Northerner

From SCross

Wounded Lands

Part 1

His mouth was a black slit I couldn't tear my eyes from, twisted into a friendly smile, it's owner sitting across the rustic table in what was assuredly the worst shack in all the Empire to call itself an Inn. He had no teeth, lost long since to the gradual depredations of scurvy and age, though through slitted lids his eyes were bright and alert. My supper companion's name was Uhulsak, an old hunter from the Kampetchya tribe. Like most of his brethren, Gaia's wrath had sunk its teeth in, and one of his ears drooped crazily, like molten wax, down the left side of his face.

Despite his gross deformity, or perhaps because of it, he was a garrulous and welcome guest at my table, and he, equally joyed to have someone to listen to him spin his yarns, had seized upon the opportunity with gusto, worrying my curiosity as he did the caribou meat he held in his toothless gums.

We'd met two days ago, when the first of the winter blasts had made my departure from the trading town (and I use this term in the loosest sense; no more than a thousand lived within it's walls, sustained by the twice-yearly shipments from the Empire's garrison) unthinkable. Curious as to the presence of one of the native folk, in the stinking, but undeniably warm skins they all wore here, I'd bent his good ear and he both mine. He never minded my staring; and I quickly learned few did; a full quarter of the population here had felt the brush of the planet's wrath in the past, and bore their marks stoically, most cheerfully joking about the various deformities and mutations that had befallen them.

With the gallows humour that seemed an institution here, the response from Uhulsak about what had befallen his ear was a cheerily grim jape, of how Gaia had seen him lost in the dark of the forest, and believing himself close to his home tribe he had carelessly lit a torch. "I think she mistook me for a candle that night; and did her best to light me. I never felt much, bundled up as I was, but the look of my first wife when she saw the Wrath upon me was a strange one indeed. She asked if I'd ear-wrestled a behemoth and lost! The next night I left the camp, and gave my wife and spear to my oath-brother Nauziln, and my children the talismans."

"I trekked a fortnight through the frost, fighting a head-wind for twelve of those nights. How I made it without the talismans or a Gaiman, I cannot say. On my seventh night, a track of Lobos picked up my trail, and I hid in the rocks until they passed on. On the ninth, near-frozen, I took refuge in a cave, and awoke an old father Malboro! Eeeyuh!" he exclaimed, waving his filthy hands animatedly. "And be chased a mile! The green friend's sickness spread in my lungs and made the rest of the trek a shadow of a memory; but I took some warmth by a flow of the fire-rock one eve, and the next day turned a wide detour of winter Lifestream."

"Finally the safety of the high ground welcomed me, the earth pulling me higher away from Gaia's blood and humours, and I stumbled into the town. My hands are strong and my eyes are keen, so I took with the sea-folk on their hunts for whale, and that is how I make my life these days."

I was to learn later how deeply entrenched this sense of gentle, black humour among the Kampetchya, and indeed all the Northern people went. His story, though told lightly to me, was more tragic then the casual listener would know.

Part 2

Kampetchya, like most wild tribes spanning the continent capping the great Holy Wound, drove out those who had fallen to mutation and did not leave voluntarily. Too many were driven mad by the touch of Gaia's spirit, and these could not be trusted around children. For surely foremost in the lives of the northern people is the sanctity of childhood; no land I have ever visited, no people I have ever known, revere the youth of their tribes as the northern peoples. And for good reason! Life in the Wounded Lands is short; I call Uhulsak an old man, and by his people's standards at fourty-four, he was. Certainly he looked three decades beyond that, though his body was still spry and strong.

Every tribe, every village, and even here in the towns around the coastal highlands, seems devoted to the rearing of children. Many marry young; age twelve or thirteen, and are expected to be parents by no later than their sixteenth year. Most men, once they have fathered their first child and thus proven their potency, take a second or third wife, as many as they can comfortably hunt for. Polygamy is the norm; the Wounded Lands are a dangerous place, and the hunters die as a regular course of event in their hunts among the stunted, monster-infested forests.

Those that don't die face the rigors of another threat; the Lifestream. A most common symptom of exposure is sterility, and a man who can no longer father young gives up his wives to one who can, and hunts for the good of the tribe and the children of it. Child rearing of the tribe is communal, and when once I asked Uhulsak about questions of lineage, he looked at me in shock. "Why would a man care who fathered the child his wife bear? Yahal! Who would spurn the love of a child for something so foolish?! Are the men of the Empire mad that they would turn out the young onto the rocks and beasts? The Wounded Lands cry for the love of good people who remember the ways of Gaia, and takes her share of enough of them on her own. The blood that is worthy must carry on."

Roles of the people of the Wounded Lands are simple; and decided early on in life. There are five central pillars of any tribe; these are the Shamans, who dispel the spirits that plague the land and it's people. The Gaiman, whom we call geomancers, that read the patterns of the earth around them, and move the people when lifestream or firestone threaten. The Feralis, whom we of the empire normally detest as Blue Mages, who help against the constant threats of monsters and lifestream-tainted meats. The hunters, whom kill for the tribe and aid in the fights against bestial predators. And the common villager, who crafts the items necessary for life in the Wounded Lands and rears the young.

Men and women are found equally in all roles within the tribes, though men tend towards hunting while the women remain in the village. The women are typically too busy gravid or rearing to hunt regularly; while it is hardly rare, the simple realities of life within the Wounded Lands ensure that few women are regular hunters for the tribe.

Mutual co-operation is the order of the day, with travelling bands of 20-60 people being the average village. Each village, regardless of size, strives to maintain at least 3 Gaimen, and 2 each of Feralis and Shamans. This does not include the countless apprentices; at least half of the men and women, aside from their duties of hunting or rearing, are trained to apprenticeship in the three roles.

The Gaimen (their geomancers), in particular, are the true guardians of the people against the ravishments of an angry planet; only they can feel the stirring of the firestones or lifestream deep below, and move the people out of danger in time. It's well-known and accepted that the motions of Gaia are anything but random here; her blood relentlessly pursues the people on her face, and rare indeed is the camp that can rest for a season without at least one move. Unlike most attacks by monsters or spirits, which can claim a few casualties at a time, a flow of volcanic mud or the insidious seep of the Lifestream's energy can claim an entire village. Worse yet are those that do not die, but awaken one morning to discover all those in the tents around them have been struck down by mutation and later, sterility. No blow is crueler to the hearts of the Wounded Land's peoples than that tragedy.

Consequently, no village is without at least 3 Gaimen, or more. With most serving double-duty as hunters or rearers (as do all those guardians of the people), there must always be at least one alive and able to perform their duties; determining a safe route to escape, or in extreme examples, changing the face of the land to protect the village. The communal nature of the villages ensures those caught up in such duties remain fed; as the land demonstrates time and again, co-operation means survival.

The Feralis (their Blue Mages) are the next most common; serving as the specialists in monsters and their unique magics, their duties are the protection of the hunters, and equally as important, ensuring the meat they spear is safe to devour. The inland peoples must rely on the caribou, musk oxen, and other migratory game to feed themselves, and the earth can be as harsh upon the beasts as it is on the people. To the Feralis, every kill is a potential hazard; perhaps the meat is turned by an unknown mutation, making it poisonous or rent by pestilence. The Feralis educate the hunters as best they can for methods of detecting such hidden dangers, but even so, such meat is an all-too-oft killer for a hunter on his own. No meat in the camps is consumed until one (or ideally, more) Feralis have blessed it safe.

Their aid and knowledge in taming monsters is legendary; though a monster cannot be used for much due to their inherent natures, calming them and driving them away is a routine task for the Feralis; with the exception of the Lobo, few of the predatory beasts hunt in packs, and thus are easily handled by a lone Feralis. Some are prized for their meat as well; the highly regarded malboro tentacle, selling for upwards of thirty gil a pound, come originally from the hunters of the Wounded Lands. Chocobo, rare and seldom ridden here, are also a delicacy they espouse.

A race of blue-furred beast men known as Ronso, long revered for their great strength and sense of honor, are known to join and train with other Feralis of the tribes, being among other talents, natural Blue Mages in their own right. Well-welcomed wherever they travel, the relations between Ronso and other humanoids remain a close bond, despite the natural aloofness the Ronso keep about them.

Finally, though hardly least, are the Shamans (their Summoners), whom tame and capture the capricious spirits that swarm up from the Lifestream now and again, and turn them to use for the people, or drive off those with ill will to the people. Every child, upon their birth, is presented with as many as five potent talismans, to be sewn into their parka and thus worn nigh-constantly. These talismans are highly prized by summoners of the Empire throughout; and many a Shaman has turned to making a rich living to crafting and selling these far-from-vanity trinkets to the mage guild. Unlike many Summoners within the empire, the Shaman must work with spirits on a nearly day-to-day basis, pacting with some, capturing others, and banishing yet more.

To them also fall the culturally important story telling; the history of the Wounded Land people stretches back before pre-Holy days, telling of the coming of meteo and the making of the Wound, and the long years of lifestream that followed. Strangely, it is in this most uncivilized of lands, that perhaps the greatest knowledge of the pre-Holy days is held, in the songs and legends.

Part 3

The continent officially came three hundred years ago, in the formative years of the Highwind dynasty. Tales of explorers sailing north passed southerly gradually, and a few mages fortunate enough to survive the horrible trip by frigid ocean made contact with the coastal tribes, who had lived (and by and far, still do) off of whale and seal hunting, and consequently discovered the unique properties of the Wounded Lands and, even more valuable, the depth of magic talent so casually held by the peoples of this harsh land. As those within the Mage guild know, few other lands, with exception of the western barbarian continents, possess much knowledge of geomancy or blue magery, and summoning is relatively rare against the schools of Red, White, or Black magery.

The reports of the Mage Guild members came back to the Empire, and their interest was immediately piqued. The Merchant Guild, smelling profit in what before had been regarded as useless, blasted lands, moved immediately to raise a town by one of the two natural harbors of the continent large enough to handle the great sea-ships, and brought with them their teleportation rituals. Suddenly, the people of the North had visitors. Thankfully, the resources of the land amounting to little more than furs and poor timber kept the Empire's interest tepid at best, and to this day they have never moved to officially recognize any of the settlements of the Wounded Lands as theirs.

Years passed as mages shipped north to study among the people; and those that could stomach the brutal conditions of the land and its realities of life were well welcomed amongst the people. In turn, the Mage Guild continues to fund settlements, providing sources of safe food and shelter.

It should be noted the few towns of the Wounded Lands all share a common trait; all are coastal, and on elevated cliffsides of solid rock that, while exposing them to merciless winter winds, also ensures the flows of lifestream are buried too deep to endanger the townsfolk.

Trade is limited; occasionally specialty meats are shipped through the Merchant Guild to buyers, or furs are sold, but the majority of the profit is in supplying food and necessities to the Mage Guild outposts, who in turn distribute it to the families of those hunters and rearers that teach and study within the Mage Guild itself. Consequently, the way of life for most has changed little; and city life is still viewed with mild scorn by the able-bodied hunters and rearers. It is a place for those touched by Gaia to go and live the last of their lives, and for the young to go and earn early shares of meat and goods for their tribe until old enough to hunt with the men, or raise children with the other women.

Part 4

Oft-times since returning I've been asked about rumours of thieving by the people of the Wounded Lands, to which I must reply that special consideration is required. Unlike those of the Empire, communal life is taken to its ultimate form; a man never 'owns' anything, in truth, or rather, he owns what he can carry and use. A hunter's spear that he needs for a hunt would never be taken; but had he a few spares, another man of his tribe could come forth and simply take one to use, and it would be considered 'his', and none would think twice of this transaction.

My contact within the guild chuckled frequently at this topic as I asked him about it, and he explained that many a Mage Guild artifact had been taken for use. Hard feelings had resulted at first, but it was not as though the takers had acted deceitfully; most simply walked up, and made no effort to disguise their intentions or possession, and returned it as soon as asked. Consequently, it was encouraged for certain artifacts and items to be explained in detail to the new students, explaining why the Guild would continue to need an item nearby, and ought not be borrowed without checking first. These days, while the concept remains alien to the people of the Wounded Lands, they abide by it while inside the city.

Crime and punishment is handled in a direct way befitting the land it springs from; few things are crimes, as the nature of living makes crime counter-productive. Living communally, if you harmed others, you in turn harmed yourself. Ostracization was the punishment of choice; gradually deepening if the offending behavior was not corrected, but once corrected, was quickly forgiven and forgotten. As few, if any, can survive alone in the wounded lands, total ostracization is a death sentence. Being forcibly driven out or killed is reserved only for those madmen and murderers who threaten the lives and well-being of the tribe.

As such, the concept of war is unknown to them; there are hardly twenty thousand people across all of the continent, and those tribes that do meet with one another, usually annually, do so to exchange goods and make marriages, to prevent inbreeding. As well, during these times, apprentices may be traded to villages requiring someone talented in a certain field, be it Gaimen on down to simple spear-maker.

Part 5

As some have marvelled, it's a testament to the tenacity and inner strength of these people that humanoid life survives at all. Even without the threats of monstrous attack, lifestream, and constant seismic activity, life would be difficult. Winter storms are nearly constant; with the summers brief and seldom warming above 8 degrees Celsius. Consequently, trees are stunted and small, and vegetation is frequently little more than lichens on the tundra rocks.

The diet is composed almost exclusively of meat, fat, and tea; dietary requirements in this cold climate mean fat as a staple of energy is a necessity; by weight, a full quarter of food-stuff consumed is fat in it's various forms. Meat protein is the other three quarters, and gallons upon gallons of tea are drunk daily. White mages knowledgeable about their ways explain that the teas are their sole source of most nutrients, and the incredible quantities of water are required for their bodies to process the highly concentrated sources of energy they're taking in through meat and fat.

Medical examinations show an amazing tolerance to poison and toxins, likely due to their enlarged liver and kidneys to deal with a millennia of their diet. Body temperature runs higher as well, with a far greater tolerance for hypothermic conditions.

Part 6

The medical professions are hardly the only interested parties in the northern lands; some archaeologists have taken great pains to explore the interior of the continent, closer to the frosty bite of the poles, and the massive crater from the coming of Holy, known locally as the Wound. Finding a Gaimen to guide you near this region is nearly impossible, however. Not only is the land dangerous, but also the screaming of the earth that they are attuned to is particularly frightful there. Lifestream flows thickly in the region, making it at the best of times an invitation for the planet's wrath.

Still, reports occasionally surface, two compelling ones in particular that draw more and more visitors every year. One is the tale of a city half-buried in a mountain-slide, surrounded by lifestream, that contains within it buildings built of gigantic seashells, with a temple's spire rising broken from the ruins. It's said to be guarded by fierce monsters, and what few adventurers have visited it typically refuse to speak of what they have found, only to swear it exists, and should never be visited by mortals.

The other is a rumored, but never confirmed, floating tower, that legend holds houses men of metal, who bring ruin from machines of steam and magic, and fly their tower around the Wound, protected by the fierce monsters that guard the planet's injury. None could approach it even were it found though; the gale frigid winds are beyond the tolerances of even the finest airship, and would surely dash it unto the rocks long before it ever got within a hundred leagues of the Wound.

The Wound itself has never been visited in a millennia, or so it is spoken. Once every decade, a whispered rumor of a foolish soul exploring it and returning mad, or transformed into a hideous beast, surfaces, but has never been confirmed. It is known from ancient songs and reports that deep within the crater can be found the source of the continent's lifestream, and the slowly healing earth protects it like a wounded animal. Indeed, undeniably the most dangerous and fiercest beasts live close along the Wound, the area infested with ilk such as the Malboro, the Behemoth, the Tonberry, and vengeful spirits like Magic Pots and Movers. Chimeras move around the foothills, bringing ruin unto would-be adventurers days before they reach the foot of the mountains that protect the Wound.