A Study in Stonefolk

[Random_White_Guy]

An ornately kept tome is carefully tended and cared for, as if one's most prized possession. It sits nestled within a thick hide satchel to protect its precious cargo from the weather-beaten elements. By day it is nustled to the breast or back depending on which direction the travels take. By night is is written in by firelight with careful hands

I preface this by saying in no means am I a particularly versed scholar.
The opposite in-fact, for the keeping of scholarly works was most forbidden by the King.
In the terror and atrocities that befell Ringfall I was fortunate enough that my father's father had crossed the rings in his youth.
However with the calamitous strife to come, the sealing of Baz'eel, my Grandfather's status as a traveler to Baz'eel ended thusly.

By Warad's blessings I have found a life as a young man among the harshness of the world.
I've had the privilege of meeting many interesting folk who would not glance twice my way, by naught but sheer proximity.
For a Wandering Priest is often given a second glance upon the bestowment of what little water and food may be had.
Few bands shy away the extra chance against such unforgiving odds, especially as I've taken well to survive in these lands.
Yet throughout my journey I have found my Caravan accompanied by an unlikely addition. One of the enigmatic Stonefolk.

I cannot recall off hand which outpost he joined us at and he has been relatively short spoken, per their lot.
He does his duties, he makes his way, he carries his own without complaint or question.
By day he wanders with us and by night he's content to sit by himself away from the fire.
Seemingly their odd, opaque eyes unbothered after generations of life in these lands.

For upwards of a thousand years it is said they have been constant and to some, status wrought.
Stonefolk as Laborers without compare so it is not even a stretch to imagine them kept as prizes.
In lands such as Baz'eel where charity and clout go hand in hand - surely then it a prize?
To keep and feed a Stonefolk as a Laborer, or Craftsmen... or many of them, and sponsor a Tablet.

Is this the origin of their odd enclaves, peppered and prickling like Earthen Stars, across the sea of the desert?
Is this why despite enduring in a land where so many say little is constant, they have always been?
He has been ill receptive to my prying but I cannot help think there is more to him than meets.
He seems... smaller than others of his ilk I have encountered prior to spending such time with one.
If nothing more it has piqued my curiousity to say the least.

[Random_White_Guy]

I have noticed our companion watching me write. My attempts to show him closer met with a placid gaze.
They truly do live up to their name when they want such to be the case. The ashen hue of their flesh, more earthen.
Far more earthen than the varied hues of the Ashfolk who wander, as clay and darker colors adorn their lanky frames.
Tales I have heard in my travels of course of the perennial outcasts wandering hither and fro on mighty and terrible beasts.
The Groknak.

A Beast of Burden, yet so capable of war. A metaphor perhaps of the Stonefolk's existence in these lands?
For I cannot imagine in any other circumstance by which an entity has so succinctly secured survival.
From the various cities there are those of course who eke out their existence in these harsh lands.
But as I wander from waystation to waystation there's tell tale signs of their presence.
It's there, discreetly, but there none the less in tales of the Groknak, of the Stonemen.

Is it from some ancient feud of the times long forgotten, their empires cast aside?
Like the Elven clinging to a life since perished beneath the dunes?
Like the Dwarven whose rumor say swallowed by Volcano in the old world?
Like the Hinfolk who are not of Ashen hue, outsiders even among their kin?
Like the Humans, who survive against all odds?

No, I dare say Humans I could never see surviving as the Stonefolk do.
The Human has a drive, an ambition, this boundless hope that cannot be quenched.
The fiercer you try to quench it the harsher they squeeze to existence.
There's a resignation to them, somber and accutely stinging.

My mind wanders again to their lives though as I sit by the fire outside my tent.
Is this beaten out of them in youth, as the tablets scour away sense and sensation?
Is this stripped from them as they age, as the world itself grinds those they see different to dust?
Is this an elaborate ruse perpetrated by the most canny and unlikely survivors to endure with spies in every city?
I write in jest but their life seems one of a half-life. While the other races bound and play and sprint about they...
They seem to have accepted their lot in life, whatever such a thing entails as their Praise-Singers keep history alive.
They seem to take in stride whatever comes, bowing only when needed to endure to their next laboring or destination.

The Tablets themselves a rustic but livable space in which they congregate.
It is not without artistry in its own way, it is not without presence, of shape.
There is clearly something at work among their peoples to endure in such a manner.
There is even a respect garnered from those who seem so true in their lives.
Warad knows I have never felt a fraction of what seems to be such stoic peace.

And yet again I find myself scribbling naught but speculation.
The figure refuses to answer even my barest of questions.
So I am left with rumor, hearsay, and perceived judgements.
Hardly the basis for a fair or apt scholarly work, but one makes due.
As the saying goes, Warad wanders winding wastes.
Time shall tell if he opens to me.
Else I'm certain something else will take my attention.

[Random_White_Guy]

Today at last, the tension snapped.
The massive figure so long quietly joining our caravan, spoke.
The words sounded less like air pushed from lungs and more-
in every sense of the possible word,
Falling from its mouth.
"Here. Take".

A curious and unusual relic given,
Some odd treasure secured from the nearby sands.
How did this curious creature find it?
Some form of ancient Stonefolk Dowsing Rod?

I had seen nothing like it so I parted with a fair sum of Dinar,
But for all intents and purposes I still don't quite know what it is.
There's simply a curiosity to it, some odd aspect I cannot put my finger on.
It shall be some time before we reach the Well but I must find a way to return this favor.
Charity on these caravan roads is a rarity, even less so from one so primitive.
Is this how they have survived for milennia?

Odd, reclusive, laboring treasure hunters?
Or is there more herein than even I could speculate?

[Random_White_Guy]

I begin to realize, that the Ashfolk's interpretation is not gospel.
The Stonefolk I have read of in the tomes and scrolls purchased at way stations, they paint such a different picture.
Lumbering brutes, not so different from their trusted Groknak, carrying and laboring and hauling.
Tonight while struggling at camp to stay awake on duty two of our guards began to enjoy a game of cards.
The creature had been sitting nearby in the dark, so still for a time we forgot he was with us.
Uncertain if it was resting, sleeping, or just staring into the sky.
As the fighting escalated the guard leapt to the other, giving it a shove.
Bickering and fighting, one was shoved back and tripped in the sand.

He fell and  bumped the creature.
It slowly moved from the crater of sand it was sitting in, staring down at the man.
He grew intimidated, fearful of the size, the shape. Hand on the hilt.
"Watch it, Stone. Be a shame if you chipped a bit".
The other guards tensed, even I paused a breath.
There's trying to show you're not afraid, and there's suicide.
This thing. This massive thing. Seven, Eight feet? I can't even tell.
It sinks in the sand.
The weight, more than our caravan, usually it walks alongside it.
This things hand could palm a man's helmet as if it were a small apple.

The tension in the air could be cut by Agaslakku's spear.
"Deal."
The word stunned everyone. It hadn't spoken much if at all, all journey.
"Deal what, y'want me to chip you? What the shit?" chirped the first
The second looked around counfused, then up at the beast.
"Deal Card."
"Shit, Hasam, I think the big boy wants to learn cards"
"Easiest damn money I've ever made that's for sure."

Tension abated, they slowly huddled around the cards.
Wagers came and went, hands traded up, traded down.
Teaching the creature the game, how to wager, when to raise, to fold.
Cactus Slurp brought out. The guards growing more and more to enjoy.
Money traded hands, mizzar cigarettes, water rations, whatever could be found.
Eventually, the stonefolk ran dry of its offerings and simply stood up to leave.
The guards resuming their drinking, before passing out.

I approached closer to dawn to tell it that it had a bad break.
That with a bit of practice it could learn to properly enjoy some cards.

"Not why Deal."
"What?"
"Sol Auk know cards"
"...Why did you let them teach you? You lost so much dinar."
"Stonefolk provisional parable.
Groknak trapped in pen all night shrieks."
"...what does that mean?"
"Dinar good for bed. Quiet better for sleeping."

It stood up walking away to the nearby plant making itself a meal.
I watched it eat, then simply fall asleep in its crater of sand.
I watched it, barely breathing, barely moving, there on the ground.
Two questions rolling around in my mind as the sun begin to crest at dawn.

...It did all that, just to shut the guards up?

What?

[Random_White_Guy]

The more I watch, the more I learn, the more I see it.
There is a cunning there. I have written before about the misconceptions.
They were primarily my own though, or my companions.
I watch now with a consideration for the macro.
In this great vast desert, these lumbering creatures.
Large, slow, effortlessly carrying things.
They move from tablet to tablet, from city to city.

The Ashfolk deride them like Chattel
The few humans, ring runners or more spread far, as novelty.
Yes build our walls.
Yes build our homes
Yes build our sewers.
Yes build our furniture.
You dumb oaf you could get double this value.

But in my askings of my companions, of the waystations we visit.
Where is the Stonefolk Home - Wherever they congregate.
Where is the Stonefolk History - Wherever they congregate.
Where is the, where is the, where.

How can creatures survive for millenia as a culture,
How can they be so docile and servile.
How can they be so accepting of the cruelties of fate.
How can they be so nakedly absent of desire.
How can they be so wantonly placid.

Perhaps the rumors are true - Do they truly live as long as elves?
Can any man or woman tell two stonefolk apart?
Large, grey, straggled hair almost like spindled stone.
Wandering here and there, as they please, following work.

There is no history to dig into as they keep it all by voice.
There is no Caliphate of Stone, there is no grand legacy.
They just...

They just Are.
They always have been.

How can a race survive in a place as horrible as this desert,
Leaving no footprint, leaving no mark, leaving no change.
No. This isn't possible, it can't be.
Is it truly all a ruse?

[Random_White_Guy]

Watching the creature as it grows more comfortable amongst the Caravan is growing unpleasant.
It simply... watches. It listens.
So still it's almost easy to forget it present.
Then it speaks. Usually a question. In odd phrase.

Why would any entity wish to know what a Mercenary's favored meal is?
Why would any entity wish to know what a Priests' first holy rite undertaken was?
Why would any entity wish to know what a Scout's favorite knot to tie is?
Why ask such banal questions?
Why did it ask me what made me choose my left hand, over my right, for scribing "Scars on parchment"?
We lost one man today and nearly two others. And it just... asks the simplest of questions. As if it is so profound.

Why does it ask these things, if not for purpose?
What is to be gleaned by such inquiries?
It's suspicious. There's something there.
There must be.
No one I have ever met has bothered with such a thing.
It just sits placidly.
It just watches wordlessly.
Then it just asks a question.
Then as it listens to the answer...

It just studies me. I feel I am being picked apart.
...Why does it leave me feeling so exposed?
As Warad guides my wandering, as I take my scribbling, that is supposed to be my charge.
...Does it know that is what I am doing?
Why does its calmness leave me so ill at ease?
Why am I sitting here ruminating on it still, hours later?
Why do my companions feel so soothed?
Is it me that is the problem?
Is it them?
Is it the Stonefolk?

I... Wait.
Is it mimicking me?
Or am I just seeing myself in it?
What strange desert magic is this?

[Random_White_Guy]

I find my fascination with this creature to continue growing.
What began as curiosity, before moving into bewilderment, has become simply wonder.
It refuses to answer how old it is, not because of subterfuge but because it doesn't know
It refuses to answer where it came from, beyond "Kulkund", wherever that is.
It refuses to answer what its plans are after we arrive at our destination, beyond "Labor".

And yet it holds such compelling conversation with a few words. There is no words wasted.
It cuts to the quick of matters in a way that most Humans find brusque.
And yet there is something charming of it. Just wandering in this massive creature's wake.
Watching it interact with entities it could crush with a single swipe of its fist.

Little bugs, small rodents, even a Sand Skin that wandered too close to our Caravan.
While it seems to have accepted my presence, I am the one who feel calmed.
It's difficult to fully put into words.

In most instances it would be suspicious. As after all this world is a place of much.
How often have I seen a Dwarf friendly until its beard threatened or burned.
How often have I seen an Elf feign aloofness until its pride stung.
Yet time and again as it is insulted by my companions,
Thrown rocks, dung, refuse. Its water stolen and thrown into the sand.
It just... negotiates for more.
The traders laughing, handing it water, even a few Dinar for its woes.

There is an audacity to hear it speak. Without reservation.
"Water taken. Spare some?"
"Oh, hells mate, you betcha. There's no shortage of trouble in these parts and-"
...and then it just takes it, and continues on its way. Usually not letting them finish talking.

In some ways there's a charm to it. But in other ways it unnerves.
Like tales of the Sea at night time.

This vast, grey, inky presence.
Unable to tell what lay beneath it.
The mind immediately takes to wander.
What horrors lurk beneath still surfaces.
What is it doing with its decades, its centuries.
Surely such an entity that travels far and wide, would not leave so small an imprint.

And yet. Months, months we have rode this Caravan across the desert.
Warad leading us far, wide, high, low. It carrying its weight, occasionally that of the others.
It doesn't fight, sooner paying bandits than risk it.
It doesn't yell, sooner letting us grow tired of screaming into the ether.
It just... exists.

If I keep waiting for some calamity, and it never comes,
What does that say of me?
Even re-reading my old entries I write so often of suspicion.
Why though?
What of this...this Thing unnerves me so?
It has been months, months and nothing has happened.
My life it has saved.

It would be almost what I would call boring.
If it was not so confounding.
Like a puzzle made of unknown shapes,
A riddle from a foreign language unknown.

This... Traveler.
Simply traveling.
Place, to place, to place, to place.
Will it ever know a home?
Will it ever know a place beyond the road?

What would such a thing even look like?

In a few weeks we reach Qadira, for the Shrine there.
Afterwards the Caravan Master speaks of Ephia's Well.

...Perhaps there we can see.

[Random_White_Guy]

Qadira-by-the-Sea.
Once a prosperous Baz'eel Port as the Wanderer's Shrine swelled.
Now a Den of Inequity, pirate and piss-ant alike sullying its sacred shores.

Half of our troupe refuses to leave the Temple, for fear of violence or woe.
A third of our troupe refuses to leave The Maiden's Folly, enjoying the violence and show.
And the Stonefolk...

The Creature stands at  the edge of the town, just shy the Maharaja Namahedu Palace.
The Guards watch in vigil but seem to pay it no mind, weapons brandished to keep pirate at bay.
The Locals take to fling rotten fruit, refuse, and more at its feet in passing from their day to day affair.
It simply watches.

Hours pass.
Days.

It watches.
It drinks.
It watches.
It eats.
It watches.
It refuses to move.

At one point did a Bird settle on its shoulder.
Though it did not linger long.
No, for even the Bird had place to be.
And yet it watched.

Those who left the shrine to the Tavern, back and forth.
As days went on they began to deviate from their path.
They began to pass to check if the Stonefolk was still there.
If it was still waiting, if it was still watching.

I didn't believe it at first but eventually a man came up to it.
A traveler himself. He did not look so sinister as the locals. Yet he was far from exactly welcoming.
He did not offer it a sneer, He didn't offer it a scowl, He didn't offer it refuse.
He offered it a smile.
He offered it a few words.
He offered a parcel.
Then he walked away.

It remained but a moment but then took to trundle.
Its massive frame making for the Maiden's Folly.
The crowd stopped drinking, the Hakawati paused its tale.
One of the Local Captains, a most furious Dwarf.
Stained in old violence along gloves and boot.
It stormed up to the creature.
The Tavern watched. Breathing bated.
He and the Stonefolk went up to the Crow's Nest.
Not long had taken to pass, not long at all.

The Creature returned first, simply leaving the tavern.
The Tavernfolk like Meleks, tongues tasting the air.
Two approached with menace.
A massive pouch of dinar removed from its traveling garb.
A pouch we of his company knew he did not have.
A fourth of it given to the two men.
They allowed it to pass.

It returned to the Maharaja's Gate.
The Guards brandishing their steel.
To one of the Guards -
It gave a fourth of the pouch.
They looked between one another, shrugging.
And the Creature took back to the main road.

It took to the Shrine of Warad.
Upon the Altar it placed a Fourth of the Pouch.
Nestling down upon a rug in the corner as it took to drink.
It resumed its vigil through the night.

... by sunrise our Caravan was packed and prepared to leave.
... We were to leave after we broke fast.
...A few unexpected crates were made room for, last minute additions.
...We found it strange to have extra caravan, no one could account for it.
... One by one were corpses dragged out of the Maiden's Folly.

Rumors were not of bloodshed nor barfight, for there is but one large rule in the Tavern.
No killing.
Rumors were not of riotous festivities, for there is but one small rule in the tavern.
You break it, you buy it.
No. Rumors were of a differing sort.

That the Dwarven Captain, and his Crew, celebrating after a massive haul of supplies stolen.
That the Route from Banafsi was to soon close, after increased pirate attack.
That overnight amdist such a celebration was a curious parcel taken to opening.
Within it many jars of ill-hue that looked akin to a mixture of vomit and chicken stock.

They called it Scorch.
A Battle Narcotic, Outlawed by the Sultan's magistrates in Baz'eel.
Proclaimed by the Temple of B'aara to bring out the worst in men and women.
Equal parts of otherworldly euphoria and terrifying fury.
Said by some to even simply Kill a man upon use.

My companions told me not to place much stock in rumor.
That in Qadira-by-the-Sea, it is a violent place, that men die.
They shift their talk to Ephia's Well. Of the recent boomings of work.
Of the Cinquefoil Rose and its manied Contracts upon the Top and Bottom of Boards.
Of the Astronomers of Q'tolip and their Mystic Cult, contracts for Archaeological Dig and Security.
Of the Fourth Legion, ever seeking more mercenary guard welcoming new life for Refugee.

As we roll through the accursed burning of Pra'raj's orb though.
My mind cannot shake it, and I cannot sit idle.
I keep replaying our trip in the port over, and over, in my head.

The Creature refusing to sit in our Caravan, choosing to walk.
It walks along side us but this time it walks alongside only one Wagon.
A wagon carrying the Crates that were added at the last minute.
A wagon carrying the Crates that were added at the time the Corpses removed.
A wagon carrying the Crates that were added at the time one of the Corpses was revealed a Dwarf.

My companions told me not to place much stock in rumor.
But I do not place stock in rumor. I place stock in my own eyes.
The creature only gave away three fourths of the money.
The creature that delivered the parcel to the Captain.
The creature that walked out of the tavern with the Captain's money.
The creature that paid charity to the Tavern's outlaws.
The creature that paid charity to the Maharaja's Guards.
The creature that paid charity to the Shrine's Altar.

How many months has it journeyed with us across this desert.
How many months has it wandered with us through high and low.
How many dangers has it endured with us along fierce caravan route.
How many opportunities has it had for matters to end terribly for it.

And yet it walks now with us holding one fourth left of the massive purse.
And yet it walks now with us escorting a Caravan full of a Dead Pirate's cargo.
And yet it walks now  with us under armed guard and mercenary to Ephia's Well.
Amidst an influx of other refugees, mercenaries, and fortune seekers.

Months I have traveled with it. Months. And even without Rumor I am left with more question than answer.
Who was the Man that gave it the Parcel?
Did it travel all these months simply to be in Qadira at the time of meeting this man?
Did it travel all these months simply to be at the Maiden's Folly to meet the Captain?
Did it travel all these roads of woes, trials, tumult simply to be here to secure this new Cargo?
Did it travel all these obstacles and inconveniences and abuses, solely to be here in Qadira?
Solely to arrive at Ephia's Well with fresh cargo and a large purse?

Stonefolk are Illiterate.
Stonefolk are Ignorant Laborers.
Stonefolk are humble, docile, tepid, nomads.
Stonefolk are chattel workers and the Ashfolk call them refuse.
There is no way. It cannot be so, it simply can't.
That much time, effort, energy, danger.
That far walked alongside our caravan.
That much danger faced never picking up a weapon.

But I re-read the words I have written in these many pages.
Half of them I do not believe.
I watch as it walks, irisless eyes on the horizon.
It struggles without complaint.
It continues on without impediment.
It endures insult and hostilities.
It speaks in broken tongue of the Stonefolk.

Refugees are arriving at Ephia's Well fleeing the Ringfall.
With nothing but scraps in their satchels, rags on their back, no water in days.
And here this Creature arrives with Dinar, Cargo, and Armed Escort.
Without ever lifting a finger.
We are delivering this thing, this creature, upon an unexpected settlement.

It has lived for centuries, there is no way this is chance.
Coordinating, organizing, manipulating.
The cheating at the game of cards.
Narcotics trafficking.
The Captain's death.
The bribes of so many.
All so it could arrive in comfort.

What in Warad's name have we done.
Gallagher has said we can report such to the Janissaries if I am so woed.
But after such a journey he is going to get drunk.
He has never steered me wrong and we have long been traveling.
I shall join him for his drink, and in the morning, speak with the Janissaries.

By the next morning rings out a strange voice - Unheard of before upon the Bellows of Ephia's Well.
It is stilted of speech, clipped, foreign. Different.
It is the sonorous rumble of a Stonefolk.

Sol Auk
Greet.

Sol Auk. Mountain Tablet.
Far caravan reach Well.
Envoy.

Those want speak of Tablet.
Learn of Stonefolk. Diplomacy. Trade.
Find Gilded Groknak. Seek Sol Auk.

Sol Auk
Speech. Pilgrim Statue. Parched welcome.

Four minutes later ring out a clamoring call.
A warning from the Sultan's Fourth Legion, the Misfortune.
A Bounty issued and raised in the wake of a bar fight.

Sultan's Janissary
Gallagher the Craven is wanted by the Sultan's Janissary for assaulting fellow bystanders in drunken stupor, with and without the use of a table leg, folded skirt and gnome. Apprehension is sought and we warn that he is most capable in a fight.

Somewhere between the final journal entry, the drunken revelry, and the next afternoon broke out a bar fight.
Said to be quite the affair as a large man beat another, with not only a table leg, folded skirt, but a Gnome.

During the night a traveler's journal, secured during the ruckus, tossed into nearby Brazier by a large stone hand.
The book burns.

Gallagher the Craven, no doubt fleeing with his Waradim Priest companion...
Serendipitous of the same time a massive Stonefolk, never seen before, gives first speech at the PIlgrim's Plaza.

Surely by chance.
And surely coincidence that "A Study in Stonefolk" ends up burned.
No reputable library would ever hold such a thing anyway.
After all as the Ashfolk Scholars teach every Refugee -

Stonefolk are illiterate and easily manipulated.
Stonefolk are lumbering, indelicate, and oafish.
Stonefolk are primitive and backwards tribal.
Stonefolk are lacking of worth, merit, or wealth.
Stonefolk are and have ever been, irrelevant.
Stonefolk are holders of no empires.
Stonefolk are holders of no thrones.
Stonefolk are holders of no fortune.
Stonefolk are without army.
Stonefolk are nothing.