Origins

[Lugh]

Book 1 :: Part 1
Chapter 1 :: Humble Beginnings


Berevar was a harsh mistress, one that could smile with the beam of the sun, but curse under her breath with sub-zero winds at the same time. It was a place where nobody deemed it necessary to explore. Few had found their way into the depths of the frozen wastes, fewer still had lasted long enough to find their way back. It took a certain type of creature to live in such conditions, a creature blessed by the gods of Althanas themselves. Garnering the favor of the heavy hearted Hromagh was a means unaccomplished for centuries, and had only ever been granted to one known race throughout Althanas. The Berevarian’s were all they were known as, a race of humanoid figures that could tower above humans and had the strength of five men together. It was also said that the mating of creatures created by the gods, titans of an old religion, and man was the birth of the race. It was said that they were, themselves, the titans of the old religion. Speculation can only garner so much respect and go so far, as rumors are bound to develop more and more intricate ideas without anything more than time to account for their growth.

While gossip spun webs of half-truths, eventually becoming legend, uncounted years had passed. The Berevarian people remained isolated from world affairs, solidarity creating culture and society. It was with this growth of basic instinctual developments that the people carved their own paths through glacier and jagged ice alike. Instrumental in the development of their livelihood was the ability to adapt. No matter the challenge or tribulation, the people always rose up and changed, evolved to fit the situation. It was this adaptive trait that transforms entire cultures slowly, allowing them to fit into the niche their forefathers had created. Berevarian nature is quick to change, but slow to accept. It is a boon and a curse, a mental block created by the subversive nature of their environment. A wind can change directions, but the rock beneath the biting drift is slow to be weathered by the new direction.

Hunters and gatherers, a society created on the basis that without each other, there is no one. It was this social understanding that kept the race thriving. A hunt is possible with one; a hunt is a surety with four. Each understood their role, each accepted their place.

That is, save for one.


***

Sharp, twisting winds whipped furiously around the rock outface. It was as close to shelter as any in the hunting party could hope for. Weapons were sheathed, old iron heirlooms passed down for years. Knocks, dents, and grooves were well within expectations. However, the delicate detail of maintenance to the tools that kept an entire population alive was a nearly religious fanaticism for the Berevarian people. Very few axes and swords were dented, fewer still marked with any form of chipped edge. Likewise, the thick wooden bows and arrows were maintained. Sinew could be replaced for the bows string, the precious ironwood was something that entire clans had destroyed each other over in the past. A forest grove, stalwart roots dug deep beneath the mountain of snow, was a resource that many had died for, and more still would kill for.

“The storm passes.” It was a statement of purpose, a remark meant for the party to ready their weapons to leave their natural sanctuary. In the tundra, even the slightest change in the winds was something that had to be taken advantage of as quickly as possible. Blizzards raged furiously, died suddenly, and would reappear without warning or pretense. Only the greatest of shaman could portend the coming of sleet or the worst of the fickle weather spirits could muster, even still they were lackluster in their advanced warning more oft than not. “They will blend, snow having covered their thick hides. Be wary, quiet, and respectful.”

Caribou of the North lived through deep freezes, withstood the harsh winds with a resolve few other creatures could muster. In large clumps they would stand statuesque, shifting only slightly to exchange nearly frostbitten hides on the outside with fresh ones from the inside. It was an evolutionary trait that had kept them living, though nothing in the tundra thrived. Hunting the intelligent creatures was a lesson in patience and a practice in discipline. The party stood quickly, seven large men with weapons readied. Without waiting for a formal command to move they started out quickly, turning their backs to the breeze and collected snow on their thick hide coats. If one was to hunt a creature known for their fleet feet and keen hearing, it was only natural that camouflage was paramount.

In Berevar, hours in the wild felt like days passing. The sun’s light rays were gentle strokes on the face, a teasing lover’s stroke with the promise of nothing more to come. They never penetrated anything more than just the surface. Amidst the group was me, the youngest of the hunters, the least experienced. It was only my second true hunt, and only the first with a prize worth so much to the survival of my tribe. I followed the others, nobody truly leading but instinct and practice guiding each step. In the frozen North there was never a true leader in hunting. Each person held their own reason for coming along, each person was given proper respect and guidance – if necessary – by the others. It was a comforting notion to believe myself equals with those that I followed behind.

“Seventeen paces to the right.” The voice of the man in the front was distinct and sharp, his eyes the best in the party. I shrugged my weight around the man I followed and caught sight of the prey. A group of twenty caribou dug at the thick snow with their sharp hooves, breaking through permafrost and banks of accumulated flakes to find the bitter grass beneath. “We will come from the rear, where only one is facing. Slowly, keep close and follow the footsteps of the one before you.”

[Lugh]

It would be an understatement to make a supposition as to the hearty nature of the Berevarian people. What humans know as a hard life are the peaceful days for the people of the North. Permanently established buildings are never seen, nor the concept considered. The implements allotted for living are sparse, leaving entire clans living in nomadic tribal communities. Tents form perfect patterns, most often circular in nature. It is countless years in the frozen wastes that have demanded such attention to detail. When the winds howl and the cold bites, only a unified and solidified camp has a chance of surviving. I have long believed that much of what makes daily life easier and enjoyable is the small spurts of beauty that form naturally in the world itself. A baby crying, a gentle fire swaying in the breeze, the scent of meat cooking; these are what we look forward to. True beauty in the eyes of those who see nothing but an eternal blanket of white.

While men carried weapons to hunt and war, women were also trained in the art. They tended to the arms and armor of their own families, those without husbands yet maintained the weapons that had been given to them from their parents. There were tasks to carry about, and each person was bound to fulfill the one they could do best. I walked with the other hunters, beaming at the weight of the boon I shared with a fellow hunter. A male and a female caribou were strung upside-down to a thick pole of wood, hanging with heads lolling as if amazed by the eyes that watched them pass. One of my arrows had wounded the male. Though it was not a killing shot, it was one that had missed its mark by mere inches, the stone headed projectile tearing through its flank. A true hunter of beasts, I had become something useful to the society, though even that did not seem to make me feel that I had found what I was looking for.

Deep in my chest I felt a hollow sensation, a longing. Behind my lungs there was a beat, a pulse, that called out for something more. The Vandenniak clan was powerful, full of willing, and had long since taken control of the closest grove of ironwood. I was just one of the many pieces that needed to find a way to fit into place, but my corners were worn where the others were sharp. It was a profound profusion of confusion that seeped through my mind, consumed my thoughts, and caused all aspects of daily life to seem little more than background noise. I could watch and listen, partake in the tasks that were required, but each time I did it felt more and more like the beginning of an endless routine. The cycle continued. I would one day take a wife of my own, my father would pass, my mother would pass, my children would follow my every footstep, and in the end, they would pass too. Was there nothing more to this than doing what others had done before me?

My auburn eyes drifted, from smiling and grateful faces to humble yet strong gazes. Joy was beauty, and in beauty my tribe would find meaning in their lives. Without the beaming grins of small children and pleased adults the harsh winds and meager warmth settled into a bone chilling depth. I could not fathom what it would be like without some idea of what beauty was. It was a lonely thought, scattered through my mind like a flake of dust on the breeze. Yet it was there, present, always waiting to surface when my attention was diverted.

“Ki’Rial,” I looked up from the tribe to see a mammoth of a man. He stood a full hand taller than I, weighed at least four stones more. A white beard hung from his face like icicles from rock, knotted and braided from chin to mid-chest. Exposed to the environment, his chest was chiseled slabs of muscles and scars. Over his shoulder he had his fur cape draped and slumped over his arms. No weapons, no armor, it was the way my father always presented himself. One of the clan elders, he had nothing to fear, no reason to bear the weight of past responsibilities as a hunter. I had taken that roll from him now, and I bore not only his weapons but also his armor, and the body of a budding warrior. “I heard the hunt went well. We will eat well for another moon cycle. You will eat with me tonight while we celebrate the blessings of our ancestors.”

Never a question, He’Eetra did not ask anything of anyone but gave commands instead. His words carried the weight of almost two hundred years of experience. I nodded to my father, more a head of the tribe than a head of any house. The edge of his dried lips slipped upwards creating something akin to a grin. It was the closest I had ever seen him come to smiling. “He’Eetra, I would be honored to sit alongside you and the elders. It has been some time since I have been able to keep your company.”

He grunted and turned. I was not sure if that meant that he was displeased, or if he was simply remaining aloof as he had always been. My father was a conundrum that not even the wisest of shamans could solve. I continued my trek with the carcasses, delivering them to the men and women who would strip the caribou into useful tools. Skin, bones, sinew, and meat would be separated and cleaned for use in any instruments or tools that the clan had need of. Nothing was wasted in Berevar, everything could be put to use and it was as quickly as possible.

Looking around I watched from the small tents as children played with smaller bones, makeshift weapons of war and the first inclination of training. Each one took to the other fiercely and with as much vigor as their small bodies could muster. Women watched out of the corner of their eyes, which most children thought meant they were not paying attention at all. It was quite the contrary; I had found that out first hand as a child when my mother caught me trying to sneak a bite of half-cooked venison. While they worked – mending tents, preparing food, or simply chatting with others – they were the ever watchful, keeping the future of the clan safe as naturally as a bear watched her young cubs. Elder men and women tended fires, built and sustained by the droppings of animals. Instead of hard manual labor they were delegated the finer and less strenuous activity. The thought of my father one day being amongst them was amusing, but impossible to imagine.

Life flourished in the wastes because it fought to, little other reason could possibly exist. Rare though it was, a blessed tribe could become a dominant clan as the Vandenniak clan had. War and famine were as common as blizzards, but a firm foundation accompanied by stiff convictions and steady hands always worked towards success. I turned away from the people and wandered towards the edge of the tents, leaving behind beauty, serenity, and bliss in order to dwell upon the thoughts and feelings that were longing to be revealed.