De EncyclopAtys
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!!! En travaux !!! La dernière édition était de Lanstiril le 2021-06-20.
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▼ À TRADUIRE ▼
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A long time ago, I walked through the dry heat of the Frahar Towers. Only in the shade of the huge plateaus could this heat be endured to some extent, ... and yet, it was autumn. It didn't help that I was wearing my rather cheap, dark blue heavy armor. But I finally had to do the job the Karavan had given me. Even back then I hated killing, but the Karavan ambassador had made it unmistakably clear that this particular band of bandits were merciless butchers, who needed to be punished. Meaning, killed. Why did these bandit gangs still get so many members?
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I contemplated this and other thoughts, as I made my way through the dusty canyons. Their smooth walls surrounding me like dark, honey-colored waves. Sweat collected inside my helmet and it felt like I was a piece of meat slowly steamed to perfect tenderness. I leaned against a wall, took the thing off and drank some water from my canteen. In stark contrast to my face, my tongue felt like a piece of dried meat. Though the sweat evaporated quickly. I could smell dust and animal droppings, faintly the smell of burning wood wafted over from the Burning Forest basin. A sudden gust of wind blew dust into my mouth and after I had coughed and spit it out I drank another sip from my canteen, spitting the warm water onto the ground. Instantly I regretted the action. Water was precious here. Greedily, the desert floor absorbed the water before it could evaporate in the blazing sun. I held my breath as I pulled the slightly stinking helmet back over my face. Sighing, looking down a gully ablaze with sunshine, I continued my search for the bandit camp.
As I rounded an outcropping I spotted a small pack of Frahar sleeping away the midday heat. The primitives were huddled in the shade of a hollow in the smooth wooden wall of the canyon. Slowly I crept on, trying hard to keep out of earshot and to not make any sound. I had no intention of waking these half-animals from their slumber. As I made my way through the shadowy ravines, my thoughts again strayed back to why young Homins would choose to live as outlaws. Why live under these conditions? Why not stay on the correct path? Even when it was as harsh and somewhat rigid as the Fyros way of living.
According to the description the Karavan had provided, I was nearing the camp. Cautiously, I peered around the corner into a wide ravine. It's interior plunged into blueish shadows and scattered with a few scraggly plants, the surprisingly huge skull of an Arma and some tents. Among the tents moved slender figures, going about their business. At the far side of the camp I could see some of them walking a perimeter, spears and a few guns at the ready. Why were there no sentries on this side of the ravine? Did they patrol from one side of the camp to the other? Then I spotted two women, leaning against the canyon wall a short distance away. They daggers and swords but were just engaged in drinking from a water skin they passed between them. A short break from duty, it seemed.
As I kept watching, something tickled the back of my mind. I took a long hard look at the bandits in front of me, in the camp. Something was missing from this camp. Something essential, normal even 5
Goddess! These are all women!?
What in the name of the dragon had made a crew of women live out their lives in this barren region? I had to know.
I slid my sword back into its scabbard and stepped out from behind the wall into the narrow passage of the gorge.
“Ho! Greetings Fyrae. I've come to talk!” I called.
Back then I had no idea of how to talk to female Fyros, so I used the a bit of guesswork in that greeting. Immediately some of the women pointed their swords and firearms at me. Startled by my unexpected call like Yubos, some dove into tents and one dropped a grass-woven bowl of fruit, its contents tumbling onto the hard packed dust of the camp. I held up my hands in a placating gesture, hoping the sentries wouldn't be too trigger happy. One of the sentries, a tall, dark haired woman rushed towards me. Stopping about four steps away. Out of reach of my long-sword.
“Talk?! What does a pale-nosed Matis want to talk to us about?” she said, pointing a dagger towards me.
“Why are you what you are? Why do you live as outlaws and leave the Empire behind? Why do you risk...” I blurted out. Not very diplomatic, I must admit.
The dark haired Fyra lunged forward and in the same fluid motion pressed her dagger to my throat.
“Why risk our lives here, when those like you and others are constantly invading and trying to bring us 'to justice'? Why we eke out a meager existence here, when we could be enjoying luxury in Pyr?!” she hissed between clenched teeth.
"You arrogant hussy! I should slit your pale throat right now, just for your naivety!"
An older Fyra stepped up to her and placed a reassuring hand on her crony's shoulder.
"Let her go, Bekaya. Look at her. - She's spoiled and has no idea what's really going on in the Empire, she's not even a Fyros.", the elder spoke in slow and deliberate tones.
The dark-haired one reluctantly lowered her dagger but still glowered at me, like she'd rather set me on fire with her gaze, than talk to me in peace.
The older woman came forward, her hair as red as the evening sky, shot trough with white clouds, her face crinkled with lines that the sun and dry air had etched into it over the course of a long, hard life.
The look she gave me was a mixture of outright hostility and doubt, sending cold shivers down my spine.
“Ma'Duk reveals his wisdom in strange ways child. You are indeed not the first to ask this.”
“However you are the first Matis I have met who is either bold or stupid enough to do so. Usually it is unmarried or widowed Fyra, who have no idea yet of what to expect.”, she gestured and the dark-haired woman slowly, reluctantly lowered her dagger.
A bitter smile deepened the wrinkles on her face and I realized that quite a few of them were wrinkles of sorrow and pain. This woman had lived through bad times and had lost much.
“Sit down, child.” The old Fyra ordered me, with a voice that brooked no argument. She pointed to some mats of stiff grass that lay in the shade of the canyon wall in front of a small hovel. I carefully removed my helmet and hoped it would further show my unwillingness to fight. Some of the women still glared at me. So I removed the sword from my belt, placed it onto the floor and then took two more steps towards the mats to sit down. I wanted everyone to be sure that I had no intention of causing trouble of any kind. While her fellow bandits never let me out of their sight the older Fyra, who was apparently also the leader of this camp, disappeared into one of the small tents.
As I sat and waited I let my eyes roam about the camp and over its inhabitants. They all looked haggard and tense. I had expected suspicious looks, but I was not prepared for the expressions of sadness, anger and despair in some of the younger faces and the apparent resignation in the eyes of older ones.
The matron reappeared from the tent, carrying a leather skin filled with liquid with her. She pulled the stopper and put it to her lips to take a few deep gulps, then nodded at me and handed the water-skin to me. I accepted it and took a deep sip as well, expecting stale, warm water.
But what flowed into my mouth was neither water nor anything I had ever tasted. Thick and sluggish, with a nauseating, acrid aroma of herbs and the sweetness of sap. Snorting and gagging, I leaned forward and spat the concoction onto the floor, in front of the old woman, struggling not to hit her with the full brunt of what left my mouth in a rush.
Peals of laughter erupted around us. Filled with schadenfreude and an unmistakable echo of pure spite. Even the old leader couldn't help a wry smile as she took the skin from where I'd dropped it in my haste to cover my mouth. Coughing, momentarily forgetting the precarious situation I was in, I bent over and spit until the disgusting taste finally began to disappear from my mouth. A bowl was thrust into my narrow, tear filled field of view, water sloshed inside. Greedily, and eternally thankful I grabbed it and downed its contents. Washing the lingering aftertaste from my tongue.
The laughter finally died down, its echo fading between the walls of the ravine. As I righted myself, I caught the elder's pitying gaze.
“I… Forgive me, I didn't mean to belittle your hospitality… I… I…”, I stammered.
“Everyone feels that way the first time.”, the elder smiled, “Calm yourself, child. Mektoub blood is not for everyone.”
I swallowed hard, hot bile rising in my throat as I looked at the ground. There were indeed unmistakable bloodstains and splashes at my feet. Pulling myself together I looked at the older woman with my best display of courtly composure.
“Ah, a true Matis." she stated dryly.”
“But now to your questions, child. Because basically it all boils down to one question. Why?”
I nodded and remained silent.
“You know, there are some ancient and highly respected traditions in the Fyros Empire.”
“For example, that of a man being allowed to marry any woman he truly desires and loves, and a woman being allowed to marry any man she truly loves and desires.” a long glance swept over the group of women around her, all of whom seemed to have found something to do and were keeping their distance from us.
“This is a good and blessed tradition in and of itself, but there is one small hitch. What if one of us falls in love with a man from another nation? Or a proud Fyros loses his heart to a Tryker butterfly?”
“Is that forbidden, then? It would be news to me that such a thing would not be approved among the peoples.”, I asked incredulously.
“Officially it is not, of course. And some even welcome it. But traditions are deeply ingrained in our people. No, it is not the union of two Homins from alien peoples that is not approved, but... the fruit of it.”
“What?!”
“Oh, don't look so shocked, child. Is it all right with the Matis if one of their own brings an illegitimate brat into the world by a blue giant?”
“It's common knowledge, isn't it, that the child belongs to the race of mother....,” I took another look around. “Jena's Light, you are…?”
“Mothers and daughters, yes. Cast out of the Empire because of the sin of having placed a child in it. Bekaya is my daughter. Her father was a Matis. His name is unimportant, because he does not even know that she exists and I have tried in vain to find him. He did not tell me his name or where to find him during that one passionate night. We both didn't care at that moment. We were young and did not think about traditions and tomorrow. I let myself fall for his fine manners, his soft skin and his golden hair. When Bekaya came of age, we were driven out of Pyr.”
“For a time we lived on my art as a potter, in Dyron. But, somehow it became known who Bekaya's father was and she was tested with methods of the Matis. Then we were chased out of the village too. It was a hard time, but eventually we found this alliance of women who had suffered the same fate, and since then we have lived as outlaws.”
“This fate befalls those whose beloved is either untraceable or dead. So you will also find widows and daughters here whose husbands and fathers, though of other Homin stock, have once chose to fight and die for the empire.”
“As long as the husband is still alive and stands for the wife and child with his honor, they are allowed to live a normal life. As far as that is possible, because they will find few friends.”
“But if the husband is no more, then they will be asked to move to another country. If the woman refuses and her family is not willing to help her, which is unfortunately very rare because a mixed child means shame, they will be expelled from the city or village and will have to fend for themselves from then on.” the old Fyra gestured at her fellow exiles.
“Some find their way here. To us. We welcome them with open arms and we do not mind their shame. As all of us share the burden.”
“We live our lives as best as we can. Sometimes, when times are desperate, we attack caravans or those foolish enough to venture alone into these canyons. We try not to kill, but can not always avoid it. We are sorry for that, but the authorities and higher powers care little about that. Our fate is sealed in these lands. We are those who can not be seen and will not be spoken of.”
“We … live, yet do not exist.”
The long speech seemed to exhaust the elder and she sipped water from a skin by her side. Offering it to me also. But I declined. I rummaged in my bag and fished out the piece of parchment the Karavan's representative had given me. Holding it high in front of my face, I slowly, deliberately tore it in half.
“My faith commands me to protect life. And though I see that you rob and some times kill, I also see that you do so to protect and preserve yours. Although the messenger of my goddess gave me the order to kill you, this is only a worldly thing of revenge and ignorance and cannot strengthen my faith. The knowledge of this dark side of the empire will diminish my feelings for the society of the Fyros, but it is clear to me that no Homin is without guilt and no people is free from sins. My faith will be strengthened by following its commandments and not by following the wishes of his messengers. Life is sacred, the need to punish crime is not the task of the faithful.”
I stood and formally bowed to the elder.
“I offer you my sincere thanks for your hospitality. I will spread your story, as is the tradition of the bards. Perhaps this one tradition can influence the other. May the desert be kind to you.”
“The great spirit be with you.” replied the old Fyra, smiling.
Picking up my sword I left the camp. As I walked away a resolve formed inside of me.
From this day on, not to take on any more tasks that required me to kill another Homin.
Better still, to avoid killing another Homin as best as I could and to fight only in self defense.Lylanea Vicciona, Barde des Quatre Nations
