From: mrmob@ozemail.com.au
Date: Wed 06 Aug 1997 - 11:45:46 EEST
G'day all,
________________
The Mighty Ducks
Bill Thompson suggests:
>I think we might examine the possibility that the EWF merely
>brought intact eggs from the East Isles. Stolen from the Keets
>as it were (does that constitute plagiarism) and hatched in
>Delecti's Swamp. Raised without any race memories or familial
>instruction it would explain the lack of extant culture.
This sounds very plausible! Any history of the Ducks must address the
issue of their relationship with the Keets.
_________
Duck Eggs
Stephen sez:
>Plus, the idea of ducks bearing their young alive was
>specifically mentioned in RQ2 as one of the important and
>debilitating points of their curse -- it is one of the main
>reasons they lost their flight.
But, if the Ducks are transplanted Keets, is there really a "curse"? Could
the curse not be just a somewhat gloomy aetiological explanation developed
by the Ducks to explain to themselves why they can't fly? In actual fact,
the real reasons are the same as the proud and glorious Keets, who wear
their flightlessness as a badge of honour. Those poor pessemistic Ducks on
the other hand lack the race memory and suffer for it with a lack of
self-confidence and pride.
>If Sandy wants keets to lay eggs, I have no problem with
>that -- I think there is little if any relationship between
>the two species. But in Dragon Pass, the "cursed ducks" should
>remain as written, IMO.
But Sandy insists strenuously that the Ducks lay eggs too! Correct me if
I'm wrong, but on the final page of the new Drastic Rez you make the point
that you consider Sandy's views to be "official" (your term)*.
_________
Duck Soup
Me:
>Hmmm, just how does a wimpy race like the ducks manage to thrive so
>successfully close by to all that festering undead?
V.S. Greene:
>>Easy. Ducks swim, undeads don't. Ducks vs. Undead in Marsh, Ducks
>>win. Figure also (sudden inspiration) that a duck community
>>probably has some provision for flooding in the event of attacks,
>>sort of like the Netherlands when they fought for independence.
Nah, what I was subtlely suggesting (too subtle, obviously) is that the
Ducks have some sort of secret relationship/alliance/truce with Delecti
that they don't make public.
Me:
>Doesn't anyone else think their constant insistence that they
>live just like their human neighbours is somewhat shrill.
V.S. Greene:
>>It's just a clumsy attempt to be loved. :)
Or to live anonymously, without drawing undue attention.
Me:
>And why are their temples to "Humakt" so clean, tidy and
>seemingly unused?
V.S.Greene:
>>The little guys are neatness freaks? Perhaps the temples
>>are largely for appearances, and the real rituals are out in
>>the marshes. Maybe they involve the Great Feast of Roasted
>>Undead.....(zombie tastes like chicken)
Yum, I'm sure it does! The temples are largely for appearance, because
they only **pretend** to worship "Humakt"!! Although the Ducks egregiously
proclaim that they live "just like the humans around us" in actual fact
they are creepy, flesh-eating cultists in league with Delecti!
Please note that I personally don't believe this is true, but certain
paranoid Sartarites might!
__________
Duck Tales
Sergio Mascarenhas laments:
>If Chaosium is going to support that view, which seems most likely to
>happen, that's the end for my own version of ducks.
Relax, I don't think *anything* is set in stone just yet, and its unlikely
Chaosium will be bringing out a DuckPak of their own anytime in the next
week, month or year (decade?) Please keep 'em posting! And don't forget
that important acronym IMG - "In My Glorantha", where you can do whatever
the heck you want.
Cheers
MOB
*and just on this Steve, why do you single out Martin Crim and Sandy's 9
page article in Codex 1 as an "article" (ie. in quotation marks)? Is this
meant to somehow load the term?
'...Codex 1 contains a number of articles dealing with the city of Pavis,
but also includes an "article" on the tribes of Prax. My only concern
is that the information from two sources (one "official", one not)
were mixed together, making it difficult to separate Martin Crim's views
from Sandy's.'
Drastic Rez, p.101.
Given that Sandy's text is in one typeface and Martin's in another, I found
it astonishingly easy to differentiate between the two throughout. In my
opinion, the article (or as Steve puts it, "article") is actually quite
good, and presages and complements a lot of the material Stephen has
recently put into Drastic - Prax.
___________________________________________________________________
>From the Notes from Nochet files:
[XXIX.1345.Gerallon/p6*]
The village was in flames, and there were bodies lying everywhere. The
broos were busy killing and destroying. Some already had started the
raping. I ran from body to body, afraid of seeing a familiar face. The
other broo did not heed me, thinking I was one of their number. I tried to
give the impression of a corpse-robber; I even took a cloak from one of the
fallen. I'm wearing it now.
Darya's house lay at the other end of the town; I had watched it many
times from my vantage point. It was not yet alight, although the door had
been kicked in. I ran in, only to confront one of the broo - an appalling
creature covered in oily scales - standing over a tall, bearded man,
partially clad in armour (iron!), and gripping a long-bladed sword. He had
an ugly wound in his belly. The bodies of a dozen of the horrors lay
around him. Glazen-eyed, he was dying. I knew this man to be Darya's
father, I had seen him from the hill. He was breathing his last.
With a bellow, I charged into the room, and the scaly broo, who was
preparing to bring down his great club on the dying man's head, turned to
greet me. To its surprise, I levelled my spear not at the fallen human but
the broo itself. I thrust hard, but the spear broke on its scaly hide,
breaking just below the haft.
Screaming in its own language, the broo prepared to take swing back at me
but before it could do so, was distracted by the warrior, who had managed
to point the tip of his sword in the broo's direction. Wincing with the
pain, he let out a strangled gasp: "Humakt - Die! " In an instant, the
room fell strangely dark and cold. Power leapt from the sword-tip,
striking the broo in the chest. It shook violently for a second and
dropped like a stone, onto the man.
With a heave, I rolled the corpse aside. Darya's father looked up at me,
but his eyes were blank.
"Who are you?", he croaked. "Where's Darya?", I said, urgently. He
turned his head towards a doorway, leading into the room beyond. A bare
foot lay poking across the threshold. Fighting my nausea, I approached,
trembling. It was Darya's mother, and she was dead, with a crushing blow
to the head. Fortunately for her sake, she lay unravaged. Beyond, in the
shadows, lay her daughter on her cot. Darya lay naked on her stomach,
above the sheets, as if sleeping. Her head and shoulders were hidden in
the gloom, but the white skin of her back seemed lustrous in the flickering
half-light of the dying fire. She looked peaceful, at rest, but how could
this be, what with the horror around her?
Yes, old man, she, Darya, the love of my life was dead. And (Gerallon
choked for a second) they'd taken her head, those broo: even now I fear it
dangles on the belt of their leader. (Again, the blind sage muttered his
charm.) You will understand if I do not wish to dwell on how, as I
approached her sleeping body I saw those empty shoulders and the black,
seeping stain on her pillow. I raced out, but it was too late, the broo
were gone. Soon, those people that managed to flee or hide would be
returning, and I knew that no amount of explaining would save my life.
I returned to the house, for I could not leave Darya like that. Her
father had dragged himself into Darya's room, his blood staining the floor
red behind him. He lay propped against the bed, the crushed head of his
wife cradled in one arm, the calves of his mutilated daughter enclosed by
the other. His bloodied sword now lay, discarded, at his feet.
I kneeled close. "I was a friend of your daughter", I began. He stared
at me with his dulled eyes, attempting to perceive me. His hand went out
to me, but I purposefully avoided contact. "I loved your daughter, sir,
and she loved me. She never spoke of me because I asked her not to. We
were not...," I hung my head, " ...not of the same station in life."
I don't know how long we sat there - I didn't seem to care whether anyone
found me or not anymore. Darya's father, I learned, was named Count
Victor. He had come from the same land as my mother, to escape the "Dart"
wars there. He only sought to lead an anonymous life in the village with
his wife and daughter, though, in his own country, he was once a Sword-Lord
of the Humakt religion and a powerful figure. Without revealing my true
nature, I spoke of my devotion to his daughter. He spoke to me of
vengeance. He spoke also of his god Humakt, and of honour.
"Take my sword son," he said with his final breath, "Find them, kill them
and put my darling daughter's soul to rest. Free her spirit. Swear you'll
do this for me, and I shall ask Humakt that I can be your guide. Swear
it!"
I took his blade - see, I wear it at my side - and I swore. I swore by
Count Victor's Humakt, I swore by the name of my dear dead mother, and I
swore by my love of Darya. As I did so, Count Victor died, yet I feel he
is never very far from me. I have been hunting Darya's killers ever since.
It has been five years.
"There, I have told my story old man. Now I can sleep."
*note: this is the sixth 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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