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There are legends amongst the folk of the Aegean, those that neighbor to our kin of the Hoof and Horn, of dauntless soldiers born of the earth and great birds reborn amidst ash and flame.
They do not recall that they are one and the same.
This selection of writing was retrieved through unsaintly means from one of the many flesh repositories of one of those distant and curious breeds of Sarkics. -Annotation by Sir Penderghast
Rünsaastiläpsia, the Plentiful Children
As transcribed by the Wandering Scribe Utelias.
The Villisükuä1, Our Wild Kin, come in many forms, having lost themselves to the wildest urges of the Flesh.
But they are to be respected, I think, for their very Will shaped them into what they are today. Delve into the truths of the Marrow Histories2 with me and learn of our freed brethren.
In those early days, we Nälkä were not numerous people—powerful, yes, blessed by the presence of our great leadership. Yet the Daeva3 who coveted us and the addled Mekhanites who feared us numbered far more and had gifts all their own.
Their armies, if ever allied, could have crushed Adytum in its infancy, and every Nälkä lost to their assaults meant one less to work the Will.
The solution came when a daring few chose to become our shield. Of course, there were other plots, thoughts to unleash the Anhevihaa4, discovered by blessed Nadox, but instead, the Rünsaastiläpsia were created.
Imbued with a single facet of the Ozi̮rmok's5 Gift, they were eager and ready warriors, resistant to most damage, never tiring, and a dozen could rise to take their place for each slain.
And the Manipulators deign to view them as the work of some bird-crazed alchemist, foolish.
There is a simple truth that we Nälkä acknowledge: all life has one origin. Blood, flesh, bone, the threads that make ours draw from the threads that were, on and on back to that originator, dreadful as that source may be.
But through this acknowledgment and the might of our Will, we can draw forth what was to the here and now. Such is the rite of the Marrow, grasping through the past along the threads of dead flesh and elder bone.
And such was the rite that crafted the Rünsaastiläpsia.
We of the Marrow allow ourselves to be drawn back, our minds tracing the web life past to observe grand truth. The rite that crafted the Titans of War reincorporated the threads of the past within present flesh. A truly beautiful work of lihakut'ak6.
The Marrow draws us back to those earliest days, Adytum freshly freed, blood still flowing amidst the great canals, the exaltations and celebrations of freedom echoing across stone and time to buoy my spirit.
Yet, in the shadows, whispers of worry, murmurs of misery. Fear born of truth, the enemies of their new nation were many, the valley of ignorance about our nature wide and near fathomless in that first age, though little understanding has been gleaned since.
We had guardians, in the Klavigars7, especially great and kindly Orok.
We had guides, in those first karcists, learning at the feet of the Ozi̮rmok.
We had hunters, not yet lost to the Wild.
All our people were fighters, eager to defend their home, but we needed more than that.
We needed warriors that would not wane, whose loss could be felt but would not bleed us dry in those earliest days, whose strength could match the horrors of the Daeva and aberrations of the Machine.
Thus arose the Rünsaastiläpsia.
Hand-picked from Orok’s young armies, men, women, and otherwise chosen not for strength or guile, but their endurance of flesh and spirit.
That first ritual, threaded by the Ozi̮rmok's own hand and worked in full by Klavigar Nadox8, stood before me. Aided by the first freshly flesh-adorned karcists, the might of their Will was so strong that the ripples shook through me all these ages later.
Clutched in Nadox’s many hands, prizes taken from the hordes of the Daeva, trinkets robbed from the domain of older civilizations, or ripped from the womb of the earth by pressed slaves. Little more than curiosities for most, or components of their own dread magics.
But now, they rested in the hands of a true master.
A glimmering snail shell, a petrified egg, a curving talon, stolen bone, and ichor holding desired memory, but most prominent, a jar of jet-black tar drawn forth by Ion's own hand, and a sphere of amber. Within sat a bug fat with blood older than mammalian flesh.9
He spoke a word, one that my writing could never truly give understanding of, and the volunteers began to change, their Will resonating with the power flooding from Nadox’s mouth.
How large they grew.
Their voices resonated with praise and pain in equal measure, becoming a booming song silent for eons, now returned. I wept, for I believed it lost yet again.
As their forms swelled, the blood of lost titans drew scale and sturdy to their flesh, a mail of bone just beneath their wrinkling skin. Bark and bronze both would shatter against its might.
From these same titans, bone thickened and grew; great necks filled with resonant chambers of air reached for the clouds above, their song growing ever deeper. Guard and tower, one and the same. They could see for miles and be heard farther still.
Great feathers of brilliant colors, coated in natural oils and metals, a secondary defense against the elements and those that manipulate them.
The tools of war came next.
Sturdy, blunt teeth or a heavy beak. The tools of beasts akin to cattle in hunger, adapted to crush metal and bark in equal measure.
An extendable tail ending in spars of horn or clubs of bone, augmented by a beast of the deep to push back the oncoming hordes, with such force that the very air burned at their passing.10
Hooked talons, meters long, shaped for holding, tearing, pulling. City breakers, village rakers.
But their greatest weapon lay within, drawn from so humble an essence as the snail, shell turning over and over amidst Nadox’s quick-fingered hands.
For these vast beings were to be more than sentinels, more than warriors. They were to be living garrisons, and each garrison needs soldiers.
Clever Nadox’s rite continued its work, and each of the titans that now surrounded him felt the churning of lihakut'ak within them, a continuous shepherding, turning them into forges of life, the emergent spawn both soldier and sword against any that would dare to ravage the lands we had so recently claimed.
They set out towards the borders of the Ozi̮rmok‘s realm, and within each awaited an army of hundreds.
Eggs, shells harder than adamant, in times of peace, to be laid about the border, the parent-commanders, fitting dozens in earthen nests filled with a warm bile of tar, that would keep the occupant calm until the proper time.
In the case of active invaders, these same eggs could be launched by the Rünsaastiläpsia, akin to those mortars so beloved by the fool Mekhanites.
The soldiers, infants in truth, were sharper of claw and longer of tooth than their kin, and they would always awaken hungry.
Of course, such intense births were rare, and more commonly, the Rünsaastiläpsia’s keen eyes would detect the enemy far sooner than that.
What the Marrow showed me next was beautiful and haunting, another affirmation of Nadox's keen mind and how his teachings shaped the titans and their work.
It would always start the same, a dirge felt in the invader’s bones before their ears, a call that would set them ill at ease, spinning their minds and stomachs in equal measure.
The Song of the Rünsaastiläpsia, another manifestation of their great Will. Their hearing of it was incidental, for our great kin did not sing for them, but for their children.
The ground would erupt, as the lihakut'ak within each egg quickened, the infant awaking in a rage that immediately set them upon that which worried their parent-commander so.
Teeth snapping, claws raking, tails whipping, many still slick with searing hot tar, feeling as little more than a mother’s embrace to the ravening chicks.
Rare was the scouting party that survived an encounter with a Rünsaastiläpsia and its clutch, but some were allowed to escape, the shifting tune of the towering parent drawing its chicks back to its side. Tales of their majesty, an additional buffer against invasion.
There are legends amongst the folk of the Aegean, those that neighbor to our kin of the Hoof and Horn, of dauntless soldiers born of the earth and great birds reborn amidst ash and flame.
They do not recall that they are one and the same.11
The latter aspect was yet again born of Nadox’s keen insight, granting each of the Rünsaastiläpsia a second chance, following the rarity that one was brought down at all. An egg, held within the core of their chest. Amidst the soldiers, it was little more than twin ever carried, not of the same mind, but eager to emerge and take up the work of their slain carrier.
For the fully grown Rünsaastiläpsia, the mind of the elder was shared moment by moment with its internal sibling. A work of the shepherding that I admit I can’t even begin to grasp.
Rünsaastiläpsia did not die easily. Imagine then the momentary feeling of triumph amongst the hated Daeva immediately snuffing out as a hale and enraged twin burst free of the body they just brought down! Glorious. Truly.
Indeed, though, it was the Mekhanites who threw this trait into the myth of the wider world. They dared to burn us out, like vermin or decayed foliage, a fool notion, but they have never been the keenest folk, now have they?
For the Rünsaastiläpsia, however, fire fed as much as it consumed.
The flames quickened the young all the faster. The Mekhanites in their hubris sought to burn our guardians out, and instead found themselves beset by an even greater force.
The Rünsaastiläpsia began as only twelve, and through the action of our enemies soon numbered in the thousands, forming a grand buffer as Adytum learned to be more than it had ever been intended.
As the nation grew, and the Nälkä spread, the Rünsaastiläpsia would spread with them, shifting as the border did, though often their broods remained behind, secret defenses for darker days if they ever came.
Now, so far, I imagine there is some confusion about how these great and beautiful beings are marked as Villisükuä.
That comes down, as with so much, to the Fall, but has threads long before it.
As I noted, the young were ravenous creatures, and indeed, unlike their towering parents, their minds were filled with nothing but feral intent.
As such, and as with many of their ilk, they could forget the taste of kin, endangering ally as eagerly as enemy, but thankfully, their elders proved an effective buffer.
For their songs could do far more than set them to ravaging. For most, their song was one of slumber, returning to the earth to await the next invasion, and more importantly, halting their instinct to plant more eggs.
For those who showed promise, sharper minds and mighty Will alongside their instincts, other songs awaited. Guiding them as hunting parties, urging them on as caravan guards, or placing them as protectors of livestock and tillers of fields.
On the borderlands of our ancient home, the Rünsaastiläpsia were a beloved presence, gifts of all kinds set at their titanic feet and given to their keener young, treated ever as the family all knew them to be.
The Marrow revealed, as ever, problems arose as the reach of Adytum began spreading, the borders pushing further and further from its locus of influence, and the truth of the Ozi̮rmok.
The further we spread, the more the titans and their kin were required. Luckily, the ritual to grow a chick into an elder was far less complicated than the original rite, requiring little more than a skilled karcist and copious amounts of food for the young to consume in preparations for the surge of growth and awakening of their internal weaving.
Yet, those who came to true wakefulness in this way were one step closer to the Wild than their predecessors, and so the cycle would go, as the great minds of Nadox and the Ozi̮rmok turned to affairs further afield, the connection forged of flesh and blood with the wider Nälkä grew weaker.
Yet, as long as the Eldest continued their march, their songs, that bond would be remembered, ferried on the wind in a great circuit to the second generation of titans, and so on and so forth.
The Rünsaastiläpsia remained loyal for a great while longer, resisting the pull of the Wild, not yet to be named Villisükuä, even if some began to treat them as beasts, so the Marrow taught.
And we Nälkä have to share blame for their fate, for some karcists, those that became too high-minded and forgot their true purpose, that a Rünsaastiläpsia under their command was a symbol of status. A failing brought on by their nearness to the blighted lands of the Opposing Empires or even, forgive me for saying it, the touch of the vazjuma12. They covered them in regalia, parading them about not as respected members of our family but as mere curiosities and trophies.
It reminded me more of the foul pageantry of the Thieves13 than I would care to admit.
If there was resentment amidst the titans at their treatment the Marrow gave no sign, but each fresh generation of them lost more of their Will to the Wild, laying eggs when not commanded, consuming the flesh of livestock when hunger was meant to be calmed, fighting amongst each other for territory, a concept that prior had not mattered to them at all.
Some muddled borderfolk actually relished the sight of the clashing titans, scouring claws, snapping jaws, and swinging necks rocking the sky like thunder, even as they trampled crops and battered buildings.
It all finally unraveled as so much for our people did, with the Fall of Adytum. Again, the Marrow shrouds the Fall from mine eyes, refuses me even a taste of that dread day, yet what I glimpsed for the Rünsaastiläpsia shook me in a manner I had not felt before.
The Elders fell first, their songs cut off in screams more human than they had been in an age, all fear and confusion and grief, in a twelve-part harmony.
And with their fall, the web of control uniting their successors and the amassed brood of chicks beneath the soil and about the border unraveled.
The younger Titans turned their fear-driven anger against all that surrounded them, kin or foe alike, rampages that sent them far beyond the once-borders of Adytum, to be cut down and burned into the memory of all manner of cultures as dread dragons and freakish giants.
And with each adult that died, the chicks would grow more and more feral. The young sobbed for parents they had never known, even as they turned their now directionless hunger on each other.
Indeed, I came to realize that many of the horrors I had witnessed in the Marrow previously, that had beset Orok and her herd as she fled the Fall, wore the maddened face of the rudderless Rünsaastiläpsia.
True Villisükuä.
Their numbers waned, but in their hunger, they scoured the land of all that could be consumed, leaving but sand and ash and pulverized bone, forced to consume each other just to stay alive. Not a meal of memory and love, but feral, base hunger.
Yet, even as monstrous as they became, the action set them to grief, for in moments of lucidity, they still remembered the taste of kin.
Worse, they seemed doomed to fade out, another lost branch of our people, lost without the songs of their Elders, set to become not but decay and dust within a generation.
That, we have been told, was indeed their sad end, their bones the only reminder of noble and true guardians, the first line of Adytum’s defense, thankfully held in places of remembrance by those clans that remembered, or ferreted away by the Unseeing in dusty edifices to gawk out, lacking all understanding.
Yet, the Marrow drew me further. They had survived past the Fall and those dire years to follow, and through what remained of their Will, they learned to live, but not easily.
Their bodies forgot the Titans they were shaped to be, but the songs burned in their blood. They attempted to mimic them, but facets were missing, scattered into history.
But they were close enough that a new generation could be born.
The shrieking affair seemed far more painful than the workings of the lost Titans, and while they partially recalled the songs to draw the eggs forward, churning their internal weaving to life, they could not recall the song to stop.
Many perished, their bodies giving out from the strain, and the young quickly set upon each other, until the strong remained. They wept but could never recall why as the blood of kin filled their throats. I have never felt… dread looking upon one of our people’s workings, not at first. My sojourns investigating other Villisükuä taught me much of caution, but for most, the bit that made them Nälkä had long been lost, consumed in the madness of the Fall and ages to follow.
The Rünsaastiläpsia, though, retained a grasp of their Will, wane as it had become. They knew this was not what they were meant to be.
Yet they persevered, learning, changing, attempting to grow into the world around them, but their sole manner of propagating proved a hindrance, and with the loss of the other songs, they continued to weaken until finally they slipped into the shadows and were lost, even to the Marrow.
As wounded as that revelation left me, it was the way of things. The Marrow, praise be to Ion for leaving it to us, is but a vessel for truth, and often the reality of this world leaves us wanting. We are a scattered people, our culture threaded together thinly, varied and beautiful, but any remainder of that era of our birth would do much to strengthen our bonds.
As my clan says, "Nälkä forever, no matter how far they have scattered, we share". Yet, I put the Rünsaastiläpsia from my mind.
Seeking other tales of our people, I eventually found myself in Éire, last true bastion of the Folk Under Hill14, listening to tales about the hearth of a horrid monster in the nearby woods. It followed none of the traditions or warnings the Unseeing had been taught by their Elders; its weeping, squalling kept them up at all hours, and its slashing talons left livestock bleeding in the field.
The British, a reeking Empire akin to the dread Daeva, were of no help, and the Manipulators, who eagerly dog such things, were as ever consumed in their “bureaucracy”.15
So, while not of the kin, I offered my aid, claiming ties to powers more natural in their eyes, a quickening of mushrooms being enough evidence.
I set out, and it did not take long to find the source of their troubles. Its echoing calls greeted me swiftly. And within them came the knowledge of the Marrow, for its cries mirrored those of the lost chicks.
Hope is ever an eager influence, but I had learned by then to approach moments like these with caution, not seeking to add more foolish mistakes to my path.
The clearing from which the dread screeching was resounding drew closer and closer, until finally I gazed upon its occupant.
My heart soared, even as my body tensed, for it was indeed a chick. How the egg had come to rest in such a distant domain from beloved Adytum, I can not begin to say, for I never did find the actual nest.
It was so small, in comparison to the beings I walked beside within the Marrow, little bigger than a swan, a mixture of down and fur covering all but its bare, near-human, near-reptile face. It cried for a family unable to answer, but there I was, the closest thing to kin this being could ever know.
And I realized, as the songs of its dead elders warbled in my mind, this, truly, could be a way to reforge a bond thought severed.
I set to work on myself, melding my cloak with my skin, stretching my bones, and expanding my lungs. I can never hope to compare to the masterful lihakut'ak of Nadox, but their voices had wavered in the ages after the Fall. I had seen it, so hopefully my mimicry would suffice to draw it to me.
The song of the Rünsaastiläpsia left my lips, declaring protection, union, safety for it, and likely all in the nearby village to hear, though it likely filled them with more devouring dread.
It turned, and I saw the embers of recognition in its eyes. It called back, hunting desperately for the source of the rallying call. It began to spasm, choking on something, and I realized my mistake swiftly. It believed more of its ilk were needed, and so small, so young, it would surely harm itself in the endeavor.
Calling another tune from the recesses of my mind, I shifted my song, and it paused, Wild fighting Will in a rapid battle as I approached, and that seemed to be enough to shock it out of following the former.
It reared back, claws held wide, feet stamping, every bit of its body threaded with anxiety and confusion as I spoke with the voice of an elder its body could remember but its mind could not. It snapped towards me, once, twice, but backed up each time. I could not lose it, living history long lost to us, a shard of Adytum. As one of the Marrow, it was demanded I take any action I could to not let it slip through my fingers.
I began to weave a different tune, one of calmness as I knelt before it, extending my hand towards it, stretching ever closer to its snapping jaws. Its breathing slowed, its eyes widened and then it struck me, but not a manic hunger, no, a test of itself and me.
I felt my flesh and blood slide down its throat, and as the song continued, I saw that ember spark into a fire.
Will over Wild.
As I said, I never did find the nest, as the chick was eager to nestle into my arms, chirping contentedly, but I have to wonder if more eggs await us somewhere across the Isle. I will have to return, or send others in my stead.16 I write this now from my home beside the Marrow, and can hear them calling out for me.
Their voice is unsteady, the words still patternless, but they are trying.
They are growing, and awakening to themselves in a manner I did not think possible. Eager to play, yet keen to learn, the children of our conclave have come to be called Pikku Itkijä17, as they grow ever more vocal; indeed, they speak the tongue well, though they have yet to understand the truth of the words.
The karcists, and teachers debate attempting the ritual I mentioned prior, awakening a Titan for the first time since the Fall, yet those given cooking have already began making preparations for what most of us believe is a forgone conclusion, especially as rumors of approaching the Vasasoonenütä18 for aid swirl.
So, I send this out to all kin I know of. We have a chance to reclaim our lost history, and this moment should be shared with everyone. So please, I will arrive wherever I am called to ferry those who wish to be witnesses. I need only get word.
Indeed, I find myself giddy at the thought that we may soon hear the Old Song again, praise be to the Ozi̮rmok for unexpected miracles, but to those I have grown aware of who read what is not meant for them.
You will find no welcome beside the Marrow, so read as you like, but never dare to find us. You have been warned.19
Juo Luuydintä
Katso Totuus
Ylistys Ozi̮rmok20