Lugh
06-10-10, 07:43 AM
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.”
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.”