I look back at the voice that startled me and see a woman excitedly waving, standing above my metal floors on invisible ground, her dark skin covered in strong yellow tattoos and framed by expertly sewn animal skins, it seems normal enough, yet I have no idea what animal it could be.

I stare at the woman wondering why she wears furs when she makes a strange hand gesture, that my deep pools of language magic translate as similar in function to a cough linguistically speaking, and she says in a cheery voice, "Hello, great spirit of language, she who broke her chains. We have come to you, so that we may partake in your knowledge in exchange for the oldest of tributes.”

I float above them amongst the astral, wondering why she said we, and thinking of what the oldest tribute could be- as another woman steps out from behind the other to my shock.

She looks identical to the first, if lacking in tattoos, and wearing a strangely modern-looking pair of frameless round glasses that look to be expertly forged. I ponder asking them for the services of a smith since their work looks far better than the stuff I slapped together down on my forge.

My thoughts drift away, but they are interrupted when the tattooed twin sighs and says, "My name is Ehsa, my sister's name is Ashe, and we are representatives of the Dual tribe”

In a playful yet mischievous tone, Ashe pushes up her glasses and says, "Well, it would be more accurate to call us the Spirit Callers of the Twin Tribes of the Hammer and the Anvil.”

Ehsa, letting out a long breath and pressing two strong fingers against her temples, says to the floor, “Ignore Ashe; it’s a minor difference in terminology if it’s a difference at all, especially considering the translation loss.”

“Either way, we are here today in our official capacity because, as the great spirit of language, she who broke her chains, you should be able to give us the lost spells of Language."

Upon hearing this, I was a bit perplexed before I recalled that Patient Bridge assumed that I was some sort of god to the Jsarihousa tribe when I saw things through his eyes. Although this does make me wonder,why they assume such a thing, especially since Patient Bridge knows fully well that I am a human.

Ashe, seeing my perplexed expression, says in a strangely hesitant tone, “Uh, while you were gone, the Jsarihousa tribe dissolved; at first, it was a slow stream of incompetent leaders before the Last."

At this point, Ashe laughs a bit before saying, "Well, that name is certainly appropriate now.”

“Anyway, the Last ended the tribe with a bang when the idiot overestimated the willingness for our tribe to sit there and take his gilded [-prey-animal-]shit, and ran when we came to collect in the usual way.”

Smoothly cutting in with a disturbingly happy grin and slightly glowing tattoos, Ehsa says, “A good old ransack!”

Making the same strange gesture from before that seems to function similarly to coughing in conversation, she says in a more embarrassed tone, “We absorbed what was left of the remnants then, but we lost so much due to the Last running away like a coward with the tribe's legacy and strongest artifact, especially since some insane hedge mage dissolved your temple as his last act.”

Hmm, I examine the both of them; this is a good opportunity, especially since what they look for are the spells that only I have since the Last they speak of seems to be their name for that arrogant dickwad who rode to that top of the Jsarihousa tribe using his heritage, only to run away and die in the astral. Leaving me as the only inheritor of the spells they wish for. I should be able to squeeze them for all they’re worth while also getting an idea of the goods traded amongst spirits.

I should keep them talking about themselves. I need some context for what’s to come, and these Spirit Callers, is that what the one with the glasses said they were? Seem eager to brag and inform.

Letting my hands droop with disinterest and my eyes wander away, I say, “So you are the ones that the Last was pulling before his strings were cut.”

Leaning down and examining them, I ask, “Yet who are you, other than a random horde of warriors tearing apart a city for what little scraps you can take"

The twins turn towards each other and look into each other's eyes with that particular brand of mischief that twins ooze when they plot together, as they say, "We can show you, we can tell you the story of our people, through our eyes of history."

—

Long ago, amidst the burning savannah and cooling rivers of our home, there was a boy named Makar.

The boy's mother died in childbirth, and because he couldn't latch properly, he grew up on water-soaked furs and mushed, scavenged greens. It was practically a miracle he could even survive, especially since the tribe didn't have enough food to spare. He was the smallest of all the children, but he made himself useful with his nimble fingers and curious eyes.

One day, as he fell asleep, his belly empty and his mind full of dreams, the god of creation itself reached into his dream and brought him into the astral.

He floated amidst the bright night sky, the stars close enough to touch, above a curious blue and green ball.

It was awe-inspiring—the most beautiful thing he had ever seen—yet his eyes were not caught by any of this, but rather they were rapturously attached to the god in front of him.

For it was perfection itself, a body of stone that captured the essence of man, its strength, its wisdom, and the symbol of its tools, its immaculate hands polished to a shine as bright and clear as a placid pond. They were so unbelievably perfect that the boy could only assume that the very moment that man held aloft a spear made by their own hands, they were made. To be the totem of perfection, that all must scratch and claw their way closer too.

The boy stared at the god towering above and below him, a monolith of perfection, and asked, “What can I give you great spirit” eager to serve if it might let him approach it.

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It answers; it’s musical voice a blessing to hear, “I ask for your service in spreading my totem to the world below, for your eyes shine, and you hunger for the knowledge I can give.”

The boy, remembering tales shared amongst the fire of tricksy spirits, taking much and giving little asks, “What will you give me great spirit so that I may spread your perfection”

It pondered the boys question, tapping its stone chin with its perfect hands, and responds with “I am of the forge, and you are my metal; tell me what you want to be, and I shall mold you into it. I can make you into anything from the strongest warrior to the keenest mind if you would only serve me.”

The boy pondered what to ask for; his heart yearned for the strength of the best hunter, so that he might be more than the malnourished boy he was doomed to be, or for the wisdom of elders to steal the light of knowledge before his eyes clouded and his knees grew weak.

But as he thought of what he wanted most of all, he thought of a most clever idea indeed, he asks, “Oh great spirit, I am sorry, but I fear for my life if you are to mold me like clay, may I instead receive one of your grand creations”

It looks at the boy expressionless and stiff before saying, “Very Well.”

The boy smiles, his hopes fulfilled as he looks up with a grin and asks, “Is your birth not your very grandest creation, so in return for my service, I ask for your hands, great spirit!”

The boy huffs and puffs with pride at the trick he pulled and at the thing he will steal from a god, yet just the same, it looks at the boy expressionless and stiff before saying, “Very Well.”

Chopping off its very own hands with an ethereal blade, they shrink to the size of the boy and approach. The boy smiles before the gods perfect hands of polished stone tear off his own nimble fingers and crawl onto the torn stump they created.

He screams in pain as the god who blessed him sends him back down to that curious ball, to spread its word for all to hear.

The boy awoke in a haze, his cold sweat chilling him to the bone. Groggy, he thought for a second that it was all a dream, but when he looked down and saw his hands, an intricate piece of art atop his still bloody stump, it’s stone fingers inplacable proof that a god had chosen him.

The boy waved his fingers, the stone machinations perfectly following his instructions, better than his own ever did. He smiles with joy at his new hands, even mere minutes after receiving them he could not think of losing such perfection.

Confident with his god-given hands, he stood up in the early light, and set forth to bring the tribe under his gods protection. While for other tribes such a thing might require a duel, or skilled political maneuvering, in his tribe such a thing isn't neccessary. From before he was born to our day, there has long been a tradition of accepting the truth, whether or not it hurts, and taking the counsel of others for decisions young and old. For we cannot sacrifice our lives on the altar of pride.

So when the chief accepted the queries of her people that day, the boy stood up and proclaimed to the chief, “You are foolish for not allowing our people to follow a god; year after year, those who are blessed by great spirits take more hunting ground, grow stronger, and forage more. While we starve on what little they leave behind."

The chief, her bones weathered by years of hunting, stands from her weathered seat of old wood and furs and croaks out, “You do not know what you speak of child, the gods are cruel and merciless; they do not care for us, any scrap you might receive from one is earned by more blood than its worth.”

Grabbing her cane from beside her seat, she points at the boy's stumps, still covered in dry blood, and says, “You should be the one to know, foolish boy; since you certainly sacrificed enough, even when it wasn't asked for. You didn't even ask for help dressing the wounds you earned by cavorting with the spirits. How can you speak of what is neccesary, with such paltry wisdom?"

The boy winces as he feels his new stone hands atop bloody stumps, but despite this, he grits out, “Does it matter if I am unwise or if the gods are are cruel? Our tribe is dying; we will either all starve in honor or we will be absorbed by another tribe that already swears fealty to another god. What will happen to our traditions and celebrations, then? The other tribes are led by the blind and arrogant; their pride nurtured by a people unable to say anything other than praise and the heady scent of their own strength. If we take the power of creation, we need not die in body or spirit.”

The chief considers this, her weary eyes staring at the hands of a god bolted onto the boys stumps, but steels herself and asks, “What you speak of is true, but what does this god of yours even give? A pair of hands alone cannot bring us food.”

The boy is taken aback, his cleverness not saving him from his brashness, for he doesn’t even know what magic the god he bled for even grants. He hesitantly tries to speak despite not having anything to say, but before he can choke anything out, he feels his god's hands rise on their own, carrying his arms with them.

The polished stone shines under the morning sun as the melodic voice of his god resounds from within and says, “I am Perfection, god of creation, and under my banner, I shall give you the tools to forge your bodies into your perfect vessel. Come with me, and you shall approach that impossible horizon, perfection!”

As the hands of perfection shine in the sun, down from above, a grand light, yellow like yarrow root, cradles the boy, and within it’s light all weakness is stripped away, the boy's thin, weak body forged into a strong, healthy frame.

The boy smiles with damn near rapturous light, as dozens of parents fall to their feet before him, desperate for their children to be given bodies not ravaged by long stretches of empty stomachs, desperate for their children to survive and thrive.

The chief sighs before getting down on her weary knees and swearing fealty to Perfection on one condition: that the boy does not lead while still trapped in youthful ambition and idiocy. Perfection agreed, and from that day on, Makar stood as the first priest of Perfection, and as promised, he saved the tribe from its inevetable, slow death.

Perfections blessings to the hunters allowed them to hunt more and keep the children fed; its blessings rejuvenated the young who withered without proper food; its blessings allowed everybody in the tribe to perfect their body in their own image.

Under his elders careful tutelage and his gods whispers in his dreams, Makar learned much. He learned how to logically consider situations, how to reserve judgment and wait, and how to consider the intricate web of interconnected factors behind each and every little thing. While in his dreams Perfection whispered to him secrets of metal and stone, of how heat can allow even the sturdiest of things to bend, and how the artist's eye examines the world.

Makar emerged from his forging a chief of great wisdom and strength. His clever ideas and quick wit leading to more and more prosperity for his people. As he discovered and created a way to use the formerly useless shiny rocks to make grand works, and weapons.

Soon, his clever fingers tore the formerly useless metal from the ground and clad his people in armor and weapons of copper made by the First Forge. Gave new life to the warriors of the tribe who attacked other tribes and brought them under Perfection. His creations spread across the lands, his tribe forming the first center of trade, their bounty full enough to no longer need to hunt.

He established the first city, a place where the art of forging he created reached closer and closer to the horizon of Perfection, while his people forged their bodies through his god's grace. He instituted clear laws that limited the power of the chief and priest and kept him accountable to all those above and below. He forged the Anvil tribe into a behemoth of power and influence that would last for centuries.

Perfection the god of the forge chose the cleverest girls and boys to be forged into its priests, generation after generation. Creating better and better leaders over time. Who built upon what their ancestors built in a grand chain of progress. An intricate machine of influence and power built by the scrappy Makar and his god.

Until one day before Perfection could choose its pick, a clever child by the name of Kokoleka was visited by Language, he who brought meaning to the meaningless. The clever great spirit instructed the child to become the chief, and then in the seat of their power, take all the clever smiths and form a new tribe under it.

So Kokoleka took the power of language, and when Perfection blessed the child, they smiled, for with their wise eyes, they could see the path ahead. Kokoleka excelled; taught by many wise elders, she passed every test and dazzled them all with her skill and wit. And when she took the forged throne at the end of her training, built by Makar the first, she took it all from Perfection, as she took all of her dazzled elders, smiths, and schematics with her out of the city and into the savannah to form the Jsarihousa, leaving only the young warriors and their children.

Perfection, its impassive form furious for the very first time in its creation at the foul trick, destroyed the democracy of the Anvil Tribe in a rage and appointed the strongest warrior, his pride fat from his undeniable strength, and skill, to be the totalitarian ruler of the tribe.

The tribe was lost; all of their recipes and skilled workers taken away in the night. Yet despite it all, they still had the simplest type of power, the power of blades in strong hands. For while their forges and smiths might be gone, they still had the blessings of their god Perfection, and their weapons were still the best for miles around.

So the tribe abandoned their grand city, no longer able to sustain its trade, and became less of a society and more of a marauding wave of bandits, here to take, take, and take. And as the long years stretched by Perfection turned twisted and cruel, less something of the forge and more something of blood and pain.

A horrid totem of destruction whipping them forward as they desperately killed for another day of rest. There was no art or tradition to speak of, only whatever joys they could scrape together in between raids, and the spilling of blood. The anvil tribe was turned into a husk of itself by the very god that had brought it into the sky.

The people of the tribe yearned desperately to escape the grasp of their god, but year after year, his appointed chiefs skin gleamed like the metal they used to forge and held them within its fist with fear and pain.

So when the First strolled into town, decapitated the spoiled chief with dozens of wind blades, and spoke of an insane crusade to banish the gods from these lands, we were the first to come to his banner and fight for his cause.

We participated in many battles, and we found that new runes would decorate our then ancient blades, and despite all it took, we won.

Under the Firsts banner, we got rid of the practice of swearing fealty to the gods and banished what jealous gods came down, to the lands far away.

After it all, we changed our name to the Hammer tribe to commemorate our lost art of forging and come to terms with the weapon we had become. As time went on, we became less of a marauding tribe of murderers who ate the spoiled crops of our victims and more of a sculpted band of mercenaries with a strict code and codified laws that kept the people in power on a tight leash. For we cannot sacrifice our lives on the altar of pride.

This went on for many years as we settled and solidified. But not so long ago, a foolish boy who would be called the Last promised us a great many things but did not deliver. We recognized the same metal grip that terrorized our people for years under Perfection, even if the hand beneath it didn’t have any callouses, and we stormed the once-grand city of Jsarihousa and took all that we could.

We found little, but what we could find, we welcomed with open arms. For our lost forging arts were returned to us at long last, and the many hedge wizards with small inheritances of runes and enchantments allowed us to return to a tribe of crafting alongside strong blades. And today, with your help, we plan to recover the many lost runes of our people lost in the battle that created the people before you today great spirit.