Ikola appeared from the aether floating just above Mahzvara, the Walking Continent, which continued its slow plodding steps over the souther portion of the world. The God flared its form in frustration, filaments reaching out in all directions. How narrow-minded its fellow Gods! Nos would understand. Nos was wise, unlike the rest of them. He would at least be willing to consider the possibilities that Ikola would speak of, unlike the hide-bound Order and hypocritical, haughty Omus.
For a moment, Ikola considered calling out for Nos, but instead focused its will towards the earth below. If Change was necessary, then Ikola chose the change of increase, rather than decrease, of more, rather than less. Of abundance rather than famine. And Death would have NO hold over its creations. Not anymore. If the others wouldn't help, then Ikola would merely have to bring about eternal life and joy without them.
Floating, Ikola's filaments wrapped themselves downwards around invisible silouettes, six or so feet in hight, lithe in muscle and frame and with unusually large, insectoid eyes. At the same time, Ikola pushed filaments into the Spiritual and Cognative realms, forming feedback loops between the two and the Material realm, linking the three together tightly around the forming being.
The filaments withdrew and the fifty or so forms stood, shivered in new-life and set about creating the beginings of civilization. Ikola watched as they built, their villages rising up quickly and their population multiplying as more and more of the creatures were brought into the world. The beings seemed ageless and timeless, old age did not touch them. Ikola watched and waited, and was rewarded with a hunting accident, a spear flying through the neck of one of the creatures, who collapsed in a heap of exsanguination. Before it hit the ground, it was unraveling, much as Ikola itself had unraveled, strands of life-essence twisting off of the body, tugged into other planes of reality by the links to the Spiritual and Cognitive realms. With an anguished moan, the hunter who had thrown the spear buried its head in shame, then went to pick up the spear, now lying in the middle of a pile of blood-soaked clothes.
Some days later, at the same spot the creature had died, the same hunter waited, and Ikola watched as, with a glowing wave of creation, the one who had been killed stepped out from places behind and beyond the world, blinking at the bright light of the noontime sun.
Some to near total memory loss was normal for such events, and the time of restoration varied, but it was the one who had done the crime's punishment to wait however long was necessary, speaking with family members and others, to greet the reborn Deva, present him or her with clothing, and try their best to explain who they had been.
Satisfied for now, Ikola plunged from the edge of the Walking Continent, and headed north.
4 PP: Shape Race: Deva. The Deva in this world are tall, humanoid figures with large insectoid eyes and markings running from neck to groin in unique patters for each Deva. Deva always increase. They cannot be killed (at least, not without significant effort) but instead unravel and dissapear only to reappear in the EXACT same spot an indeterminant time later (usually a week, sometimes earlier, sometimes later). Yes, this is PARTICULARLY bad for those Deva that, say, die from falling into a volcano. Every time they die, they lose a significant portion of their memories and with it, some of their personality. Deva can have children.
With a quick flick of a talon, the stocks popped open. The goblin inside realizing its good fortune bolts off. After a while of running it stops and completely forgets why it was running, the effects of the ambrosia tea taking full effect on him.
"That is some interesting tea you have there. I don't think that one will be a problem again."
"Quite right, Falrn. The goblin should have gained enough insight to live well, for a while at least," said Ryndell, "Why did you save him though? The creature could have stopped drinking." Ryndell smiled behind his tea. "You truly are a guardian, aren't you? Oh, these travels shall be fun. Would you like some tea?"
Accidentally closed my last version of this... annoying...
1 Empower - Nourish The desert spreads, but big rainforests start to grow in the more forested areas to the north, nurtured by the now-humid air, particularly where the weather patterns carry moisture from the sea.
1 Empower - Nourish The swamplands spread inwards from the north and west, become even larger, as their previous demenses are swallowed by the rising sea.
2 PP - Guide At home in the rainforests, the giants spread out into these new areas, and begin infringing on the territories of other races.
In time, those first brave Pixies who had managed the dangerous journey across the Mirage Valley to the Oasis-Forest where the Seed had fallen from the heavens built a fortress-monsestary around the Seed itself, which lay half-buried in a large glade in the middle of the stone-and-wood crafted complex of buildings. The Oasis was soon transformed into a small, functioning community, sustained by small fields of grain and daring forays into the sometimes-forest that surrounded them when Ikola's power of life dominated the region. A wise sage, Panas, spent years contemplating the changing landscape surrounding their home, and developed means by which to predict with startling accuracy the amount of time remaining before a transition occured. He also began to propose a radical vision, supported by his observation that their Oasis was clearly different from the others nearby, with younger trees. His vision was that it was the Seed itself which spread fecundity and life, and that the entire Mirage Valley could be coverted permantly if only they could get the seed to sprout. These teachings spread throughout the pixies, who, upon the great sage's death years later, began to refer to themselves by his name as Panasians.
~Outskirts of Qib-Atha lands~
Adz looked at the terrain with disgust, feeling his hoofed feet sinking slowly into the mud. Three days of this Corruptor-Spawned stuff, and he seemed no closer to his goal, which the leaders of Ajam had been very... vague... in their descriptions. Some sort of 'Frog-Men' with 'Magical Powers' that he was supposed to parlay with. How he was supposed to find them, they hadn't explained.
They hadn't explained about the swamp either, Adz thought, squelching forward with the other nine Minotaurs under his command. The hour was late, and they had to find higher... less muddy, at least, ground to camp.
The Minotaur froze. Something wasn't quite right. Out of the gloom of dusk, several being emerged. It looks like the Qib-Atha had found him, instead.
~The Eastern Shore~
Pol was glad that his brother Adz had been sent through the swamps. He and his party of Minotaurs had skirted the southern edge of it, keeping close to the coast as they had traveled, but the sight of all of that mud had sent shivers of disgust down the younger minotaur's spine. Instead, he had been sent to find other allies for Ajam, ones which, supposedly, lived in the ocean depths.
Well, here they were at said ocean... now what?
Pol opened his mouth and cried out as loud as a Minotaur could bellow.
"HELLO IN THE WAVES! WE COME TO SPEAK TO YOU!"
He hoped that would work.
~Humanity at the Edge of the Hole of Falrn~
being driven into the Hole of Falrn by the rampaging goblinoid hordes had initially been considered a disaster by the humans living on its edge. The subsequent rumblings and earthquakes as the hole had grown larger had been an even greater disaster. To this day, they knew that the bugbear-led armies still encircled the walls of the city of their ancestors. Scouts reported that the humans within the walls had had the sense to lock the gates, but this left them trapped within, scrounging out a barely-civilized existence by living in what was meant to be the great capital of the human empire, but was instead a small village surrounded by fields, surrounded by a wall larger and thicker than any wall had a right to be.
Finally, after years of rebuilding, the settlers of the Hole found themselves thriving, greatly enjoying their unassailible fortresses-city built directly into the walls of the hole itself. Each dusk, they would throw out nets, catching dozens to hundreds of nocturnal creatures who moved into and out of the great underground cave network to hunt for food in the outside world. Each day, they would tend their farms both above and below ground, supplementing the meats of the bats with mushrooms and grains. And each day, their elite soldiers trained in massive, carved underground rooms, preparing for the day they would break the hundred-year siege of the Bugbears and bring their distant ancestors visions to fruition.
It had taken many years, and some time before the pixies had even noticed, but the Alda and Pixies of Hocix had formed an alliance of sorts.
1 PP: Guide Populace (Civilization): The Pixies around the Seed form a religious cult known as Panisia, whose goal is the eventual sprouting of the Worldseed. 2 PP (Civilization): Guide Populace (TECH): The Panasians become skilled at navigating Mirage Valley. 2 PP (Empower): Nourish Land (Resource): The Land around the WorldSeed is especially fertile, and highly resistant to attempts to harm it. 2 PP (Civilization): Guide Populace (Tech): The Humans in the Hole of Falrn become experts at close-combat fighting. 1 PP (Civilization): Command Land: Humanity builds a city into the walls of the Hole of Falrn. 1 PP (Civilization): Guide Populi: Alda and Hocix form an alliance.
Well, ALMOST all of it. 0/Life:0 Civilization :1 /0/0/0/1
In certain parts of the world, or perhaps just in one part in particular, the god who was otherwise known as Death was known by another name. Here, to the denizens of the Misty Isles of Miscellaneous, he is known simply as He Who Has Been Thrown Out, or else as He Who is Trashed. Or, if they were feeling particularly irreverent, as He Who is Utterly Smashed. The logic is simple, really. Elsewhere in the world, the worship of the one known as Death has fallen out of fashion, as these things do, and the people of Miscellaneous, known colloquially as the Misc were always the sort to pick up that which the other races cast off.
As a race, they were somewhat of an afterthought, in any case. All the major chronicles of the world had thus far omitted their existence entirely, despite the fact they had been around for not an inconsiderable amount of time. At least since last Wednesday, according to Larry from Down South. The Misc were not entirely miffed by their historical state. They weren't fussy about those sorts of things. What they were fussy about was Junk, and its state on their fair Misty Isles.
You see, the Misty Isles of Miscellanous were a collection of small islands far underground, sitting in a grand lake of rainwater, around which had accumulated quite a fair bit of oddities over the years. You see, anything anyone ever through out ended up in Miscellanous eventually. That was simply how it worked. It would make its way down through the crust of the earth, and then through a series of brooks and channels, it would end up in the Great Big Sea of Stuff. And the choiciest of these bits invariably found their way to the centre of the Sea to be used and abused by the Misc. It really was a wonderful arrangement. And for the bits that were needed that simply didn't have the sense to make their way to the Misc on their own, the Misc would send out little boats made of lashed-together doors and go searching on their own.
Occasionally, the Misc would stumble upon a bit or bobble which didn't seem to come from anywhere. These things, they said, were tossed down by the One Who is Trashed, either as failed experiments or, depending on whom you asked, jokes he was playing on the helpless mortals. These the Misc would prize above all other things. Often, strange things like wigs or copper kettles would be hoisted up on broom handles above the houses of the Misc, which huddled together like moist sugar-cubes, to proclaim to the majesty of the One Who Has Been Thrown Out.