Tales, Poems and Ballads of the People
Foreword
For quite some time, I pondered how to preface this collection of works, which foolishly, perhaps, attempts to gather something of Doriande between two covers, while also marking the better part of my adult life spent on roads, in homes, beside campfires and hearths.
What, then, is Doriande? What binds together her patchwork of peoples, tongues, and customs?
A Grunor would certainly rise from their dusty tomes and relics to speak of the historical figures, treaties, and battles that shaped the land and kingdom. I have had many interesting conversations with such brilliant scrollmoths, over campfires and tavern tables alike. Yet however eagerly I listened to their wisdom, my ears always turned more readily toward the tale a plain villager could recall, the song of a shepherd, or the advice and scoldings of an old woman, whether aimed at her kin or at myself.
Such was my nature, dear reader, and so I must tell you this before you follow me into the Dorian landscape. Let me be your guide, this book your compass, as we wander together through songs and stories that belong to our people, and which I have merely collected and preserved, for this I saw as my duty.
People, especially humans like myself, who were not blessed with the longevity of other species, tend to forget most of what came before them, meeting the past only through collective memory. Before great monuments, libraries, and universities were raised, that memory travelled by mouth. Some of these stories survive to this day in rural Doriande.
As our ancestors descended into the peninsula, passing the ravine beneath the Veil, they brought tales of enormous, hideous monsters that preyed upon them in the northern steppes. Today, caravans still travel north of Waygate, carrying Dorian goods to the tribes who remain there, and sometimes returning with stories as precious as any spice or fur. One can only imagine the difficulties the nomadic proto-Dorians faced before civilization.
Nowadays, Kherawyn’s statue stands before the Wall of Heroes, guarding the throat of the Kingdom and proclaiming to whomever it may concern: “Fear the Dorians.” One should travel to see this wonder at least once. One should also honour those who fell to defend what makes us Dorian. Though Waygate was built quite recently, it has become a symbol of unity, shared ideals, and identity. Many a tale has sprung around her: the founding of the city, the siege during the Second Invasion, and the long road by which scattered peoples learned to stand as one. The Gateites shared many inspiring pieces with me during my stay.
Past Waygate lies the Dorian North. It does not matter if you have read a hundred pages on the matter. Unless you have stood there in person, you have missed the point. There is something about the looming mountains with their snowy summits, the green hills, the ever-flowing Ivaris, and the calm lake Magna that no one can capture in plain words, no matter the height of their talent.
Of course, anyone who knows my origins may say that I am partial here, for the North is my birthplace. Make of that what you will. It is here that our nomadic ancestors first landed and made their first semi-permanent, seasonal settlements. It is here that, for the first time, they found enough peace to lay roots and begin to grow. From the middle years of the Age of Barbarity, we see the first attempts at agriculture, and it is then that the Farewell of Plenty begins to take shape as a ritual. Unbeknownst to them, our ancestors were feeding the soil that would feed them in turn.
It was in such gatherings, I believe, that music first began to walk beside story. At first, simple voices accompanied the sacred words of the elders during ceremonies. Later, instruments of bone and wood began to take shape, and memory found new ways to endure.
Then catastrophe happened. The legends claim that a primordial terror finally found the proto-Dorians and hunted them almost to extinction. This is notably presented in the Unkept Promise, as well as other tales of that era. Whatever the reason for their troubles, our ancestors, for the first time, chose to traverse the dreaded Whispering Forest and descend further south. But before we follow them there, let us stay a little longer and take in the rest of the wonders the North has to offer.
It is here that the first immigrants of Rolfgar made contact with our ancestors. As they tried to blend in, imparting their wisdom to the proto-Dorians, the stories of the two distinct groups became intertwined. Even though dwarves live so much longer than humans, no Rolfgari who lived during the First Kingdom remains today. These people are now, in fact, Dorians.
I have had the honor of spending Sleep with a Rolfgari clan in Gawold. They took me in as if I were a dwarf myself, and I listened to the stories they tell their youth. How different their storytelling is, and at the same time, how much it shares with our core fears. For them, it is the Heinous One. For us, the Terror. They were separated into clans, we into nomadic tribes. I was awestruck by the revelation, and by their hospitality and grace. They shared with me a piece of their Kingdom and let me into their mines, where their dead are buried, always facing Rolfgar Mountain.
Before you leave the North, you have to watch a true Brejksve Ukzuv. There is an intangible connection to our past hidden within this funny and fascinating game.
Next, let us hitch a ride with a caravan heading south, travelling along the King’s Highway and through the vast Whispering Forest, where the ancient legend of true love, the ballad of Dwerkivir, takes place. Oh, how sad I am every time I hear this song, and yet it is the first thing I want to play when I travel that road, imagining poor Dwerkivir and her lover always separated by that same path.
And how many more souls live beneath the ancient canopy: the Rangers, the Druids, the Pylmae, and, if one believes the legends, the Spirits of creation. But to quote the poem:
If you are passing through the forest
And you hear the whispering wind,
Fear not, dear friends, and be at rest.
The Verdurous Mother will keep an eye on you and keep you safe through your travels. If she does not, then certainly Myr will.
To be fair, the sight of the Ivaris Valley when you finally exit the forest is breathtaking as well. The patches of crops among the lush hills form a blanket of green, gold, and brown. Buvesraqh rises in the west, the Impassable Mountains in the east, and if the sky is kind, you may even glimpse the sea.
Make your way to Rivermark and soon you shall smell the food from the street carts, hear the clattering of wares on stalls, the ringing of horse hooves on stone, and the calming flow of the river. Visit the inns on the riverside, the temple’s grove, and the town hall park. This bustling town is the truest amalgamation of people from all walks of life. Thus I have found myself in places where a wiser woman would never have stepped, more times than I care to admit. Even so, I heard wonderful bards here, from the streets to the taverns and even at the temple.
From there, you must choose a path. Do you long for knowledge or adventure? Wealth and elegance, or industry and opportunity?
If you choose the first path, you will find yourself on the road to Fiorlas, the capital of the Kingdom. On your way, you shall pass through the grounds where the final battle of the Second Invasion was won. Many an epic hymn has been written about this crucial event, but none greater than Brothers from Another Mother, which focuses on the help that arrived from the forest at the last moment.
If you travel downstream by boat, Fiorlas shall soon impose its majestic visage upon you: the walled city atop the hill, the palace overlooking the bay, the port full of merchant ships. The cobbled streets of the old town bear the marks of centuries of civilization. A true Fjor, built with Rolfgari knowledge, it evolved as Dorians adapted it to their own needs. Visit the University and its library, where you will find many of the tomes I used in my research and where I took my first steps toward education.
Yet codified knowledge is not the same as living alongside a people. Sailors do not share the same stories as nobles in the royal court, and the inns of lower Fiorlas may teach you things no lecture hall can.
Southeast lies the southern beacon, a remnant of the past I mentioned. A little north of it, you will find its original owner, a different kind of beacon: Skarm, a Dorian shortening of Yjskar Myr, the Beacon of Myr, goddess of trade and travel. That should tell you much about the second most powerful city of Doriande, though such a complex place cannot be boiled down to a name.
Skarm has survived so much destruction, and has been rebuilt so many times atop its own rubble, that its citizens sing of rebirth and celebrate it as much as life itself. Clad in their traditional Farleyn, dancing in their unique style to their magical music, the Skarmites know how to make a festival into a memory. Their city also has the greatest mercantile outreach of any in the Kingdom.
Along with tradition, they are known to be among the most hospitable Dorians, ready to accept and adopt any new element or people finding their way there. This has made Skarm a melting pot of cultures, especially in its cuisine. From fresh fish and crustaceans to foreign dishes such as Dhulm’aam from the Calehan region, you will never tire of what it has to offer.
Revel in the shanties of famous seafarers, such as poor ol’ Captain Oleg. Let the fishermen tell you their long tales, and they shall last you from Harvest to Wilt. Then you can follow them to lakes Kerpyer and Gieffra to attend Yummelyk. I never pass the chance to stay there during the festivities, for this is one of the most Dorian things I know. There, I learned the story of the custom, as well as local legends and poems about the lakes.
Beyond the lakes lie the Impassable Mountains, the Eastern Line: Oghstenfjor, built by the dwarves; Fiormaelar, built by the people of the North; Vardigon Reundi, built by the forest people; Syle en Bupir, the contribution of Fiorlas; and Grunstod Plaqh, the old Skarmite Quarry. Our people built the forts to protect our land from the eastern threat, but that alliance was what bound all these factions, clans, and lineages together. Long live the Alliance always gives me goosebumps, but I will never forget the first time I heard it sung in Syle en Bupir on Union Day.
On the opposite side of the map stands the Dragonsback, Buvesraqh. The most mystical legend of Doriande will send you there in search of Fjor Ljyond, the City of Legends. You will not find it, of course, and if you do, beware of the dragon watching over its entrance, judging your intentions. Or so the legend goes. I would not know, as I have never managed to find it. And even if I had, that secret would follow me to my cremation.
For unlike modern Dorians, who adopted burial from the Rolfgari, I wish to make my last journey the same way our forefathers did, bidding farewell to the plenty of life as Sleep takes hold, and trusting the cycle to begin anew.
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