Life in Zalanthas

[Revelations]

To be able to get a general idea of how life is in Zalanthas, (be it in Tuluk, Allanak, in the desert, or other place) I thought maybe people could write some experiences that your character has encountered, or might have encountered, or could encounter. I'm hoping this thread could serve as a mini player submissions page, to help liven up the world of Zalanthas. Of course, no IG sensitive info please, and it doesn't have to be anything elaborate, just enough to get a feel of the character.

Here's one example, and one I wrote for a half-elf who has gone out into the desert to die.

The End
   What is my purpose in this life? My human mother is dead and my father lost to the vast mysteries of the unknown wastes of time, tossing away his responsibilities like an annoying thorn in his foot. I have managed as best as I could, struggling simply to survive another day. The burdens that have been laid upon my shoulders are beginning to tax my strength and endurance, sapping the very essence which keeps me going - hope.
   Step by step, day by day, I wade through the storms of my disheartening thoughts, the foundations of my mind crumbling around me. All visions of a better future diminish slowly into the vast darkness of my limited sight, a looming curtain shutting out any possibilities of the only means of my salvation - care.
   The footsteps of a hundred others follow my wake, their moans and protests lost to the faint whispers of the wind. The hate and mistrust of their beings are felt upon my back as a stinging whip, the covers of my heart tearing sorely. My feet falter upon the path I have begun since my birth, and the peaceful calm of rest draws nigh - death.
   A final glimmer of light flutters before my mind's eye, what could be a speck of diamond in a vast desert. From the echos of my dreams, a vision of the lost Steinal envelope my thoughts. My steps grow firm as I tread through the barren waste, my parched lips straightening into a final resolve. Until my last breathe, my body will move. To arrive at my last goal, I will never falter...until the sustaining waters of my existence run dry. Slender hands reach forward to catch the last precious drop of my wealth - purpose.

[Marauder Moe]

Well written, but in my opinion, all Zalanthans are supposed to have an intense aversion to suicide.  Death isn't a release from suffering.  There's no heaven, no reincarnation, you just die and rot.  There is rarely, if ever, any glory in death.  Rarely, if ever, any reason for honorable self-sacrifice.  Despite any pain or sorrow, it is every living being's most primal purpose to continue to live.  To put it simply, there aren'y any good reasons to die in Zalanthas.

I really like this mini-story idea, though.  I think I'll be back later with my own addition to this thread.

[Revelations]

Well written, but in my opinion, all Zalanthans are supposed to have an intense aversion to suicide.  Death isn't a release from suffering.  There's no heaven, no reincarnation, you just die and rot.  There is rarely, if ever, any glory in death.  Rarely, if ever, any reason for honorable self-sacrifice.  Despite any pain or sorrow, it is every living being's most primal purpose to continue to live.  To put it simply, there aren'y any good reasons to die in Zalanthas.

I really like this mini-story idea, though.  I think I'll be back later with my own addition to this thread.

Thanks. I agree to the aversion about suicide, which is the reason why the half-elf in the story decides to go find the lost city-state of Steinal before he dies.

The stories don't need to have a big story behind it. It could be about a simple sitting at the bar, and the senses and smells that could accompany such a place. I just wanted to bring out more of Zalanthan life through these little tellings. Folklore and stories within the story are welcome.

[WarriorPoet]

The elves had been stirring, so I took to roaming the alleys late at night. These alleys were -my- alleys. My home, and I would be damned if I would let some drymouthed shit-eating longnecks shatter the 'peace' of the alley nights.

So, I prowled through the rubble and over the rooftops, my eyes always alert for that flash of a cloak around the corner, me ears always alert for that whisper of sandcloth on stone or a footpad scraping. Soon enough, my searching was rewarded by an anguished cry from ahead, around a corner which I knew led to a dead-end.

Licking my lips, I hitched up my ragged old pants and padded forward, pulling my longknife from my belt and peering around the rough stone of the old, leaning building. I saw one form hunched over another, the latter slumped in what I already knew was death.

Angry now, I stepped from around the corner into plain sight. When I did, my prey's head snapped up, and, inside the shadow of the hood, I saw the light of the red moon reflected in widely-set, slightly slanted eyes.

"Go off, roundearsss... Nothing for you here but fear and doom, eventually." The voice was soft and feminine, but unmistakeably elven. The form straightened and moved from the corpse, and my guts flip-flopped inside me. Splayed out in a gruesome scene, was a small human child, it's throat torn out and it's body hacked and mutilated.

My anger flared and I raised the knife, but the elf woman only smirked and took another step toward me,"Leave it, human. I'll allow you to go, so long as you go -now..." As she came ever closer, I saw the head tilt to one side, waiting.

But I knew I couldn't leave. The alleys were a dangerous, wretched place, but they were my -home-. With a wordless cry, I lunged, knife outstretched in one hand...

...but I got no further than the point where I started, for a viselike grip snatched my cloak and spun me about. The front of my shirt was siezed, and I was brought up close to look into the face of a brutish human. His breath smelled of spice and his eyes held a glazed look. I tried to bring my blade into play, but the rough hands of my accoster wrenched it away, and I was held helpless.

The elven wench shook her head and tsk-tsk'd at me as she came closer, producing a slim-bladed glass dagger. Her voice was amused as she trailed the tip along the hollow of my throat,"You see Murg, here? He doesn't like people who interfere, nor does he like those who would cause me harm, do you Murg?"

The brute answered with a grunt, but I knew he was no real threat. The wench, she was the one. I thought to beg and plead for my life, but before I could she had siezed me by the hair and tilted my head back,"Poor, foolish man. You could have lived long, sired sons, and died old in a bed.... Or, you might have starved to death, mmm? Either way, you will never know now, because I despise interference in my work..."

And with that she slid the slender blade into my neck. There was no pain, at first. She merely slipped the blade in and smiled casually as she leaned closer. I, inanely, noticed that there was a slight crust around her nostrils, but that thought vanished as she attempted to wrench the blade free of my flesh. Instead of sliding back out, the glass splintered and the hilt came away in her hand, leaving the slivers of the blade still embedded in my neck.

I had begun to choke on my own blood when Murg dropped me to the filthy ground of the alleyway and looked to his mistress for direction. They began to walk away, and my rapidly dimming sight watched them go. The wench turned once, to look back at me, but there was no interest in her features, only irritation.

"He broke my dagger, Murg... Damn him." The reply was only a grunt, and as the two figures disappeared around the corner where I'd hidden moments before, I saw no more.

[Delirium]

I wrote this some time ago, a snapshot of life out in the tribal camps.


"Raiders!" The shouted alarm was shortly followed by the running form of Nyanki, warrior-woman. In a rustle and flash of red sandcloth, the woman was gone, her answering yell echoing somewhere among the tents.

Scrambling, bare feet slapping against the rocky ground, a scrawny half-breed girl bolted for the cover of her hiding spot.  She'd found it last year, a large boulder with a hollow at the base, with an opening just wide enough for her to squeeze through.  It had saved her from pain many times before, from outsiders and from the tribe itself.

Curled in the hollow, she watched and listened.  Gutteral shouts and screams of pain mingled with the sounds of battle.  Clawfeet again, she reasoned. Motes of dust swirled upward, disturbed by her harsh breathing, and caught the sunlight that filtered through the opening of her hiding spot. The girl quickly covered her mouth with a scrap of cloth, and realized that her hand was trembling.

A foot thumped down before her face, and she started, drawing back as far as possible.  The foot had claws for toes, and scaled brown skin.  Bone trinkets hung off a loop of sinew, decorating the ankle.  There was a barking laugh above her, and the sound of claws scrabbling on rock.  The boulder shuddered slightly with impact.  She clutched the sharp piece of flint she used as a dagger, biting down on her tongue to remain silent.

A sudden gutteral howl of rage was cut off short, and blood began dripping down from the opening of her rocky hideaway.  The girl, immobile with fear, still recognized the moccasin-clad feet that pattered past. Her mother's.

Nyanki had not saved her out of compassion. It was revenge that backed the woman's spear, and the little girl knew this with matter-of-fact acceptance.  Ever since Nyanki had lost her life-mate to battle, she had been implacable, with a blood-rage even the Great Warrior would have been proud of.  Still, the girl was grateful.  She would live another day.

The seven-year old girl stayed in her hiding spot until well past nightfall.  Eventually, thirst drove her out. Straightening and stretching cramped limbs, she stepped in a pool of dark blood, but merely glanced down, then up, noting the stiffened body of the gith, its limbs sprawled in gruesome array over the boulder.

She'd never seen one so close.  The dead gith drew her curiosity for some time, until she abruptly remembered her thirst.  There was water-vine nearby, but she would have to watch out for the snakes that liked to make their home there, slithering among the thorny coils.  Wiping her foot and clutching her piece of flint, she began slinking off through the darkness of Zalanthan night.

[mattrious]

This is a tale of Feliajh, a hunter of justice.

Feliajh stood on the edge of the great Shield Wall – his hooded cloak, flapping fiercely in the harsh winds blowing strong out of the northeast. He stood motionless, his eyes slowly following the two specks right beneath him in the barrens, clueless to his presence. He had been chasing the pair, for days. Waiting patiently for them to falter, biding his time and waiting for the perfect time to strike. As he silently waited, he could not help but recall how he arrived in this place.

Gojo, an independant merchant had contacted him wishing a meeting in a small tavern, located in 'Nak. Feliajh not having any current contracts, was obliged to meet the man, and hear his tale.

Feliajh strode confidently into the tavern, and found the merchant. The men sat together, had a drink and then Gojo began his story. He explained how himself and his family - a wife and two children, were travelling down the North Road in his wagon. He had just finished taking a large order of provisions from 'Nak, up to Luirs and was in the process of returning home. They had just finished turning around a large bend, when his sight fell onto two men, standing in the middle of the road - blocking his path.

Gojo explained how he knew he should of hired atleast a pair of mercenaries or guards to protect his precious cargo - his family. But, he was greedy and wanted to provide them somewhat of a feast when they returned home, so he did not spend any of the 'sid he earned for the previous contract. He explained how the raiders viciously and easily killed his mounts, and then tore through the wagon looking for anything of value. When they found that there was nothing of worth onboard, they set on him and his family. The larger of the two bandits, grabbed his wifes hair with ferocious anger dragging her out of the wagon. The other of the two, stood over Gojo with weapon drawn - forcing him to watch and listen as she pled for her life. He explained in great detail how they each took their turns with her, making sure that he saw everything. When they were finally finished, one of the bandits pulled out his blade, and sliced her throat without even thinking twice.

He stated that he had no idea if his children are alive or not. The last thing he remembers, is that the two men bound their hands and legs with leather cords. Placing hoods over each of their heads, and hauling them on their mounts riding off into the sands. He believed that the raiders probably sold them as slaves.

Feliajh stood easily from his seat, and simply said that he would see the pair dead, and would return their heads to Gojo. Striding out of the tavern, with a fierce intensity, he turned and simply stated - "There will be no charge for this service."

Feliajh focusing his attention back to the pair of men, sighed softly as he returned from his daydream. Squinting his eyes, he carefully planned his next move. Slowly and easily climbing down the face of the great wall, he was careful of each foothold, and hand grab. After an hour or so of the slow climb, he finally struck ground. Crouching low to the ground, he began to crawl to where the pair of bandits had made camp for the coming evening. When he finally arrived to the camp, the pair of men were sound asleep. He continued to wait, planning how he was going to teach the bandits a true and very harsh lesson. When he had everything planned, to the last detail - he rose, and drew a pair of axes, the dull moonlight gleaming off their obsidian heads. Feliajh moved to stand at the entrance of the bandits tent, and slowly pulled back the carru skin flap...

This is part 1 of 2.


- Matt.

[FiveDisgruntledMonkeysWit]

http://www.armageddon.org/original/showSubmission.php?submission=101

[Reiloth]

Ahh..Eye Territory.

Thats fuggin' awesome disgruntled monkies.