Gnoth

Here's some flash fiction and the fact-box about the next Atlas Elyden  Map, which I'll be posting next week. I will continue to post a little something with each region as it helps convey a bit more of the character of a region.

I do plan on updating some of the older maps, and will be adding these to the maps.  

Please let me know by liking or commenting below, thanks :)
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Sared sat down on the sandstone steps, his eyes lazily following the course of the river Ramiel south.
   He was surrounded by people, the sounds of their prayers, debates and oratories filling the air around him as they discussed the merits and shortcomings of their many schools of philosophical beliefs. He saw a group of indriks - large pack animals - walking in single file, their sides laden with goods. Giganri walked beside them, and with them walked a few human merchants, dwarfed by the giganri and the hulking indriks. They were heading east, upstream, towards the Monument.
   Behind him, Sared could hear the indistinct sounds of the market. The not altogether pleasant smell of a dozen different foods mingled together, hanging heavily in the air above the city of Pleroma. Farther in the distance, bells chimed, signalling some sect or other to meditation. Somewhere in Gnoth it was always time for meditation.
    Children were running about, playing and shouting by the water’s edge, even as their elders crouched, washing clothes. The children ran around the elders, splashing them with water.
   Sared stared at them, his brow heavy. He was deep in thought and cared not for their games. All the sounds and activity around him felt muted, as though they were happening in another life or another time or place. He was far away, his thoughts dwelling on the Tomb of Urakabarameel.
   He was trying to anticipate what it would be like to look upon his Holy Father, the Demiurge whose actions had brought his race - the giganri - into being, whose actions had shaped continents, mountains, rivers and forests. Whose dreams had brought a myriad of creatures, their purposes and lives all intertwined, into being.
   He pictured himself undertaking the incredibly personal journey to the Monument, all the while surrounded by other pilgrims, mystics, great thinkers and merchants. Already he’d come from Spadara, well over 1,000-miles west. What were another 60-miles?
   But this last stop in Pleroma had brought home the fact that he was almost there. Suddenly the road ahead felt harder, farther than it ever had before.
   What would he do? What would he say to his Holy Father? Would he even hear him?
   He rested his arms on his knees and allowed his head to droop low, his hair falling over his eyes.
   On the other side of the river, the line of indriks had moved out of sight. In their wake was a group of scholars, what felt like miles of robes wrapped around their bodies. They each walked with a long staff, taking long purposeful strides, each taking them closer to a higher version of truth.
  Or at least, that’s what they all hoped.
   Wasn’t that why they spent their days questioning, searching for answers? Like Urakabarameel before them, the giganri yearned for answers.
   “To what?” outsiders might ask.
   “That is not the point,” the philosopher might reply.
   Some argued that the journey was what mattered. Others might imply that in searching for the truth one might learn that truth is unknowable, and that that was the only truth.
   “Sared,” there is someone here who wishes to speak to you.
   The voice was distant, like a half-remembered whisper. It was enough for the giganri to break his concentration and open his eyes. He saw one of the young acolytes standing nervously beside a human, towering over him.
    It was not uncommon for humans to find their way into Gnoth. Despite the impression many outsiders had of Gnoth, its people were not xenophobic. Its monasteries and colleges were welcoming to outsiders, who often brought with them new schools of thought that could challenge established paradigms. Foreign merchants also brought with them ores and materials that were important to their alchemical research, or which were of use on a more mundane level.
   This specimen looked like the latter - he was short, even for a human, and of wide girth. Dressed in a dark jacket, he looked out of place amongst the giganri pilgrims and their robes and different skin-tones.
   The human was grinning, or grimacing, or maybe was in pain. Giganri had difficulties reading human facial expressions. Giganri had very subtle expressions, and communicated more through head nods and tilts, and by gesticulating with the arms and slender hands. One of the many differences between the two races.
   Sared nodded as the acolyte fled, leaving him alone with the human, who stepped forward and reached out with his arm, “Good day to you,” he said in Gnothi. “My name is Helmul Bernia, I am a scholar from Skaros and was let into Gnoth to further my studies. I was told you could serve as my guide.”
   Sared cocked his head, failing to understand why the human would hold out his hand in that way. “I cannot see why, Mr. Helmul. I have had little interaction with humans and I doubt you would understand many of the words needed to convey the intricacies of our beliefs.”
   Helmul withdrew his hand slowly and swallowed, the look on his face changing, growing heavier. “I will try my best.”
   The giganri grunted. “We will be leaving soon.”
   “I was hoping to walk with you, perhaps we can trade Knowledge on the way.”
   Sared regarded the human. “The pursuit of Knowledge is a deeply personal quest, that consumes us for all our lives, which are considerably longer than yours. We cannot just share Knowledge. Knowledge must be attained through introspection, meditation and reflection.”
   The human looked around, confused, for a moment, then nodded, his mouth curling upwards at the corners. “I meant to say knowledge,” he said. “I forgot that you have different levels of knowledge. I would not presume to find True Knowledge in my short stay here, but would be grateful for anything you can teach.”
   “Your mistake is understandable,” said Sared, gesturing to the human to walk besides him. “It is attainable by all, however.”
   “Sorry?”
   “Gnosis. You said you would not presume to find True Knowledge whilst here. It is possible, even though you are not one of the People. Anyone can seek True Knowledge, and it may be found anywhere, though few are those who do find it. It is why we journey to the Monument - many are those who claim to have been brought closer to True Knowledge, by looking upon our Holy Father. I believe your people also share a similar link with your Father?”
   “Yes. And no.”
   “What do you mean?”
   “It is true that we undertake the great pilgrimage known as the Shadow March, the goal of which is the tomb and throne of the Undying Machine: the Lord Rachanael. In our case it is forgiveness for our earthly sins that we seek, rather than enlightenment, though I suppose that also factors into it somehow.  But Rachanael is not our Father in the same sense that Urakabarameel is yours. He adopted us after our original father, Avraham, abandoned us, in the Second Age, and we have been under his aegis ever since.”
   The giganri had their own tales of the Demiurges, and the story of how Rachanael had ‘adopted’ the humans was very different in their own accounts. He remained silent as they continued walking.
   They were on the road for three days. The human scholar bombarded Sared with questions about everything from Gnothi culture and philosophies, to its geography and the system of government used. He’d answered where he could, and where the inclination was present, but nothing seemed to dull the man’s thirst for ephemeral information, and wondered if these were the types of questions that most human scholars wasted their time with.
   Somehow he felt he now understood how the Korachani empire had fallen so low in recent decades.
   They had stopped to eat with various other groups of monks and scholars that had gathered around a large campfire.

    Helmul had taken a liking to the Gnothi food, though to Sared’s palette it was bland and cheap - no more or less than was expected of trail food.
   Helmul’s main enjoyment was the portion sizes - of course giganri, being so much larger than humans, ate larger portions, and even a child’s share was more than what the human scholar was used to eating. He’d mentioned the most common food in Skaros being hard bread and an artificial slurry, called dross, that was made from waste meat, reconstituted offal, plant-matter, and other, more dubious ingredients. It sounded worse than the trail-mix they were eating, and made Sared distrust the empire even more.
   Helmul had left the camp to relieve himself and when he came back was carrying a small animal on his shoulder, “what is this?” he said, “It looks like a cross between a cat and a monkey.” He gave it part of a biscuit, which it grabbed in its front paws and nibbled on.
   “That is a kerkop. They are mischievous little things, because their lives are without anchor or discipline. They remind us of the chaos that would consume our lives if we did not cultivate self-control.”
   “We have nothing like this back home. Just gutterbirds and rats.”
   “I am not familiar with gutterbirds.”
   “You’re lucky.”
   The kerkop remained with Helmul after they finished eating and settled down for the night next to him.
   When they awoke the next day Helmul found it in his bag. He decided to keep it, despite Sared’s suggestions to the contrary.
   Helmul was playing with the kerkop as the giganri completed their morning meditations. After a while they broke camp and continued on their journey.
   “We should reach the Monument before noon,” said Sared.
   “Good, I am excited to see it. I can only imagine what you must be feeling.”
   “My apologies, but I find it difficult to tell when you are making an attempt at humour.”
   “That’s a bit below the belt. But, no, I wasn’t trying to be funny.”
   Sared hesitated for a moment, deciding to ignore the comment about belts - neither of them were even wearing a belt, anyway. “I see. Giganri are not known for their excitement.”
   “Hadn’t noticed.”
   “I think I am beginning to get the hang of it though,” said Sared.
   Helmul smiled at him.
   “There is a degree of apprehension, I must admit. Gnoth is a large plage, and most do not have the means or time to seek it out. In that respect I am fortunate. I will soon be standing before the dreaming body of the Demiurge Urakabarameel - our Father. I feel apprehension. The reality cannot possibly exceed the expectation. I feel guilt. Why do I get to look upon him, where others are denied the chance? I feel… I feel fear.”
   Helmul was silent for a while. “We have much to learn from your people, it would seem,” he said eventually.
   They were in the final leg of their journey, and had passed the last waystone before arriving at the monument. Helmul was getting tired, but could sense something in the air around him. Dare he say an aura of excitement, or whatever passed for it amongst his brooding hosts.
   “We are arrived, brethern,” cried one of the dawncallers, pointing up ahead.
   They were ascending a large hill, and were near to the top. Behind the crown of the hill they saw the warm glow of an amber monument, rough and of singular mass. It was still morning and the sun shone behind him, illuminating the mass from behind. It was large, they could all tell, like a castle made from a single block of the substance.
   As they approached more of the object was revealed. It was huge, the size of a tower, easily 40-ft. high and over twice as wide at its widest, though it tapered unevenly at the top. Inside was a naked giant, suspended in the solid block of amber. Its skin was dark, and unblemished, its limbs long yet belying an inhuman strength. Its face resembled those of the giganri, its black featuress eyes open, staring into nothingness through the amber. There was a resigned look behind them, yet not at all the blank stare of a corpse. Helmul felt a deep sadness that he’d never felt before, as though it were emanating from the amber monument. Of the body of the Demiurge.
   Beside him Sared fell to his knees, alongside many of his brethren. Murmurs filled the hilltop as more of the pilgrims came into sight of the Monument - Urakabarameel’s Tomb. Some began praying, others just mumbling to themselves.
   “It is him!”
   “I am not strong enough for this.”
   “May we be enlightened in your presence.”
   Hemul could\ not bear to look at the suspended Demiurge any more. Is head felt light, his lips were trembling, his body had grown weak, as though the blood had been drained away. He looked away, and turned his attentions towards Sared. He saw a single tear trickle down the gignari’s cheek.
   He would go on to spend most of his life amongst the giganri, studying their culture and mannerisms. In what would be four decades amongst those gentle contemplative giants, this was the only time he would see one of them cry.