David Dunham writes:
> I didn't attend the session, but apparently Ducks are Delecti's subjects,
> he was probably involved in making them (the EWF did, and in my mini-LARP,
> Delecti was the Chief Scientist of the Remakers, so I view him as a very
> likely candidate). This explains how ducks are quite different from the
> Keets. Also, the reason they picked up Orlanthi culture is that, being
> created, they had no culture of their own. And since they were made in
> Dragon Pass, surrounded by Orlanthi...
>
> And supposedly ducks EAT undead.
I was at this seminar (this was the curiously named Black Sheep Races - I honestly did think it was going to involve running around, but my brain was somewhat pickled by that stage), and the general concensus was that yes, the Ducks *were* created by the EWF, possibly to emulate the Keets. And Sandy reckons that the Keets are in fact a variety of bird-folk, not just duck-like. Almost everyone present also agreed that of course Ducks definitely lay eggs! Why? Because it is much more MGF-ably groovy for them to do so. Ergo, the write-up in Borderlands is retroactively wrong.
V.S. Greene : klyfix_at_aol.com : Boston, near Arkham writes:
>Whoa, that puts a whole different light on ducks! If ducks are
>originally a manufactured species as opposed to a race that offended Yelm or
>somebody during the Gods War, we have to do a major rethink of 'em. One big
>question, is Delecti actually Chaotic as I've always assumed? If ducks are
>the servants of a chaos being then they're pretty close to being Chaos
>themselves.
Hmmm, just how does a wimpy race like the ducks manage to thrive so successfully close by to all that festering undead? Doesn't anyone else think their constant insistence that they live just like their human neighbours is somewhat shrill. And why are their temples to "Humakt" so clean, tidy and seemingly unused?
Food for thought,
MOB
[XXIX.1345.Gerallon/p5*]
We met many times that summer, but we still kept our friendship secret. I continued to look after my mother, whose wounds she gained bearing me now kept her confined to bed most days. I even introduced Darya to her, for mother suspected that I had made some friend and she was concerned lest I be discovered. Her fears were put to rest on meeting Darya, a gentle soul like herself.
"The final time we met..." A tear plopped down Gerallon's face. The old priest, his free hand straying around for his mug, suddenly found the broo's hand. He took it, and said gently, "I knew from when you first came through my door you meant me, nor anyone I think, any harm." He chuckled. "I'm not without magical resources, you know, and I have the scholar's intuition. Nevertheless, I can feel that your life has been beset by tragedy, for what else could come of a goodly broo?"
Gerallon buried his great face in his hand, and wept. The blind man continued: "Let me see if I can continue your story for you. Your friendship with Darya grew into love, a hopeless love, for a broo such as yourself could never bring yourself to consummate such a union, so horrible would have the consequences been for your dear Darya. So, your intimacy with Darya amounted to little more than a few chaste kisses and, heartbroken, yearning for something you could never truly have, you left your mountaintop home and have wandered the world ever since. I am close to the truth?"
"Close old man", Gerallon replied, still weeping. "If only were it so! If only were it so!" And he bawled. Never did he more sound like a broo, but that his cry was one of frustration and anguish, rather than hate and anger.
"Let us talk some more in the morning, my friend", said the priest kindly. "That is, if you feel you want to." "No", replied the broo, taking a deep breath. "I will tell you now and be done with it. Only then I may sleep tonight."
You were right about the love between us. Darya kissed me once, here, on my muzzle, just above my nose. Past that, I shied away: it was not, could never be safe.
About a year after I first met her, I was returning from the hunt. Hearing a noise, I hid low in the undergrowth. "Probably a hunting party", thought I. I had hidden from them before, and could do so again. To my surprise, rather than boots or buskins, cloven hoofs passed me by. Looking up, I noticed the goat heads of these hunters: they were broo, my kin. I almost emerged to greet them, but I recalled all the stories my mother had told about them and I was afraid.
You might say of me that I am, for a broo, quite handsome - at least Darya thought so (Gerallon permitted himself a wistful grin). But these fellows were hideous. One had two heads, that shouted and spat at each other. Another had human feet, and wore buckled shoes, but his body was covered in festering sores, oozing pus. Another still had three arms, each gripping a cruel axe. And their leader: the hugest broo I have ever seen, with gigantic horns. Severed heads dangled at his belt, and I swear one of them glanced at me as it passed. (At this, the old priest gasped, and muttered something under his breath). He slashed his broadsword like a farmer uses a scythe, cutting at everything in his path. I watched carefully as they passed me by, muttering, shouting and cursing in their own hideous tongue.
After they had gone I sprang up and ran for home, for it occurred to me that this was the direction they had come from. Looking ahead, I saw smoke. I ran on, my concern now turning to fear and panic. I came to the clearing of my home, to find our hut in flames. I could see mother inside, struggling fitfully in her bed. I attempted to save her; twice I was beaten back by the flames. Finally, I forced myself in and dragged her free. She was fearfully burned, as was I. With her dying gasps, she sang a song of Power, called the Comfort Song, the last song she knew from her Healer days, which soothed me and enabled her to die in peace. Cradling her in my arms, I cried, for the first time in my life - maybe the first broo to do so for centuries.
I considered what do to next - bury her? Then, with a sickening realisation, I knew where those broo were headed. They were going to the village! I put my mother down as peacefully as I could, took up my hunting spear and bow and ran. I sprinted for my life, and Darya's. As I drew close, I could see a plume of smoke rising into the air, and shouts, the clashing of weapons and screams. Plenty of screams. I came to my viewpoint on the hill: the dark, horned shapes were all about the settlement. I could see some of the villagers fleeing out the far side of town, only to be met by more of the broo-shapes. He was cunning, that broo leader.
Of course, I was too late...
*note: this is the fifth part of a story submitted to Tales so long ago I have lost the author's name. The english language version here was substantially polished from the original submission by me; I think author might have been Finnish or Swedish. I've put it up here because it is unlikely it will ever be published in the zine but I think it is good 'un (and I spent quite a while working on it at the time). It would be great if I could get in touch with the author again.
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