A system to our fantasy madness (for Zaval and Blurugirl)

[Blurugirl]

(Note to the casual reader: This is my first attempt at writing a collective story utilizing a RPG system of some sorts. So wish me and my fellow author good luck! Also bear in mind that this is not our world, so there will be differences with what tribes and kingdoms and empires and such rule where and how!)

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In many ways, the world that Rythia lives in is very similar to that of Earth prior to the Punic Wars. Major cities could be found across the world, but most people lived in or around small settlements or in wandering groups, and their loyalty was to their tribe and their clan. The dream that was Alexander was crumbling, and the dream that was Caesar had yet to materialize.

In other ways, though, Rythia's world is quite different from our own. The creatures that were the creation of myth in our world exist in hers. Granted, the creatures have been driven out or caged in the larger centers of civilization. But they still exist in most of the world.

In the same way, small magic exists throughout the world, used by everyday people to add sweetness to butter, ward of small misfortunes and mischievous spirits, make harvests more bountiful---things like that.

Large magic exists too, though its users live precarious lives. They either live in major metropolitan areas under the watchful eyes of distrustful rulers, or out in the wilderness where there are other forces to contend with.

Our story begins in a small village along the blurry line of the Celtic Confederation and the Sarmaritan one. The local leaders, who had long established marital ties going generations past, benefited from maintaining a relatively peaceful atmosphere that made it a thriving trade post between the two cultures.

Rythia was sitting at a table in a popular public house in the village with another woman, one who wore all the trappings of a warrior.

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The sight of two women dressed in such a way, sitting in a tavern, and not considered out of place by the other patrons, would have been foreign along the shores of the Eastern Mediterranean..Not further north, though. Sarmaritan women, after all, were the basis of the Greek tales of Amazon warriors. And Rythia had a reputation all of her own, one which meant that nobody interfered with her activities.

"We should be moving east," the warrior woman said in a low tone to Rythia. "We should have already been moving east."

"It's not going anywhere, Misia," Rhthia told her companion. "And I'd like to have someone with the raw talent this young man is supposed to have. And if he doesn't meet our requirements, we'll start our journey tomorrow."

Misia grunted, but settled back, waiting for the newest performer at the public house to appear.

 

[Zaval]

His name was Morcant, of Powyss. Son of Donnchad, a humble shepherd in an out of the way province in the wider Celtic Confederation. A young man of eighteen summers, Morcant feasted on the stories and tales of his tribe's lorekeepers as readily as the hunters fed themselves on wine and mutton. It hadn't taken him long to exhaust their stories, or the stories of the rare traders that came in from distant Sarmatia, Alesia, even Cisalpine Gaul from the land of the Romans. So when he became of age, he began his journeys, to learn and retell stories.

And at that current moment, he was in his element.

"Gather 'round, lads and lasses!" he called out, his strong voice cutting through the din and clamor that public houses often played host to. "Gather 'round, and let me spin a tale or ten for you whilst you drink yourselves blind!" A tall young man, more of a lean and wiry disposition than the typically strong and bulky physiques favored by the other youths, perhaps his most striking feature were his eyes and his face. Bright green eyes peeked at the world from beneath messy brown hair, which also served to frame a mischievous smile that seemed to draw others to him. Excellent qualities for a lorekeeper and a bard.

For he had a classic story to tell.

"So! Who here has heard the tales of mighty Herakles?" he called out. "No? The misadventures of Odysseus? The trials of Chuchulain? That's always a fun one to tell." It seemed he was taking requests, for tales either familiar or new...

...yet despite putting himself in what might be a precarious position, the man who stood atop the small elevated platform, wearing a simple tunic beneath a cloak and traveler's accouterments, seemed supremely confident in his own abilities...

 

[Blurugirl]

"A competent storyteller," Rythia told her companion as she flagged down a waitstaff. The public house in question has a better than decent selection of wine, particularly when you considered its geographical reputation. But it's beer was beyond compared, brewed with local grain and apples, and given an extra kick by the use of the Small Magic skills of the public house owner.

"Or at least a knowledgeable one," Misia allowed. "But only of the West. There are worlds and worlds to the East, and if we take a bard, we need one who has at least an inkling of what lies to the East."

The two woman settled back in their chairs to enjoy the performance.

 

[Zaval]

Morcant was, if nothing else, a perceptive young man. And somehow, through all the chatter and the clamor of the house, he heard mutterings of 'the east.' And his jovial face paused, frowning in concentration as he stopped to seriously consider this particular challenge. Who-?

And then it hit him. Of course. How could he forget that set of tales? They were classics!

"The east?" He made a dramatic show of cocking his head, cupping his ears as if he'd just caught the words. "There are quite the few tales of the east, miladies!" Spreading his arms, he began to make exaggerated gestures as the telltale signs and energy of Small Magic began to form like a canvas above his head. "Pray tell, the glories and follies of mighty Alexander? He who, even in his time, was called Great?" His pronunciation of some of the Greek was a little off, given his accent, but he gamely rose to the challenge. "Or his generals, who would call themselves successors after his fall?"

The image of the art one would find on a Greek urn materialized, with the mighty Alexander himself leading the charge of his Companions against a faceless horde. "He who conquered Persia with the might of Macedon and Hellas! He who carved the greatest kingdom that ever existed-!" His triumphant voice then fell in controlled despair. "-only to come undone from a death demanded by the gods too soon."

Was it far enough east? Morcant wondered. But he was already wrapped up in telling the broad strokes of the tale, and seeing who, if any, were interested in hearing it.

 

[Blurugirl]

If Mesia was a little put out by being called out by the performer, Rythia seemed amused.

"Do you know the legend of Amma-ekki?" she called out.

(And in his first roll of the RP, Morcant makes a successful roll against his Intelligence attribute and his Lorekeeper subskill. So more of the Legend of Amma-Ekki to follow!)

 

[Zaval]

"Not as much as I'd like, I'm afraid," Morcant admitted. "Save for one recurring tale told by the Sarmaritans tribes to the east."

The illusion of Alexander's host faded, only to be replaced by...what looked like a chariot, stalking the hills, with a woman shrouded in darkness riding astride it wielding a mortar and pestle. "'Beware, o' naughty, misbehaving children of mine,'" Morcant began to recite. "'For Amma-ekki wishes to dine! Take your bones, bring them to grind! Mashed, smashed, boiled in stew! Now behave, lest she come for you!'"

Morcant had the attention of a few more of the other clientele of the public house. Grinning, he explained for their benefit, "Amma-ekki. Told as a warning tale by mothers trying to get their little ones to behave. Some tales, however, say she's willing to help those wishing to right a wrong! Who can say?" The grin on his face suggested that he would be willing to find out more, given the opportunity. "It is all I know, sadly. From humble old Powyss, I am fortunate to have even heard this much!"

 

[Blurugirl]

"More than I expect from a Celt," Mesia allowed, which brought a grin from her ginger headed matron and friend.

"After you finish your telling, bard, come join us for a drink," Rythia said, tossing a small pouch of faceless silver coins on the platform.

 

[Zaval]

Morcant bowed deeply to the pair of lovely ladies, his hand catching the pouch as it arced against the ground. "Then I shall tell one more tale," he declared, a smile and wink tossed to Rythia in particular. "Heard, have you, the tale of mighty Thor...?"

Morcant spent the next few minutes retelling the tales of the gods of various different peoples. Thor. Horus. Zeus. Perun. It was but the telling of a few minutes, but for the right type of drunken clientele, it was more than enough to gather a few more silver and copper in appreciative tips. He would have spent longer, but for the waiting attentions - whatever they might be - of two rather beautiful ladies.

His performance complete, the journeyman lorekeeper paused only to order a fresh round of drinks to that table before sidling into the empty seat opposite to them. "My thanks, miladies," he said. His voice was a little deeper than when he was publicly speaking, but no less clear. "Morcant, son of Donnchad, at your service. Who are you, and what can I do for you?"

 

[Blurugirl]

"Rythia," the redhead answered. "My title would translate as Lady in your language." Rythia didn't introduce her darker companion, and neither did the warrioress seem prepared to do so. Instead, she kept a steady gaze on the Celt while she sipped her beer.

"I'm curious, Morcant," Rhythia continued. "I don't consider myself an expert on the various Celtic accents and dialects, but yours is pointedly out of place along the border. I'm curious as to where you came from, and what brought you this far to the east?"

 

[Zaval]

"Charmed," Morcant said with a bow of his head, a pair of emerald green eyes peeking from beneath messy hair that swayed from the motion. "Well met, Rhythia and your unnamed friend." That she remained unnamed was not troubling - he was at the table with two beautiful women. That was already a boon!

"Powyss," he said with a shrug. "Small part of the Celtic Federation. I love stories, and there weren't 'nough to go round. So soon as I could, started traveling. A story for a story, a story and song for room and board...I get by."

Tilting his head quizzically, he asked, "Forgive me for askin', but aside from my life story, you ladies seem like you have a goal in mind. What d'you need me for in all of it?"

 

[Blurugirl]

Lady Rythia's companion gave Morcant a baleful look at his clumsy attempt to try to include her in his introduction. Lady Rythia simply smiled.

"You could say I have the same calling as you, friend Morcant," Lady Rythia said as she snagged a bowl of the public house's unique beer from a passing server and placed it in front of Morcant. "I'm from a small part of the vast steppes that are attributed to Sarmaritan rule. I collect tales as well, and try to determine their authenticity. And meet other tale collectors as well. How about a toast, then, to the collection of tales and the tales of their collectors?" Rythia lifted her own bowl to her salute.

 

[Zaval]

Accepting the bowl with good cheer, Morcant raised his bowl in a toast. "To stories and the men and women who tell them," he toasted, before sipping at the rich flavor. He liked to think that he was at least somewhat worldly and traveled, even as young as he was. And he could already tell that the brewmaster gave a damn about how he turned hops into beer. He'd have to remember this tavern, come back at some point...if he ever came back this way, that was.

"And the steppes, hm?" Wiping some of the froth from his lips with a brush of his sleeve, Morcant studied the two women. They were beautiful, and any man who could claim he'd taken them to bed would likely have plenty to brag about - assuming their performance met their expectations, anyhow. But what brought them out here? "Can't imagine your interest is purely scribely," he casually mentioned, seeing if she was willing to divulge a little. "Awfully long trip across the steppes alone, so I hear. Confirming something that might be true?"

 

[Blurugirl]

"Something along those lines," Rythia said with a chuckle. And then she did something odd. She began to shimmer and waver.

Except it wasn't just Rythia who was shimmering and wavering. The entire world was shimmering and wavering. At least it was for Morcant. And then the world went dark.

When the world reappeared, it was from the inside of a wagon. There were canvas bags, bundles of arrows, and a few earthen jars of varied liquids. The wagon had some type of frame supported cloth over it. There was an opening in both the front and back of the wagon. From behind, the silhouette of the village Morcant had been performing in could be seen. In front, a stout, dark haired man could be seen driving two pair of oxen. The sun's position in the sky showed it was at least mid-afternoon.

Rythia's dark haired companion from the night before came riding up from behind the wagon.

"You were out longer than we expected," she shouted into the wagon. Her voice startled the driver, who turned around and checked on Morcant before returning his attention to the oxen.

"We'll be setting up camp in a couple of hours," the woman warrior told Morcant. "Just relax and enjoy the ride until then. Lady Rythia will answer your questions then." The dark haired woman rode off, not giving Morcant a chance to respond to her instructions.

 

[Zaval]

Morcant blearily woke as the tiniest amount of daylight creaked through the deep sleep he had been induced into. "Bwha-?" was all he could manage to say before he blinked more rapidly and sat up. He was forced to pause as it felt like the whole world was swimming around him, and his arm fell onto one of the nearby jars as he tried to steady himself. Whatever had been in that bowl of beer must have been a rather powerful sedative.

Morcant then glared at the other lady that was with Rhythia as her mount came up to ride alongside the cart. "You drug me for...whatever endeavor you're doing-" he began complaining, only to see her ride off before he could even finish. He yelled the rest of his complaint, "-then wound my pride further by claiming I can't even handle a drink with sleep draft? Madam, I am wounded!"

Grumbling, he leaned back against the cargo, shutting his eyes as he attempted to force his body to at least get a modicum of normality after the unusual hangover he'd just been induced to. "Never going back to that public house," he continued to grumble. "They could have at least asked me to volunteer..."

 

[Blurugirl]

The wagon driver looked back into the wagon, obviously not understanding a word of what Morcant was saying. Instead, he gave Morcant a toothy grin and said, "We get there two hours. Enjoy ride." With that pronouncement, the driver turned his attention back to the ox.

 

[Zaval]

"'Enjoy,' he says," Morcant grumbled. Huffing, he crossed his arms and closed his eyes, recounting what stories he could recall of the eastern Sarmaritans. The woman with darker hair certainly seemed like she hailed from there, and given that she clearly looked to be in formidable shape, he'd have believed it. But discussing Amma-ekki? Then drugging him?

What was going on?

 

[Blurugirl]

In a couple of hours, the wagon came to a stop. Most of the surrounding land was fairly flat, but the group had taken shelter in a clump of trees as the landscape slowly changed into rolling hills. There was a fairly sizable stream nearby, and whatever stew was being made around the camp contained a few fish caught from that stream.

The caravan consisted of four ox drawn wagons, each consisting of the strange cloth coverings like the one Morcant had ridden in. There were also a half dozen riders on horses, with maybe a dozen other horses being brought along as well. Everything was circled around a central campfire, with the ten stout, swarthy skinned men who made up the caravan able to converse with Morcant on a very limited basis. And most of the communication was where to eat and drink, and where he needed to go to urinate and defecate. Otherwise, they seemed to hold very little interest in Morcant, save to make sure he understood not to stray too far from camp.

The stew was a little spicy but filling, and the drink was watered down fruit wine of some sort. The swarthy men seemed to be anxiously looking about, and all came to attention when the dark haired woman came riding up to the camp. There was a distinct air of deference as one took her horse, while a second handed her a bowl of stew and wine, and the third pointed her in Morcant's direction.

"Good fare for a camp, wouldn't you say," she said as she took a seat by the fire, sipping from the stew bowl before chasing it down with the wine bowl.

 

[Zaval]

Morcant was torn between annoyance at the whole method of how he was brought to the camp, and his own curiosity getting the better of him. After accepting the food and drink - which he carefully checked this time - he mingled and explored within the camp, committing the sights and sounds to memory. Some how, he was now part of a strange story - it would be wasteful to forget the details.

And as the woman sat across from him near the fire, Morcant's expression was one of exasperation. "The fare was excellent, aye," he said. He then added pointedly, "and the drink has not rendered me unnecessarily unconscious yet either." Leaning against one of the wagons, he asked, "your name, madam? And will I learn what is going on anytime soon?"

 

[Blurugirl]

"It wasn't the drink that rendered you unconscious," the brunette answered. "It was an enchantment on the bowl itself. You might have picked up if someone had tampered with the drink. Plus, the pubmaster does something with a small enchantment or charm or something to make his ale. I don't pretend to know much about such things myself. I just trust what Lady Rythia tells me about it. She's at one of her houses, a village about four days ride from here, waiting for us. Hameha!"

One of the older men looked up from his meal and grinned. Several of his teeth were missing. The brunette said something in a rough, guttural language and the old man nodded, smiling an looking over at Morcant. The brunette stood up, wiped her mouth with a forearm and walked over to her horse.

"I understand people in your profession pick up languages fairly well. Hameha speaks the trade language in this area...well, he speaks it, which is more than what I can say about the rest of the swords. Learn what you can from him. Watch what you believe, though. There's a great ocean two thousand leagues to the East, and Hameha swears he was born on its shores. He'll also tell you some of his ancestors came from islands in the great ocean, and that beyond those islands are lands with...well, he can tell some tales. I'll see you in the morning, troubadour. Learn what you can." Without looking back, the brunette rode off.

The old man came over, grinning, his breath heavy with wild onions. "Not worry, me teach you speak good like me. I speak all languages, from ocean to ocean," the old man assured Morcant.

 

[Zaval]

Morcant sighed. Or at least, he would have, were it not for the whiff of uuugh that Hameha was breathing. He was clearly not going to get any answers, but he was now far too curious to simply try and cut and run. No matter how he got here, they clearly needed him for some kind of...performance? Job? Task? Quest? Morcant had no clear clue or motive as to what that might be. The brunette - who still refused to give her name - had already ridden off, leaving him here to endure this...well, whatever this happened to be.

But languages...that was something he could try. Or if not, he had nothing but time.

"So...Hameha." Morcant reluctantly addressed the older man. "Trade speak you say...?" If nothing else, this would be one interesting start to a strange story...and even if none of Hameha's tales about his supposed home were true, every thread could be spun into a tapestry if used the right way...

 

[Blurugirl]

Hameha nodded. "I speak your language, we call Far West Trade Speak, what we talk right now," Hameha began. "There actually four main trade speaks, but three is related closely, and one is more like you. Now I grow up speaking East Trade Speak, or maybe you call East Sarmaritan, but I also speak other languages. For example, I grew up on great Steppes, north of the Wall Built By The First Emperor. Huge Wall, this. Stone and dirt, plains and mountains. But necessary. Stories I could tell you of the..." Hameha paused, obviously puzzled. "Now word in Far West Trade Speak for them. Call them Big Teeth. Hope that not where Lady Rythia takes us. Or not take me, anyway. I just carry supplies to the house. Come, let us get drink, and we will tell story for story. I will teach you words in common of all the trade speak of the Sarmaritans." With that Hameha led Morcant back to get two bowls of wine.

 

[Zaval]

Despite his misgivings, Morcant - after several tales exchanged and a few bowls of wine - decided that Hameha was an alright sort. He clearly had all sorts of tales - of some great wall built by an eastern emperor, far beyond even the reach of the legendary Darius, or the horse people of the steppe that made the Scythians seem like tame sorts, and more. And in doing so, he began to converse his tales in Sarmaritan - or East Trade Speak, as it were. He regaled Hameha, then the various other men of the camp, with tales of the great chiefs of the Celtic Federation's assemblies, of the trickster god Loki, or the latest scuttlebutt about the Olympiad in Hellas.

By the time Rhythia - or her companion - came back, they would find Morcant easily conversing in somewhat accented - but still perfectly understandable - Sarmaritan. "...so then the philosopher did speak, asking, 'can I have another bowl?'" he regaled, and more than a few chuckles at the punchline were shared.

 

[Blurugirl]

"Up you lazy bunch of dogs!" The brunette yelled as she rode in to the camp just as the sun had just appeared over the horizon. The brunette was speaking a version of Sarmaritan that all the other Sarmaritans immediately responded to. No grumbling about the early hour or hangovers or anything along those lines. The tone of the brunette spurred them to action.

In a fluid motion, the brunette dismounted her horse and came striding over to where Morcant was sleeping. "You, bard. Can you read and write? And in what tongue?"

 

[Zaval]

Watching as his impromptu audience scattered by the brunette's orders, Morcant sighed as he sat upright. Finally having mastered a little bit of Sarmaritan, he had just been about to test one of his more ludicrous stories - but he supposed the story of the Consul, the Macedonian and the Carthaginian squabbling over a trireme would have to wait for another day.

"As for reading and writing, oh lovely lady," he explained, "I can read and write the language of the Romans. Some Carthaginian in there, on account that I thought that I would be traveling to Numidia." Oh, what could have been! "I also am versed in Greek." He tilted his head quizzically. "Why the urgency? Has something come up that requires translation?"

 

[Blurugirl]

"You, get him a horse!" she said, pointing to the old man who had taught Morcant Sarmaritan. The old man nodded and scurried off.

"Tell me, Bard, have you ever heard the Greek tale of the Hydra?"