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Post by Dunwik on Dec 11, 2022 17:47:29 GMT
INTRODUCTION
Lengans had been moving out of the territory of Leng proper for many centuries in little exoduses, typically spurned by Dunwikki aggression or the occasional boom in other nations. During the late 1890s, the first wave of Lengans in force had left Leng and learned the languages of other nations, sending back enough information to expedite further motion.
In the opening days of the year 1914, the people of Leng would be faced with one of the most ferocious opponents they ever encountered: the maniac Dr. Arthur. Possessed of a seething hatred of all things theological and all things Lengan, Arthur had butchered his way to the top of the Dunwikki government and fashioned the entire state into a weapon, with the supreme goal of the total obliteration of the Lengan nation, culture, and race. He commanded power far beyond any other foe ever faced in Leng's past - save for those mythic ancient tyrant kings of old - and ambition and singlemindedness that put all but archetypal demons to shame.
While many Lengans stood to defend their homeland, digging in and engaging in a furious holy war, many others, the weak, the sick, the old, the unorthodox, the cowardly, or the adventurous, had left the nation. It was an opportune time to leave, as the Tholish had landed. In exchange for accepting the Tholish messiah of Jesus Christ, the Lengans would be given free passage to the Kingdom of West Thosel Cransconia. Knowledge of Tholish or languages of the outside world had spread to Leng in the years past, and while the Lengans preferred to speak in their own tongue, each family or group of families often had at least one who could interpret for them. Upon arrival into the WTC, many Lengans retreated to form small, isolated communities with each other... but some others sought integration within the host nation, to make themselves more Tholish, but to also make the Tholes more Lengan.
Later in the war, many Lengans struck a secret deal with the Sadaler Raikh to escape the dual onslaught of the atheist Arthur and the Christian Tholes, seeking to defend their old faith and their old way of life. Escaping to a land more accepting of their old faith, they regarded the Christians with anger and sought to perpetuate their old way of life.
Here are some of their stories.
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Post by Dunwik on Dec 11, 2022 18:11:39 GMT
A HEX ON YOU, SADALER
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(December, 1914, WTC)
Many Lengans were curious as to why the Tholish had arrived in their land and began their conversion efforts. While some were told that it was merely the desire to spread the word of Christ, further pressing revealed the origin of the organization that had arrived. The "Salvation Army" was an army of veterans, hardened in a war between the state of the Tholes and their northern neighbors, the Empire of Sadalen.
Wilier or more educated Tholes would reveal one crucial detail, that transformed Lengan curiosity into a further, furious rage. The Sadalen had been associates with the Dunwikki, and the Dunwikki had intervened in the war, committing numerous atrocities upon the Tholish people. The Tholes would find an eager audience with the Lengans, and the two nationalities would compare stories of Dunwikki actions long into the night.
While many Lengans decided to draw away, assist in fortifying the northern border further, or pray at the revelations, the Lengan sculptor Ihinariya had a decidedly different course of action, early in the month of June, 1914. She belonged to a much more involved mystery and worship than many other Lengans, and was respected in her homeland. She set out for an ambitious project, and she and her team of stone carvers worked at a feverish pace.
The thing, when complete, was a work of art unlike anything seen in the land before. It was a marble obelisk of geometric perfection, a three-sided spire that towered high into the sky. Late in the night, just before New Year's Day, 1915, the obelisk was hauled from the site of its carving to a specially selected hill just by the Sadaler-Tholish border, erected, cemented in place, and then left.
Upon each side was the same message, written once in the dense and difficult Lengan script, once in Hundish, and once in Tholish, every single letter carved perfectly into the stone. It read as follows:
A HEX UPON YOU, SADALER. FOR YOUR SERVICE TO THE MEN OF DUNWIK, WE CURSE YOU UNTIL THE LAST STAR FADES. WE CURSE YOU UNTIL THE EVERLASTING NIGHT SWALLOWS ALL CREATION.
MAY YOU BE STRUCK WITH THE ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-NINE ILLNESSES, ASSAILED BY THE TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SIX EVILS, HAUNTED BY THE SEVENTY-SEVEN SPIRITS OF OLD. MAY THE THIRTEEN PATHS OF RIGHTEOUSNESS ELUDE YOU FOREVER.
MAY YOUR AMBITION TURN TO ASH; MAY YOU BE SHACKLED AND SLAUGHTERED BY ALL WHO OPPOSE YOU; MAY YOU BE DRIVEN FROM YOUR HOMES AND LAND; MAY YOUR BONES SPLINTER AND ALL YOUR SENSES TURN TO FIRE. MAY YOU BE SCOURED WHOLLY FROM THE WORLD. YOU WILL FALL UPON THE DUNWIKKI FOR AID. THEY WILL SELL YOU, AS THEY SOLD ALL OTHERS. YOU WILL FALL UPON THE WORLD FOR HELP, AND FALL UPON YOUR SWORDS.
YOU WILL BEG YOUR IDOLS AND GODS FOR AID. THEY WILL NOT ANSWER.
A HEX UPON YOU. A HEX UPON YOU FOREVER.
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Post by Dunwik on Jan 21, 2023 0:56:34 GMT
DECEMBER 4th, 1915 - "Tholeport", Leng.
"Tell me you'll find me, Zabby."
Zabiltuian smiled, brushing Pistikaiea's white hair aside. He looked into her red eyes, pulling her close to him and taking a breath in. Looking out to the docks, to the massive Tholish ships loading in crowd after crowd of Lengan people, he wrapped a hand around her shoulder, sidling up next to her and waving his hand over the wide, open water. Pressing his head against hers, he laughed, his cross necklace swinging back and forth around his neck, clattering against hers once.
"Of course, of course. We'll meet again, somehow, someday," he said, "and I'll always be with you." He leaned in and kissed her, then led her off to the Tholes taking record of the immigrants. The Thole looked over at the two of them, and Zabiltuian stepped back.
"This is my wife. Pistikaiea. I've already filed all her other papers, she should be on your docket. Treat her well," he said to the Thole, his Tholish thickly accented, and somewhat tinged with the slow, sad tone of the Lengans. He looked back at her once more. Those hollow cheeks, the eyes bulging out of their sockets, her frame so thin and gaunt he could see her ribs. He sighed and shook his head. She'd live. He...
"And you?" The Thole asked.
"I'm not going. The Council has called me to fight," Zabiltuian said, looking away, "I'm to report to the front immediately... I just wanted to say goodbye."
He looked back at his wife, and patted her on the shoulder.
"For now," he promised, "I'll come back."
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MARCH 12th, 1916 - WTC
Pistikaiea sat at the docks, like she did every day. In the months since she made it to WTC, she'd gotten healthier. She'd eaten like three men as soon as she'd landed, her husband's military service giving her a surprising amount of sway in this new land. Still, no word of anything. She would work, filing papers for the immigration offices, serving as an interpreter, or occasionally reassuring the children that everything would be okay, and then come sundown she would walk out and sit on the docks, staring at the setting sun despite the burning it caused, hoping to catch a glimpse of another immigrant ship coming in.
Today, another one came, the battleship Redeemer. Flying the Christian Lengan flag proudly, the massive, squat warship slowly inched its way to port, coming to a stop. Soon, Tholish priests lead crowds of Lengans out and over the docks, heading towards their new processing center at port. Pistikaiea ran up to the crowd, running directly into a crewman and grabbing his cheap blue uniform, tugging on it so sharply the fabric tore slightly.
"Excuse me," she said rapidly, in Lengan, "do you know where my husband is?"
"Was he on our ship?" The crewman asked, "what was his name?"
"Zabiltuian of Rebiteem," Pistikaiea spat the name out as fast as her tongue could move, "please, he promised he'd be back soon, he-"
"I... I know where he is," The crewman's voice suddenly got soft."
"He's here, right? He's on your ship?"
The crewman looked away.
"Is he still on the front? He hasn't sent a letter in a month! That's not like him, I got one every week! Is he far away? Is he inland? Is he-"
She didn't know what she was saying, letting out a torrent of words and begging this random man for help. Eventually, he slumped his shoulders.
"He's... been pardoned."
"Pardoned? He didn't commit a crime! He was the nicest man you'd ever-"
"He's been pardoned," the crewman said more sternly, "...not by any mortal man. He sought forgiveness and found it."
"Forgiveness for what?! What did he do?! Where did he go?"
The crewman paused, shuffling his feet. He patted Pistikaiea on the shoulder.
"Wait here, please. I'll be back with news. It's our job to inform everyone," he said, walking away.
It was only a few minutes, but it felt liked decades. Pistikaiea paced back and forth, wondering what was going on, wondering why this man was being so evasive. The concept of death crossed her mind repeatedly, but every time she forced it away. He was just in the center front, where messages were scarce. That's what happened. That's what happened.
The crewman came back, holding a small letter. Pistikaiea opened it and saw her husband's handwriting plain and clear across it. Initially elated, she started to read.
"I'm glad we've kept in touch all these months. Every time I sat down to read your letters, heard of how well you're doing, it made me remember why I kept fighting. You always knew how to cheer me up, you always knew what you say. You were too good for me. Really, I was the luckiest man alive, to have you. But I can't just have this letter be pleasantries, this one last compliment, and nothing more. I need to tell you the truth.
If you receive this letter, I am dead."
The words didn't register, and she continued to read, instinctively denying her husband's last words.
"I was wounded out on the front, but my service term isn't through, and I can still see or fight. I can't march anymore, so I was placed in a new unit, a plane one. I think you saw one of those planes out when we were leaving. I got to fly, and it was a feeling unlike anything else. It's not like you personally grow wings. It's more like managing everything, pulling levers and ensuring it all works well. But the feeling of the wind in your face is something I can't put into words. But I can't lie and say I was a fighter man for very long, nor was I any good at it. I almost got shot down twice - I kept focusing too much on one thing, and was a liability. But there was something done for me. Recent Tholish bombing raids weren't very successful, the Enemy have dug in well and know how to thwart them. I was chosen to help with a new kind of attack. If you're reading this, it happened. I flew my plane into the enemy, with a bomb aboard it. Perhaps I did well. Perhaps I didn't. I can't tell you anymore."
She read the words but didn't want to understand them.
"Regardless of what I said after writing this letter, I want these to be my last words. Stay strong for me. I don't want to break your heart. It makes me tear up, knowing that you'll have to go on for a while without me. But I promised you, we'll meet again someday. Not here, not yet, but wait. We'll meet again in heaven. I can wait for a long time. This is my last wish! Live well.
Yours: now, always, and forever.
-Zabby"
Pistikaiea held the letter to her chest, and didn't know what to say. Standing still for a while, she watched the crowds pass her by, a blur. At some point, she started weeping and continued to do so until she passed out.
July 7th, 1916 - WTC
Pistikaiea looked at her handiwork, with something approaching pride. It was her design, her idea, she had gathered the people to do it, commanded them with a voice unlike her own. She had gotten funding, she had gotten the land, she had summoned the artists and approved the best design for her craft. Maybe it'd fix something, seeing it completed. On a quiet hill overlooking the city, a small, winding path made its way to a concave monument. On the flat back of the monument, a scene in the land war was portrayed, Lengan men hiding in their fortifications, the priest Tilitaryian standing and encouraging the men to fight, their muddy faces gaunt, but resolute, their hands firmly wrapped around their guns, their fortifications strong.
On the concave, curved side, a Lengan man in aviator's garb stepped into a plane, waving goodbye to a crowd behind him. Ahead of him was an unspeakable, horrific scene of carnage - of sinking ships, of planes plunging into ships, of horrific demons writhing about on the decks. Above, bombers, fighters, and Salakhoreshi aircraft whirled about, plunging from the crowds. The Dunwikki were coming down in flames, the Lengan planes triumphant and pristine as they dove toward their enemy.
Sheltered by the curved side, a marble statue of a plane sat. On the propellers was the Lengan character for forgiveness. Along the wings, 300 names were written.
Among these names was Zabiltuian of Rebiteem.
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Post by Dunwik on Jan 25, 2023 0:21:57 GMT
[WIP - Prelude to these negotiations. Establish Palakia as one of the Pagan Council of Thirteen at this point.]
(In the standard reference calendar, the date is April 7th, 1916)
To: Aþanaric Fairramlja Eraricsunus af hize Goþijin
From: Palakia of Palgihydr
For the past two years of war, I had considered my position unassailable. No matter what we faced, I was certain the gods would allow us to prevail. My faith in the gods remains unshaken, but my faith in men is gone.
Leng has been struck with two attacks, and the people of Leng were forced to choose between physical death at Dunwikki hands, or worse, spiritual death at Tholish ones. The malodorous cult of "Christos" has corrupted and disrupted all within the lands of Leng, and has conjured forth famines, diseases, disloyalty, and imbued the Dunwikki with a character unlike their own.
Your kin has dealt with the Dunwikki, by our records for one-quarter of a century. You know as well as we do that this act is far outside their usual behavior. This bizarre aberration has no natural cause, but rather a supernatural one. The malign spirit known as the King in White has sought to destroy our faith by two means - the guns of the Dunwikki, and the false faith of the Tholes, and should he succeed, the world shall surely fall into peril.
We Lengans are not afraid to die. Nor do we fear the end of the world. But I see great virtue in your kind, and wish only that you may endure, to know the faith, and to break free of all evils that befall your nation and kind. This cannot happen if the world ends, or if your faith is stamped out. If the Tholes win here, they will turn their eyes to the eradication of your religion too.
We do not bear any ill will towards you. You and your kin were acting in accordance with your word.
With this lengthy preamble dispensed with, I wish to propose the following arrangement. I hold command over large cities and many soldiers, and wish to relocate my people to a place within your jurisdiction. We wish to come as free men and women, able to function within our own law and custom.
However, we understand that such relocation will take a tremendous amount of effort, and the loss of land and territory has a cost. We offer the following in exchange.
Our enclave will be a subservient enclave, subject to your law except where such law is displeasing to our spirits. We will pay a tithe, starting at 2% of our harvest and value as we recover, and then climbing steadily, renegotiated every decade until such time as our debt (declared as the sum value of all persons and things rescued, and the value of whatever land we take) is paid. Then we will serve either as an independent polity again, or be partially integrated into the Raikh, subject to the same fiscal law as all other subjects of yours.
From: Aþanaric Fairramlja Eraricsunus af hize Goþijin
To: Palakia of Palgihydr
I have consulted with the powers that be, your proposal is indeed interesting to us, but to do this we would require negotiations between your people and the government. We can facilitate such matters, but I can give no true guarantees on their results. If it would be desirable, we can begin a cease fire and create a demilitarised pocket away from the Dunwikki and Tholes. At most, this will last three months, but it should give us enough time to bring the government in.
The Dunwikki are likely to object though, so we would require that negotiations be kept secret between our parties and that this be framed in a much worse light to them, as I can not see them agreeing to allowing your people to leave and be merry elsewhere. Their hatred for you seems to be beyond reason and are less than certain of our ability to control it.
With regards to the cease-fire, I am willing to begin it in seven days' time. For its duration, the forces of the Raikh will form a coherent front and we expect your people to do the same. Should incidents occur between both sides, we expect to be notified in full and we shall do the same to you. No offensives are to be launched in retaliation by either side, but a pound of flesh for a pound of flesh may be arranged. For our purposes, we are going to be declaring this a reorganisation of the frontline and would ask that you keep your forces at a distance from ours, as we are going to need to continue doing performative artillery barrages and such to sell the illusion.
At any rate, I am forwarding the proposal to the government now.
Yours,
Aþanaric Fairramlja Eraricsunus af hize Goþijin
From: Palakia of Palgihydr
To: Aþanaric Fairramlja Eraricsunus af hize Goþijin
The Lengan people no longer answer to a single power. For millennia, there was one Council of Thirteen, but now there are two, the True Faith and the Christian. I can only speak for my constituents, some 500,000 at most, mostly women, children, the lame, and the blind. Even in my own circle, there are those who have turned their backs on all reason, and impossibly - arrogantly - believe that they can fight off an army twice their size while starving. I cannot speak for forces under the command of any of the other 13, and the false 13 will continue to attack. Their headquarters are along the Eastern coast. Draw your forces, if they are present from there, away towards the center, where we will not harm you.
The Dunwikki will object, but there will be an effective ceasefire provided by the gods from June through to November with the coming of the monsoon. I have consulted the stars and they foretell good rains this year. Cease your fire with the simple and true claim that you cannot make progress in that rain.
We will pull our forces back towards the northwestern coast where neither the Dunwikki nor the Tholes are at present. I will begin the mass evacuation of my own territories if this proposal is accepted. I will marshal the navy I can and attempt to negotiate this with my peers, posing it as a hypothetical. I will get back to you when the deed is done.
Gods be with you
Palakia of Palgihydr, servant to the Lord of Tongues.
Addendum - I have spoken to the other 12, and highlighted the dire evil that faces us. They have agreed. We are amassing our ships on the northwest coast, hiding in the shoals, and moving our troops and our men out. We should be in position through the monsoon season.
[WIP: Actual boarding and the process of moving the entire million Lengans over. Life in the ships.]
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Post by Dunwik on Jan 25, 2023 1:13:10 GMT
The Lengan people are generally a sober and silent sort, only taken to moments of excess or even public displays of happiness on select holidays. However, they do maintain a staunch traditionalist bent and a careful recording of ritual, myth, and history, often melding the three together to form moral lessons in the form of plays, novels, or elaborate paintings and sculptures. With the advent of the war, novelists and tragedians immediately set off to immortalize their woes.
In regards to mythology, the founding myth of the nation of Leng is laid out in the epic cycle that begins with the play known as The Origins and ends with the play The Brothers.
As a general note, Lengan theater is slightly altered when performed in Christian lands, as any holy relics presented have been changed to Christian relics, and any spirits or gods are simply referred to as the Christian God. Otherwise, things continue almost wholly unaltered wherever the Lengans are, whether it is in the Imperium Divinum, Sadaler Raikh, WTC, or Moderal.
In the lands of the Sadaler Raikh, the play is brought about unaltered, although it is translated into various local languages if it is being performed outside of majority Lengan areas.
Of all plays, The Brothers is the most popular and performed in Leng, and this pattern has persisted through the diaspora.
The following is a simplified summary of The Brothers, known for its curious six-act story structure. It keeps with the traditional Lengan format of plays, wherein expository scenes are scenes sung by a chorus, whereas "dialogues" are spoken between characters on the stage, and expository scenes and dialogue scenes are often alternating. Rarely, a character will have a musical moment where they alone sing, when whatever they speak of is too much to merely say - or if they are animated by supernatural forces.
The play begins in a very traditional Lengan fashion, with a sung prologue setting the scene. The good king Gherothian had been assassinated, and his two sons, Erithian and Eusekian, were forced into exile to avoid the evils of the usurper, Tyrakian. This man forewent the typical rituals of the Lengan people and so angered the gods.
While young, the children were almost of the age of majority and soon aspired to restore themselves to the throne. Erithian, the elder, was the first to set off, promising to restore the land of Leng to old glory. He is a firebrand and a potent speaker, directly attacking the problems, and soon gathers many allies about himself. He, uniquely, has many moments alone to sing of how furious he is at the usurper Tyrakian, and is a blunt and unsubtle man. When he speaks to an oracle as to whether he will win, she merely tells him "the usurper is slain, the crown restored. The tyrant gains power like a fox, rules like a lion, and dies like a dog, but-"
Erithian leaves the oracle before she can finish her speaking, and sings a victorious song well in advance of any battles, remarking on the size of his host. At this point, Eusekian confronts his brother over not hearing the oracle's words, and the two brothers argue over whether he is paying proper regard to the spirits. Erithian says he knew all he needed and tells his brother to hide, for his cautious nature is holding back his host. Eusekian cannot fight his brother and leaves. Erithian spends much time managing their competing affairs, gathering an ever-larger host about himself. However, the usurper Tyrakian sees this rebellion and grows paranoid, sending his whole host to destroy this uprising.
Erithian is driven to the brink of defeat and many of his allies are slain in the battle - as remarked in an expository scene, while actors typically fight in mock battle behind the singers, letting out cries of agony. Driven far away and to the fringes of the empire. Unable to meet again with his brother, all seems lost until a stranger walks right into his camp, all weapons merely glancing off of his white robes, his rictus grin drawn carefully onto the actor.
Erithian asks who this stranger is, and this man introduces himself as the rightful lord of all the world, the true sovereign and progenitor of all. Suddenly, as this man speaks, he lapses into song and the chorus bursts out with musical instruments, the entire stage descending into the mad and manic music of this man - the King in White. The King, in verse, promises Erithian his every heart's desire. Fame, power, invincibility against all arms, a host without number or end. Erithian is taken up in this dance and - in verse - sings his assent to this mighty spirit and accepts his guidance.
With the help of the King in White, Erithian manages to overthrow Tyrakian and settles down to rule, but his reign is even worse than the usurper's. While initially virtuous, he is constantly guided by the King to engage in blasphemies or other sins. First for profit, then for convenience, and finally in anger against the gods (or God) for allowing the kingdom to slip out of the line to begin with. Soon he is building monuments to his own glory and oppressing the people of Leng, declaring the showing of holy things to be a death penalty offense. He uses dark sorcery to kill his foes, reaching out with a hand and watching men die.
Eusekian takes center stage, as many years have passed. He has a brief moment in the sung expository scene explaining that now his brother seeks to kill him, to ensure that no loose ends remain for his rule, and the people are struck with all manner of evil. Heading back out, he is a much quieter and more cautious man, heading first for the oracle. She tells him the following prophecy: "the faithful is slain, the crown is shattered, and the people rejoice."
Greatly disturbed by this, Eusekian begs for aid from the oracle, but all she tells him is to hold faith and seek what tempted his brother. She then places a holy relic in his hands, tells him to hide it until the time is right, and leaves. Eusekian despairs, but obeys the command. Gradually, he avoids the patrols of his brothers, and the villainous characters his host have become, and gathers his own, small, righteous host. However, it isn't long before the King in White appears before him, and Eusekian's virtuous host cowers in fear.
The King begins his previous bewildering song and dance, promising Eusekian unlimited power and authority over all men, but while Eusekian is initially tempted, he eventually draws back. At this, the King tries to kill the hero, but Eusekian retrieves the relics given to him and brandishes it at the King, shouting prayers and oaths. Eusekian's host returns, brandishing their own relics and saying their own prayers, and the King, in agony, collapses on the ground. Dark forces drag him away, but it's stated that he will not return for a thousand years..
Eusekian now heads to his brother's palace, infiltrating it with his host and making his way to his brother's ornate throne. Here, Erithian tells Eusekian that for the safety and security of the world, Eusekian must die. However, as he attempts his sorcery, he finds that it no longer works. Eusekian tells his brother that he banished the King in White, and that his spell over the land is broken. As Eusekian starts to try and beg his brother to step down, Erithian draws a sword and attempts, in vengeance, to strike down Eusekian.
Eusekian is nearly slain by his brother's onslaught, but manages to shove Erithian away and draw his own blade, fighting defensively for a time. Erithian continually attempts to use his sorcery but it doesn't work, and increasingly despairs. Eventually, Eusekian tries to talk his brother down one last time, but Erithian declares that without his master, life is not worth living - and falls on his blade.
Despite everything, Eusekian tries to save his brother, but the wound is lethal and Erithian doesn't speak to him, dying in silence swearing a final, strangled oath to the King in White, promising that one day he will return to slaughter the faithful. Only one part of the prophecies remains to be seen: the shattering of the crown.
At the end of the play, a council is held. Eusekian says that a single man's virtue or vice can save or doom the whole of Leng, but that the King in White is crafty and can seduce even good men. Therefore, so to keep the peace of the land, he breaks his crown into thirteen pieces, keeping only one and giving the others to his host. They became the first Council of Thirteen, and the play ends there.
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Post by Dunwik on Jan 29, 2023 23:39:49 GMT
Leng, many millennia ago...
The law was clear, chiseled on the finest marble so that the scribes may see it, so that they may memorize it and spread it to the various peoples of the lands, to each mountain and to the valleys and the plains. Deemed just and mandated by the gods, it was not an invention so much as a codification of that which had long been practiced, that which had kept the sun shining in the sky and the land solid beneath their feet.
The law, as follows, was thus:
An Icon of Sin is any spirit, person, location, or other entity that poses an existential danger to the perpetuation of existence, the preservation of the faith, or the will of the Gods. An Icon of Sin is by definition an incarnation of the primeval Void and the highest of evils. With such gravity and danger, anyone associating with such things poses a grievous threat to the health of themselves, their community, the nation, and the universe.
1: Anyone willingly supporting, serving, advocating for, or dealing with such persons or things has committed an act of major blasphemy and must die. Any servants of these persons are released of all bonds or duties. Any debtor to this person is relieved of their debt. Any wife or husband to this person has the arrangement annulled. Any property this person holds will be made the property of the local priest.
2: Anyone unwillingly supporting, serving, advocating for, or dealing with such persons or things, by force, has demonstrated weakness of character and committed an act of minor blasphemy. Any rights they hold for virtue (such as being eligible to serve as a leader or priest) are to be revoked and they are to pay a tithe equal to a twelfth of all they own and perform an act of penance. Should this be a repeat offense, the penalties will be doubled. Should it be their third offense, they are to be put to death.
3: Anyone unwittingly supporting, serving, advocating for, or dealing with such persons or things, by deceit or unawareness, must perform an act of penance and pay a tithe equal to one twenty-fourth of all they own. Should they be deceived again, the penalty will double. Should this be their third offense, they will be recognized as feeble of mind, and regarded as a child until such time as they can prove mental competence.
4: Anyone who so falsely accuses a person or organization of obeying an Icon of Sin, without due evidence, is to pay a tithe equal to one-forty-eighth of all they own, and the word PERJURER painted upon their face, and this mark renewed for thirty-six days.
5: The Council of Thirteen alone maintains the right to declare a person, spirit, organization, or object an Icon of Sin. Any unauthorized declarations must be debated by the Council itself. Should the accused thing be declared an Icon, no penalty shall be made upon the accuser. Should the accused thing not be an Icon, the accuser is to have the word FALSE-DECLARER painted upon their face, and this mark renewed for a year.
WTC, April 12th, 1915
A gathering of thirteen people had found their way into a room in a Tholish monastery, carrying with them a banner of the Lengan flag, the thirteen overlapping circles surrounding a single cross. Gathering around a table, they spent their hours comparing various documents from Tholish law and their own, sifting through the various legal cobwebs of an ancient state and seeing what if anything was in contradiction to their new land. But they realized, as they finished, that they had a few laws they could uphold over themselves, according to the laws of the Tholes.
The Lengans were still cohesive, the Christians of their own kind instinctively sticking to their own. The only exceptions were those artists who had gone off to the monasteries, where sometimes Tholes and Lengans mingled in equal numbers. As far as they knew, there were no notable incidents between the two peoples. The Tholes sometimes kept their distance, afraid of the odd customs of the Lengans, but sometimes they instead became curious and approached. There was no hostility.
A small tin of gelato was in Noakian's hand, the aged Counciler idly finishing his dessert during their afternoon recess. The Tholes prided themselves on their gelato, he thought. But they only knew chocolate for a few scant years. The Lengans had known it for thousands of years. And, though this wasn't often said to the Tholes directly, Lengpaca milk made a better gelato than Tholestein. Thankfully, some Lengans had begun to correct the Tholes on their confectionary naivete by gentle example. Often through their Salvation Army - proceeds would fund the troops.
On the topic of mirth and levity, Noakian put the tin down and walked back into the meeting room, settling down into his seat and waiting for the other Councilors to arrive. When they did, he cleared his throat.
"Before we begin proceedings, let me note that it has been one year since the war began. I think that, given the bizarre actions of the Dunwikki host, how they have suddenly transformed into a force bent solely on slaughter and conquest, that there are... unnatural, demonic elements at play. I have examined the scriptures, both of the Prophet's First and Second coming, and I have seen the Dunwikki's own words. I have come to the conclusion that the Dunwikki leader - Arthur - is not a man, but the King in White. I wish to begin the motion to declare him an Icon of Sin."
The motion passed with little argument.
Lussia, April 15th, 1918
Theokian steepled his hands and narrowed his eyes, looking about the other priests. The thirteen of them were gathered about the Prophet's Eye, the long, circular table that was the hallmark of the Council of 13. A small passage was carved in the middle of the table, and it was custom since time immemorial to judge an object or man by placing it in the middle of this space, stared at by all thirteen of the Council. This point was said to be under just as much scrutiny as the world about the Prophet Enkhiridian himself.
Today, surrounded by chanting priests and guards brandishing spears and rifles at it, ensconced by chains covered in holy glyphs, and viewed at with baleful hate by all in the room, was a Bible, a statue of Jesus, and the name Jesus written in two alphabets, the Lengan, and Tholish placed on a small placard.
The deliberation had been swift, with the predominant focus of the previous month's inquiries not being the guilt of the subject discussed, but rather the magnitude and number of offenses.
Theokian stood up. "We have established precedent of many malevolent spirits borne by foreigners within our records, but never have we observed one so pernicious nor efficient at misleading the faithful. Within the span of three years, half of our race was snuffed out, our entire country was razed, we were expelled from our homeland, and over three-quarters of our faithful either perished from the world or perished from the way. We have been tormented by every evil conceivable and only two entities can shoulder the blame. The first is the man Arthur, the second is the spirit worshiped in this text, represented by either the sign of the Tetragrammaton or by his incarnation Yeshwa. With all of our deliberations concluded and all our arguments said, I say we pass the motion: these are the deeds of an Icon of Sin."
Palakaia waited for Theokian to sit, placed her hands against the table, and rose with an irritated grunt, staring at the materials mentioned. "This has been the strangest case of my entire life. Indeed, perhaps one of the most peculiar we've ever seen. So simple to ascertain guilt, but to what degree," she shook her head, "degree doesn't apply here. We are speaking of evils beyond the reckoning of any law or lesser man. To pose an existential threat to the balance of the gods and perpetuation of the universe... there is no higher evil. I would say that this represents a category so profoundly vile, we must recategorize, we must establish a level of evil beyond an Icon of Sin."
Nemokian, another Councilman, shook his head, "first, we must pass the motion declaring them as they are - though this is only de jure approaching de facto arbitration. Already, we have had numerous reports of local congregations treating all marks of these entities as Icons and taking the appropriate measures. It's in our best interest to relieve them of any legal responsibility for their virtue first. We can deliberate later on the nature of lesser or greater Icons."
"The Raikhmen must be protected," Palakaia slumped into her chair, toying with a lock of her hair, "they are but a young race. They don't know the evils they're encountering. Their initial instincts are good, but we must provide advanced warning to them."
"There's no reason to delay," Theokian clenched a fist, "let us pass the motion and send a record of it to the Raikish central authorities separate from our usual correspondence, specifically earmarked as important. We must also post it in Lussian about the territory of Edasu-Leng and Ed-Edasu-Urvalbaara in particular, and begin work on translation to all Raikhish tongues. I'm also due to visit the Moderali sites again and will spread the judgment in Moderali."
At those words, the guards sprang to action, seizing the statues and books and dragging them out of the Prophet's Eye. The statue was smashed to pieces with a hammer and the Bible was shot repeatedly with a rifle, while the talismans of Jesus's name were thrown into a fire.
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Post by Dunwik on Feb 16, 2023 14:12:43 GMT
LENGAN DYSTOPIANISM - AN OVERVIEW
To lose a country is a terrible trauma, and at the violence of their expulsion, many Lengans entered a prolonged state of grief. Not just for friends and family felled by plague, fire, or struck dead at the hands of the Dunwikki, but for the more abstract sense of loss. Of losing their nation, of their homeland, of pieces of their faith. Of now being forever split into warring factions.
Many, from Moderal to the Raikh, to WTC to Vernalport, reflected on this. They asked themselves: "how did we get here? What happened? Why did it happen?" Many came to various conclusions. Some said it was too much faith in the Old Gods. Others said too little. A few declared they were too conservative, and didn't reach out into the world enough. Others shouted the opposite. But all of these disparate elements, in essays, novels, plays, pictures, poems, in speeches and in sermons, shouted out from pulpits or on roadsides - all of it started to coalesce into something: a movement.
Digging its roots in Lengan tragedy and weaving it with history, allegory, and mythology, the bleak and stark edifice of Lengan Dystopianism strode into the world, a grave and grim warning. Broadly split into two categories, the "Last Good Man" and the "Decay" stories, they describe either a horrific society extrapolated from the flaws of the current, or, conversely, declare how modern society will inevitably crumble into ruin.
Industrial Society and Its Future is an essay by the mathematician and high priest Theokian, describing the corrupting role industrial society has on psychology and faith. Decrying that technological society deprives humanity of faith, stability, or meaning, Theokian outlines his predictions and explanations of the world to come.
The Iron Tyrant is a short story by former Lengan soldier turned Christian "Gero The Follower", taking on a fairly common Dystopianist plot structure of a single virtuous person being left in the world, uncovering, to his horror, the mechanisms of evil - oftentimes before being slain or converted to the cause. In this story, Gero finds himself in an abominable mechanical realm, where mindless, sleepwalking creatures in the shapes of men do not speak or pray or think. They merely eat from a great trough before toiling, and returning to the trough to eat anew. There is nothing of nature or beauty in this frozen, rigid world.
INDUSTRIAL SOCIETY AND ITS FUTURE:
Theokian of Edasu-Urvalbaara, of the Council of 13.
Published April 3rd, 1917
Chapter 3: The industrial-technological society as a substitute for the Divine.
With the role tradition holds in societal stability now well-established, it must be noted that tradition, while a stabilizing force, is not necessarily stable itself. Although mechanisms within traditions ensure their propagation over the short and medium term, over generational scales traditions shift to cope with the appearance of new phenomena. For instance, the enmity between the Tholes and the Dunwikki has only recently come into being, as a direct consequence of the Dunwikki abominations against the natural order. Until such time, there was no tradition, henceforth, a tradition appeared. Over subsequent decades, one will see the emergence of various mythological stories of war against the Dunwikki embedded within the Tholish consciousness.
With the advent of technological development and the emergence of innumerable gadgets that could be described as miraculous, traditions have begun to shift or be established to compensate for the unforeseen arrivals, that consequentially alter the life and livelihoods of all who live in contact with them. The advent of the industrialized society foretells the atomization of innumerable traditional financial and labor institutions; as technological society accelerates, yet more esoteric and unforeseeable inventions shall populate the consciousness. Consequentially, new modes of thought must be developed to compensate for the existence of such objects.
Under the continually accelerating march of technological progress, the tradition of old shall be severed from the context and family it originally applied to. Because much theology was originally made to explain the natural world, literal-minded thinkers will fail to see the metaphorical applications of faith and declare it false in favor of the materialistic explanation. This will directly undermine faith in the Divine, for if one part of the explanation is "wrong" then it naturally follows that the entire edifice is as the Dunwikki would call it: "fairy tales." Indeed, this very mechanism is precisely how the Dunwikki lost faith in their Gods, and substituted in their place the dollar.
As well established in Chapter 1, technological innovation will accelerate at exponential rates. Consequentially, the development of new traditions will mirror this exponential acceleration, and it is not unreasonable to assume that within the century, new traditions will be forged with each generation: the ideological framework of the previous generation would no longer have a material parallel with the next. Family structures will warp to accommodate a new economy, faith will warp likewise to meet the needs of the new family structure. Eventually, under the strain of such continual bending, the concept of faith will eventually become at most vague positive statements void of any purpose or order. Churches will meekly declare that the Gods love everyone and toothlessly ask that everyone be nice, but will hold no power beyond that.
Returning to the lessons of Chapter 2, that being the stabilizing influence tradition holds, the direness of the situation becomes readily apparent. Devoid of national or spiritual identity, the technological society will sink into inventing ideology or tradition in order to justify their actions at the moment; hedonism will reign unchecked in the industrial society, and the consequences of reckless spending and consumption will impose an impossible strain upon all who partake within the system. However, void of spiritual identity, the only mechanism for forming a social structure shall be consumption and hedonism or being a supplier of hedonic bliss.
Chapter 4: Struggle, the search for meaning, and the loss thereof under industry.
The Iron Tyrant
By Gero The Follower
Published June 12th, 1916
"You're not the first," said the Tyrant with a hiss of steam and a clanking of the gears about its gargantuan form, "you're not special."
"But I made it here," Gero stood defiantly in front of the machine, taking a breath in, "I-"
"What a strange series of coincidences brought you here."
"Perhaps God still walks with us."
"It was always my design."
Gero took a step back, nostrils flaring, heart pounding in his chest.
"Why?" Gero asked, "why lead me here?"
"I want to show you my Utopia."
"Utopia!?"
"Have you truly looked at the men around you, child?"
"They're sullen, dead, mindless things!" Gero stepped forward again, pointing at the machine as if lightning would come forth from his hand and obliterate the monstrous edifice, "they don't think, they don't pray, they wouldn't look twice at a man dying on the street!"
"Yet, they are happy. Every single one of them lives his life in perfect bliss."
"They're soulless!"
"They want for nothing. They never go hungry. They know nothing of war. They don't fear death or Hell. You are so arrogant: you look at my Utopia, and all that I have given, and you spurn it, you say you could do better. I have given you food, shelter, water, and warmth. I have given you a time of sunrise and a time of sunset. All I've given, and you reject it! You want to go onto the surface, where the sun shall sear the flesh from your bones, where you will starve, where men turn weapons upon each other! Where wild beasts will rend you limb from limb, where horrible sickness will strike you with weeping sores and slay you in agony! For what!? I gave you everything you desired! I gave you the world!"
"Anything is better than this!"
"You would do no better! Nothing could! You came here by my will, you were given your every heart's desire by me, and you, ungrateful child, insect, stupid nothing that you are, spit in my face! I cannot describe, in words, how much I hate you! Useless, worthless thing! You do no labor, you give nothing to me, you do nothing but hide behind childish tales of living forever and waste my precious resources! You will submit, Gero, or you will die!"
"Send me to the kingdom of Heaven eternal, monster. I'm not afraid."
"I can show you your precious 'surface' and what terror life without me is. Perhaps then, you'll discard your comforting lies."
A steel door opened next to Gero, and the gigantic Tyrant loomed over him.
"Walk through there, and behold: the surface is no better than here."
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Post by Dunwik on Jun 26, 2023 23:56:15 GMT
Lengan Pronatalism And Child Protection
From: 1915 on in both Old Faith and Christian Leng
Specific Event - May 1920, WTC
The Lengan people had found themselves in a precarious situation after their exodus from their former homeland. Fractious and having been reduced, locally, to less than a tenth of their original population, the majority of it women, children, the lame, and the elderly, it was readily apparent to all local leaders that their demography was almost as dire as their socioeconomic status, and required immediate correction. The Lengan social conservatism and preserved authority of the Council of 13 did wonders for the Old Faith, but the Christian Lengans, while still holding a Council, increasingly grappled with sectarianism and doctrinal divisions as compared to the unified front of the Old Faith.
Still, in every case similar protocols were enacted, almost on the instinctual level. The Lengans pooled their resources and concentrated. Everything that could go into the development of large families did so. The elderly and infertile donated to ad-hoc organizations that rapidly coalesced into emergent arms of their faith - or in the Old Faith, used the channels of extant priests and their resources to achieve this.
In the Old Faith lands, the Council decreed polygamy would be allowed in this time of great crisis, but in the Tholish lands, the fractious Council of 13 still forbade this measure, declaring that the word of God was not to be violated, not even in a crisis. The Lengan women, therefore, had to seek Tholish husbands.
Another point of convergent doctrine was the emphasis, regardless of denomination, on ensuring the children would be Lengan, sequestering them to a degree from the outside world. In the lands of West-Thosel Cransconia, however, things would take a somewhat different turn...
---
Noakian groaned, in spiritual agony far more than physical agony, and stretched his legs beneath the circular table. He rolled his shoulders and neck with a resounding crack and stared with dull, hollow eyes at the next thing on the docket. How much heresy could a few million people make?! Gnosticism, praise to Judas, claiming that the Blind Prophet was not Christ but Moses, claiming that Oshutukuan had been the reincarnation of Peter, or any of the apostles, or all of the apostles... admittedly some of those claims had some kind of merit... but still. His throat burned, his hands trembled, and he struggled to hold his pen. The other Councilors were in no better shape. There were whispers that some were forming their own Councils, or declaring Jesus the only legal authority, or all manner of madness. So, he sat in the chambers for almost a hundred hours a week, doing nothing but passing judgment, trying to codify and clarify the new faith, and taking breaks only to pray, defecate, and sleep. An army of clerks moved in and out of the room at all times, carrying more correspondence, clearing away old plates and bringing in new food twice a day. Still, what he wouldn't give to cook his own meal and think of nothing for an hour. Would Heaven above be an empty shack where he could sleep? That, perhaps, would be more pleasing than all the treasures in the world.
He stared at the massive sheaf of documents in front of him and picked up another. After a brief skim through the itinerary, he pulled out his notes on the matter as the next subject was thrown in. A man named Gero the Follower, who was a thin and gangly man with a wild beard and manic eyes, dressed in filthy rags. He was a writer by trade, a playwright, a man who filled in some church duties on the side despite lacking any formal theological training. There was no aberrance noted in his sermons... rather, it was one of his works that caught the eye of the censors. Somehow, inexplicably, this little argument had been dragged all the way up to the council. Noakian shifted in his seat and stared right through this man. Surely, a priest of ordinary caliber could've handled this issue...
He stared back at his notes.
"'Gero the Follower.' You have been brought before us on the grounds of potential blasphemy in your latest work..." Noakian looked again at the notes. 'The Adventures of You: A Book Of Faith And Friendship...'"
Noakian felt a part of his soul recoil. He looked at his notes again, having forgotten reading this tiny tome. It was a children's book. Someone had been hauled before the highest moral and spiritual authority in the land over the sake of a frivolity made to teach children how to read. He must've said that aloud, for another Councilor, Miterakaia, glared at him, brushing her pale hair out away from her sunken, baggy eyes.
"If we lose the children, our faith is dead in a decade," she said, in a way that made Noakian realize instantly why this book had made it all the way to this council.
Noakian looked around. It was almost midnight and most of the other Councilors were nearly dead in their seats, and he cleared his throat again, "what, precisely, about this tome is so contentious?" He asked, opening the copy and flicking through it. He checked his notes. Page 64 was the contentious one. He skimmed the page.
[DO YOU TAKE THE KING IN WHITE'S OFFER?]
[IF YES, TURN TO PAGE 77.]
[IF NO, TURN TO PAGE 85.]
Ah. Of course. That raised the question, though - if this book allowed blasphemy of this nature, then surely a lesser priest could have cast judgement upon Gero? Speaking of, the man was looking at him.
"E-Esteemed one, if you would allow me to explain..." he clasped his hands together and sunk to his knees, "I'm aware of the controversies around-"
"Encouraging children to join the King In White!?" Miterakaia screamed. Noakian recoiled, "why shouldn't we shoot you here and now!?"
Perhaps that would be for the best, Noakian thought. Spare him this exhausting show. A smaller part of him shouted back that every case still needed due diligence, and he raised a hand. "Let him speak in his own defense."
"Th-thank you," Gero said, "esteemed Council, it has always been my intent, through my writing, to show morality. And a fundamental part of this is... showing immoral choices." Gero looked up and around at the Councilors, met with stony-faced, exhausted priests, and Miterakaia's twitching, furious glare. Gero turned away from her, "a-and so, I had an idea. What I often see is... well, children speaking of the sermons and of the plays, and they say - 'if I were so-and-so, I would have done this instead.' And so, I had an... an idea. What if I let them choose? They can see the consequences of their own choices, not just the poor choices of others."
Noakian slumped back in his chair, "I pray that all such deals with the King in White end poorly."
"O-of course! But it made me think, what about this media? Media with a form of... viewer response, as it were. One could imagine in the future a cadre of priests or storytellers dispatched by radio to tell stories like these or come up with versions on the fly, and entertaining all manner of ideas. I was just taking the first steps-"
Noakian tapped his finger against the table, "right. This is a new field of media and consequently we must engage in a council to decide proper legislation in this regard. I forward the motion that any immoral behavior must have negative consequences in the media portrayed. Regardless if it is immediate or delayed, bad actions must result in bad results. It's merely an extension of our previous statutes on media."
There was a brief pause, and once, mercifully, the Council dismissed the motion swiftly. Gero was a free man, and Noakian, unthinking, muttered a section of the Lord's prayer and stared up at the ceiling. Only a hundred more cases to go before bedtime...
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Post by Dunwik on Jul 16, 2023 15:16:04 GMT
LENG, December, 1916
It was the end of Leng. In the starvation and plagues, hundreds of men dropped dead in a day, bodies often piling up in the shantytown streets. The Lengans grimly continued their tasks. The Pagans would eat the corpses, the Christians merely would throw them into huge pits or burn them when they could. Dunwikki snipers and assassins frequently targeted priests and had garnered remarkable perceptiveness for finding a man in sermon, even if his robes were hidden. So many heroes, like Tilitaryian, were dead, and horrific plagues swept through the starving, devastated masses. Dunwikki aircraft poured napalm by the ton down onto the cities, driving men into tiny spaces where illnesses festered. Some claimed that the Dunwikki bombing raids late at night carried the pestilence.
The capital of Edasu-Urvalbaara, which had stood for millennia, was obliterated in such a horrific orgy of blood and violence that those few survivors who fled to the east swore that, in the white smoke and green gas, demons cavorted with the Dunwikki, marching alongside the flamethrower tanks and motorcycle men. Stories of the Dunwikki ramming down gates with their tanks abounded, and the brutal battle for the dam was blown to monstrous proportions, with stories of Arthur unleashing sea monsters to devour the defenders and defuse the charges. For two weeks, the Dunwikki remained in the flooded, poisoned, charred morass and systematically destroyed everything, before they razed the entire site with high explosives, blew the dams, and watched the ancient city sink beneath a huge tidal wave.
In the land known as Tholeport, the great general Stratherokian had perished. His massive defensive works and total perfection of trench warfare had kept the Dunwikki hordes in the East at bay, and had built the greatest walls ever seen. Now, with him carried away with the plagues and his age, things seemed hopeless. Every day, the Dunwikki seized more cities, slaughtered any survivors, and marched ever faster. After so many years of nonstop war, Christian Lengan morale had failed. The New Promised Land movement, so praised in the early days, had exploded. No things seemed hopeless with him carried away with the plagues and his ageman of Christ wanted to stay in the blasted wastes and see his emaciated, bloodthirsty pagan brothers - let alone cross blades with him. Pagan attempts to slaughter the Tholish and seize the battleship Redeemer - the lynchpin of the evacuation effort - had narrowly failed.
And somewhere, in this morass of chaos and death, someone, whose name was gone, who was totally forgotten in the movement and deaths of millions, ate hallucinogenic fungus in the jungles, killing Raikhmen, Dunwikki, and Moderali with an old rifle, an obsidian dagger, and their bare hands. Someone, unknown, unknowable, starved to madness, witnessing the death of all things, out of their mind from sickness and grief, abandoned their past life and took upon a simple black mask and cloak. And this person, maimed and battered, limped to Tholeport, boarded a ship, and made their way to the lands of West-Thosel Cransconia.
APRIL 1921 - WTC
For four years, four months, and four days, this person, The Nobody, would be isolated, insane, itinerant, and making a living by any means possible. But gradually, they built a following, preaching a radical new creed. A revanchist, furious form of crusader ideology wrapped in a new and mind-bending theology, combining and syncretizing Lengan Old Faith and Christian doctrines with a new and unusual third flair: the utter rejection of the material world. Each new follower would don the mask and robe, and too become The Nobody. Possibly Gnostic, possibly taken from other, even more foreign faiths, this new and potent ideology split the remaining Lengans in half. The religion did best among the poor. For the Lengans in WTC, they lived modest lives, grateful to have survived, and so only the lowest of their number - the women without husbands or families left predominantly, took it up. Among the Lussian Lengans, with the still surviving and potent Council of 13 and all their laws intact, the rapidly rebuilding Lengan peoples had found prosperity and even power, and so could reject the new faith, aided by the swift arrest and neutralization of Nobodies as heretics. But in Moderal, the dispossessed and abandoned Lengans, seeking unity with their Lussian brothers, seized the faith with open arms, adopting the dark hoods and syncretizing this with the now widely-distributed manifesto Industrial Society & Its Future by Theokian, alongside the follow-up essays The Ablation Of The Soul and Palakaia's The Vile Faiths. This violent, primitivist, revanchist, hyper-nationalist group swelled rapidly, and the Lengan people began quietly preparing. On one of Theokian's visits to consecrate a site, a Lengan handed over a dense pile of notes, which contained a secret message.
In WTC, the Council furiously attempted to control this new faith, but were wholly unsuccessful. The Nobody, or A Nobody, was a master theologian who effortlessly bested scores of the new Church in theological debates, easily evaded assassination, and if purported to be killed, emerged again. Without a means to identify any Nobody, they were almost wholly veiled against attacks to them, and if one fell, another could seamlessly take their place. While only one Nobody was ever publicly in one place at one time, the death of a Nobody would always come with their immediate replacement, leading to rumors that the Nobody was a single, superhuman being, and the cult began to spread rapidly even in the lands of WTC among the Lengans.
---
By 1927, the Nobody Cult had been silently and gruesomely purged from WTC. It never connected with the Tholes and most teachers disappeared in the night. Perhaps in decades hence, errant hikers may trip over teeth and shattered bones in the mountains.
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