CONTINUED FROM PART 1
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“I admit, a name like “The Grays” is not really a worthy name for a people. We have little contact with them in fact, I couldn’t be more precise unless you would count encountering each other in the Esson regularly. It isn’t through any will of our own, as a boy I remember being afraid of the Grays. They are an elusive people. Their skin is of gray complexion, hence the name, and so they blend very well with the swamp. I used to have trouble spotting them and I always thought of the stories of assassins when I thought of a gray man standing against a tree trunk, unable to be spotted for perhaps hours while we sat fishing and foraging. They are not merely stalkers of course, they don’t usually sit in silence around us. They used to toss large stones into the swamp water when we approached near to them. Letting us know they were there, and letting us know we were surrounded if you ask Bairn. I’m not so sure he would be far off the mark either.
“Really they were nothing more than that and whatever the imagination could concoct for as long as we’ve lived near them. Eccentric, and elusive, but nothing more. Their territory within the swamp is well marked. They use the insides of a rather dull melon that by contrast has a bright pasty inside to draw stick figures on the trunks of the trees. The stuff dries hard like a plaster and it’s rather weather resistant. Some of the people in the village tell me it tastes good and you would never know it was so industrial of an element. Anyway that began changing near a year ago now. The behavior of the Grays has been distraught, unpredictable, and to the villagers and myself, scary.”
Hasser had a perplexed look on his face, Rant wasn’t sure he was following, he wondered where he had lost him. Hasser inquired, “The Grays, the Esson. These aren’t terms we use in Diya’Hum I think. It is a swamp you say, full of people alongside yourselves?” How could Rant be so silly, the Ouvari had their own language, their own writing system, no doubt they had their own maps and everything he just named may as well be made up for all it meant to anyone among them that wasn’t very well traveled.
Rant stood and walked over to the hearth, there on the mantle was a pinewood stand painted black with six racks stacking upward along the wall. It was not very ornate, carved in simple curves to better hold the maps set on it. He fingered through each and when he got to the third rack, he nodded to himself and brought the map back to his chair, Hasser looked around wondering where he intended to unroll it and Rant realized he didn’t have a table there. Benjaffe who was once again silent at the chamber entrance realized it as well and he grabbed a large chest with jingling brass locks and pushed it over in-between the chairs. It wasn’t as wide as a table, and it might be a little awkward to set the whole map on the surface but it would do.
Rant unfurled the map and held both ends to keep it from rolling back up, it was rather detailed. It showed the Estate on which they were now meeting near its western most edge, the furthest western objects being the Eastern Barrier Mountains, a fact that Rant would contest with the mapmakers one day. Further east beyond a short area that was the farthest reaches of the Jade Plain was a sprawling land and lettered in black ink across it was “ESSON”, which occupied most of the territory depicted except for a portion that jutted northeast toward what was labeled “DRAGON BUTTES”. This portion of the map was called Graymarch.
Rant explained the area as Hasser looked on at the map, and he became more aware of what was being talked about. After the explanation he said, “The Depensai, The Rising Deep” pointing to the Eastern Barrier Mountains and the Northern Chord as a whole. He pointed to the Dragon Buttes and Graymarch as one body and said, “Therlydrath, Bones and Blood of the Dragons.” Lastly he pointed to the Esson, ignoring the rest of the detailed areas on the map and said, “Thdorin’arit, Heart of Roots .” Rant nodded and after gesturing to Hasser if he still required the map, to which he replied no with a shake of his head, Rant rolled it back up and placed it in his lap.
“Blood and Bones of the Dragon.” He stopped a second, “Well, in Therlydrath,” he barely stumbled over the foreign word, “The Grays as we call them,” Hasser interjected for one second.
“The Dralyth. This means Dragon’s Woe.” Rant nodded.
“They have changed much in the last few seasons. As I was saying they used to make their territory marks very bright with the guts of the melon, then we would know not to enter where it seems we are not wanted. We tried for years to get along with them, but they just avoided us. I recall my father telling the tale of when he led a welcoming party to meet them in the Esson, he said they didn’t even show a hint of, anything. One merely said, uh…he said…Buk’rar’muir. I think that was it.” Hasser fumbled through the saying in his head it appeared, Buk’rar’muir…buk’rar’muir..
“Buk’rar’muir, it means like,…relishing in the facts. But as a foreigner.” He looked to Bounicun who went through the words in his own mind with a finger to his temple and nodded, they seemed to be in agreement. “That is an old language, one they teach at the Desi, yes. I’m very surprised by this, but then, they are an old people. With perhaps less ambition than Diya’Hum. Always in the swamp, and the foothills…historically they were hunters of the dragons in the, Dragon Buttes?”
“And that is what I was getting at,” Rant sat straight forward,” No more are they so reclusive. They post their markers further out than ever, and closer to our village. That in itself wouldn’t be so distressing but it’s the manner of marking. Undoubtedly they are at some inner conflict, they have begun to use the mutilated corpses of animals to mark their territory. Skulls strung together on posts and they cake blood over the melon guts and paint the trees red. It’s a nasty mess, there are all manner of biting insects swarming over their marks. Being the man I am, I said not to bother with it in the first months of it ongoing. Let them commit their rites as I thought It was, but Bairn, blast him he isn’t here, seems to think that it’s a sign of change in leadership. As I said, of inner conflict. For us, we fear this means expansion, perhaps into our villages. Already I have arrested ten of the villagers, self proclaimed Shamans of the Esson who began a doomsday rant when the troubles had lasted some weeks. They stirred the town up quite a bit. That was the last straw.
“The Grays wander closer than ever, to the village line in fact. Still of course saying nothing, doing nothing. Gedlow, one of the procurers in the village believes that he has caught many of them stealing food or trying to take shelter near the village, but who knows what this can spell out. All too quickly a peaceful, elusive people, has turned into a much different one. As a leader, I could not ignore these signs when Bairn related the circumstances to me, it for this reason that we sent the message to you, to get help. We have the barest militia. We never deemed one necessary, the dragons are far away in the foothills to the northeast and the Grays never relayed to us as a threat. Most of the villagers are merely foragers, spending their time recording new finds from the wilds, testing them for medicinal or other uses. To that effect we have an alchemical weapon or two to supplement those armed with swords or pikes. The stock of course is limited, the empire takes large caches of our finds when they send the caravans south, and they have not provided us with a proper guard at the settlement. Being they are so far away, I intended to take this opportunity to get closer to your people, our other neighbors. I hope it does not bode in an ill manner that I ask you here now, when we need something of you.”
Hasser was again all seriousness, speaking on his knowledge and offering his own emotion before but again he was a representative now. He pressed his hands together, he looked Rant in his eyes, he looked at his hands then placed them under his chin and looked at the ceiling that for the first time he noticed was painted in gray, black, and white scenes of trade, guardianship, and court. This was not the artwork of an uncivilized nationcbut the Weltithe it was known had gathered much of their lands through conquest.
“I think, it is best to take a closer look Lord Rant. I of course am young, and Benjaffe not much older. I am still a student, but I think it is fortunate for you that Dulah came with us. How old is your settlement here, 30 years?” Rant nodded.
“Well, Dulah is 66 years old. If I am not mistaken I have heard him speak of Therlydrath before. Not tales, but experiences. I can speak with him tonight, after the funerary rites are given or perhaps before, and after that I think it is best that you show him what it is you are seeing. Thdorin’hart is a two day ride from here. I think you are right that time is of the essence in this, colorful situation.”
The night pressed on slowly. Lord of the House Rant finally retired to his quarters after a restless meal and the total absence of company. His worry and frustration the past two days had made him tired. A good many more people than he believed would were attending Elyion’s funeral. Tradition stated that he shouldn’t, not only that, he wouldn’t. He didn’t believe in the observation of death. Funny though, this is what he was faced with in his own home now, observing death daily in worry and nightly in scattered nightmares he had been having since just before he sent Elyion to his doom. That wouldn’t help. He walked over to his desk, it had a bureau full of writing contents, his seal, and a leather carrying case. He removed it from the bureau and stared at the contents inside, some old papers, the village charter, and a stick figure like those the Grays used for territory markers before they were taken by whatever madness had them, carved from bone if he was not mistaken. The entire object was thin, if not for the fact that it was bone it would be fragile. The head however was another matter, it was large and bulbous, carved in much detail, contorted in an ominous expression that seemed of woe, like a wailing ghost. His father had left it in the bureau when he passed and Rant had found it, along with a large leatherleaf on which was scrolled in thick, black, blood, “Buk’rar’muir.”
Outside the window near the desk he could see the gathered throng for the funeral. Thirty or so odd residents of the estate, most dressed in simple black garb except for the soldiers who now stood at a full honorary salute in a semi-circle around the bed of large wood logs where Elyion’s corpse had been laid. Hasser was there, standing with Benjaffe and Dulah, all three of them had their hands pressed together as if praying and held against their faces. Rant could hear the priest reciting a ward from condemnation of the soul, “Let his spirit stand firm against the Dividing Winds of the after world. We stand here to see his Soul depart and arrive there, unblemished and forgiven his sin as he has suffered Death and will now be granted life.” It was the last of a few prayers, the Departing Word and the Living Word.
With it the funeral began to draw to a close, and Bairn stood forward from the crowd with a lit torch, it was the first time Rant had ever seen the man shed a tear before in his life as he lit the bottom of the funeral pyre which caught quickly and sent Elyion’s primitive physical body into a roaring blaze. The entire procession would stand there for another minute or so, the honor guard would remain through the night to see the boy’s soul off to the afterworld, so that it could not be swept up by the Winds of Dividing and whisked away by the Many Wraiths of Death.
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“I admit, a name like “The Grays” is not really a worthy name for a people. We have little contact with them in fact, I couldn’t be more precise unless you would count encountering each other in the Esson regularly. It isn’t through any will of our own, as a boy I remember being afraid of the Grays. They are an elusive people. Their skin is of gray complexion, hence the name, and so they blend very well with the swamp. I used to have trouble spotting them and I always thought of the stories of assassins when I thought of a gray man standing against a tree trunk, unable to be spotted for perhaps hours while we sat fishing and foraging. They are not merely stalkers of course, they don’t usually sit in silence around us. They used to toss large stones into the swamp water when we approached near to them. Letting us know they were there, and letting us know we were surrounded if you ask Bairn. I’m not so sure he would be far off the mark either.
“Really they were nothing more than that and whatever the imagination could concoct for as long as we’ve lived near them. Eccentric, and elusive, but nothing more. Their territory within the swamp is well marked. They use the insides of a rather dull melon that by contrast has a bright pasty inside to draw stick figures on the trunks of the trees. The stuff dries hard like a plaster and it’s rather weather resistant. Some of the people in the village tell me it tastes good and you would never know it was so industrial of an element. Anyway that began changing near a year ago now. The behavior of the Grays has been distraught, unpredictable, and to the villagers and myself, scary.”
Hasser had a perplexed look on his face, Rant wasn’t sure he was following, he wondered where he had lost him. Hasser inquired, “The Grays, the Esson. These aren’t terms we use in Diya’Hum I think. It is a swamp you say, full of people alongside yourselves?” How could Rant be so silly, the Ouvari had their own language, their own writing system, no doubt they had their own maps and everything he just named may as well be made up for all it meant to anyone among them that wasn’t very well traveled.
Rant stood and walked over to the hearth, there on the mantle was a pinewood stand painted black with six racks stacking upward along the wall. It was not very ornate, carved in simple curves to better hold the maps set on it. He fingered through each and when he got to the third rack, he nodded to himself and brought the map back to his chair, Hasser looked around wondering where he intended to unroll it and Rant realized he didn’t have a table there. Benjaffe who was once again silent at the chamber entrance realized it as well and he grabbed a large chest with jingling brass locks and pushed it over in-between the chairs. It wasn’t as wide as a table, and it might be a little awkward to set the whole map on the surface but it would do.
Rant unfurled the map and held both ends to keep it from rolling back up, it was rather detailed. It showed the Estate on which they were now meeting near its western most edge, the furthest western objects being the Eastern Barrier Mountains, a fact that Rant would contest with the mapmakers one day. Further east beyond a short area that was the farthest reaches of the Jade Plain was a sprawling land and lettered in black ink across it was “ESSON”, which occupied most of the territory depicted except for a portion that jutted northeast toward what was labeled “DRAGON BUTTES”. This portion of the map was called Graymarch.
Rant explained the area as Hasser looked on at the map, and he became more aware of what was being talked about. After the explanation he said, “The Depensai, The Rising Deep” pointing to the Eastern Barrier Mountains and the Northern Chord as a whole. He pointed to the Dragon Buttes and Graymarch as one body and said, “Therlydrath, Bones and Blood of the Dragons.” Lastly he pointed to the Esson, ignoring the rest of the detailed areas on the map and said, “Thdorin’arit, Heart of Roots .” Rant nodded and after gesturing to Hasser if he still required the map, to which he replied no with a shake of his head, Rant rolled it back up and placed it in his lap.
“Blood and Bones of the Dragon.” He stopped a second, “Well, in Therlydrath,” he barely stumbled over the foreign word, “The Grays as we call them,” Hasser interjected for one second.
“The Dralyth. This means Dragon’s Woe.” Rant nodded.
“They have changed much in the last few seasons. As I was saying they used to make their territory marks very bright with the guts of the melon, then we would know not to enter where it seems we are not wanted. We tried for years to get along with them, but they just avoided us. I recall my father telling the tale of when he led a welcoming party to meet them in the Esson, he said they didn’t even show a hint of, anything. One merely said, uh…he said…Buk’rar’muir. I think that was it.” Hasser fumbled through the saying in his head it appeared, Buk’rar’muir…buk’rar’muir..
“Buk’rar’muir, it means like,…relishing in the facts. But as a foreigner.” He looked to Bounicun who went through the words in his own mind with a finger to his temple and nodded, they seemed to be in agreement. “That is an old language, one they teach at the Desi, yes. I’m very surprised by this, but then, they are an old people. With perhaps less ambition than Diya’Hum. Always in the swamp, and the foothills…historically they were hunters of the dragons in the, Dragon Buttes?”
“And that is what I was getting at,” Rant sat straight forward,” No more are they so reclusive. They post their markers further out than ever, and closer to our village. That in itself wouldn’t be so distressing but it’s the manner of marking. Undoubtedly they are at some inner conflict, they have begun to use the mutilated corpses of animals to mark their territory. Skulls strung together on posts and they cake blood over the melon guts and paint the trees red. It’s a nasty mess, there are all manner of biting insects swarming over their marks. Being the man I am, I said not to bother with it in the first months of it ongoing. Let them commit their rites as I thought It was, but Bairn, blast him he isn’t here, seems to think that it’s a sign of change in leadership. As I said, of inner conflict. For us, we fear this means expansion, perhaps into our villages. Already I have arrested ten of the villagers, self proclaimed Shamans of the Esson who began a doomsday rant when the troubles had lasted some weeks. They stirred the town up quite a bit. That was the last straw.
“The Grays wander closer than ever, to the village line in fact. Still of course saying nothing, doing nothing. Gedlow, one of the procurers in the village believes that he has caught many of them stealing food or trying to take shelter near the village, but who knows what this can spell out. All too quickly a peaceful, elusive people, has turned into a much different one. As a leader, I could not ignore these signs when Bairn related the circumstances to me, it for this reason that we sent the message to you, to get help. We have the barest militia. We never deemed one necessary, the dragons are far away in the foothills to the northeast and the Grays never relayed to us as a threat. Most of the villagers are merely foragers, spending their time recording new finds from the wilds, testing them for medicinal or other uses. To that effect we have an alchemical weapon or two to supplement those armed with swords or pikes. The stock of course is limited, the empire takes large caches of our finds when they send the caravans south, and they have not provided us with a proper guard at the settlement. Being they are so far away, I intended to take this opportunity to get closer to your people, our other neighbors. I hope it does not bode in an ill manner that I ask you here now, when we need something of you.”
Hasser was again all seriousness, speaking on his knowledge and offering his own emotion before but again he was a representative now. He pressed his hands together, he looked Rant in his eyes, he looked at his hands then placed them under his chin and looked at the ceiling that for the first time he noticed was painted in gray, black, and white scenes of trade, guardianship, and court. This was not the artwork of an uncivilized nationcbut the Weltithe it was known had gathered much of their lands through conquest.
“I think, it is best to take a closer look Lord Rant. I of course am young, and Benjaffe not much older. I am still a student, but I think it is fortunate for you that Dulah came with us. How old is your settlement here, 30 years?” Rant nodded.
“Well, Dulah is 66 years old. If I am not mistaken I have heard him speak of Therlydrath before. Not tales, but experiences. I can speak with him tonight, after the funerary rites are given or perhaps before, and after that I think it is best that you show him what it is you are seeing. Thdorin’hart is a two day ride from here. I think you are right that time is of the essence in this, colorful situation.”
The night pressed on slowly. Lord of the House Rant finally retired to his quarters after a restless meal and the total absence of company. His worry and frustration the past two days had made him tired. A good many more people than he believed would were attending Elyion’s funeral. Tradition stated that he shouldn’t, not only that, he wouldn’t. He didn’t believe in the observation of death. Funny though, this is what he was faced with in his own home now, observing death daily in worry and nightly in scattered nightmares he had been having since just before he sent Elyion to his doom. That wouldn’t help. He walked over to his desk, it had a bureau full of writing contents, his seal, and a leather carrying case. He removed it from the bureau and stared at the contents inside, some old papers, the village charter, and a stick figure like those the Grays used for territory markers before they were taken by whatever madness had them, carved from bone if he was not mistaken. The entire object was thin, if not for the fact that it was bone it would be fragile. The head however was another matter, it was large and bulbous, carved in much detail, contorted in an ominous expression that seemed of woe, like a wailing ghost. His father had left it in the bureau when he passed and Rant had found it, along with a large leatherleaf on which was scrolled in thick, black, blood, “Buk’rar’muir.”
Outside the window near the desk he could see the gathered throng for the funeral. Thirty or so odd residents of the estate, most dressed in simple black garb except for the soldiers who now stood at a full honorary salute in a semi-circle around the bed of large wood logs where Elyion’s corpse had been laid. Hasser was there, standing with Benjaffe and Dulah, all three of them had their hands pressed together as if praying and held against their faces. Rant could hear the priest reciting a ward from condemnation of the soul, “Let his spirit stand firm against the Dividing Winds of the after world. We stand here to see his Soul depart and arrive there, unblemished and forgiven his sin as he has suffered Death and will now be granted life.” It was the last of a few prayers, the Departing Word and the Living Word.
With it the funeral began to draw to a close, and Bairn stood forward from the crowd with a lit torch, it was the first time Rant had ever seen the man shed a tear before in his life as he lit the bottom of the funeral pyre which caught quickly and sent Elyion’s primitive physical body into a roaring blaze. The entire procession would stand there for another minute or so, the honor guard would remain through the night to see the boy’s soul off to the afterworld, so that it could not be swept up by the Winds of Dividing and whisked away by the Many Wraiths of Death.
