Story for the Day: The Game of Red Crabs PT1

The Haanta have many games, most of them strategy or sowing games, but there is one racing game taught to children which teaches them about an important discovery made when the Haanta first made their settlements-- a game which Rautu hates with his whole soul: Akaaphu: the game of the red crab.

As the children were fawning over the new games before them, Varthrasta said his quiet salutations to Baronous and to Martje, who was just returning with the daily shipment for the larder in hand. He placed the bag that he was carrying onto the table and went to assist, though Martje would deny all assistance, leaving the children to marvel over the hand-carved stone playing pieces in Varthrasta’s effects, begging to shown their intended use. Had Varthrasta still been on the islands, and had there been no one to lavish the children with such exquisite gifts, he should have brought them to the temple in Diras where they were certain to have similar games if not the very same ones, but as the articles before them were so superior in craft and quality, Hathanta could not have asked for a more favourable outcome. His said his quiet and profuse thanks to his mate when he returned to them from the larder, and the proclamation from Martje of “Sure, what’s that you got there?” recommended the beginning of their lesson.

                “Our Anonnaa have sent us two of our most prominent games,” said Varthrasta, gesturing toward the table.

                Martje regarded the silks and seeds strewn out before them, and though she had little idea how the pieces and the cloths were to be employed, she marveled at the skillful hand that had glazed, had dyed, had embroidered every article. “Sure, what’s this for, then?” she said, her voice laden with curiosity as she took up one of the blackwood sticks from the table.

                “This is for a game called Yunoraas, which means the game of seeds.”

                The children hushed one another and listened as Varthrasta began to illustrate the rules of the game.

                “When the harsh winds from the Eastern Sea would damage certain crops, Mhandalari, our planters and gatherers, used the damaged seeds to make a game. They used blackwood root eaten by the vastathaa to create these,” he said, taking the carved sticks from the table, “and they took discarded patterns from their homes to create this,” motioning toward the square of embroidered red silk. “The damaged seeds are used as playing pieces and travel around the silk chasing after one another.”

                An aspirated awe escaped Martje’s lips as she observed the vibrancy of the dye and the quality of the silk. So lavish a gift to be sent, but then she recollected that wealth meant little to a society that so freely shared their natural riches, and was comforted. “And what’s this here?” she asked, pointing to another silk portraying a different set of patterns.

                “This is for Kuronaas, a game played by our women.” Varthrasta took up some of beads from the table and showed them around. “These are placed in an alternating pattern around the cloth. These are from our Vhindari, our jewelers. When the items they make break due to wear, they use the beads for Kuronaas, or the game of black stones. The pieces are used to leap over and capture other pieces. It is a simple game to learn, but I greatly enjoy it.”

                And he instantly began demonstrate how each board was set up, how each game was easily learned but so not easily mastered, until a piece from the game that Varthrasta had left upon the table had caught Brother Baronous’ eye, and he unknowingly took it up that he may admire it. “Beautiful,” he mouthed, his gaze unblinking. “Varthrasta, did you make this?”

                The stonecutter looked up and studied the piece in Baronous’ hand with a tapered look. “I did,” he said, his complexion darkening from Hathanta’s proud expression.

                “This is really somethin’,” the Brother professed, showing the piece all around. “What game is it used for?”

                Varthrasta smiled and introduced the piece with, “Although the Haanta settled on two islands when we arrived from our home in the east, there are actually many islands that form our settlements. Many of these islands are too small even to build one home upon, and some like At-Khosselin are considered sacred, but one of the islands discovered,” reaching for a large, circular stone board, “was already inhabited when we arrived.” With a gentle gesture, he took the piece from Baronous’ hand and placed it in the centre of the board. There it stood, triumphant and magnanimous, keeper of its own kingdom, with raised claws and stern expression, a small crab, carved from red clay, its every detail etched into the smooth surface, prepared to defend its territory by whatever powers within its means. “The akaaphu, the red crab, lived on this small island, but when we began to study them and judge whether we may hunt them for meat, we discovered another species on the island.” His hand rifled with his bag and from it, he produced another crab, fashioned from rough sapphire, and placed down beside the first. “The Aophu, the blue crab, was fighting for dominance on the island. The two species were warring over reign of the phanun, the geysers that pour forth noxious gasses made by the nearby volcano. The crabs wait until the phanun are about to erupt, and then try to push one over them.” He demonstrated by placing the red crab over one of the marked spaces on the board and then taking the blue crab and forcing one against the other until the red crab slipped to an adjacent space. “To teach our Mivaari about our discovery, the game of akaaphu was created.”

                “What is the crab island called?” asked Dorrin.

                Varthrasta’s lips wreathed in a smile. “Muu.”

                Tinkling laughter rang out from the children. They reiterated the name many times over amongst themselves and giggled after every repetition.

                “What’s that mean then?” asked Martje.    

                Varthrasta and Hathanta exchanged a mirthful look.

                “It is the expression we use to describe something unpleasant,” said Hathanta, trying not to laugh.

                Martje paused, and then with a look of affected understanding said, “I know how you mean and all. So if I say muu to the monster, it means I’m callin’ him somethin’ terrible.”

                It was said with a raised voice and a raised brow as she eyed Rautu then entering the kitchen from the training yard. He had heard her, for he must have done, but had disregarded any affront she might have wished to make. He only stared at the akaaphu board with circumspection and glared at the various pieces scattered about the table.

                “You are teaching them this game?” he demanded, stabbing his finger at the board.

                “Aye, they are,” said Martje, determined to be noticed. “And that there game has lots of little crabs what look just like you, scowlin’ and humphin’ and all.” 

                Rautu glowered at her smirking countenance. “I am not a crab, Mhojhudenri.”

                Martje would not agree to this, however. She fleered, huffed a curt “Crab Asaan”, and turned her attention back to the table where the children were just beginning their first game.

Story for the Day: Importance of a Hat

Many in Frewyn wear various types of caps: Tyfferim flat caps, Kileen fishing hats, vintage tweeds, but only the Hallanys patchwork cap, though made in various styles, can mean one thing:

My favourite hat from Donegal's Hannah Hats

She would have responded with an equal assertion of her adoring her Big Beryn, but even the purposeful misconstruction was silenced when Beryn lay down and drew her into his arms upon him. He wrapped his arms around her, trapping her within his unassailable hold, and would caress and coddle her the few minutes before each of them must begin the day. In the midst of their gentle kisses and fondling of one another, Meraliegh’s legs began curling around her husband’s thickset waist, and her feet began brushing against the portion of him that had been so lately stirred.

                “Gonna be late to the chandler’s if you keep doin’ that,” he said with a blithesome aspect. “You keep knockin’ me around, and I’ll never let you leave.”

                Her cheeks flushed and she said her halfhearted apologies.

                “Aye, you ain’t sorry,” he fleered. “And you shouldn’t be. I like bein’ abused by you.” A grin expressed his heartiest pleasure, and his thumbs running over her breasts conveyed that he was well prepared to give her his readiest attention whenever she should wish. “I was gonna give you somethin’ to celebrate your last day,” he said presently, noticing the sun’ languid ascent, “but I don’t think it’s better than what I just gave you.”

                Meraliegh laughed and playfully tapped his chest. “You don’t need to get me anything.”

                He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna do it.”

                She could not refute him, for though she might profess that he, as a dutiful husband, was required to hear her, he was never required to listen. She must brook his sumptuous presents for now, but all her remonstrances were forgotten when Beryn reached behind the bed and produced a small patchwork cap, made from various swatches of rough Karnwyl wool, and sewn together with so fine a thread as only the craftsmen of the west could warrant. Her lips parted in surprise, and her fingertips browsed the dyed tweed, relish every notch and imperfection of the carefully made piece.

                “You’re an artisan now, Mer,” he said, fitting the cap jauntily upon the crown on her head. “You need a proper artisan’s hat.”

                She was in a flutter of spirits, and took the cap into her hand to examine its unexceptionable craftsmanship.“Is this from Hallanys?” she beamed.

                “Aye. My Ma made mine from what was left of my vest.” He plucked the cap from her hands and placed it backwards upon her head. “Thought you oughta have one,” he said in a soft voice.

                Though she must deny the accusations of her being an artist or of being in possession of any small measure of talent, she could not disprove his benevolence.  Beryn was all quiet goodness, forever acting in the right and never telling anyone of his conquests or boasting of his successes, and she therefore conceded to accept his gift if only she could reprove him again in so pleasurable a manner for giving her reason to be late on her last day as an apprentice. 

Story for the Day: Frewyn Games P2

Alasdair would rather play Frewyn's Brandubh

The board was placed, the seats round the table taken up, the pieces representing weapons and health were duly allotted, and the characters were claimed as Alasdair took his place at the head of the table. While the children began their negotiations as to which pair of them should play as which of the three hero characters, Alasdair took up the rule book in the box and began to read the regulations. He had played the game only a few times in his youth, and as he had played only with his grandfather, he was desirous of knowing if there were any differences in the rules whether playing with two people or with four. They were seven people together: Fionnora and Ennan as the cleric, Soledhan and Dorrin as the barbarian, who looked remarkably like Rautu, and the commander and Little Jaicobh as the ranger; but the rules seemed the same whether the game should be played with two people or with ten. Each character was to take a turn, the dice were to be rolled for movement and attack, the characters trotted about the board in quest of treasure with the object of defeating the dark druid: there could be nothing plainer. The only person whose of office that Alasdair could be curious of was his own. The monsters themselves seemed to require little management; they all came with their own statistics, and the only character who was in want of a player was the dark druid, who was not allowed to go beyond the protective barrier of his own chamber. Here was no challenge for him; there was hardly even a promise of consideration involved in such a game. The game, he knew, was intended for children, but their children were so intelligent and mature, this should only bore them. It was evening, and the somnolence that the gloaming could recommend with the added insipidity of such a game might make them grow tired and convince them to have done. Something that presented no challenge for such excellent children could not last long. They should play once and then they should move on to a more suitable game, or succumb to the fatigues of the day and prepare themselves for sleep. Here was comfort for Alasdair, and as the children were conferring as to who should begin the first round, Alasdair began to read the lore accompanying the game in the perfect happiness of knowing that they should be playing for only a few minutes.

                All was well until Alasdair’s first turn was arrived. The children had rolled the dice, had moved their heroes, had picked up a few gold pieces from the board along the way, had discovered a few treasure chests, and at the end of the round, their characters were met with one of Alasdair’s giant spiders, come down from its high boughs of the surrounding trees to keep the heroes from advancing into the woods behind. The heroes prepared their requisite weapons and took aim, and the die was placed before Alasdair with a “Roll, Your Majesty.”   

                Alasdair glared at the die. “I'm the antagonist,” Alasdair warily reminded them. “If I'm attacking you and I have base statistics for my pieces, why should I roll?”

                “Your web of minions requires management, Alasdair,” the commander said, smiling. “We cannot have the evil and terrible dark druid of Faullallaphon simply wave his hands about and command his creatures.”

                “But I brought these werewolves to life.” Alasdair pointed to the four werewolf figures, snarling and creeping about his keep. "Or at least the lore says so." He took up the guide and read aloud, "Experimenting in his woodland home, the evil druid succeeded in creating werewolves from escaped prisoners and dying men from the battlefield. There. I control them, and therefore I shouldn't have to roll for them.”

                The commander simpered and shook her head. "It is a game, Alasdair."

                “I know, but if the regulations do not match the lore, and someone has to point it out.”

                His seriousness must be laughed at, for he was so decided in his manner that she must allow him to believe himself in the right. “Very well,” she laughed, “you don't have to roll for the werewolves.”

                “Thank you.”

                “The spiders, however, there I think you must roll.”

                Alasdair began feverishly flipping the pages of the rulebook, scouring the lore for any passage that would acquit him of his duties, but the only passage on the spiders dictated that they were merely inhabitants of the forest, looking for food and angry that the heroes decided to traipse through their homes. “I didn't create those,” he said, with a pining sigh.

                “Which is why you must roll for them. If you take the monsters, you take all the monsters.”

                Alasdair huffed and grumbled, “Rautu should roll for the spiders.”

                “Only four players allowed, Alasdair, and though we are seven, we are controlling four characters.”

                He would have protested to his having more, as his only responsibility really should be the dark druid, but he scoffed and let it pass. “Very well, but having all the spiders die does not mean that I lose.”

                With eyes smiling, the commander agreed to his proposal, and the game was recommenced.

                Alasdair took up the die, prayed to the Gods for a high roll, and as he flung the die onto the table, he had the horror of seeing his first spider killed in one move. He had rolled to disoblige all his aspirations, and had done so on every successive roll as to make every one of his spiders be killed and removed from the board.

                “That was my last spider,” he woefully exclaimed.

                The commander fleered and gave him a wry look. “You were rather detached from them ten minutes ago.”

Frewyn's Fidchell (fitchneall) setup

                “Well…” but Alasdair had not another word to say in opposition; his werewolves were being attacked, and he must act to save them. He took up the die from the table, he blew on it, he kissed it, he raised it to the skies in tribute to the Gods, but no fortunate rolls were given him. He managed to incapacitate the ranger and attack the barbarian, but the cleric slipped by and used the powers of its magic staff to destroy all of his minions. He bargained for some defense on account of the werewolves being made by magic and not by bite as was tradition, but even there he was thwarted when Fionnora and Ennan made an alliance with Dorrin and Soledhan: one pair was to release the magic seal on the doors to Alasdair’s room, and the other was to attack and distract the dark druid, leaving the first pair to slip by and grab the druid’s treasure. It was a formidable plan, and Alasdair had almost hindered it by wounding the barbarian and pushing the cleric out of the room, but the commander and Little Jaicobh were too precipitant by one roll, leapt around the commotion, and grabbed the treasure for themselves.

                The game, however, was not over; the rules stipulated that every enemy must be vanquished for the travesty to be done, giving Alasdair more time to reclaim his honour and his prize, but the alliance of the barbarian and cleric soon answered: the dark druid was killed, and the heroes had only to slay one more werewolf to declare themselves the victors of the match. Alasdair observed the board with vehement loathing. Atrocious game, he conceived, why ask me to roll at all when the dark druid cannot do anything dark but raise werewolves who have almost no defense? He sat in begrudging silence, with features simmering, arms folded, and lips in a pout. His look declared that he despised all games of this sort and should not play again, even if asked by the children.

                “We’re attacking your last werewolf, Your Majesty,” said Ennan happily. “You have to roll.”

                Alasdair glowered and humphed as he took up the die, and dropped it without caring to look at the result. The strident cheer of the children was enough to know that he had miserably lost. “I refuse to play any longer,” he muttered in a wounded tone.

                “Well, you shall have no worries there, Alasdair,” said the commander. “We've killed all your monsters.”

                The good humour with which he had when entering into the game had all but done. Though Alasdair was the most modest of winners, he was the very worst loser in the world with regard to games of chance. He could not be blamed for his loss; the dice were at fault: poor rolls and other hands touching and defiling the pieces, tainting them with their ambitions, was what did the mischief. He had been almost certain of his safety by playing the monsters, for there he may not win but her had been assured of not losing with such odds in his favour. All his horrors, however, assailed him when the game was called, a tie between the barbarian and the ranger was declared, and the dark druid defeated forever. The children cheered in exultation, giving their congratulations to one another, and Alasdair was left to wallow in the grief of having lost to six children whose cries of mirth offended his pride.

                “You cannot expect more by playing the enemy, Alasdair,” the commander smiled.

                “No,” he rejoined coolly, “but I can expect to have some consistent rules. This game is rife with lore errors. I should summon the manufacturer and have him hanged for making this game for twenty-five years without improving the regulations in the least.”

                The commander tried not to laugh and was soon assisted by Teague, who came to join them at the table. He had seen the whole from the kitchen entrance, and though he too found the king’s loss amusing, Alasdair had not lost fairly. There was a round unaccounted for and a few rolls amiss. Somewhere between the players’ attacking of the druid and claiming of the treasure, the commander and Little Jaicobh had forgotten to heal their wounds. They had taken one too many wounds from the werewolves and would have been forced to miss a turn to heal, but they had overlooked the necessity. Instead, they had gone steadily on, claiming the treasure and assisting in the murder of Alasdair’s character. He had delighted in watching the children play together so well, his mind rapt with notions of how Cairn was to be included in their circle ere long, that he had forgotten to mention the mistake when it happened. He would mention it now, however, regardless of how deplorable Alasdair looked or of how outraged he should be.

                “It's not as though I were trying to lose,” Alasdair demanded as Teague neared the table. “Next time, I'm stealing the gold pieces and not allowing the heroes to exchange them for more weapons. As king, it is my right to manage affairs, and players who run toward gold only to use it to kill my forces hardly deserve my mercy.”

                The playful invective ceased when Teague bowed, said “Your Majesty, may I speak to you for a moment?” and took him quietly aside. A few moments of quiet conversation passed, and at the end of which Alasdair’s eyes were flaring in frothing outrage. He would have expressed his disapprobation of such an injustice, but as it had been done after the chief of his monsters had been killed, his remonstrances were of little consequence. He was silent for a time, his lips pursed in contrived indignation. He could not truly be angry, but he could wish that the last few rounds be replayed, if not to exonerate his unforgivably horrid luck then to make his loss not quite so humiliating.

                “I could have won, you know,” said Alasdair in an injured accent, after some minutes spent in silent detestation.

                “I daresay you would have done,” the commander laughed, “but as Fionnora and Ennan were the ones to lay the defeating blow on the dark druid and we the ones to claim the treasure, the only fault there was mine. I had forgotten that we lost all our health, but it is irrelevant. The children are the victors.”

                With complacent countenances, the commander and Teague observed the children as they flocked toward the adjacent table, recanting their exploits to Maggie and Ouryn with the most abundant jubilation. They had enjoyed their time immensely, and though the commander and Teague were obliged to think the game a success, Alasdair could not share their sentiments.

                “Nonsense game. How is anything to be won fairly by chance? Horrendous dice. This game would be better if played with merely turns and assigned movements and abilities. Then at least a plan could be put together. Ridiculous to play with dice. Anyone can win that way.”  He scowled at the commander’s mirthful expression. “Next time, we’re playing Brandubh.”

                “As we used to do in Tyfferim Company when everyone else was content to spend their evenings at the Seadh Maith?”

                Alasdair looked askance. “They were pleasant evenings,” he said with some misgiving.

                The commander half-smiled. “Indeed, they were. Dobhin was forever peering over your shoulder to discover your mistakes and Vyrdin was inclined to think that anything involving pain or mental distress good for us.”

                “And Brandubh is good for you,” Alasdair firmly declared. “Teague, do you know how to play Brandubh?”

                 “If you mean the Old Frewyn variation, then I do, Your Majesty,” Teague replied with a curt bow.

                “Excellent. Sit there. We are playing this moment. I will not have my pride taken from me over a game involving dice. I can win very well without them. If I am to lose, I will lose because I have made an error in judgment, not because the die decided not to land in my favour.”

                Though well-versed in games of chance and strategy, Teague would say nothing to check the king’s assertions; he would brook his misconceptions for the pleasure and honour of being His Majesty’s opponent. He was sorry that Alasdair had lost, but the moment they sat down and began to direct their kings and ravens, all the king’s happiness soon returned. Something should be done to restore the king’s faith in games of chance. He would on no account allow the king to win against him, but something else might be done to aid his poor skill at rolling the dice. Teague he had never cheated in his life, as he had never need to do so, but his father made him sensible of how to reverse misfortune and how to teach others who were particularly in want of luck with dice and cards. A player was only as fortunate as he appeared to the others playing: cards might be switched, roll may be forged, but as Alasdair’s nature of fairness and equality should never allow him to cheat, Teague must resign his goodwill and admit to the king’s being a sore loser.

Art Showcase: The Map of Frewyn

As proof that Twisk has unbelievable and somewhat prophetic skill, here is the map that Soledhan drew of Frewyn when she asked me about where everything in Frewyn is situated...







And from that, this is what she came up with:

I think Twisk might be Jesus.