A battered and dusty leather case containing a manuscript once again arrives at the Library...
SpoilerEsteemed guild members, I pray that this latest essay arrives promptly and safely to your hands. Alas, this is not to be as idyllic an account as my previous one. Nevertheless, you must know of what I have witnessed.
I have spent the past few months travelling the great plains of Lower Netheril in hopes of acquainting myself better with the tribes of people known as the Rengarth. My initial goal became somewhat left by the wayside when I heard some intriguing rumours about a man the Rengarth were calling “The Prophet of the Plains”. They spoke his name with such a peculiar mixture of adoration and dread that I knew he was a fellow worthy of documentation. He was both a holy man and warlord they said, who spoke the most brutal truth and was uniting village after village by a mixture of persuasion and force. When given esteem, he was a man of capable of uniting inspiration. When angered, he was a man of the most pitiless devastation.
Seeking to hear this man speak, I attached myself to a band of Rengarth hunters who were travelling to hear an address by this Prophet at the end of their expedition. They joked about taking me along for emergency rations, and demanded much coin for their escort. I worried for my safety, but had few other options. I spent a few weeks on the plains with these men and women, observing their hunting practices as they brought down colossal bovines and swine. The hunters rode their horses with consummate ease, and would harry a few of their large targets away from the herd, then bring them down with a hail of arrows and thrown spears. The carcasses would then be stripped with astonishing speed, with little discarded. The hides would be crudely preserved, the meat smoked in the campfire, the useful bones (chosen by shape and strength) kept, and most of the offal thrown to the hunting dogs. Much of the meat they gathered was eaten during travel, with the hides and fur seemingly being the most valuable elements. Horse-drawn sleds were used to transport the gathered resources.
I was all but useless to the hunters, and when I made attempts to cast spears with them I received both scorn and pity. But one of the men was gored by a bull during the hunt, and his wounds became infected. They drew him on a sled for a few days, but his condition worsened and they discussed leaving him behind to the whims of the gods to decide. But I stepped forward, and used some of the tinctures and ointments I always carried to treat the man’ s injuries before their sceptical eyes. His health improved markedly overnight, and within two more nights he could ride unaided again. Now at least I had some measure of respect among the hunters, and they treated me more like a slow-witted but loved relative than a useless mouth to feed.
One night, we could see in the distance a myriad campfires glowing and the wind brought us snatches of music, predominantly drumming. My escorts laughed uproariously when I asked the name of this great settlement we were approaching. I learned why this amused them the next day when we drew closer: this was no mere tribal village. It was a great assembly of many tribes, mostly Rengarth but also including a few of Angardt stock. All the various campsites were arranged around a great flat slab of granite, quite an anomaly on the open plain.
We waited for several days. My escorts traded with the other hunting parties there. I worried that I would be identified as Netherese by one of these other groups, but a few months on the plains had given me the dusky complexion of a plainsman, and by now through sheer necessity I was dressing as one too. Nevertheless, I did not speak to anyone outside my group, even though I craved the chance to speak to some of the Angardt and hear details of their blood-rites. Eventually, the awaited day arrived. Word swiftly spread through the assembled people that the Prophet had arrived.
His retinue was immense, and his own mighty chariot was encircled by the impressive ones of his bodyguards. Men and women of Rengarth and Angardt blood predominantly formed his circle, though I saw no few number of half-elves and half-orcs, along with a few men wearing the remnants of Netherese military units. Though this man called to the Rengarth first and foremost, others seemed to be heeding him too. The Prophet did not waste time with festivities. Instead, he left his chariot and stood upon the granite slab, with thousands of pairs of eyes upon him. He was a man of middle-age, weathered and tanned by the plains and clad in black robes to shield him from the sun. Even the loose robes could not conceal a mighty, near perfect physique for a man his age. He wore his greying beard in a trident shape. The Prophet’s voice rang out, deep and husky, and with such power that every man and woman there felt he was speaking personally to them.
“I am Yusanga Hunn-Bekk, the Prophet of the Plains. Hear my judgement upon thee! You dare to call yourselves men and women of the plains? You are mere CHILDREN. Weak, afraid, grasping in the dark, terrified of a shadow you call the Netherese Empire! When others speak of the Rengarth people, they now speak of hunters, gatherers, craftsmen, brewers, shamans… where are your feared warriors? You trade with the Netherese, and think because you are curt to them that you are brave. But your ancestors howl in anguish, for you have forsaken them to take coin from their enslavers and murderers!”
I quivered in fear at the ferocious words of the Prophet. To my horror, I saw a sea of nodding heads surrounding me, including some of my own escort. Though he spat insults at these proud people, he seemed to be striking through any sense of offence and instead stirring up their sense of injustice. The Prophet bellowed forth another tirade.
“But heed my words, and I shall set you free. I have sent forth my most trusted amongst you to observe your zeal. Teach your hunters to hunt men as well as beasts! Teach your gatherers to gather the heads, weapons and wealth of fallen enemies! Teach your craftsmen to make weapons and machines of war! Teach your brewers to make poisons to season your spears and arrows! Teach your shamans to preach the hatred of the enemy as well as the love of your own people! Trade not with the snakes of Netheril! Completely bar your lands to them, make them pay for trespass with their very blood. Kill them, weaken them, put fear in their hearts… and await the day that my mighty and ever-growing host arrives to cast down their wretched floating cities forever! And if you fail me… if you reject my wisdom...then you too will be crushed beneath the feet, hooves and wheels of my hordes!”
The gathered masses cheered, the majority swayed by the empty but alluring promises of the demagogue. A few of my escort muttered in Rengarthi (which by now I had became fairly fluent) about handing me over to Yusanga for a public sacrifice, but praise the Hidden One the others silenced them by saying I had healed their fellow and honour demanded they not throw me to certain death. Instead, they led me away that night, gave me a fresh horse and some supplies and told me to ride for my life. I rode hard for days, not daring tarry long at any waterhole or village. Though I have journeyed through many hostile lands, it is rare that I have ever felt such relief as this time when I set foot back in friendly lands.
During my hurried return, I still heard snatches of rumours that Yusanga has been as good as his word in one sense: trusted acolytes of his have been dispatched to monitor villages and kindle their rage. I fear it is only a matter of time before one of these demagogues arrives near Hadrian…
Be vigilant, my brethren
Professor Leviticus Stone
Show Posts