Tanks!
DWRT The Witch Cult in Western Prax and the Wastelands Four Documents and GameSpeik
By Doyle Wayne Ramos-Tavener
Editor's Introduction
The following documents were found together in the green wing, which have produced a number of previously unknown manuscripts from the pre-illiteracy period.
That the documents, despite their disparate nature, were intended to be read
together is obvious from the fact that they were bundled with a strong cord,
constructed with variegated knots of odd appearance. There is a cover
page, of
sorts, made of the rich vellum of the fourth document, on which is inscribed
the title, "The Witch-Cult in Western Prax and the Wastelands".
I have decided to introduce each of the documents separately.
The first document seems to be an official Lunar report, from the time
immediately before the Hero Wars period. The script is tight and official,
and
uses the old "New Pelorian" dialect. It is exceedingly short, especially
compared to the other documents in the bundle.
Honored Governor,
Upon receipt of your commission, I must admit to feeling somewhat at loss.
The
various tribal politics, cults and social mores of the Animal Nomads of Prax
have always seemed arcana beyond my humble understanding. Nonetheless, The
Goddess demands that we grow in knowledge and in spirit and exceed our
boundaries. Thus, I present the following report to you.
As you know, after the Battle of Moonbroth, we began to receive
intelligence on
how the Animal Nomads perceived their defeat. There was apparently some house
cleaning in various tribes, where we suspect several powerful individuals were
scapegoated for the general defeat. Of particular interest were the reports
that certain Shamans were ousted and/or killed. Several times the Praxian
word
'Garangi' was used in this context.
The Sable riders of the Hungry Plateau, who provide interpreters for the whole of the Corps, were unable to tell us much of the word, apart from a few crumbs. The word is a deadly insult, apparently, and it has connotations of filth. "Much like the Pelorian iskrawth", I was told, if the Governor will excuse the obscenity. Little else was known.
Armed with this knowledge (and a troop of regulars) I set out for the
Moonbroth
oasis, where I had information that a band of native Sable riders had
temporarily encamped. Upon my arrival, I proceeded to engage various tribal
elders in meetings concerning Garangi. All my efforts were rebuffed, and one
junior Shaman I spoke to walked away from our meeting angrily.
Finally, a tribal elder 'suggested' that I leave the oasis, before I came to
harm. It was only as I left, closely watched by half the clan's warriors,
that
I realized that I had broken some taboo by the mere mention of the word.
If this is truly the case, then it will be exceedingly difficult to find out anything about 'Garangi', if I am unable to bring up the subject of my inquiry in polite conversation.
Might I suggest that alternate means of discovering information about
'Garangi'
be made? Much as I might wish to exceed my boundaries, I fear continued
effort
on this path might allow me to exceed my final boundary, which might, in the
eyes of The Goddess, serve my own soul better, but would not, I fear, aid in
your interrogatives.
Sincerely yours,
Nomius, Adjutant-Major to the Overseer's Staff
The following statement was inscribed at the bottom of the report, evidently after it had been written, "Post this fool to Corflu - SEA"
The next piece is somewhat more problematic, at least in determining the
nature
of its origin. Though it seems that it is directly connected in terms of
location (Rubble, certainly) then names mentioned have to significance to us
today.
The script is written in a very leisurely hand, on parchment very much like
the
preceding piece. This is in contrast to the somewhat savage references made.
My Dearest Brother,
As per your request, I have momentarily left off my interest in various sites
of the Rubble (which in the end may serve us all well) and taken on the
inquiry
into this 'Garangi' matter.
A small amount of thought was all that was required to reason that a taboo is more likely to be broken outside the sight of one's fellows. Following the line of reasoning, one whom is permanently severed from his kin might reveal even more.
In Pavis, there are many outcast members of the Animal Nomads. Some are here
because permanent injury has caused them to be unfit in their tribe's eyes,
and
they refused to submit to ritual suicide. Others are there because of broken
taboos, infra-tribal warfare, or exile. Most are the scum of the earth, and
most certainly, one might be found who would be able to inform me as to the
nature of your inquiry.
Jaran was one such individual. He had no left arm above the elbow, and some sort of crippling injuries had devastated his legs.
To pry the information from him took a considerable amount of ale, and even then, he would reveal no information until we were within the walls of the Rubble.
He claimed that the eyes of the ancestors saw everywhere in the world, except within the Walls, which is why they were taboo. I scorned his story, and laughed at his fear, and told him that enough drink would suffice against the lies of those who had spawned him.
Thus fortified, he spoke at dreary length about those who had conspired
against
him, those of his tribe who had put him in the way of temptation, the
Broo-wrought disease which had rotted his arm, the family which had scorned
him, etc., etc.
With enough cheap ale and severe blows, he began to speak of the cause of it all.
"It was Corduz who sent us, and thus the weight of all that happened
afterwards
was his. Thus he should support me and mine, suffering us and my rightful
place among Those Who Ride. Yet he would have none of it, and decreed that
the
ancestors were satisfied with the loss of my arm.
I went to the Khan, spoke openly in Council of my loss, and demanded retribution. He refused, and so then I spoke of Corduz as Garangi, for how else would the Broo know of our coming?
But my Khan wished none of it, having listened to the lies of my enemies. He grew angry, and said I should have no place in Council and Camp for three days.
On the second day of my ride, the Garangi's filth found me, and killed my mount. Then they ruined me, taking strips from my legs, so that I could ride no longer. I crawled back to Camp, but my own family saw me not, having been taken by the Garangi filth.
A trader came, and offered me food and camp if I would guide him. I agreed, much to my shame, and he left me here in this filth-town, covered in the dung of horse."
He told me a little more of the supposed ways of the Garangi, of how their 'ally' was corrupt, and solid, and how it was sent out at night to suck blood from horse, and other riding beasts, and how it wisked away the Garangi to unholy feasts, hosted by Broo, etc.
In general, his tales reminded me of the stories I heard in my youth, in Carmania, told by my nurse, who was of the old blood. Her tales of the Voidezny, which means, roughly, Old Hag, seem startlingly similar.
Perhaps some research in this area might prove helpful?
I doubt seriously whether such creature as a Garangi exists among the Animal Nomads. But we should keep in mind the powerful nature of these accusations. They might prove helpful someday.
As for Jaran, put your mind at ease. His days of pain are past.
With respect,
Gim-Gim
The next piece seems to be the transcription of an oral tale. Certain
passages
resemble the 'barn tales' of our own times, but more investigation would be
necessary to determine direct oral descent. The work is written in New
Pelorian as well, but there are many strange words from an older language,
which remain untranslated. The strange last line would seem to be a form of
ritual closing, like our own, "And then they all died."
The Story of Little No-Hands
Little Mosca was a darling girl, bright of eye and sound of limb, who lived in
a small village on the edge of the Sweet Sea. Her father was a fisherman, who
made his living from the bounty of the lake. One day he pulled up a blue
woman
in his nets. He was about to toss her with the other fish to be skinned and
boned, but she cried out for mercy, saying that she would give a great gift to
him if he freed her from his nets. The fisherman agreed, and released the
blue
woman into the sea, where she landed with a plop and swam away.
When the Fisherman arrived home, his wife told him that they had a baby girl. The Fisherman knew instantly that this was the gift of the blue woman and cursed both his luck and his foolishness in letting her go. Her mother named her Little Mosca, which means Blue.
One day the fisherman was coming home from his toil and was accosted on the path by a horrid old woman, a voidezny. She had blue hair and iron nails, her teeth were sharp and filed and she smelled like fish set to lie out in the sun for too long.
The fisherman was very afraid, and tried to run away (he was a great coward) but could not, as the Voidezny had cast a spell which had glued his feet the path.
"Mercy" he cried, "what have I ever done to you?"
"Ha!" said the Voidezny, "What have you ever done for me? I am hungry for a
little piece of meat, and I will carve it off your plump behind."
"Please do not do that,", replied the coward, "and I will provide a piece of
meat far sweeter than what I wear."
"Very well," said the Voidezny. "Here is my pot. Take it home with you, and
put the meat inside it."
The fisherman took the pot home with him and placed it on a shelf. His wife smelled magic about it, and would not cook food in it, though the Fisherman begged her to.
That night, the pot got off the shelf and walked over to the bed where the Fisherman lay. It reached up onto the bed, its sharp teeth gnashing. When he heard it he trembled and said, "Please do not climb upon my bed. Tomorrow I will provide you a piece of meat far sweeter than what I wear."
The pot then went back to its place on shelf, but it gnashed its teeth all night long.
The next morning the Fisherman did not go to his day's work, but rather took his daughter with him into the woods through an old path. Little Mosca asked her father what they were doing in the woods, but the Fisherman's only replies were surly grunts.
Finally they arrived at a clearing, where the Fisherman instructed Little
Mosca
to gather herbs and vegetables for a soup. While Little Mosca performed her
chores, The Fisherman poured some water from the Sweet Sea in the pot and
built
a fire under it.
"Ow!" cried the pot, but the Fisherman would say only "Shhh."
When Little Mosca was finished, she presented the herbs and vegetables to the
Fisherman, who then said, "These are fine. But you have forgotten the wild
onion, which will add flavor to the stew. Stay here and put your spoils in
the
pot: I will go and fetch the wild onion."
After the Fisherman had left the clearing, Little Mosca did as she was told,
and placed the herbs and vegetables in the Voidezny's pot. Shrack! went the
teeth of the pot, and chopped off poor Little Mosca's hands. With tears in
her
eyes, Little Mosca ran off into the woods, leaving the pot of the Voidezny
behind.
The pot jumped down into the fire, crying "Ow!...ow!" and ran all the way home
to the Voidezny. The pot jumped up on the table of its mistress, and
discourged
its contents onto a copper plate. Then the Voidezny, who was very hungry,
gobbled them up.
"KEE-WRAH!", cried the Voidezny, for she had never tasted a finer treat. At
that moment, she swore she would not rest until she had more. "Pot!", cried
the Voidezny, "Take me to the hut of the Fisherman, where I might have more
tidbits!" And so the pot led her to the hut, where she gobbled up the
Fisherman's wife.
When the Fisherman arrived in the clearing, the fire was burnt out, the pot
was
gone and Little Mosca was nowhere to be seen. "That takes care of that!", he
thought to himself, and strolled home.
But when he got there, he discovered the Voidezny at his table, gnawing at the
shinbone of his wife. When the horrid creature saw him, she spit out the
right
eyeball of his wife, and exclaimed, "Where are the rest of the tidbits that
were placed in my pot? These measly strings and bones do not satisfy me."
The Fisherman trembled so much that that his eyeballs shook and the bones in his neck stuck out. "I do not know, honored lady. I gave my daughter the pot to cook some onions in, but neither she or the pot were where I had left them."
It was then that the Voidezny took out her iron pot, silver spoon and copper plate. With the spoon she scraped up the broth, blood red, from the pot and dipped it on the plate. It swirled on the plate for some time, rushing around as if in search of some secret toy. Then it lumped on one side of the plate. The Voidezny gave a loud cry and dragged the Fisherman into the pot with her. The pot then flew toward the palace where the quiet winds come from.
All the while Little No-Hands wandered the woods by the shore of the Sweet
Sea,
wailing from the pain she had so cruelly endured. The spirits of that strange
wood cared for her, bringing her herbs to soothe her wounds, and singing odd
songs to restore her spirit.
The waif wandered like this for many days, until she found herself at the
shores of the Sweet Sea. Her stumps still burned, so the poor girl dipped
them
into the deep blue waters of the sea. With a sigh of relief, blood from the
stumps drifted into the deep blue waters, where the Blue Lady smelled them.
The poor lady of the Sweet Sea cursed herself, saying, "May I never know happiness until my blood is avenged!" She then swam straight to the shore, where Little No-Hands had fallen asleep.
"Poor child!, said the Lady of the Sweet Sea, That monstrous creature that has
maimed you will follow, for who could resist eating you, once they had a
taste?"
The Lady of the Sweet Sea ripped her own hair, bluish-green, and made a couch with it. She placed Little No-Hands on the couch, and pushed it into the Sea.
With a chain of bright sea-metal she hitched the couch to the Fishes of the
Deep, who pulled the couch all day and all night until Upstar was high over
the
Sweet Sea.
Meanwhile, the terrible Voidezny had been smacking her lips all this time,
looking for the morsel that had so far been denied her. She flew in her pot,
stroking the sides of it with her copper spoon, so that the pot would not
close
its jaws upon her and the Fisherman.
After a while, they passed over the Sweet Sea and saw Little No-Hands on her couch. "KEE-WRAH!", cried the Voidezny, as she tipped the pot. The Fisherman fell out with a cry, and landed into the mouth of one the Fishes of the Deep, who swallowed him up.
The Voidezny did not care that the Fisherman had fallen, but flew down to the couch, where Little No-Hands was sleeping.
Just then, a great blue tower shimmered into the air, right in the path of the
horrible wretch. The Voidezny ran herself straight into the peak of the
tower,
impaling herself.
The tower was part of the Castle of the Blue Folk, which only comes very rarely.
Little No-Hands drifted on the couch into the bay of that great castle, and
the
inhabitants welcomed her as one of their own. They gave her a new pair of
hands made from the sea-metal, and a husband of the same substance, who was
always handsome, and who loved her the rest of the days of her life.
Do you have more Krichek?
The final piece is perhaps the oddest of all. It is written in a somewhat unschooled hand, in dialect of Theyalan known as New Kingdom Sartarite. The piece is written on a curious sample of white vellum, which has not ivoried at all in the intervening years. As to the nature or meaning of the work, I must admit to being mystified.
When I returned to the camp, all the riders clustered about my train,
examining
the goods contained therein. I shooed them away from the gin, silently
thanking Issaries for the Lunar Empire, which brings the Heartland Monopoly
goods to even this far corner of the world (along with repression and
conquest,
of course).
Norayeep was glad to see me unharmed, and little Jerstius wanted to show me
his
newest finds. As usual, the child had discovered some useful goods among the
dross, and I haggled with him at some length. I do believe he got the best of
me over the walnuts, but as I had virtually swindled him out of a Falangian
Diamond months earlier, I held no rancor over it.
I took the gin to Hermok's tent, and left the beast in charge of Fartha, his slave. Though I suppose slave is a strong word for what Fartha is. No woman wants to be known as a Shaman's wife. The casual indignities of the tribal slave status are no comparison, it seems. Still, from what I saw of their relationship, it appeared that the ugly, gap-toothed beast adored him.
It would be early evening before I spoke to Hermok, so I went and looked at
the
Bull. As usual, it was quietly grazing, surrounded by cows. Its
attractiveness is more than a little annoying, as you have to push away the
cows just to examine the beast. There was still no sunburn, no parasites, and
no disease. I suppose I should not be surprised, and discontinue my close
watch over the beast, but old habits are the last to perish, as they say.
When I finally entered Hermok's tent, the smoke was thick, and billowed out
from the flap as I opened it. I waited a moment for the acrid air to clear,
only to endure that peculiar castigation that only a Praxian Shaman can
deliver. In the dissipating smoke of his tent, I could see him, hunching
over a
small fire, obviously the source of the herb-laden fumes.
When he recognized me his greeting turned more personable, and he made me a place to sit. With the flap closed, the fire was our only light, but it sufficed. I had come to haggle, and sometimes the lack of light can work to one's benefit.
I was a distinct disadvantage, for I did not know what I was haggling for, so in the end I gave him all the liquor, save for a few bottles for the Khan. It was then that he began, taking a long knotted rope out of one of his many bags.
I was of course familiar with the so-called Praxian knot-writing, enough to
know that such items were not writing per se, but rather a sort of map, that
were hung at certain sacred spots. It is said that some of the places
referred
to no longer exist, except for a Heroquester, a path of life I had long
avoided
until recently.
The sample that he now asked me to examine was long, far longer than any I had seen before. I remembered that strange phrase that I heard spoken of in Alone more than once: If you need a rope, look for a Shaman. I had never understood what it meant until now.
The rope was evidently ancient, as it appeared to me to have been repaired or
re-knitted over the years. The strands were of different thickness, and
sometimes of different shades or hues. Knots crawled along the rope its
entire
length, each commemorating a different time or place. It was at least eight
meters long.
"This Waha's rope", he began "and it starts with Chaos." He went on at some
length, describing the primeval journey of Waha, which taught the Praxians how
to survive such a hostile world.
"The ending is Chaos, too." And with that he partially untied the first and
last knots, retying them together, so that when he was finished, the new knot
seemed to resemble the jaws of a serpent consuming the end of the rope.
"Liberator of the White Bull", he continued, using my full Praxian title,
"where is Chaos now?
I could not answer him. He seemed satisfied nonetheless, and bellowed for Fartha to bring him a bottle of gin.
The Praxians of my acquaintance call liquor "spirits", by which they imply the old belief that such drink allows one to speak with the Ancestors. Thus, they explain the effect of inebriation.
But I knew Hermok drank that night to keep the ancestors away.
Gamepeik
Several years ago, I ran across a book entitled "Stolen Lightning: The Social Theory of Magic" by Daniel Lawrence O'Keefe. If I were to describe this tome in Gloranthan terms, it would be the work of a God-Learner, who was trying to describe how all magic worked.
Some of this enormous work I find problematic, but one idea that in
particular
struck was the description of the Witch-complex. In sociology the term Witch
and Sorcerer have specialized meanings. A witch does things that are
manifestly impossible to do, such as fly to Sabbats, change shape, etc. A
Sorcerer, by contrast, is a real person who practices 'magic' (herblore,
poisons, and the whatnot) of his culture.
A Witch-complex is a description of the process the community goes through
when
it accuses one of its own of Practicing magic. O'Keefe notes that since being
a witch is manifestly impossible, the only magic going on is the Witch
accusation, which marshals the anxiety of the entire community to brand one of
their own as Evil.
I wondered how this could be translated into Gloranthan terms, particularly among the Praxian tribes. In terms of Runequest and PenDragon Pass mechanics, it would probably look like this:
Accuse Witch
3 Points
Ritual Spell (Ceremony), Nonstackable, One-use
Waha
Available only to Khans of Waha, this spell taints the target with Chaos. The caster must use Ceremony with this spell. The spell may be boosted with the Magic points of all those of the target's community who believe the accusation.
The effects of the taint vary with status and nature of the target. Priests
may become excommunicated, and Shamans may find that their fetch becomes
solid. The target may, over time, develop Chaos Features. Such individual
are
automatically detected by the Detect Chaos ability of Storm Bull cultists.
The
exact nature of effects is left to the Gamemaster's decision.
In Hero Wars, the mechanics are: (to be added at a later date).
End of The Glorantha Digest V5 #564
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