TALES FROM THE LAND OF HUMANITY

 

Location: Forn, Northern Adaslanta

Year: 4692 AS, Midsummer/Wajon

Account: The journal of Marrie Uella, independent investigative journalist. Follows her investigation into the inner workings of Adaslantine Ramparts, Adaslantine Greater Settlements, and the sources of their power in the stead of the Tree.

​

The air was very still within the Walls. Almost stagnant. As I entered the Canyon City of Forn, that feeling hit me like a slap to the face. Above, the pink sky was fading into crimson, stars peeking out from behind the Veil of Mind. I was lucky to have made it all this way unscathed; The void left behind by the star of Order was, at that point in the year, on the rise towards its upper transit along with its constellation, beckoning many more threatening species of himate into a brief respite from their hibernation. I suppose being alone amidst all of it helped me in that regard, but perhaps not so much for my sanity.

Tucking a loose hair behind my ear, I pushed forwards, this very notepad clutched to my chest. And as I did so, my eyes drifted back down from the sky and towards the expansive city before me.

They sure do love their marble, I remember thinking. The architecture was as white as a blazing sorcerer’s soul, the buildings seeming to capture every ounce of light that this land was given, amplifying it, concentrating it. Forn certainly was the epicentre of the Adaslantine sub-economy, perhaps lending itself to its proximity to Avence; being the northernmost city on the more populated eastern side of the Shiana Mountains, not terribly far from the trading province that lay in the south of Greater Dumnonia. Thus, back when it was being constructed some hundred years ago, it had the capital to almost monopolise the import of marble and other similar minerals from Boldor.

I suppose, looking back on my visit, there was a little more to this choice besides the stunning view.

A strange choice in the architecture of their Adaslantine Ramparts was that of a small hole in the eastern section; a small hole was cut from the reinforced stone, allowing a stream of lake-water to stream into the moat-like canals that trekked through the city. No surprise that the localised Nuncèkratà (the name of the sorcerer-based anti-himate forces synonymous with nomadic societies, funded by the individualised localised governments within Adaslanta) had a station immediately next to the opening. They would certainly need to watch that at this time of year.

The city was rather expansive, as it would have to be, but it made my investigation difficult. I could see the distant grasping arms of light echoing from the centre of the city. Notably, these streaks of light were seemingly weaker - or rather not as strong, at least in appearance. When compared with my memory of cities such as Illam or Murancia in Greater Dumnonia, the tendrils of light that came from the city’s Source were, instead of being thick and full, were instead trails of small particulates of magic; small specks of stardust, almost akin to the patter of Soulbirds on their path towards the Shiana. There were many more of them than in any other city, however, making up for what was lost in intensity with abundance. It seemed that, as I looked up as I walked through the streets, I could see more of the sky that was covered by these faint streaks of glimmering dust than sky that wasn’t.

I pressed forward, over a bridge lined by planks of peach-coloured wood. My best guess was that they had been harvested from the neighbouring Shiwood. I remember feeling slightly elated at the peculiar sound it made as I walked over it, almost like a child playing with a new toy. I love visiting new places - there is always just so much to them - the desire to write about them never failing to wriggle from within the flesh of my fingers. 

I passed building after building as I approached the city centre, market stalls growing more and more abundant on the side of the road. This trip being my first true exploration into Adaslantine culture within a Greater Settlement, the strange and odd assortment of clothes, accessories and especially food baffled me. Cones of pastry that swirled and twisted like the trees of The Great Cloves, meats of one species carved into the appearance of another, amulets and rings inscribed with depictions of their patron martyr Shiana, dresses and tunics that seemed to cocoon and wash over the person wearing rather than acclimatising to their figure. All equally stunning, and thus, as is my nature, I couldn’t leave comment of it out.

But, after some time, I began to reach the true centre of the city, and as I did so the abundance of both stalls, people and buildings began to slowly dwindle. The path opened out into a wide expanse of courtyard, a gate separating the patterned cobble of the path and the growths of crimson grass. It sat at the foot of grand stairs, leading up and into the grandiose building where the Source was stored. But, before the gateway, stood two guards. Both were rather portly, but from the conversation they were having the difference in status was obvious. Both seemed to be from the Nuncèkratà, but the man on the right, taller, wore an overcoat of gold over the yellow of the basic uniform. He bubbled with conversation.

“…you know? So then I was like: what’s the problem with it? If it’s such a big deal, then why aren’t you doing anything about it?”

“Right.” The other said, a glum sleight to his voice.

“And right then and there, she slapped me. Slapped me! Can you believe it? Would you tolerate that from your wife?”

“No, I suppose not…”

“Right? Well, of course I’m not so brutish as to take it out on her. But sometimes I just wonder…” His expression grew slightly wistful. He sucked in a breath before continuing. “…well, it’ll figure itself out, I’m sure. It always tends to—”

“Excuse me!” I called out to them, waving with one hand whilst I had this notebook clutched to my chest in the other. Their conversation stopped as they both turned. When I reached them, I let a puff of air escape my lips. “Hi..! Sorry, but are visitors allowed inside?” I gestured towards the towering spire behind them. “I’m trying to get this journalism thing off of it’s feet, and it’s tricky to get any stories around here. I’d like to sell an article to the press here, specifically about the centre building.” A lie, of course. I let a meagre smile spread on my lips, targeting the more timid Nuncèkratà first. When our eyes met, he looked away.

“You don’t look like you’re from around her, ma’am.” The one on the right said, taking a step closer to me.

“I was actually planning to move in.” A lie. “I’ve always been intrigued by the culture here, and Greater Dumnonia isn’t making up for that.” A lie. “I’m a naturally curious person, you see, being a writer and all. I like to get out into new places. And if I can offer my pen, by writing a nice and fluffy article about this place, I’m sure everyone will be better off.” A lie.

“Hmm… seems like an decision beyond my pay.” He said. “It’s high security for a reason.”

“All the more reason to let me have a peak around, surely?” I took a step towards him, asserting myself despite our discrepancy in height. I beamed a warm smile at him. “If not even the citizens can have a look, there’s bound to be a collective intrigue surrounding it. Or rather… mystery.” I took him by the hand. “People love mysteries. Samuel, it’s the crown jewel of journalism. But what humans hate is it’s counterpart; the unknown. And the fear of the unknown is present in all of us, is it not?” As he tried to leave my grip, I strengthened it. “The unknown breeds fear, fear breeds hate, and hate for the system...” I sighed, letting go. “In any case, aren’t you curious about what goes on in the inside? It’s not exactly information you guys receive either.”

“Well…” The upper-ranked officer scoffed, eyes refusing to meet mine.

“I think Greater-folk should keep their noses out of it.” The other said. His eyes were dead ahead, unblinking, almost a bit shell-shocked. “We have given you lot enough, have we not?”

“Now, now, come on…” The other started.

“You stole her from us. Shiana.” His voice was rising, almost quivering.

“What are you-”

“Feliss!” The other man snarled, before lowering his voice into a hissy whisper. “Have some courtesy.” The man shook.

“Yes. Sorry.” He turned to me, knitting his knuckles behind his back and taking a knee; a common Adaslantine reverential bow. 

“I’m terribly sorry…” The upper-ranked officer reiterated. “Say, just have a peek. It’ll do less harm than good in my books.” He flashed me a wink, before turning his attention back to his under-officer whilst he fiddled with a key and the lock to the gate they stood before. “No matter the circumstance, no matter the person, speaking so a civilian in such a manner is deplorable! I hope you hold yourself accountable, so that I won’t have to.”

“…yes, sir.” His eyes, dull and vacantly malicious, drifted to his upper-officer. Then to me. And then back to his upper-officer.

The lock came free, and the squeak of the hinges beckoned me forward, pulling me away from the intricacies of the man’s emotion. I do feel sympathy for the Adaslantine people. The very reason I came here to investigate the Sources of Adaslanta was due to a thought that struck me about the situation; the Adaslantine nomads had their land stolen from our ancestors, and they were relegated to the inhospitable lands of crimson that lay in the south. And still they tend to be persecuted where they do creep into the lands of the north. Even after what I saw inside the building, I still hold much sympathy for the people of Adaslanta, and much reverence for their culture. Perhaps, on reflection, this doesn’t reflect on them. No, I’m certain it doesn’t. The citizens of Forn certainly weren’t anything but pleasant, just living out their life. And sure, they may bare generational grudges, but yet… I can’t say I entirely blame them.

But, of course, I have been skirting around the subject at hand, haven’t I? 

I found it unusual that people weren’t allowed to even see the Source that propped up their very own city’s Ramparts. To me, it was almost like waking up in a body without a heart; it’s essential to showcase that power. So much so that that was, in my eyes, a prerequisite. It felt almost empty without something of grandeur to see, a beacon of light, or even a Source that lies in sight outside the Ramparts. But except the spiralling construction, sat atop a hill, from which the tendrils of light emanated from, there was nothing.

Upon entering, I was greeted by the calm respite of a shadow that cut through the midsummer heat of the South. I didn’t expect it to get very much hotter than up north, but perhaps I underestimate the sheer spread of Dumnonia. It is the largest country on the continent, I suppose, yet it was almost irritatingly surprising. I wiped my forehead of sweat.

But within the building, hidden from the crimson sun’s rays, a circular lift lay the floor. It was big enough, morbidly, for at least twenty people. It seemed to be activated by a pressure plate in the centre.

It was an odd material; much the opposite of the white marble that surrounded me, it was a deep, grainy blue-black. I tapped it with my foot, and it seemed to echo, hollow.

I darted my head around, looking for someone. Nobody.

Crossing the radial of the circular lift, I pushed down on the pressure plate. Vertigo licked my calves as I promptly descended into darkness. I’d expected it to have went up, but no. As I plummeted, bodyslength after bodyslength, I was flooded by a wave of that glittering light that held up the Ramparts; it all seemed to be diverging from this one stream, funnelled through this well-like hole. Around me, sparkling, were an endless flurry of glimmering lights. Behind the fog of that immense glow, it was indeed made up of singular specks of almost auburn dust, twinkling and racing past my face.

Truly, morbidly, I felt awe in that moment.

That was until I felt the lift slowly grind to a halt, and the pallid patterns of cobbled wall receded into an archway, one opened into a cellar.

And what a sickening sight I had to behold.

Carcass after carcass after carcass. Bloodied, stripped of skin, pressed against the roots of a tree, sheltered and mostly contained within the far wall, until their flesh was crushed like a mangled or spliced piece of meat. My stomach plummeted, and a wave of inescapable nausea fogged my vision. I still can’t believe it. I don’t even want to think about it. But in that moment, oh dear Samuel it’s coming back to me now, I remember that sickness as utterly invasive. My mind reeled in an attempt to comprehend it, spinning, sweltering, as in the midst of a fever.

Despite my best efforts, my journalist heart yelling at me to investigate further, my legs wouldn’t stop shaking. I pressed the pressure pad, and left.

​

Following this report’s publication, many groups both from Greater Dumnonia and Adaslanta have protested the existence of this Source, vocally, most notably in the new year of 4693 AS a large scale march on the High Court of Murancia.

Talks of liberation of the people of Forn from these operations occurred but ultimately went nowhere. The reasons given by the High Court of Murancia went as thus:

​

“Ergo we shall not take authoritative action over the operation of a foreign body government, nor shall we intrude on land that does not abide by our law. However, we shall be placing economic sanctions on the Canyon City of Forn. It must be clear as soon as possible, within all our citizen’s conduct as well as our government’s: we mean not to spark again tensions within our Great Nation.”
- Madam Clarissa (High Order as of c. 4692 AS), c. 4693 AS, Spring

​

Soon after the above statement, the movements slowly died, and the topic began to recede from the public eye. However, some groups survived, albeit mostly underground, or mentally shelved, amongst the population that still held strong opinions about it.

After this, Marrie Uella slowly began to shift to more political stories, and was arrested c. 4695 AS for instigating the group ‘Union Dumnonia’, a group that plotted an insurgency on the Canyon City of Forn, which advocated for the unionisation of the people of Adaslanta and the people of Greater Dumnonia, as well as the elimination of the governmental body that instilled the regime to produce a human-based Source in the Canyon City of Forn.