The Plentypearl Sea had been, and has, and will be a cradle of cultures for the peoples of the Ring for thousands and thousands of years. Let the historians and scholars, the monastaries and the bone diggers argue about exactly how long a time that was; but the point is that every inch of land along its shore had known nations rise and fall and mingle and usurp, for so many generations that most everyone was entangled by blood.
Even to the enemies they hated most dearly.
The Isle of Zithers (the musical instrument, not the mantis-hound hunting beasts of Casual Fatality Vale), was an ancient and treasured jewel of civilization which sat not so far from the shores of the surrounding continents. If one were to try to trace the ancestry of the inhabitants of Zithers to their origin, that person would be laughed out any reputable scholastic institution as an idiot. Understand, that such an inquiry would be like trying to climb four different mountains at the same time.
Zithers was a melting pot before there were pots to melt in. They had bricks there that were older than (some) mountains. And for all that their people were proud, and distinct, and interesting, they were also perpetually getting conquered by whichever fashionable tyrant of the day who had designs over the Plentypearl Sea.
Clear waters lapped against the soothing ink-black sands of the beach. Pale yellow flowers marked the high point of the tide like an inebriate painter’s brush. Blue-green coral pillars rose from the underbrush and marked the outer edge of the palace, of the regional governor.
And that great ruler and administrator of gobs was (currently) a creature of Delight.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Hogrimus shot awake suddenly. The luxurious silks of his garments had gotten tangled, and he struggled with them as he gasped. Cold sweat was running down his face (which was not the optimal temperature for sweat, in his opinion), and palpitations gripped his heart as he clutched his chest until the feeling passed.
From out of the great tangle of bodies lying on the thick, feathered palace rugs, one of the concubines stirred. Zither was sometimes known for a vegetable they produced, one that could be crushed to reveal a luxurious type of oil. That oil was slick and exfoliating, and lubricating over the body of the gob that lifted themselves to a prone repose, and then placed their other hand on Hogrimus’ arm.
“What’s wrong, your putrescence?” Their voice crooned. Then their lips pursed and they pouted. “Come back to sleep.”
“It’s nothing.” Hogrimus tried to laugh off his worry. But he could not ignore that sometimes he’d had a knack for the second-sight. Like when the seven-wind tempest had struck when he was a child. Or even when his uncle died. Although, technically, it was Hogrimus that did it, but still, it had been a miracle his plan had worked.
Was it famine? Was it disaster? Was it war? Never before had he been so stricken by a warning from the gods. So now… now the Governor of Zithers sighed and let the signs of great change flow past him and away. If trouble was coming, there was not much that he could do. He was a gob of simple pleasures (technically half orc, but what kind of disgusting society kept track of the fractions of blood like that?), and beyond that he was little more than a figurehead to keep the shipping lanes open, and the tax collections running on time.
Maybe he might write a letter to the mainland, let it be their problem. Or how about tomorrow? He could do it then, too.
So, having successfully avoided his responsibilities, Hogrimus of the Isle adjusted his flowing robes. And even though they were sticky with oil, he laid down and went back to sleep.