Alchia

M

malina

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Fortune tellers, street magicians, palm-readers - there are many who claim to be well-versed in the magics of this world, O Master. True magic, gen-ui-ine magic, is rare and nigh-uncontrollable. Real magic cannot be wrong in the way a caravan witch can be. Ah, you don't believe me. I can see the gleam in your eyes, O Master. Do you really believe Young Nan to be a witch? Well, I've seen her crack vases and claim it on ghosts. No magic's in Young Nan, O Master, save for her remarkable ability to remain at her work.
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Ah, so she told you that, did she?

You may try yourself, if it please. The very next time the traders come in to town, go seek out the old women claiming to be seers. Aye, they will study your grubby palms with most scrutiny. They may even pull out their finger-bones and their hookahs - mystic smoke, hah! But cut through their vague premonitions and ask them, what will I do on the fourth hour of the next day? You will find them hard-pressed for an answer - a real answer and not one of their excuses.

Real magic does not deal in such prophecies. Your life is yours to master; no magic can dictate where you walk. It is a rare, an exceedingly rare thing; a curse that won't be found in dirty merchant camps. I myself have met with only two gen-ui-ine witches in my life. The beggar in Dornwoad Keep was one, until the plague took her. The other I met on the road to Eskendale - and nearly paid my life for it. Listen well, O Master, for here is the truth: magic is a thing borne of birthright. The seventh child of the seventh child is destined to receive this bane; many do not bear it for long.

I have had it heard that magic is a selfish creature. It feeds on both love and hatred. Envy and sorrow; joy and fear. Feed it too much and like any other beast, it is wont to break free.
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Ah, now you begin to understand.
Yes, O Master.
Magic is not for the weak. I have heard of witchbabes consumed in a ball of fire; unable to control their rage. Witchmen drowned in their own blood for a lover. Even those in the mountains are not entirely safe; solitude brings both fear and sorrow. Many a witch, I have had it heard, has awoken to find themselves a frozen corpse. Killed with their own tears, I'd imagine.

But such stories are not for young ears. Go now. Go seek out Young Nan and be-witched by her little tricks. Believe in her silly palm-readings and teacups as you did before. We will speak no more on such matters.

But! O Master, beware. Real magic should be avoided as one would the snake.
...
Now go. I must to the gallery, I'm to be expected by your father.
 
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They say that there can be nothing more precious to a man than his horse. Did you know? They say some men even share tents with their steeds rather than their wives; such is their devotion to their manmar. Be not mistaken, horses are beasts yet. But surely as the Tzahr holds dominion over all men, so to does the horse to all creatures. Or so it is writ. They are magnificent, noble creatures. One can oft find the character of a man by letting him ride your horse - if the beast should buck and scream; be warned, Elyesha, for surely this man means ill.

Across the plains, I have had it heard of men executed for tugging on tails. It should not come as surprise - Saint Khagan himself oft took on the form of a great mare. I have heard of destitute traders selling their daughters, their wives, and finally even their sons before they would part with their horse. Do not speak of this, Elyesha, but I think it folly to worship an animal so. Great and aweful as they are, they are bred of the same stock as the caterpillar and the snake. To put such things over humans... it does not sit well in my stomach.

What's that, Ely?
...
Deyna only sleeps in the hut for her feet. Her years have gone by and there's much marching for her yet.

I see that smile, boy. Enough. Deyna, as good as she is, is a beast. Nothing more.
 
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Alchian coins can be found in two main denominations - the tongue and the eye. Tongues are heavy rectangular slabs, about the size of a man's hand. Depicted on side is the Tzahra and on the other remains a stamped number indicating its weight (and subsequently, its value). They are crafted out of the fine metal that the ancient warriors wore; a lovely golden-brown material which shines in the sun. Rich Amirs carry around tongues on hide cords (coin-holes allow for them to be hooked like fish) but for the common-man of Alchia, they would be lucky to own even one.

Eyes are the more frequent denomination of coin. Seen in markets across the nation, these dull coins come in round and square shapes. There is no difference in value between the two but many sailors prefer squares (as they are less prone in rolling off tables). Eyes are made of a black metal which tends to leave its mark on the fingers of those who handle them. Rich men are said to have permanently dyed palms - richer men have none, for tongues leave no residue behind. A horse's head is stamped on one side of the coin, while the other owns the tail. Like tongues, eyes have coin-holes bored through the metal (though its located on the center for eyes) and one can hold up to twenty on a reasonable sized string.

In the deeper plains, there are villages where trade remains the main currency of the land. While eyes and tongues are legal in all of Alchia, these villages look upon the coins with little more than a passing curiousity. These are tight-knit communities where the concept of money fails to pass - they have no use for the metal save melting it down for arrow tips. Here, a leg of goat would serve you more than ten eyes or even a lovely tongue.
 
Wait should this even be in here or should it be in Showcasing ?
lol like idk it kinda fits in both categories...
but I don't really have a solid concept in mind to showcase. this is like kinda random thoughts as I go along.
 

There he goes again.
...
Lughert, stupid fellow. Won't shut up about his Alchian whores. But these idiots here, they'll believe anything.
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Now, tell me this. Why'd you believe a man who don't know shit about his own village, eh? Even told me once he'd sailed to the end of the sea - and fucked a girl with fish-tails! Sailors believe anything, I tell you. Bet I could - Hey, where you going?



-and see, what they do, these Alchians, they- Aha! Another one! Come to hear 'bout my whores, eh?
...
Lookit 'im, he's blushing! S'alright fellows, s'alright, stop pushing! Give 'im a seat here. That one will do -no, not that one- yeah, yeah, thattun. Make sure 'ees seated nice and proper -you're pretty for a a boy, aren't you?- and give eem a mug!

Oh, s'and price to hears my storys a drink but you canne worry about that later. I'll start right up from the beginning -hey, shut up! It's my story and I'll tell it how I'll wawnt- since it's your first time and all. Now look here - I had only a few decades on me at the time. Young boy I was -s'least I looked real pretty-like, jus like you- but I had seawater in my blood. Coast to coast, day or night, I - I'm getting to the whores! Shut up!

S'where's I? Anyway, one day, we land on Alchia. It's real... it's all... yea, it's real pretty. Least it was where I landed - clear waters... beaches made of rocks... but real shiny and smooth-like, nuthin' that coulda sunk my ship, and there was lots of them Alchian women all washing their hair and dancing all... you just hafta have seen it, you know? So me and some of the men, we come ashore. Sword in my sheath so they wairn't scared or anything like. I come up to these women -and they wore no clothing neither- and would you believe it! Fucking screaming and shouting like banshees.

I did nothing too -fighting women aren't fun- and they screaming some words I can't fucking understand and my-
What? I am getting to the whores, keep those trousers on. Eh, fuck off! If you don't like it, find someone else to tell you MY story. Or why don't ye go and fuck some Alchians yourself... don't like that idea, do ye? Scared, no doubt. Listen, these Alchians... no reason to be scared o' them. Half they men is fucking women to being with!

I'll get to the point. Listen - they aren't all up there in the head, these horse-men. I'll tell you something. Alchian whores, right, they ain't allowed to have twats! No women whores... none!
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It's the truth, it's the truth! Some girl told me about it -I could 'alf understand what the fuck she was saying- some religion shit, it's complicated. Women can't be whores. It's ill-le-gal, it is. But men don't want to fuck no men, right? Even if they look as pretty as this one.
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A joke, a joke. But listen! These Alchians are really something. Y'see, even these horse-fuckers, they don't want whores to be men... but they want whores all the same. So they want whores... but their Gods don't let their women be whores... but they don't want men for whores... d'you see what I'm saying here?
...
See, what they do is they get a nice boy... or two. Someone like you, someone soft and stupid enough to get caught. The younger, the better - can't make whores out of boys that ride horses, that's what these Alchians say. That's the cut-off see. So if you see an Alchian coming along with that gleam in their eye, best hope you got a horse you can hop onto. Then they can't touch you -s'least not for their whore-houses. But anyway! They make them grow their hair out and wear a dress made out the finest silks. Lovely material. See-through. But that don't make these Alchians 'appy. Long hair and a dress don't make whores or Grendwell here would be working them whore-houses already.

Hey! Sit down! S'alright, it's just a joke. Just having a laugh with you, that's all. Anyway! See, what they do is they take a knife. A nice sharp one -just like this here- and they run it along their manhood. I've seen what remains after - not pretty. Wonder how they piss. Then, they make them eat this purple pastey shit for God-knows-how-long and they start sprouting tits like fruit-trees! It's the truth too - I seen it with my own eyes!
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Poor bastards... I almost felt sorry for 'em.
Still fucked one though. Swear on my life - thought I was fucking a woman. Squealed like one, looked like one, I swear, these Alchians are some sick fucks. Poor bastards. But this girl, she tells me right, that no whore-house keeps a whore for longer than a year. Kill themselves, these whores do. Can't take it anymore. Don't think I could fault them neither. 'Spect the next time I come by, she'll be dead already. A shame that - we had some good times together.
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But look, here's the most stupid thing these horse-men do. It can't be easy turning boys into whores, right? So sometimes they cheat, these horse-men. They take a girl, see, and make her pretend to be a boy who pretends to be a girl! Get your head around that! It's crazy, no? So it's not men they want... so why bother? Huh? Why bother with all this boy-fucking nonsense? But look here, see, if that girl gets caught, say by some Lord who's got a right large stick up his ass that day, she gets killed for... get this, for shaming the women. It's crazy! And it's true! I swear, the day we go to war against these bastards can't come soon enough. But anyway...



Is it true, Lach-na?
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About Alchians. And their whores.
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Lughert told me! He said that they take boys! And that they, they, I don't know, take a knife to them and he said that they feed them purple paste and that they make them grow their hair and they-
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I was at the inn... the one near port. I know it was stupid.
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I was waring Karsen's clothes and I didn't speak none. They were drunk, couldn't tell the difference.
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But he's been there, Lach-na. He said that he... he... he said that he fucked one too! And that he couldn't tell that it warn't no boy and-
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But how can you be so sure? Lughert's a sailor - he said he's been.
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I don't know. It's just that he seemed so sure, that's all. And I haven't heard from Karsen from forever, is all. D'you think he's alright? Alchia's so far away... my bird doesn't know the land. D'you think she can find him, all the same?
...
No, you're right. I'll turn the light... good night, Lach-na. I won't bother you no more.
 

"Khugayanna"

Ingredients:

- One large blackfish. Make sure all spines are removed.
- Salt
- Khugan root (the leaves, though you can add the roots if you wish. Beware, the flavour may overpower the fish. Try fermented rockfish instead if inclined to use roots)
- Sweet onions
- Bitseed (green preferred, though red may do)
- Goat fat
- Eggs (of whatever bird. Remove yellows)

Method:

Scale the blackfish. Clean and gut.
Brush one side of fish with egg whites.
Salt the fish on the side with egg.
Melt fat and add onions, root, and bitseed.
Add fish salt-side down. Do not turn.
When fish turns black (though not burned! As does the crab turn red so too does the blackfish) it is ready for the spread.

 
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They never come out during the day, for they cannot. Centuries ago, the Little Men (or the Khugmar, as the Alchians say) were cursed to never again see the face of God. Theirs is a twisted race; a mockery of mankind. Small and stupid, they have an affinity for shiny trinkets and human clothes. Many a time has a horse-man awoken to find these intruders stealing shoes, coins, and clothes. They seem to have no interest in weapons or perhaps it is the metal that repels these creatures - locals have told me that once cut, a Khugmar will remain cut until the end of its days.

From what I have gathered, these Little Men are not capable of human speech. Or at least, not the guttural language of the Alchians - though they have co-existed for centuries, there are no recorded events of the two ever communicating. It is hard to know for certain, however; getting any information from an Alchian is like squeezing water out of rocks. One thing is for certain, I know. The horse-men treat these creatures as little more than pests. Some of them hang trinkets over their tents to avoid the Khugmar from intruding in the night.
 

Dear Mother,

The Baron has reported great success on his campaign. It seems that death in Alchia is not in his future. I thought him a foolhardy man but from what I hear, there is a certain guile in him. The secret behind his victories lay in this most curious device - I have enclosed the makings of this thing with my letter. Please see to it that Renwick receives the plans.

It is no regular war-horn that the Baron uses. It is an intricate thing, more befit that of the tinkerers and alchemists than that of the battlefield. It takes two men to wield; one to hold and one to blow - but less than our chariots. Our friend has told me of its aweful voice. He could not describe its likeness but only that it made good soldiers vomit in fear. The Baron himself, he said, was dribbling by the time the battle was done.

But make no mistake, Mother. The value of this weapon does not lay in scared men. War does that herself without the need of a horn. The horn did not make the Alchians run nor faint but rather their horses. For an Alchian without his horse is like a man without legs - this is the secret behind the Baron's success.

I remain skeptical of this bizarre account. The Alchians train their steeds well. I have heard of a drunken Alchian horde riding their horses into the sea -they thought to rape the waves- and their beasts do not fear our chariots. Nor do they fear our stakes, our arrows, our drums, our fire. But our friend has been true for many a while. When Renwick builds this horn, I should wish you there to hear it. Bring my second horse with you, Mother, for she is well versed in the manners of war. If she should flee, I shall know the truth of this weapon.

On other matters, our noble brother has not been sighted. At least not with fresh eyes; last he was seen around a year ago, off the coast of the Girean Bay. Palwart was with him then, and a Niberan, and a whore from main-land Alchia. I have tracked down this sailor and plied him with much drink and beatings - this is the truth. Supposedly, they were dressed in Niberan blues, Mother. Much too expensive for Ricken... but I suppose that this Niberan was responsible.

I have thought on this matter, Mother, and I think that I may know where Ricken may be - or at least where he was. Do you remember am-Khugan? It is not far from the Girean Bay - do you remember the tournament there, around last windfall? I warned you not to bring Ricken. Too many sights at that age can stick with a boy for life. But I digress.

I believe, Mother, that Ricken has set his sights on that deviant city. Niberan blues may stick out like a sore thumb elsewhere but there! There he will blend in as any other man. There is no other place he may go -yes, am-Khugan is not the richest city- but Ricken is a simple boy. You know this. He was in love with that foreign realm when we left and I believe that he is in love now.

This is the work of Palwart and the Niberan - I can sense their disgusting fingers all over Ricken's trail. For whom else could fill his mind with this ludicrous journey? You know how deviant these Niberans may be. It was this Niberan's idea, I am sure, to bring this supposed whore along. Ricken would never do such things, I remain certain.

But fear not, Mother. By the time this letter reaches you, I will have departed on The Craven. It will be around two moon-dies before I may write again. By then I will have reached the port off Ibelwas where I plan to charter a ship to am-Khugan. I have brought Rachel with me and two others - the merchant from last summer and Rachel's sellsword, an Alchian fellow named Amghuyayar. A most peculiar name, don't you think, Mother?

I will bring Ricken back to you. I know it. I believe that I must first scour the brothels of that accursed city. The Niberan brought that whore for a reason. I will not tell you the depravities of these Alchian whores, Mother. Amghuyayar has told me of this whore's... unique capabilities and for that I believe she was brought to finance their trip. Will I that I found that sailor sooner! I have a strong feeling, Mother, that the whore will not last for longer. And when their coin runs out, who knows where else Ricken may be.

But I digress, Mother. Amghuyayar will find this whore. We will question her and find Ricken, Palwart, and the Niberan. I will bring Ricken back, Mother, and kill the others. Their heads I shall embalm and give to the Holy Senshe. And when we return, you will give Ricken a beating that he may never forget.

But after that, dearest Mother, treat Ricken with such love that he may never run away again.

Oh, and Mother, please remember to feed Flower twice a day. She gets anxious without me so you may need to practice a little caution when you approach her pen. Please let her out for her morning run and her noon walk. The silver brush is for her mane; the ivory for her hide. Remember to change her bedding every morning and give her my love. Flower enjoys a scratch behind her ears but beware, Mother, for once you begin, you may never stop.

Do not fret, do not worry, do not cry - we will be back home soon enough.

Love,
Laela
 
ahahahahahahaha.... i have the wrong prefix on this thing. its ok ppl pls take this as my personal exercise :PPP



Most great leaders of men can expect to meet one of three deaths: the battlefield, the sickness of age, or exile. The Alchians believe in a fourth—slavery. It is a fate deigned only for those proud and most importantly, false kings and chieftains and idols. For what right does a dog have to chain other dogs? The right to rule comes only from the purest of stock, from men so above men that they may as well not be men at all—but rather divine beings in their own right.

Have you ever seen a king kneel before? It is an unnatural sight, one that belongs in a world where horses ride men and fish swim in the sky. Yet in these temporary slave markets, there are dozens upon dozens of these once-proud men and women all on their knees. Their hair is shorn like sheep, collected in a basket, and hung from great woven sheets on Alchian walls. Here, great Gyskahn chieftains turn to farmers and executioners and prostitutes alike. Some are bought to be killed.

Like all things in the world, however, it is not a certain thing—to be sold. Leaders of great repute are said to be treated much more... gently, so long as their offence to the Alchians were not so great. The Amir himself was captured twice before being set free—something many of his detractors so love to point out.