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[Coldforged]Tales, legends, myths and historical recounts
« on: August 07, 2005, 04:48:39 AM »
In this thread tales from the Coldforged setting will be told. The purpose is threefold:

1. To give examples of Coldforged elements, such as is the case with the first entry where spirits and gods are pictured in a winter time story.

2. To create tales that can be used in game.

3. To describe how different peoples and cultures view the world they live in

Index
The Tale of Shastalar and Tear (reposted from the Myths thread)
The Tale of St. Arnausth, Protector of Beggars
Children's Rhyme from Ûr-Kanesh (reposted from the Myths thread)
The Bridge of Fates (reposted from the Myths thread)
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[Coldforged]Tales, legends, myths and historical recounts
« Reply #1 on: August 07, 2005, 04:48:55 AM »
This tale has been posted in the "Myths and Rumours of the Land" section, and has been reposted here for the sake keeping Coldforged elements together

This tale references Spirits and Gods

Cast/Mentioned beings:
Shastalar: The god of the Weather and the Oceans
Fhalgharod: The Sun God
Aahr: The Supreme God, The Lord of Time, Death and Judgement
Tear: The Spririt of Nature
Lumaratha: The Goddess of Wild Nature, Faeries. Sylvan creatures and Elves


The Tale of Tear and Shastalar
In the lands of the Ardamians there is a tale. A tale of the weather god, Shastalar, and of Tear, the spirit of nature. This tale is often told when the weather grows bad and the children huddles in front of the fireplace.

When the world was yet young and the gods marvelled at their creation, a particular beauty caught the eye of Shastalar, the Stormfather, younger brother of Aahr and Fhalgharod. Amidst the running rivers and the blowing winds, above the forest leaves and the flowers of the plains, there was a dancing spirit. Her hair tossed as the wind blew and the water rushed. How gentle her nature, how fragile her soul.

"Tear is her name" Aahr said, "she is the creation of Lumaratha, our little sister". But Shastalar heard naught as he was consumed by desire, and thus the aeons passed and the gods grew weary of creation. Yet even as the other gods found new venues of creativity, Shastalar looked back at what had already been done, and his eyes sought Tear, the most lovely being in creation. With a haste born of rapacious desire, the god descended from the starry heavens.

To a glade full of blossoms both red and white, in a forest filled with nature’s delight. His arrival was heralded by torrential rain, his coming an epiphany of inner pain.

“Who are you?” asked Tear, wonder in her eyes.

“I am the one you love!” Shastalar barked imperiously, his voice the clapping of thunder.

“Yet I do not know you, do not know your name. And as for love, my heart speak of no such thing!” Tear stared at the stranger, wondered at the reek of ozone and the fierceness of the wind, the downpour of rain. It was if as the ocean itself had been trapped in the heavens and was only now making it‘s escape.

“But you will love me, don’t you see? There is nothing else, for you and me”  Shastalar was broken, his head hung low, he ascended the skies, Tear in tow. And they arrived at the heart of Makura, the heavenly cloud, Tear was chained in the heavens above. You can hear her wail when the wind blows by, and when the rain is soft you can hear her cry.

So it came to be that Tear, most loveable and free willed of all, was chained in the heart of the heavenly skies. And as summer arrives, she stands fair and tall, yet when autumn comes her heart grows cold. Winter brings Shastalar, full of ire, the god wants her love, but succumbs to desire. Her chains rattle, winter winds bring her howl, fear is her child in the winter so cold. Eventually the darkness of winter is done, spring brings endurance and the pain will be gone.

At this point in the telling, an elder woman will sing the song of the four seasons. And this concludes the Ardamian tale of Tear.

Edit: Grammar
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[Coldforged]Tales, legends, myths and historical recounts
« Reply #2 on: August 07, 2005, 04:53:04 AM »
This tale has been posted in the "Myths and Rumours of the Land" section, and has been reposted here for the sake keeping Coldforged elements together

This tale references the witches coven known as The Shievren and the City of Ûr-Kanesh (within the Conquered Lands of the Empire), as well as Saints

Ur-Kanesh. Rhyme of the Shievren

This is a popular children’s rhyme in the city of Ur-Kanesh. It is chanted while the children run down the street on St. Arakis eve. The children are dressed in black shirts on this night, a tradition that runs back to the pre-imperial days. The children are “the heralds of death” come to fetch an old crone of the Shievren, a witches coven that has been rumoured to exist in the nearby forest, the Nebelwald, for several centuries.

Shiver withered Shievren Crone,
Skin of parchment, heart of stone.
Cackle miracle freckled skin,
Will you let us children in?

Now the forest old and cold,
Told you stories of the mold.
Will it claim you or let you rest,
Let this be the final test!

At this point the children will surround an adult, which has to give the children a coin to let them pass. Otherwise they “collect his soul” (They throw rotten fruit on him and run away).

Not all strangers to town cherish the moment when these strange kids dressed in black, surround them and yell demands in a language they cannot comprehend. The experience is not improved when the children bombard them with rotten fruit and run away...

Note: St. Arakis was a valiant knight from Ur-Kanesh, who ventured into the Nebelwald and supposedly put an end to the Shievren.

(This was inspired by Halloween)
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[Coldforged]Tales, legends, myths and historical recounts
« Reply #3 on: August 07, 2005, 04:53:23 AM »
This tale has been posted in the "Myths and Rumours of the Land" section, and has been reposted here for the sake keeping Coldforged elements together

This tale references the Grand Island of Valkarhoth

The Bridge of Fates
During the reign of Khahan Deghul there was a lovely princess, Khao-Mei was her name and she was like a rose among daisies, beautiful yet full of thorns. Vain and proud she was, full of herself and contemptuous of others. Still men fell for her heavenly good looks, her perfect shaped lips and her hauntingly beautiful brown eyes. They fell in love and when stumped, they  fell in ruin.

One such suitor was Prince Lehio the Brave, the hero of the Kalthurian war, the slayer of Grund, Lord of Dhalia. He was a popular man bringing cheers and laughter of joy wherever he went. The peasants named their eldest sons after him, the nobility sent their daughters to ask for his hand, and the Khahan himself valued him above all of his Generals.  

Then one day, as the Khahan threw a party to celebrate the conquest of Bloodmoor, Prince Lehio met Princess Khao-Mei and Lehio stopped dead in his tracks, forgot about his followers, a flock of hopeful girls. But Khao-Mei was used to such attention and she discarded it, for she knew not who he was. Later during the feast as the Khahan led his generals and their chosen escorts to the dance floor, Lehio approached the vain Princess, asked for her hand in the dance. “It is Lehio milady, the Slayer of Grund, the hero of the Kalthurian war. Some say he is the Khahan’s favourite and the rumours tell that he was decisive in the Bloodmoor campaign” the words were whispered by one of the Princess’s chambermaids. Her manner suddenly changing, the Princess opened her petals, turned on her charms and the Prince was smitten, struck to his knees by lust and desire, love and foolishness.

For his new won love, the Prince ordered a bridge built from his home isle of Caoju to the mainland city of Dhalia. And as the flowers blossomed in May, they were married in the cathedral; the Khahan even graced the bride with a private word and a blessing before the wedding. Nothing was good enough for his favourite general the people whispered, and he had must have ordered her to be an obedient and good wife. Afterwards the bride and groom walked home from Dhalia. Crossing the bridge they stopped, kissed deep and all the while the people cheered. Their hero had gotten his fairy tale princess. His head swam, tears fell and the people rejoiced.

But there came a time when the Khahan once again went to war and the first to be summoned was Lehio, chosen of the Khahan, hero of the people. So Lehio fought. He fought for his Khahan, he fought for his people, and he fought for his bride. Through the swamps of Kandarra he waded, drenched in the blood of enemies, wounded a dozen times. Through the highlands of Keldon he marched, his men tired beyond humanly possible but still carrying on, inspired by their relentless lord, willing to die if such was his demand. At last Lehio won the war. In the enemy capital of Mothanderon he accepted the former king’s oath of fealty and he returned home, happy, for his bride was waiting.

At the gates of Dhalia the gatemen cried, their heads lowered as he rode into town. Within the city the streets were emptied and only a child yelled “My Prince, My Prince! Do not come!” As he crossed the bridge, the colourful pendants were gone and the fishermen in the ocean took of their hats, lowered their heads. Deeply worried the Prince rode on. Never had he had such a strange welcome. There were no flowers, no shouting maidens, no admiring boys, and no proud and smiling old men. There was only eerie silence.

Entering his compound the Prince looked about. There stood the Princess, silent and cold. She looked as lovely as ever but something had changed. He ran to her, but she rejected him with a cold shoulder, not even offering him as much as a glance or a smile. Confused the Prince went to his bedroom, but unknown soldiers blocked his way. “You may not enter while the Khahan sleeps” the soldiers said. But the Princess could and so she did.

Confused, Lehio meditated in the shrine, prayed to his gods, to his forefathers that what his mind told him was untrue. And there came an answer, as if in a mocking reply, the wind brought moans of pleasure, moans he knew all too well. And Lehio cried.

As the days went on, the Khahan and the Princess flirted openly, walked past the shivering figure of Lehio, even ordered him to fetch them dinner, fruit and wine. Nights brought moaning, the perverted screams of the black bride. At the seventh day Lehio broke.
 
He went to the river, cold and torn.
He walked the bridge, his soul forlorn.
He pulled his dagger, cried for his whore.
He slit his throat, and was no more.

At this time an old man, one who told the Prince wondrous tales during his childhood, walked upon the bridge and witnessed the prince commit suicide, saw him fall into the water. “This is the Bridge of Fates. I foresee great sorrow and happiness. This bridge shall never remain neutral, shall know tears of joy and the blood of innocents”.

And thus it came to be.

Many years later it was known as the hero’s end, until the sacking of Dhalia when a fleeing flock of school children was cut down by charging cavalry on the bridge. Then some years later a jealous husband drowned his wife, beating her head violently against the stonework and the bridge was thought of as an ominous place, haunted by restless spirits who floated beneath the surface of the water, staring with dead eyes at those who walked upon their grave.

Nowadays the Bridge of Fates is the property of the Dancers of Jhalion. During sunrise they dance in ecstatic circles, praising their lord. During sunset they hold hands and chant, praising the glory of his creation. By their will is the history of the bridge told, generation after generation. By their will was this tale brought to you.
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