Tag Archive | reiassan

#Lexember post Five – Conlanging objects in the Calenyan world – Meals

Dec8

So, we’re back on food today!

To start with, in the comments of the last post, I came up with the word for table:
geten-upēk becomes getupēk, food-blanket, table.

And then, a bit more history.

The proto-Cālenyena were a semi-nomadic culture, which ate mostly gathered foods and goat products (meat, milk, cheese, yogurt).

The story they tell about their primary starch crop, a parsnip-like root vegetable that is a stem-tuber, in style like a potato, is that their goats found it growing along the banks of a river.

More likely, considering the name, was that a proto-Bitrani captive found the plants, realized they were edible, and began cultivating them.

The name, belenuza, likely comes from the proto-Bitrani osani á sibellan, earth-around-apple, although there are scholars that argue parallel linguistic construction, and those that argue it came from cazenbelun, a {west coast} word for a type of celery, with a declension meaning “down.” However, nobody’s ever heard anyone in the {west Coast} discuss “down celery.”

… That aside, the Cālenyen word for “meal” is one that seems to be their own word. Lōk and pēku seem to have originally referred to “food that requires something done to it” (originally lyōk) and “food you can eat right away;” some culinary awareness must have seeped in over the years.

Possibly with the belenuza.

getupēk, food-blanket, table.
belenuza, potato-parsnip (or earth-apple)
Lōk, meal

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/427975.html. You can comment here or there.

#Lexember post Four- Conlanging objects in the Calenyan world – Eating

Dec6

People wanted to know what the Cālenyena ate with, on, and at.

Cālenyen eating words evolved from sitting-around-a-cookfire eating to sitting-around-a-large-platter eating. Original tools for eating were small knives sharpened on one side, zēzupēk, zēpēk, food-knife.

They discovered the concept of a forked stick for picking up larger amounts of food; this became a pūtupēk, pūpēk, food-spear.

(most of the Cālenyen innovations were originally stolen from another culture.)

“Today,” in the reign of Emperor Alessely (I think this should probably be spelled Alesulē), a properly set eating arrangement will involve:

zēpēk, in a pair
pūpēk, only one
gazē (From the Bitrani savia), a deep-bowled spoon
tōrēk, from tōrupēk, “food-field (of battle),” a wide round platter on which dishes are arranged to be shared.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/426961.html. You can comment here or there.

#Lexember post Three – Conlanging objects in the Calenyan world – Knife, Sword

Dec5

As if getting into the spirit of Lexember, my local radio station trotted out this wiki excerpt about Mele Kalikimaka and phonological shift.

Today’s words are an experiment in phonological shift adaptation with a bonus geography/history note.

The continent the people who became the Bitrani and the Cālenyena came from held two other nations – the proto-Bitrani on the East Coast, the Cālenyena in the southwest, the [West Coast People] on, obviously the west coast, and the Ice Tribes in the north.

The Ice tribes discovered metal-working first, and traded with the West Coast people and the proto-Bitrani. They called a particular blade, a short one with a barbed edge, yee-shoon.

When the Cālenyena first encountered knives, the west coast people called them allishia. That word can’t exist in three different ways in the Cālenyena language; it became zēzu (zee-zuh)

When they first encountered swords, it was from the proto-Bitrani, who called them tyajoon. Since a starting ty- sound in Cālenyen indicates a useless object, and a sword clearly isn’t, and since they don’t have a j sound, sword ended up tazhō

zēzu (zee-zuh) – knife
tazhō (tah-zhoo) – sword

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/425351.html. You can comment here or there.

#Lexember post Two – Conlanging objects in the Calenyan world – Tent and Goat, Pot and Blankets

Dec4

On par with a goat in terms of importance to the Cālenyena(*) is their tent, at least historically.

petep (first syllable is like the word pet, with the same e sound in the second syllable) – this is a base word for “tent.”

(petepōk, which became pepōk over time, is “stone tent;” house.)

pazit is a goat (paw – zit)

geten is blanket, [and I need to figure out how I make things plural

gōt is a pot, generally a kettle for cooking over open fire, more generically any pot.

There is a Cālenyen saying:

Petep ō pazit, geten ō gōt: Tent and goat, blanket and pot.

It is meant to signify the needs in life (your tent and your goat) and the comforts (soft blankets and cooked food), but in later years also is a description of a separation of a couple – the soldier or worker gets the Petep ō pazit, the mother or home-keeper gets the geten ō gōt.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/424713.html. You can comment here or there.

#Lexember post One – Conlanging objects in the Calenyan world

Dec3

A tweet from the #Lexember founder tells me this began about everyday objects.

For the Cālenyen(*), their most everyday objects would center around their goats, which is part of what people were requesting anyway. So win.

First:
gōzh (rhymes with loge: a saddle, any saddle.

gōzakāb Orig. “big saddle;” a campaigning saddle, similar to a Western trail saddle.

gōzyup Org. “little saddle;” a bareback pad for very fast riding.

(*) I’ve changed this several times. This is the current spelling.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/424521.html. You can comment here or there.

Names and Conlanging

Dec3

Things!

First, vis [personal profile] ysabetwordsmith, This blog post about names.

There was quite a bit of thinking about names this weekend, as Rion-who-calls-me-Lyn was visiting. 🙂

Names have power. Choosing your own has quite a bit of strength.

I should write a piece about someone being forcefully renamed.

And second!

Via haikujaguar, I hear there’s this thing called #Lexember.

I will be creating a word a day (2/day today and tomorrow) for the language in the Rin & Girey story.

What sort of words would you like to hear? What sort of cultural tidbits would you like to see along with them?

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/424409.html. You can comment here or there.

The Empress who would be Goat-Wife, a story for the June Giraffe Call

Jul30

For [personal profile] anke‘s continuation (won in the drawing in June) of The Goat-Bride.

This story is set in the early days of the Callennan life on Reiassan.

The book landed on the table with a meaty thump.

“This is not the way it will be.” The Emperor of the Callentate of North Reiassannon-land, Eszhettozh, son of Emanek, stared at his second eldest grand-daughter. “This is not the way it should be.”

“This is the way it has always been.” His grand-daughter stared back at him, her gaze as level, her voice as firm. She set her hand on the book of their people’s stories, as if to draw strength from the síra of a rock or tree.

“And this is not how it will be this time. You are my heir. Your mother and your sister and brother have died. You are the next child of my eldest daughter’s loins. This is the way it is.”

“Then allow my mother’s brother to inherit. I will go to the goats, to be their bride. Such is the way it has always been.”

The stared at each other, the grey-bearded Emperor and the long-braided young grand-daughter, alike in stubbornness, alike in calm.

This is the way it has always been, said the girl, knowing full well that the first Goat-Bride had argued, instead, this is the way it will be now.

This is the way the road goes now, said the Emperor, knowing full well that his throne had been built on tradition as well as on arms. And they glared at each other, knowing full well that both could not win.

“I will go to the goats.” []’s voice did not crack.

“Then who will be Empress in your stead? I will live long, but not even the mountains live forever.”

“My mother’s brother should be Emperor,” the stubborn girl repeated. “He is next in line.”

“The grandmothers will not stand for another male. They have declared it so.” Some forces even the Emperor of the Callentate must bow to, and the elder women of the Tribes (even if they were no longer Tribes) were a force the way the ocean and the rain and the mountains were forces. They could not be budged quickly, and to try was to waste energy better left on learning to traverse their whims.

The Emperor did not expect to find his own granddaughter such a stony force as well. “Your mother’s brother cannot become Emperor,” he repeated. “You are my heir, and cannot go to the goats.”

“I will be a Goat-wife. The gods have witnessed it.” [] did not stop her foot, but she nodded her head firmly. “The sword and the goat shall be my home and my family. Someone else must rule.”

“But you are my heir. You must take the throne.” Back and forth they would have kept going, neither more willing to bend than the rock they stood on, had not the youngest of the Emperor’s advisors stepped up.

“The Callentate has many children. Let the Emperor’s third child take the throne.”

“She is old,” dismissed the ancient man. “She will not rule long.”

“Then her third child, who is a girl. Let her rule.”

Emperor and grand-daughter goat-wife shared a look. “Your first child cannot inherit. Your first child’s first daughter cannot inherit. Let your third child’s third child take the throne.”

“So let it always be.” They had come to a place where they could smile, and they did so, like the sun lighting on the ocean.

And so it was, until the days came for change again. But that is a tale of another day.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/379267.html. You can comment here or there.

Linkback, Prompting, & Donating incentive story!

Jul21

This is the linkbacks, etc. incentive story for the June mini-Giraffe-Call. I will post 25 words for each linkback, 50 for each prompt, 75 for each donation.

This is set in Steam!Callenia, some 750 years after the Rin & Girey tales.

“Are you sure that’s what the aetherometer reads?” Alsoonalla leaned over the seat back separating she and Teriana from the boys. “East?”

“I’m sure, Soon.” Onton shook his head, shook the aetherometer, and looked back at the road. Their goats were making a fair clip on the paved roads near the city, but once they hit the mountains, it might be a different story entirely. “Due East. It’s reading a deep vein of the good stuff.”

“I’ve never heard of any veins of wild aether in the Eastern mountains.” Teriana flipped through her notebook, finger running down the edge of the script. “Some small bits of the earth-energies, of course, although most of that is further south. But nothing of what we’re looking for.

“Well, if you’d heard of it, it would have been tapped by now. That’s part of the problem.” Doanisad had his own charts – old mining charts, older priestly documents. The aether, what had been called síra in the ancient days, had been pulled and torn and mined from every inch of this continent. There was little left, and what there was was hidden.

Doan’s father and mother were historiologists, scholars of the past. Teri’s were miners, using concentrated aether to pull ore from the hills. Soon and Onton were dabblers, avoiding a career in the priesthood by studying at University. For nine years, ever since that incident with the goat and the stone necklace, they had been working and plotting together.

The culmination of their friendship, their Ninth-Year thesis, was the aethometer Onton was currently pointing down the road. In theory, and in the controlled environment of the classroom, it had done exactly what it was supposed to. For some students – most, perhaps – that would be enough. But not for the Dreadful Four, the Stone-Eaters, the Back-Room Brigade. Not for them.

“I understand the theory behind the device and the project.” Teri defended herself, as always, with an affected upper-class accent far more formal than Onton or Soon’s. “I’m simply doubting your ability to read it properly.”

“The dial was of your design.” Soon and Onton would put up with Teri’s airs. Doan saw no point in that.

“Then I would be able to read it, of course. I was casting no aspersions on my abilities.”

“Of course you weren’t. We all know that…”

“Rock!” Onton interrupted the growing argument with a quick and ostentatious swerve to one side, guiding the goats around a large boulder and, of course, showing off his own skill in handling a carriage.

For a moment, they were all too distracted holding on to argue.

Then Soon clucked her tongue. “The roads in this district are falling apart.”

“It’s not a militarily important route.” Onton frowned at the road.

“Really, at this point, what is? We’re not at war on the continent anymore.”

“This year.” Doan ran a hand pointedly through his blonde hair – mark of the southern Bitrani people, who had been conquered and re-conquered.

“All right, all right. I surrender.” Teri held up both hands. “Could we please not fight? Doan, I believe your ability to read a dial unquestionably.”

Soon settled back into her seat, smoothing her hair with both hands and not looking at anyone. Onton did much the same, pulling his driving gloves straight and clucking at the goats. Doan stared at his charts for a moment, and then, reluctantly, nodded.

“I know, it seems beyond strange.” He ran a finger over the glass face of the dial. “But it’s East we’ve been pointed, and it’s East we’re going.”

“Roughly,” Onton warned.

“Directly,” Doan countered.

“No, I mean…” He steered the carriage hard to the left. “The road’s getting really rough. We’re definitely out of safe territory.”

“Oh… oh!” Teri grabbed the arm-rest and braced herself as they hit a particularly rough patch. The four-goat team seemed entirely unconcerned, prancing along as if they were in the meadow at home. Goats would, of course, cheerfully pull a cart up a mountainside, never mind the riders behind them.

“Pass me the crossbow under your seat?” Doan reached a hand back towards them, his eyes on the roadside. Soon set one in his hands, carefully, and took the other herself.

“I’ve got the right, Doan, you take the left. Teri, if you would watch our rear?” Unsafe meant bandits.

Bandits, and deserters, and other, less savory sorts. There was always a rebellion going somewhere. There were always dissatisfied northerners, or southerners, or easterners. Soon sighted along her crossbow and watched for danger.

“Oh!” It was Teri who squeaked, half an hour and a thousand bumps and jolts later. “Uh-oh!”

“Teri?” Doan turned first. Soon kept her eye on a bush that seemed to be moving improperly for foliage.

“It’s…”

“Just me.” Their cargo was moving, and a deep, rumbling voice was coming from underneath the tarp. “Have no fear, I’m not a bandit.”

“No…” Teri’s voice was rising higher. “No, you’re not. You’re worse, aren’t you?”

“Now, that’s unkind. Sir, if you wouldn’t mind putting down that crossbow…”

“I don’t think I will. Teriana?”

“I know him,” she confirmed. “I mean, we’ve met. More than once.” She gestured with one hand, flicking her fingers as if trying to dislodge something unpleasant. And, slowly, the tarp rose, exposing a hat that nearly covered the face of their stowaway.

Wide-brimmed and purple, with bands of yellow and gold decorating its brim, it was not the hat of any but the most affluent bandit, and it was not a stealthy sort of hat. Nor was the face underneath, the beard smooth and braided, the nose long and prominent, the lips glossed, the sort of face you expected to see on a bandit, or, really, anywhere in the outlands like this.

Of course, it bore quite a resemblance to Onton’s face, but none of them would mention that, not yet. It wouldn’t be polite, not until one of them said something.

“I know him,” Teri repeated. “Not willingly.”

“That’s a fine thing to say!” The man sat up, revealing a felted waistcoat in a brilliant shade of plum. “After all I’ve done for you.”

“I’d hardly say any of that was done for me, Beelang.” She was putting on airs again. She must be very upset by their guest. “Any more than a harness is for the goat’s benefit.”

“Teri…”

Doan waved the crossbow, and Beelang fell silent. “That’s enough.” Doan shifted his grip, but didn’t move his aim of their guest. “Leave Teriana alone, and tell us what it is you’re doing in our wagon, on our expedition.”

“Well, that’s a problem. You see, I can’t do both at once, because I’m on the expedition of yours, if that’s what you’re calling this little jaunt, with the express purpose of not leaving Teri alone. After all, she can’t just bound off into the wilderness with no chaperon!”

“This isn’t an Empress’ reign, and she’s not a wedded wife, anyway.” Soon wasn’t looking at their interloper, yet; she was still watching the road. “Doan, can you truss him up? I think there’s something in the bushes over there, and I don’t want the distract…” She ended her last word with an arrow shot into the bushes.

“Hey, hey!” Beelang’s complaint was cut short as Teri gentled him across the skull with a blackjack. She caught him before he could slump out of the cart, while Doan was still gaping and the wounded-whatever in the bushes was making startled, unhappy noises.

“Give me the rope,” Teri snapped, which finally goaded Doan into action.

“You hit him pretty hard, didn’t you?”

“I hit him precisely hard enough to render him unconscious… I hope.” She tied their unwelcome guest up with tidy, strong-looking knots. “Soon, whatever did you hit?”

“Well, I’m hoping desperately that it’s not a wild goat. That would go poorly. Or a mountain lion.” She hopped down from the cart, still pointing her crossbow into the trees. “Onton, if you wouldn’t mind…?”

“Coming.” He passed Doan the reins and followed her, a long metal spear in one hand and its aether-storage pack in the other.

“Oooh, oww…” The sounds had gone from animal to human, or a clever facsimile of such. Soon moved even more cautiously. “Bitter water and rotten stone!” That was probably human. She nodded Onton forward, minding his flank. There could be more than one.

“By the whirlpool of Tienebrah, they shot me!”

“You threatened me.” Soon kept her crossbow pointed levelly at the sound of the voice; Onton flanked the invisible complainant slowly.

“I’m hiding in a bush. What sort of threat is that?”

“The sort you learn to pay attention to.”

“I don’t want to know where you grew up, do I? Ow, whirlpools, you really shot me. This was supposed to be a frolic, just a spot of fun. Nobody was supposed to get hurt!”

His consonants were awfully soft, his vowels long and trying to be two or three sounds. “Are you Southern?” What was taking Onton so long?

“No.” Suddenly the whining was gone. There was someone coming up on her right, and where Onton had gone there was a rustling and shaking in the bushes. “I’m Bitrani.”

She swung the crossbow to her left, fired, and dropped it, drawing her longknife. “Ware,” she shouted, as the whining Bitrani dove out of the bushes at her.

“You have a funny idea of a frolic.” He was shot, at least, his somber waistcoat pierced with half of her bolt, but that wasn’t stopping him from coming at her with a back-curve blade.

“You have a funny idea of a school project. Fully armed, carrying munitions. Does your advisor know your brought explosives?” He was going for her throat; she was suddenly glad for the hidden armor in her collar.

“Of course she does.” An armpit wound would distract him. She stabbed quickly. “The roads are dangerous, you know.”

“Behind you, Soon, down!” She dropped and whirled as a sword went singing over her head. The sword was followed by a loud thump and a spurt of blood, the spray coloring her sleeves red and splashing over her face.

“Blasted mountains.” Her first attacker sat down hard. “You killed him.”

“He had his weapons inches from Soon’s face. It seemed reasonable.” Onton wiped his blade on the dead man’s tunic – very dead; his head was several feet away. “I’d suggest you surrender now before it appears that you’re threatening an Imperial Princess.”

“And if I kill your precious Imperial Princess?”

“Well, it appears that she’s pierced you once already with an arrow. You’re probably going to leave a trail, and Soon’s been known to poison her arrows. That means you’ll make it maybe a day’s travel before I catch up with you, at which point…” Onton’s voice dropped an octave, and his eyebrows furrowed. Suddenly, he sounded like a much older man. “I will destroy you utterly, and make you beg for it while you bleed.”

“I didn’t realize you two were going to the grassy hills.”

“You didn’t realize anything about us.” Onton’s voice was still rumbly, giving no indication that he and Soon were, in fact, doing nothing at all on the grassy hillsides. “I’m sure your capture will give you plenty of time to think about rectifying that.”

“Capture? What?”

“Surrender, and I’ll see that the poison in your wound is treated, and that you’re well-cared for. Attempt to harm us…” He left the threat unspoken. Since he’d entirely fabricated the poison, Soon was impressed he was leaving anything at all up to the imagination.

She cleared her throat. “The same,” she added, in a regal, grown-up voice of her own, “goes for anyone else hiding in the brush.”

Nobody came forward. The man at the end of Onton’s blade sighed. “I surrender. You were supposed to be a bunch of students.”

“Then why attack us?” Soon took the leather thongs from her purse and began trussing the man up, mindful of his wounds.

“Well, for what you were carrying.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/356901.html. You can comment here or there.

Callenan poetry, a brief treatise, for the July Giraffe Call

Jul18

This is the donation-level perk for the June Giraffe Call.

Callenan poetry falls into several different categories, but the largest division, describing all else, is spoken vs. written poetry.

Written poetry originated with the priesthood, and before them with the gods-chasers1 of the original Home Valley. The Callenian language, written, lends itself to artistic forms and decoration.

In the early days of the written word, the god-chasers would mark short prayer-poems, often calling out to longer spoken-poem works, onto the skin of the tribe’s Riders, onto the leather of their saddles, and onto the fur of their goats. As time went on, the artistic forms became more complicated; the holy texts of Callenia are written in formed poetry.2

Spoken poetry existed long before the written, and was first used to pass on stories and lessons from one generation to the next. In the style of epics, spoken poetry tends to rely heavily on repetition, rhyme, and a strong rhythm to carry mnemonic cues.

One common form of spoken poetry, dating back to the original Tribes of the Valley and continuing even into the Steam era, is called an “around;” usually consisting of seven parts, and often of seven speakers, the poem moves “around” a cycle of life, and around the seven mountains that ringed the Home Valley.

Examples of similar works in English poetry include the country song “Don’t Take the Girl3,” where a repetitive chorus means something slightly new in each verse, and the children’s rhyme “The Farmer in the Dell4,” where each verse builds on the next.

Hear now I tell you when I last went home
The Reeve5‘s oldest daughter, she danced all alone
Her lover had left her, gone off to the fight
They burned up his body and gave her his knife6.
Hear now I tell you when I last went home
The Reeve’s oldest daughter, she danced all alone

This poem continues for six more verses, detailing the soldier’s courtship of the Reeve’s oldest daughter, their eventual consummation, and the soldier’s inevitable return to the front.

The final verse calls back to the first verse:

Hear now I tell you, when you next return
To the Village I left, to the place I call home,
Dance with the daughter, hear of her plight.
They’ve burned up my body and sent home my knife
Hear now I tell you, when you next return
The Reeve’s oldest daughter will dance all alone.


1. The Callenan left the original gods when settling Reiassan. See http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/365239.html
2. For examples see http://www.poetrymagnumopus.com/index.php?showtopic=1001
3. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don’t_Take_the_Girl
4. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Farmer_in_the_Dell
5. A Reeve is the political and law-enforcing head of a small village or town, appointed by the Emperor
6. Bodies in wartime are burned, although bodies in peace-time are often buried in stone tombs. A soldier’s widow, lover, or parents would be given his war-blade as a memorial.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/373898.html. You can comment here or there.