Wyrdsister

A short piece of authorship has been spread to many libraries and bookstores, a sort of open letter to the people of Arcas and its scholars...

“I beg you forgive an old woman her ramblings... and hope these words find you well.

بِسْمِ ٱللَّٰهِ ٱلرَّحْمَٰنِ ٱلرَّحِيمِ
 

I do not know where my father is buried. Yet I know my mother is buried in Atlas. I was born there too, but all my life has been here, in Arcas. I have found love in Arcas, raised my family here. It was here I was married, gave birth, shed blood for comrades, and helped build a nation from nothing in the sands. Now this land may very well be destroyed.

In my life I have been many things – a foreigner, a wanderer, a poet and a mystic. To most I am a Qalasheen. To some I will always be, above all, a mother and a warrior. I was there when two of my nation martyred themselves, fighting alongside so many others who made the harshest of sacrifices to defend our world against the Void Horror, at the last battle. I was a young woman then, brave and terrified all at once. I knew nothing of the machinations of the arcane, the vast endeavours to study and halt and fight what seemed to be tears in reality, but what I saw that day changed me. I know it changed many others.

I saw Dwarf, Elf, Orc, Human, and all others standing and fighting together against that which would have, should have, sent any sane man running for their lives. I still do not understand all that came to pass that day, but I do know the Descendants had help from mysterious forces, perhaps divine, perhaps something else – of this I know not.

What can be said for certain is that we all fought together, and triumphed, even as all hope seemed lost and the world as we knew it seemed to be tearing itself apart.

Arcas was saved, and now once more is threatened by forces that seek its destruction. Our destruction.

Malfire burns on the horizon even as I write these words.

I have seen firsthand the consequences that come with the scouring of worlds, the fleeing of entire races as refugees, be it a blessing or a curse. The Descendants carry the scars of a world lost in their hearts and souls, of a life taken from them and a heritage wiped away. Our graveyards are small and humble. They do not hold the countless legions of lives lost to us, only in our memories and our dusty tomes do they live on. The largest nations to the smallest villages are all the children of those who fled chaos and destruction, displaced and torn from their homes and the homes of their fathers. The sacred sites of the past exist for us only in stories, yet the crimes of the past live on, the grudges and the hatred still haunt us.

If we could only walk the earth of Aegis, the lands of our collective origin, how different would our lives be? If we visit the tombs of our most ancient ancestors, see the first Cloud Temple where the Descendants first took breath and walked as mortals, tie our souls to the marks of history? Would we realize just how foolish our petty squabbles are, compared to millenniums of lives lived amongst each other? I can think of only one way to find out the answer to these questions. To do so will require doing what has never been done before in our knowledge of history.

To defy and prevent the destruction of a world, our world, and prevent our forced exile from the lands we have fought and bled to make our homes - this is the undertaking I have dreamed of.

Once I read the words of a scholar, who declared the Descendants to be nomads – some, like us Qalasheen, once lived as nomads in the truest sense. living beneath the stars, raising their tents on lands untouched by brick or plow. We chose this life. Yet every nation in this world has been uprooted, not by choice, but by necessity. Before Arcas was Atlas, before Atlas the land of Axios, through the ages back to Aegis... perhaps even further, to lands lost to time, inhabited by those who came before our species?

Ours is a cycle of upheaval, of destruction and rebuilding, of fleeing endlessly into unknown horizons. Is this cycle God’s gift to us, a defence against stagnation, a promise of rebirth? I cannot claim to know. It can be debated to death by scholars before me and after.

But to flee from a fight does not sit well in this heart.

Perhaps I am stubborn, foolishly so, to propose what has doubtless been called for dozens of time by scholars lost to the flood of ideals and philosophy written across the ages. It is this very fact, that of so much knowledge lost to time and the fires of change, that makes it seem almost equally vital for such an undertaking to require a complimentary task of collecting and preserving our cultures and histories, should we indeed be forced to flee to a new world once more. We cannot risk losing everything, should the chance present itself to live another day, another cycle, in a new world.

This declaration, however, maintains that to accomplish a victory over annihilation itself would be a triumph for our nations and for our God, worth risking our lives for. To finally break the cycle, to keep all we have built, to live in the world we were raised in, loved and lost in, to find out what we can achieve without having to start over again – that is worth dying for. For what we have accomplished in Arcas, building anew from nothing that which can be compared to the glories of the past, and even achieving newly found wonders of innovation and triumph, begs the question: what could we accomplish with twice that time? With a foundation to build upon? With a world of nations united by a victory against the forces of annihilation itself, free from the fear of destruction and exile?

I expect your doubts at this proposal. Indeed, I welcome them. Debate is the lifeblood of ideas, ideas the soul of our cultures. Among my people there is a word – Ikhtilaf, difference, disagreement. It is not discord but harmony and growth to us.

I suspect, also, that the words I write may very well be ignored. So be it. I write as a woman who has felt the oncoming of death, who knows and embraces mortality. The author and poet seek immortality in memory preserved by ink, mind, and word: though it be in vain, for only Our Creator is truly undying. I hope only that someone will read these words, and perhaps carry the dream of the nations united against the darkness in their hearts. Perhaps even pass it on to their children, their friends, their loved ones. I seek to leave a spark in the minds of but one soul, at least, before I leave this world.

Maybe one day we can live in peace, without fear of an end beyond that which found my husband – surrounded by those he loves, holding the hand of his wife, with a smile on his face. He was a warrior with courage in his heart, as so many have been across the history of every race. He died a warrior, but a father too, and a lover of peace and life. He will always be with me.

And no matter what the coming days bring to us all, I pray God will always be with you.

الله يكون معاك

- Fatima al’Ihram al’Nabeel,

Humble Servant of God.”

My baby a master artist omfg ; w ;

“At the twilight, a moon appeared in the sky... then it landed on earth to look at me. Like a hawk stealing a bird at the time of prey... that moon stole me and rushed back into the sky. I looked at myself, I did not see me anymore. For in that moon, my body turned as fine as the soul. The nine spheres disappeared in that moon...”

Fatima sat by her husband’s grave, wreathed in the white silk of a mourner. She cried and stood vigil by his grave for a long, long time. She would say so many things she had never gotten to say, never gotten to understand until Khalid was gone... and say her thanks for so much more.

“...and the ship of my existence drowned in that sea...”

She thanked her God for the tears He gave her, for they were a mark of a true love. She thanked Him for the pain, for it was a remembrance of so much joy.

Inna lillahi, wa inna ilayhi raji'un.

Axolotyn are a bit more out there. You’re not gonna find much in the way of reference art or skins for them, but for these guys you’re better set.

I think it’s a great way to incorporate more of the recent Aquatic Update into the map. I’d play one for sure

A merchantwoman nodded, resting her cheek against her hand. “Never should have associated with bandits in the first place... but it seems the lessons have been learned.”

Fatima nodded in approval as she watched the Fursaan Al-Saqr march past. Among them were some of her children, and her husband... with their discipline, and their strength, she had no doubt they would be able to face the harshness of the world. With their brotherhood, and their wisedom, she had no doubt they would not waver.

“Haiya a'lall falah... and may we ever pray for peace, but be ready for war.”

Shutting down hate speech in one thing, shutting down all speech is another.

#FreeHongKong.

15 hours ago, UgBrainHurty said:

Also chi is a magic change my mind #Tahmas 

 “In traditional Chinese culture, qi or ch'i (simplified Chinese: 气; traditional Chinese: 氣; pinyin: qì) is believed to be a vital force forming part of any living entity. Qi translates as "air" and figuratively as "material energy", "life force", or "energy flow". Qi is the central underlying principle in Chinese traditional medicine and in Chinese martial arts. The practice of cultivating and balancing qi is called qigong.”

In the context of Chinese tradition, it’s considered more akin to natural science, separate from traditional Chinese magic.

15th of the Amber Cold, 1741

Al-Faiz.

In the tongue of the Qalasheen, it means ‘the Victor’. On this day it proved prophetic.

In the late hours of the day, what is called in foreign lands ‘the Amber Cold’ meant little more than a mercifully cool breeze of the ocean nearby, the village of al-Faiz was looking forward to the setting of the burning Korvassan sun. 

But in the young, bustling village the peaceful rest of night was not to come.

“Tribute! We demand tribute!” rang out the arrogant voice, its accent strange to the Qalasheen farmers and peasants. Into the main square strode the town elders, brows furrowed against the low sun, tired and curious men and women who had once been drawn towards what they thought were visitors now became quiet, and scowled at these prideful intruders in their lives.  

Two masked men looked on as the Qalasheen, one by one, approached to stand in every side street and doorway to gaze at them silently, curved swords gleaming in the afternoon heat. Mothers huddled their children close, leading them inside the musjid where the doors were locked - and those mothers who whispered softly to their children to stay safe and within grimly took up bow and sword, joining their husbands and brothers.

There would be no tribute tonight but the blood of the infidel to Allah.

Qalasheen and visitors to the town alike, Orc, Elf, man and woman, without a word prepared to defend their town. The assembled warriors, guardsmen, militia and allies alike paused, weapons drawn, as one man - late to hear of the approaching battle - stumbled out of the inn, having forgotten to put on most of his armour, looking around and loudly demanding to know where the Jihad was to be had.

At that point one of the demanders of tribute threw a rock - or maybe a Qalasheen boy threw a falafeel. What can be said for sure is that at once a great cry to God range out, shattering the calm of the desert - ALLAHU AKBAR, cried the town as one, and then all hells broke loose - yelling, bloodshed, steel clashing against shield, arrows splintered against plate and sheering through maille… 

Backed up against the gates of their holy musjid, build to the glory of Allah, the defenders battled down the steps and repulsed the raid party again and again through the gate, falling back to let them come inside, only to be swiftly overwhelmed again. Raiders scrambled over walls, sent arrows flying through the city, but could barely set foot within without warriors ambushing them from buildings and towers. Archers dueled with raiders circling the walls, crouching in the shadow of musjid’s gleaming dome, arrows whistling past close enough to ruffle their headscarfs, shattering against the unyielding stone...

And it was not only the Qalasheen’s ferocity that the invaders found - the humble but warm, peaceful town and its people had attracted friends and visitors, and they too picked up arms to fight - elven steel and orcish crossbow would strike out alongside the blades and knives of the Farfolk. 

As sweat glistened in the light of the rising moon, pouring along dust-coated skin and bloodied fingers, the defenders stood panting for breath before the town gates, its crumbling, half-ruined sandstone and wood patchwork walls barely rising above the tops of Qalasheen tents. The last of the raiders lay bleeding in the sand…

A man strode forward, slowly pushing a corpse over with his boot, and frowned.

Reivers. 

Al-Faiz had turned aside thirty Reivers, as the ocean waves crash against rock.

As those injured were treated with desert herbs and the Elfess doctor who had come to the town to treat a sick hunter, the stars above were bright, and the air cool.

In the city streets, a veiled woman’s hand shook within her gloves as she pressed against the patch of blood spreading across her husband’s side. Despite the heat of the armour she wore, her blood ran cold - between her fingers was the long shaft of an arrow, its head buried inches into his flesh.

She cradled his head in her lap, promising him everything would be okay as she slowly slipped off his helmet and ran her fingers through his dark, messy hair, looking down into his tired eyes. As she murmured a soft prayer, she felt a hand press against the wound next to hers, and looked down into the face of her young daughter. “Don’t worry Mama! Baba is strong, right?”

As tears ran down her face, the woman nodded. Healers soon arrived to care for her husbands wounds, assuring her it was a flesh wound. As she lifted water to his lips and cared for him as he recovered, she gave thanks for his survival.

Alhamdulillah, there would be no fatalities from the raid. The worst wounds came from arrows, a weapon that was mostly used to cripple rather than kill. Al-Faiz has stood against its first test against the cruelties and arrogance of the world. Its people stood to defend their families and faith, aided by friends new and old - and now peace had returned to them. While many celebrated, and friends parted back to their homes, there were many who looked up to the light of the moon and stars above and thanked Allah for His deliverance on the field of battle that night. 

Others prayed for the strength to endure what was to come...

GLORY TO ALLAH ALONE

“Yet more proof the Morsgardians see politics as an extension of extortion...” a resident of Talon’s Grotto muttered, folding up the latest copy of the letters that detailed the intrigue before tucking it away into her silks.

Fatima ul’Ihram al-Nabeel sighed as she looked over her children, twin sons not yet six, playing on the carpet of her home in the Grotto. She read over a copy of the letter, remembering standing in the cold wind of Morsgrad beneath the Ashtree on her visit their years ago, before her marriage. The people there had been as warm and hospitable as the chill had been bitter and cold... should they now be turned against each other? How could they punish and blame the people here, without even knowing who was responsible?

She gently lowers a silver spoon into a cup of fragrant tea, watching steam rise and twist in the air past her silken veil, murmuring to herself. “We will lose, they will lose... Iblis will be the only victor if this war comes to pass... fear of war, and pain of loss have clouded all our judgements. The ones responsible for this, whether they are a traitor in our midst or Morsgrad’s, whether they leaked this knowledge or butchered women and children on this caravan...

“We can only pray Allah’s judgement is swift. And no more innocent blood is shed.”

“Pedar sag khâreji...” Fatima swore harshly under her breath, narrowing her eyes as she flipped through the letters that had made their way into her hands through the mercantile routes. She leaned an elbow against the stack of leather-bound books set atop her merchant’s stand – any trader in information worthy of their trade comes to know of the newest publications before the ink has yet dried.

“We would wager our finery that this Acolyte was the man we spoke with on that last caravan journey... and here we thought it strange for a Canonist to show curiosity in others’ ways!”

“Damn...” She tossed the script aside, muttering to herself in her heavy accent and odd pronouns. “We will not speak of our faith with any more infidels, lest they twist our words against us like this one... his mind is corrupted as his false Church, and all its priests which corrupt the pure words of the Prophets and invent to justify their power.”