers. To Ephyra, she whispered, "Then the time is come, I think. I saw something this day that kindled a hope brighter than our fire that you shall one day have the wish of your heart."
"I want to be a Nyxkin," Ephyra whispered back. "I want to ride the woods beside Volanna and her panther and help her to save everyone's lives."
"Well, my little leopard-girl," her mother answered, rocking Ephyra sideways in her arms, her laughter soft in her voice, "perhaps you shall." The rocking and laughter subsided though, and her whisper held love alone when she repeated, "Perhaps you shall." Raevonyl's fingers returned to her daughter's hair and resumed their gentle, stroking rhythm. "There are few of the old Nyxkin tales I haven't told you now, but my heart says it is time at last to tell the very first: The tale my mother shared with me and had of her mother before her; the tale I heard but one time more, from the lips of Volanna herself."
There came a silence, almost of reverence; Raevonyl's mother had ridden among the Nyxkin, though thousands of moons had turned since her heroic death. None who knew her would be surprised that Volanna had remembered, nor by the strength she had lent the proud and grieving daughter, but perhaps no other among the Svartalfar would have done it so surely, so simply, or so well, and a brilliant flame of loyalty, intense and almost searing, still burned in Raevonyl's heart. Even her young daughter, at second hand, through all her mother's stories and through a child's instinctive understanding and imitation of her parents, had caught the flame - and sometimes in her childish way was able to use its warmth and light to bring her through the coldest winter nights.
At last Raevonyl spoke again, in a whisper so soft, close by her daughter's ear, that it seemed almost a continuation of the silence. "The tale begins long, long ago - long before your time and mine, and long before this age of ice. Our people come into the story in the time of Volanna's youth, in the early days of the compact that divided the year between Summer and Winter Courts, but those who travel with us began their journey long before."
So she told of the wild band Volanna had led - a small cadre of elven girls eager to explore and test the limits of their abilities, each drawn irresistibly to the nucleus of their group: Volanna, the wildest and most daring of them all. The children fought mock-battles, scoured the woods for hidden secrets, spied on their elders, hunted game for their impromptu camp-outs, and while adults were shaking their heads or trying to discipline or humor or ignore them, formed bonds they would remember all their lives.
That might have been all, and it might have been forgotten by everyone but the girls themselves, had they not found - or been found by - a secret older than the most ancient of the elves. There was another people living in certain hidden, quiet woodlands, secretive and few in number, dwelling ever unseen or at least unknown, but ever watching, ever listening, from among the deepest shadows. There they had concealed themselves for an age of the world and more, but the growing powers around them and the ever-more numerous wars brought fear into their hearts even in that secluded woodland, lest they be found at last, or lest they be destroyed in sport or in passing by some terrible power that knew not even what it had found.
So when Volanna and her companions came into those woods, its hidden people wondered ... and watched. The elven girls were children still, a wild and ragtag band, and it did not take long to see the loyalty they showed each other or the fact - though not the substance - of the childish secrets they kept from the rest of the world. Still the watching and waiting continued though, the product of ancient habits, and it might have continued until it was too late to act had Volanna not seen them, realized what they were doing, and forced their hand.
Her plan was simple, daring, and - almost - direct. She long since had noticed the great hunting cats that stalked her friends through the woods without showing any sign that she had. The more she looked for them after that, the more often she saw them, and the more she noticed behaviors among them that did not resemble any normal cat's - even apart from stalking a group of spear-wielding elven girls through the forest in the first place, which was certainly strange enough. There was one cat in particular that caught her eye: The largest panther she had ever seen, who seemed to approach only on certain special occasions - such as the one she planned to manufacture with her friends. It came, and she saw, but she gave no sign except for a secret signal when she judged the moment right to spring her trap. Before it realized it had been detected, it found itself ringed in children's spears, the circle closed by young Volanna as she whirled to face it with triumph in her eyes, calling out as if in play, "You who thought that you would hunt us have been out-hunted this night, and so surrender to my band, o Queen of forest cats!"
For a long, long moment, as the circle closed in and divided to bristle with outward spears as well in case another of the hunting cats arrived, the panther met Volanna's brilliant, eager eyes as if trying to read the truth of her heart. At last though, it spoke - in a feline growl, but with elven words, to Volanna's further triumph and delight. "We are not cats except in form," it told her, "and I am no queen, for we have none. Never did we hunt you, though we watched you at your games, and though I admire and respect you and wish to trust you in my heart, we never will surrender ourselves to such power as you hold, though it may mean our deaths."
Then Volanna read its eyes in turn, and driving her spear point-downward into the soil, she approached, step by earnest, fearless step, until she could feel the warmth of the panther's breath. Still she held its golden eyes, and she said, "I have no fear of you, o panther who is not a cat, for all your strength and all the sharpness of your teeth and claws. And do you fear us children then because we fear you not? Or what power hold we of another kind?"
Without turning from Volanna's eyes, the panther answered, "Hope." For just a moment, that single word seemed to hang in the air alone. Then the panther spoke again, and it explained, "There is much for us to fear, but we do not count you among the causes. In you, we see the hope of allies who might aid and join us in escaping the doom that draws in upon us all. Yet hope is a danger in this world - a danger second to one alone - and so we must combat it and refuse to reach for it, still less surrender to such of its power as you in your nature seem to offer, no matter the alternative, no matter the strength of our fears."
Slowly, regarding it carefully, Volanna reached out to the panther who stood before her, and slowly she began to stroke its fur. Still holding its golden eyes, she said, "You speak in riddles, and I think in this you are unwise, lest friends misunderstand while others see your meaning clear. But let us see if we can find and teach you better reasons both to tell them and to join with us than either hope or fear."
The panther asked, "What reasons?" but already Volanna was slowly, slowly drawing nearer still, running her hands through its night-black fur, and she answered in a whisper, neither simply nor in riddles, with neither threats nor promises, but by telling how soft its fur was, how nice it felt beneath her fingers, and first asking without need of answer, and soon telling without a hint of doubt, what it was like to feel her gently stroking fingers behind its ears and along its neck. Once, it seemed to begin to speak, but then to think better of it. After that, it didn't speak at all. Its eyes came shut, it gently pressed its head against her stroking hands and then into her arms, and settled down, relaxing slowly as she crouched and then sat to hold it, her whisper merging into a song of her own invention - a child's lullaby.
It didn't sleep - not then; not yet - but by the time it opened its eyes, it had allowed itself to sink into her lap and into her arms, its body limp, its senses focused on the gentle work of her fingers and the soft strains of her song, and anyone who saw them there - contented, resting panther and happy, confident elven girl - could see that it was hers.
"I would like to say," it softly growled, contentment in every word, "that this isn't a very good reason. But I find it's all the reason that I need."
Cradling its heavy head, Volanna answered, "It is a better reason than I think you understand. It's wiser than your riddles, anyway."
The panther looked up at her, and it almost seemed to smile. "Perhaps you're right. The god of trust has long since turned to deception, but there never yet has been a god of love over this world."
*
Such was the tale that Raevonnyl retold to her daughter Ephyra, just as her mother and Volanna each had told the tale to her, and how the hunting cats who were more than cats came to be joined with Volanna and her Nyxkin followers.
Ephyra stirred, and whispered, hardly daring to be heard, "I had heard the steeds of the Nyxkin were gifts from Esus to our people. I never heard that they could talk before."
Raevonyl smiled, whispering, "Strange gifts from such a god: Mighty hunting cats to serve as steeds, simple and direct in their power, bound to their riders in such a way that neither could betray the other. Many there are who have heard that tale, for we have worked hard to make it so. Such is our offering to the god of deception: A fitting offering, for it is a deception of our own. Perhaps too, he who made the Mistforms may appreciate the lies we made but do not tell: Little traps concealed like treasures, like the name Nyxkin itself, set so that those who look too closely at our past and come across their seeming meaning may the more easily deceive themselves."
Ephyra snuggled closer. "Where did they come from, then? And why make up lies as offerings to Esus and pretend they're really cats?" She looked up at her mother with warm love in her eyes, partly as ever for her mother herself, but touched now with another and more distant love as well: Love of the snow leopard of whom she dreamed, not only as a steed but for its own sake, whoever it might prove to be. Softly, she asked her mother, "Why can't they live in the world as themselves?"
Gazing into her daughter's eyes, stroking her soft, dark hair, Raevonyl whispered, "They are doing so," and her smile was warm. "They join with us when they can because that is who they are: The truth concealed completely in the shadow of the lie. They were the first great contribution that Esus made to Erebus: A deeply loyal people who lived by unbreakable bonds of love and trust. So when Esus changed and came to embody deception, he saw how vulnerable his first creations had become in the new world of which he was a part, and he went to them and changed their form so they appeared as solitary hunting cats, unapproachable creatures that live by stalking and stealth, and he twisted the trust that had been half their souls into a deep fear and suspicion of all the countless forces in creation that could deceive and destroy. Then he left them to conceal themselves and live their lives apart, forgotten, through the ages of the world ... until they were found by a band of little elven children whose leader could see beyond their suspicions and mistrust to call unknowing upon the part of their eternal bond that even their creator could neither twist nor break: The love that is the realm and work of none of the gods, but the birthright of life itself."
Another silence fell, and mother and daughter listened together to the crackling of the little fire, feeling of its warmth and one another's. At last, Ephyra said, "Thank you. I like that story. I don't want it to be over though. I want to be a Nyxkin someday too, and find my snow leopard who's more than a cat, and feel the bond enfold my heart and hers. I want to hold her the way we're holding each other now, and whisper together just like this, where no one else can hear." She shut her eyes and hugged her mother close, and Raevonnyl hugged her back, but with a deep and knowing smile.
"Perhaps you shall," Raevonnyl whispered. "Do you know what I saw today, that gave me such bright hope - that made me think the time was come to tell our oldest tale?" She stroked her daughter's hair, watching Ephyra shake her head, using the motion to snuggle closer, near her heart. In her softest whisper, Raevonnyl said, "I saw seven green shoots on aspen trees, the first I can remember." She paused, and bit her lip. "The weather has been warmer, but there were days when it seemed to warm a very little bit before. This is different. This is new." She swallowed once, and hastilly blinked her eyes, holding her daughter tight. "Ephyra..." She trembled, feeling the hope of her heart reach out for her beloved daughter, and she whispered, softly, softly, "Spring is coming..."
...as somewhere in the distant snows, another mother, snuggling a daughter who looked for all the world like a soft snow leopard's cub, growled the same words in a softer whisper still. "...and we're alive."
On what I've been calling the "Sarcodes Cycle" - I like the name (it's the genus name for the flower-like plant commonly known as the Snowplant) but to parallel the Beltane Cycle, this really ought to be called the Samhain Cycle ... which would be quite appropriate in its own way. The spoilered story in this post (on the Nyxkin) would be Chapter 8 (the last chapter). In order, it would be:
Chater 1: Ljosalfar Palace
Chapter 2: Volanna
Chapter 3: Rivanna
Chapter 4: Svartalfar Palace
Chapter 5: Stonewarden
Chapter 6: Illusionist
Chapter 7: Priest of Leaves
Chapter 8: Nyxkin
I hope this is helpful!
However...there are quite a few errors in there. For a start, Volanna is talked about as dying ages before, but we know from canon that she's alive after the Age of Ice (and this is clearly set during). With a random person that might work as a mistake/them not being aware, but someone who clearly knew her personally...no. Also, that puts the domestication/partnership with the Nyxkin as...well, reasonably recently? Elves live very long lives, obviously , but even so - and that doesn't really work with how much of a "civilization" was established at the end of the Age of Magic, and makes it a bit surprising that they wouldn't be discovered/encountered for so long, especially if they were there for all time. The reference to God of Hope/Despair is a bit too blase, also - the Esus stuff could work, because they're his chosen ones, (though he is the god of deception) but in general the citizens of Erebus really aren't aware of what is occurring behind the scenes there. We see this a lot in canon - all the Hastur/Danalin/Herne stuff, the corruption of the Bannor, the Waning and the Netherblade, Ceridwen's sorcery, the Infernal Machine, the One - again and again, the mortals are deceived or misled or unaware, even the player is forced to piece everything together.
More importantly though...I like the re-imagination and fresh perspective on canon. One of my favorite pieces is the new Unyielding Order entry, presenting a different idea of the Order. But I think I agree that this story best works as myth, and it's not being presented in that way. This is someone who has heard the story from Volanna personally, and who knew her well, who rode with Nyxkin herself. It sounds a lot more like Word of God infodumping/using a mouthpiece then myth or stories. And the theme, too, feels like there's a break in it - certainly the Svartalfar are more than deception and shadows, and I like seeing more of them, but in their stories, folktales and myth I feel like we would be seeing the "civilization traits" coming through far more. That we'd be seeing mischievous and, more likely then not, malicious undercurrent to it. That we instead get a story about trust, and which seems more than a little antagonistic towards Esus...feels anti-thematic, to say the least.
Sorry if that sounds overly negative I do really enjoy your writing, and I love the enthusiasm you put into it. But I think this one needs a bit of reworking.
I think I prefer Sarcodes, too. Sounds much more unique, and interesting
Erebus in the Balance - a FFH Modmod based around balancing and polishing FFH for streamlined competitive play.
I don't see any indication in the story that Volanna died ages before it started (on the contrary, the implication is that she's
around somewhere while the story is being told). The story claims that the Nyxkin with their reimagined origins came into being ages before, but didn't meet Volanna until (by elven standards and especially their own) much more recently.
It may be that I just misunderstood how long FfH elves live though: I had the impression that they (like Tolkien's elves) were effectively immortal unless actively killed, and that elves like Faeryl and Arendel had been around since long before the development of the enormous civilizations that spanned the world at the end of the Age of Magic. I imagined this story-within-the-story to have (supposedly) taken place in the period when those huge civilizations were rapidly growing and threatening for the first time to encompass all the once-hidden places of the world.
On the whole though, I think you're right that the story presumes too much importance/knowledge for the Nyxkin. I'm not going to rewrite it to fix this, but I think the "Sarcodes Cycle" works with just the first six chapters, so I'm happy with just leaving it at that. (Besides, more can always be added to future EitBs if I'm inspired later on.)
(Also, for a Nyxkin entry: There's a line or two about them in the "Bestiary of Erebus" that has the advantage of being written by Kael to offset the disadvantage of being, as my story points out, utterly out of character for the god of deception.)
Err, okay, just one more thing:
Quote:again and again, the mortals are deceived or misled or unaware
I know. That's why I wrote something different. What motivates me is not the same as what fits with the 'pedia though, and it's possible I'll someday come up with a Nyxkin story that will work better by answering fewer questions (at least explicitly) and raising more. (The stuff about being unSvartlike and not-sufficiently-worshipful-of-Esus falls into the same category.)
Notes and corrections on various of my babblings above:
I finally realized at some point that my frustration with the Sheaim story was unfounded: I love the idea that the ending of the Ice Age provides a sensible reason for every civ starting out at the same ancient tech and strength level at the same time, but the game does not restrict itself on that basis. It looks to me like the Sheaim are a civ that canonically appears later in the Age of Rebirth, but can still be played in-game from turn zero, much like (the United States of) America can be played from a prehistoric starting Settler in the base game.
Also, as for this:
RefSteel Wrote:it's possible I'll someday come up with a Nyxkin story that will work better by answering fewer questions (at least explicitly) and raising more
Well, that's still true if we now take "it's possible I'll someday come up with" to now mean, "I've already mostly written..." I'll try to post what I've got (for this one and the Priest of Leaves) so you can consider or reject (but in any case hopefully enjoy) them in the next day or so if you'd like.
(Is triple-posting still called rego'ing, or is that too old-school...?)
So why did it take me so long to post this one? Errr, because I had to cut it down. Yes, this is the short version! I've finished the new Nyxkin story too, but it may yet be a while before it actually goes up here ... because in its current form, it's nearly twice as long as this one!
I think this should fit as an actual 'pedia entry, but if you disagree, don't be afraid that you'll offend: I write these because I love writing more (much more) than for the hope they'll be included. If they help though, excellent!
[EDIT: A few typoes fixed in the story below]
Priest of Leaves Wrote:Chapter 7: Sarcodes Cycle
Slowly, faintly, like a whisper from afar, Marelan became aware of his tiger's stirring. They had been through many trials together, a priest of the old rites of nature with a still-living gift of his ancient faith, and Marelan trusted his old companion, growling now, defensive, to handle any frostling or winter beast that dared approach. He knew too that there were sentries near, from the Ljosalfar encampment, but he did not think of them; the same discovery that led him to remain so far from camp held him also to his dance, slow, steady, absorbing, so that he moved almost unseeing, almost unaware, across the little patch of ground he had found: A patch still free of ice and killing frost, where by the power of his ancient rites, his dance and whispered prayers, tiny shoots might take root from living seeds and swiftly grow into saplings. Soon, a little forest, new to the world, might shelter the earth beneath it there, and even grow into an evergreen wood that could withstand the endless winter snows. So he danced and so he whispered and so he only barely knew of his tiger's sudden battle - and afterward, just vaguely, heard the tiger's growls in another pitch: A sound of contentment that promised all was well. The sentries too must have been nearer than he thought, for he heard the sound of elven footsteps nearby, far from his thoughts - but even without them, he would never have abandoned his rites of blooming unless death brought their end along with his own.
The rites at last completed, Marelan opened his eyes ... and froze, for there before him, near at hand, his tiger lay upon its back, deeply hurt but deeply relaxed, its wounds carefully tended by a stranger: A tall, slender huntress with long, dark hair and ebon eyes. Unmistakably Svartalfar, with the marks of the Winter Court, the huntress tickled the tiger's belly in between carefully changing the bandages on wounds she herself had inflicted while Marelan danced, and his tiger - no longer his tiger - nuzzled its head contentedly against her, tame to her hand. There came another sound behind him, and he spun to see another of the treacherous Svartalfar - and a Nyxkin, among the most deadly of them all - slipping down from the back of her huge snow leopard, as agile and almost as feline in her own motions as her steed, directly between him and the Ljosalfar encampment. She knelt and examined one of the little seedlings still growing under the power of his ritual, reached out a finger to stroke its leaves ... and kept herself positioned, coiled like a leopard ready to spring, so that her eyes, focused on the seedling, still could watch Marelan's every movement on the periphery.
He knew he had to draw them off; if they came to the encampment, they could strike at once together or warn their cohorts and plan an all-out siege. The Ljosalfar, though struggling, were making it through the endless winter with the help of their ancient faith, but he well knew, as Arendel Phaedra herself had so often proclaimed, that any battle between elves, no matter of what court, during this long and deadly winter must spell the death of all. So he slowly backed away - away from the Nyxkin, away from help and home, toward what he hoped would prove a wide gap between sentries after all - a gap the Svartalfar had exploited knowingly or unknowingly - so that if there must be fighting, and if there must be death, then it might come alone to him or his pursuers, and do no further harm to the Ljosalfar.
The Nyxkin's eyes flashed to him as he began to back away, and the emotions that he saw there nearly pinned him to the earth. Her sheer strength, confidence, and battle prowess gleamed in those dark, dark eyes, but there was more: Curiosity to match a hunting cat's, and interest, and attention, and contentment like a leopard with its prey beneath its paw. And yet within it all, he could feel something deeper still - something bound up with the gentle way her fingers had caressed the seedling he had grown. Marelan could feel his own emotions roiling in response to that look in her dark, dark eyes, and a notion formed unbidden in the deep parts of his mind: Perhaps there might yet be no need of battle or of death if he could only lead them far enough away. Was not his tiger tame now to the hand of the deadly huntress? And might not he yet survive meeting this still-more-deadly Nyxkin if only he allowed himself to become tame to hers? Too well he knew the treachery of the Svartalfar, the people whose Court had turned from his beloved ancient rites to those that honored dark deception, but no matter how well he knew it, still in the deep, unthinking corners of his mind, he could feel temptation there.
Slowly, he backed away from the Nyxkin, his eyes never leaving hers, and she watched in silence with the smallest of smiles beginning to crook just the corner of her lips. Her snow leopard padded to her side, and her fingers ran slowly through its fur, stroking it just behind the ears, but the way it nuzzled into the soft flow of her ebon hair was very unlike the new-tamed tiger's with its huntress, for the leopard gazed all the while upon Marelan with intelligent-seeming eyes, and crouched beside the Nyxkin like a partner in crime, neither surrendering to her nor asking her surrender because they worked as one. Marelan could feel the eyes of the huntress burning into him as well, could feel his tiger relaxed and unaware, content under the hand of the Svartalfar woman who could have slain it and had spared its life. Another step backward, always carefully avoiding the little seedlings he had planted, terribly vulnerable though swiftly growing still, and then the Nyxkin was on her leopard's back, the two of them moving together as if in a single flowing motion, uncoiling and pursuing, unhurriedly, at leisure, but still so swift and graceful...
Marelan turned and ran. He saw the Nyxkin riding after him, in no hurry, on her leopard, and thought he saw her crooked smile grow, but then had no more time to look behind. Across his sacred little patch of ground, his little saplings grew, and he had to take care where he placed his feet, and beyond that there was snow and ice enough to take all his attention - or almost all. He had half-seen or half-remembered - or less than half perhaps, for there was a part of Marelan that deeply wanted to believe - the Nyxkin and her leopard steed in their leisurely pursuit, and even the huntress rising to follow, taking care with their steps, keeping all the seedlings safe, as surely and as carefully as he.
He ran as hard and as long as he could, slipping on patches of exposed ice, stumbling through drifts of snow, tripping over the rocks and branches they sometimes concealed, sparing fewer and fewer glances behind him where the Nyxkin rode at an easy lope on a steed bred and born and raised to hunt in snow and ice and frigid cold. Sometimes she drew nearer, and he saw her over his left shoulder or his right, and he hurried faster, turning to put her at his back, but she never quite closed the distance though toward the end as his steps faltered, the leopard seemed to snap at his very heels, and he ran on, panting with exhaustion, no longer even noticing the cold. He wanted to believe he'd led them far enough away, that they would suppose him a lone exile and not part of a refugee band, but he knew that no distance could be great enough - as surely as he knew that the Nyxkin and her snow leopard were toying with him, playing like a hunting cat with its food - and more and more apparently, also herding him somewhere. He would have assumed it was a trap had he not known he was caught already - and known that she knew.
Later, Marelan would hardly remember the final stretch, the little temporary settlement whose Svartalfar guards allowed his passage at a signal from the Nyxkin, the little shelter into which she herded him effortlessly. He didn't remember crossing the threshold, nor falling to his knees, nor crawling the last few steps, nor curling up to sleep. He would only remember waking, shaken from slumber by a stranger's hand, half surprised and deeply grateful to have slept, and to be alive.
The warmth in the little shelter was a warmth of many people huddled together inside: Svartalfar men filing quietly out into the temporary settlement outside. The one who had wakened Marelan said, "Come; you mustn't miss breakfast," and when Marelan shared their meal with them - a meager feast of winter gruel provided by the same Nyxkin who had chased him - it seemed to him that nothing in his memory had ever tasted so delicious.
The Svartalfar manservants already, without need of any command, were beginning to organize themselves into work teams. Their faces betrayed no emotion, but in their every action, Marelan could see their eagerness to show themselves able and willing, to prove themselves in service to their mistresses. In spite of himself, Marelan could feel a kind of kinship and even envy as he watched them. Like his tiger under the hand of the huntress who cared for it, these Svartalfar men had food and shelter, warmth and company, and soon an opportunity to do useful labor, and especially in the terrible, ever-deepening winter, this was more than many beings could hope for in the world. All they had to do in exchange was to leave the thinking, all the endless hard decisions, to beautiful, powerful Svartalfar women. It was easy to understand, to empathize with the choices of his tiger and of all the Svartalfar men; the allure of surrender spoke to Marelan's deepest instincts. He was more than a beast of instict though, and more than a Svartalfar male raised into a life of willing service. Marelan was a man of faith, and his faith was not compatible with theirs.
The Nyxkin was watching him again, and he dared not meet her gaze; he needed to think, and wasn't ready to do battle with those dark, intriguing eyes. He had strength again, as he had not at the end of his taxing ritual of the day before, but he had seen the huntress nearby who had tamed his tiger to her hand; to call another would only provide her with another pet. For that matter, to fight them at all could only help to renew the civil war that they seemed prepared, at least in his case, at least for the space of a meal and a night's rest, to suspend. There was peace ... at least a moment's peace before the next betrayal. He was somehow welcomed into what he would not long before have called the enemy camp. He saw clearly at last that there was only one thing he could do.
Letting go at last completely of all the needs and all the wishes of his body, letting go of his body itself, he prayed and called upon the power of his faith with all his last reserves of strength and life, and changed himself both in his shape and in his very nature, growing like a jungle shoot, but far more swiftly than any living plant in even the lushest of jungles had ever grown. Spires grew upon the spot where Marelan had stood, shaped from enormous, bright green leaves, and together formed a little temple - very small in that hard and icy land, but still by everything that Marelan had given to it, everything that he had been, complete. Invested with his life and his emotions, his kinship and empathy for them, his little temple of the ancient forest rites stood within the Svartalfar settlement, not as a challenge but as a gift.
Feline footsteps, all but silent, crossed the threshold, and the dark-eyed Nyxkin who had chased and herded Marelan looked around. She slowly circled the interior with her hunting cat, just one corner of her lips touched with her little, dangerous smile. She slid from her snow leopard's back with the same easy feline grace he had admired against his will the day before, and she circled closer, touching the very altar, brushing it gently as she passed, and Marelan could feel her presence and her fingertips as if upon his living heart. Remade as a temple, bound to his ancient faith, he no longer was susceptible to her beauty, to the catlike grace of her movements, and yet somehow her presence still nearly burned him with hope and fear. She still represented danger, deep and deadly danger to the temple he had become and to the people whom he loved, never safe in their encampment, never far enough away. She still could somehow thrill him when her fingers touched the altar ... and then at last, he could see why: Her touch was soft, caressing, like her touch upon his new-born sapling leaves. In her dark eyes, amid her deadly power, her confidence and strength, her deep and feline curiosity, her interest, her attention, he sensed the thing that his whole being yearned to feel from her: Her approval, quiet, calm, but unmistakable, for his life and for his work, and maybe, maybe, if he dared even to hope it, for his faith.
She met with her commander at the temple threshold, resting her hand upon the doorframe with gentle, almost proprietary care. Almost purring, she whispered, "Look what I brought home."
The commander of the Nyxkin did not purr in reply. Her voice was stronger and more confident than even her officer's dark eyes ... and yet she too seemed to approve. "Well hunted, and well guided, and my gratitude to him; we may need all the knowledge and resources we can find if this cruel winter's deepening goes on. Let some shelter here who wish to learn the ancient rites he used, for he will share them, having shared his faith with us."
Haven't had a chance to read it yet, but I came across this:
Kael Wrote:The Summer and Winter court were created when the Compact was signed. When Succellus and Cernunnous withdrew from creation the elves setup their own government.
Arak the Erkling (and the rest) were brought into the underworld during the Age of Magic. So before the civil war that broke the elves into the Svartalfar and the Ljosalfar, but the elven courts would have existed. As such they are neither Ljosalfar or Svartalfar and weren't involved in the civil war when they returned.
If I said something about the "Once Elves" as MC calls them (and I love that name) being older than the courts, then that was incorrect. They were older than the civil war. When asked if they were Svartalfar (which the party assumed that they were because of their appearance and manner) they didn't even know what that was.
@KC: Thats a great story. I wouldnt stress the canon issues to much. If it helps the story to be in canon then feel free to change it, but if it makes the story worse to be in canon level it how it is. Its great writing and a fun read. I wouldnt stress much beyond that.
I think both the Svartalfar/Ljolsofar info, and the comment about canon are relevant here.
Bathhouse - Bathhouses were usually also Brothels.
Bite - Unpleasant term for vagina. 15th - 18thC.
Bow - Euphamism for Penis, i.e. it “shoots arrows”.
Cods - (Slang) Testicles. A very common term for them. Gave it’s name to the “Codpiece” on a gentleman’s hose.
Cwm - Female genitals. This word is Welsh for “valley”, and is derived from celtic roots. The word later (around 18thC)morphed into “quim” in English.
Dowsetts - Testicles. A Dowset was a dish of Stag’s Testicles. Yummy!
Duckies - Breasts, 15th - 16th C.
Foin - 14thC term for sexual intercourse. Lit. “Thrust with a pointed weapon”.
Jay - A prostitute.
Lance - Euphamism for Penis. Used throughout the mid-late medieval times.
Nock - Vagina, 15th-16thC. The term refers to the “nock” on an arrow, which is the groove where the bow string sits.
Nonny-No - Female genitals. Very late 15thC and throughout 16thC. Nonny-no was a nonsense word used to referr to the private parts in bawdy folk songs. Later Hey Nonny No (ref “There was a lover and his lass”).
Pillicock - Penis. This term was used in the North of England, and is still used today as Pillock. See the section below for more. First Used in the 14thC.
Scutt - Pubic hair 15th - 16th C. A scutt is a rabbit’s tail.
Stalk - An erect penis.
Sard - To have sex. Used 10th-17thC, first appeard in the Lindesfarne Gospel.
Swive - (verb) This meant to have sex, often referring to extra marital sex.
Tallywacker - Penis. The term derives from a notched “tally-stick” used in early banking and accounting. This originates from the 17C, but it is Kris’s favourite so I had to put it in.
Tickle-Tail - Penis ALSO a promiscuous woman. Used from 15thC - 18thC.
Tup - Sexual intercourse. This word originally referred to mating sheep and goats.
Tread - Sexual intercourse. This word originally referred to mating birds.
Twanger - Penis. The first use of the term I have found is in the 1480’s, but I have found no evidence as to the origin.
I'd probably mix these with Erebus references to come up with curses, such as:
"Ceridwens Bite!" - Strong explective
"As nice as Keelyn's Duckies" - nice, abbreviated just to "Keelyn's Duckies" or "Ducky" to mean good.
"Mulstalk" - abbreviation of "Mulcarns Stalk", someone who appears strong but fails at the last minute or an impotent man. Mulcarn would be the only god to just his name abused so badly since the feeling is that you cant draw his ire by misusing it.
"Burning Swive" - an explective, sudden impending doom. A reference to the night Bhall fell and fire rained down on Erebus. Even more prominant among the Bannor where it means a sudden drop from normal peaceful life into hell.
"Galloweis!" - Most common among the Bannor. Named after small demons in hell that hunted the bannor. They didn't attack directly but would stalk the bannor looking for exposed children to capture. If they captured a child they would torture and possess them. A few days later the children would sneak back into the camp attempting to kill their parents, even if unsuccessful or captured they were beyond saving and the Bannor would be forced to kill them.
Erebus in the Balance - a FFH Modmod based around balancing and polishing FFH for streamlined competitive play.
A conversation between Agares and Succelus, about men stealing the gems of creation:
Kael Wrote:It was a place so it dark it would drive the mortal mind mad.
“Why would you create a place like this? You remember as well as I the pleasures of heaven, it was place of light of beauty. I can’t believe you still don’t yearn for it as I do.”
“It is because I remember it that I created this place.” Agares responded from an area somehow blacker than the rest. “I have created grand palaces, entire worlds of starlight and gold and the imperfection of them screams out to me. So fresh is my memory of heaven that I can see nothing but the flaws of everything else. Doesn’t it anger you that everything you create is lacking that basic perfection that he so easily made?”
Sucellus stood silently, in the limitless emptiness of this place Agares almost palatable jealousy writhed and finally settled.
Finally Agares spoke again. “Why have you come here?”
“To ask a question. So long ago you stole those crystals out of Heaven, you secreted them away so that you would retain the power to create.”
Agares exploded again in anger. “So that we would have the power to create! The burden I bore I did for all of us. You can create freely now, using the gift that I provided, all the while cursing me for it. Do not continue your hypocrisy here. I am your rescuer and he is your jailer, do not confuse the two.”
Again Sucellus waited. When Agares’s anger settled he continued with his question. “Then why allow the men to find them, they had remained hidden for so long. What could possibly come of it?”
“Why do you think that I had anything to do with it?”
Erebus in the Balance - a FFH Modmod based around balancing and polishing FFH for streamlined competitive play.
