Deep in the halls of a Klymorian palace, a stranger stood among lords. The stranger was wrapped from head to toe in brown, wind-torn filthy rags and sackcloth. A small trail of sand could be seen from the entrance of the room to where the stranger stood now. The palace was largely constructed underground where it was easy to keep the air cool. A few circular pillars of dark taupe colored stone held up a sandstone roof. The floor was neatly cleaned, and simply decorated with geometric shapes, diamonds inside of circles, monochrome or some shade of brown. The lords all sat in chairs to the left of the stranger. They were planted on simple, yet elegantly carved stone seats and furniture similar to the rest of the designs that filled the room. 

The far end of the room differed, as the floor around the king had a noticeable amount of desaturated red in its decor– a rare use of color in anything the Klymorians had built. The “king” as best as the stranger could describe him sat on an elegant throne of wood. No jewels or even metal could be spotted among even the highest noble’s furniture. Only the floor itself boasted any color, for the throne was made of a dark, and slightly brown engraved detail. The “king” seemed to be sitting calm upon his throne. Neither amused nor un-interested in what the stranger had been saying. He wore a very clean black fabric just like the rest of the noble Klymorians. No crown was on his head, but a black metal festoon necklace could be seen reaching from the far end of both his shoulders, but not drooping down enough to reach the bottom of his chest. The stranger could not make out whether the “king”’s necklace was engraved with smoothed black stones or valuable onyx due to the Klymorian’s adversity to using anything considered “too valuable.”

The stranger took a closer look at the rug at the “king’s” feet. It had a curious pattern, using swirls, and almost a water-like style to it. The center, and the outer ring of the rug was mostly red. But the middle layer was dark, and plain looking. It was like someone had spilled oil into a pool of water, and then made the rug to reflect that design, but with these different colors. Even the “king’s” sandals were black.

“Tell us again. For you speak of things we have never heard before.” One of the noble Klymorians leaned forward as he spoke. He placed one of his elbows on his thigh and began to rest his head on top of a closed, but unaggressive fist.

The stranger answered quickly. “It is not something which has been hackneyed, nor is it completely foreign. I preach to you an idea that was presented to you previously– but in a different way. Remember your ancestors, and remember the stories in which they have told you.” Having finished explaining, he rubbed the left side of his face with fatigue due as the journey here had already made him quite tired. He briefly looked up and to his right– the ceiling of this structure was slightly higher on his right hand side, and it had openings for sunlight to enter from the surface, though these were currently covered by blinds.

“How? What does Kaumid have anything to do with these spirits?” the same lord questioned. “We are aware of the outside world’s influence on his reputation. We are aware that the world chooses to believe that Kaumid was blessed by a wolf named Haskaloe. That he was thrown from the top of the first mountain, and that he was “blessed” for being the first man to leave it. But these are not the ideas that we– the Klymorians– believe.”

“And it does not need to be. . . but the idea I bring forth to you is so: the outside world may believe whatever it wishes about your patriarch. But because Kaumid could not speak, he did tell nothing of his youth or what he saw. Nor as a baby would he have likely remembered anything.” The stranger attempted to show the Klymorians that their history was already not clearly known.

“Then what are you proposing?” The lord asked again.

“I am proposing only what you have already seen. . .” The stranger rubbed deep into his right eye, his body posture clearly displaying various fatigue. “Was Kaumid not the strongest man we have ever known?”

“He was.” The lord responded.

“Where did he get that strength?”

“It is unknown. Kaumid killed a lion with his bare hands. But people have been blessed with other strange and powerful things.”

“And you believe it was all coincidence?” The stranger asked harder. “That Kaumid, having no speech, and no family to speak of– no story he spoke of himself, came into existence and fathered the Klymorian people without any help from another source?”

Two lords in the hall looked at one another. Another lord seemed to randomly look away. Most of them maintained their stoic nature, or discreetly seemed to read the expression of their neighbor– but it was very brief. Silence permeated the subterranean halls. The stranger looked at the expression of each and every lord of Klymoria. They all had long black hair, some of which was braided. Their faces were veiled with beards– many of them thin, but their eyes gave no discernable emotion aside from a very slight joy. They have pride. The stranger thought to himself, as his eyes continued to evaluate each of the Klymorian’s eyes. And it is the root of their strength– this pride. He concluded internally. Pride in that they do not need the spirits or integrate any of their use into their lives.

“Then what if your father– your very people came into being because of these things?” The stranger preached inquisitively. Perhaps that their very own patriarch was in alliance with some spirits might get them to change their mind.

“Then it is like the wind in the sand. Wherever it takes it, we do not know, but there it shall stay– until the wind picks it up again. Who can control such things? And who shall cry over it? It is not the way of us Klymorians to assume such things. We leave the spiritual things to those who wish to understand them. But that person shall not also be a Klymorian.”

“There is another saying, that to be ignorant is to be blessed.” The stranger spoke as humanly and humbly as possible. But even as he said this– he knew he had overstepped his bounds.

“It is not ignorant to be uncaring of what cannot be controlled or known, stranger.” The last word was spoken as if it were a light threat, but the stranger was too tired to take the threat seriously.

“And what of the Draharans, is it not true that because of their gifts from the spirits of the wind, that Klymoria was retained?” The stranger appealed to the possibility of other forces defeating the Klymorian’s because of the recognition of such power.

“Our grandfathers attempted to expand north into Draharan lands. But twice our armies were scattered, not by swords, nor by bows, but by the winds of the sand. A great storm, with even lighting from the sky.”

“But the Draharans, they worship the wind, and the spirits therein. Do you see how things were changed because of their faith therein?” The stranger was surprised they so easily admitted that no weapons of war had spelt their previous conquest’s failure.

“Those tribes of Draharah, and all the tribes of the world. They may speak to God– to spirits, to whomever they wish. They may believe that they understand, and be delivered a great victory. But to depend on such spirits makes them weak. And one day, when their children do not fear the spirits, and take for granted the deals that they have made with them– then they will find all that they own is pulled out from under them. Klymoria has no interest in such deals. Klymoria is only interested in teaching his children– to be un-relying on others– and to be strong.”

“You believe that being in agreement with these spirits– will lead to doom and weakness eventually?” The stranger was contritely surprised.

“In Klymoria, we keep things simple. Ask God not for a horse, and God will not kill you when you forget to bring him a lamb next year.”

“I see.” The stranger answered. “It appears I am mistaken in the. . . strong resolve of your people’s customs and ideology. I am. . . shocked.” He spoke his thoughts far too honestly. “No man has ever said this to me.”

“More should come to Klymoria. They would also see many more things we rightly think.” A Klymorian lord tipped his head slightly with a smile.

More silence filled the room. The stranger contested different ideas in his head– the many things that he might say. But quickly– he realized that the minds of the Klymorians had been made up for centuries. This was the cornerstone of their civilization. Their culture and belief was to exist in absence of all spiritual things. And it was something that they would never forsake.

“I need relief. Good fortune upon you oh king– for considering my preaching.” The stranger hoped the audience would be dissolved and he wouldn’t waste any more time this evening.

The Klymorian “king” waved his hand neither dismissively nor respectfully. He had not said but eight or ten words during this entire speech, for the lords of the land had done most of the discussing. The stranger began to leave the hall and look for the nearest source of water. He still felt dehydrated, even though the last three hours it seemed like he had never stopped drinking.

“Dash it all.” He muttered as soon as he felt he was out of ear’s reach. “Of all the things I have been doing!”

“Sir.” He heard a voice behind him as he continued walking.

I’ve wasted a lot of time here. He thought to himself. These people are more ignorant than dogs chasing their own tales.

“Sir!” The voice came about more urgently.

“If only I had one more letter to that title, then life would be easy.” The stranger muttered.

“Sir, please!” A third time the voice called out.

“Pray tell, what drives you to call upon me?” He finally turned around, hoping it was something simple and not more questions that would go nowhere.

“Sir– greetings. I could not let you leave after everything you claimed. Please, speak with me. I have been waiting for someone such as you to come here.” The person following spoke. He was a tall and handsome man, with long brown hair, lighter than most of the Klymorians who typically had deep black braids.

“What do you need?” The stranger asked pessimistically.

“Well, how about your name?” The tall man specified.

“Eshaol. You’re the only one who’s cared to ask this evening.” The stranger answered spitefully.

“Has nobody here asked of your name?” The Klymorian was surprised at his people’s lack of hospitality.

“They have outside of these underground chambers– but they shall forget– or make jokes about me after I’m gone till they also forget it.”

“I see. Well. . . tell me Eshaol. I heard that you are completely new to this land, having never met nor interacted with our people. Everything we do is strange in your eyes, and you should not be able to understand a single thing. Why is it then, that I can understand you in my own language? It is not Draharan that we are both speaking. . .”

Eshoal slowed down his walking. “The spirits of the wind are in my breath and my drums. It allows me to speak so that you can hear me, and it changes the sound as it enters my ears so that we can understand each other's speech.”

“I believe you.” The tall man agreed.

“How amazing.” Eshoal responded. “Now, I must be going.”

“Wait, please, you are right– the elders, they– let’s go somewhere private.” The man changed his tone as if he was about to say something he shouldn’t. He seemed rather careful even though the two of them were seemingly alone walking through these halls.

“Can you get me something to drink?”

“Certainly. For a guest– gladly.”

“Not water please. These bare necessities are making me feel like life is hardly worth living.”

“Said many people who travel to Klymoria.” The tall man laughed amusingly.

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Within minutes, Eshoal found himself in the young man’s private tent. A cup of tea had been poured just in front of him, and mixed with a little honey. “I thought I might get you to come here with me. I ordered my house to have this tea made before I even spoke a word to you.”

“Your anticipation was wise. Now. . . tell me. What do you want that all your neighbor’s do not in this dreary land?”

“That is almost it.” The man answered. “I don’t want to live in this. . . this land.”

“Then leave.” Eshoal answered while sipping his tea.

“No– I want. . . land that is better for my people.”

“Really?” Eshoal took a long sip and nearly coughed from swallowing it the wrong way. It had been too long since he had anything but plain water, and now that his trip was largely over, he desperately needed something he could enjoy. Too eagerly he had consumed something which he could highly enjoy. The euphoric retention of such a long awaited indulgence had spoiled his disposition. But the pleasure it brought would not be so easily slighted. He did not mind.

“My people are ignorant, and they are so willfully. Draharah makes pacts with the spirits of the wind, and that is why my grandfathers could not take their land from them. We live in strict compliance to rules that we abstain from many forms of pleasure. We see hardship as a time of testing. We have no alcohol, for it is seen as the greatest of potential ways for a man to ruin himself. Our men are strong, and tested against the elements, but we take this testing too far.”

“Too far, how do you mean?” The guest continued to sip his tea. He had slowed down significantly since he didn’t want the rest of this good feeling to be receded by any more miss-swallowing.

“Our testing, I agree, is a good thing. The virtue of man is that he can choose to do the honorable thing, and he does not live strictly on his instincts. However, I believe we have lost our way. And I believe that the old mantras we tell ourselves are merely to defend our complacency. We have been hurt very badly by the harsh conditions. Some children die young, because their families cannot get them medicine or food. I have seen members of my own family have babies, and give up trying to feed them due to the scarcity of food. Fathers are obsessed with how strong their boys are, and how large they are when they are born. The death of infants is sometimes hardly grieved– for it is just the elimination of someone who was not strong enough to keep on living. Klymorians only know two forms of pleasure. Sex– and honey. Some of us, it seems to be all we think about. Our culture is about restraint, and strength, but even here some are slaves to passion. While nothing is done to make our lives easier, and to keep the weak from dying. Eshaol, how often I think that my cousins– Kaldi especially– would still be alive if not for our harsh cultural trappings.”

The guest stopped sipping. The long winded speech was not that of a ranting elder, but of a young man who had spent a great deal of time thinking about these things. The boy was an intellectual, Eshoal could definitely tell. He was thoughtful and caring, and he had been born in this sandy dung-heap. Far from the right place for him to be. There was only a slight hint of bitterness in the way that he’d spoken this entire time– far less than Eshoal had managed to brew up over the years. “I’m sorry.” He offered his best sense of sympathy. “I too know what it is like to live among elders who are too blinded by– well, not their love for any of the things you displayed. Nay. . . but their love for. . . keeping things the way they are. Even if it’s to their own absolute damnation.“

“Eshoal, what my people need– is a new form of strength. They need to see intelligence as strength. Avoiding waste– saving energy. One day, the Draharans will overtake us. They change their standing with their neighbors frequently. One day they will out-populate us and come for us and our quarries, or want to trade with the dwarves directly. I see it happening, possibly in the next one-hundred years. Draharah is always changing, but we are much too far the same.”

“Perceptive. The flow of time is cruel to any people who remain ignorant of their own ways. But your people are by far the most stubborn I have ever seen.” Eshoal reached forward and served himself another glass of tea. He continued speaking: “I have come here to preach as I was ordained– they will not listen to me. Even in a world with many righteous spirits wishing to align themselves with honorable humans– the result of so many people not remembering their vows and their deals. The market is free– you could make contracts with any spirits you want, now that so many have been abandoned by their former pactees.”

“You propose we make deals with these disgruntled spirits?” The man asked quietly. Eshoal could see the hope in his happy eyes as he spoke for it.

“As long as you can keep your end of the deal. Do not forget, or you will fall, much the same way the northern parts of Draharah has.”

“What things have come from those who make these sorts of deals. Sandstorms that repel invading armies? Speaking in languages you have never heard?” The man aksed about the nature of this pact’s utility.

“The spirits will grant you help in different things. The wind carries– information to me. Allows me to speak in other languages indirectly.”

“Would they help us attack Draharah?”

“Depends on what you and the spirits agree.”

Eshoal’s host looked around the tent that the two were sitting in. “On what we agree? You can commune with, and make agreements with these spirits?”

“Essentially. Contracts, or covenants technically.”

“What sort of contracts would they be willing to make with me.”

“It depends on a number of things.”

Eshoal continued drinking his tea. The young man opposite of him delved back into his stoic nature and began thinking. The wind outside was growing and the tend was gently flapping.

“It cannot be obvious how these spirits are helping me. Or I would be cut off from my people.” The man finally answered.

“I agree.”

“I want. . . to talk to animals, is that possible?”

Eshoal set down his now-empty cup of tea and closed his eyes. The wind grew wilder outside, and it appeared as if Eshoal was listening. . .

“Ah, interesting.”

“What is it.”

“The spirits. . . seem eager to agree.”

“Will they give me this blessing immediately?”

“No. . . you must make a sacrifice.” Eshoal opened his eyes. His gaze seemed to penetrate his host’s, as if he was looking through his very skull and focusing on the black infinity behind his mortal body.

“What sacrifice is required of me?”

“They ask. . . that you give up honey.”

The young man responded. “Honey?

“Yes. The spirits perceive your love of honey. Would you part with it?”

“For how long?”

“For eternity, or. . . . till your mortal body is relieved.”

“Possibly.” The man responded.

Silence filled the room as Eshoal closed his eyes and continued concentrating.

“Should I be bargaining? I would give up many more things than honey.” The man intervened.

“Know– they know. But they want you to give up something pleasurable to you now.”

“What if I give up something I have never had.”

“Maybe.”

“What if I give up alcohol? Most men; it drives insane anyways.”

“What value does it show, if you give up something you have never tasted, and have never wished to?”

“I. . . would ask you. . . is it a sacrifice if a man. . . looks at his neighbor’s beautiful wife. . . and does not fornicate with her? Even if she offers him day by day, and he smells her sweet aroma, and her husband leaves on a long forgotten trip? So it is, when one hears the tale of Draharan wine, and how one misses out on their spices and sweet aromas. We Klymorians make this sacrifice every single day!” The man expressed decisively.

Eshoal smiled. It was the smile of a man who was playing cards in a tavern. The smile of a man who had calculated the last four plays, and knew that everything was lined up for his destined victory.

“The spirits. . . “ he whispered in a tone of victory– of snide congratulatory means. “Will. . .

. . . Agree.” His smile curved even higher as the last words left his lips.