DSD. 2: The Starsworn

The Starsworn

By: Matthew D. Hammond

Date: 5th of Rubalkun, 351 6gc

Warnings: N/A

The grounds of the plantation felt eerily empty in the stillness of the twilight. Dugalan walked along the northern thoroughfare, following the line of trees to the left of the road. The soft blanket of pine needles resting in the ditch beneath his feet masked his footprints and sent him reminiscing of a time in the dawn of his life, before his aging slowed and before he had murdered his first man. The dead foliage and the cold dew of the morning were beacons in the fog of his mind, and he could almost grasp what it was like to be a child again, wending through the trees on an aimless journey of discovery and imagination.  

Thunder churned in the western sky, forcing his attention back to the present. He turned and cast his gaze over his shoulder briefly; the dark grey pillars of rain could be seen plummeting down from an ominous cloud bank in the distance. They disappeared behind the dark treeline, almost twinkling in the thin light of the eastern sun. It must have been a trick of the eyes, he wagered; the sun would still need some time to crawl above the horizon.

Looking across the road to the south, he saw the silhouettes of the Basai’van family’s mansion, lodging houses, barracks, and the stable of the livery yard. No lanterns were lit; no torches broke the pall of somber darkness. It was as if the quake of the coming storm had lulled the landowners and their hired hands into a deeper slumber. He smiled knowingly; if the storm was heavy and long, work would be suspended until it cleared. There would be repairs to tend to when the weather lessened, but it was a small price to pay for even half of a day of precious recuperation.

He ducked into the woods near a brittle grey snag and navigated a maze of bushes and brambles, employing his best effort to avoid stamping any of the plants into the dirt. He could not risk disturbing the natural undergrowth much; given how often he sequestered to the dock, a trail might begin to form that could eventually draw the attention of the guards. Soon, the remnants of an overgrown gravel path began to emerge. Two tall, thorny evergreen bushes stood framing the old trail as a gateway, cold beads of dew resting on their waxy leaves. He ducked beneath them without so much as rattling a branch, his eyes resting comfortably on the trail unfolding beneath him.

Then, an odd feeling took him that made the tufts on the end of his ears bristle and the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Instinctively, his gaze snapped ahead of himself; there, at the end of the dock, sat a figure in velvety black. Jet hair tumbled down her back in loose, natural waves, barely discernible against her shawl and further hidden by the shade of her small umbrella. Dugalan felt a smile within, but could not bring himself to show it. After a glance about to secure the safety of his surroundings, he strode forth from the treeline.

As he approached the wharf, a patch of loose gravel crunched softly beneath the ball of his foot, breaking the silence of the little glade. Erdinai met him with a startled glance and a gasp--a surprise that melted away into a professional but cautious smile and the stiff posture of fine breeding. “You trolls, you are so quiet.”

His feet met the old boards, issuing a sad, world weary creak. “You won’t flatter me by complimenting my kin,” he said as he came to an early stop, his tone frank, but pleasant, “as most are not. I am silent because it was my job to be.”

Noticing a concern in his eyes that his reticence had not yet betrayed, she extended a hand to her left. “It is alright. Join me. I was waiting for you.”

With a proper bow, he found the end of the dock and sat with his feet over the edge and his tail in his lap. “Thank you, m’lady. I admit that I did not expect to see you after our first meeting.”

“I know that I must have given you the wrong impression, but forgive me. Business took me away to the city,” she explained. “I had truly intended to meet you the next day.”

“You still give me more respect than I am due,” he responded, “I am in no place to forgive--only accept.”

“Must you be that way?” she sighed.

“Indeed, I must.”

“By my order, then: stop that.”

A brief, heavy silence hung over them for a moment. After consideration, he acknowledged her request with a nod and scanned her apparel. “A storm is coming. It will reach us soon.”

She shrugged and looked to the dome of the sky above them, framed in a broken circle by the treetops. The soft light reflected in her dark brown eyes as delicate, pale orbs. “I’ll be alright. The rain will do well for my health, and I’ll have my family know that I was caught in the storm as I was arriving home, if they care to inquire.”

“I see. They are not aware of your arrival, then.”
“Clever, isn’t it?” she gushed. “The polite fellow manning the carriage had other business to see to, so I paid him early and opted to walk the rest of the way.”

“He was surely concerned about your well being.”

“Of course, but nothing I couldn’t downplay with a few reassurances. I told him that the house guards would have someone stationed to meet me at the old monolith by the entry. He had no reason to suspect otherwise.”

She was answered with a weary sigh from the troll. “I wish you weren’t so trusting, m’lady. You do not know me enough--you may never know me enough--to find yourself alone here, unaccounted for.”

“I can handle myself should I need to,” she said with unwavering, calm confidence. “You do not know me enough to underestimate me so. Besides, I came with the intention of remedying that lack of knowledge between us.”

“Farbeit from me to stand in your way, then,” Dugalan said, shrugging apathetically. “Carry on.”

Before she could speak, the sky let forth another vehement groan that shook the countryside. She paused until the noise spread thin. “You mentioned that part of your job was to be silent. What did you do before you were brought here, Sir Koldroskaro?”

His eyes sank to his feet as he pondered, finding the right words. “In layman’s terms, I was a scout, a warrior, and an assassin. The truth is more complicated, but I’m sure that won’t deter you from wanting to know: I was a member of an ancient society devoted to the protection of Koldrogan. In our tongue, we were the Kamunagi. In yours, I believe that would be,” he wrinkled his brow, struggling with uncertainty, “Those Sworn to the Stars.”

“Stars?” she said, her tone laced with the soft lilt of amusement, “are you sure?”

He acknowledged her with a swift nod. “Of that word I am most certain. Traditionally, we worked only in the night, tirelessly combing the forests and plains for any signs of enemy infiltration. Our purpose was to seek out and ambush any threats that crossed our border from At’mavi. It’s been over a thousand years since our origin, though, and we’ve evolved into a very versatile order, replete with skilled assassins, spies, and like agents that work under sun or moon.”

“Which were you, then? A spy, assassin, a scout?”

“Whatever I was needed to be,” he grunted indifferently, “they were an outlet for me to practice my darker talents, giving me more purpose than the army ever could. I accepted missions eagerly, regardless of their difficulty or immoral implications, and over the span of my service, they gave me a taste of every kind of dealing the Kamunagi got involved in, save one. However, that one side of the Kamunagi is something I am sworn to never speak of outside of the company of my brethren.”

“In a way, they seem similar to our Uramjen,” she said, directing her eyes to his own. For the first time, she saw him smile. It was a conceited smile, albeit small--one of both familiarity and superiority--the kind of arrogance that would be unattractive on any other face. Somehow, she thought, it suited him.

“Uramjen,” he reflected, “I know them well.”

“Oh? How do you know of them?” she asked, repositioning herself as to face him more directly. “They are so reclusive and secretive!”

“I’ve killed my share,” he chuffed proudly, “and we’ve accumulated several texts referring to them, although they are dated. We’ve been observing them since the beginning of our order, archiving what details we could parse from their movements and techniques in and out of battle.”

He paused, peeling up the sleeve of his tattered shorts and pointing to a pale scar on the otherwise fallow brown skin of his thigh. “One struck me here during a mess of a battle. I thought I might bleed out before the fight was over, but my comrades saw me through it.”

She smirked, impressed by the sudden spark of life in him. “We almost never hear of stories where the Uramjen have failed. Please, tell me more.”

He let loose the fabric and straightened it back out over his leg. “I’ve been present during my share of attempted murders. My cousin, the tribe-founder, and my master in the Kamunagi were both targets of Uramjen’s elite, and both lived to boast about it, thanks to my order. We’ve also intercepted several of their forces en route to other targets, and, needless to say, they did not make it to their objective.

I confess due admiration, to be fair; they are certainly well trained and they do a respectable job for humans,” he said, clearing his throat, “and not all of my encounters with them ended well.”

A wry grin played across her lips. “Sorry--for a human? Are we not capable of greatness like your people?”

“No, m’lady, let me clarify. I mean no ill will toward your people, but you age and expire quickly in our eyes,” he explained.

“I suppose I can let that slide, then,” she said, “but you’re in my debt, so if I say something foolish, you must correct me and let it go.”

At first, he nodded affirmatively, but before she could continue, he began to chuckle softly. Shaking his head, he said, “It has been a long time since I have been in debt.”

“Why is that funny, sir Koldroskaro?” she inquired lightheartedly.

“You’re funny,” he responded, bearing no explanation.

“Why ever for?” she inquired, folding her arms comfortable and low across her midsection.

“You know why, m’lady, you know why,” he snorted. A pattering sigh emerged faintly at an indeterminate distance in the woods to their left, almost drowned out by the churning current of the nearby river. Dugalan’s ear flicked upward as that of a horse or deer as he hearkened the coming rain. “The weather has almost reached us.”

She looked beyond him, toward the dark of the treeline, stilling her breath to better listen. “How ever did you hear that-- nevermind. Just one of the superior faculties of your people, I’m sure.”

“What you do is up to you, Lady Basai’van, but I must take my leave. I’ll not avoid getting wet, verily, but I must try to make it back without becoming too suspiciously drenched.”

Her eyes caught his profile and lingered for a brief spell as his words bore a frown upon her face. “We've only just begun, Sir Koldroskaro.”

He calmly rose, taking a deep breath and expelling it as he looked to the dim glaucous sky above. “If your duties permit, we will meet again in the coming days. For now, I bid you farewell.”

She gradually nodded and looked away into the waters of the pond as he walked the length of the wharf. When her eyes rose again, his figure was almost gone, cloaked in the brush of the undergrowth. The coming rain shrouded the sound of his footsteps as it neared, its lulling roar a portent of renewal.

She fidgeted with a tassel on her blouse, the elements of his story--as well as each question she’d readied to ask--echoing in her mind. Just as an idea caught her attention--to write down her questions once home for safekeeping--another sprung into being that quickly replaced the notion: she could document his stories to the best of her memory, creating an archive of knowledge about his culture and his people. It may not be well received by her countrymen, she figured, but if there was a single person she could inspire with the knowledge she could mine, it would be a worthy endeavor.

Bursting with a rush of excitement, she stood and patted down her dress before making her way cautiously across the withered boards of the dock and through the winding briars between the waterside rendezvous and the comfort of her home.

Matthew D. Hammond

~ 2014 ~

Author's Notes: I have not yet clearly addressed the differences between human and troll anatomy/biology, only made references here and there. I am not sure if I'll be directly addressing it in a story, but expect at SOME point a post to clarify both the anatomical differences and the psychological differences.

Addition to the Golboren Language

Alright, so I was shopping in Walmart, when, near the yogurt aisle, an epiphany hits me (because this is the kind of shit I think about when doing every day activities.) I was just sounding out random letter sounds and a lightbulb went off in my head. If languages/phonetics are not your thing, or this just gets boring, I have a one sentence summary at the end, so feel free to scroll down to the line that begins with "In short."

Phonetic/Grammar Summary

The Golboren language has two consonant grades: submissive and dominant. How this works is that each letter sound that is not a vowel is either weak or strong. Each weak letter has a stronger letter as its counterpart. When/why does this matter? The entire language works off of suffixes, and sometimes the suffix you have to plug into a certain word to mean what you need to mean creates a odd rhythm/sound or is just annoying to say.

Take Krig, for example:

Krig

This word means War in Golboren. K is the weak form of G (try saying these sounds out loud. You'll find K and G are pronounced with a very similar mouth formation.) Now, say you want to say something is war-born. Born of war. Or maybe you want to name your child Warborn. The -born suffix, predominantly used in names, is -uga, therefore:

Krig + -uga = Kriguga

But this sounds and looks strange. This is when strong and weak consonants come into play. Because -uga, with the g sound at its center, is considered a strong suffix, the base word will become weak. This results in the following word:

Krig + -uga = Krikuga

Now the base word is clearly distinguishable from its suffix. Now, see the comparison in the form of two example sentences, one with the correct word and one with the incorrect word.

Mut e mutal krikuga kuldut!
Mut e mutal kriguga kuldut!

Now, the full list of weak and strong couplings are as follows:  (strong on left, weak on right) (Also keep in mind that Goldboren do not use all of the letters/sounds we do.)

• B and P
• G and K
• D and T
• V and F
• Kh and H (Kh not used in English, aside from a scoffing noise)
• R and L
• M and N
• Z and S
• Zh and Sh (Zh not used in English. A hard vibrating buzz)
• Th and Th (Left: like in The, Right: Like in Thimble)

The Discovery

Near that yogurt wall, I'm mouthing sounds quietly to myself for ... well really, I don't have a reason. As I'm screwing with the sound of ch, like in church, a thought hits me like a slap in the face. If these others have a weak and strong form, then, what of Ch? "Oh my god," I thought, "It's J!"

Really. Say it aloud. For example, "Chew" and "Jew." J is the stronger form of Ch. What an overlooked little gem of phonetics!! So, because the ch is in use as a somewhat uncommon sound in conversational Golboren, I can begin to integrate J into the language! This opens the doors for so many intriguing possibilities!! I AM SO EXCITED!!

o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

In short, I added the letter J to their alphabet.  I'm gonna make new words with that letter.

Thank you for viewing the blog and caring enough to check out my little discovery. Genuinely, thank you very much! Without someone to read my works or take interest in my little posts like this, what am I? Nothing! :)

You go on now and you have you a fantastic, amazing day/night!!

~ Matthew Damaru Hammond~

2014

DSD.1: A Private Sanctuary

DSD.1: A Private Sanctuary

By: Matthew D. Hammond

Date: 1st of Rubalkun, 351 6gc
Warnings: N/A

At'mavi had been cast into shades of brown and grey by the tide of the seasons. Trade had slowed between the Basai’van estate and the neighboring banners as the year cycled into its coldest months, and the weather became harsh weeks earlier than what had been anticipated. The slaves had been worked with cruel urgency to turn over the soil and replace the crop before the first deep freeze, and fatigue had set in hard over the workforce, but the task had found completion. Until the next harvest, the work would fall into a lax and steady routine.

All alone, at the end of a wharf, sat a solitary troll, holding his tail at a curve over his lap. White, misty vapor rose in calm puffs from his flared nostrils. His chest heaved as he sucked in deep breaths of the morning fog that rose in ghastly wisps from the still pond before him. His amber eyes followed fallen pine needles as they bobbed along gently on the water's surface beneath his feet. Locks of jet hair spiraled in natural messy waves from his mane, veiling his somber face. Callused fingers hugged a small stick that had fallen upon the dock, and with a sigh, he cast it into the water.

Ripples spread across the deep, stagnant waters, lapping against the mound of debris that kept the pond walled away from fresher waters. Once, there had been a creek connecting the small old dock to the river beyond the dense treeline. When a chain of severe weather washed uncountable fallen trees down stream and wedged them tightly in the mouth of the creek, the plantation owners dug a trench at a more favorable point for business, creating a channel to the river. The construction on the southern edge of the field rendered the little wharf obsolete. The churning current of the river could be heard babbling just out of sight.

Alone in the quiet of the morning, the troll pondered the similarities that he shared with the old wharf. He, too, had been busy and useful once: a fine young warrior and scout for his people. His name once carried weight; his actions brought pride to his clan. In one swift falter, he had lost everything. He was captured and stripped of his clothes and his name, forced into servitude some place far from his home woods. His bones, like his sense of self, had been broken by his keepers’ rods and fists over the course of some months―how many he had forgotten. The people that had once loved him now thought of him as long dead. His spirit was as withered as the old boards he sat upon.

Just enough of his heart still stirred within him to inspire small acts of defiance, such as sneaking away from the bedding lodge before dawn. The cramped wooden chamber was little more than a glorified stable with hay and shelves to sleep upon. He and the three other trolls belonging to the workforce were made to sleep on the cold ground by their fellow captives, and they were too vastly outnumbered to stand against the ragged gathering of convicted criminals. After all, this was an At’mavan plantation, and even the slaves had a hierarchy to go by: humans had more authority than trolls, and outlaws serving out their paltry sentences were of higher social standing than those enslaved for life.

At least against the wall, opposite of the bunks, he could sleep without being shoulder to shoulder with the others―when he could find sleep at all. Something in his thoughts or dreams always seemed to roust him from his slumber; he had not felt the benefits of a decent rest throughout most of his captivity. He would rise in the darkness, lost in the same eddy of emotions that haunted him every night, and he would creep out to walk the plantation grounds. If there was one thing he had a talent for, it was remaining unseen, and the night patrol remained none the wiser of his hobby. He could find some peace in exercising his old skills. The severe consequences should he be caught only made each excursion more enjoyable.

He had found the dock months ago, when part of him still sought to make an escape. The small trail leading to it had long ago become overgrown with briers and shrubs, shielding it from the main road. He would come to sit and study after scoping out the roads and the property, and gradually, as his desire to flee the plantation subsided, he found himself getting away from the lodge just to be alone. It was a secret that the guardians of the plantation were not wise enough to uncover, and in that fact, he found a trace of pride reminiscent of his former self.

An uncanny feeling swept the troll that brought his introspection to a halt. Every muscle in his body tensed and his ears flicked alert. A gentle fragrance kissed his senses as he inhaled. It was the smell of a sweet floral tea, faint and alluring, but too distinct to spring from any natural source. He hampered his breathing, turning his full attention to the sounds around him. His lips pursed grim at what he heard: the sweep of a fold of fabric kissing another, as sleeves against a body or folds in a moving dress.

He took a deep inhale and heavily released it, the hairy tuft at the end of his tail markedly churning about in his lap. “You may come to watch me from a more leisurely vantage, o onlooker.”

He waited. Everything around was unnaturally still, and the birds had silenced in the wake of his voice. As each second passed by, absent of response, his demeanor relaxed and his shoulders lost their tension. A guard would not have spied upon him, he thought, and anyone intending to run for the guards would be gone. Whatever the person was doing, his mind was too tired to unravel the mystery.

“You impress me with your silence in the brush, but your scent betrays you. If it is that you fear for your safety,I feel obligated to remind you that I am the lowest of the lowly here. I am of no authority, of less value than the soil in the fields. Verily, whoever you are, I am at your beck and call.” He turned to sit cross-legged with his back to the water, allowing his tail to drape over the edge of the dock and hang at rest. He scanned the trail head and wood line, the epitome of patience.

At last, the silence broke. There was a crackling of twigs on the carpet of the woods, and a sandaled foot slipped out of the cover of a dense, hardy bush. Carefully minding that no thread of fabric was caught on its thorny leaves, the figure emerged at a slow and docile pace, preserving what silence could be kept.

What appeared from the wood line was a sight he could have only dreamed. He looked on in vested curiosity as a woman in a long, silken dress stood shyly before him, dainty in posture and frame. Her garments were of rich, quality handiwork, from her shoes to the black, sleeveless cloak that fell loosely to her ankles. It was clasped where her hood came together beneath her neck with a large medallion bearing the crest of the Basai’van family smoothly chiseled in jade. The broach alone spoke volumes, and he no longer had reason to ask of her identity. It was the estate owner’s daughter.

She met his eyes in an expressionless manner, but her uncertainty bled through her professional facade. She hesitantly curtsied in the noble At’mavan way, uttering a small greeting as she stood. “Hello.”

The troll tilted his head and slowly nodded once in recognition. His calm presence colored her a deeper shade of puzzled as she studied him, and after a bout of thought and composure, she began a steady approach. “What manner of creature are you?”

“Golboren, as are any other trolls in bondage to your family,” he answered frankly, watching as she came to a stop at the middle point in the wharf, just a few arm's lengths away.  

“No,” she replied, “you look as any other troll, but hardly in bondage. You sit alone here, not with the other workers, yet not on the run. Your words are calm and rife with poetry.”

He lowered his gaze in study, folding his palms over his knees to form a triangle with his arms over his lap. “What of you, mistress, coming in regal trappings from your manor to traipse through the woods alone on a plot of land teeming with men? Your vulnerability is surely no mystery to you.”

She pondered for a moment. In a tone that ever grew in intrigue and confidence, she responded, “Mine is a less vulnerable state than that of a delinquent slave, alone in the woods of the very property of the guards he has eluded, weaponless and taxed of energy. I believe yours is the bigger mystery.”

He lifted an eyebrow and raised a palm to the sky, shrugging submissively. “Admittedly, m’lady. You've more than earned my compliance. I’ll not challenge you further.”

“Let me rephrase my inquiry, then. Who are you, and what in the heavens are you doing out here that is worth risking your life over?”

The troll’s shoulders slumped as he pulled his knees up to his chest. He rose briefly to turn around and seat himself as he was prior to his disturbance. He folded his tail into his lap and met her dark brown eyes with a glance over his shoulder. “Should you prefer to sit, m’lady, feel comfortable to do so at my side. I implore you.”

There was enough room to his left, if she chose so, to sit out of his reach, but her feet wouldn't move. Predisposed fears and suspicions kept her on high alert. She breathed deeply and slowly, tossing the notion about in her mind. Once she had calmed herself, she walked to the end of the wharf and leaned on the old post at his far left. Her eyes fell upon him, and he could feel them beckoning him to proceed.

“Firstly, who I am is a slave in bondage to your family. My name was once important, but it has no meaning or purpose here,” he began, but she raised a finger to halt him.

“Humor me,” she said, “if nothing else.”

He nodded and tightened his lips for a moment, preparing to revisit the past. “My name was Dugalan Koldroskaro.”

She studied. “I do not know your language,” she confessed, “but I understand that Koldroskar must be your tribe?”

“It was,” he consented, “though my cousin was its founder, I was permitted to take it as my surname as well.”

“And Dugalan? I understand that your names mean specific things, while ours do not.”

“I cannot describe  it directly in your tongue,” he explained, “as the way our words form differs from yours. To define it would be akin to ‘born with the spirit of honor,’ if you would.”

“I see,” came her soft response. She leaned her cheek and chin into her hand as she maintained the conversation, seemingly mesmerized by the strange creature before her, but ever ready to take flight. “I've never heard of a Golboren able to speak our language with such grace and understanding. Your dialect is more sophisticated than most of our hired men. Some of your words come from the old tongue, and that died over a millennia ago.”

“I must inquire, m’lady, if you've heard another Golboren speak at all.”

She withdrew into thought and revealed a hint of a smile from the corner of her mouth. “I suppose not, if you must know. To be more concise, what I meant was that you've undone every predisposed expectation I've ever had towards the Golboren people. Tell me, honestly, are you all so educated and savvy with our language?”

Dugalan cast a deep stare into the heart of the pond. “No,” he grunted, “There are those such as I and then there are those such as Brenugan Kuto, who cannot read a word and whose ethics in war and governance are boorish and uncivil. There may be more ignorance abound than education in Koldrogan, but we have resources and many yet show promise.

“What you expected to meet, I suppose, was a feral soul, eager to shed At’mavan blood. That is the picture At’mavan texts from every age prefer to depict, regardless of their basis in embellishment. I direct no judgement towards you, m’lady. Your people have every right to hold disdain and contempt toward my people. The influence of politics in this war was boiled away long before our time. What we’re left with is nothing more than a hate war, your people and mine.”

She nodded respectfully. “Your logic is sound, Dugalan. I cannot disagree with you.“

He subtly raised his eyes to her. "May I ask your name, m'lady?"

"Erdinai. Erdinai Basai’van.”

“You’re an interesting person, Erdinai. I've never known an At’mavan to so openly agree with a troll of any sort.”

She smiled shyly, looking toward the forest across the pond. “I assume you know already that I am the estate owner's daughter."

"It was my suspicion, yes."

A spell of pensive silence fell between them that was cut short by a bugle that sounded thrice to the south of the treeline. Dugalan’s ears perked attentively and his expression lost its depth. It was replaced with a look of hollow resignation. “...Mistress, that is the waking call. I must return before the second horn sounds.”

She studied him and nodded knowingly. “Alright. Be safe.”

He passed her without acknowledgement, his tail nearly dragging the ground as he strode by. She looked on, a detached and studious air coming over her. “Sir Koldroskaro!”

He slowed and engaged her with a look over his shoulder, stopping completely as she voiced her quandary. “Are you willing to meet with me again?”

He wanted apathy to govern his response, but he couldn't force it. The situation stirred a latent curiosity within him, one that he had thought was dead, and he couldn't place why. They both knew the consequences of such a meeting. An accidental encounter in the woods would have been understandable. An arrangement by both parties would merit a more severe punishment. If they were found together, no matter the circumstances, he would be beaten within an inch of his life or killed entirely, and she would be punished in other ways of which he was uncertain. He had nothing to lose, but she had everything―including an astute rationality that he could read from the look in her eyes. She was willing to risk her well being to meet with him; he could not turn her down without knowing why.

With a heavy sigh, he gave a respectful bow. “I would verily receive you, mistress, should you desire to speak with me again. Be discretionary.”

She breathed a quiet “of course” as she leaned against the old corner post. She was quickly abandoned, left to solemn contemplation, as the troll disappeared into the undergrowth of the treeline. New feelings swelled inside of her that she could not put words to, but the message was undeniable: she needed to know his full story. She had to meet him again.

Matthew D. Hammond

~ 2014 ~

Author's Notes: This is the story of Dugalan, cousin and confidante of Antegga, the war lord of the east, and how an unlikely encounter slowly leads to his escape. I will be covering this side-plot as a series of installments, and in each one, Dugalan will confide in Erdinai a secret or a story. This plot will be linked into one of Antegga's books, happening parallel with it, and eventually tying into it, but not all of the stories featured in this series will make it to the book. I hope you will follow this journey as it advances forward, watching as this unlikely friendship unfolds and hearing some great stories in the process.

At'mavi vs Koldrogan: The 3000 Year War

At'mavi vs. Koldrogan: The 3000 Year War

One of the biggest central plots in the book series will follow the ending of a wide scale war that has been going on for over three thousand years. In this article, I will be lining out the facts as of the in-world year of 300 6gc and provide teasers for what is to come in the books that follow this story.

Warring Parties

This war is waged between two parties: The At'mavan Empire and the banded war tribes of Koldrogan. Koldrogan is divided into two parts by At'mavan territory and mountains, east and west. Occasionally Torlynn, across the waters to the east, or Jen'wendas Isle, to the west of the continent, become involved, but they mind their own for the most part. 

How the War Began

In the ancient days, when the second era civilizations had crumbled, a large void was left on the continent of At'mavi where the Dega empire had been. What few humans survived the cataclysmic destruction of Dega were misplaced and reverted to tribalism to survive. As generations passed, the humans began to spread, and the Golboren trolls, who were driven into hiding by the people of Dega, began to flourish again. 

Things were peaceful between them for hundreds of years, but humans, adaptive as they are, began to develop civilization once more, and as they built farms and villages and cities, the trolls became wary and kept their distance from  the humans, returning to the forests and mountains. Over the next few centuries, they made themselves so scarce that most of the At'mavan humans began to think that the trolls were no more than myths.

In the third great cycle (early in the 3000s), under the reign and command of emperor Khadmar Izhodas, the At'mavan people began to send settlers into the southern heartlands of the continent, driven by a need for its rich timbers, as they had depleted their own forests. A scouting party sent back a report of a strange tree in the central southern woods, in the Painted Forest region, with a description that enticed shamans to investigate. An investigation party was formed comprising of soldiers and shamans, and the mission commenced.

This tree was called the Tantagruhk by the native Golboren trolls, and it held a special place in their hearts. All tribes throughout the region, and occasionally pilgrims from others, came to this tree to give prayer and offering to this unique, ancient being. The tree was a living fossil, growing from the large base of an even more ancient, dead tree that had long turned to stone. Cracks in the petrified base revealed beautiful opal.

The Golboren treated this as a magnet for sacred spiritual energy. The At'mavan party, as they approached the Tantagruhk, found the native trolls gathered around in celebration of the landmark. Curious and afraid, the trolls tried to communicate with the At'mavan people, but when they would not leave their weapons at the perimeter, the trolls became hostile and loud, trying to push them away from the landmark. 

The soldiers reacted by slaying the few that tried to push them back, hoping to frighten the other trolls into retreating. The action had the opposite effect, and all of them came to the defense of the slain, throwing themselves at the soldiers now with every intent of killing them. The soldiers killed every one of them, suffering nothing but light wounds, and their guarded shamans began prospecting the Tantagruhk. 

But, watching from the treeline, was a survivor. A young man whose name would some day be heard the world over: Koldroga. The At'mavans caught one glimpse of him standing above them, watching with calm acceptance, before he turned and ran into the forest. He was not pursued, and after studying the Tantagruhk,  the At'mavans sent word that the area was to be settled.

Koldroga had other plans. After witnessing the slaughter, he ran to the nearest tribe and alerted them to the situation. They took up arms and gave him a Lors, which is very comparable to the extinct Irish Elk of the Pleistocene age of Earth, so that he could ride and alert the other tribes. On the back of this Lors, he covered all of the trollish territory, spreading the story and preparing them for what may come. 

He ended his journey where he began. Many local tribes had banded together, awaiting his command. In the time it had taken him to unify his people, the At'mavans had constructed a settlement around the Tantagruhk, but they had not expected retaliation of the size Koldroga had rallied. A battle was waged, and the At'mavans were decimated, the trolls only allowing the young and noncombatants to live and return to their people. The trolls reclaimed the Tantagruhk,  marking the true beginning of the war.

The Rise of a People

During his reign as the first war king of the Golboren, he lead his people to many victories and secured vast tracts of land. For the first time, the trolls had a unified cause. Over the next decades, they grew a strong cultural identity and sense of purpose. The many tribes were working together and successfully eliminating invaders within their territory. Lines were being drawn and mapped, forming what would some day become their country.

Although the trolls could not hope to see At'mavi's cities conquered without more resources and more warriors, their ability to hold on to what they perceived as their territory was unmatchable. The best At'mavan scouting parties could not compete with the trolls' advanced guerrilla tactics and knowledge of the land. The consistent defeats wore away at emperor Khadmar's patience, and soon, he appointed a new general, Hespar, whose sole mission was to see Koldroga killed.

Koldroga's and Hespar's victories from this time period are countless and still recounted and sung thousands of years after they occurred. One of the most famous victory stories told by the trolls is of the time At'mavi sent a war ship down the Heskegi River, hoping to deliver a regiment of warriors behind enemy lines to ambush the trolls. Koldroga and his trusted warriors leapt onto the ship as it passed through a narrow bend in the river, climbing its sides and setting it on fire. The startled At'mavans were slain, if not by the fire, then by the river or the trolls, who awaited them on the shoreline.

Birth of a Martyr, Dawn of a Country

Koldroga converged with western forces, and with their combined might, they were able to wrest control of the Degahar region from the At'mavan troops. Unbeknownst to Koldroga, he had played right into the hand of Hespar, who had brought the bulk of his war force west. The opportunity was too great to pass up, and he readied for an ambush. Koldroga separated from those stationed in the west, taking a smaller band with him to allow for quick travel back to the east, where pressure had mounted.

In a low basin, where the forests broke in the north to reveal open sky and grassland steppes, the At'mavan forces came down upon them. They were overwhelmed immediately, pushed back from the road and into the treeline. Hespar watched from an escarpment to the southeast of the battle, and as Koldroga cried for his people to retreat, he drew his bow and honed in on him. 

With a deep, steadying breath, he fired the first arrow. Koldroga, just as he turned for the forest, took the arrow deep in the right shoulder. Hespar, utilizing his martial technique and discipline, swiftly had a second and a third shot fired. The second shot struck his target in the middle of the back, and the last one caught Koldroga in the back of the head. Miraculously, the troll king did not stop running.

When the battle was done, Hespar had his men remove the tip of the tail of every troll for accurate recording of the dead, and demanded that he be alerted as soon as Koldroga's body was found. To the shock of Hespar and his men, the body was never found. A blood trail was picked up but, after a length, the blood abruptly ended and no more leaves were disturbed. Rumors spread amongst the people of both sides of the war that Koldroga had simply melted into the forest, becoming one with his land.

In honor of his greatest sacrifice, giving his spirit and body to the forest so that he may always guide them, the Golboren trolls took heart in his disappearance and declared themselves an independant country by the name of Koldrogan, meaning "Spirit of Koldroga" in the suffix-based Golboren language. A new leader was chosen, and a system fell into place so that the country would never be without one. 

After Koldroga's Fall

Hespar went on to commit many victories in the name of At'mavi, despite never finding proof of his greatest  kill. His reign was finally ended within two decades later, killed by a troll on the battlefield that used Hespar's long hair to yank him into a vulnerable state. From that moment to present-day At'mavi, warriors in the At'mavan military keep their hair cut in honor of their first great war hero.

The war was destined to carry on for three great cycles, equating to three thousand years. At times, the combat was fierce and hellish, but at times the conflict would simmer down to only the occasional skirmish for a handful of decades. Neither side was ever able to mount a strong enough force to take each other down, and what began as a turf war, over time, morphed into a war fueled by hate of the other race.

The Tantagruhk became the proud symbol of Koldrogan, and the Golboren people built a strong, vast fortress around the holy site. It became their capital, where all war kings and war queens would hold serious meetings and conduct official business. A second base of operations was set up in the Degahar region to handle immediate concerns in the west.

The At'mavan people, in the fifth great cycle, managed to wrest the Heskegi region from Golboren control, separating the east from the west by a thin line of territory. 

The At'mavi-Koldrogan Shaman's Symposium was founded to allow pacifist shamans to gather and discuss issues pertinent to their profession, to trade medicines, and to allow masters to adopt new apprentices. The event is held annually and is protected by forces on both sides of the conflict. Political discussions are banned for fear of violence.

The councils of the World Senate have begun to turn their eye to the Golboren people, debating on whether or not they will permit an ambassador from Koldrogan to join their ranks.

Where the Story Begins

The story will follow a young warrior by the name of Antegga Koldroskaro, who is cast out of his tribe by his mother after the accidental murder of his father, the war chief, during a coming of age duel. With only his cousins and sister to support him, he must learn to survive in the harsh wilds of Koldrogan as he comes to terms with the consequences of his error and learn how life functions outside of home.

 His journey begins meager, with only the clothes on his back and his father's sword, and with three companions at his side, but his heart is not snuffed out by the conditions. Instead, he blossoms, building a following of his own as he sets his sights upon the title of War King of Koldrogan. 

Over the course of his story, the audience will come to learn the Golboren people's culture and lifestyles from within the system itself and see firsthand how the At'mavan people are, in fact, not the only bad guys anymore. The many factions of Koldrogan will be revealed, from the Kamunagi (warriors of the night), to the shamans, the chrut (nomadic silent druids of the deep woods), sorcerers, witches and warlocks, political intrigue, and how the entire war has become nothing but a display of heated racism.

This will be one of the most action-packed, richly detailed series in the entire franchise, and one of the first chain of books to get started chronologically, so I hope that I've cultivated some interest in this story and these characters within you. I hope you look forward to it at least a fraction of how much I do. (I know about a lot of events that you can't possibly know about, so I don't expect the kind of overzealous enthusiasm that I have.)

Anyway, that's all for this summary for the moment. I will run follow-up posts on any further details as  I  feel they are ready to go live. 

Until next time,

Matthew D. Hammond

~2014~

The Three Eras of Novan-Gan

    In the realm of Drumlore, the planet, Novan-Gan, has seen three great eras of civilization. Two of them had risen to an elite, world dominating status before crises struck them and they were (almost) entirely annihilated. The book series and short stories will all take place in the third of these eras. Here, let me break it down:

The Third Era

     The third wave of civilizations to grow on the face of Novan-Gan. Civilization has not reached its peak; technology is comparable in most places to the late BCs of Earth and countries still haven't expanded to their maximum capacities. There are still many places on the world map that have not been explored and documented, and arts of philosophy and logic have just been embraced by the masses. It's an era full of mystery, growth, progression, and enlightenment.

The Second Era

    

Throughout the series, many ruins and relics are encountered from ancient civilizations. These are the ruins and relics of the second era. At the peak of this era, there were three countries: Dega, Cal Dhima, and Jimhalan. These three massive countries had amazing architectural sophistication, and where their cities were at their densest, sprawling ruins still remain after tens of thousands of  years.


    Little is known about the people who once inhabited these vast cities or what lead to their demise. There are reoccurring plazas, each of a similar design, scattered throughout the ruins of each civilization. They emit strange particles of light that drift through the air and are mostly visible at night. People refer to them as wisps and tell tales of people falling ill after encountering them. The wisps have been linked by scholars and philosophers to magic and to alchemy, but none of their theories have been proven. Shamans are warned away from entering the spirit realm in these ruins or around these plazas, as oral tradition says that most who do never return to the world of the living. Shamans occasionally relate the wisps to demons because of this.

The First Era

     ...an era that the people of the second and third eras did not/do not even know existed. This era existed hundreds of thousands of years before mankind and trollkind began crafting tools and building shacks. ...A time when a race that is now lost to history ruled the world as one collective entity. They were called the Noth, and, although every trace of the people and their cities are gone, their strange creations still roam the world. That is all that I will say for certain. The details? You'll have to wait on the books for that. 

That wraps up today's official lore tidbit. As always, feedback and questions make my day, so feel free to comment me here or on facebook with anything you want to say! Live well, and read more!