Author: lani
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It’s middle of Winter in the Northern Shiverpeaks, distant highlands in the North eastern quadrant of Thestra. But barely civilized and only loosely under governance of the New Targonor government. To Kettle, Guardian Cleric to the Fallen Star and Quartermaster of the Ahgram Foreign Legion, it’s a place called home. Specifically her currently somewhat snow-logged little cabin, placed plush between some giant boulders and a steep hillside, Troll-traps in the vegetable garden and a pike-fence that could be used to hold back a rioting crowd of half-giants complete the rural picture.
Kettle looks up from kneading the dough for her special blackberry and rum muffins as she hears a distant shout of "Snuggles!" cut of, mid snuggle so to speak.
As seconds pass and no more is heard except the howling of the wind and the crackling of Kettle’s cooking fire in her hearth, she lets out a sigh. It sounds like her annoyingly cheerful Gnomish neighbour has run into another creature that doesn't appreciate her. Up here in the Northern Shiverpeaks that means just about every living creature, but it's the ones that can take down a too trusting Gnome with one blow that really matter.
Oh well. When the Muffins are in the little oven the nice Dwarves of the nearby Dwarvenholt had made for her she'll have to go out, again, to find and then resurrect the poor lass, again. Sometimes being a Cleric can be a burden like that. Even when you're aspected to as undemanding a Goddess as the Fallen Star, local deity of fertility and abundance at the Halfling settlement of Rindol’s Field, near Trush. It doesn’help that the way resurrections work, the little spellcaster Carletta doesn’t remember what happened during the last hour or so of her ‘previous’ life. As a result, she never seems to learn.
A knock on the door to her little cozy cabin is immediately followed by the entrance of a snowbedecked, behooded figure, dragging in mud and sludge across the floor. "Good evening Archetype Duvalis, what brings you here at this time of year, and night?" Kettle asks, recognizing the Legion's foremost ranger more by his feline grace and abrupt manners than any distinguishing features, he's that tightly warapped in thick furs. A non-commital growl is all the response she gets as the tall ranger starts divesting himself of over-clothing and armament, neatly hanging them from the pegs along the wall. As he does, Kettle notices him unstringing his longbow. No self-respecting Ranger would be travelling through this weather with strung bow, so he'd needed to use it recently.
"Uhm Archy, did you happen to run into my Neighbour Carletta? She's about this tall, and extremely annoying, for a Gnome.". Archy turns around at this, looks Kettle straight in the eyes and lifts one eyebrow full of eloquent meaning. The Kurashasa perfected this art-form of non-verbal body-language, which often conveys more information discreetly than can be supplied through 'mere' words. “It's considered not nice to shoot our neighbours here, even if they're Gnomes". Kettle states just a little tartly. It’s cold out! This elicits a shrug that speaks volumes about Kurashasa disregard for Gnomes and local customs regarding them. "You know I'll just have to go and resurrect her now, don't you?" this produces another shrug, this time conveying whole tomes of meaning. Also a verbal response, "I dragged it to the side of the cabin next to yours, so you won't have to look far".
By now the Kurashasa is completely divested of warm fur overcloaks and stands resplended in his Qalian Ahgramunum Leathers that fully complement his feline tom-cat figure. His presence dominates the little cabin, and not just due to the smell of wet cat fur permeating the air. He always manages to make Kettle, who can be best described as plump in a cute and cuddly way, feel clumsy and self-conscious. Especially when he rolls his shoulders in that way he's doing now. A way no Halfling, or any other vaguely human-shaped race could do. Kettle swallows.
"So then, welcome to my humble abode once more, dear Ranger. What can I do for you?" she asks while putting the kneaded dough into the little cups made of hollowed out Troll-teeth. As she’s about to place the cups on the baking-ledge of her hearth she throws a question over her shoulder. The Kurashasa hadn’t answered her and normally will consent to verbal responses when it’s clear his ‘audience’ isn’t looking at him. What she sees nearly makes her drop her cupcakes into the fire.
The butch, sometimes arrogant, but always self-possessed paragon of feline ferocity is looking abashed, not meeting her eyes. A Kurashasa not meeting your eyes head on! Something must be terribly wrong. “Did Sajeera kick you out of the Den?” she hazards a likely cause for Archy’s presence here and his mien. A negative growl is the response, but his ears quiver and droop yet further, adding to the down-cast look of the normally proud Ranger. This is so at odds that Kettle finds it hard not to stare. Resolutely she turns to continue placing the cups on the ledge, saying “Well, tell me in your own time” as she does. She fusses with the cups for a few moments longer and swings the tea-kettle hanging from a cast-iron swinging-arm so that it’s above the fire. All of this activity is aimed at giving the Kurashasa time to compose himself, and to get the tea going of course. Kettle is a Halfling after all.
When she hears the creaking of her favourite rocking chair she knows he’s settling in. “I don’t understand this Winter Solstice thing that has the entire Legion excited.” exclaims the ranger in a disgruntled sounding growl. The Kurashasa is no longer looking abashed, but glowers into the fire as kettle rises and turns to get the tea bin from a shelf. “They’re hanging the entire fortress at Jalen’s retreat full of smelly holly branches!” he continues with an even fiercer glare at the now quivering flames. “I guess I should be grateful for the stench as it’s apparently required to kiss whomever you encounter underneath one.” he continues.
“Well now, that shouldn’t be too much of a bother should it? I’ve seen you and Sajeera adopted this humanoid custom with, uhm, fervour” responds Kettle with a wide grin. “Sajeera isn’t the problem!”, “It’s that blasted Goblin necromancer stalking me and using her wraith to move those branches around to suit her, and then there was an incident with Lord Tyrannon…”
“Oh dear. You didn’t know about this custom being cross-gender only did you?” Kettle asks, eyes twinkling at the mental image of the butch Kurashasa planting one on the equally masculine War Priest who’s Lord Marshal of the Legion. “Exactly!” confirms the ranger, now with drooping ears once more. “It could be worse” Kettle adds “at least Coilla is now happily married to that Ogre dockmaster of hers, Bashum Gud. So she’s no longer chasing you with that spiky crossbow you gave her”. A new silence ensues as the Ranger disconsolately stares into the fire while Kettle busies around with mugs and tea for the two of them. As she settles down on the plush Qalian ottoman her friend Sajeera had gifted her with, Kettle asks her question again. “So, what do you want to know?”.
With a sigh, Archetype explains. “What is it you all celebrate? Is it just this turning of the solstice? What’s so special about it? And why the flaming branches?”. Kettle takes a sip of her tea, mmhmm cinnamon, and reflects. The Kurashasa come from a seasonless dimension and have only been living on the Northern plateau of the Qalian steppes for a few generations, continuing their eternal hunt on the demonic Ahndka. Neither origin nor current environment lends themselves to understanding the joy of knowing the Winter has crested its peak and sunnier days are a-coming.
The always sunny continent of Qalia, mostly consisting of desert is much different from the more Northern continent of Thestra with its large forests and always white mountain peaks. It stands to reason that Winter Solstice isn’t quite as important to natives of that continent as it is to Thestrans and Kojani, Kojan being mostly cold and wet during winter. Mind you, summer isn’t much better there, being sweltering hot and wet rather than cold and wet. Kettle for the life of her couldn’t understand how the race of dimension-hopping fox-people, the Raki, could abide that place, let alone make it their permanent home. They must have secret means of keeping their fur dry or something.
Kettle tries to explain this to Archy, but he seemed to be more interested in an answer to his questions than ruminations about one of the two canine races currently inhabiting the world of Telon. A subject he usually approaches with gusto and many a disparaging remark. Certain animosities persist from quadruped to biped it seems.
Kettle returns to the topic at hand, trying to put things into perspective for the confused Tom-cat. “You’ve been to all three continents of Telon many a time, yet you prefer to stay on desert-like Qalia whenever you can, why is that? She muses aloud. “That’s obvious.” purrs the Ranger while throwing a meaningful glare at the collection of furs hanging from the pegs. “This place is frigging cold half the year, and I hate snow on my whiskers. Also it’s dark and gloomy in Winter. I almost didn’t see that blasted Snow-Drake of yours in time!”.
“Ah, that’d be Barney. He prefers Trolls to any other kind of food, that’s why we allow him to roam the skies above and around our cottages and cabins here.” chimes in Kettle. “Trolls can be a bit of a bother here in Winter. But can you imagine us who lived here all our lives not being all that fond of Winter either? I mean, sleighing is fun and all, but we spend most of the time huddled together and after being cooped up with each other for a month or so, the knowledge that you’re past the worst of that is often enough for some merriment. Also, a lot of religions require a festive offering at this time. There’s even a few Gods who claim it’s they who bring back the sun. I as Cleric of the Fallen Star know better of course. And so do you, as inter-dimensional trapper.” At this the Kurashasa nods with understanding, and kettle is glad she found this means of appealing to the Tom’s sense of superiority. “And that blasted branch thing?” growls Archy.
Now it’s Kettle’s turn to look embarassed. “Well, you see…” she twiddles her thumbs “That addition to the customs actually comes from my folk and our Fallen Star, Goddess of Fertility, Abundance and, uhm Passion…”
“You see, kissing leads to, uhm other things” kettle explains with a face now flushed not from the fire’s heat “and those Other Things, lead to knew mouths to feed about nine months later” kettle further explains under the intent glare of the Kurashasa. “By adding this custom, the Fallen Star tried to, and pretty well succeeded at directing the inflow of baby Halflings to occur shortly after our bountiful harvests, which really is the ideal time for younguns, you know. Gives them a good start before Winter sets in again”.
“It used to be a local custom of Rindol’s Field, but seems to have spread, quite rapidly across the rest of Telon of late.”. Archetype Duvalis ponders this explanation in silence for a bit before coming to a conclusion. “So it’s really a combination of religious, pragmatic and accidental merging of customs.”
“Exactly!” Kettle exclaims, hopping of her ottoman. “Now would you care for a freshly baked Blackberry & Rum Muffin, or two, before we head out to resurrect my poor neighbour? It is the season to be kind to strangers as well after all!”
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