Duffy
01-07-10, 04:59 PM
Children Of The Grounds
Closed.
1869
The sun rose, and the moon fell, and all was solemn. Day appeared, and the forests of Scara Brae bridled with life once more. In the tree top canopies and the hidden glades touched by sunlight only once in a thousand years the pointy eared sprites of the deep hearth pranced and frolicked, ready for the coming of the new, of Time’s cessation. Casually sat atop a small tree trunk, felled by a weary traveler long ago, an older sprite rummaged in one of the many pockets about its waist and fished out a handful of red berries. An eagle circled overhead, its cry turning heads and losing them in swift measure, nature noticing nature only out of habit.
In icy streams and river beds they played, hunting, romancing, and reveling in the simplicity of their tribal ways out of earshot of humanity and the darker things that inhabited the world. The older sprite looked up to the sky and muttered a small prayer of forgiveness for the transgressions of the day, and swallowed the berries with a look of disdain. They tasted of very little indeed, except for a peppering of dust that had formed at the bottom of the pocket over a century of forest crawling and shamanism.
With a rocket and a sudden twitch, the old sprite convulsed, its ears stood on end and it’s back arched.
A thousand sprites joined in, baskets dropping and fish let off hooks as if life had been stolen from them by a cold and unseen assailant.
--
Long ago, the coves had been grottos, pleasant walks for the gentle folk and wonderful vacation spots for the well to do. It’d been so long since the Goblins had appeared that few dared remembered or even try to discover its history. Facts of life were just that, facts, irrefutable and immutable, unchanging, unrelenting, set in stone. In Scara Brae there was talk amongst the dregs of society of a ‘brood to the North and South’, hushed conversations on the topic of ‘the Goblin War,’ but few remembered it when they’d sobered up in the morning.
In truth, the Goblins did not live in the Coves, nor where they strictly what one might call a goblin. Such a word is reserved only for the foul tongues of common, and for the ignorance of the humanoids that speak it with such malice and misunderstanding. The Goblins, sprites of the woods and entities of nature given life and love and wrath, just like the rest of Althanas, refer to themselves as the Innari. The Innari refer to the humans, as the woodsmen, and the Coves are the dead grounds, where they entomb the dead trees and kin to the memories of the waves and the fell swoop of silvery axes in the night.
--
The ancient Innari Shaman moved at last, a slow and unveiling movement kindling his chest with breathe and a sudden realization that he was once more on the plane of the living brought a smile to his leather tanned face. He twitched his nose and tested the air, “Crick, smells like rain.”
--
The Thayne of the Innari is an ancient beast, scarred by a thousand years of constant pain and suffering brought about by those who wish to impede on the forest. He is a memory cast to the wind, a deity long forgotten but once revered by the inhabitants of the city. The recent rise in renegade Innari, those warriors who can vent the rage of the forest in the form of a berserk rampage have made their presence known to the humans, and the talk of a war and raid is gathering momentum.
Many Innari do not wish to war, for it is a futile pursuit that only serves to return the borrowed life in all the sprites to the Forest, to continue the Great Cycle. Many more wish to enact the edict of nature, to take revenge upon the Timber Companies and trade caravans who rape and pillage the resources of the forest without a care in the world.
Many more are too tired and old to care.
--
Crick saddled up to his master’s side and looked sheepishly up at the shaman, his eyes showing the atypical sign of distrust and impending knowledge of a beating. “Yes, master Cavvah?”
“Sound the horn young Crick, the rain this deep means one thing.”
“Oh?”
“Schrage is waking, there is nothing to be done now – the sounds of the horns of the Innari will soon fill the sky, and we shall have to leave the forest. If, dare I say, you are equipped for such wonder!”
Cavvah shifted his weight off the stump and felt relieved as his naked feet reconnected with the dew grass and meadow blooms. Pine and amber scent filled his nostrils as he took a deep breath, and he smiled. The shaman was old enough to have witnessed the last waking of the spirit, and relished in the chance to perform such a duty once more – it was the only time in history when the Great Oak at the heart of the woods gave fruit, and it would be those fruit, the Acorns of Wrath, that would incite the sound of drums in the deep woods.
--
The waves crashed against the jagged shore, a scene set to grey backdrop and ochre sky. Colours washed up and fell away again as the sun rose and shone, and the days drifted by in the manner of all things. Great logs, stricken with disease or felled and left to rot were carried periodically to the cliff’s edge and tossed into the sea. The Innari that bore them wore bones of dead animals and sometimes, larger things, and black robes that marked them as pole bearers.
As the Innari began to raise their war spirit in the forest, the crashing gale that kept the cliff tops and the sheltered coves of the Goblin Coves cast out a great howl, and the berserker fanatics increased their raids on weary caravans and border villages.
Something stirred, and it was not unnoticed.
Closed.
1869
The sun rose, and the moon fell, and all was solemn. Day appeared, and the forests of Scara Brae bridled with life once more. In the tree top canopies and the hidden glades touched by sunlight only once in a thousand years the pointy eared sprites of the deep hearth pranced and frolicked, ready for the coming of the new, of Time’s cessation. Casually sat atop a small tree trunk, felled by a weary traveler long ago, an older sprite rummaged in one of the many pockets about its waist and fished out a handful of red berries. An eagle circled overhead, its cry turning heads and losing them in swift measure, nature noticing nature only out of habit.
In icy streams and river beds they played, hunting, romancing, and reveling in the simplicity of their tribal ways out of earshot of humanity and the darker things that inhabited the world. The older sprite looked up to the sky and muttered a small prayer of forgiveness for the transgressions of the day, and swallowed the berries with a look of disdain. They tasted of very little indeed, except for a peppering of dust that had formed at the bottom of the pocket over a century of forest crawling and shamanism.
With a rocket and a sudden twitch, the old sprite convulsed, its ears stood on end and it’s back arched.
A thousand sprites joined in, baskets dropping and fish let off hooks as if life had been stolen from them by a cold and unseen assailant.
--
Long ago, the coves had been grottos, pleasant walks for the gentle folk and wonderful vacation spots for the well to do. It’d been so long since the Goblins had appeared that few dared remembered or even try to discover its history. Facts of life were just that, facts, irrefutable and immutable, unchanging, unrelenting, set in stone. In Scara Brae there was talk amongst the dregs of society of a ‘brood to the North and South’, hushed conversations on the topic of ‘the Goblin War,’ but few remembered it when they’d sobered up in the morning.
In truth, the Goblins did not live in the Coves, nor where they strictly what one might call a goblin. Such a word is reserved only for the foul tongues of common, and for the ignorance of the humanoids that speak it with such malice and misunderstanding. The Goblins, sprites of the woods and entities of nature given life and love and wrath, just like the rest of Althanas, refer to themselves as the Innari. The Innari refer to the humans, as the woodsmen, and the Coves are the dead grounds, where they entomb the dead trees and kin to the memories of the waves and the fell swoop of silvery axes in the night.
--
The ancient Innari Shaman moved at last, a slow and unveiling movement kindling his chest with breathe and a sudden realization that he was once more on the plane of the living brought a smile to his leather tanned face. He twitched his nose and tested the air, “Crick, smells like rain.”
--
The Thayne of the Innari is an ancient beast, scarred by a thousand years of constant pain and suffering brought about by those who wish to impede on the forest. He is a memory cast to the wind, a deity long forgotten but once revered by the inhabitants of the city. The recent rise in renegade Innari, those warriors who can vent the rage of the forest in the form of a berserk rampage have made their presence known to the humans, and the talk of a war and raid is gathering momentum.
Many Innari do not wish to war, for it is a futile pursuit that only serves to return the borrowed life in all the sprites to the Forest, to continue the Great Cycle. Many more wish to enact the edict of nature, to take revenge upon the Timber Companies and trade caravans who rape and pillage the resources of the forest without a care in the world.
Many more are too tired and old to care.
--
Crick saddled up to his master’s side and looked sheepishly up at the shaman, his eyes showing the atypical sign of distrust and impending knowledge of a beating. “Yes, master Cavvah?”
“Sound the horn young Crick, the rain this deep means one thing.”
“Oh?”
“Schrage is waking, there is nothing to be done now – the sounds of the horns of the Innari will soon fill the sky, and we shall have to leave the forest. If, dare I say, you are equipped for such wonder!”
Cavvah shifted his weight off the stump and felt relieved as his naked feet reconnected with the dew grass and meadow blooms. Pine and amber scent filled his nostrils as he took a deep breath, and he smiled. The shaman was old enough to have witnessed the last waking of the spirit, and relished in the chance to perform such a duty once more – it was the only time in history when the Great Oak at the heart of the woods gave fruit, and it would be those fruit, the Acorns of Wrath, that would incite the sound of drums in the deep woods.
--
The waves crashed against the jagged shore, a scene set to grey backdrop and ochre sky. Colours washed up and fell away again as the sun rose and shone, and the days drifted by in the manner of all things. Great logs, stricken with disease or felled and left to rot were carried periodically to the cliff’s edge and tossed into the sea. The Innari that bore them wore bones of dead animals and sometimes, larger things, and black robes that marked them as pole bearers.
As the Innari began to raise their war spirit in the forest, the crashing gale that kept the cliff tops and the sheltered coves of the Goblin Coves cast out a great howl, and the berserker fanatics increased their raids on weary caravans and border villages.
Something stirred, and it was not unnoticed.