Bill Thompson suggests:
>I think we might examine the possibility that the EWF merely
>brought intact eggs from the East Isles. Stolen from the Keets
>as it were (does that constitute plagiarism) and hatched in
>Delecti's Swamp. Raised without any race memories or familial
>instruction it would explain the lack of extant culture.
This sounds very plausible! Any history of the Ducks must address the issue of their relationship with the Keets.
Stephen sez:
>Plus, the idea of ducks bearing their young alive was
>specifically mentioned in RQ2 as one of the important and
>debilitating points of their curse -- it is one of the main
>reasons they lost their flight.
But, if the Ducks are transplanted Keets, is there really a "curse"? Could the curse not be just a somewhat gloomy aetiological explanation developed by the Ducks to explain to themselves why they can't fly? In actual fact, the real reasons are the same as the proud and glorious Keets, who wear their flightlessness as a badge of honour. Those poor pessemistic Ducks on the other hand lack the race memory and suffer for it with a lack of self-confidence and pride.
>If Sandy wants keets to lay eggs, I have no problem with
>that -- I think there is little if any relationship between
>the two species. But in Dragon Pass, the "cursed ducks" should
>remain as written, IMO.
But Sandy insists strenuously that the Ducks lay eggs too! Correct me if I'm wrong, but on the final page of the new Drastic Rez you make the point that you consider Sandy's views to be "official" (your term)*.
Me:
>Hmmm, just how does a wimpy race like the ducks manage to thrive so
>successfully close by to all that festering undead?
V.S. Greene:
>>Easy. Ducks swim, undeads don't. Ducks vs. Undead in Marsh, Ducks
>>win. Figure also (sudden inspiration) that a duck community
>>probably has some provision for flooding in the event of attacks,
>>sort of like the Netherlands when they fought for independence.
Nah, what I was subtlely suggesting (too subtle, obviously) is that the Ducks have some sort of secret relationship/alliance/truce with Delecti that they don't make public.
Me:
>Doesn't anyone else think their constant insistence that they
>live just like their human neighbours is somewhat shrill.
V.S. Greene:
>>It's just a clumsy attempt to be loved. :)
Or to live anonymously, without drawing undue attention.
Me:
>And why are their temples to "Humakt" so clean, tidy and
>seemingly unused?
V.S.Greene:
>>The little guys are neatness freaks? Perhaps the temples
>>are largely for appearances, and the real rituals are out in
>>the marshes. Maybe they involve the Great Feast of Roasted
>>Undead.....(zombie tastes like chicken)
Yum, I'm sure it does! The temples are largely for appearance, because they only **pretend** to worship "Humakt"!! Although the Ducks egregiously proclaim that they live "just like the humans around us" in actual fact they are creepy, flesh-eating cultists in league with Delecti!
Please note that I personally don't believe this is true, but certain paranoid Sartarites might!
Sergio Mascarenhas laments:
>If Chaosium is going to support that view, which seems most likely to
>happen, that's the end for my own version of ducks.
Relax, I don't think *anything* is set in stone just yet, and its unlikely Chaosium will be bringing out a DuckPak of their own anytime in the next week, month or year (decade?) Please keep 'em posting! And don't forget that important acronym IMG - "In My Glorantha", where you can do whatever the heck you want.
Cheers
MOB *and just on this Steve, why do you single out Martin Crim and Sandy's 9 page article in Codex 1 as an "article" (ie. in quotation marks)? Is this meant to somehow load the term?
'...Codex 1 contains a number of articles dealing with the city of Pavis, but also includes an "article" on the tribes of Prax. My only concern is that the information from two sources (one "official", one not) were mixed together, making it difficult to separate Martin Crim's views from Sandy's.'
Drastic Rez, p.101.
Given that Sandy's text is in one typeface and Martin's in another, I found it astonishingly easy to differentiate between the two throughout. In my opinion, the article (or as Steve puts it, "article") is actually quite good, and presages and complements a lot of the material Stephen has recently put into Drastic - Prax.
[XXIX.1345.Gerallon/p6*]
The village was in flames, and there were bodies lying everywhere. The broos were busy killing and destroying. Some already had started the raping. I ran from body to body, afraid of seeing a familiar face. The other broo did not heed me, thinking I was one of their number. I tried to give the impression of a corpse-robber; I even took a cloak from one of the fallen. I'm wearing it now.
Darya's house lay at the other end of the town; I had watched it many times from my vantage point. It was not yet alight, although the door had been kicked in. I ran in, only to confront one of the broo - an appalling creature covered in oily scales - standing over a tall, bearded man, partially clad in armour (iron!), and gripping a long-bladed sword. He had an ugly wound in his belly. The bodies of a dozen of the horrors lay around him. Glazen-eyed, he was dying. I knew this man to be Darya's father, I had seen him from the hill. He was breathing his last.
With a bellow, I charged into the room, and the scaly broo, who was preparing to bring down his great club on the dying man's head, turned to greet me. To its surprise, I levelled my spear not at the fallen human but the broo itself. I thrust hard, but the spear broke on its scaly hide, breaking just below the haft.
Screaming in its own language, the broo prepared to take swing back at me but before it could do so, was distracted by the warrior, who had managed to point the tip of his sword in the broo's direction. Wincing with the pain, he let out a strangled gasp: "Humakt - Die! " In an instant, the room fell strangely dark and cold. Power leapt from the sword-tip, striking the broo in the chest. It shook violently for a second and dropped like a stone, onto the man.
With a heave, I rolled the corpse aside. Darya's father looked up at me, but his eyes were blank.
"Who are you?", he croaked. "Where's Darya?", I said, urgently. He turned his head towards a doorway, leading into the room beyond. A bare foot lay poking across the threshold. Fighting my nausea, I approached, trembling. It was Darya's mother, and she was dead, with a crushing blow to the head. Fortunately for her sake, she lay unravaged. Beyond, in the shadows, lay her daughter on her cot. Darya lay naked on her stomach, above the sheets, as if sleeping. Her head and shoulders were hidden in the gloom, but the white skin of her back seemed lustrous in the flickering half-light of the dying fire. She looked peaceful, at rest, but how could this be, what with the horror around her?
Yes, old man, she, Darya, the love of my life was dead. And (Gerallon choked for a second) they'd taken her head, those broo: even now I fear it dangles on the belt of their leader. (Again, the blind sage muttered his charm.) You will understand if I do not wish to dwell on how, as I approached her sleeping body I saw those empty shoulders and the black, seeping stain on her pillow. I raced out, but it was too late, the broo were gone. Soon, those people that managed to flee or hide would be returning, and I knew that no amount of explaining would save my life.
I returned to the house, for I could not leave Darya like that. Her father had dragged himself into Darya's room, his blood staining the floor red behind him. He lay propped against the bed, the crushed head of his wife cradled in one arm, the calves of his mutilated daughter enclosed by the other. His bloodied sword now lay, discarded, at his feet.
I kneeled close. "I was a friend of your daughter", I began. He stared at me with his dulled eyes, attempting to perceive me. His hand went out to me, but I purposefully avoided contact. "I loved your daughter, sir, and she loved me. She never spoke of me because I asked her not to. We were not...," I hung my head, " ...not of the same station in life."
I don't know how long we sat there - I didn't seem to care whether anyone found me or not anymore. Darya's father, I learned, was named Count Victor. He had come from the same land as my mother, to escape the "Dart" wars there. He only sought to lead an anonymous life in the village with his wife and daughter, though, in his own country, he was once a Sword-Lord of the Humakt religion and a powerful figure. Without revealing my true nature, I spoke of my devotion to his daughter. He spoke to me of vengeance. He spoke also of his god Humakt, and of honour.
"Take my sword son," he said with his final breath, "Find them, kill them and put my darling daughter's soul to rest. Free her spirit. Swear you'll do this for me, and I shall ask Humakt that I can be your guide. Swear it!"
I took his blade - see, I wear it at my side - and I swore. I swore by Count Victor's Humakt, I swore by the name of my dear dead mother, and I swore by my love of Darya. As I did so, Count Victor died, yet I feel he is never very far from me. I have been hunting Darya's killers ever since. It has been five years.
"There, I have told my story old man. Now I can sleep."
*note: this is the sixth 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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