The night was dead, yet teeming with life. The muffled hum of its vitality came on the fresh breeze that ran through the roads of Tlangthar. Xiaxo was the center of it all, pulsating with life that was simultaneously close and lively. People had gathered in droves, chattering and telling anecdotes. Lanterns lit up threw their warm lights on cobblestone paths. Men and women walked side by side, their voices mingling into the sounds of the city where street musicians softly played the melody. Vendors cried out the sale of their wares in rhythmic cadences, raising their voices to join in with the lively chorus of the city.
Larin walked down the streets, his thoughts swirling around him with the activity going on around him. He had on his traditional Xiaxoan costume: long tunic, soft and made out of handwoven fabric where geometric patterns told the stories of his people. Above it, he had on a leather vest reinforced by natural fibers. This was light and would keep durability so as to keep him comfortable over the night spent in wild. His trousers were fitted but flexible; they were made from plant-based fibers and earthy tones. Around his waist, he wore a sash decorated with symbols meaning Khiuniu, a connection to his ground. On his feet were hard leather boots. The straps to the boots are decorated with beads and feathers that symbolize the blessings of nature.
The Xiaxoan people's apparel reflected their lifestyles: practical, yet full of meaning. The women wore long skirts or loose trousers with matching blouses. The blouses were decorated with beadwork and embroidery. All wore vests and tunics, yet the designs made by the region-to-region of Xiaxo were as wide-ranging as are the landscapes and the diversity thereof. Shells, bones, and carved woods were used copiously in accoutrements, often imbued with status as talismans or acts of thanks due to Khiuniu. Even in the city, where modernity touched every corner, the dress said quiet whispers of the forests, rivers, and mountains that were synonymous with their existence.
The air was alive with the perfume of herbs and spices interwoven with that of roasting meat and newly baked bread. Larin continued to walk and soon passed rows of street vendors who sold bundles of dried leaves. Their hues ran the gamut from deep, lush green to dull, dusty gold. One vendor in particular struck him as nice; she wore an amenable expression and possessed a soft, silky voice resembling trickling water. She nodded him over, then said.
Larin!" she shouted, knotting a bundle of herbs with her practiced hands. "Take these. Fresh mint and riverleaf, good for calming the mind.".
She paused, weighing the cultural implication. Gift giving was an important act in Xiaxo, an offering of goodwill and a symbol of connection. No one expected any return from these gifts but it was part of maintaining harmony in the Khiuniu manner. She could not refuse to take the gift from him outright; however, Larin had no choice but to offer him something in return.
He dug in his voidpouch and pulled out a small credit token and gently placed it into the woman's hand. "Thank you, but take it. This is the least that I can do."
The woman laughed, smiling, "Little ones today will try to pay. It's a gift, Larin. Carry it well.".
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Larin smiled, tucking the herbs into his pouch and moving on. Each was a little different but the same in its own way. A butcher, his apron stained with blood but his face warm and welcoming, pressed a pouch of smoked meat upon him. A potter, her hands stained from the clay but her eyes gentle, pressed a small clay amulet into his palm, blessing him for safe travels. And each time Larin insisted on offering credits; each time, he was laughed at and refused.
In Xiaxo, gift economy was not a tradition but a philosophy. It made people interdependent and trustworthy; no one wanted because no one went without. They gave abundantly in times of plenty because in times of want, the community would take care of its needs. It was an unwritten agreement that nobody obligated but because everybody knew the secret to survival and harmony.
As Larin walked down the street, he could hear the faint chime of a bell. He stopped; the sound pierced the lively chatter around him. It was the Church of Dysno, standing as a constant reminder of the Empire's vast reach. The bell tolled again, deeper this time, resonating in his chest like an unwelcome echo.
Ahead, the church rose: gleaming stone, edges of gilt; its spires stabbed like daggers in the sky. Its tips went to catch the moonbeams as they might spear into heaven, a place which was just out of reach, a place like some inaccessible haven. This building seemed altogether strange for Tlangthar. It jarringly contrasted there with the unadorned architecture of Xiaxoan. Where Xiaxo's buildings seemed to grow out of the land, curving like rivers and hills, the Church of Dysno was stiff, angular, and menacing: a statement of power rather than harmony.
Larin approached the entrance, his footsteps slowing as he took in the grand facade. Carvings adorned the walls, depicting scenes of conquest and enlightenment as the Dysno doctrine understood them. Gold and silver inlays sparkled in the dim light, a cynical attempt to mimic the wonders of nature. Yet, for all its grandeur, the church felt cold and unwelcoming, its beauty superficial.
Inside, the air was heavy with incense, the smell of which covered the metallic tang of something unsaid. The rows of pews went forward to the altar, upon which a gigantic crystalline mass pulsed weakly with mana. Priests in flowing robes moved in choreographed and deliberate motion. The congregation of loyalists and curious onlookers knelt in silence, heads bent as one.
Standing at the door, Larin looked across the room. Philosophy was a world unto itself between Xiaxo and Dysno. One line lauded subsistence, minimalism, resource sharing, while the other sang power, rank, and opulence. The church testifies to this, a monument that serves as a reminder of the general culture eating away at the identity of Xiaxo.
For a moment, Larin considered stepping across the threshold himself, if for no other reason than to make sense of this power that seemed to have refashioned a good portion of his world. But the move felt wrong and somehow marked that first step across the threshold away from something life-giving.
Instead, he turned and walked back the way he had come, the clanging of the bell slowly lost in the night. The roads of Tlangthar opened up to him once more, embracing him warmly amidst the cold grandeur of the church. Walking home, Larin's mind lingered on the contrasts that defined his world. Xiaxo stood at a crossroads, the traditions and identity of the people there clashing against the relentless tide of the Empire's influence.
It was the gift of harmony or the weight of conquest—the choice was not his to make, but a choice his people would have to make. And soon.
The thought that made his stop on his tracks was what the people did not know, the Empire's leaders were already defeated, but their empire keeps churning its engine. They did not know what was happening in the shadows, of space empires that stood at their doorsteps.