The march of time, the changing climate and the progress of man has altered the world greatly. Be it just a few decades ago, or many centuries, you can see that the natural world and landscape has undergone great alterations. The countless species that live within them are also affected. Some may flourish with these changes, while others face extinction. Nothing makes this more apparent than the vanishing of megafauna. Go to any museum and you will see how the world was once filled with giants, but the ages have changed and the bigger beasts simply became bigger targets for its effects. Thus, many of these ancient large species have gone extinct, and those that survived faced new challenges. Man certainly has had his hand in a few of these losses, and others have been driven to the brink. Yet, not all has been lost. The world still has megafauna within it, and even those threatened by our past deeds are getting a chance to come back. We still have giants out there, no matter how broken things may seem, and the Hugag is one such species that still plods on despite the tumultuous times.
The hugag is a large mammal that totters about the forests of Minnesota, Wisconsin and parts of Canada. It is big as a moose, which combined with some of its anatomy has led to past assumptions that it was related to them. Yet, if such relations did exist, the Hugag split away from them a long, long time ago. It walks the forests in a stiff, awkward way, as its long stilt-like legs have no joints. It must remain standing at all times, only able to sleep by leaning against trees and other tall objects. Its body is clad in stiff, green hairs, with some equating their texture and appearance to pine needles. This green fur ends at its neck, for the head is bald and warty. Strange flap-like ears hang limply from its head, while bony nodules add to its warty look. Yet the most eye-catching feature is its massive upper lip. It has grown into a long prehensile appendage, much like the trunk of an elephant. Yet, the Hugag's lip isn't nearly as dexterous and precise as the elephant's, a convergent development that hasn't yet caught up with the pachyderm. This means its method of feeding is a bit more crude. It cannot graze upon the ground, for its lip can't pull off the movements needed for plucking grass, and it may step on its own mouth. Instead, it feeds upon trees, with a preference for conifers. The long lip slaps down onto branches or coils around trunks, then proceeds to strip it of needles and bark. Its fondness for pines is noted in folklore and it believed to be the reason why it has the needle-like fur, pitch-like musk and that fresh pine scent.
Fossils have shown that the Hugag has been around in North America since prehistoric times, surviving the end of the Ice Age and the spread of man. Ancient art has depictions of the Hugag, and legends from the natives speak of this stilt-legged beast. One such story claims the Hugag was a pine turned into an animal, yet the trunk of the tree became its legs, causing its lack of joints. The species was hunted by natives, its long, solid leg bones making for incredible material. It was through them that the first instances of the famed Hugag hunting technique was recorded. Hunters would follow the trail of one of these giants and look for trees that had an odd lean to them and high up wear marks on its bark. Those signs and the presence of pine tar-like markings would reveal the tree to be one the Hugag frequently leaned up against to rest. From there, the hunters would cut notches in the tree, as if preparing to fell it. Yet, they would leave it standing, and wait for the Hugag to come. When it tried to rest against the tree, the weakened column would give out, causing it and the Hugag to fall down. On its side with unbending legs, the Hugag would struggle to get back up. These beasts are capable of getting back on their feet after a fall, but the effort is long and awkward, the perfect time for hunters to pounce and finish them off.
As colonists came to North America, they would adopt the same hunting method for the Hugag, and partake in its meat and fur (with Hugag lip still being seen as a delicacy today). Some accounts show that its pine scent was appreciated as a sort of air freshener, placing its musk and fur in areas to help mask foul odors. Hunting pressure from man would lower its population, which would continue to be impacted by development and logging. The range of the Hugag used to be much bigger, but such changes have led to it being found in the few places we see today. Yet, even with lower numbers and rarer sightings, the species remains a well-known one. That is the draw of megafauna, people fascinated by beasts purely because they are big. That and its other features have endeared it to the public. From wildlife tours and mascots, to Hugag-shaped air fresheners hanging on car rearview mirrors. Towns that are located near remaining Hugag territory celebrate the creature and are bound to have it on at least three different souvenirs. You may even see one stomping down the street during a town parade, an amusing display put on by two costumed performers on stilts.
Unfortunately, acknowledgement of the old trend of "Hugag tipping" must be made. While hunting of the species has become incredibly restricted, the details of how to fell one has amused certain folk. This has led to troublemakers pulling off the same technique purely to witness this giant creature topple over. There is a good laugh taken from tormenting them, though the DNR certainly sees no humor in it. Laws and fines were put in to place to try and stop this useless cruelty, but it seems that the Hugag itself eventually put the trend to bed. At some point, a couple of folk got the bright idea of tipping a Hugag over themselves, much like how you would knock over a cow. Of course, such instances of insane stupidity have to be filmed, but such attempts went viral for an entirely different reason. This species is the size of a moose and has a prehensile lip, which may not be good for grazing on grass, but can certainly throw a 150lb drunk like a ragdoll. After number of injuries, and a few deaths, it would seem Hugag tipping has lost its popularity. For now at least, because if there is one thing that human history has shown us is that there will always be a small fraction of the population that fails to understand that herbivorous megafauna are not as safe and cuddly as their stuffed animals.
Outsiders call the plateau the "Land of Wild and Wander," for it is a place of expansive dermal steppes, dandruff deserts and spine ridge mountains. It is also the home of the Ankheer people, a culture of nomads who roam these endless wilds. They follow the herds of grazers as they travel across the steppe with the changing of the seasons, leading their own livestock to prime feeding grounds. Their lives are mobile, their settlements only as permanent as the seasons. When the time comes, a family or clan can easily dismantle their tents and be gone within the hour. In this land, permanent towns are quite rare, a chunk of them having been built by travelers and traders. The Ankheer prefer their nomadic ways, finding peace and satisfaction with their part in the natural cycle. And there is no part of this world that they love more than their prized tasmori.
The tasmori is a quadrupedal avian that is found exclusively on the Khalkheer Plateau. It bears the head of a vulture on the body of an ungulate, with talons shaped into sharp hooves. Feathers and fur-like down coat it, with bare patches on the legs, neck and snout show blue-gray skin. It is a bird that has traded its wings for another pair of legs, roaming the dermal steppes in herds. The vulture diet of scavenging has turned its focus from rotting corpses to the flesh of the land itself. Hair, growths and skin covered earth is its food, using its sharp beak to feed. They migrate across the steppe in line with the seasons, following favorable conditions and food sources. Though they may not be the fastest creatures in this land, their endurance and hardiness makes them serious contenders. They are able to run for miles with little weariness, and they stand strong against the weather and shifting temperatures. Predators that try to hunt them will face sharp hooves and beak, a nasty reward for those who succeed in cornering a tasmori.
While outsiders may look at these creatures and see just another beast of burden, the Ankheer view them as something much more. These people have long domesticated this species, and now it is an integral part of their lives and culture. The tasmori carry them and their homes across the steppe, serving as the most reliable transportation around. Be it riding out to check the herd, or going on a hunt, or simply enjoying a nice day, the tasmori is the only choice. Clans see their tasmori as part of the family, calling for the same respect and care as any other member. Tending to the needs of this herd is top priority, with it even being considered taboo to eat before your own tasmori has been fed. Learning to ride them is the very first lesson in an Ankheer's life, leading to the saying that "an Ankheer child will ride a hundred miles before learning how to take their first step."
Riding a tasmori is as straightforward as walking to an Ankheer, who are able to guide their mounts without reins. Their saddles are designed with short stirrups, allowing their legs to control the direction of their beast. With this, they don't need to busy their hands with reins, allowing them to perform other actions, like archery. The archery skills of the Ankheer when mounted upon a tasmori are legendary, showing off incredible speed, precision and mobility. With the design of the saddle and the familiarity with their mount, the Ankheer can seemingly fire in any direction and move their position on the tasmori in astonishing ways. The most famous move is the archer sliding themselves to one side of the beast, shielding themselves from enemy arrows. From there, they fire back from under the tasmori's chin, an incredible feat to witness. This mounted archery is used for hunting, friendly competition and in battle. When mounted upon a tasmori, the Ankheer are powerful adversaries.
Even with this, the tasmori provides more to the Ankheer people. They use their feathers for their arrows, their shed down for insulation and clothing, and they even partake in their fluids. To feed their young, female tasmori regurgitate "crop Milk," a pale liquid derived from their food and stored in their crop. The Ankheer drink crop Milk, either enjoying it straight, mixing it with other fluids or fermenting it. This type of kumis is called "airag," and it is a favorite drink of the Ankheer. Even when a tasmori passes, their bodies are used by the family so that a part of the creature remains with them. Bones, beak, hoof and hide are fashioned into personal or ceremonial items. The Ankheer are very serious about their bond with the tasmori, the species playing prominent roles in their lives, culture and mythology.
To outsiders, the tasmori feels like any other steed, for they do not hold the same reverence. That being said, small populations of tasmori have sprouted up outside the steppes, having been traded to breeders looking for promising mounts. The same qualities are appreciated in the species, with a particular love for their endurance. Often times, though, someone owning a tasmori in a foreign land is mostly showing off their wealth and status. The species' reputation is tied to the Ankheer themselves in the eye of outsiders. Both beings of the wild steppe, seen as rugged nomads of a far off land. However, recent years have seen this reputation be replaced with infamy, for the sight of archers upon the backs of tasmori brings about a new fear.
A powerful force has arisen from the steppes, many clans suddenly united under a single banner. A call to war has gone out, and it is one that cannot be refused. The lands surrounding the plateau never knew what hit them. Territories claimed, power stolen. Empires tremble as cities burn. Each victory bolsters their own strength, an army of incredible strength and appetite. A storm is coming for the great empires of this landmass, one whose dark clouds rain down arrows and whose thunder is the sound of a thousand hooves. And leading it all is the rider upon a white tasmori, holding bow high and proud. They charge forth across the lands like a wildfire, with four loyal champions that ride beside them. There has already been great victories with their incredible strength, but it isn't enough. The great leader rides for one purpose, one belief, and the vast army follows that same insatiable want:
Conquest
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A nice little thing to end the run on livestock and steeds for now! Turns out the Church isn't the only one having problems! Thankfully the land of the golden faith has an ocean between them and this! Hopefully that is enough! Hopefully...
The dermal steppe is an ecosystem that is characterized by its soil being more like skin than crumbled petrified flesh. The layers below are much like the layers of skin, having grown and stretched across these endless plains. Fields of hair are prominent, though other light vegetation and growths may occur. The climate is semi-arid, which can lead to the drying and flaking of the upper skin layers, creating dust clouds of dandruff. Though dry spells can increase the occurrence, the dermal steppe has enough fluid present to prevent it from becoming a dandruff desert, which such steppes are often close to. They are wide open regions that can be found on many continents in this world, though one land gets more attention than others. The Khalkheer Plateau across the sea has large expanses of dermal steppes, hosting an incredible array of life. The vast herds of grazers that migrate across this great plateau is part of what bolsters its reputation, and the steppe oliphant is one such species.
The steppe oliphant is a middle sized member of the family, possessing lanky legs, keratin-coated tusks and a short, thick trunk. Folks from the land of the Church may expect oliphants to have gray, leathery skin, but this species has yellowish fur instead. Such hair is helpful during the drastic changes of temperature between night and day. These oliphants travel in large herds across the plateau, which aids in their feeding. Their prehensile and muscular trunks can rip up strands of hair and vegetation, which they then inhale. The oliphant gizzard grinds it all up before it reaches the stomach, making digestion easier. This allows them to graze upon the hair fields, but there is another big component to their diet. The traveling of their herd kicks up clouds of dandruff from the flaky top layer, and their big noses snort up this dust. The mere act of breathing helps feed the oliphant, as the particles of dry skin are sucked in and absorbed. Bigger herds makes for bigger clouds, and thus more food for all, however a balance must be struck. If the population gets too big, then their movements may disturb too much of the top layer of skin and actually damage its makeup. Hair and vegetation will struggle to grow in these conditions, and rob the steppe oliphant and other animals food in the future.
In these huge herds, the steppe oliphant communicates with loud snorts and short nasally trumpets. It allows them to socialize with others or alert them of danger. The last sound a hunter wants to hear is the alarm bellow, which means they have been spotted and the herd is going on the run. Despite having tusks, the steppe oliphant is a runner not a fighter. These keratin-coated growths are more for showing off against rivals and winning over mates. Stories do exist of people getting gored by them, but it often sounds more like an accident than a purposeful attack.
Not only is it an important grazer for the dermal steppes, but it is also a valued animal for the Ankheer people. These nomadic folk encounter the species often, as they too follow the migrations of the steppe. They rely on their livestock and game to make it through the year, thus the changing of seasons and availability of food has them move often. This is the reason why outsiders tend to call the Khalkheer Plateau the "Land of Wild and Wander," for its population of people is sparse and scattered, and their nomadic lifestyle stands out to folks used to permanent settlements. The Ankheer people hunt the steppe oliphant for their fur, meat, bones and tusks. Plenty of garbs are fashioned from their hide, while the tusks and bones are carved into tools and ornaments. Perhaps the most famous use of the steppe oliphant is its tusks being one of the materials used in their bows. The keratin sheath provides good flexibility and sturdiness, and when combined with other materials it makes for a skillful weapon. The bows of the Ankheer were once praised for their composite design and impressive potential, but sadly they have now gained infamy in the eyes of outsiders.
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It was an antelope, but now I made it an oliphant! That nose made the connection too perfect!
Also a thanks to @Lediblock2 for helping me figure out the steppe and the name of the folk who live on it.
companion critters from way back in january. i want to make more little guys for that creature escorting/research thing i started a while ago. these are early or "safe" area critters.
loose typings for these babies are, starting at the upper left:
branch type, hive type, net type (siren type?), bone type, seed type, beyond type, and endless type.
In a world where fluid is king, the arid lands are a rough place to be. Landscapes defined by heat and dryness, their precious liquids locked and hidden. Some call for deep digging to reach such treasures, others have a rare oasis or two, while there are those that require incredible adaptations to squeeze out what little drops exist. Those used to a cushy life of temperate climate and plentiful fluids would call such areas "uninhabitable," but they couldn't be farther from the truth. Life is tough and adaptable, and even the dustiest of dunes has its fair share of creatures that call it home. The Humors are wondrous things, but the Constitutions also prove that you don't need fluid to make things work. The humans that live in these places are proof of that. They live long and happy lives like everyone else, there are just some changes to how they do things. Same goes for the beasts that dwell there. In fact, it is this adaptability and hardiness that makes some arid species more appealing to man than those from other regions. The solviator is an excellent example, a creature from the hot and dry biomes that is widely used and beloved.
The solviator is a large arachnid that lives in a variety of arid climates, found in osteo wastes, dandruff deserts, scablands, dermal steppes and the like. After the species has been domesticated, they can be found in even more biomes. Those with sharp eyes will be able to see some similarities in their anatomy, leading to the correct guess that the solviator is a relative to the archaca. This species, however, is much larger, possessing longer legs and a distinct hump (when it has it, of course). The hump on its back is a storage organ that allows the solviator to stockpile resources while the going is good. It is filled with fats and fluids, growing into its hump shape when the solviator is able to regularly feed or gorge itself on the rare occasion. This organ then slowly "deflates" during lean times, as the spider draws the resources out to survive in harsh areas. Folks may note a second hump on the creature, yet this one does not serve the same purpose. In fact, it is just an extension of the abdomen and nothing more. But if you go to the other end of the abdomen, you will find the spinnerets turned into an udder, like the archaca, and from here silken Milk is secreted.
Solviators are omnivores, especially since the arid lands are not a constant buffet. Food can be sparsely scattered across the landscapes, calling for long trips between meals. In such scenarios, it is best to be able to eat whatever you come across, as skipping dinner could mean starving to death before finding an alternative. Lots of their diet comes from vegetation and growths, their powerful mandibles able to crush hard rinds and handle spiny protrusions. When it comes across carrion, those same jaws are great for dried hide and bone. Solviators change their feeding preferences and rates depending on their environment and food availability. In times of plenty, they will graze like other livestock, but when things are scarce they will strip plants and carcasses down to nothing to get every last bit of nutrients. Of course, in such a harsh landscape, a big juicy arachnid like them would be a prime target. Yet they are not an easy meal. Solviators can bite, kick and spit, suddenly switching from placid grazer to ornery bruiser in a second. They don't go down without a fight, and when they are in herds, their companions are quick to come to their aid.
Due to their ability to live in rough environments and go without food and fluid for long periods of time, the solviator is a favorite choice for any people that live in similar situations. They serve as pack animals, mounts and livestock, with certain breeds favored for certain jobs. Folks choose a solviator for traveling when they need to go on long treks though arid biomes. Their hardiness and ability to last long with little resources have even made them liked in environments that are more hospitable. Their ability to produce silk Milk is also appreciated, as it grants the rider food during the trip. That same liquid is prized when they are raised as livestock, one of the many products they provide. Butchering a solviator grants one meat, chitin, coarse hair and a nice fatty hump. For obvious reasons, the hump is the favorite part for many, a decadent treat that is packed with nutrients. Raisers of these arachnids will always feed them well before the day of slaughter comes, wanting the hump to be as big as it can be. The hairy chitin is used in creating desert gear, while the mandibles are often fashioned into tools.
Though they can be food or workers, there are plenty of locals in their regions that view them as prized pets. They are not just some dirty beast of burden, folks take pride in keeping them healthy and pretty. Like how some people in the land of gold get fancy with their Saddleback oliphants, the solviator has a similar following. If you are riding through town on one, you certainly want to look good doing it! Being nice and friendly with your Solviator is also good, because getting on their bad side is a recipe for misery. They spit, kick and bite, and with jaws like those, you can easily lose fingers to an ornery arachnid. And though they can be stubborn at times, or even a little mean, the solviator is not a rabid animal that attacks anything that moves. They don't chase down people, they don't eat people and they don't spit acid. Such claims are tall tales from outsiders who besmirch a foreign creature they know little about. That or such myths are used to play up the inhospitable nature of these far off places, acting like they are terrible death pits full of dangers and savage beasts, which is then used as an excuse by outsiders to apply such traits to the people who live there as well.
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Yep, it's a camel spider. And another billion dollar check for me! Golly!
The ways of the Shrouded Ones are strange and mostly unknown. Their place of worship and planning is in the bowels of the world, in tunnels and cavities claimed by chaos. The thick sheets of Lindwyrm skin ward away many, for the legends have spelt out the terrible fate inflicted upon those who intrude. There are a few who have taken the plunge and returned to the surface world, but these rare insights have offered very little. The Shrouded Ones preach the word of the Lindwyrms, but are wise to not reveal all of their plans. Thus, they are phantoms of the world, appearing from thin air to warn of their prophecy and to sow chaos amidst those who cling to the fluids. And once their job is done, they vanish as quickly as they appeared, leaving many to puzzle on how such events transpired. At times, there are mere glimpses into their world, yet they only create more questions than answers. It is already hard for folks to wrap their heads around the idea of the Shrouded Ones, what are they to make of the beasts that have been seen with them?
Just like the Shrouded Ones, these creatures come in all shapes and sizes. For some, you can tell the species they once were, while others are so warped by the skin's curse that they defy identification. The only thing that can be said to describe them is that they were once animals that have been wrapped in the Lindwyrm skin and have their flesh steeped in its malformed curse. These rare sightings have led to the label of "Shroud Beast," for these strange creatures, ones that serve as companions to the Shrouded Ones. In some tales, a Shrouded One has been spotted alongside some stalking beast, like a mummified hyaena. Others speak of an assassin running off into nothingness atop a veiled steed. Is it purely legend, or do such monstrosities exist? If so, how? It is known that the vows of the Shrouded Ones are permanently binding, and take an incredible amount of dedication and willpower to sustain. The skins that cloak them make their very flesh uncertain and formless, their minds the only thing keeping them intact. How is it that a mere beast can achieve such a form?
No solid answers have been found, but many theories have come forth. One suggests that the animals were companions to a specific Shrouded One before they took on their vows, and followed their master on this path of chaos. Their bond and shared memories allow the creature to sustain themselves even as their flesh is dissolved into the unknown. Another believes that a beast's mind is so simple, that it does better maintaining itself amongst the chaos, blissfully unaware of all the complexities and woe that may plague a sapient mind. All it cares is about the basics of life and it is confident in its own being, any moral or existential angst they are immune to. Of course, some agree that an animal is not wise enough to fully understand the process, but they argue that the Shrouded Ones weave their own magic to make this possible. They already weaponize desiccated essence and ancient memories, is it that big of a stretch to believe they may use this dusty knowledge to strengthen the minds of their companions? Then there is one popular theory that the "Shroud Beasts" were never animals to begin with, but Shrouded Ones who have degraded in mentality and chose a simpler form and mind. They require mental prowess to keep themselves whole, any Shrouded One who loses control for too long may simply melt away into nothingness. Perhaps some of them have partially fallen in their minds, and struggle to maintain balance. It could be that taking on the form and basic mind of an animal helps them remain calm and in control, working in tandem with another Shrouded One so that both will remain sane and certain.
Shroud Beasts appear to share some of the same characteristics as a Shrouded One, mainly their uncertain flesh and ability to shift their forms. Limbs can extend, bodies can warp, but not as much as their masters. It seems that these creatures have less layers on their body, meaning the curse doesn't penetrate as deep. This limits their abilities, but it could be the reason they are able to maintain themselves with the skin. If a certain amount of their body remains solid and known, there is not as much willpower needed to ensure they don't melt into a blob.
But what is the purpose of a Shroud Beast? Why do the shapeshifters need a creature companion when they can bend themselves into countless forms? The belief is that it is a way to boost their numbers, as the Shrouded Ones are few. Their beliefs are certainly not popular and the devotion to the cause is daunting to most. Not many are signing up, so perhaps this bolsters their efforts and allows them to sow more chaos. Others think it is more personal than that. The Shrouded Ones need a calm mind and strong will to achieve their goals and maintain their existence. It cannot be easy to do, and there must be rough days. Could it be these Shroud Beasts are just another way to sustain themselves? To give them an anchor in this sea of chaos?
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Idea came to mind and I just ran with it. Felt too good to pass up!
The glory of the humors and fluids is known to all, the great gifts they grant to man. From the divine liquids of the gods that entire religions are built upon, to the mortal Four Humors that flow within every man and are used in every day life. They are the greatest blessing the holy corpses have brought to this world, and folks can hardly imagine life without them. Yet, not all are reverent to the Godly Fluids and their humors. Sure, some may think little of them, seeing no faith in this liquid, but they will still imbibe or partake in their offerings. Such apathy isn't uncommon, they just see the fluid as another resource or tool of man. But what is rare are the souls who despise the humors, who reject everything about them. They do not see faith or blessings, they see a prison, with bars and chains of gold. Not a drop of any of those fluids will they take, they want no part of it. It is a mindset that many have a hard time believing is even viable. How can someone reject one of the most basic concepts of this world? How could they even live with this absolute denial? The answer is the shrouded things that slither down below, serpents of skin and chaos that the common man refuses to acknowledge. Best to believe them a myth, a scary story shared amongst miners. Yet they are very real, and they wish for their voice to reach the ears of man.
The Lindwyrms may be a disturbing nightmare to many, but no one is more miserable with their existence then themselves. They were once ancient dragons that lived in the Age of Eitr, flourishing in their grand empire. Dragonkin watched over the world, upholding its ways with their unwavering laws. Thousands of years of their reign, flawless and just. The dragons believed themselves unending, yet they who would become Lindwyrms were the first to suspect something wrong when the first traces of gold fell from the sky. A light rain of Ichor upon their world, a strange fluid they had not experienced before. The elder dragons swept the incident aside, seeing no threat in this sign, but the Lindwyrms were more fearful. They sensed change within the fluid, usurpation with its arrival. Visions of gold bringing destruction to their world, especially in a time when the Primal Flame was fading and the dragons were refusing to acknowledge its weakness. They wished for the Ichor to be destroyed, for the dragons to take up arms and stop the falling gold. But the ancient traditions forbade such rash actions, it was against their ways to do something so extreme. The elders assured that the gold was a harmless phenomenon, another fluid that would rest upon this world while Eitr remained in charge. They saw how meager it was, how it paled in comparison to the Primal Flame, what harm could it truly do? The Lindwyrms, however, were not convinced.
Ichor reared its head more and more, and the Lindwyrms grew more panicked with the dragons' inaction. The strength of gold was growing, yet it was ignored by the overconfident rulers who had squashed every threat to their reign. At last, the Lindwyrms couldn't stand aside any longer and attempted a coup. The coming cataclysm needed to be averted, traditions be damned. They tried to seize control, but the elders and their believers thwarted them. Such treason was unacceptable to the dragons, and thus the Lindwyrms would face a terrible fate. Rather than execution, dragonkind struck them with a horrible curse, an affliction of chaos. It was a mockery of their want for change, granting them it unending within their very flesh. Their Eitr was taken, the curse was placed and then they were banished to the bowels of the world. It was their punishment, to rot within their own mutating body in the depths. These afflicted would become the Lindwyrms we know today, left to suffer for all eternity. But those who know the legends also know the Lindwyrms did not go down easy. The malformed serpents fired back their own curse, one of stagnation for the dragons who refused to change. It was their revenge, a mark of burning anger against the dragons who called them traitor for trying to save their world. One must wonder what the Lindwyrms thought when their prophecy came true. Was their smug satisfaction when the gold and gods smothered the Primal Flame? Or was their bitterness and sadness, knowing that it could have all been prevented? No one can really say, but what is known now is the words of the cursed Lindwyrms in the present age of gold.
It should come to no surprise that the Lindwyrms despise the dragons, how could they not? They are the ones who inflicted them with this chaotic curse, causing their bodies to writhe and change. Layers and layers of skin and flesh forming and sloughing in unending misery. Their essence so tainted in chaos that their very presence mutates the environment around them. Even their shed skin carries this curse, radiating the rotten energeiai wherever it is found. And it was the dragons who did this to them. There had to be at least some pleasure taken from the destruction of Eitr and the miserable fate the dragons face now. Only fitting that they too now know the feeling of rotting within your own shell. But that isn't the only thing the Lindwyrms cling onto, for there is still ambition within them. Because they had the care to fear the falling fluid, to worry about a changing age, and the signs are showing themselves once more. The gold is fading and the rot of stars has shown itself in rare sprinkles. They sense something is coming, and for once they want to be heard. Yet, their message is one not many want to hear. For they don't want man to just resist Pwdre Ser, they want humanity to deny all fluids. Ichor, Alkahest, Eitr, even the Four Humors. These shackles must be cast off, or else they will drag humanity down with them.
The immortality granted by chaotic flesh allowed them to watch the end of Eitr, and to live long enough to see Ichor weaken. They know that the destruction of their empire wasn't a fluke, the changing of the ages is like a cycle. The old fluid fades and a new one appears, eradicating everything once tied to the ancient ways. Some would think it wise to embrace the coming rain, to join the side that will inevitably win, but the Lindwyrms refuse that belief. Look to Pwdre Ser that has shown itself in its purple glory. If it were to usurp Ichor, how long before another dethrones it? Is accepting it changing fate or merely delaying it? The chaotic serpents believe it is the latter, a binding of oneself to a lost cause. And that is why they speak of renouncement, a denial of all fluids. For the humors will fail one day, and all those who are tied to them will perish alongside. The faiths and cities built upon the foundation of Godly Fluids will crumble when they run dry, civilization will collapse without the liquid they are addicted to. Deny it, throw it away. Swear yourselves to no master, only to your own flesh and self. Forge your own path, choose an age of man, no matter how unknown such future would be.
Obviously, their preaching is heard by very few, and rejected by most. The humors bring such wonders and comforts to life, as they are already a massive part of civilization. The Church and even the Academy are so invested in the fluids that there is no turning back. How can one throw away such gifts after enjoying them for so long? And who would believe the words of these mutated abominations? These horrible, warped serpents that hide in the guts of the world, buried in nests of nightmarish skin? Man can't even walk through these shrouded tunnels without succumbing to the curse, an assault on their mind that shapes their bodies into formless fears. The stories of Lindwyrm encounters are all ones of horror, of mines that go too deep or tunnels that turn men into malformed monsters. These serpents are feared, despised, and humanity would prefer if they were left buried and forgotten. Yet, not everyone shares this disgust. Because, despite it all, the Lindwyrms are not alone. There are those who have sought them out, perhaps for their preaching or something else entirely. They who took the plunge into the chaotic darkness, and dared to approach the twisted traitors. They who accepted chaos and skin, and became the Shrouded Ones.
The Shrouded Ones are mortals who have aligned themselves to the ways of the Lindwyrms. Though rare in their appearances upon the surface world, they are impossible to forget. Figures draped in sheets of Lindwyrm skin, wearing garb fashioned from shed scales. They are covered head to toe with this shroud, for it is the vow they have taken. Lindwyrm skin carries the same curse as the serpents themselves, yet it is diluted. A single sheet has incredibly weak effects, a tingling of the flesh as one's essence feels the confusion of chaos. But the curse inflicted upon the serpents is not stingy, they slough off skin in vast quantities. Their tunnels and nests are completely covered in thick sheets, and their power is amplified. The more skin you heap on, the more uncertainty seeps into your flesh and being. Folks who lose themselves in the dark shrouded tunnels are bathed in this energeiai, and their bodies become amorphous and malleable. The shape is determined by the mind, which means fear and doubt can literally change you. Many fall into a mental spiral of terror while exposed to it, their flesh warping into formless abominations of broken minds. There are plenty of stories about the monstrosities that emerge from such nightmarish places. But if one were to be strong of will, to receive the blessing and wisdom of the Lindwyrms, then this shroud of chaos may be tamed.
Becoming a Shrouded One is no light choice, it is a path that has no return. But for those who take it, the resolve is already there if they have chosen to seek out the Lindwyrms. Finding them and surviving their warping tunnels is an incredible task, much thought and preparation must be used to ensure the curse does not claim you. Coming face-to-face with these miserable serpents is when the choice must be made, yet it seems quite a few have already decided. The Lindwyrm shall offer their blessing and the resources needed to ascend. Take in the dust of their skin, renounce all Godly Fluid and Humor, purge it all from your flesh. Strengthen your will and resolve, then don the shrouds of the Lindwyrm and feel yourself embrace the chaos. With each added layer, the uncertainty of the flesh grows, til it all melts into shadow and unknown. When the ritual is complete, the physical person beneath the cloak is gone, instead a formless being of essence and chaos, shaped and sustained by their will. For most who take these vows, they discard everything they once were, renouncing their past lives and selves. Many abandon the old names and ways, referring themselves to just "they" or "it," for they have ascended beyond societal definition. The ways of the Lindwyrms are revered, and the Shrouded Ones vow to bring their vision upon the world.
The purpose of the Shrouded Ones is to bring about an age of abandonment, where man casts off the chains of the Godly Fluids and forges his own path. Or, at the very least, ensure that there is a strong enough faction out there sworn to this purpose that they may survive the foolish ambitions of the fluid-lovers and the changing ages. To do so, they must spread the good word, and show the path that must be followed. Yet, many are unwilling to even ponder the idea of abandoning the fluids, so used to their comfort. And thus comes their more famous purpose: bringing chaos to the factions that have tied themselves to the controlling liquids. Because people cling to what brings safety, control and stability. They want something bigger than them to promise that everything is going to be fine. The Church and its teachings, the Academy and its creations, all stuff designed to seduce the masses to their side. Join us, imbibe in the fluids and their blessings, lose yourself in its comfort. But what if these organizations were to crumble? What if they could not provide the safety people wanted? This is what the Shrouded Ones do, striking from the shadows to upset the stability and bring forth chaos. Then people will see the failings of the fluids, and the sham of the factions who promise eternal prosperity. The Shrouded Ones know this well, for the Lindwyrms speak of the dragons and their fall, the illusions of grandeur and immortality that fell apart to the inevitable change.
To the common folk, the Shrouded Ones are terrifying specters that lurk in shadow and the corner of one's vision. Bogeymen that appear in scary stories or are blamed for sudden issues and disasters. They are saboteurs, spies and assassins, existing to upset the balance and control of fluid-loving factions. The tampering of needed weapons before a battle, the sudden death of an important figure, the unexplainable destruction of a fluid reserve, all stuff blamed upon the Shrouded Ones. There is a reason why the Shrouded Ones were amongst the list of suspects when the Pontiff of Blood died, yet not all of it is their fault. That is the terror of their ghostly ways, the uncertainty within their beloved chaos. It would be too easy if everything was their doing, making them the perfect villains to blame. Yet plenty of failings are caused by the institutions themselves, so no one can really be sure who is at fault. And that is the point, to see the cracks in the foundation, to understand how easily it can all come tumbling down. There is chaos in the world, there are things we will never be able to control. One must accept that and know that anyone who promises the opposite is lying through their teeth.
Another reason why the Shrouded Ones have a reputation of paranoia and fear is because of their appearance and abilities. Their bodies are completely covered in robes of shed skin, looking like pale phantoms peering out from the shadows. The vows they took have completely dissolved their human body, turning them into ever shifting beings. Many Shrouded Ones are tall, lanky and twisted in impossible ways, for they are no longer bound by flesh. They are shapeshifters beneath it all, able to mold their unknown essence into different forms at any time. Thus they move in inhuman ways, calling upon different limbs and mangling themselves into impossible shapes. Those who have tried to fight them can attest to this, as the Shrouded Ones refuse to remain in a single constant state. Limbs stretch and bend to absurd degrees, bodies may flatten or bulge in ways to throw off attacks. Glimpses of blackened "flesh" between cracks in their robes, their essence taking temporary form to gain an advantage. Legs like beetles to suddenly scurry away, hands like bird talons to seize foes, gnashing maws on wrong places of the body to chew through flesh, the Shrouded Ones take on any form they wish to win this battle. Trained warriors struggle to keep up with such an enemy, the target ever changing and attacking in impossible ways. And that isn't even bringing up the dust.
The renouncement of all fluids is a vow the Shrouded Ones take very seriously, as they refuse to imbibe in a single drop. To those who know the power of the Humors, this seems like a stupid idea. See what the energeiai can do, witness the incredible magic and abilities granted by this divine liquid. The Humors are wielded by man in spells, making them devastating weapons, yet the Shrouded Ones have thrown this all away. With no fluid comes no magic, and that seems like a major handicap. However, they have their own weavings to make up for this. They may not use Humor, but they have something else: dust. The ceaseless skin of the Lindwyrms eventually breaks down into a dust, and the Shrouded Ones have learned how to wield it. It is a powerful desiccant that dries out everything it touches, which they use to inflict the same restrictions upon their foes. A blast of Lindwyrm dust will dry up any exposed liquid and clouds of the stuff will snuff out spells that come in contact with it. With the right usage, the Shrouded Ones can rob enemies of their Humor magic, trapping them in choking environments that drain their precious fluids. And when they struggle to get their bearings, the assassin strikes from the dust.
That isn't the only thing their dust can do, for the Shrouded Ones are masters of a unique form of magic: Echoing. It is the use of collected dust or old memory to shape the desiccant into "echos" of different entities. It can be people they have encountered, beasts they have slain, anything that they can call upon to summon these ethereal phantoms. These dusty ghosts last for mere moments, only long enough to let loose an attack or two before dissipating. It may not seem like a lot, but the damage they inflict is very real, even if the "blade" they wield is a dusty hollow copy. Shrouded Ones use staves and vessels of cracked eggs to cast this echo magic, assaulting foes with a barrage of ethereal attacks. Fighters will struggle to even keep track of the assassin as they are constantly faced with vanishing blades and ghostly beasts. The older and stronger the Shrouded One, the more complex echos they can summon, though some may content themselves with simply summoning more of the basic ones to bury foes under sheer numbers. Echoing is only used by them because it calls for the complete renouncement of fluids, and almost constant exposure to Lindwyrm skin and dust. Pretty much impossible to pull off with those who still have liquid pumping through their existing veins.
Such a permanent vow and formless life seems daunting to most people, leaving them to wonder why someone would ever choose such a path. Because being a Shrouded One is not easy, as it calls for strong will and the constant battle to keep oneself existing. Their bodies are shaped by their minds, maintained by their purpose. Doubt and depression will result in physical symptoms, a loss of control over their very essence. Bouts of emotional distress can leave them writhing on the ground like a malformed blob, and if they are not brought back to a point of stability will be under the threat of dissipating into nothing. It is why Shrouded Ones look out for one another, ensuring each has an anchor to hold onto in times of worry and woe. But still, why choose this path? Once the veil is put on, there is no going back. A normal life is impossible, your very presence now a threat to those around you. Why throw it all away? But that is assuming they had anything to discard in the first place.
Those who choose this fate may renounce the fluids because they were already abandoned by them. There are many in this world who slip through the cracks, who are left behind or forgotten. Those who do not get the same blessings as the others, those who are denied happiness and comfort. Some may have known the feelings before, but had it all ripped way from them. What good is the fluid to them? Why cling to an idea that doesn't want them? Some have come to the side of the Lindwyrms because of failing bodies and incurable disease, wishing to abandon the flesh to survive. The serpents accept all who are willing to take such a plunge, for they too are the outcasts of their dead empire. Each new soul means another to their cause, and at least another to keep them company in their misery. Maybe the day will come when enough of them can make a difference, can finally make people listen. The dependency of the fluids must be broken, the addiction must end. And it isn't just in fear of the new liquid that falls from the sky. The lindwyrms hold visions of emptiness above, when the sky ceases to weep. What will happen then, when there is no choice left for man?
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boopboopboop we interrupt this posting line up to drop a quick, yet important, thingy. We will return to the regular scheduled livestock and nothorses in just a few moments.
(It is always funny how my brain puts off designs like these being "oh its too complicated, oh its too hard I got to be in the right headspace to pull this off" but then the fact comes that I need to post one thing first to make the other make sense and then its suddenly "alright here we go.")
The creatures of this world have been shown to offer many things. Wondrous gifts of meat, bone, chitin, hair and fluids. They carry our goods and even ourselves. Of the livestock and steeds that man relies on, they invoke many things within. Pride in a healthy herd, joy in a trusted companion. Creatures that embody ruggedness, reliance and plenty. Some bring happiness with their cute appearance, others confidence in their instincts and abilities. But there are few beasts out there that invoke what the bonnacon does, and that is "disgust." Sure, there may be some livestock handlers are wary of, or people are outright terrified of. Some may bring bodily harm if angered, others could inflict environmental damage if left unchecked. But there is at least some semblance of respect within those fears, acknowledgement of power and potential. The bonnacon is.....well...just plain gross to most people.
The species has a horribly misshapen look to it, like the creature couldn't decide if it wanted to be mammal or insect. Its mottled, slick flesh hangs in loose clumps, with sparse sickly hairs sprouting from head, back and limb. It trots about on six legs, snuffling through the Rot with its warty snout. Stiff curled horns sprout from its head like antennae, though their actual purpose is not yet known. Its whole body reeks with putrid decay, somehow even stronger than the fecal swamps they dwell in. Yet these are not the traits the bonnacon is infamous for. Pretty much everyone who has heard the name "bonnacon" knows exactly what it is all about. Just look to its swollen rear end, and pray you never have to experience the actual event yourself.
The bonnacon's body is filled with Rot and Yellow Bile, both fluids the reason for, and the result of, its diet. They hang around rotted lands like fecal swamps, grazing upon the horrible growths and muck that is found there. Grinding teeth for vegetation and a long snout for slurping up gunk, and all of it is sent into its expandable gut. Within is a Yellow Bile furnace that breaks it all down, turning even the most putrid garbage into nutrients. Yet even this mess is too foul to perfectly sanitize, and its trip down the digestive tract results in excessive amounts of gas, Rot and other nasty byproducts. What is made and slowly digested is stuffed into its rear end, a bloated abdomen that swells as it eats. As the bonnacon goes about its grazing, its huge bowel grows and glows with a sickly rotted light. It is working long and hard to strain every bit of nutrients hidden in the filth, and once it is all depleted, it is released. Gods be merciful that you aren't anywhere near the beast when this occurs.
When it is time to "clean house," the bonnacon releases the built up fluid and waste from its abdomen in a single powerful blast. Gunk slathered in Rot and Yellow Bile is launched from its rear, coating the area behind it. The spray is so noxious in its stench that people swear you could go blind from it, but that isn't the worst part. That would be the flaming feces that are flying through the air, the burning slop able to eat through armor and flesh. The mixture of Rot and Yellow Bile makes the liquidy dung like acid, burning everything it touches and even staying potent for hours after it has been expelled. Those who are splattered with it face terrible pain as it burns through protective layers and skin, demanding the victim to wash the area clean as soon as possible. But even if one is quick to douse the fiery fudge, the battle is not yet over. Medicine and disinfectants are vitally needed, as the putrid payload is rife with bacteria and other nasty bugs. Infection is guaranteed if not quickly treated, and it still requires heavy doses of sanitizing Yellow Bile, healing Phlegm and invigorating Blood to clean the wound and ward off necrosis. This is only for those who are splashed with a little bit of this bowel bomb. Those directly in the blast zone are written off as dead, because there is no real coming back from that. Pray that the destructive doo-doo finishes you off quickly, as there is no medicine that will be able to fight off that full body infection, and certainly no healer that will let you within five miles of their ward. Not with that stench!
Obviously, the bonnacon is nobody's favorite, as it is a species that is seen as pure Rot, stench and pestilence. Even if it doesn't carry any actual plagues in its gut, its nasty nature is enough to make people assume it does. They point to folk who get visibly sick when in its presence, see how they grow pale, how they puke and shiver! Of course, this isn't because of any disease, it is just their powerful stench that gets people gagging. But why would anyone ever get close to one? In truth, very few people do. However, it has unfortunately been found that the bonnacon actually has some useful bits. Its Yellow Bile, once filtered of gunk, creates long lasting flame when used with dried dung fuel, and it has strong sanitizing properties. Its flesh is an excellent fertilizer, but the real winner in that department is its feces. The burning butt brew is good at destroying, but once it cools off, it is loaded with nutrients for plants and growths. Spray a load of this caustic crap over an overgrown field and its heat will kill all unwanted weeds and even fry seeds hiding in the soil. The land will be cleared and prepped with the fertilizer, making it the perfect place to plant crops. Fields that utilize bonnacon dung show better harvest and less intruding plants to steal resources. And since that is a good thing, that unfortunately means someone has to go get it. The harvesting of a bonnacon's anal ammo is one of the grossest jobs around. The gooey goods do fetch a high price, but there isn't enough coin in the land for any man to make a career from it.
Thankfully, the wormfolk seem to get along with the bonnacon, and they may keep a few like livestock. Folks buy it from them, which spares them the misery of fetching it themselves. However, you should still wear clothes you are willing to burn once you are done hauling it to your field. And that cart is going too, because you aren't getting that stink out. You could pay extra for a wormfolk caravan to bring the fertilizer to your place, leaving the handling up to them. There are traveling carts of the dung that offer that service, though obviously they are found far from any city or town. The stench that comes off of them makes the eyes water, and many travelers will quickly change routes if they catch wind of one sharing a road with them. Well, most do. Some daring souls are actually happy to travel close to one of these wormfolk caravans, because the odor is so unbelievably awful that even bandits pack up shop and head for the hills.
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You knew it had to happen eventually, right? The bonnacon is way too fitting of an idea for FOI to be left out. So here is a horrible cow/bug version of it! If you want the more lore accurate version, go to KotWT's one!
Oliphants are a well known group of beasts in this land, especially since the Saddleback Oliphant is a domesticated species. Used for pulling carts or carrying people, it is hard not to be noticed in such roles. So common of a sight they are, that it makes people think that the Saddleback is the only oliphant species used in such a way. This is untrue, as there are others that have been employed by man. However, since many of these cases are in other lands, most folk don't see it. But there is one species that has shown up in the land of gold to show this variety. The Razorback Oliphant is another member of the oliphant family that has been used as a mount or beast of burden, though some may argue on how "domesticated" it is.
The Razorback Oliphant can be easily distinguished from its cousins with a single look. Instead of the gray, leathery skin, they are coated in a short, bristly brown fur. Their tusks also are less curved and jut straight up from their skulls. Their trunk is thinner then most, though it is still used for slurping up their food. They travel in small herds, though their range is shifted a bit more north than the likes of the Saddleback. This species leans more towards colder climates, hence the furry skin. They can live in warmer places, but most of their numbers are located further north.
Razorbacks have an interesting relationship with man, as they can be used as a beast of burden, but most of their population remains wild. They have gained the descriptors of "wild" and "feral" by some, as bits of this nature can still be seen in those that are trained. Some instincts remain and stubbornness can turn to aggression if care is not taken. When agitated they will not hesitate to slap annoyances with their trunk, or even prod them with their tusks. This behavior feeds into their "wild" reputation, with some folks feeling that a trained Razorback is just a few bad days away from throwing off their saddles and fleeing back into the wilderness.
For some, however, their rugged and wild nature is a positive. They are a hardier species that doesn't need constant care, and their surviving instincts can be helpful when in unknown territory. The extra bit of aggression in them helps them fend for themselves or be more locked in during hostile encounters. Thus the Razorback is seen more in use out in the wilds, though this may add another stain to their reputation for more "civilized" folk. What also doesn't help is the fact that they are often the steed of choice for raiders, their image further tainted by this association. But folks far from the big cities swear by the Razorbacks and get a bit of pride from the fact that this species is too rough for the "fancy folk."
Since most of their population is wild, the Razorback is also hunted by man. They are taken down for their flesh, hide and bones, a fine prize for any hunter. They are worthy prey to claim, for that same rugged nature means they put up a fight. When attacked, the Razorback is more keen on fighting back than running away, and it is those tusks it relies on. These oliphants will charge with their heads down, looking to gore foes on these toothy blades. A simple weapon and plan, sure, but their hardy nature can mean they don't fall as fast as one would hope. Hunters confident in their kill may be surprised as the Razorback ignores its grievous wounds and continues its charge, gutting their killers with their last breaths. Thus one should take extra precautions when going on a Razorback hunt, as underestimating their "prey" can mean death.
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jacobvanloon
romaincrisis
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