Mykei

Erma, Polish is actually not stupid 🤓

ᛜᛝᛜ Encylopedia Rodnoveriaᛜᛝᛜ The religion of the balance Scribed by žerce Siemomysł, servant of flame and word, in the thirty-fifth year since the Raising of the High Hearth in Góra Mokra. From bark and bone, from memory and moonlight, the truth of our people is kept. IMPORTANT LINKS ᛜᛝᛜCulture of Lechiaᛜᛝᛜ ᛜᛝᛜRODNOVERYᛜᛝᛜ ᛜᛝᛜE.R PT1ᛜᛝᛜ ". . . The old stories were never just tales — they were truth wrapped in breath, passed from firelit mouths to listening hearts. Among the Rodnoveri, myth is not a decoration upon belief. It is the belief, spoken in symbols and rhythms older than ink, deeper than bone. A Rodnover does not ask if a tale is "true." They ask what it reveals. The world itself was shaped in story — not by accident, but by intention. Rod crafted the seed. The Rozhanitsy measured the thread. Perun split the sky. Weles stirred the roots. Mokosh wept, and green things grew. These are not metaphors. They are memories. To walk the old path is to walk within these stories. The wheel of the year turns, and with it, the gods act again: When Jarilo dances through the fields, spring awakens in the soles of those who remember. When Morana is drowned, death is sent back to her shadowed hall. When Perun throws his thunder down, it is not thunder — it is justice falling like flame. These myths are not set in stone — they are alive in frost, in fire, in silence, in seed. They are woven into the rites, guiding every offering, every festival, every fast. A Rodnover does not merely reenact them. They continue them — generation after generation, echo after echo. There is no need for commandments when you have Triglav’s three faces: Thought. Word. Deed. There is no need for law when Mokosh teaches mercy, when Svarog teaches craft, when Veles whispers through dreams what the tongue cannot say. Even the land speaks in legend. The crooked birch remembers where oaths were broken. The deep spring remembers whose blood was spilled. The winds that rise before a solstice storm do not carry air alone — they carry the old names. And though time buried many shrines and silenced many fires, still: A story told is a spark relit. A song sung is a root watered. A myth remembered is a god awakened. The gods of Rodnovery do not demand belief. They ask for remembrance. And if you remember rightly, they will walk beside you — not in golden temples, but in rain, in shadow, in oak, and in dream. Because Rodnovery does not end where the myth ends. It begins there. And it walks with you the rest of the way. . ." PART TWO: MYTHS AND LEGENDS ᛜᛝᛜ Kako Triglav stvořil svět ᛜᛝᛜ How Triglav Created the world A sacred tale of the Lechians, told in smoke and silence, remembered by the žercy. Before all things, there was nothing. . . . No stone, no wind, no fire, no word. Only silence, deep as the abyss. And within that silence, there was Triglav — the Three-Faced One, without beginning or end, with three faces watching all directions. . . One face looked to the heavenly circle. . . .It saw what was and what would be. From its gaze were born stars, clouds, thunder, and light. And so the heavens were created. . . Another face looked upon the earth . . .It saw what lies still, what stands tall, what grows. From its tears flowed rivers; from its breath rose mountains and forests. Thus, the earth was created. . . The third face looked into the soul. . . .It saw dreams, memory, the future, and the dead. From its silence came spirits, thoughts, and mysteries. And so the soul-world was born. . . Triglav spoke: “Let there be a trinity” . . .And the trinity came to be: Prawia , Nawia , Jawia . . . Then He said: “Let there be life.” . . .And from His hands flew the bird, the beast leapt, from root came man, and from wind — woman.. . . . . .He did not stay with them, but neither did He leave. He is in every leaf, in every sound, in every stone. Triglav does not live only in the sky, nor only in the deep — He lives wherever He is remembered. . . And so the world was born from silence, and silence remained in the heart of every being. Where there is silence, there is Triglav. Where there is Triglav, there is the beginning and the end ᛜᛝᛜ Povědanje o Triglavě i Jeho Četyrih Synah ᛜᛝᛜ A story of Triglav and his four sons Before the dawn of dawns, when there were no stars to count and no beasts to name, the world was naught but silence. No wind. No fire. No sorrow, and no song. And in that silence — there was Triglav, the Three-Faced One. One face watched the sky, one the soil, one the soul. From himself he shaped the roots of the World Tree, and upon those roots he breathed life — first to flame, then to clay, then to man. . In his love for the world, Triglav wept three tears — and from those tears came sons. His first son was Perun, the thunderer. He was born from the wind and the clash of cloud, and he carried a voice so loud it could split mountains. Triglav gave him the sky and the sword, and told him to guard the world from chaos. . . His second son was Svarog, quiet and strong, born from the breath of the forge and the beating of the heart. Triglav gave him the flame and the hammer, and told him to teach mankind to shape and build." The third son was Jarilo, wild and golden, born from wheat and blossom. Triglav gave him the field and the storm’s gentler breeze. To him was given the gift of growth — both of seed, and of joy. . . But Triglav’s fourth son came from shadow, born beneath the earth where roots drink deep. He was Veles, the silent. Triglav gave him the deep realm of the dead, of dreams, and of secrets. And Veles said nothing — only bowed his horned head, and vanished into the dark. . . The World Walks a Thread Triglav wove a thread from each son, spun them into the World Tree. He tied Perun’s thread to the crown, Svarog’s to the trunk, Jarilo’s to the leaf, and Weles’ to the root. Then he said, ‘So long as these threads hold, so shall the world. But mortals are not made of thread. They forget. They cut. They burn. . . The Quarrel and the Balance It is told that once, Perun and Veles fought for the soul of the world. Perun struck lightning into the roots. Veles sent shadow up the trunk. They fought for nine days and nine nights. The forest burned. The rivers ran black. . . But Svarog came between them, beating his anvil until both could hear reason. And Jarilo, with laughter, planted grain in the ashes._ Since then, the gods do not war with each other — only within us. . . The Promise of the Axe Before he vanished from mortal eyes, Perun struck the earth with his axe and said: 'When my people are divided, and the world grows dark, one shall lift this axe again. He will not rule with it — but lead. He will not wield it — but bear it. . . . Some say the axe lies in stone. Others say it was melted into the blood of the last true king. The truth is — no one finds the axe until they are ready to carry the burden it brings. . . So we tie ribbons to the oak, and speak the names of the sons. We burn our dead with song, sow grain with laughter, and hammer with pride. For the gods do not watch from afar. They walk with us, in storm, in forge, in field, and in the final silence ᛜᛝᛜ Povědanje o Peruně i Nebesnom Zmiji ᛜᛝᛜ The Tale of Perun and the Sky Serpent Before the first lightning split the clouds, before the rivers learned to roar and the hills learned to echo, there was a stillness in the heights. The world had shape. The gods had voice. But the sky had no master. And so, Triglav gave his first son the sword of storm. “You shall guard the heights,” he said. “For chaos rises not from below — but from above, where pride takes root.” And Perun took his place in the sky, loud and watchful. The Coming of the Serpent But not all in the heights were still. Coiled around the black moon, hidden in silence, a thing had stirred — ancient even before words. It had no name, for it devoured names. It had no shape, save for the twisting of cloud and shadow. The people below felt it in their sleep. Birds flew without direction. Cattle cried at dusk. Children were born without voice. And the wind stopped carrying prayer. Perun Heard Nothing At first. Then came the smoke — not from fire, but from the sky. A long shadow over Jawia. A tongue that tasted the stars. A hunger that reached even the roots of Prawia itself. And Perun saw the coils stretch across his realm. “No beast shall rule the sky,” he said, “while my hand still holds the storm.” The War Above the World Perun rose higher than thunder had ever dared. He rode no steed — for the clouds were his chariot. He carried his axe — forged by Svarog, sharpened by wind. And there he met the Serpent — its breath cold, its scales the color of eclipses, its eyes ancient enough to remember silence before sound. They fought in the sky where light unravels. They struck where no shadow reached. The stars held their breath. For nine strikes and nine silences, the heavens cracked. Rain poured in reverse. Oaths were forgotten mid-sentence. The world below trembled — not from fear, but from recognition. “This is the war that is always waiting,” said the wind. “The battle between shape and hunger. Between law and the void.” The Final Blow At last, Perun drove his axe into the beast’s mouth — not to kill, for such things cannot die — but to bind. He chained the serpent beneath the stormcloud, where it coils still, sleeping. And he said: “So long as I thunder, it shall not rise. But if I fall silent — beware.” The Sky Burns Because It Remembers Since that day, every bolt of lightning is a warning. Every storm a scar. Every drought a test of whether the axe still holds. Perun still walks the sky, watching. Not in peace — but in vigilance. And so it is said: “The world is not held by walls, but by will. The sky is not safe — only guarded. And Perun thunders, not to frighten us… but to keep something worse from waking.” ᛜᛝᛜ Pověst o Prvom Odrěčenju ᛜᛝᛜ The Tale of the First Refusal “He spoke against thunder and was not broken.” In the age when gods still walked bare-footed across the land, and the wind carried voices not yet spoken, the people of a high stone village awaited the coming of a new Žerca Peruna. Their old war-priest had died beneath a tree struck by lightning — a sign, they said, that the Thunderer demanded a new voice. The signs came quickly: A hawk cried at dusk The sky split in three directions. The sacred oak bled sap shaped like an axe. All signs pointed to Dragan, the son of the weaver and the wind-mad woman. He was strong, quiet, and quick to anger — they said he was born for the axe. The elders gathered. The stone was placed. The staff was offered. But Dragan stood before the shrine and said only: “No.” He did not kneel. He did not shout. He said it like you say your own name. The village whispered. The elders turned pale. One old woman spat into the fire. And then — a low rumble in the sky. Perun had heard. Lightning cracked the sky in silence. The oak smoldered. But no rain fell. No fire struck. No curse came. In the smoke, the village žerca of Veles stepped forward and said: “Thunder speaks loud, but it listens.” Dragan was marked with a crescent of ash. He walked away from the temple and was not seen in that village again. But in the years that followed, stories spread — of a man who carried no blade but always stood between battle and child, who quieted wolves without a shout, who stood unshaken in storms while others ran. And when he died, it is said, no crow would land upon his grave — not out of fear, but reverence. Lesson: Even gods will hear refusal — if it is spoken with truth. The storm will pass you by if you do not lie about who you are. ᛜᛝᛜ Velika vojna Peruna i Velesa ᛜᛝᛜ Great war of Perun and Veles Told during storms, funerals, or before oaths. In the time before fire was tamed, the world trembled between two powers Perun, lord of sky and thunder, and Weles, keeper of shadows and root. . . Perun ruled from above, proud and fierce, casting bolts from his mountain throne. Weles crept from below, winding through roots and bones, whispering truths to the dead. . . Weles, they say, envied the light. So he climbed the World Tree disguised as mist and stole Perun’s cattle — and with them, the songs of the living. Crops failed. Songs turned bitter. Oaths broke like dry bark. . . Perun, hearing the cries of mankind, flew down in fury. He hurled his axe at Weles and split the World Tree in half. . . Lightning clashed with shadow. Fire met flood. Mountains cracked, and rivers boiled. For nine nights and days they fought, neither yielding. . . At last, Perun struck Weles with a bolt so bright that even Navia trembled. Weles fell, shattered, back into the underworld. . . But he did not die. He never dies. . . For every spring, he rises again as mist and serpent, climbing once more. And every summer, Perun drives him back down with thunder and blade. . . Their war keeps the world turning. Without it, there would be no rain. No soil. No blood. No fire. . . So when you hear thunder, know it is not anger — but balance. And when the fields bloom, give thanks to both the storm above… and the shadow beneath. . . ᛜᛝᛜ O Trěh Světah: Prawia, Jawia i Nawia ᛜᛝᛜ Of three worlds: Prawia, Jawia and Nawia As remembered by the žerca Siemomysl pod Gromovym Dubom In the beginning, there was only Triglav, and Silence. From His three faces came three breaths — each one a world. . . The First Breath became Prawia Prawia is the Highest Realm, the realm of law, of divine harmony, of the sacred song. There, the gods dwell — not as kings, but as keepers of order. The stars are their footsteps, the sun their gaze, the thunder their voice. . . Perun became its shield, for his axe knows no falsehood. Svarog became its hand, for his hammer shaped its very bones. And above them all, unseen, is Triglav, watching with faces of fire, root, and dream. . . The Second Breath became Jawia Jawia is the Middle Realm, the realm of men, beasts, stone, and wind. It is where the living walk — where blood runs, and choice matters. . . Here, fire was stolen from Prawia by Svarog, and given to man. Here, crops rise by the hand of Jarilo, and fall to the scythe of Morana. Here, paths cross — and every crossroads is a crack between worlds. . . It is in Jawia that oaths are made, songs are sung, and names are remembered. But it is also where they are broken, lost, and forgotten. . . The Third Breath became Nawia Nawia is the Deep Realm, the land beneath roots and below dreams. It is the kingdom of memory, of spirits, of things not said aloud. . . Here, Weles rules — not as tyrant, but as guardian. He watches over the dead, weighs their names in silence, and carries them beyond rivers of ash. He speaks in dreams and signs — never directly, but always truly. . . Nawia is not a place of punishment, but of passage. Only the unremembered are lost there. . . Balance of the Three Prawia above, shining and still. Jawia between, fleeting and fierce. Nawia below, deep and waiting. . . When the worlds are in balance, Jarilo dances through them. When they are broken, Perun and Weles take up arms. . . And so we say: Walk with feet in Jawia, Eyes to Prawia, But leave your shadow in Nawia — For you will need it again. ᛜᛝᛜ Pověst o Sestryh Zěmlje i Ticha ᛜᛝᛜ The Tale of the Sisters of Soil and Silence Before the rivers dreamed and the seeds knew their names, when the breath of Triglav still echoed through bark and stone, the world turned—but not yet whole. There were gods who shaped, gods who guarded, gods who burned and laughed and waited. But beneath them—deep as root and soft as loam—were two who had not been shaped at all. They were not sons. They were not born of breath or will. They were simply there, waiting for the world to begin—and to end. The First to Rise Was Mokosh She stirred beneath a veil of rain, in the silence between heartbeat and harvest. Wherever the soil turned to welcome the seed, her hands were already pressed deep. She taught the cow to kneel, the child to suckle, the vine to curl. She did not command. She did not demand. She simply was—and the earth obeyed. The Second Was Morana She did not stir. She arrived in stillness, cloaked in white, her breath a cold sigh before the first frost. She whispered to the leaf, and it withered. She looked to the fire, and it burned low. She stepped into the river, and it stilled. She was not cruel. She was not kind. She was inevitable. The Year That Broke It is told that there was once a year when the grain bloomed early, and yet the wombs would not close. Children were born and would not cry. The fields sang without fruit. The sun laughed too long. And the dead could not sleep. For Jarilo had not returned to death, and so life had no place to end. The Sisters Met Beneath the Willow That Never Bloomed Mokosh came with hands of mud and milk. Morana stood upon snow that never melted. They did not speak—not at first. Then Mokosh said, “They grow without dying. They linger.” Morana answered, “Because he has not returned. And you have not let go.” And together, they saw the truth: The world was trying to bloom forever. And forever was turning to rot. They Wove the Thread One thread red as womb. One thread white as bone. One thread black as sleep. They buried it beneath the willow. They did not pray. They did not bind. They simply agreed. And from that moment. . . A cry belongs to Mokosh. A sigh belongs to Morana. And all that lies between is the thread they share. ᛜᛝᛜ Pověst o Jarilu, Jenž Nezapadl ᛜᛝᛜ The Tale of Jarilo, Who Forgot to Set Before the frost had teeth, before the harvest knew how to bow, the world turned in rhythm — not yet broken. There were gods who built and buried, gods who forged, gods who watched from deep and high. . .And there was one who returned. He Came as He Always Came Barefoot. Bright-eyed. With hair full of dew and arms full of green fire. Where his foot fell, snow split. Where his breath touched, buds swelled. Where he sang, lambs stood, and girls blushed, and fields opened. He laughed before he knew why. He danced before the drums were carved. He was Jarilo — the golden, the wild, the one who never remembers. But This Time, He Stayed He lingered past the longest day. The grain bent low, but he would not. The fruit soured, but he laughed. The leaves curled, but he did not see. “Why should I go?” he said. “The world is sweet. The people smile. The sun is high.” And so he stayed. The Fields Fell Silent The calves were born, but would not stand. The milk flowed, but gave no strength. The dead knocked at the gates, but none answered. The fire dimmed. The roots ached. The sky blinked — and did not open again. Morana waited beneath her willow. But he did not come. The One Who Sees Came Veles rose from the still earth. Not in anger. Not in grief. In balance. He stood where Jarilo danced. He looked where Jarilo would not. Then he said: “They do not sleep. You do not fall. The wheel is stuck.” Jarilo looked — and remembered, just a little. He turned to the field. The grain looked back with empty eyes. He Walked at Last To the snow that never melted. To the mouth that had not sung. To her. Morana stood, as she always does. She said nothing. And then he knelt for The Kiss She kissed him once, light as falling ash. And then he died. The frost came. The field sighed. The sky wept, quietly. From Then Until Now He comes each spring, as he always has. He forgets. He sings. He blooms. But near the end — he remembers. Not with his mind. But with his breath. With the way his feet begin to slow. With the way her name stirs in the roots. And he walks, again, toward her. And so it is said: “He forgets, so we may begin. He dies, so we may finish. And the world breathes — because he learns again.” ᛜᛝᛜ Pověst o Morani, Jenž Čeká ᛜᛝᛜ The Tale of Morana, Who Waits Before the fire forgot to fade, before men learned to fear stillness, death did not take — it welcomed. There were gods who built and broke. Gods who sang and struck and sowed. And there was one who waited. She Was There When Breath Failed In the hush beneath the root. In the pause before the last heartbeat. In the stillness between harvest and frost. She did not knock. She did not drag. She only stood, where endings belonged. She was Morana — the white one, the quiet one, the keeper of the last kiss. And Every Year, He Comes The golden one. The barefoot one. The one who forgets. He comes with laughter in his mouth, with petals caught in his hair, with spring blooming too fast beneath his feet. And each year she sees him. From afar. From beneath the willow that never blooms. He does not look. He never remembers. “Not yet,” she whispers. “You are still too full.” And So She Waits She watches the fields swell, then wither. She hears the children laugh — and not stop. She feels the dead gather at the threshold. They press at her back. They moan without tongues. They ask, with no breath: “When will he come?” And still she waits. She Does Not Send Cold Not yet. She only stands where the air begins to still. Where the birds forget their way. Where the light sharpens too long. “He must come freely,” she says. “Or it is not death, but theft.” One Year, He Does Not Come He dances longer. He sings louder. He touches all but her. And the world begins to rot. The grain swells, but sours. The trees bloom, then twist. The bones beneath the hill ache with names unsaid. Still, she does not move. Until He Returns At last — slow-footed, heavy-eyed. Not laughing. Not smiling. Just walking. She says nothing. He kneels. And She Kisses Him Once. He sighs. He fades. He falls. And the frost returns to where it belongs. She Does Not Weep She never has. But when he dies as he must, she touches the willow, and waits again. And so it is said: “She is not cruel. She is not kind. She is certain. She does not chase — she receives. She does not strike — she ends. And the world breathes because she waits.” ᛜᛝᛜ O Jarilu i Děvě iz Vresoviščaᛜᛝᛜ Jarilo and the Heather Maiden Told in springtime, before planting, or at weddings. Long ago, before flowers learned to bloom, there lived a maiden in the northern moors. She was quiet, with hair like fog and eyes the color of rain. No man dared speak to her, for wherever she stepped, the grass died and the birds flew away. . . Her heart, they said, had been frozen by Morana herself. . . But then came Jarilo, god of spring and sowing, in the form of a barefoot youth. He wore no crown, only a smile, and carried a bundle of seeds in his hand. . . He saw the girl and did not flinch. He bowed low and said, ‘Will you help me plant?” . . She said nothing. But he pressed her cold hand into the warm soil. Where their fingers touched the earth, a single flower bloomed. . . They worked together until the moor was covered in heather and wheat. Her laughter returned, and so did the bees. When they kissed, the sun broke through the clouds for the first time in that land. . . To this day, lovers call each other ‘my heather’ and plant flowers together before the wedding. For where Jarilo walks, even the coldest heart may bloom ᛜᛝᛜ Kak Morana stala nevěsta Velesaᛜᛝᛜ How Morana Became the Bride of Veles In the earliest days, before man knew death or sorrow, the three worlds stood in harmony. Perun ruled thunder above, Jarilo danced in fields of golden grain, Svarog shaped fire and stone, and deep beneath the roots, Veles . . .guarded the silence of Nawia. Yet in Nawia, he was alone, his halls empty, his dreams echoing only with whispers of the departed. . . One day, a maiden appeared at the edge of the forest. Her beauty was untouched by sunlight; her eyes reflected only snow, her hair silver as moonlit frost. When she spoke, her voice chilled rivers and halted the songs of birds. People feared her, for she brought silence and endings. . . The gods wondered who had made this cold beauty, but Triglav only smiled, saying nothing. Perun tried to drive her away, yet she endured. Jarilo sought to warm her heart, yet she remained unmoved. Even Svarog’s flame failed to melt the ice of her spirit. . . And then came Veles, silent lord of the deep places, who had never spoken aloud. He saw Morana, not as death, but as peace; not as coldness, but as balance. With gentleness, he offered her the darkness of Nawia, the silence of roots, and the sacred duty of endings. . . Morana, moved by the quiet strength of Veles, took his hand. From that moment, death was no longer feared—it became a gentle passage into Nawia, guided by a compassionate goddess. Morana and Veles walked the halls of the underworld together, guardians of secrets, keepers of peace beyond life. . . Thus it was that Morana became the bride of Veles, ruling alongside him beneath the roots of the world. Each winter, when her footsteps return to the surface, she reminds the living of the beauty in silence, the wisdom in rest, and the promise that all things must eventually return to Nawia—where she awaits, her hand gently clasped in the shadowed embrace of Veles. . . ᛝᛜ Morana i Zagubljeny Lovecᛜᛝᛜ Morana and the lost hunter In an ancient time, a young hunter named Radomir defied tradition, hunting deep within the forbidden forest as the days grew shorter. Though warned by elders, he chased a stag until darkness fell, becoming lost as snow began to drift down. . . Soon, Morana appeared in the swirling snow—a woman clad in white, eyes like frost. He begged for mercy, pleading to return home. But Morana said softly, “I am neither cruel nor kind. I am what must be” . . . Radomir understood and ceased his struggle. Instead, he offered her bread, salt, and the warmth of his memories—his last gift. Morana, moved by his humility, whispered, “You will not be forgotten.” From that day forward, villagers leave offerings in winter forests, remembering Radomir’s humility, and Morana’s quiet acceptance of the inevitable. . . ᛜᛝᛜ Morana i Prva Zimaᛜᛝᛜ Morana and the First Winter When the world was young, there were no seasons—only an endless summer, ruled by Jarilo, who danced endlessly in fields of grain. People knew neither cold nor hunger, yet they grew careless, forgetting to honor the balance of life and death. . . Seeing this, Morana, silent and watchful, stepped from the shadows beneath the roots of the World Tree. Wherever her pale feet touched, frost grew and flowers wilted. She breathed softly, and snowflakes fell for the first time. . . The people cried out, for they feared the cold; yet Morana spoke gently: “Only when fields sleep beneath snow will the earth remember how to bloom. Only in darkness can you see the true value of fire.”. . . The people began to honor her, understanding that winter was not punishment, but rest—a necessary pause between one breath and the next. . . ᛜᛝᛜ O Svarogu i Daru Ognja ᛜᛝᛜ Svarog and the Theft of Fire Told by the hearth, especially during the Festival of the Forge. In the time before fire, the world was dim and cold. Men crouched in the hollows of trees. Their breath turned to mist. Their bones knew no warmth but the sun, and only when it chose to shine. They had no words for heat, nor craft, nor flame. The gods watched from above, from halls lit with stars. And among them stood Triglav, the Three-Faced One, whose gaze sees past, present, and what must yet come. His son, Svarog, stood beside him — young in divinity but bright of spirit. And Svarog saw the suffering of mortals: their hands raw with cold, their tools dull, their nights full of silence. And so he knelt before his Father. Not in defiance, but in devotion. “Let me bring them warmth,” said Svarog, “not to burn, but to build. Let me shape what they cannot yet name.” Triglav looked upon his son with all three faces — Sky, Earth, and Underworld — and saw that his heart was just. And so he said: “Go then, my son. Teach them not to steal fire — but to honor it. Let the flame be neither weapon nor toy, but companion.” And from the breath of the sun and the bones of the mountain, Svarog forged the First Flame. Not a roaring inferno, but a living spark, hidden within an iron egg, born of will, wind, and wisdom. Wrapped in a cloak of smoke and embers, he descended to the mortal world. To the first smith, he gave the flame. To the first hearth, he whispered its tending. And with hammer and hand, he showed them how to shape heat into tool, into bread, into light. The people rejoiced. They sang for the first time. They carved names into stone. They gave thanks not only to Svarog, but to Triglav, whose love is not the kind that hoards, but the kind that entrusts. And so it is that fire is sacred. No man may spit upon it. No meal is eaten until flame has tasted it first. Every forge is a temple. Every hearth, a shrine. And every time the flint sings, the old gift is remembered. For fire was not stolen. It was taught. And it remains — not to rule man, but to walk beside him in light. ᛜᛝᛜ Pověst o Dazhbogu, Jenž Nese Dvě Koruny ᛜᛝᛜ The Tale of Dazhbog, Who Wears Two Crowns Before men knew the measure of noon, before kings learned the weight of gold, light was not yet glory — only warmth. There were gods who hammered, gods who guarded, gods who opened the gates of breath and bone. And there was one who rose. He Was Made in Fire Not born, but forged. Not shaped by wind or sorrow, but by the hand of Svarog beneath the mountain flame. He was not thunder. He was not root. He was order, lit from within. His name was Dazhbog — the bright one, the law-bringer, the giver of flame. He Rose With the Morning His chariot burned in silence. His path turned the sky from ink to flame. His gaze woke kings. His warmth kissed the fields. He gave without asking. He judged without hate. He passed over all with equal flame. “Let all stand straight,” he said, “for my light favors none who kneel.” And The People Praised Him They raised gold in his shape. They sang his name in the mouths of their sons. They called his favor down upon the harvest and the crown. And he heard them. And he grew bright. Too bright. He Forgot the Second Crown.He burned the wheat before it ripened. He crowned a king who did not kneel to the soil. He watched the sick suffer and said only: “Let them rise, if they are worthy of my fire.” He was still Dazhbog. Still giver. Still sun. But now, he gave without mercy. And the world began to dry. She Planted No Curse Mokosh came not with fury. She brought no storm. She spoke no name. She bent in the dust where nothing grew, pressed a seed into the ash, and waited. And when the first green rose, she laid beside it a crown — of clay, of straw, of milk aand stone. “Wear this, or burn alone,” she whispered. He Saw the Crow. He dimmed. He turned.He remembered the forge — and the hand that made him. And he knelt, not to her, but to what he had almost forgotten to serve. Now He Wears Two One of flame. One of earth. One burns the air. One feeds the root. He rules from the sky — but bows to the field. And so it is said: “Glory without mercy turns to ash. Fire that rises too high forgets who struck the first spark. But the sun that remembers the clay — that sun feeds more than kings.” ᛜᛝᛜ O Topenju Morany ᛜᛝᛜ The Drowning of Morana Told during the end of winter, when the rivers begin to thaw. When the world was young and the snows were thicker than men’s memory, Morana walked freely across the land. Her breath turned rivers to stone. Her gaze withered fields. She carried sorrow in one hand and silence in the other. . . The people cried out to the gods, for no fire could warm their bones, and no seed would rise through the frost. But none dared challenge her — none but Jarilo, her brother, her opposite, born of warmth and bloom. . . He came with the first green blade of grass. He placed no blade against her breast, but offered her a crown of flowers. Morana laughed, bitter and cold, and tossed it into the snow. He kissed her cheek, and where his lips touched, spring broke free. . . Scorned and shamed, Morana fled — but vowed to return. . . Now, each year, we fashion her in straw and cloth — a woman of ice and ash. We curse her name and drown her in the river. But we do not forget her, for winter always returns. We only ask that she walks more slowly. . . ᛜᛝᛜ O Mokoši i Nitě Sudby ᛜᛝᛜ On Mokosh and the Threads of Fate In the time when the earth still shifted beneath the feet of men, and trees walked in the night, the gods dwelt not only above, but within all things. Among them, there was one whose footsteps no one heard — for she walked not across the land, but through it. . . Her name was Mokosh, the Quiet Weaver. She was not born of flame nor thunder, but from soil soaked with breath, from the dark water beneath the roots, from the blood of the birthing womb and the murmur of the harvest wind. . . The people cried to Perun for protection. They praised Svarog for fire and tool. They danced for Jarilo and feared Weles. But they forgot the one who gave them shape — the one who held their fates in thread and knot. . . And so the land grew weary. Crops failed, children were stillborn, bread would not rise, and dreams scattered like broken straw. The elders cast lots and found no answers. Storms passed and left no rain. The people knelt at altars, but the gods did not answer. . . Then came an old woman from the eastern hills, her hair bound with thorns and her voice low as a stream beneath frost. She said: “You ask the sky, but it is the earth that grieves.” And with her staff she struck the ground thrice, and the stone cracked. Beneath it was no fire, nor gold, but a single thread, red as life, warm to the touch. She pulled it — and the ground opened. . . And from beneath the world rose Mokosh, not in flame nor splendor, but cloaked in loam and leaf, her hands stained with clay and milk. She carried no weapon — only a spindle. . . She spoke: “You have forgotten me. Yet I have not ceased weaving. But your lives are tangled, and your fates fray like old rope.” The people fell to their knees. Mokosh knelt, pressed her palm to the earth, and from her hand sprang grain, moss, and a flower no one could name. She wove threads of red, blue, gold, and ash, and passed them to the women, saying . . . “Bind your homes with these. Bake them into your bread. Tie them into your children’s hair. And remember — nothing grows where thread is severed.” From that day, the women of the Lechians honored Mokosh in silence and deed. They buried poppy seeds at sowing, spun thread only at dusk, and left a bite of every loaf near the threshold for her unseen hand. . . And it is said: . . .When a child is born in good health, it is because Mokosh tied their fate with clean fingers. When bread rises golden, it is because she smiled on the oven. And when a woman dies without pain, they say . . . “The Weaver has gathered her thread.” ᛜᛝᛜ O Mokoši i Jarilu – O Prvym Sěmenu ᛜᛝᛜ Of Mokosh and Jarilo – The First Seed It is told by the trees, in a season before calendars were carved, when the world still remembered the warmth of its own shaping, that Jarilo, the Bright One, son of Triglav and herald of the green tide, returned from Nawia for the first time — barefoot, laughing, with petals caught in his hair. He leapt across thawed rivers and whispered joy into sleeping roots. Where he walked, snow broke open like shells, and the first grass dared rise. But the soil did not bloom. The seed would not swell. And Jarilo — for all his joy — could not make the earth rise to meet him. He grew restless. He sang to the rivers, but they did not carry his songs. He danced for the meadows, but the flowers turned away. And in despair, he wandered into the oldest field — a place untouched by plough or shrine — where the earth hummed beneath the silence. There, he found her. Mokosh, seated upon a stone, spinning black thread into gold. Around her, bees stirred. A sow suckled her piglets in sleep. The bones of old harvests jutted from the ground, but the grass around her bloomed — though she did not move. Jarilo bowed low. “Mother Earth, I am spring. I bring life, and yet life does not come. What have I done wrong?” Mokosh did not lift her eyes. “You bring light, boy,” she said, “but you do not bring weight. You stir the world, but you do not hold it. A seed must not only fall — it must be received.” Jarilo sat beside her. He placed a seed in her hand — just one, round as hope. She pressed it to the soil with her thumb, and said: “Now, ask me. Not with your song. Not with your feet. Ask with silence.” And so he waited. One day. Two. On the third, the seed cracked — and from it grew the first stalk of sacred grain, golden and trembling in the wind. Jarilo laughed. He kissed the earth. He turned to thank her — but she was gone, leaving only a thread tied to the stalk, red and damp with dew. From that time, every spring, Jarilo returns from the land of the dead, and Mokosh receives him — not with words, but with readiness. She opens, and he fills. And the world begins again. ᛜᛝᛜ O Svarogu i Porodu Dažboga ᛜᛝᛜ Of Svarog and the Birth of Dazhbog In the days before time had teeth — when fire was still wild and stars hung in the heavens like sleeping embers — Svarog, the Flame-Bearer, toiled alone in the forge beneath the roots of the world. He struck his anvil with thunder. Each blow shaped order into chaos, iron into form, thought into law. But the forge was dark, and his fire — though sacred — cast no light beyond his hall. And so Svarog looked upon the world and said: “It is shaped. It is built. But it does not yet shine.” He turned to the sky, saw it still as black iron, and whispered: “Let there be a sun — not made, but born.” He took up his tongs, and from the coals of his heart he drew forth a white-hot spark, unlike any other. He placed it on the anvil — not to be hammered, but to be named. He called it: Dazhbog. The spark shivered, and with the breath of his bellows, Svarog gave it soul. He fed it with copper and gold, with songs of the first craftsmen, with heat that bends iron but not will. And on the ninth blow of the hammer, the forge burst open, and from it leapt Dazhbog — radiant, crowned in flame, chariot-wheeled and roaring with light. He rose into the sky not as a thing made, but as a god born of will and brilliance. And where he passed, shadow fled. Trees reached upward. Stone blinked. The world, which had been shaped but lifeless, suddenly breathed in color. The other gods looked on, shielded their eyes, and said: “This is no star — this is the Eye of the Law.” And Svarog, weary and proud, simply nodded: “Let him ride across the heavens. Let him give what he sees. Let him shine where I cannot.”

ᛜᛝᛜ Encylopedia Rodnoveriaᛜᛝᛜ The religion of the balance Scribed by žerce Siemomysł, servant of flame and word, in the thirty-fifth year since the Raising of the High Hearth in Góra Mokra. From bark and bone, from memory and moonlight, the truth of our people is kept. IMPORTANT LINKS ᛜᛝᛜCulture of Lechiaᛜᛝᛜ ᛜᛝᛜRODNOVERYᛜᛝᛜ “. . .Before ink wrote laws, before stone wore crowns, there was Rodnovery — the ancient faith of the Proto-Lechians. It is a polytheistic, nature-centered religion, whose roots twist deep into the black soil, the roaring rivers, and the hearts of old oak trees. It is not simply a belief system — it is a way of living in rhythm with the world. For generations beyond counting, this faith shaped the spirit of a people who sowed with songs, healed with herbs, and swore oaths beneath stars. The gods of Rodnovery were not distant, but present in every gust of wind, in every wolf’s howl, in every newborn’s cry. To live as a Rodnover was to understand that every act — planting, birthing, smithing, hunting, even speaking — was part of the sacred whole. The gods walked beside mortals not in shining form, but in fire, shadow, seed, wind, and silence. The goal was not salvation — it was alignment, harmony, and return. At death, if one had lived rightly, the body would return to soil, and the soul would rise to Nawia, where the ancestors wait, and the gods whisper in golden fields beyond mortal reach. Rodnovery dominated the spirit of the Lechians for centuries. Its symbols were carved on stones, sung in lullabies, sewn into bridal veils, and buried in warrior graves. But when foreign tongues bearing strange crosses came — they came with fire and blood. Conversion did not happen in a day. It took years of burning, book-writing, exile, and swordpoint sermons to bend the spirit of the Lechians. Shrines were torn down. Sacred groves were felled. And yet… not all roots die. Though the surface of the land may wear new symbols, the old gods have not forgotten. Triglav still watches. Weles still walks the mists. Somewhere, a child still ties a red ribbon to a tree. Somewhere, a flame is still lit with the left hand and a whisper. Rodnovery is no longer law — but it remains memory, breath, and echo. And echoes, when heard by the right ears, may rise again. . .” PART ONE: ON THE GODS ᛜᛝᛜ TRIGLAV ᛜᛝᛜ Proto-Lechitic: Triglav, Trojliky Otec i Stražar Světov Domains: Creation, fate, unity of worlds, divine order Symbols: Three-faced visage, triangle, sacred oak, flame-ring Associations: Prawia, Jawia, Nawia Triglav is the highest god, the one from whom all others descend. He is not just one being, but the divine embodiment of cosmic unity — Heaven above, Earth between, and Underworld below. His three heads face each of the realms, seeing what no mortal or lesser god can see: the full shape of time, truth, and balance. In Lechian belief, Triglav is the father of the divine sons (Perun, Svarog, Jarilo, and Weles). But he is not a ruler like a king; he is a principle, a foundation, a cosmic root. He is both the silence of the forest and the roar of the storm. To speak his name is to ask the world to listen. He is often represented by a sacred oak with three trunks, or a pillar with three eyes carved into stone Worship: Triglav is not worshipped in temples, but in nature itself — under open sky, among ancient oaks, or in sacred groves. His rites are silent, humble, and reflective. To honor him is to align oneself with the balance of the world. Offerings include: Threefold gifts (e.g. milk, ash, and bread) Ribbons tied in three colors (white for spirit, red for life, black for death) Silent meditations, or walking in spirals around sacred trees His worship is common during: Solar eclipses The turn of seasons High oaths or royal coronations The birth or death of clan leaders How He Is Remembered: When paths split and the wind goes still, the elders say: “Triglav stands at the crossroad — speak only truth, or not at all.” When a ruler falls and peace remains, they say: “His hand was guided by the One who sees all sides.” And when three crows land on a branch at once, they whisper: “Watch your words. Triglav listens in threes.” ᛜᛝᛜ PERUN ᛜᛝᛜ Proto-Lechitic: Perun, Gromovladnyk i Stražar Pravdy Domains: Storms, lightning, war, sacred law, honor, divine justice Symbols: Axe, eagle, thunderbolt, oak tree, iron rings Associations: Warriors, kings, judges, storms, mountains, sacred stones Perun is the Sky-Father’s fury and shield, the god whose voice is thunder and whose eyes burn like lightning above a battlefield. He is the oldest son of Triglav, and first among the warlike gods. But he is not rage — he is judgment. His storm is not chaos, but correction. Where truth has faltered, he strikes. Perun does not whisper or plead — he commands. His breath is iron, his oath unbreaking. To those who uphold honor, he gives strength. To those who break their word, he brings ruin. He is the guardian of the sacred order, the divine wielder of balance and justice. His sacred weapon is the Axe of Flame, said to have been gifted to the first chieftain of the Lechians — and lost until the day a righteous leader shall wield it again. Worship: Perun is not prayed to softly — he is called by clarity, boldness, and sacrifice. His rites are loud, structured, and often public, especially among soldiers, oathswearers, and high lords. Offerings include: Goat blood or warrior’s mead, spilled on oak-bounded stones Weapons, runes, or iron buried beneath standing boulders Oaths shouted three times beneath the sky during a storm or sunset His sacred spaces are: High places, cliffs, and mountaintops Ancient oak groves with carved thunder symbols Stone altars surrounded by boulders marked with runes Ritual Forms: A warrior’s oath is not sealed without Perun. A sword is held skyward, and the words are declared aloud. To lie in this moment is to call down lightning. The land itself bears witness when he is invoked. He is especially worshipped: At summer storms, before war, or on the day of judgment On Iron Days (equinoxes and solstices) In rituals of initiation, coronation, and exile Mythic Role: In Lechian myth, Perun was born when Triglav struck the sky with his third breath, shaping fire from breath and stone. His first act was to battle Weles, his brother and opposite — for Weles had stolen the cattle of heaven and hidden them beneath the earth. Their war is eternal — each spring, Weles rises in floods, and Perun casts him down in thunder. This cosmic duel shapes the rhythm of the year: life's trial and renewal, struggle and justice, fire and rain. Perun is not invincible — but he is righteous. He may fall, but he never breaks. How He Is Remembered: When a storm rises, the old say: “Perun walks — count your truths.” When a warrior dies in battle, they say: “He was taken by Perun’s hand — he will dine where the sky burns.” And when an oath is broken, they say nothing — they wait for thunder. ᛜᛝᛜ SVAROG ᛜᛝᛜ Proto-Lechitic: Svarog, Bog Ogňa i Děla Domains: Fire, smithing, labor, invention, law, creation Symbols: Hammer, anvil, sun-wheel, spark, square cross Associations: Forges, craftsmen, inventors, laws, discipline, hearthfire Svarog is the god of flame tamed into purpose. He is not the fire that destroys, but the fire that builds — that tempers steel, that bakes bread, that warms the newborn’s first breath. He is the father of Dazhbog, and in some tales, the creator of the sun’s chariot. He binds divine will into material form, giving mortals the power to shape — not by magic, but by sweat and skill. His hammer is not a weapon, but a promise: what is made well, will endure. Worship: He is honored in workshops, hearths, and smithies — anywhere tools ring and hands sweat. Offerings include: Wrought objects, especially handmade tools, nails, horseshoes Charcoal, salt, or burned herbs Figurines of copper or iron placed on stone altars Rituals often begin with: A moment of silence, followed by the first strike of the hammer Passage of fire from an older flame (symbol of lineage and mastery) Mythic Role: Svarog is said to have raised the first sky with nails of starlight, and set time into motion by forging the sun. He taught mortals to build shelter, shape tools, and respect the rhythm of work. His fire is sacred — it must never be wasted, for it is his breath. How He Is Remembered: When a blade holds true through war and time, the smiths say: “Svarog tempered it with his breath.” When a fire refuses to light, they mutter: “Someone broke their word to the Forge-Father.” And when a poor man builds well with little, the people nod and say: “Svarog loves honest hands.” ᛜᛝᛜ JARILO ᛜᛝᛜ Proto-Lechitic:Jarilo, Młody Bog Života i Ljubvi Domains: Fertility, renewal, spring, harvest, love, joy Symbols: Wheat stalk, flower wreath, stag, flute, flowing river Associations: Meadows, lovers, dance, youth, dawn wind Jarilo is the youthful god of the green world, the one who rises each spring from the underworld, bringing warmth to root and blush to cheek. He is the soul’s first breath after waking and the laughter after rain. He is the god of romance, renewal, and fleeting beauty — beloved by maidens, poets, and farmers alike. In some myths, he is Morana’s lost lover or son, returning from the dead to bring new life. His presence is felt in every breeze that bends the grain and every glance that stirs the heart. Worship: Jarilo is honored with music, dance, and celebration, especially at the start of spring and during Kupala Night. Offerings include: Wreaths of flowers or herbs Bundles of green wheat or clover Milk, fresh water, or mead poured at sunrise Rites include: Spiral dances, bonfire leaping, and courtship games Children crowned with green garlands to walk through fields Mythic Role: Each year, Jarilo dies with autumn and rises in spring, walking from Nawia into Jawia. His journey is the cycle of nature itself — love that is beautiful because it ends, and returns again. He reminds mortals to live brightly, love boldly, and plant in hope — for even the coldest winter can be kissed away by green. How He Is Remembered: When green shoots rise from frozen soil, the young cry out: “Jarilo walks again!” When a maiden laughs at nothing and blushes for no one, the crones smile: “His wind touched her hair.” And when a calf is born too early but lives, they whisper: “He was there, unseen, with flowers in his footprints.” ᛜᛝᛜ WELES ᛜᛝᛜ Proto-Lechitic: Veles, Pastyr Navii i Mistr Tajemstva Domains: Underworld, magic, dreams, ancestors, wealth, change Symbols: Bear, serpent, spiral, obsidian, moon crescent Associations: Forest roots, crossroads, dark water, memory, silence Weles is the god of that which lies beneath — the keeper of secrets, the protector of the dead, and the whisperer between worlds. He is both guide and gate, the one who leads souls into Nawia and keeps watch while they sleep in soil. He is the brother and eternal rival of Perun, not out of hatred, but as part of the balance — sky and root, order and chaos, law and mystery. He wears many forms: a bear, a serpent, a mist that speaks. He is revered by herdsmen, diviners, magicians, poets, and the forgotten. Where Perun binds, Weles loosens. Where Perun strikes, Weles waits. Worship: Weles is honored during funerals, divination rites, and times of deep reflection or madness. His worship is often private, at night, and without singing. Offerings include: Black bread, raw honey, mead, bones, or animal hair Tokens of obsidian, ash, or bear fur Whispered names or unspoken thoughts cast into dark water or buried under trees Weles is invoked at: Twilight Dziady (Ancestor Nights) In oaths not to be broken, as he is the punisher of false promises Mythic Role: It is said Weles stole fire, knowledge, and souls — not for wickedness, but to give mortals what the heavens denied. He walks the paths between dreams and death, and writes no books — only signs in the fog. He does not judge — he remembers. And through him, the dead remain part of the living. How He Is Remembered: When a dream brings truth no man could know, the wise say: “Weles passed through your sleep with bare feet.” When a wolf follows a traveler but does not bite, they say: “He walks under the bear’s protection.” And when a liar dies with dry eyes, the mourners whisper: “He will not find the river — Weles does not guide the unworthy.” ᛜᛝᛜ MORANA ᛜᛝᛜ Proto-Lechitic: Morana, Bogynja Zimy i Smrti Domains: Death, winter, endings, silence, sleep, rebirth through decay Symbols: Swan, frozen branch, white veil, effigy, sickle Associations: Snow, cold winds, twilight, liminality, memory Morana is the goddess of stillness and endings — the twilight breath before rebirth. She is feared, not for cruelty, but for inevitability. Every falling leaf, every frostbitten stalk, every final heartbeat is carried by her pale hand. Yet she is not evil — she is rest. Without her, nothing could sleep, heal, or begin again. In some myths, she is a wife to Weles, sharing dominion over death and dreams. In others, she is the spirit of winter itself, cast out each spring but returning with the cold wind. Worship: Morana is not called for joy, but for closure. She is honored in farewell, in last breath, and in the passing of seasons. Offerings include: White cloth, ash, dried herbs, and silent prayer A straw or clay effigy, burned or cast into rivers Cold water or snow used to cleanse hands or tools Mythic Role: Morana walks the world when Jarilo dies — every winter is her mourning veil. She teaches that all must end: youth fades, fire cools, strength wanes. But her frost is also what preserves the seed, allowing spring to bloom again. Each year, she is sent away in ritual (Topenje Morany), but it is known she will return — as all endings do. How She Is Remembered: When the last apple rots on the branch and the frost bites deep, they murmur: “Morana has dressed the world in silence.” When a loved one dies in their sleep without pain, the family says: “She came gently, as snow does.” And when a lone white bird flies across a grey sky, the elders bow their heads: “Don’t call her — she’s already near.” ᛜᛝᛜ DAZHBOG ᛜᛝᛜ Proto-Lechitic:Dažbog, Davač Slnca i Blahoslova Domains: Sun, prosperity, divine justice, kingship, light, destiny Symbols: Sun-disc, chariot, gold coin, lion, wheel Associations: Kings, light, order, warmth, fortune, fire Dazhbog is the divine solar rider— the great wheel that rolls across the heavens. Where his light falls, order awakens: crops grow, shadows retreat, and wealth flows. He is the most radiant of the gods, and the judge of fortune. He is both generous and discerning. He does not give freely, but to those who act with vision, honor, and duty. In some myths, he is a son of Svarog, born from fire Worship: He is honored at dawn, especially during equinoxes and solstices, or when seeking blessing before travel, trade, or war. Offerings include: Gold or sun-colored objects, such as coins or wheat Round honey cakes Water poured in sunrise light over a reflective bowl Rituals include salutes to the east, solar chants, and placing mirrors or bowls of light on altars. Mythic Role: It is said Dazhbog gave the first law, not in word, but by marking the seasons. He divides time, bestows luck, and blinds the unjust. Some call him the father of noble bloodlines, claiming that those born at sunrise carry a portion of his blessing. How He Is Remembered: When gold is found in the earth or a deal ends well, merchants grin and say: “Dazhbog rode overhead this morning.” When a king sits tall and no shadow dares cross him, the people say: “He bears the sun in his chest.” And when the day darkens without cause, they say: “Turn east — something has stolen Dazhbog’s gaze.” ᛜᛝᛜ MOKOSH ᛜᛝᛜ Proto-Lechitic: Mokoš, Matka Země i Sudba Domains: Fertility, fate, childbirth, weaving, earth, water Symbols: Spindle, well, sheaf, full breast, soil handprint Associations: Women, midwives, grain, sacred springs, hearths Mokosh is the womb of the world — the oldest and most enduring force of nourishment and becoming. Where she touches, roots grow and milk flows. She is not the creator of the world, but the one who makes it livable, fruitful, and connected by invisible thread. She is the patroness of birth, fate, and all feminine mysteries. Every grain that swells in the field, every thread drawn through a loom, and every newborn placed upon warm cloth is a whisper of her presence. Mokosh does not strike or roar. She feeds, wraps, and remembers. Worship: Her rituals are led by women, particularly elders and midwives. She is honored during the full moon, sowing season, and times of healing or childbirth. Offerings include: Milk, poppy seeds, and fresh bread Clay figures of pregnant women or goddesses Linen threads tied around birch branches or springs Mythic Role: In the oldest songs, Triglav entrusted Mokosh with the world’s growth, while he watched its shape. She is said to have taught humans to till, weave, and mend, binding not only fabric but fate itself. The Rozhanitsy (spirit sisters of fate) serve her — but she is their guide. When a child is born, it is Mokosh who plants their life-thread, and when one dies, it is she who knots it closed. How She Is Remembered: When bread bakes golden and rain falls gently, grandmothers say: “Mokosh has smiled on this house.” When a child is born with eyes wide open, the midwife murmurs: “Her thread was spun clean, and Mokosh tied the knot herself.” And when hands are calloused but the harvest is full, they say: “Her blessings are quiet — like roots.” ᛜMINOR DIETIESᛜ ᛜ KLOBUK ᛜ Spirit of the Hearth and Luck Proto-Lechitic: Klobuk – Duch Ognja i Doma Klobuk is one of the oldest and most beloved household spirits, said to form from the first smoke to rise from a new hearth, given shape by prayers and silence. Though he takes the form of a black rooster with glowing red eyes, Klobuk is no demon — he is a guardian of warmth, protection, and home-luck. His presence brings good harvest, keeps embers hot, and chases sickness from the door. He dislikes loud quarrels, wasted food, and neglected offerings. If angered, the fire may spit without reason, or smoke may refuse to leave the chimney. Worship & Signs: Leave a dish of milk or honey near the hearth at night, especially in spring. If a black feather appears on your sill at dawn, Klobuk has circled your home. On winter solstice, burn juniper and speak his name to keep evil out until spring. ᛜ DOMOWNIK ᛜ Caretaker of Children and Peace of the Home Proto-Lechitic: Domovnik – Stražnik Děti i Doma The Domownik is a small, quiet spirit born from the warmth of family and the laughter of children. It is said that every home where a child is born, a Domownik is assigned by Mokosh herself to live behind the stove or within the grain loft. He is seen clearly only by children, who speak of a bearded man no taller than a stool, with hair the color of ashes and hands like woolly mittens. He plays when children are lonely, wipes their tears, and sometimes hides bad dreams in his beard. To adults, he is only glimpsed — a shadow in the corner, a creak in the floorboards, the strange warmth in a cold room. Worship & Signs: Place a small loaf of sweet bread on the windowsill on a child’s birthday. If toys are mysteriously rearranged or dolls left seated upright, thank the Domownik. Never scold a child who speaks of seeing him — his presence is a blessing. ᛜ BIES ᛜ Embodiment of Sin, Devourer of Souls Proto-Lechitic: Bjes – Otělenje Zła i Nočni Mor Where Weles rules the underworld and weighs the soul, Bies waits below him, hungering for those who stray beyond the gods' protection. He is not simply a demon — he is the manifestation of evil unredeemed, nightmare made flesh. Born from the blood of the first murder, Bies took form as a beast of bone and shadow, with a head crowned in horms, eyes yellow like a fevered flame, and a mouth filled with serpent fangs. His claws tear not flesh, but hope. He feeds on the souls of oath-breakers, murderers, and those who curse the gods. His lair is a cavern beneath the world, a pit of echoes, where sinners are dragged and devoured soul-first, their screams never reaching Navia. Worship & Warding: Do not speak his name after dusk. Wear a charm of iron, rowan, and ash during nightmares or illness of the soul. If hooves are heard at night with no beast near, cross your chest and whisper a prayer to Perun. ᛜ LESZY ᛜ Forest Warden, Spirit of the Wilds Proto-Lechitic: Lešij – Stražar Prěrody Born from Triglav’s third breath — the one that touched trees, beasts, and breathless stone — Leszy was made to defend the wild heart of the world. He is no god of soft forest dreams — he is the living law of untamed places. Leszy is the guardian of groves, moss, and roots, and the guide of lost children and hunters alike. To poachers, he is the silent wrath. To wanderers who sing and step lightly, he is the whisper in the leaves that leads them home. He takes many forms: A pillar of smoke walking between trunks A towering man-shaped tangle of bark and moss, crowned with a deer skull or antlers Or simply a stillness too deep to be natural Worship & Signs: Offer bread, salt, and berries on a tree stump before entering unfamiliar woods. Never chop trees without marking them and asking aloud. If mushrooms bloom in a perfect ring overnight, Leszy has passed nearby.

WRIT OF DISOWNMENT ISSUED BY HOUSE ASHFORD DE SAVOIE ISSUED AND CONFIRMED BY THEÓDOROS PERCIVAL ASHFORD DE SAVOIE. IN TIMES OF WAR, loyalty is of the most paramount importance. Bonds are broken and new ones are created, men and women die side by side for glory, fame, money or faith. It is during strife, that hard men are created, and it is during strife, that weak men are culled. There are many things that set hard and weak men apart, and perhaps paramount of these things, is LOYALTY. THEREFORE, IT IS with a heavy heart, yet with a sound mind and calm soul, that the House Ashford de Savoie is forced to write this WRIT OF DISOWNMENT for one of their own. It has come to the attention of myself, the Patriarch and Head, that my own son, LOUIS SÉBASTIEN ASHFORD DE SAVOIE, has turned coat, showing his disloyalty to his family, to his kingdom, and King. He was declared heir to a foreign state, through admission of his own, and has declared intentions of opening a business in a state that the KINGDOM OF BALIAN finds itself at war with. AS SUCH, THE DUTY falls upon myself to rectify such. With this writ, the following is declared and established, and shall not be lifted by anyone except Monarch or Head of the House; LOUIS SÉBASTIEN ASHFORD DE SAVOIE is disowned from any inheritance attributed to him through family lines - of any kind. LOUIS SÉBASTIEN ASHFORD DE SAVOIE is hereby declared traitor, and is no longer welcome within the Savoie Manor, in Portoregne. LOUIS SÉBASTIEN ASHFORD DE SAVOIE is hereby forbidden from utilising the Ashford de Savoie name, and is no longer recognised as a member of the lineage. LOUIS SÉBASTIEN ASHFORD DE SAVOIE shall henceforth be known as LOUIS ASHES, the name attributed to bastards of Esheveurd lineages. ONLY THROUGH PENANCE before kin and kingdom, shall Louis Ashes achieve retribution, and be accepted back into the light of the Argent Sun. FIAT JUSTITIA RUAT CAELUM, LORD THEÓDOROS ASHFORD DE SAVOIE, COUNT OF PEREMONT AND SARISSA, BARON OF BRYNNOSE, PATRIARCH OF HOUSE ASHFORD DE SAVOIE. OWYN HECTOR ASHFORD DE SAVOIE. EDMOUND ASHFORD DE SAVOIE. CATHERINE ASHFORD DE SAVOIE.

"GOD BLESS" Said Baron of Triglav while chilling in his tower (barony)

Gekoloniseerd

Top five COA's on LoTC (I know the top 3 is mine) Ten reasons why elves are worse than humans Top ten High pontiffs?????? And last question....How's life in Poland?

Holy Ser August snorted in the seven skies "This guy overdosed on Salmon and now became a brainlet"

Mikhail Jazloviecki cleaned up cannons as he said out loud to his lechian artillerymen "Let's show them how we, Jazloviecki family defend Savoy"

Mikhail Jazloviecki bellowed out a heartily laugh "Tho the **** is he to decide that?"

Mikhail Jazloviecki would stay at night in the church, praying for King Charles' soul and his safe passage to seven skies

Double Crispy Holy Sir August nodded as he read the note from seven skies "Shieeet, Ottomar 'Nickolas II' von Alstreim isn't ballin"

Mikhail Jazloviecki would wipe his arse with this paper before proceeding with the rest of the day!

[♪] It was a sunny day in the realm of the Argent Sun. A Holy Knight, named August Jazloviecki-Buckfort was sitting in his old armchair that remembers the golden era of Savoy, while smoking his cigar. The sun was shining on his old, hairy face and the man simply smiled at the distant star. He was old, he sensed that his end would come sooner or later. He puffed his cigar one more time before extinguishing it and standing up “It’s time” he thought to himself before walking back inside the old Triglav Keep. The man put his sword on the clothed table and prayed for a moment. Once he was sure of his intentions he went down to the cellar and took out a barrel of Uruk Guzzoline. “I once cheated death, it’s due time to embrace it” he said to himself before walking out with the said barrel and putting it on his horse. It took several days for the Knight to reach the heartlands that have been like a second home for him ever since his beloved Savoy fell. There was one thought in his head - Dumapalooza. So as he did exactly what he has planned - August approached the gate, and greeted his nephew Aleksander Wilhelm with a smile, as none of his relatives knew of his intentions. He went in carrying the barrel in his bag,after that the Old Knight went for a peaceful walk toward the building, while entering he moved through the crowd to find himself standing near the fireplace that was close to the podium where the candidates for a new Duke of Adria were standing. He hesitated a bit, but after a short prayer he glanced at the gathered Adrians and opened the barrel. The smell was quite distinct, though due to the crowd it didn’t spread quickly. August raised his arms and poured all the content of the barrel over himself. He was certain that his decision was righteous and thus this action will be the best and only possible way to purify his soul. Moments later the elderly man reached into the fireplace and immediately caught on fire. The crowd turned their heads towards the Knight but it was too late. Holy Knight screamed his last words as his body stood in flames… His goal was simple - hit the representatives of House von Draco, enemies of his relatives and of his own. Then the most unexpected of all possible things happened - a poor recruit stepped in to stop the burning Knight. He could not stop therefore he rushed into the boy, causing burn damage to his clothes and skin. He did not succeed, but he tried. His duty was fulfilled and his soul cleansed. The last Argent Legionnaire, last living Savoyard and last Jazloviecki Holy Knight dropped dead as his body burned in agony. August Mikołaj Jazloviecki-Buckfort lived 109 years, now he departed on his last journey, to find eternal peace and finally reconnect with his lost friends and family.

Holy Ser August would wipe his tears slowly as he heard of the news "Another friend that I outlived...." - "Hopefully I'll see you again, Emil"