#pandyssia

I recall my first memory, being in a small boat, more like a coffin. The waves about us were turbulent and dark, and they spat at us with blinding salty foam. And my mother held me close, whispering for me not to be afraid. I can remember her voice clear enough like sunshine, but when I turn my head her face is obscured by rain and thunder clouds.

After the storm, she said that we had arrived, and that we were the first. She unloaded what was in the boat while I sat in a soggy cloth and played with the sand. This is when I first saw them, giant red cliffs, off in the foggy distance. I did not understand what they were at first, thinking them strange ruby waves that were frozen from the cold. I know I must have been watching them a long time, believing strange shapes were moving about them, for when my mother picked me up our home was there, constructed, and inviting. I had no other memory of a home before this one.

I learned, through my mothers gentle words every night after she went exploring, that we were on a small but substantial island. She would carry me around in a basket which I could not see out of during those first few days, because she wanted me safe, that there were things like corrosive crusts and nibbling bugs that could harm me if I was out in the open.

Then one day, she said that she would leave me in the home where it was safest. I remember protesting, but stopped when I saw a starry night sky sitting next to her.

She told me his name was Zanzi, and that he would take care of me while she was away. I was hesitant, but then dark shape moved and I perceived it to be a majestic dark leopard, which sauntered over and made the noise of never-ending thunder. Needless to say I was happy with my new companion who kept me company when mother went out to do things. Those days were filled with Zanzi watching me play, and letting me explore, always intervening if I went too far, carrying me back by my coverings. When it got late and the sounds of things in the trees changed to a different song, mother would come back with food and things for me, and we would all sleep amid folds of midnight cloth, mother whispering faint songs and sometimes, the things she brought back would sing too. Home was a happy place, until the days of empty baskets.

I flinch at the sting of a cut behind my ear. “Careful Mandrell,“ the mask man comments from the door, “Can’t have them looking like some washed up renegade when we hand them over. Overseer Harold was quite clear.”

“Yeah, yeah,“ I stifle down a sneeze at the smell of smoke again, hearing Mandrell mutter under his breath something about tides and timing. A dirty rag wipes my neck and I can see the faint small red flecks on it out of the corner of my eye when it’s placed on the small table. There are other things on the table that I have never seen used, but I can tell they hold a brutal history I do not wish to know.

It began sometime in what my mother told me was autumn. There had been no rain for over a week and it was very hot all the time, even in the shade. I remember my lips were all crackled and I would lick at them to try and make them better, but it would only make them raw and burn more. I would blame Zanzi, but mother knew he only would lick my arms and legs to keep me cool. Mother's skin turned shiny with sweat when she returned, early before noon now, and eventually went out only at night to look for food.She came back with less and less each time, but despite that she would be singing her songs more and more. 

I was really feeling weak that one evening when mother took me down to the beach, swaddled in that thin purple clothe and nothing else. I saw the boat had been prepared. Then she placed me at Zanzi’s feet, told him to look after me while she was gone. The tall red cliffs yawned in the distance, and the setting sun made them look like blood.

Mother then gave me her necklace, putting around my neck, saying that she was going for help, that she would return as soon as she could, and that this would keep me safe. I remember holding and looking at the charm, color of my teeth, as she kissed my head and sang a small song in my hair. When I looked up, the boat was already off the beach, riding the retreating surf. I waves bye-bye, watching, my mothers form get farther and farther, until night fell and I could not see any more, only the stars above, and the shadow of those cliffs.

Night turned to day, then to night again, and I waited on the shore, staring at crimson distance. I could hear Zanzi pacing behind me, empty shelves of the sea crabs we used to eat knocked about by his paws. Everything was still otherwise, no birds, or bugs, just hot and dry silence. And I held the necklace, waiting, feeling my body less and less. I didn’t understand what was happening, that I was dying. I just wanted mother to be back soon.

Then I saw it, above the distant land, a great dark cloud. Zanzi stopped pacing, and I felt his bony frame behind me, purring with a hoarse rattle. The air was strange, I swear I could hear my mothers singing. The cloud grew and grew, towering high and dark, till it bloomed above us. Then it rained, cold and clean, and I drank it in. Through the lightning that struck the water and the flashes above, things began crawling and flopping out of the water and onto the beach. Zanzi helped himself to them, and I followed his example. I felt better than I had in a long time, and I knew things were going to be OK. Yet, in that moment, all I felt was sadness.

The shock of the cold must have finally rendered me unconscious, as I only recall next waking up back at the home, now empty one resident. I cried into Zanzi’s pelt, his purr trying to calmly as his sandpaper tongue groomed my hair. I asked the feline night sky when mother would come back, my voice a small tremble. He just looked at me with cold silver eyes.

“There we are,” one final snip and brush off my shoulders, and I hear Mandrell stand up, “All prim and proper-like.” I’m finally at liberty to turn my now stiff neck, and I look up at my impromptu barber as he wipes his hands with the soiled rag. He takes a long drag of his pipe and begins to clean up the table.

The man at the door steps to the side, opening the sturdy barrier and gesturing to me. “You best get back to your cabin and finish packing your things. We will be making landfall at the port soon and Overseer Harold would like a word with you beforehand.“

With a quick node, I hustle towards the door, but not before the masked man grabs my shoulder firm. “You are very lucky,“ he says quietly with malignancy, “Don’t you forget it.“ I am let go with a small shove, which I take as a needed momentum to propel me back to my quarters. Finally there, a minuscule confined space that was my own, I sit curled on the rickety bed and grasp at my shorn locks, feeling again the sense of loss.

I’m not hazy on the fact that my mother is probably gone, as in dead. It’s not to say that she could be extant somewhere, as the place she ventured to is widely unknown and unexplored, but if she was still alive I know she would have come back. So I’ve made peace with the fact that I will never see her again, but I wish beyond belief for some kind of closure. A chance where I could inter her with a proper ceremony would be all I could ask for.

Things were very different after she left. For one, I had to survive more on my own. Zanzi was there to help me with simple things. He did not talk, but he said so much through his actions. His lessons helped me climb trees, navigate dense underbrush, and hunt, which was no longer a problem after that storm.

Besides stranding a couple Large sea creatures that filled us for a few weeks, the storm brought new animals to the island. A legion of giant rats seemed to crop up overnight and Zanzi was all too happy to keep its population in check, without wiping them out completely. From him I learned about balance, which helped sustain me and the island for the following seasons.

It was around this time that I guess I had forgotten what my mother looked like. Zanzi was all I had, and since he did not talk or walk on two legs, I saw no reason to. Words began to fade on me, as did any notion a world existed outside the island.

That illusion did not hold up for long.

I recall that day too eerily as I start to hastily pack at the sound of the bridge horn high above, as there was too on that fateful eve great panic. It began first with a smell carried over the sea breeze, Zanzi being the first to spot it. I was picking those high tree fruits when I saw him looking out over the water, sniffing. The wind was strong as I gripped the papery bark, and then I caught the rough smell of something sweet rotting mixed with a tang of lightning struck lumber. Then I saw a plume of smoke rising up on the horizon.

At first, I thought it to be a distant volcanic eruption, as sometimes could be seen on rare occasions. But as I watched, I realized the pillar of black smoke was edging closer and closer into view, until finally I beheld its origin to be a boat. I was awestruck, seeing how large it was compared to that boat mother had brought us here in.

It was that notion that made me believe that it was mother coming back, and I clambered out of the tree and down to the beach with Zanzi racing at my heels. I put my hands in the air and calling out wordlessly in joy, And to my confusion but delight, the giant craft answered back with a voluminous noise that echoed out across still waters and rattled flying creatures out of the trees, the same sound that spit up my pace now as I shoved undergarments into a leather sack.

They were far away, but I could perceive beings such as I moving about the vessel, watching. I saw a smaller craft, this one more familiar in shape, be filled with kindred creatures and begin to make its way to shore. I jumped for joy, hollering, and I knew now those people saw me, because they answered back. I was so happy and full of hope.

But then, Zanzi’s posture changed and he let out a warning sound before grabbing my coverings and trying to pull me back into the undergrowth. I protested at first, not knowing why he was acting that way when we were close to salvation, but as the things in the boat were now more distinguishable in detail, I understood and fled.

The faces, if I could even call them that, were hollow and not like mine at all. Something about them awoke a fear I didn’t know I had, that those things meant me harm, and I had to get away.

But it was too late now, they were now on the island, and there was no time to obviate or escape them. There were so many, like rats, too many to fight off before the flesh was gone.

Zanzi led me back to the home and he wanted me to hide. He was going to protect me if they should find this place. He sat at the entrance and guarded as I held my mothers charm close. I hoped that they would go away, that the island’s dense foliage and dangerous residents would deter them, but from the chaos ever encroaching, I knew it was not to be. They saw me, and they had come for me. Birds flew away in great numbers as the sound of thunder began to get closer, and I was confused and scared at the noise, as I knew it was a sunny day, so how could there be thunder? I know now, of course, where that sound came from.

BANG BANG BANG! I jump with a start at the sound of rapping upon my rickety cabin door. Quickly I put the last of my socks into the leather sack, swing it over my shoulder and go to open the door.

I am greeted with a face and not a mask, thankfully, and I straighten up as I see it is Overseer Harold, my teacher, at the door. “ Was just finishing packing, sir!” I said quickly, “I’m sorry if I kept you waiting.”

Harold shook his head with a smile, “Not your fault as I understand it. Mandrell took longer with you then was expected.“ He stepped to the side, a gesture which said ‘You go first’. “Well, best we get on deck. You’ll want to see your new ship I trust?”

I nodded, returning his smile before walking down the hallway with him following, my smile fading. There was no true warmth I held for that man. Overseer Harold was a martinet, and to go against his vision was disastrous as I had learned.

Our meeting is blurry, perhaps due to my fear. Zanzi tensed and charged away from the entrance, and a loud thunder clap in rapid succession followed, making my ears ring. Then, a creature appeared, the ones with a frozen face. I cried out in fear, for Zanzi, for my mother, for anything, with worthless shouts. The creature grabbed me by the hair and pulled me out of my home; I felt so helpless. 

I find myself rubbing my scalp where my hair was pulled when Harald comments behind me. “Don’t worry, you look fine,” he sighs, “You’ve come a long way from when we found you in that squalid hovel. Now you are ready to join the world and be a working part in it.” I nod quietly, finding it best to just agree and keep my mouth shut. 

I was dragged into a small circle of them, and I looked around for Zanzi, and saw a motionless form in the dirt. I remember wailing, and somehow I managed to bite and claw my way over to him. Hand on his side, I could feel he was still alive, but just barely. Pain of fear and tears were not to be had for long, as I heard the approach of the monsters, and not wanting to lose anyone else dear to me, I reared over Zanzi protectively, growling, hissing, screeching, and screaming at them, just as I know Zanzi would do for me. The monsters pointed their guns at me, but back then I knew not what they were, so I was not deterred.

...

That's as far as I wrote for now. Got a full journey planned out for them, but currently I got other projects in the line up, so this one has to take a back seat.

If you like my writing, consider supporting me on Ko-Fi.

Mentally tap into the mycelium network that connects all plants in the Pandyssian jungle

Subpower: Marked may use this connection to look through the eyes of other Marked. Canny Marked realize when this is happening and may be able to tell who is spying on them by the feel of the other person’s mind. Messages cannot be transmitted over this connection, but emotions can. Experienced Marked are able to block off this connection at will.

Subpower: Marked may use this connection to “see” things that are happening in other parts of the jungle. Works best within a range of several miles. A skill that improves with experience.

Subpower: ability to see the “echoes” of those who have died in the jungle and became imprinted on the mycelium network, whether animal or human. They normally present as semi-ephemeral beings who are caught in loops of what they were doing when they died, though there is an extreme minority of those who do not follow this pattern. The most well known of these is the golem of Arouraíos Póli, who has guided lost Marked out of the maze of the inner sanctum for generations. Newly Marked have difficulty distinguishing between echoes and living beings. They eventually learn to recognize their lack of shadows, sound and substance.

Drawbacks of being marked:

The echo of the Nameless King from which power is drawn exerts a profound influence on the minds of those who have been marked. He is a caught in a loop consisting of the sacrifice of the person who betrayed him and the subsequent unleashing of the rat plague upon the world. This loop is imprinted on the minds of the Marked and while they are marked, they are continually drawn to Arouraíos Póli and into this loop themselves. This is why candidates with strong mental fortitude are chosen to be marked and given extensive training in resisting the lure. Even so, most Marked do succumb to the pull of the Nameless King eventually.

When the person whom the Marked has designated as ‘the betrayer’ is chosen, that person’s stomach becomes a vessel of the rat plague and their sacrifice almost always results in the death of the Marked. The rare ‘betrayer’ who has broken free before being sacrificed gets horribly ill but is able to live a normal life if treated with King’s Mercy (also known as Plaga Perrit, a common remedy against the rat plague in Pandyssia) soon enough. If the sacrifice is successfully carried out, a wave of plague rats are released into the surrounding jungle. 

The Tradition of the Marked in Western Pandyssia 

by Dr. Kathryn Derring

Every village has at minimum, one Marked within its borders. Their duties are to prevent the jungle from encroaching on the village, protect its inhabitants from injurious flora and fauna, keep watch for danger coming from the depths of the jungle, ensure that the harvest is good and when needed, to guide people safely through the jungle. They are financially supported and treated with reverence (which is not untinged with fear) by the village in which they live. 

Candidates are chosen and trained as children, preferably by the village’s current Marked. If the current Marked has died suddenly or given into the Nameless King’s lure, this duty falls to the village elder. 

Traits looked for are willfulness, confidence, mental strength and strong emotional bonds, whether with friends or family. All genders are considered. A child and their family are free to refuse the appointment, but there is often significant pressure from the community to accept if the village has suddenly found themselves lacking a Marked to protect them. In these circumstances, a Marked from another village may be summoned to fill in the gap while the child trains.

The training consists of long hours of meditation, practice in emotional regulation, study of the local wildlife and combat training. Another important part of their education is helping out around the village wherever they can. The reason for this is that it encourages the child to form stronger bonds with the people they’re training to protect. The stronger the interpersonal bonds they have, the better they’re able to resist the Nameless King’s lure. 

Traditionally, the child is ready to be marked when they reach 15 years of age, though their training might go on for longer, should their mentor deem it necessary. The ceremony in which they are tattooed on the hand of their choice coincides with the planting of the first harvest of the Pandyssian New Year (usually within the Month of Nets, according to our calendar). 

In the week that follows the newly Marked is given a special hut to rest in, the village healer pays close attention to them and friends and family are encouraged to keep them company at all hours. The ability to see echoes (quite possibly of their deceased relatives) and the pressure of the Nameless King’s compulsion are difficult things to adjust to. It is not uncommon for the newly Marked to fall ill after being marked or suffer some sort of emotional breakdown. It is during this stage that candidates who were not fully prepared for the role most often try to kidnap a person they perceive as having wronged them and take them to Arouraíos Póli for sacrifice. 

In this scenario, if the Marked cannot be made to see reason, they must be killed. This is an exceedingly dangerous prospect, as the powers of even a newly Marked are considerable. It is likely that the Marked and their hostage will escape into the jungle, never to be seen again. 

Should the worst happen, the Marked’s mentor loses considerable face in the village. Village elders have stepped down because of circumstances like these. Marked mentors often pay restitution to their student’s family and that of their hostage. 

But, should the newly Marked come through that week having adjusted to their new reality successfully, they take on their full duties as the village’s defender and the cycle begins anew.

Most Marked succumb to the lure eventually, as their will erodes over time and the bitterness of living in a continent so dead set against life itself builds up inside them. The villages they live in know this and are careful to treat the Marked with utmost respect and do their damnedest to stay out of disputes with them, lest they end up becoming a sacrifice. This can end up breeding a whole different type of resentment which well trained Marked are coached to avoid. 

Some Marked see their death in Arouraíos Póli as their destiny and plan ahead for it. Some, instead of a person, take a thing which has wronged them and symbolically “kill” it in the inner sanctum. A faulty weapon which caused the death of a loved one. The parasite which destroyed a harvest. The fortune which caused a bitter family dispute. One man cut off the fingers of his marked hand which had failed to defend his village from the plague of biting insects that killed many of his charges.

But how are all these stories known, if Arouraíos Póli is the place the Marked go to die? 

Because these are the ones who came back. When the ritual is complete and the Marked still lives, the compulsion ends, its conditions fulfilled. 

Only those who are strong enough to destroy the parts of themselves that hold them back are able to return.

On Temporary Marks

Anyone with a stick of charcoal or a pot of ink can mark themselves with the greatest of ease. As far as power is concerned, the material with which one draws on their hand makes no difference. Mud works just as well as painstakingly drawn tattoos. 

The difference is that when the mark is washed away, so too are the powers lost. A common thought is that a village in danger might be better served by having multiple Marked on hand who are able to wash away their powers once the danger is passed. 

This is generally regarded as a spectacularly bad idea by most competent village elders. Without the proper training, marked villagers are at a heightened risk for succumbing to the Nameless King’s lure and harming their neighbors in the process. A village very rarely has the resources to train multiple Marked, let alone Marked who would only be Marked part of the time. 

Thus, there is a long ingrained taboo in Western Pandyssian society against marking one’s self, even in jest. Bedtime tales of naughty children who did just that and then vanished into the jungle never to be seen again abound up and down the coast. 

Then there is the other type of story - the ones about travelers lost in the forbidding jungle, on the verge of death from starvation, injury, poison - who mark themselves in a last ditch effort to preserve their lives and are then guided to safety by the ghosts of their ancestors. 

Not all of them are bunk. In 1799, a group of woodsmen from New Cullero found themselves lost in the depths in the jungle for weeks. When things became dire, they chose the one man whose will had not yet broken to mark himself. He was able to tap into the mycelium network and find the path that would lead them out. He reportedly suffered no ill effects before or after the mark was washed away.

The lesson here is that some people, without training, if the matrix of their personality is one capable of overpowering the compulsion of the Nameless King, are perfectly able to wield the mark for a short while.