| Immaculate |
February 12th, 2012 12:02 PM |
Re: Happy New Year, New Game, New Players (noob EA game: Running))
I’m involved in a fantasy-based Never Ending Story (NES) on another forum and decided to base my faction on the Helheim I am playing in this game. I’ve written a few stories about them and since they basically describe the Helheim as I’ve adapted them to this particular game, I thought I would share with you.
So, warning, this has nothing to do with the game we are playing here except that it shares an RP element and that its based on the nation I am playing here.
Also note that if you are interested in other fantasy-short stories, the entire NES can be found here.
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I stole a lot of this from Dominions Three and Norse Mythology (also LDi's interpretation for an aborted NES)
Race: Vanir:
The Vanir are a race not too unlike men or elves, though taller and broader in stature. They are related to the elves in that they, like them, have fey blood and possess long lifespans (though theirs is not as long as the elves). They are resistant to cold and sensitive to heat, making their homes amongst the cold northern winds and disdaining the southern temperate climes. They are naturally adept in illusion and instinctually cloak themselves in glamour such that other races might look upon an army of vanir and see only a field shimmering and glinting with obfuscated and confusing shadows of soldiers. They are also natural sailors, having a natural affinity for ships, sailing and navigation, and horsemen, making use of a unique breed of fey horses only they are known to ride. Most Vanir villages are along coasts and feed themselves through fishing and hunting making only limited use of agriculture (though slaves of other nations do provide agriculture for them)
The Vanir are a proud race, their competence as warriors and warrior-sorcerers as well as their innate sense of entitlement means they often look upon other races, with the exception of the elves or other fey races, as lesser beings and they actively raid and conquer the lands of men, dwarves and others for slaves better suited to the role of miner or farmer. They only rarely trade with non-fey races and tend towards isolationism.
While the Vanir tend to have an absolute sense of loyalty to a central monarch, the monarchy’s influence in day to day life tends to be limited as the Vanir value their independence and freedom. A Vanir village chieftain may lead a ship or three of raiders to a human settlement without informing the monarchy but is ultimately responsible for any implications incurred. Despite this, the monarchy is the absolute authority in matters of war or major central projects and his or often her word is absolute law.
While illusion is a natural and innate skill of the Vanir, their magicians tend to focus on the paths of wind and death, and magic is understood to come from Helheim, where the fey pass through the gate stone to reach the other side. It is said that the greatest of Vanir sorcerers in ages past would hang themselves from an ash tree so that they might ride to Helheim and return masters of the arts of magic. Other Vanir mages focus on the path of air, learning to summon spirits of the winds to power their sails, serve in battle or as messengers as well as to conjure lightning and chill northern winds.
In war the Vanir call upon their natural glamour to travel unseen and to make battle with them difficult. Even in a desperate melee, the enemy may perceive only shimmering blades and confusing shadows and their raiders tend to travel unseen far and wide upon their magical fey horses. The Vanir have a love for cavalry but disdain archery, preferring to make use of javelins, spears and swords. Their steelwork is fine and their blades heavy but they tend to use lighter chainmail than investing in the heavy plate used by many other races. Their magicians are often warrior-magicians, also riding upon their magical fey horses and wielding primarily illusion and through their involvement with Helheim, necromancy.
The Vanir worship a goddess they say has passed on to Helheim and who now communicates with the Vanir through spirits, often taking the form of a raven. As such they hold ravens as sacred creatures and many will leave morsels for them or attempt to domesticate them. Most Vanir longhouses are home to a least one semi-domesticated raven. Their priests are always women and practice blood sacrifice, usually upon human or other mortal slaves captured in raids. These priestesses are called ‘Desir’ or ‘Dis’ and many are said to speak with the dead. Desir warrior sorceresses are said to have been able, in times past, to fly and command storms but the majority serve more as witches and diviners in modern times.
The Vanir are led by a king who is served by nobility from which the stocks of elite cavalry and cavalry sorcerers are drawn. Individual villages are led by a village headmen, who is often a competent war chieftain, sailor, and often commands air magic. They also maintain their own minor nobility as well. These are called Jarls. Below the jarls are the nobles and below these are the freemen. There is little social mobility amongst the Vanir, their adherence to tradition and long lifespans ensuring that most will serve the race as their parents did. Vanir freemen are often sailors or fishermen, as well as skilled hunters and craftsmen, especially competent in silver and iron smithy. Below them are the serfs who serve the nobles and below them are the slaves, often of other races who work the fields, quarries and mines.
Vanir:
Combat: 30% (skill and ferocity, a strong cavalry led by the nobility, disdains archery)
Magecraft: 20% (focuses on illusion, air and death)
Charisma: 5% (proud and isolationist, they often see other races as potential slaves rather than potential trading partners)
Stealth: 45% (innately skilled in glamour, even Vanir children can hide themselves from the eyes of man without willing it- elders can extend their glamour to entire ships or divisions of slave militia)
Civilization: Helvan
Civilization Name: Helvan
Dominant Race: Vanir
Government: Monarchy
Leader Name: King Hermóðr
Leader Trait: Fertile
Leader Backrgound: The King rules by tradition and ancient law, adhering to the advice of the Desir witches.
Starting Location: Northern edge of the western coast of the north-western continent. Near fishbanks and iron and silver mines. Amongst the cold moor, silent mountains and grey seas, a land of shadows and strange glamours (this assumes that we are in the norhtern hemisphere- if not, please place on southern coast of southern island- if both are equally chilled, then go for southern island, near forests, south coast)
Map Color: Grey, White, Black, Dark Purple
Preferred Leader Names: Anything norse.
Preferrred City Names: The capital is Éljúðnir. You can name other cities and settlements using norse ones as examples.
background:
The Vanir were created by a titaness who fell before the cataclysm, and now serves as a dead goddess to which the Helvan turn in worship. They are led by a king, Hermóðr, who, in a younger age, was once dead, hung from an ash tree. He has returned to the Helvan after receiving the blessings of the dead goddess and assumed the silver crown from his father who understood that he was Hangadrott, chosen from the dead to lead the living. Under his guidance the Helheim have spread their influence, and his many children serve as nobles and Jarls, commanding villages, ships and armies.
The Helvan have domesticated a breed of magical fey horses who, like the Vanir, hide themselves innately in glamour and leave no hoofprint in the wake of their passing. It is said that the Vanjarls, the greatest of the Vanir nobles-warriors, are the greatest cavalry force the Citana have yet to see.
The Desir continue to provide their support and guidance and it is prophetized that from their ranks will rise an army of sacred female warriors who will ride the wings of the wind and strike with the fury of lightning and thunder.
Okay, so admintingly a major rip-off but I really like the mythology and description of the Vanir/Helheim and wanted to play something similar. Hopefully this is acceptable.
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[b]Tales from the Lands of Winter Fay: Part 1: A Message from Beyond[b]
Poorly tanned hides, half-rotten and speckled grey hung before the entrance to the cave. They were decorated with strange runes and someone had sewn animal and even Vanir bones into them. At the top, where they were haphazardly attached to the low frame of the cave with resin, sweet scented smoke poured lazily into the bright winter air.
Stooping low and placing one hand upon the low ceiling of the cave entrance, the prince pulled the poorly tanned hides aside, careful not to disturb the runes or bones. His day-bright eyes could only barely perceive the shifting shadows of the glamoured Vanir huddled around a small fire deep inside the darkened cave. He signaled his retinue to wait and stepped into the shadows.
The cave was a humble structure; even Vanir serfs would rather live in a warmer, cleaner longhouse or, on the land, but these, the Desir witches, most honored mystics of the Vanir, choose to meet in this wretched stinking cave. Sven, son of King Hermóðr, known as Whitemane, or as Prince Regent, or as commander depending on who you asked bowed low to the shifting glamoured shadows flickering throughout the cave like moonlight in falling snow. These were ancient creatures, chosen by the messenger, and even for Vanir eyes their glamour was strong; the prince, though only fifteen paces from them, and of ancient and noble blood himself, was unsure how many of the crones were before him, what they were doing or even if they were armed. Blinking the sun-blindness out of his eyes he waited, catching the aroma of several woodland herbs he could not identify, rotting carcasses, and incense coming from the fire.
Finally one of the wretched crones spoke, “You come seeking our wisdom and that of the dead. You want to know how to bring death to the wolves that walk as men. Come. Sit.”
Sven’s tall frame made him have to bend to avoid scraping his head on the low rock ceiling and he lumbered forward without much of his usual warrior’s grace. A silver cup, dirty with greasy animal fat and other things he did not recognize slid towards him as shadowy glamoured figures danced around it. The same voice spoke again, “You know, prince, of the power of blood. Especially your fay blood. Bleed for the raven’s master and we might bring you wisdom.” Sven obediently opened his palm with a short wickedly sharp knife watching his sparkling red and golden fay blood drop into the cup. The crone retrieved the cup and for a moment the prince’s gaze pierced the glamour long enough to glimpse a gnarled and clawed hand tortured by centuries of primitive living.
Slowly at first but accelerating rapidly, the cave began to fill with the commanding chant of the Desir coven. Their voices were ancient and harsh, the language intimidatingly unknown, and yet the warrior-prince felt some sense of reassurance. Finally now there would be a tool to deal with the problem of the men-wolf and he might keep his people safe and perhaps more importantly rise to the glory and honor that was befitting of his bloodline and station.
Suddenly the chant ceased and some otherworldly wind began to whip about the cave sending embers from the fire into the air and forcing him to brush them quickly from his armor and fine bear-fur cloak. The Desir spoke, one or two at a time to the wind as it raced around them, again in a language only they seemed to know, occasionally softly and occasionally as a command. Finally, as Sven sat anxiously, occasionally batting at the strange wind when it strayed too close, the strange wind suddenly died away and the cup was overturned over the fire, releasing a hiss of steam and a strange odor.
The leader of the coven spoke, “Sven, son of King Hermóðr, who is called the Whitemane, commander of the Vanjir and Herdling alike, we have spoken to the spirits of the dead, messengers of the goddess, and we share with you now our wisdom. The creatures will rise again if slain by spear or sword, their animal fury too great to be slowed by the wound to their animal form. No. You must strike them where their mortality lies; you must strike at their soul and cleave the thread that links the spirit to the form. We will send with you the youngest of our order, acolytes accomplished in the magicks of the messenger, of death and shadow. Once your serf warriors have slain the wolves who would walk as men, the Desir acolytes shall provide the holy blessing of the goddess upon their fallen forms. This will steal away their spirit and their forms shall have peace until the goddess has need of them again. Do this and the Vanir of Helvan shall be saved and great glory shall come to you.”
Sven nodded, happy with the ritual and eager to leave but as he did, parting the rotting leathers to pass back into the sun he heard a voice speak from the cave, “But know this prince, the blessings of the Desir are not without their price. You shall bring us the hides of those creatures you slay and your debt shall be paid.”
As the prince stepped from the fire-warmed cave into the cold winter winds of the sea-side hills, despite the fall in temperature, he felt as if he had stepped from winter into summer and he shook a lingering cold from his spine with a tremor.
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Tales from the Lands of Winter Fay: Part 2: The Beating Heart and the Raven Carcass
Sven, who was called Whitemane or Prince Regent or Commander strode through the cheering serfs, his aura of noble glamour parting the crowd of sword and spear-waving militia, like a ship through a sea. Though to them he might appear as a shimmering god of gold and silver, his noble fay blood easily pierced their glamour and he saw them for what they were, low-born serfs, many of them fishermen or hunters, who had flocked to the warrior’s banner in hopes of riches and stable pay, their furs dirty, often bloody, their eyes, though wide with victory, sunken and tired from many nights hunting.
The lowborn warriors were gathered around a fallen foe, its crimson red blood spreading across thin snow. The prince sneered. Like many Vanir, he held fay blood, and Vanir bood in particular, gold, red and sparkling, sacred. The plain crimson blood of humans and other name-givers he found vile or lowly and a brief grimace of distaste quickly crossed his features as he looked upon the creature. One of the serfs had slain the creature, which took the form of a tall half-man, half-wolf hybrid by opening its throat with a broadsword and its head now hung at an odd angle. A Desir acolyte, her glamour thick and flickering wide like so much moon-light upon the snow kneeled by the creature, holding her ear to its mouth and mouthing powerful incantations taught to her order by the dead goddess.
Suddenly there was a sort of gurgling sound from the creature and despite the fatal wound to its jugular, it lunged for the witch and, like one of the traps the serfs used to catch bears snapping shut, it bit into her face. With a sudden tug, it wrenched skin, muscle and tendon from bone. Despite the unexpected ferocity of the creature thought dead, Sven acted quickly, drawing upon instincts formed during several decades of hunting and war, plunging a spear deep into the creatures chest, parting its ribs, and sinking the point into its heart. The Desir witch fell back, her screams of agony quickly overcome by the merciful silence of shock and death. The creature lay limp again and the prince leaned hard on the spear, feeling it slide through its dorsal ribs and into the hard cold ground. He motioned for his herald to call for another of the Desir witches to come.
In only a few short moments the crowd parted again and this time a young blond-haired Vanir, her glamour lesser to the last acolyte who had died so recently, entered the clear space around the creature. She had known what she was being called for and in one thin hand held the carcass of a raven, its feathers ruffled and dirty from long travel in a saddle-bag. The young witch glanced, open-mouthed at her sister acolyte who lay twitching spasmodically in the snow nearby, her entire face a gruesome image of horror and violence, her bloody distorted tongue protruding from open wounds where only minutes earlier winter’s touch had bloomed on delicate youthful skin.
Still leaning upon the spear, the prince felt a strange stirring within the weapon, a sort of shudder, then through the length of the weapon the ‘thump, thump’ of the creatures heart could be felt, dim but rhythmic and gaining strength rapidly. Lest this acolyte witch join her sister, the prince raised the weapon and speared it again, again cleaving clean through the creature, feeling the creature’s beating heart cease once more, “Quickly now witch, lest it does to though what it did to thine coven-sister.”
The young Desir acolyte leaned close to the creatures maw, more careful than her sister had been and quickly spoke words of power while waving the raven’s shrunken and stinking carcass over its face. As she spoke the creature seemed to deflate somewhat, a final stale breath escaping from a bloody maw that still clung to the face of the first witch. As it did, the raven stirred, one shriveled claw clenching and unclenching spasmodically. The acolyte smiled and stood, ignoring the wolf-creature completely now. She smiled at the prince, a sort of pride evident in her face, “My liege, we have what we have come for.”
The crowd of serf warriors began to disperse, sensing that the creature would not strike again and as they did, Sven bent low, drawing his skinning knife. The high coven had asked that he bring them the creature’s pelt as payment and this he would do himself.
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Tales from the Lands of Winter Fay: Part 3: Hall of the King Returned
The Vanir were slow to age, and indeed Prince Sven, who was called the Whitemane, or Prince Reagent, or Commander, depending on who was speaking, wore his two century and one score years with the light-stepping grace of youth. But as Sven walked side by side with his father, who was called Hermóðr, or King, or The Hanged One, or He Who Has Returned From Death, or The Hangadrott, he could not help but notice that in appearance, his years were beginning to overtake those of his father. The king had not aged since his return from beyond the death’s curtain and except for the hanging scars left upon his neck, there was no indication of his great ordeal.
Sven had returned from the cave of the Desir’s high coven after speaking with the witches there. He had watched as they called upon the spirit trapped by the Desir acolyte from the corpse of the dying wolf-creature and had learned much regarding its rage and a man they spoke of with the most wicked curses who went by the name of Emperor Vral. The dead generally, and this raging spirit, who was caught by some sort of mysterious curse, in particular, were often difficult to speak with or make sense of, the Desir had said and so there was relatively little they could tell him otherwise. Now he was sharing these details with his father as they walked along the wooden ramparts of the walls of Éljúðnir. They spoke not only of the attacks of the wolf-men but of more day-to-day affairs. The king’s visit to the other side made it much easier for him to keep the affairs of man and mortals in perspective and to appreciate the need for patience, or so he said; he was prone to act quickly and decisively when the mood took him. They spoke of the Jarls and the nobility, of the scouts reports and of the Hirdling training. They spoke of Ulfric, Sven’s brother, and his son, the first of the king’s grandsons and Sven’s only nephew, who was now learning to throw a spear with uncanny precision befitting his noble lineage.
As they walked, the warriors who manned the walls parted around them, shielding their eyes with their hands at the brightness of the King and Prince’s glamour. The two were so thoroughly similar in features, especially with the King’s unnatural youth, that very few who could not pierce the glamour with noble blood of their own would have been able to tell one from the other if it were not for the king’s silver crown. Both were tall men, with the width of shoulders and ease of gait of men used to hunting and war. They both had long nearly white blonde hair and shining silver and yellow eyes like those of cats and both wore polished steel hauberks, broadsword and dagger at the hip. No… as they made their way along the walls, few could tell them apart. Except for the Tuatha princess. She parted the warriors and the royal entourage with the strength of her own glamour while her own noble blood easily pierced the prince’s glamour and did much to uncover the king’s. Her name was Eochaid Indai, amd she was daughter of Lugh, champion of King Nuada, of the Tuatha Dé Danann who came from a distant island called the emerald but which was known to the Tuatha and the Vanir as T�*r na nÓg. Sven thought her beautiful, a flowing creature, who like most Tuatha, were of the same height of men, but who like the Vanir, cloaked herself in glamour. The Tuatha were the ever-young and she was no exception, her age being known only to greatly exceed that of the king but her beauty to rival any of the royal court. While the Vanir had a glamour that suggested moonlight, winter and silver, hers suggested sun, spring, and gold and so too did her dress and modest smile. She strode towards the pair and with a lack of difference that Sven thought strange but which the king apparently did not, she took hold of both the king’s hands and leaned close to kiss him gently on the cheek. Turning to the prince with a smile she spoke to the king in a conspiratorial tone ripe with the musical tones of a Tuatha princess, “Have you told him yet?”
The king appeared apprehensive as he faced his oldest son, “You know that I loved your mother very much and when we cross, I will love her again. But… I have fallen for another, one with a beating heart and warm breath, who will love me in my eternal youth and for as long as my lungs draw breath and my heart beats, one with whom I can spend all my long long years with and bring me happiness and to whom I can also bring happiness. Son, I have decided to marry this Tuatha princess.”
His words were not completely unexpected. The prince had heard the rumors. His own memories of his mother were modest, fuzzy, golden-covered with the gentle fuzz of childhood recollection. He knew that his mother had been sacrificed on the alter to the dead goddess on the winter solstice of the last year of the silver comet, the greatest honor that could be awarded by the messengers and a death he and all his people were extremely proud of, and so, for most of his life, the queen had waited in the next life, sacred and distant and never really seen, at least to him, as partner to his father. He also knew that his father was a man, like him, and handsome and noble and that there had been dalliances, but nothing with any seriousness. Despite his lack of objection, he did not know what to say. Extending a hand beyond the wall, he watched a snowflake land and slowly melt in his palm before he spoke again.
This time he turned to the Tuatha princess, “Welcome to the family… Queen Eochaid Indai.”
The king beamed uncharacteristically and placed a hand gently on the stomach of his wife to be, stroking the thick ermine robes no Vanir would have need of, “Son… there is something else I must tell you,” he said with a glance at him, his wife, and at her waist where his half-brother or sister grew.
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