Written By Ludovic
May 21, 2021, 11:49 a.m.(7/7/1015 AR)
An account of the Silent War, given from the perspective of a recently returned Prodigal, recounted in the style of his people's oral history:
We have stalked the swirling snow,
Felt the shiver of heavy wind blow,
We have seen the churning of the storm,
White and wing'd, death given form.
We were young and number'd twenty-four,
Our little band, a distraction nothing more,
The tales we told were wide and tall,
To bolster the courage of one and all.
To the west we turned our heels,
In valleys green with easy meals,
We raided them in verdant lands,
And there spilled blood, with our hands.
We grew to men, strong and fierce,
Forged in battle, our spears did pierce,
We walked in the shadow of our tribe,
But from Tolmar Brand, we could not hide.
To the east perchance we went,
Through thorn and peak, were sent,
Tigris, Gemma, Guld, Kamon, Ulyips,
We buried them beneath the rosehips.
In that valley distant we left yet more,
Riven, Vind, Shea, and Lahore,
Time had given us its own scars,
Shaped like those fallen 'neath the stars.
We heard the call of the mammoth tribe sound,
And steeled ourselves to hold our ground,
On Spire's slopes we met their host,
Until, of us, only six remained, six at most.
Home at last I came to see,
Was it here, or was it there, I came to be?
Clasps on my shoulders, children on my knees,
Still I see their shades and memories.
We have stalked the swirling snow,
Felt the shiver of heavy wind blow,
We have seen the churning of the storm,
White and wing'd, death given form.
We were young and number'd twenty-four,
Our little band, a distraction nothing more,
The tales we told were wide and tall,
To bolster the courage of one and all.
To the west we turned our heels,
In valleys green with easy meals,
We raided them in verdant lands,
And there spilled blood, with our hands.
We grew to men, strong and fierce,
Forged in battle, our spears did pierce,
We walked in the shadow of our tribe,
But from Tolmar Brand, we could not hide.
To the east perchance we went,
Through thorn and peak, were sent,
Tigris, Gemma, Guld, Kamon, Ulyips,
We buried them beneath the rosehips.
In that valley distant we left yet more,
Riven, Vind, Shea, and Lahore,
Time had given us its own scars,
Shaped like those fallen 'neath the stars.
We heard the call of the mammoth tribe sound,
And steeled ourselves to hold our ground,
On Spire's slopes we met their host,
Until, of us, only six remained, six at most.
Home at last I came to see,
Was it here, or was it there, I came to be?
Clasps on my shoulders, children on my knees,
Still I see their shades and memories.
Written By Ludovic
May 17, 2021, 9:28 a.m.(6/26/1015 AR)
On Entering the City, and the Southlands:
Barely four days ago I arrived in Arx, a nomad Prodigal cast out by his tribe, and distrusted by the Compact. My accent is thick, and the people here seem distrustful of the idea that a Prodigal would still consider their tribe. The few who I met who understood, notably the Clearlakes, cautioned me to keep my origins and my beliefs to myself. In part, I agree with their advice, but the bonds of my people are strong. I was... am... proud to have endured the blizzards and the beasts of the North, to have stood beside my brothers and sisters in battle, to have eased the tribe's relations with others, even the Compact. Each of us, every member of an Abandoned tribe, is a piece of a greater whole. It weighs on me that my piece of the whole is no longer present, and yet...
There is no other way. We believe in the purity of endurance, the sanctity of the struggle against the cold - to prove our worth to tribe and spirit. But there is no other way - we cannot continue to stand alone, apart. What sights must I see, or allies make, to convince the rest of us to bend the knee? Would the seers even listen to a, 'Prod' such as myself? One who journeyed to southern lands of warmth and comfort, and returned to share the good fortunes? I ask myself these questions, even fearing I know the answer. I am reminded of the words of Vind, when we stood shoulder-to-shoulder against the Bitter Wind sept.
"The measure of a man is not how well he handles an axe, Ludovic. It is that he fights on, even when others would despair. Bravery is not the absence of fear, or despair - it is the will to overcome them." So, ka, my friend. I will remember.
Barely four days ago I arrived in Arx, a nomad Prodigal cast out by his tribe, and distrusted by the Compact. My accent is thick, and the people here seem distrustful of the idea that a Prodigal would still consider their tribe. The few who I met who understood, notably the Clearlakes, cautioned me to keep my origins and my beliefs to myself. In part, I agree with their advice, but the bonds of my people are strong. I was... am... proud to have endured the blizzards and the beasts of the North, to have stood beside my brothers and sisters in battle, to have eased the tribe's relations with others, even the Compact. Each of us, every member of an Abandoned tribe, is a piece of a greater whole. It weighs on me that my piece of the whole is no longer present, and yet...
There is no other way. We believe in the purity of endurance, the sanctity of the struggle against the cold - to prove our worth to tribe and spirit. But there is no other way - we cannot continue to stand alone, apart. What sights must I see, or allies make, to convince the rest of us to bend the knee? Would the seers even listen to a, 'Prod' such as myself? One who journeyed to southern lands of warmth and comfort, and returned to share the good fortunes? I ask myself these questions, even fearing I know the answer. I am reminded of the words of Vind, when we stood shoulder-to-shoulder against the Bitter Wind sept.
"The measure of a man is not how well he handles an axe, Ludovic. It is that he fights on, even when others would despair. Bravery is not the absence of fear, or despair - it is the will to overcome them." So, ka, my friend. I will remember.
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