#shkif lore

[shadowsif]

A small update, a bit of lore

Hi!

Everything is crazy and the next whole chapter has taken a lot more time than I wanted. Schoolwork has been more time consuming than before.. I'm going to update the game this Sunday but it will mostly be a updates and corrections. It will however involve one or two scenes that will bridge the gap between the timeskip years. If you do not want to play it there I'll include those bits here as well. The first it below.

Hope you enjoy!

Lore

Pre- Ch 1

The candle burns on the table, even with the setting sun illuminating enough of the classroom for the Matriach to read to them. It’s an old book, not terribly large but the way she carries it in reverently, makes all of you pay attention. Usually she only has books for you to read from, torn and friendly to be dropped and tossed around. She sits down on her cozy armchair looking down on the book, petting the front cover with one wrinkly finger before lifting the mask of her face to you all. You all wait quietly as she takes the time to meet all of you with the blackness of her eyes. This lesson feels different than all the others before. Usually her stories and lessons of old history are told as you settle down in your beds, soothing you down to sleep.

“Tonight, I’m going to tell you a story. A piece of history you might think you know but you are young and mislead. And we know more, for we are old and have been here for as long as there have been people.” Her tone is serious as she opens the book, you spy faded handwriting filling the pages.

A king lived in a castle, the ruins you’ve seen outside of the city. Tall and wide were its walls, protecting from the outside threats. They thought they were safe. But strong walls were made to keep people out, not keep those inside safe from each other. For the king in his glory had grown creedy, careless and uncaring of the world outside his own circle. He’d asked, demanded and threatened more and more, his people giving and giving what they could. The nobles and those of the clergy not yet thrown and banished hoped he’d change, grow and become like his mother. They waited decades as the city and the country started to fall apart. As people died and suffered and pleaded all of it went unheard or uncared for. Finally, they were asked to give once more and it was no one had anything left to give .

So, they had had enough and stormed the castle, led by the lesser nobles in yellows, grays and greens. Merchants and smiths and shoemakers and bakers and all of those whose houses were falling apart and children went hungry and children's children's perished in their cradles.

The king did not run. Arrogant and proud to the last breath. As was his wife and sons and daughters. Together through the good times. Together burned and buried in the spit upon soil in the Weeping Willow Grove. Buried in the woods where once a magnificent garden bloomed and now creeped and grew eerily outwards year after year. Sick willows for no one was left to care for them, growing unnaturally but always taking over the grounds. Cullings of the tall, dark barked trees spewed smoke over the whole city every spring, darkening the sky for a week.

Change is not always fast; change is not always what people have wanted. Or needed. Things got better, then worse and then better as things tend to do. Years, decades and centuries later and things are what they are. Stanswick has had no king in all that time, has had no need for it.

“What of the shadows? What of us?” Someone asks, a whisper of a question that pulls Matron out of her tale.

“What of us? What of the Order back then? We are still here, still in the shadows and doing our work. Not for the crown, no. But for the city, for the country and for the people.” She pauses, her head turning to the windows and the sun that has almost set. The shadows growing as the light fades, painting the stone walls orange and yellow. Like a great fire in the east. A shiver runs through your spine as she turns back, turns to look at all of you.

“We do what we need to do to live and to see our Order flourish. That is what you need to remember from this tale. A king is no king if he doesn’t have the people’s hearts, if he casts a shadow too dark for anything to grow and flourish.”

You think about it. About the tales of old and the glory and prosperity of the city when every part of the world worked together under one crown. Some mourn for the days gone while some spit when talking about the king that once lived.

You don’t know what the difference between king and a noble house holding rule over the city and the lands around are. You have never met the latter and the former no longer exists. Does it matter who calls the shots when they are not the ones falling down? You’re too young to be bitter the way the old people are, though you know far too well the life on the streets when one has nothing.

Dinner bell rings and you are ushered out. Matron stays behind, you glance over your shoulder and see her look out the window. You think you should go to her, ask a question or two. There’s more to the tale but Hede distracts you and pulls you into a conversation about the food that’s waiting for you.

You let the thought disappear and focus on the now. You are after all a child and the present is more important than the past.

[shadowsif]

Have a little winter story

(MC and Hede around 12-13? just a little something because I felt like writiting. :))

There’s a candle gently burning on the window sill, it does nothing against the snow storm and freezing winds outside the thin window. Luckily you are not there. Instead you are wrapped in a warm blanket, holding a warm mug of honeyd water and listening to the stories and songs echoing around the room. Hede, the asshole, is lounging under your blanket and smushing your hangin legs with their ridiculously skinny and long body when you complained. Every one and then you see their pale hand sneak out and grab a few of the dried apples that they had claimed from the dinner table. When you had tried to tug at the blanket, to have it to yourself wholly, the ensuing tug-of-war had made few of the younger kids antsy and Matron had almost risen from her chair. Scared for your well being a truce had been established, for as long as few teenagers could keep it. There’s a lull in the stories and one of the kids looks at you two.

“Stories?” the girl asks, hope in her dark eyes as she shuffles closer. You shake your head. You don’t remember any stories, nor songs before your time inside these walls. You have no childhood memories to tell that would suit little ears like hers. You feel a gentle pat on your leg and then Hede’s white blond hair peaks out from under the blanket.

“I have one. It’s about a winter gift,” Hede grins and sits up, arranging themselves to sit leaning against your legs, wrapping the edge of the blanket around their shoulders. The girl as well as few others, look at them, eager. Hede clears their throat, making a show of it before beginning.

“In the far up north, where the snowstorms like this are much more common and the dark lasts even longer, lived a little girl with her parents. They were woodcutters, poor but kind. One time just after a horrible storm the girl was sitting outside, fetching fire wood to keep the cabin warm while her parents were away. A small red robin landed on the branch near her. In a weak voice the bird begged her for a crumb of food. It had been a long and hard winter and all the berries in the forest were gone. Either eaten or buried by the snow.

The girl looked at the bird and while they were struggling she was kind and helpful and so told the bird to wait. She went inside with her fire wood and opened their pantry door. Carefully she took out her napkin and brushed all the loose crumbs of their bread on it. It was a meager amount so without thinking she opened the butter jar, scooping some of it to go with the bread.

‘thank you, sister,’ the bird chirped and sang a little song to her after eating everything she had gathered for it. The girl smiled and her cheeks were the same colour as the robin’s feathers. With a few more bits of song the bird flew away.

When her parents came home, she told them what had happened. Her father, a silent man, sighed and patted her head before going to bed without dinner. Her mother shook her head but advised that bread crumbs and butter were not good food for a bird, even a talking one.

The next day she waved goodbye to her parents. After doing all her chores, she gathered her knitting and settled by the window to wait. And wait. And wait. The sun started to set and they were still not home. Worried but not yet panicking, she made dinner. Then ate it. And watched as the world became dark. She waited all night and when the sun came up again, she was ready by first light. There was a little red robin waiting for her.

‘breakfast, sister?’ the bird chirped but this time she shook her head.

‘my parents are still in the woods. I have to find them.’ she tells the bird but tugs into her bag and pulls her meager bread and tears a bit off. She holds it out and the robin lands on her hand, starting to tear even smaller pieces out. An errant thought invades her mind, that she could just close her hand and she would have the little birds life in her hand. She lets the bird finish and then looks up as it takes flight.

‘I will go and find them for you, sister,” it chirps and flies away. She looks at the clear skies and then her home and stays behind. And waits. When the sky turns red and her tears have run out there’s sounds outside. She runs and crashes into her fathers strong, but cold arms. Her mother wraps herself around them both and she finds more tears behind her eyes.

That night the cabin is warm and she finds that she still fits between her in their bed. The next morning she waits with their last dried summer berries for her little robin. It comes and lands on her hands, singing as it eats. After she thanks and promises to always find something to give. The robin lands on her shoulder, nuzzles her neck and then chirps.

‘i don’t need no more of your help. For I am not a little bird but your brother, lost many winters ago. I have flown from far up high to see you one more time and thank you for looking after the helpless in their need.’ a small peck, like a brothers kiss on the cheek and then the robin flies up to the sky one last time.”

Hede ends the tale and there is silence. Then someone sniffles and the Matron is up from her chair and comforting the weeping little kid. You give Hede a little kick.

“It didn’t have to be so sad a story,” you mutter, hoping you two are not in trouble for upsetting the little ones. Hede hisses at the kick but turns their stupid face up and grins at you.

“I’m from the north, at least my parents were. We have few happy tales to share and I like that one. It ends happily, doesn’t it?”

You set down your mug, now empty, and tackle them. The ensuing wrestle match turns into a pillow fight which turns out happily for everyone. Namely you won.

(Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed the little story. If you know the poem this is vaguely based on give a shout out ;) happy holidays!)

[shadowsif]

Missing years pt1

Bits going up with the update for today. my internet has been less wonky and more of an eldritch beast demanding attention and prayers

As time went by...

You stare at the lines your chalk made on the small board. That is your name. Made with clean strokes, readable. You don't have to guess or hesitate while reading or writing it. You grin, wipe it away and start again

The cold seeps into your bones, the pile of blankets and the roaring fire not doing much to help with it. You sneeze, head full, nose running and miserable. A gentle hand pats your head, tugging a clammy strand of hair out of your eyes. A humming song tides you back to sleep as gentle, maternal hands chase the nightmares away.

The swords clash against each other. Hede has a manic grin as you jump out of the way of the next swipe. $HeShe brandishes the sword and comes at you with a wild yell. You refuse to yelp, to back down as the weapons hit against each other with more force. You're sweating under the summer sun, so is Hede. It doesn't stop either of you going at each other with fervor, with taunts and grins. Until a yell calls you back inside for a meal time and afternoon lessons. You allow Hede to tug you under $hisher arm as you toss the sticks back to the tree you found them under.

More time passes. You grow, get new clothes and learn to read through the pages put in front of you. You have time to climb, run and play, never feeling hungry or scared for your life again. The time Hede and you scaled the outside of the protective walls not included. You learned a few skills to do while sitting still in the months after. Your broken leg healed.

[shadowsif]

What would mask customization look like?

There will be an attempt to insert the lore/reasons behind why masks look like that in the first place. But it will become later and at this point to me it will be a bit spoilery so I'm a little reluctant to share it. Sorry :/

I want to give you some options about what kind of mask and how they are painted/decorated. Unfortunately giving complete creative freedom probably isn't feasible. This will happen in chapter 2 (or 3 if you count the prologue as the first one) when the MC is an adult.

I might ask for input closer to that, to gauge the interest on type of design people like. Feel free to imagine/draw your own. I'll try to leave a few of them at least a little vague.

I was going to make a quick answer. Instead have some visuals..

Pictures under cut

Something like this as a simple version. Could be without any paints at all.

Maybe something like this, though it's a bit more sinister for what I have written of the order this far.

A bit fancier, a venetian mask. Maybe to suit your future relationships and status better?

The point is a whole face mask, with the white background and unique, if that's what they want, painting in black mostly but few accent colours can be added.

This is one of the inspiration picture I used while crafting the idea. Unfortunately the pics are from Pinterest so I haven't put them up anywhere else 'cause I can't find the original artist. If you know/find them then please link it to me!

[shadowsif]

Proposal (Darin+Kallas)

As promised, I was bit by a writing bug so have a little backstory drabble that hopefully clears their relationship up a little.

The tea is warm and herbal, meant to help her get rid of the headache that has nagged Kallas since the early afternoon. The warm, wet heat outside had certainly done no favours in that regard. The water bath to her feet, the tea and the soft silky layers of her robe were further helping her relax and settle down along with the sun. Kallas eyes the papers at her desk, small and compact for travel and always running out of space but decides against it. Reports, maps, and plans can wait for one night. Or at least long enough that the throbbing goes away and nothing disastrous happens. She’s not even halfway through the cup when Darin marches in. Clearly, he’s spent too many hours with his soldiers as he doesn’t have even the decency to knock or otherwise announce his arrival. Kallas raises an eyebrow and sets her cup on the desk.

“Do knock in the future, what if I had been indecent?” She asks, crossing her legs and making sure that the robe slips a bit from her shoulders, that the slit opens to reveal a bare leg up to her knee. Darin looks at her, stops and covers his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I did not think, I just…” he stumbles over his apology and Kallas raises her other brow as well. Her friend’s shoulders are sagged, his usually put together look that made him look regal to strangers’ eyes was wrinkly, and was that a stain on his lapel?

“It’s fine. When did you sleep last? You look exhausted, my dear,” she rises from her plush seat and walks to him, a gentle tug from his elbow and she’s escorting him to her seat. He collapses into it, head in his hands as Kallas goes to her secret stash and pours a strong drink for him. Darin takes it and almost downs the whole drink in one.

“I don’t have time to sleep, to think. And now my mother is hounding me,” he sighs and slumps backwards, face turned to the ceiling, eyes closed. Kallas tops his glass, silently then leans against her dress, taking her cup. Darin looks exhausted, older than he should. They are neither even thirty years old and if she looks closely she can spot a few grey hairs at his temples. So far Darin has managed to avoid physical scars, but the mental ones might hound him far to the future. This all when they are only after one battle that could turn out into years long campaign.

“Why is she doing now? Is this war not enough for her and her honour?” she barely manages to hide her sneer behind the steaming cup. The woman was a menace and good luck for anyone who married into the family.

“I, according to her, should marry to form stronger alliances with the north. Or the south. Or anyone really,” Darin groans and Kallas reaches over to gently pat his shorn hair.

“I did not know that things were that bad. All the reports and people I have spoken to make our chances favourable,” she pauses and tugs his ear gently, “make you favourable to all the others pursuing the crown.” Before she can retreat, he snatches her hand, big warm hand cradling her slender one. His lips are dry, cracked from the sun as he kisses her palm.

“They are not. But according to her, and I hate that she is right, it would look better if I had a wife with a stronger claim to one of the lands. To gain support,” Darin sighs almost letting go of her hand but then looking up at her, eyes widening and smile starting to spread.

“You could marry me.” He breathes out, an almost silent exclamation like he had found salvation. Kallas huffs and tries to pull her hand away.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You will be a king someday. You need someone with more stellar reputation.”

“You are a stellar reputation! You have the connections, the standing and while true your family has no lineage to claim noble origins they were respected and so are you,” Darin stands up, one hand rushing to put his glass away and the other landing heavily on Kallas’ shoulder. She looks up at him, towering over her, and he surely must strike a heroic figure to follow to those who don’t know him like she does. To her, in this moment, he looks like the earnest teenager who had offered to show her around the library when everyone else had turned their noses at her, at her lack of noble family. Part of her wants to agree immediately, give him everything he wants, as he so deserves. They are not teenagers anymore, don’t have the luxury of making mistakes and getting away, laughing about them later.

“You know I can’t,” she turns her head away, can’t look at him anymore. “You will need children someday. That’s not something I can do for you,” she whispers. Silence and the roughened but gentle hand takes hold of her chin, tipping it up, forcing Kallas to look at him.

“I don’t care about that. You are the closest one I have on this plane, I would travel over the seas for you,” Darin’s voice is low, husky from exhaustion from the drink. From the confession. “If I’m forced to marry, to have a wife, I can’t think of no one better. I’d give anything you want to make you happy.” A smile, soft sincere one. “You are my wife in practice already. Looking after my household, my affairs.”

A laugh escapes her, “Financing your war and keeping you clothed and armoured so you can claim what you must is hardly the same as running a household.”

“Then agree. When this is over, when we arrive at Stanswick be the queen for me. For the betterment of everyone. I know I can trust you not to run off with all the coins in the kingdom if given the key,” he looks at her, still smiling. Kallas sighs, takes hold of the hand holding her face.

“No promises,” she winks, and he laughs. It is good to hear, it has been weeks since the last time he laughed from the heart. Then she turns serious again, squeezing his fingers, “I will not share your bed, and even if I did, I can’t give you a child,” she reminds him again. Darin shakes his head and kisses her forehead.

“I don’t care about that. You are my friend, closest one I have ever had. Besides,” his tone lowers dangerously low, “I think it will be best for the world if there are no child to continue this bloodline.”

There’s not much else for her to do but hug him tightly. “You would be a good father, despite…”

“Let’s not talk about that. Not now,” he interrupts her and steps away from the hug. Eyes stern, mouth a tight line he goes down on one knee.

“Kallas, of the Western seas, will you marry me and in be crowned the queen by my side when the time comes?” he asks, and she wants to laugh or cry. Both perhaps? She does neither, and kneels in front of him.

“I will marry you, but remember our past and your promises,” she says holding the same serious tone, watching as he takes her hand, kissing her knuckles. The kiss is barely more than a brush of lips, but it was more of a proposal than she had ever hoped for.

“I’ll inform my mother and others, and I’m sorry but I can’t give you the grand feast that you’d deserve,” he says and Kallas can see her old friend once more, instead of the would-be-king he tries to be. She lets Darin help her up from the floor.

“Under the circumstances that is acceptable. But I the engagement gift better be worth it for me to leave my adventurous days, sailing the seas behind me,” she smiles, and he gifts her with his second laugh of the evening. They toast with their respective glasses and the night turns darker as they sit, drink and talk.

Hope you liked this, and thank you for reading <3 As always my ask box is open.

[shadowsif]

I made mood boards for the different "countries" of the world. It's a bit more complicated than that but at the prologue of the story MC is still a child with no education so only has vague ideas what the world has to offer.

this has nothing to do with the fact that i suck at names and will put coming up with them as long as possible

Made with canva so all images are free of copyright so I had a bit of difficulty of finding what I really wanted. So these are more of a vibe than an actual representation of the culture they depict.