Among the Pale Men

The following are journal entries of an early Miri explorer and historian, Malad. His journal details his time among the Haens.

Day 21,

My first weeks among the Pale Men have been tumultuous. Upon entering the village, I was confronted by a militia of farmers. They escorted me to what I assume is the village’s spiritual leader. Our attempts at communication were frustrating.

Eventually, we were joined by a woman who had a comprehensive understanding of the common tongue.

As it turned out, several of the farmers had been challenging me to dual. After our translator, Maedoc, explained my intentions, the militiamen found me very amusing. They asked me for stories and songs, likely thinking me a minstrel.

The shaman allowed me to stay and assigned Maedoc as my caretaker.

I have lived among the Pale Men for three weeks now. I have set to work learning their own language, one “Bloodsong.”

Its written form is a matrix of fluid characters made with a single line. Entire sentences and phrases are made without lifting quill from paper. The styling of these unified phrases are similar to the runes of the Western Horselords. There is an symmetry and artistic quality to the script that I find fascinating.

I have set to work recording the meanings of various symbols, however, it seems that Common does not encompass certain concepts that are key to the culture of these “Haens” as Maedoc calls them.

Day 27

My progress with Bloodsong has improved rapidly and my teacher claims I am becoming attuned to the “Qaea” (pronounced Kie-ya). So far as I can tell it is a rhythm of some sort, one that all life revolves around. She has suggested I meet with the village’s shaman.

I have talked at length with Maedoc about certain aspects of Haenish culture. On the topic of governance, she replied,

“There are no masters here. Not since the last dragon has man taken a slave.”

Apparently, villages select a delegate to represent them in the “Dragon’s Senate” to the far south. These…. Senators return during harvest to reconnect with the people and explain new legislation or prepare their people for war.

Day 30

I have met with the shaman, a juggernaut of a man. His left hand is bound in iron bands and he carries a great hammer. He was intrigued by my progress with Bloodsong and, after a short conversation, invited me to a ceremony of some sort.

He talked of the “Awebringer” and claimed her piece in me to be bright. I must say I am greatly flattered by his words and they have only strengthened my resolve.

I have asked my hostess if any dragons yet live. According to her, the dragon’s blood is of the Haens. They are, in a way, dragons.

I could not understand. She told me I would understand in my own time.

Day 41,

My hostess tells me the ceremony will be tomorrow. I anxiously await it as it is supposedly paramount to my full comprehension of the Qaea.

There was a funeral today.

The cadaver was cleaned and bound in leather. The left hand of the corpse was in a glove cast in iron. It was carried to a raised stone platform in the village’s center. There, each villagers that wore a hand wrapping removed them and touched the corpse’s funeral glove. This is the first time I have seen a Haen remove their hand wrapping.

The shaman carved a Bloodsong symbol into the cadaver I did not recognize. Maedoc explained that its meaning was similar to “Bound” or “Service.” She would not speak of the ceremony further.

Day 42,

I attended the ceremony. The village was rocked by a storm the likes of which I have never seen.

Five sat on the platform: the shaman, myself, and three villagers. We were all secured to the platform by a chains.

The other four drank a brew from a stone cup. I did not partake at the recommendation of the shaman.

They began humming a tune that chilled me to the core. Even as the storm raged, I heard their erratic, tormented melody.

I wish to believe that my eyes deceived me, but I know they did not. As they hummed, they began to glow. Their mouths leaked a brilliant light that tore through the darkness of the storm. It rose and fell with their melody and coalesced into great winged beasts above their heads.

Each beast was beautiful and terrible and truly beyond description. Upon reflection, what was most fascinating about the beasts was that they were each unique.

The dragon that rose above the shaman was large and ferocious and stood with wings outspread, encompassing the rest.

I saw its eyes and it stopped my heart. I was afraid.

The shaman raised his bare left hand and the beast dispersed. The song slowed and the participants collapsed, like puppets cut loose of their strings. They did not stir again until the storm subsided.

Day 45,

The Storm Song, as Maedoc calls it, haunts me. Yet, in it I have found the patterns that flow through Bloodsong. My comprehension has improved at a pace so rapid the shaman has promised my inclusion in the next ceremony. I have begun the creation of a translation between Bloodsong and the common tongue.

Upon reflection, I have realized that my entries do little to detail the society of the Pale Men. I would like to make apparent that these are by no means primitive people.

Their homes are simple things, made of cobbled stone and sealed with an odd substance as strong as stone. The village can boast granite roads, multiple wells, large farms, and communal storehouses.

Maedoc is an administrator in the village. She records the community’s food and water consumption and production. All crops are brought to the public storehouse where they are counted and credited to the owner with a voucher commissioned by her.

They work with tools of a metal unknown to the Osiads. I believe it to be steel, though I have only seen steel once: carried by an Aster mercenary.

They wear modest clothing made mostly of animal skins and furs. I have seen little fauna in the general area. Them must hunt far from the village.

I have seen the warriors of the village training. To my surprise, the men and women sparred and trained with one another. It seems that gender roles do not affect those that take the sword.

I believe that the left hand wrapping is only worn by warriors. All of those I have seen wearing them, I have seen sparing. Even the shaman engaged in the bouts, displaying an incredible proficiency with his mighty hammer. I still do not know the reason for the wrapping, but I am content with my current findings.

The shaman predicts the next storm to be in a weeks’ time. I anxiously await it.

Day 51,

I have heard the Storm Song.

It moved through me as the sky raged above. Everything moved to the rhythm of the storm. Even now, I can let the rhythm in and feel my heart synchronize to it.

I have also seen the creature of my soul, my “Aesr” as the shaman called it. It was so black that it shone out in the darkness of the storm as a coal against grey cloth. Its wings were vast and feathered. Its eyes shone like two suns, so bright they threatened to blind me.

The shaman did not know what to make of my Aesr, but he concluded that I must not stop in my journey with the Qaea.

Day 54,

I can now boast a comprehensive understanding of Bloodsong and its script.

I have come to understand the Qaea profoundly. I have been a part of the second ceremony.

It took place in the Frigid Sea while the waters churned around us. One of the participants drown.

The Monsoon Song is mine, I can feel its somber dirge slow my heart should I allow it. It is as if I become a conduit for a time, a vessel through which the melody may flow. While it is a part of me I see beautiful, terrible things.

Day 59,

I have seen the Awemother.

The final ceremony took place while the land beneath us shook. I felt the rhythm, powerful and fierce, and sung.

Before us, a creature stood. Not one of our own creation, but of the essence of the Qaea. In that moment, I saw that she had always been with us.

She was slender and perfect, her body a churning mass of steam and smoke and ice and ash. I have never beheld a beauty so terrible.

She raised her right hand, and I saw her fist was one of molten rock.

I saw the storm that first opened my eyes, I saw her fist of lightning.

I saw the sea that raged during my second ceremony, I saw her fist of ice.

I watched in horror as she raised her left hand, so bright I could not directly gaze upon it. Her right hand shattered and around it orbited her fist of ice, her fist of lightning, and her fist of molten rock.

As her left hand rose, the land stilled. She opened her mouth.

The song of the Awemother was beyond comprehension. I listened and my mind shattered. When she left us, I lay on the shattered earth for a long while.

In that time, my mind slowly repaired itself. The shaman tells me I lay there for three days while he cared for me. He tells me I was lucky, few who see the Awemother regain their mind, let alone those who hear the Qaea from her own mouth.

Day 67

I have talked at length with the shaman on the meaning of the Qaea.

I have gained a basic understanding of Haenish philosophy.

They believe that there is an afterlife: this world. Immortal beings are bound to the Qaea, they are vessels that cannot steel themselves against it. To be immortal is to be a slave.

To be mortal is to be free. It is to be able to reject the Qaea and live according to one’s whims.

The Awemother, Edia, was once a great mortal. She was so powerful, she bent the power of the Qaea to her own end and bound the power of nature to her being. In doing so, she was pulled into a state between immortality and mortality, unable to die and unable to life. Her only respite occurs when she unleashes nature’s wrath on the mortal world. In her fury, she can be mortal for a time. While enraged, she is free.

The Haens know of her and emulate her. She is effectively an entity of freedom. I find it ironic that the god of freedom is often enslaved by her own power.

I do not know what to believe. After all I have seen, I cannot be certain of anything.

Day 70,

I have seen another immortal. It follows us as we make our return. Though the shaman has assured me it is harmless, I fear it. It is a man, I believe. It wears a mask of smooth stone without carving.

The Shaman sees him too. He says it is a Guardian, a mortal given the honor of serving the mortal world for eternity.

The Pale Men are free. Their god is free. Freedom is in their very essence. The dragons that I saw above the men, those were of freedom. Yet, eternal service is a reward to them…

Day 71,

The Guardian stood before me today. As I looked upon him, I heard the Qaea and I sang along. The Guardian grew still and I spoke a command “bow.” I know not why I chose this, but I did.

The immortal bowed.

My mind swirled with the possibilities of this… ability. But my time was cut short when the shaman came upon us. He shrieked, my occupied mind released the Qaea, and the Guardian dissipated.

The shaman’s eyes were ice as he looked into me. He left me without a word.

Day 74

I have had to rewrite this entry three times. For some reason I continue to write in Haenish script.

I told my Maedoc of my journey. She was awed by my encounter with the Awebringer and horrified as I described my brief control of the Guardian. She informed me that to command a Guardian is to take a slave: an unforgivable act.She assured me that, had I been raised among the Haens, I would have been killed by the shaman.

I was saved by my own ignorance. She urged me to leave immediately.

Maedoc embraced me and sent me on my way, but not before giving me a glove of black leather and silk.

I know the Qaea, I have sung the songs of Land, Sea, and Sky and I have bound a Guardian for a brief time. I must return, though it pains me.

The Haens are a glorious people, I cannot wait to share them with the world.