From: Michael O'Brien (mrmob@ozemail.com.au)
Date: Mon 04 Aug 1997 - 15:00:09 EEST
G'day all,
____
Duck
David Dunham writes:
> I didn't attend the session, but apparently Ducks are Delecti's subjects,
> he was probably involved in making them (the EWF did, and in my mini-LARP,
> Delecti was the Chief Scientist of the Remakers, so I view him as a very
> likely candidate). This explains how ducks are quite different from the
> Keets. Also, the reason they picked up Orlanthi culture is that, being
> created, they had no culture of their own. And since they were made in
> Dragon Pass, surrounded by Orlanthi...
>
> And supposedly ducks EAT undead.
I was at this seminar (this was the curiously named Black Sheep Races - I
honestly did think it was going to involve running around, but my brain was
somewhat pickled by that stage), and the general concensus was that yes,
the Ducks *were* created by the EWF, possibly to emulate the Keets. And
Sandy reckons that the Keets are in fact a variety of bird-folk, not just
duck-like. Almost everyone present also agreed that of course Ducks
definitely lay eggs! Why? Because it is much more MGF-ably groovy for
them to do so. Ergo, the write-up in Borderlands is retroactively wrong.
V.S. Greene : klyfix@aol.com : Boston, near Arkham writes:
>Whoa, that puts a whole different light on ducks! If ducks are
>originally a manufactured species as opposed to a race that offended Yelm or
>somebody during the Gods War, we have to do a major rethink of 'em. One big
>question, is Delecti actually Chaotic as I've always assumed? If ducks are
>the servants of a chaos being then they're pretty close to being Chaos
>themselves.
Hmmm, just how does a wimpy race like the ducks manage to thrive so
Food for thought,
successfully close by to all that festering undead? Doesn't anyone else
think their constant insistence that they live just like their human
neighbours is somewhat shrill. And why are their temples to "Humakt" so
clean, tidy and seemingly unused?
MOB
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>From the Notes from Nochet files:
[XXIX.1345.Gerallon/p5*]
We met many times that summer, but we still kept our friendship secret.
I continued to look after my mother, whose wounds she gained bearing me now
kept her confined to bed most days. I even introduced Darya to her, for
mother suspected that I had made some friend and she was concerned lest I
be discovered. Her fears were put to rest on meeting Darya, a gentle soul
like herself.
"The final time we met..." A tear plopped down Gerallon's face. The old
priest, his free hand straying around for his mug, suddenly found the
broo's hand. He took it, and said gently, "I knew from when you first came
through my door you meant me, nor anyone I think, any harm." He chuckled.
"I'm not without magical resources, you know, and I have the scholar's
intuition. Nevertheless, I can feel that your life has been beset by
tragedy, for what else could come of a goodly broo?"
Gerallon buried his great face in his hand, and wept. The blind man
continued: "Let me see if I can continue your story for you. Your
friendship with Darya grew into love, a hopeless love, for a broo such as
yourself could never bring yourself to consummate such a union, so horrible
would have the consequences been for your dear Darya. So, your intimacy
with Darya amounted to little more than a few chaste kisses and,
heartbroken, yearning for something you could never truly have, you left
your mountaintop home and have wandered the world ever since. I am close
to the truth?"
"Close old man", Gerallon replied, still weeping. "If only were it so!
If only were it so!" And he bawled. Never did he more sound like a broo,
but that his cry was one of frustration and anguish, rather than hate and
anger.
"Let us talk some more in the morning, my friend", said the priest
kindly. "That is, if you feel you want to."
"No", replied the broo, taking a deep breath. "I will tell you now and be
done with it. Only then I may sleep tonight."
You were right about the love between us. Darya kissed me once, here, on
my muzzle, just above my nose. Past that, I shied away: it was not, could
never be safe.
About a year after I first met her, I was returning from the hunt.
Hearing a noise, I hid low in the undergrowth. "Probably a hunting party",
thought I. I had hidden from them before, and could do so again. To my
surprise, rather than boots or buskins, cloven hoofs passed me by. Looking
up, I noticed the goat heads of these hunters: they were broo, my kin. I
almost emerged to greet them, but I recalled all the stories my mother had
told about them and I was afraid.
You might say of me that I am, for a broo, quite handsome - at least
Darya thought so (Gerallon permitted himself a wistful grin). But these
fellows were hideous. One had two heads, that shouted and spat at each
other. Another had human feet, and wore buckled shoes, but his body was
covered in festering sores, oozing pus. Another still had three arms, each
gripping a cruel axe. And their leader: the hugest broo I have ever seen,
with gigantic horns. Severed heads dangled at his belt, and I swear one of
them glanced at me as it passed. (At this, the old priest gasped, and
muttered something under his breath). He slashed his broadsword like a
farmer uses a scythe, cutting at everything in his path. I watched
carefully as they passed me by, muttering, shouting and cursing in their
own hideous tongue.
After they had gone I sprang up and ran for home, for it occurred to me
that this was the direction they had come from. Looking ahead, I saw
smoke. I ran on, my concern now turning to fear and panic. I came to the
clearing of my home, to find our hut in flames. I could see mother inside,
struggling fitfully in her bed. I attempted to save her; twice I was
beaten back by the flames. Finally, I forced myself in and dragged her
free. She was fearfully burned, as was I. With her dying gasps, she sang
a song of Power, called the Comfort Song, the last song she knew from her
Healer days, which soothed me and enabled her to die in peace. Cradling
her in my arms, I cried, for the first time in my life - maybe the first
broo to do so for centuries.
I considered what do to next - bury her? Then, with a sickening
realisation, I knew where those broo were headed. They were going to the
village! I put my mother down as peacefully as I could, took up my hunting
spear and bow and ran. I sprinted for my life, and Darya's. As I drew
close, I could see a plume of smoke rising into the air, and shouts, the
clashing of weapons and screams. Plenty of screams. I came to my
viewpoint on the hill: the dark, horned shapes were all about the
settlement. I could see some of the villagers fleeing out the far side of
town, only to be met by more of the broo-shapes. He was cunning, that broo
leader.
Of course, I was too late...
*note: this is the fifth part of a story submitted to Tales so long ago I
have lost the author's name. The english language version here was
substantially polished from the original submission by me; I think author
might have been Finnish or Swedish. I've put it up here because it is
unlikely it will ever be published in the zine but I think it is good 'un
(and I spent quite a while working on it at the time). It would be great
if I could get in touch with the author again.
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