Your search for ancient artifacts and relics has brought you to Tyrannia. It is only your first day in the land. The region seems to be a relic in itself, for even the "urban" areas are dominated by nature. Most of the population still lives in rudimentary stone or clay dwellings.
Unfortunately, you have found yourself in the dire position of losing sight of the city. The sun was setting, igniting the sky on the desert's horizon. To those in the city, it would be a beautiful sight. However, to you, it is a dispiriting sign that the freezing and impenetrable desert night would soon be at large. If you don't find shelter soon, you will freeze by morning. Frantically, your eyes scan the horizon for any sight of shelter. You are greeted with unimaginable relief as you spot a small hut silhouetted on the horizon. The candle-lit windows confirm that someone is home. A chilling wind reminds you that your time is limited, and you press forward.
The hut is despairingly unimpressive, much like most of the lower-class Tyrannian houses. It is crudely constructed entirely of clay, covered by a simple straw roof. Not the most protective, you think, but then again, the Tyrannian climate is not the wettest. Reluctantly, you walk through the doorless entrance into a room glowing from the embers of a dying hearth. Immediately, your collector's eye is drawn to the many antique, tribal-looking artifacts on wooden shelves bordering the whole room. This is most likely one of the many run-down shops the locals run to scrape up extra cash.
Hello?" you call, and knock on the wall.
The clay cracks a bit, and small chips fall onto the ground. Hopefully the owner won't notice. You begin inspecting the damage, and are so absorbed that you fail to notice the dark figure in the doorway.
What do you want?" the figure says.
Startled, you quickly turn your head. It must have been turned too fast, because an excruciating ache shoots down your neck and makes your skull ache.
As it walks into the fire's light, you can see that it is some sort of reptilian species, hunched with age. By now, night has approached, and even the fire does not lift the shadows from the shopkeeper.
I seek shelter from the night, and perhaps a spot around your fire until morning," you reply. "No bed is necessary."
The shopkeeper remains silent.
I may repay your hospitality by purchasing one of your antiquities in the morning," you add.
The shopkeeper's interest piques, and you hoped that his generosity is, also. He nods, and gestures to the fire. You thank him, and settle by the dying fire. Light dances upon a peculiar looking book on the shelf across from you. You decide to inquire about it in the morning.
~~~~~~~~~~
Sir, I wish to inquire about a book on your shelves," you announce. The keeper nods, and leads you back to the other room without taking off his blanket. What a peculiar fellow. Once in the main room, you point out the tome.
A tattered book lay on the shelf, its leather cover curling from the heat and its pages stained brown and orange with age. The remnants of a frayed Airax feather are still bound to the makeshift spine: a yellow rib from a cryptic animal. It was obviously bound by an amateur, as no respectable bookbinder would release such a volume. Peculiar petroglyphs have been sloppily painted on the leather cover. Perhaps it is, or was, some sort of crude diary. Your senses tell you that it holds some sort of significance, and its apparent age kindles your interest.
Yesss, thiss book." the shopkeeper hisses. He pulls it off the shelf and flips through the crackling pages. Something tells you that treating the book that rough is unwise.
Thiss was brought in by a middle-aged fellow. He was one of the native Grarrlsss of the area, until the area was settled." Grarrl? You were unsure of the keeper's species, but his words stimulated your memory. Grarrls are rare outside of Tyrannia, and the keeper's long, tapered tail, bipedal stance, and hooked claws suggest that he is one. The shopkeeper continues,
"He renounced hiss old life in the form of thisss diary, as well as hisss hunting weaponss. Thesssse may be the only surviving relicsss from the nomadic Grarrlss of the desert. They were quite elussssive, from what I hear." He gives the book to you as he pulls a peculiar item off of another shelf. The item the shopkeeper seeks seems to be jammed; the old Grarrl is struggling to pull it off. This is going to take a while...
You decide to take a look at the old book while you wait. Gently, you pry the browned pages apart to the first page. Disappointment rushes over you as you see that it is written in the same petroglyph language as on the cover, until you spot a translation on the second half of the page. Thankfully, the author was bilingual...
My name in the common tongue is Creteus. I have felt the need to commit my life to paper for my own use: I am growing old and my memory will soon be gone. At the time of this writing, my mind already expresses difficulty conjuring the fine details of my exploits. If any of my tribal kin are alive and reading, I wish you prosperity and a better fate.
I can only recall scant fragments of my youngest years; in our tribe, parents stop taking care of their children at a very young age, so I do not remember anything about them at all. After that brief period, children hang on the outskirts of the tribe.
Training began as soon as the hatchling had his first meat and thus was abandoned by his parents. Males like myself were taught to hunt and defend camp. During training, I was taught to hunt and fight with the spear, club, and sling. These weapons were never my greatest strength, for my talent lay with the atlal.
The Atlatl is a simple weapon in concept. It is composed of a hollowed out rod of wood, with a U-shaped cross-section. The end is hooked or cupped, so a spear (known as a dart) may be nocked into place. Once the dart was nocked, the user would use an overhead swing of the arm to cast the dart forward. One would have to gain enough leverage to send the dart flying at a high velocity. Otherwise, it would just uselessly clatter to the ground. A dart properly casted could spear any prey in sight. Desert hunts occurred daily, for the scarce bounty produced by a hunt would only last the whole tribe about a day. Common Airax birds, when plucked and eaten raw, would be our only source of food. We followed, tracked, and hunted only one large flock.
After training is where my current memories seem to begin. I can remember great tension brewing in my mind. I was having dreams of freedom, of flying through the air without a care, like the birds I hunted. Once a full warrior, my unrest with the clan only grew over the cycles, with every move of our camp. I loved the process of moving, feeling my feet on the sand. However, the tender feelings were quickly smothered when I looked up at the horizon and saw the same stretch of red sand, the same cloudless blue sky. It was all the same in the desert; every grain of sand was simply stretched out over a distance. I will never forget the monotony.
So my frustration grew...
It was only my second or third hunt. A small flock of Airax birds was scared into the sky by a partner, and their piercing shrieks echoed throughout the badlands as other hunters casted their darts and slung their stones. As I brought out my atlatl and nocked a dart into place, I felt a push as my atlatl was knocked from my claws. I turned to see who disarmed me, but found only a bold Airax staring at me with persistence in her beady eyes. I attempted to pick up my weapon, only to have my hand sliced by the Airax's claws. Fearing that this was some sort of omen, I gave up and returned to camp. I was weaponless and preyless, which I thought was the cause of the strange looks from the rest of the tribe. Only the mothers continued their work: disciplining their children with swift bites to the snout.
I failed to detect the little Airax following me on the ground, walking home behind me. Muffled laughter filled my ears, which to anyone but a Grarrl sounds like hundreds of distressed serpents. For a single moment, I was over the edge. The laughter died down. I wondered why they had stopped. As my eyes wandered, I noticed the Airax, gasping for air on an unfinished spear. Tiny splinters were poking out of my palm. Out of fear of myself, I hastened to the Elder's tent,
only to be immediately banished.
He said I was arrogant for hating my tribe's lifestyle. I was to collect my mind outside of the tribe, where I could not hurt my people as I hurt that bird. I had injured people, and I needed to let them heal, also.
His words would be discarded soon after my journey began.
I decided to start healing myself by healing the Airax. I named her for those dreams I used to have about flying like a bird. Spirit and dream were the same word in my tongue, so she was known as Spirit Bird.
I was transfixed by the sight of the endless desert... it made me uneasy to journey away from my former tribe's normal migratory routes, at first. But as I realized that I no place to go, and every reason to go, the uneasiness drifted away.
My tribe typically didn't advocate the keeping of pet animals. Making friends with the prey makes them difficult to hunt. I never planned to eat her, but keeping her seemed to be some sort of violation of my teachings. So, I came up with a compromise: If she healed, I would train her to be a hunting bird. If she did not , I would eat well that night.
For a good day I just wandered around with Spirit Bird in my arms, slowly realizing the direness of my situation. I left camp with no food, no water, no weapon, and no idea where to go. My body began to realize my hunger. Holding a wounded prey item didn't help. I had to start moving forward at some point. There was only one place I could think of: the dark mountain over the desert.
After a moon cycle of walking and feeding only on dried bones, the landscape finally changed. The redness of the desert transitioned into waves of gray and white stone. At this point, Spirit Bird's chest had healed over. She trotted and occasionally glided overhead, careful to not strain her scar and careful to not glide too close to me; I was without food for a moon, with a delicious bird hovering above my head. Spirit Bird knew I was edgy.
That beautifully different stone became more and more treacherous, until the ground opened up into a cavern. Intrigued, I entered the cave. Spirit Bird reluctantly followed. As I explored deeper, it became clear that this cave was actually a tunnel. The seemingly unexplored rocks of the cave took a toll on even my roughly calloused feet, and my eyes strained to make out the way in the dark. The cave became colder and colder, until the floor of the cave was slicked down with ice. Spirit Bird fluffed up her feathers and took to the air, avoiding the complications of walking barefoot on the ice. I was not so lucky; the ice behind me became red with my blood. Soon, the walls looked to be made more from ice than stone. I began to dread what was at the end of that long tunnel.
Suddenly, Spirit Bird shrieked and flew in front of me. I was knocked to the ground by a creature as tall as I. Huge, but dull claws slashed at my face. I jumped up, and in my terrible state of cold couldn't help but notice the creature's luxurious fur...
It started yelling at me in a foreign tongue. His language sounded like water flowing over smooth pebbles, so unlike the guttural language of my people. Still, I could tell that there was something terribly wrong with him beyond his different language. He would not be a loss.
I left the cave with a warm fur over my shoulders. 
The icy cave opened up to a wonderful, white world. Spirit Bird and I were nearly blinded by the sight of white after a life of red sands. The change was welcome, but I wasn't sure I would be. After all, I was wearing the fur of a person, probably a native to the land. He could have had friends, and I could have had enemies. But I had to press on.
Flakes fell from the frigid air, blown by the wind. Spirit Bird perched on my arm to conserve heat. I knew that the air would be carrying my scent to the inhabitants of this land. Soon, they trickled out of the whiteness. Surprisingly, they seemed very welcoming. When they saw the skin, they were briefly surprised and seemed to recognize its former wearer, but seemed strangely delighted. They must have known that the cave dweller was ill. I did them a service.
These strangers led me to a sizable wooden dwelling. To my relief, it was warm. But these creatures were different than me. The most noticeable difference was the presence of fur (a very widespread condition, as I would find out), and external ears. Most looked like the creature I had slain, with large claws and a protective shell. They were just as intrigued with me as I was with them. Some came up to me and poked me. Others were more concerned with the bloody pelt spread out across the floor. The strangers gathered around it, nodded.
Finally, I felt safe, and slept in that cozy room with my Airax curled up next to me.
It was in my years on the Mountain that I learned the language of the slain cave dweller: "the common language". After a struggle I could speak and be understood. My breechcloth was shed in favor of a shirt and pants, and the people there gave me a house in isolation and some money to get me started. I made a living tracking outlaws in the area, but I never got to finish them off. My hunter's instinct and my past were fading away and I started losing myself.
One lonely white day, I gazed out of my window at the pine forest behind my house. I thought, what lovely wood. So Spirit Bird and I set out into the forest and found a sturdy fallen trunk. Then I began to carve, following the images in my head of my old weapon, the Atlatl, spear thrower. Then came some darts. When I returned to my cottage, I fashioned myself a quiver and a harness.
The tingle in my toes, the urge to travel, returned. I headed for the coast, to the port, without telling a soul.
I abandoned all of my belongings at my mountain cottage, and left only with my true self: a breechcloth, a fur, my quiver, darts, atlatl, and of course, my Spirit Bird. I told the boat driver to take me to the warmest place he could think of. I stepped off the boat into a bustling port city. Having no money, I would have to rely entirely on trade. Unfortunately, I had nothing to trade either. I would have to offer my services.
The city was painted with bright designs contrasting in color, making up for the monochrome golden desert it was engulfed by. In this desert town of sandstone walls, my darkest half was brought out. I had no paint to mark me as a tribal native, so I turned to the merchants quarter. This bustling corner of town was flooding with people, so no one noticed when I casually snatched a pouch of deep purple mollusk pigment.
I had missed the sensation of paint on my face; it was truly a part of my identity. Painting those spirals on my face marked me as a hunter once again.
The shadier section of the town proved to be very profitable. Thieves, clans, and warring local families met here to do business. All glared at me menacingly, but I knew their lives were mine with a flick of my atlatl. I would offer my skills as a tracker and a hunter to the more desperate folk that either lacked the skill or wanted their reputation to remain untarnished. Most of these missions were to terminate an enemy. I would track my quarry, home in on them. Spirit Bird proved extremely useful. She would spot my target from above, and I could follow her easily. When the prey was in sight, one skillful cast of a dart was all it took. I began accumulating quality skins, for most clients wanted to see proof. I became a part of the criminal sub-culture within the sandstone city, but as an intimidating foreigner walking the streets with a weapon, rolls of skins, and a red painted bird, the authorities started noticing me.
One day, I noticed royal guards trailing me. I carried on with my normal business, ignoring them, until I had led them to the bad side of town. In the crumbling alleyways, I turned. The guards were not untrained. Both pulled sickleswords with cobra motifs, the symbol of the royal guards. I slowly pulled a dart from my quiver...
Now, I was armed with two quality sickleswords. They would trade well.
It was only a matter of time before the rest of the guards caught up to me. I had spent only a year or two in the Lost Desert, and it was already time for me to leave.
I fled into the scorching desert. Being a desert dweller by nature, I felt comfortable in the sands, but the Lost Desert took everything awful about my home desert to an extreme. Spirit Bird could only fly for short distances in the searing heat before she had to perch on my arm. I had been well fed in the desert city, and had to rely on my fat reserves to make it through. Spirit Bird had no such reserves, so she grew very sick... After many days, nearly half a moon cycle, and countless displacing sandstorms, I could see green on the horizon.
I had arrived at a city like no other. It was totally surrounded by an intimidating white wall, with massive gates. Guards gilded in gold stood by the entrance. I approached, sure that they would not let a criminal like me into their sparkling city. At first, I was right. One checked me, and when coming upon the Lost Desert guards' sickleswords, pointed away and told me to leave. The other pointed his gladius at the base of my neck. "Please, let me through," I pleaded in a broken form of the common language. "My bird is sick. She needs food and water." I held her limp body out to show the guards. Reluctantly, they raised the gate and watched me the whole way.
The interior of the city was more magnificent than the walls. Huge, columned buildings surrounded me. In the center stood a shining fountain. Spirit Bird drank with great enthusiasm. I drank, ignoring disgusted glances from the townsfolk, and headed to the market, where I would steal a slab of raw meat.
My hunger being satisfied, I sought business, of the kind I had grown accustomed to in the Lost Desert. That place was not for me; the first person I asked called another gold clad guard, and I fled from the gates with Spirit Bird flying overhead.
I headed for another port, for I had heard whisperings of an island largely inhabited by native tribes. After more hiking and starving, I came across a merchant city with a port. My hides were worth less there; I could only afford a shabby kayak to the island.
This nameless island was totally covered in jungle, except for the bare patches where "civilized people" were starting to build and propagate, the downfall of tribal life.
The jungle was a new element. I was so used to hot sand or stone under my feet: the mud squishing between my toes and claws was uncomfortable. Spirit Bird, unable to fly through the dense forest in search of food, retreated to my fist.
Perhaps I was too busy taking in the new sensations of the jungle that I failed to notice them.
Nets soared above me out of nowhere and pinned me to the ground. Spirit Bird screeched in fright and attempted to fly away, only to be clubbed unconscious. I growled at my aggressors, but then calmed, for I knew my aggression would only worsen relations with these people.
And what a strange sight they were! They could walk on two legs or on four, and were covered with wiry fur. Large, rounded ears were notched. The claws on their forepaws were retractable, a foreign but apparently useful adaptation. The leader, heavily adorned with bony and jeweled piercings, bent over and observed me with his snaggletoothed face. He seemed unscathed by my different appearance, and cut me free. One of his warriors held Spirit Bird. They stood back, arrows drawn in their bows, and waited for me to do something. I retrieved the rolls of hide and presented it to the leader as an offering. The leader accepted, the offer, but it didn't change my fate. Spirit Bird and I were bound, my companion being held upside down by her legs like poultry.
I was treated like a member from an enemy tribe, meaning I was enslaved. Once hearing that Spirit Bird was trained, she was given to a wealthy member of the village. But I knew that she would only be faithful to me, so I held my own as a slave. I was fed the most horrid parts of the meat, and had to work in fields or in dangerous stone mines. Eventually, I proved my worth and loyalty to this foreign tribe by waiting, behaving, adopting their customs, and learning their language. My status started to rise, and I was eventually taught to use the bow and arrow. I became a well-respected archer, though I still preferred my atlatl and darts. For many years, I was a full fledged member of the village and I indulged in it. However, a part of me was still missing: Spirit Bird, to whom I vowed to protect so long ago.
My tribesmen had to be betrayed at some point. One night, a grand opportunity struck. A cave partially collapsed on the Chieftain and the warrior who had possession of Spirit Bird, during a routine patrol of the land. They were in the healer's hut, unsupervised and therefore unprotected.
That night, I learned that obsidian blades are hard to wash.
I retreated to the cave in the night, with Spirit Bird mumbling on my fist. Her caretaker had not treated her right: her feathers had lost their shine and became tattered, much like the light in her eyes. My leather brace was having difficulties withstanding her overgrown, piercing claws, of which one was missing.
The night made this unstable island cave (the same one that wounded the Chieftain) almost impossible to navigate. I had entered the main chamber of the cave, and although I was not followed, I felt a presence.
I find that conjuring memories of this moment is difficult. But I will never forget the strangled gasp that came from Spirit Bird as her soul left her body forever. Judgement had come.
End.
Clink! The old grarrl finally lodges the item free from the shelf, displacing some of the pewter figures for sale.
The author of the book gave thisss to me in addition to the diary."
He holds out a strange looking weapon. You think it is a long stick, until you see that the wooden stick appears to have been painstakingly hollowed in the center. Could this be...?
The words from the diary flash through your head:
It is composed of a hollowed out rod of wood, with a U-shaped cross-section. The end is hooked or cupped, so a spear (known as a dart) may be nocked into place..."
This strange tool had to be an atlatl. Astounding! This could be your only chance to acquire such artifacts!
How much?" You ask.
Forty pieces of silver for both," he responds.
You search your pack for some sort of currency, but fail to produce anything of significance. A few colorful pieces of granite lay in your pack, but you know from experience that most traders are offended by the notion of trading their quality (Ha!) goods for mere stones. Still, this shopkeeper seemed senile enough to be manipulated. Perhaps he would be captivated by the refracted rainbows from the volcanic rock.
I have no silver, but perhaps these rare igneous ores will prove to be a candid swap?" you ventured.
Large or strange words often confuse and persuade. People often cave in instead of swallowing their pride and asking what the words really mean, so as to not look stupid. You hoped this shrewd technique would work.
The old shopkeeper turns and glares daggers; for the first time you can see his disfigured face:
Something seems oddly familiar about the old Grarrl.
Ssir, my mind may be nearly gone, but I am not that moronic," he growls.
His frightening gaze is enough to convince you. You decide it is time to leave, perhaps for your own safety.
