Tag Archive | reiassan

Strangers, Part 2

Jul10

To [personal profile] rix_scaedu‘s prompt. This is part of the main story, set very early on, their second day on the road, after Ch2: Strangers (LJ)

Rin stood in front of Girey’s goat, trying to look imposing despite her bare feet and loose hair. The goat nibbled on her hair, un-worried by the sudden shift in events. Girey tried not to laugh, and tried harder than that not to bolt. His hands itched for his sword.

“Right this way.” The Callenian voices had the thick border accent he was more used to, their vowels sounding properly rounded, unlike the way his captor talked, with the short hasty sounds of their northern capital. But they sounded angry, and angry wasn’t something he wanted to deal with, chained to a goat and without a weapon.

“Give me my sword,” he hissed. “Or at least a knife.”

“Stay there and stay quiet.” Her voice was just as low, and she’d shifted back to Callenian.

“Right through here.” The voices were just on the other side of the brush now, pushing through. “They keep taking the side road here, like they think we won’t find them here. Avoiding the main routes.”

“It does help avoid the army.” Impossibly, Rin’s accent had gotten even shorter, and she seemed to have gotten taller. She faced the intruders head-on, despite her apparent lack of weapons.

They stopped short as they entered the clearing, two men and a woman in huntsmen’s garb and with the muddled-bloodlines look of the borderlands. “I heard two Bitrani strays over here.” The man in charge, as tall as Girey and twice as broad, sounded offended.

“You heard myself and my captive.” She gestured at Girey, and he tried to look more… captive, or something. He didn’t deal well with this whole idea. He was a prince!

“Why were you talking in Bitrani, then? And what are you doing all bare?”

The woman, closer to Rin’s size and closer to Girey’s coloration, punched the big man in the arm. “Don’t be a moron, don’t you see what’s going on?”

What was going on? Girey hunched lower on his goat. No, don’t let them recognize him. He wasn’t sure his pride could take that, being jeered at by peasants.

“Oh-ho-ho.” The big man guffawed. “Begging your pardon, miss. Yes, I see. Listen, we’ll let you two finish up, but if you aren’t too… ah-ha-ha… too busy, why don’t you stop down into town for the wedding today? We know what it’s like, bringing home a war-spouse. We do, don’t we, Ririna?”

“That we do.” The woman giggled throatily. Her eyes were raking over Girey in a way that left him feeling a bit dirty and completely naked. “Bring him by, miss. We’d like to see how he cleans up.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/368912.html. You can comment here or there.

Weaving a new way, a story of Reiassan, just-pre-Steam!Callenia, for the Giraffe Call (@lilfluff)

Jul9

For [personal profile] lilfluff‘s prompt.

In the era of Empress Eetanasaria; before the Emperor in which most of the Steam!Callenia stories are placed

“But what is it?” The head of the Textiles Guild stared at the contraption, keeping a good distance back, in case it bit, or exploded. Down in the ironworker’s corner of the city, things were prone to doing that.

Byornon smiled, and fingered the glass beads in his beard. “This, Sir, is my life’s work. I have spent every moment not dedicated to the Empress’s Army on this machine, and on the machines necessary to build this machine. I believe it will change your life forever, and mine as well.”

“But what is it?” The Guildhead stepped back a bit further. A machine made by one of The Empress’s engineers that could change his life… if it blew up, it was likely to be on purpose.

“Let me show you.” That didn’t reassure the Guildhead. “Better yet, let me show you and three of your best weavers.”

“My wife and daughters are my best weavers. I will not bring them to this… place.”

“Then I’ll show you, and you can then show your wife and daughters.” Byornon was undaunted. “Just take a couple more steps back, and I’ll get it heated up.”

The Guildhead was more than willing to step back. “But what is it?” he repeated.

“Oh!” Byornon tossed a handful of coal in a boiler, and three of the aether-filled red stones that powered some of the Empress’s great war machines. “It’s a loom.”

“But we already…” Byornon threw a large lever, and three smaller ones, and gears began clanking. A small brass shuttle began whirring up and down on a wire as the frame clicked from one side to another. “We already have…” The shuttle, which looked like nothing so much as it did a small weasel-kit, dragging a long tail behind itself, was setting up the warp. “We already have a loom,” the Guildhead wailed. His weavers were not going to be pleased.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/368605.html. You can comment here or there.

Callenian Poetry, an Excerpt

Jul9

This is the donation-level perk for the June Giraffe Call. It’s not done yet, but here’s the first bit.

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.

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

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/368020.html. You can comment here or there.

Neighbors, a story of Steam!Callenia for the Giraffe Call

Jul9

To fflox‘s prompt

Soon after Every Gift and Building the Wedding-House
If the demolition and construction of the new intersection, the re-construction of the former Bureau of Education building, and the presence of soon-to-be-newlyweds in said building hadn’t gotten the neighbors’ attention and drawn their ire, the two mechanical contrivances on the front sidewalk definitely did.

But not just ire, Katyebah was gratified to discover. People were also curious, and, more than that, people wanted to give advice. In Lannamer, heart of the Empire, heart of the Emperor’s engineering corps, it was unsurprising, she supposed, that most people were front-porch engineers.

“Shouldn’t that gear be turning leftwards?”

“Shouldn’t you have used brass and not silver? Silver tarnishes.”

“Shouldn’t you have used a better grease for that than goat lard? The whole place smells like a farm and it will go rancid very quickly.”

“That’s not wild aether, is it? You know what happens with wild aether.”

“You need another five degrees on that roof angle to allow for the snow. Like this.” The grizzled man that stepped forward looked to predate the Empire, possibly the continent. His beard was braided down his chest in the old style, two white braids woven with beads; his head was bald on top but he still had three respectable braids running down his back to his seat, all three heavy with beadwork. Katyebah almost expected him to be wearing leather and fur, but his tunic and waistcoat were fine North-country brocade.

He cleared his throat. Everyone stopped to listen. “The machines are good for lifting, although I’d fix the arm joint on that one; it’s bending the wrong direction for the stress. And the ‘jaws’ on the other one are cute, but they don’t have any gripping power at all. Nice job, though.” Over Uncle Bantas and Aunt Gelah’s stunned bows, he continued. “Your roof needs to shift angle, though. Just 5 degrees, but without it, it’s going to be dumping snow into your attic by a month into the cold season. Here, let me show you.” He pulled a piece of chalk from his pocket and started drawing on the sidewalk.

As Katyebah studied the drawing, she thought maybe, just maybe, she might get along with the neighbors after all.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/367714.html. You can comment here or there.

Dirigible, a continuation of Steam!Callenia for the June Giraffe Call

Jul8

For [personal profile] imaginaryfiend‘s prompt and @dahob’s prompt Sequel to “Goatless:” http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/359150.html

The dirigible was a thing of beauty.

Syadaia caught her breath. The others wouldn’t want her to give away their bargaining position by gushing. They’d been very firm on that; they’d been very firm, in general, on the idea that she ought to keep her mouth shut unless told to talk.

Syadaia was beginning to believe that she needed better friends. On the other hand, these friends came with the promise of profit, which was better than the last bunch had.

The artificer cleared his throat. “This, fine folk, would be the dirigible. It’s neither as practical as the river-boat nor as lovely as the goatless carriage, but it meets and exceeds all your specifications.”

Gunyung cleared his throat. “It will do. We agreed on…”

“Seven hundred fifty Rei.” The artificer’s voice left nothing to question.

Gunyung tried anyway. “Of course, that was before we saw the finished product…”

Syadaia had trouble covering her expression. The dirigible was beautiful; it was trimmed in brass, its banners were brightly colored, the patterns exotic and strange, like something from the southern isles, and the covering was striped in a beautiful sky blue. It was the most gorgeous piece of machinery she had ever seen.

The artificer knew it was a steaming pile of goat dung, too. “Seven hundred fifty Rei. Or I sell it to my next customer, and you can swim to your – ah, what did you say? – vacation destination.”

Behind Gunyung, Kezhya coughed. They had done their best to look like wealthy businessmen, but Syadaia and Kezhya knew, if Gunyung didn’t, that they looked like what they were – thieves in stolen finery. Syadaia’s colors were all over the rainbow, and the patterns in her tunics and scarves covered the last seven years of fashion. It was possible, of course, that the artificer didn’t know that…

“This other client of yours?” Kezhya spoke up, having gotten the cough out of her throat.

“The West Lannamer constabulary .” It was impossible to tell beneath the enormous beard, but Syadaia thought the artificer was probably smiling. Possibly even laughing at them.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/366886.html. You can comment here or there.

Rest between Runs, a story continuation for the June Giraffe Call

Jul5

For [personal profile] ysabetwordsmith‘s prompt. Set in the same era as the Lyuda stories, after Run for It

The cabin had three things that Engot would have paid any amount of money for: a functioning stove, set into the wall; a pump inside a half-enclosed back porch, that still provided clean water, and a bed platform with the springs still mostly intact, in a room whose roof still worked. “It’s not the Imperial Palace…”

“It’s not either royal palace.” Krynia wrung her dripping cloak out and hung it near the fire. The long-gone tenants had taken almost everything, but the hooks were, like the stove and the pump, built into the building. “Which means we’re safe and comfortable, two things we would not be there.”

Engot smiled. “There’s no tub, but there’s a basin big enough water to heat. We can wash.”

“And I have some rope to repair the bed. This is almost cozy enough to call home.” Their outermost tunics and trews went the way of their cloaks, and the went about the preparations of an evening as if they had been doing this together for years.

“Will they come after you?” Kyrnia pulled a bar of soap from her bag, wrapped in oiled leather.

“Will they come after you?” Engot provided a soft piece of cloth, unfolded from the middle of his bedroll, and a horn comb. “May I…?” His hands hovered near the complex braids of her hair, her veil pushed back nearly to her neck.

“If I may. I don’t know. With luck, they won’t think it worth it.” She pulled four long pins from her hair to free the ends of the braids, and reached for the cord holding the end of his beard-braid.

“Same here.” He finger-combed her hair, slowly working it out into a damp, frizzy cloud. “Your hair is so curly. It’s not just the braids, either, is it?”

“No, it’s like that fresh from a swim, too.” She brushed out the long, braid-kinked curls of his beard and reached for his hair, touching her nose to his beard. “You smell different.”

He pushed her veil the rest of the way down, releasing the last of her curls. “You smell… lovely.” He plucked a few dried leaves from the underside of her hair and sniffed them. “Sage and mint. That’s a good idea.”

She took the comb he’d left neglected and began working it through his hair. Close-toothed for his people’s straight hair, it wouldn’t work so well on hers, but it smoothed through his and plucked out tangles and briars with ease. “I don’t think nettles do the same,” she teased.

“No, but maybe I could stick some sweet herbs to the nettles.” He hesitated, his hand on the back of her neck, where the weight of her veil and braids had sat.

She paused, as well, her hand stilling on the top of his back. “They might come for us.”

“Let them.” His smile nearly covered his own worry. “We’ll be ready.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/366836.html. You can comment here or there.

Mid-Heat Festival, a story for the Giraffe Call (@Anke)

Jul4

For [personal profile] anke‘s prompt.
The priests were dancing in the square, the drumbeats so loud they seemed to rock the streets, and Toka wanted to see them, needed to see them.

The mid-heat festival was in full-swing, the press of people in the streets almost unbearable, vendors shouting about their wares, people singing off-tune, water-bearers pumping small portable fountains, dousing the finely-decked crowd with water to cool it off.

Around the legs of the crowd, under the tables of the vendors, behind the backs of the water-bearers, Toka darted, her darting its own dance, her steps in rhythm with the heavy drums in the center square.

“Rub a coin,” she heard a boy tell his sister, and while they were distracted, she stole the rest of his purse. Too light. She dropped it at his feet and kept going. Throw the little fish back… and she was in a hurry, anyway. She had to see the priests.

The drum beat sped up. Bum-bum, bum-bum-bum-bum. Toka sped up. Over the water-sprayer, under the table. Around the rich man, behind the constable. Bum-bum-bum-bum, bada-bada-bada-bada. She landed in a slick patch of water and skidded, turned the skid into a controlled slide, and slipped under a goat-carriage, landing at the edge of the square, between a very rich-looking woman and her very handsome bed-warmer.

“Your honors.” She bowed, and wiggled to the ground in front of them. The nice things about the mid-heat festival was that even the finest and richest sometimes stripped down to their undertunic. One more girl in her linens was not all that remarkable – and Toka’s linens had been stolen off a very posh clotheline.

Bada-bada-bada-bada, ba-Dum-ba, ba-Dum-ba, ba-Dum-ba, ba-Dum-ba! The Priestess of Reiassanon stomped out the beat with heavy-soled shoes on the cobblestones, ending with a flourish, head bowed, arms out, green robes flapping. The priests of Tienebrah turned their buckets and fountains on the crowd, dousing the first few rows. The Priest of Veignevar stepped forward, fire in both hands, his eyes raking the crowd. He was reading the síra. He was reading the crowd. He was reading her, Toka, Gotokoya of the South Dock.

His red-tinged eyes met hers, and he nodded. A heartbeat, nothing more, and the drums thudded to their conclusion, the Red priest tossing fire in the air like juggling balls. But it had been enough. It had been what she’d come here for.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/366164.html. You can comment here or there.

(on the) Offensive, a story of Rin & Girey for the June Giraffe Call

Jul3

For [personal profile] kelkyag‘s prompt(s)

This story comes after:Meat of the Matter (LJ)
Bare Bones (LJ) [Beta]
Skeleton Key (LJ) [donor perk]
and Ambush {Donor Perk}: Girey had foiled an attempt to attack Rin and kidnap himself, at the sacrifice of the first escape plan he’s had that might actually work.

Chapter X: Offensive
Leaving the scene of battle is neither fleeing nor cowardly; it is simply gaining a better footing for the next attack

They rode for about an hour, until the moons were high and fat in the sky and the air was chill, and then Rin led them off to the side of the road, into a small cove half-roofed by rock. They were clearly not the first to camp here; the area had a fire pit, a stone basin collecting the runoff of a small rivulet, and a platform built up of rocks and sodded over, keeping the tent out of the lowest areas if the rain came.

“I hope you’re in no hurry to get to Lannamer.” Rin’s smile, in the pale moonlight, looked grim. Girey didn’t blame her; he was feeling irritated, grim, and tired himself.

“None at all.” Anything but, and she knew that. She had to know that, after what she’d overheard.

“Good.” She tossed him her goat’s reins as she dismounted. “Get them settled while I pitch the camp, would you?”

She hadn’t chained him to the saddle, presumably because they’d been running. He could flee now, easily. If he took her goat with him, she’d never be able to catch up.

He hesitated, holding both sets of reins. “What are you planning?”

She met his gaze evenly. “I’m planning on ambushing them, and explaining to them exactly why one doesn’t try to attack me in the middle of the night. I don’t like being threatened and snuck up upon.”

He paused, for one heartbeat and then another. “I don’t, either,” he admitted quietly. He led the goats to a convenient tie-off, and began stripping their tack.

In the bustle of getting camp set up, she paused, studying him. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” If she didn’t, he wouldn’t have to think about why he’d done it.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/365630.html. You can comment here or there.

Contemplating the Gods, a story of Reiassan’s history for the Giraffe Call

Jul2

For [personal profile] clare_dragonfly‘s prompt.

Set approx 750 years before the Rin & Girey novella

Ektatkya studied the holy book. The Tabersi had, she’d discovered, a lot of gods. Lots and lots of them, herds of them, packs of them. No wonder they needed so many priests. No person with a field and herd to attend to could keep track of all of these.

And they’d left so many of the Tabersi priests behind. The tribes had their own, of course, priests and god-chasers, gods (but not that many. Not enough to needs books, just enough for a statue here, a carving there, a token off a saddle somewhere else). But this was a new land, and they were no longer going to be the goat-tribes. They were no longer going to be a different people from the Tabersi.

For that to happen, both peoples had to change. And a place to start would be these books. She looked up at the Tabersi priest; he looked at her solemnly.

“Can it be done?”

“Of course it can be done. The question is, will you pay the price?”

“The price?” He was offended. Of course he was. The Tabersi’s god-chasers were not the same as the tribes’. They had Position. They had Status.

“Both will have to move. Your god-people must let someone else rule. Ours must learn to stand forward in the town, not at the back edge of the encampment.” The tribes-people who were here had been living in Tabersi cities and towns for generations, but they still acted like, thought like, nomads. That would need to change, too. This was not the warm pastureland of their home.

“Let someone else rule?” He nodded, slowly and reluctantly. “Yes. I see. To take a role that will not seem so strange to your people. And the gods?”

She would not rip pages out of a book. They had too few left. But she made the gesture as if to. “You need less. We need more. We take these, and make them less-and-more.” She flapped one hand negligently. “Make prayers a dirt-grubber can remember.”

“And still fancy enough for a money-counter?” The priest’s expression had changed. Ektatkya knew this one; it was that of someone seeing a challenge. “It will take time. But we can do it.”

“We must do it.” She nodded, but she was smiling as well. “The peace demands it.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/365239.html. You can comment here or there.

Goat-riders, Stone-riders, a story of Reiassan for the Jun Giraffe Call (@lilfluff)

Jul2

For [personal profile] lilfluff‘s prompt. Reiassan has three seasons: wet, hot, and cold. A dohdehr is essentially a large domesticated weasel.

Lannamer in the short hot season was stinky, crowded, and loud. People lived atop each other in stacked apartments, hardly reaching the land or the síra, hardly spending time with the goats that had been their ancestral cornerstone, with the animals they’d lived beside and with.

Epyena was sick of it. She was tired of the constant politicking and the constant noise, the people everywhere and no place for the gods. She needed to get out of the business-and-Army hustle and bustle, before she became just another cog in the endless machine. She was moving to the mountains.

She got together three of her like-minded compatriots, two cousins and a child of industry from her days at University, spent half of her family-gifted stipend on land and goats, and headed East. They would raise goats and ride them, raise dohdehr and hunt them, raise the short-season crops their ancestors had raised and eat like true goat-riders, and not soft stone-riders.

That was the plan, at least. They moved in the end of the hot season, so there was no planting to be done until the next rainy time. The house on the land was old, decrepit, the roof half fallen-in; they pitched tents inside the walls, making jokes about living the true life of goat-riders. Until the goats started eating the tent-walls.

Then it was time to repair the roof of the stables, a skill none of them had gone to college for, and the roof of the house, even harder. Engineering was a nice theory, but it didn’t do as well getting tiles on the roof.

The day the dohdehr ran off with what little they’d managed for dinner, Epyena broke down crying. Her goat-rider ancestors, she feared, had been horribly stupid. Only the stone-riding made any sense.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/364714.html. You can comment here or there.