baskfell_records

Cold, clear water rolls in gentle waves upon the gray beaches of the Omoian Landbridge. Dense green pines and poplars line the entirety of the stretch of land even into the Shroud, that sky-high wall of shimmering fog that completely cuts off the world from the North Pole. Within these forests, standing vigil in tall monastic towers and platforms or wandering the coast, the Conclave-Hearers wait, faces focused, expecting to hear the echoes of Divine Wisdom and knowledge of the Mythic Arts drift from the Heavenly Blue Tower across the Shroud.

However, the frequencies of those deceased blessed ones' discourses are far too esoteric, too subtle for the naked mortal ear, and Koloib had ceased to directly communicate with his adherents for millennia. For this reason are their shiny metal helmets forged, made from the magical silver embedded in the Omoian beaches. The complex and occult configurations of their interiors are a zealously guarded secret from the uninitiated; they pick up the ethereal sound waves, guide it to the Hearer's ears, for the price that, once put on, the resonant helmet can never be taken off until death and they must be ever mindful of every whisper. Lay followers who make the trek to their remote posts tell of warbling echoes droning under the helmet.

Whatever is heard from across the mists are recorded in volumes of text stored in their libraries. If it is deemed right to do so, they will relay portions of their transcriptions to lay followers and nearby leaders, whether the Matriarchs of the Great Mirth Hall or the Sorcerer Queens of Kalchikgyuni.

I knew I was going to have less than favorable feelings for the site overtime, but it still sucks to not have a want to explore the site the way I wanted to in its beginning. There's still friends I love to follow, art & oc accounts that challenge my creativity and are massive inspirations for my art hobby and life; I'm still there for them.

Good morning!

Since my last reading update, I have finished nearly all of the books listed there; Kokoro remains to be done, and Dune and The Tale of Genji are quite big. At my pace, I hope to finish them next year.

In the meantime I have a lot of current reads. I made an effort this year to read more books from both my local library and the larger city library a few miles from my town. One of them, The King in the Window by Adam Gopnik, is an intriguing fantasy book about Oliver, an American kid living in Paris who is claimed by ghostly beings that live in a realm accessed by windows, "Window Wraiths" to be their king.

The way the Wraiths are described and how they interact with Oliver in the material world is actually chilling and delightfully surreal in places.

Crack open a book, and thank you for reading! 😌📖

Autumn has arrived in the Kingdom of Nellimia, and with the cool air drifting in comes the time of harvest. As farmers yoke their beasts of burden and rakes are propped up against barn walls, they speculate on whose field Sorghum Monon will choose to labor on.

He comes during the late sunrise: a scrawny human man with dark stubble on a cleft chin, and frayed blond hair dotted with bugs and bits of chaff. The smell of toasted grain is overwhelming the closer you walk near him. But before you see or smell Monon, the sunlight glints off of the shiny long blade of his scythe looming over the fields of grain. He does not talk to anyone, - in fact he gets quite hostile if he is bothered too often - never changes the steely look of determination as he walks briskly down the dirt roads of the nellimian villages. Then suddenly, he pivots to a seemingly random field and begins to shear the stalks, tie them into bundles, all without taking a single break. And then, without so much as a goodbye, he walks back onto the road and disappears until next year's harvest.

Peasants, priests, and recorders of folklore have speculated on who he really is and the reason he picks a single random field over all the others. 'Perhaps he is an ancient nature spirit,' the folk teller says. 'gifting the farmer with free labor in gratitude for his humble and dutiful care of the land.'

A knight of Romót would say, 'He's a lost soul, taken from his mortal coil before he could even touch his crop. There's a fog that comes upon you at the time of death - makes you forget things. He likely doesn't remember which field was his, and so he wanders…'

Regardless, he is respected amongst the common folk, who have a custom of leaving out a pack of bread and a single coin at the end of the field in the case he decides to take a reward for his work.

Hello! I haven't updated the blog in a while, so I'll give a post about my reading status.

Still reading Kokoro and The Life of Marpa the Translator; very dense works, but I love the subject matter of both. I have begun to re-read some previously read books; Dune is something I started but haven't yet finished, and since it's been months since having touched it, I think starting over is the best trajectory for getting back in. Milky Way Railroad is an absolute favorite from last year, and I felt that I wanted to read it again.

Note: "-tzi" is a suffix in the Töbytigyuni language to denote when a group of people are like, from, or related to a thing, like the '-ian' part of the word 'Christian'.

There are various names that the many peoples of Baskfell call themselves and others, and I'd like to explain the meaning of the names coming the Töbytigyuni Communes, who live at the base of the titanic central mountain Töbyti.

KRITZI:

"Of Krit"; This name stems from the mythology and beliefs of the Communes that they, and all living things, descend ultimately from the god Grandfather Krit. This can, therefore, be applied to all other kinds, but is usually applied to the many kinds of mountain and hill beings.

MACHI'ITZI;

"Of Those From the Across": also just called MACHI; "The Across" is a large route ordered to be made by the earliest Matriarchs for trade and travel. When the first Kritzi walked this new path, that was when they first met with these thinner, shorter feline people. Coincidentally, they also were crafting a road going the exact way.

HĀOMATORTZI;

"Of Those Who Wear Furs": Very simply named for humans' lack of natural fur and their need to wear clothing like furs. There's no as of yet definitive first contact between humans and Kritzi; some theories by folklorists and historians suggest that it was only stories relayed by the Machi that they first learned of Humankind and traveled through mountain valleys to encounter them. Those of the Honś Principality believe the two species always knew of each other.

The strawberry has been the symbol for affection and romantic love in Kitian culture for a long time. The Vopai Canons, hymns to Brhwa dated to before the reign of the first Laila Sovereign, have the earliest recorded use. Stanzas are ended with an icon of the berry, and in some instances, it even takes the place of Brhwa's name.

One major factor that lead to it's adoption as a love symbol is the Maroon Pavilion Temple's prohibition against portraying organs in artwork, making artists resort to using fruits and vegetables as replacements.

The Life of Marpa the Translator by Tsang Nyön Heruka

The House with a Clock in its Walls by John Bellairs

Kokoro by Natsume Sōseki

It's strange to be in a new place, so forgive me if I'm not here often.

Hope this place will feel comfortable soon.