Looking Southward and Backward, Part 15.

According to the Histories of All written by the chronicler and part-time eschatologist Yashka the Sage, the last of the pre-Haraalian chieftain-kings did not die well.

He had been a man by the name of Sperhel. By all accounts he was an entirely unremarkable king compared to his predecessors and fellows, never even earning a clingy, obnoxious title in life. He'd never displayed the hot-blooded valor or the particularly corpulent brand of tyranny which the old Ersuunian nobility had become famous and infamous for. But he had been possessed of a somewhat rare knack for self-preservation. More than once, he'd evaded a feast or diplomatic function which, in good Ersuunian fashion, ended in mass-poisonings or deaths by bludgeoning behind locked doors. He'd come out of it being regarded as somewhat of a coward, but he'd come out of it.

When at last the inevitable happened and his small patch of territory was well and properly conquered, Haraal was delighted to finally meet the enigmatic man. After his court was dissolved and his children carted off as royal hostages, Sperhel was paraded before the imperial camp, where he became privy to the creativity of the god-emperor firsthand.

Haraal took up one of the wide iron bands which was fastened to the heads of princelings during infancy, used to shape and manipulate the skull into an (apparently) attractive "crowned" shape over the first few years of life. Of course the band was very tight on Sperhel, being a fully grown adult. But that did not stop Haraal from tightening the band, bit by bit, one minor adjustment every day. The metal bit into Sperhel's skin, then his flesh, and then ground against his skull by the end of the second week. It was a month before the fragments of his ruined skull finally pierced the correct part of his brain deeply enough to trigger a fatal seizure.

I cannot help but empathize with Sperhel in his final hours, as I sit here nurturing my own splitting headache.

Apparently Elrusyo succeeded in getting me to drink heavily last night. For the first time in my temporarily damaged memory, I am hungover. My mouth is dry and my tongue feels like a wad of wool. My eyes are like poached eggs, moving any of my extremities any faster than a snail's crawl results in severe tremors, and moving the rest of my body upsets my stomach to the point that I fear I will vomit up an entire cask of Wocgtheo's Darkest. But I still have my wits about me, somewhere deep in this fevered head of mine.

Enough to recognize that something is wrong.

Everything seemed ordinary enough within our hall of caravansary rooms- I assumed the workers were being brusque because they'd already been up for several hours dealing with other drunken fools. But when I was able to leave and enter the courtyard, I found that there was a palpable aura of quiet and disquiet. Centered on me.

The bartering and arguing merchants and gamblers seated at their tables or standing in their temporary stalls all seem to pause a moment to glare my way, and I swear that one of those explorers from the Khesh river region was sharpening his knife very deliberately while staring at me. I have tried asking my associates if they know what happened, but they're noncommittal in their responses, and are skittish around me- possibly just because I have a higher chance of having something thrown at me than they do, but something about the whole scenario makes me feel like I insulted the wrong person's mother, or spoke a boogeyman's name into a mirror a few too many times. Hraela seems especially distant.

Not even Elrusyo can answer this, despite his assuredly having been next to my dumb, drunken self last night. He says that while he doesn't personally know, he's very confident that I will piece things together for myself before too long. He also says that we should prepare to leave quickly this morning, before more of our handlers decide to abandon us or the locals are struck by the sudden fancy to string a rope up over the front gate.

I won't mind a change of scenery, of course. Even if it means several nights without the comforts of civilization, every mile of progress puts us one step closer to the miniaturized splendors of Porylus.

One Last Excerpt from Hraela's Homework.

Page 9

Evidence in Defense of the Argument

for Roberick Bertrum Litte's Mental Instability,

the Danger to Himself as well as Others,

& His Blatant Disregard for University Procedure

The following is a transrip transcript of a conversation overheard toward the end of our party's overnight stay at Janskurf's Severed Toe. I have reconstructed or recollected as much of the preceding conversation as possible, because I wasn't present at the start of the incident. I was however present for the entirety of the issue which is my concern in this piece. As the title suggests, I have further evidence for the woeful lack of qualifications for leadership or even University attendance demonstrated by Roberick Litte. It is needless to say by this point that his works will require heavy ordination. But I cannot stress enough how potentially harmful his own direct behavior has become. I will present this and other evidence to our brothers-in-thought at Porylus Mons when we reach the city for resupply, in the hopes that they might aid me in detaining Litte before we enter an even worse hotbed of political tensions farther out. He deserves treatment--and if possible, correction--before he incites an angry mob to kill him one of these days.



[The main hall at Janskurf's Place, approximately twenty-five talecks before midnight]

Man #1: So did you hear about what happened to Pellesh?

Man #2: What'd that old jackass do this time?

Man #1: Got himself taken prisoner over at Riven-Bridge.

Man #2: Really? Independent side, or ours?

Man #1: Indep.

Man #2: Hell. That's a bad deal. Why can't those bastards stay on their own side? Isn't that what they've always wanted? I wish Deneroth would just raise an army to crush them and reunite that whole mess one of these days.

[Murmurs of "here, here!" and knocks of mugs upon the bar and tabletops resound. A few pieces of clay break.]

Man #1: According to them, they were on their side. Said Pellesh was trespassing on their bridge. He was walking alone when some guards must've seen him wearing the wrong trading permit and nabbed him. Tir and his boys saw that from the other end and skipped town. Headed south down the river after hitching a ride on a raft.

Man #2: What, with one of those drop-heads? [Shuddering sound] Those people give me the creeps. Better than getting caught by Indep churls, I guess. Not by much though. I take it you heard all this from Tir?

Man #1: Yeah. They came back west after that, and I met them south of the Corridor. Said they were gonna try to send the coin to ransom him with. Otherwise he's got a year locked up there to learn all about bridges and bull-

Litte: [Surrounded by a half-dozen emptied mugs] There are only two bridges.

Men #1&2: What?

Litte: The bridges around the town. There are only two.

Man #2: Who the hell is this nosy ass?

Man #1: Just some drunk, doesn't know what he's talking about. Just ignore him.

Litte: The north belongs to the Royalists, the south to the Independents. Your friends tried to cross on the south side, which is why he was de- [hiccup] detained and the others were able to get to one of the Riverfolk vessels. They only tether or dock on the banks south of or underneath [nauseated burping sound] town.

Man #1: ... Your point being? Pellesh must've used that bridge countless times before and it never got him in trouble.

Litte: It's one of the most basic tenants of trading in the east, and both sides of the river consider it with grave seriousness. Either your friend didn't care, or he is an idiot. In either case, he finally got caught. A couple of Royals--no less stern of statutes--would have done the same on the opposite side of things. Little reason for you two to get so worked up over it.

Man #1: [Standing up] What gives you the right to insult one of our friends, you dress-wearing milksop?

Man #2: Yeah! ... No matter how true those insults might be.

Man #1: Shut the hell up, Baryl. Who are you?

Litte: My name is Roberick, and it's not a dress. It's a robe. There's a clear difference. [Hiccup]

Man #2 (Apparently Baryl): Lookit his chest, Orhen. He's got one've those walled-up belfries on it. He's from the University.

Man #1 (Apparently Orhen): I thought I smelled a damned book-rat when I walked in here. But I don't see a fancy department crest or one of those idiotic number ranks emblazoned anywhere on you. You must be one of those weaselly freshmen sent all the way down here for hazing. Is that it? You taking a break from kissing up to your saint long enough to wash the taste of his dusty old bones out of your mouth?

Litte: [Now smiling] Ooh, "book-rat". I like that. I'll have to save that for a later piece. In any case I am sorry to disappoint you, but no. I actually happen to be a dropout.

Baryl: [Scoffing] A dropout? The only thing worse than a know-it-all is a failed know-it-all.

Litte: True as that may be, I still happen to be correct.

Orhen: Horse shit. I bet you've never even set foot at Riven-Bridge.

Litte: No, I haven't. But I've read people who have.

Orhen: So you take the word of strangers? What's so special about that?

Litte: I take the reasoned, carefully put-together and peer-reviewed word of reputable people. Case in point, the comparison between similarities in jurisprudence between both opposed camps of Riven- [particularly throaty hiccup] Bridge occupies chapter 14 of the "Tales along the River Khesh" compilation gathered together and edited by the Cousins Sallal thirty-four years ago, including interviews with permanent and temporary denizens of Riven-Bridge such as a former Master of the Trade Quarter, Tezer Benj.

[A long beat of silence]

Baryl: ... My Great-Uncle Tez got published?

[A particularly long beat of silence which gives my pen a chance to catch up]

Orhen: [Moving much closer to Litte] Alright, book man. So you've memorized the things that bigger and better men than you have accomplished. What does that leave you with? Huh? By what right do you mock others?

Litte: Well considering my track record up to this point, it's probably the beer plus the meddling of a bored magician.

Orhen: So you think you're funny? Well I don't see a jester. All I see in front of me is an uppity little rat from that anthill of a city, looking to stroke his own ego lecturing anyone he deems dumber than himself.

[The crowd parts slightly, and Qe Ku Ciudo(?) appears, looking tipsy enough to approach the confrontation, but sober enough to be afraid while doing so.]

Ciudo: Associate Undergraduate Roberick, sir, do you need some kind of help with these men? I might know a lot of dead languages, but surely the language of peace is still alive an-

Orhen: [Without looking away from Litte] Piss off, whelp!

Ciudo: [Quickly retreating again] O-O-Okay, hiding under a table now...!

Baryl: Maybe you should lay off of him now, Orhen. He's not the only one who's been drinking.

Litte: It's fine, I probably have this coming for one reason or another.

Orhen: You just like to dig yourself deeper and deeper, don't you?

Baryl: [Turning away] Alright, it's your funeral...

[Litte proceeds to roll up the sleeves of his robe]

Orhen: Honestly? If it's a fight you wanted, you could have just asked me. Or thrown a mug at my head like any decent person wo-

[Litte finishes rolling up his grey and white-trimmed sleeves, only to extend both arms with hands loose and opened. He rotates both arms to most clearly show off what appears to be a series of massive, blotchy scars across the upper forearms. His right elbow is similarly marked, being completely engulfed in damaged tissue. They are dark, sunken, and severe-looking despite their apparent age. In places, they barely seem like dead skin is covering bare bone. Orhen looks put-off by the sight, and steps back.]

Orhen: What... what the hell are those? Are they contagious?!

Litte: Oh come now, they're only burns. You can't get sick from someone's scar, friend. They're even worse on my feet, if you'd like to see?

[Litte lifts a leg up as if to offer. I begin to understand now why he always wears socks.]

Orhen: No! No, I don't. What did that to you?

Litte: Fire-walking. Or, well. Fire-falling. A collapsing animal burrow sort of botched the ceremony when I'd gotten halfway across. I was told the odd color is because my flesh was actually imbued with some of the charcoal ashes. It was a strange southern tree with many properties to begin with, so I don't doubt it.

Orhen: South? Did you say you were in the south?

Litte: Hm? Oh, yes. But farther south than the south you're thinking of, I'd wager.

Orhen : [Squinting hard at Litte] ... Taqnal Commune?*

(Taqnal Commune is the southeastern-most province of the P.A.S.C.O.P.P.Y. It is closest to the River Deltas and the eastern sea, and is therefore the eventual destination for far-flung traders in the world. Our expedition will not be traveling quite so far, being destined for north-central Am'reto.)

Litte: Taqnal Commune! Oh, that place was a delight. The melange of words in those markets would give Ciudo need for a change of undergarments.

Ciudo: [From somewhere] Still hiding!

Litte: No, friend. I've seen south of Taqnal. That was just my last stop before the real journey began. I'm not sure exactly how far south, because I lost track after the first hundred leagues or so. But I went far beyond that too. I didn't stop until I saw the Transpashel Coastal Plain.

Orhen: Bullshit! Only mad Nambarish sailors go that way, bringing back stories of...

[There is no interruption here. He seems to deliberately trail off from what he was about to say, in keeping with good decorum. More people than just the immediate traders surrounding them seem to be aware of them now.]

Litte: Hmm?

Orhen: Oh don't play dumb, book-rat.

Litte: Dumb about what?

Orhen: You know what.

Litte: Say it.

Orhen: I don't need to say it!

Litte: SAY AURIKH!

[Dead silence across the entire hall. Baryl sputters his drink and coughs into an arm.]

Litte: [Gesticulating wildly, growing red in the face] Just say it! Only mad Nambarish sailors go that way, bringing back stories of aurikhs! Stooped, grey-green, copper-clad, bald-headed, and empire-Rupturing aurikhs! The ten thousand tribes from the bowels of the underworld, bane of the Haraalians, all that kind of thing! The vast stretch of world that we happily ignore the existence of! Only mad sailors and me go there! Gods, man! You talk like you've seen the world--like you've seen shit--but then when the littlest genuine discomfort comes along, you clam up like a simpering University freshman! The professors can't hear us out here, I assure you!

[The silence deepens. Also, I take offense to that freshman comment.]

Litte: I've gone there, I've weathered the elements, I've looked past the centuries of horror stories and red tape, and I've found a people with more integrity than a hundred successor cities! A people I didn't just want to study, but to know. A people I risked life and limb walking across a stretch of flaming earth just to prove myself to!

[Orhen is still at a loss for words. A few murmurs stir amid the crowd. They are not very friendly. More travelers stand up. The meadhall workers have pressed against the far walls by now. I begin to wonder if I should run for the doors now while there is time.]

Litte: [Raising his arms up again] ... Obviously I fell over in the attempt, but what is important is-

[Elrusyo appears suddenly, clasping his hands over Litte's shoulders and offering a laugh like he's salvaging a punchline. When the hell did he get here? When the hell had he left?]

Elrusyo: Yes, friend, you fell over! Just like you'll fall over here if you don't go and have yourself a lay-down, you drunk bastard! I'm so sorry folks; I warned him not to drink too much! He always gets like this, please forgive his fantastical outburst. Oh, and Poortz to all you ladies and gentlemen! Just put the drinks on my tab! Now anyway... Stitch Boy, Reed-Neck! Party's over! Gert! Stop writing!

[Elrusyo drags a stumbling Litte away while quieting or muffling him. My colleagues quickly follow suit. I must end my log here for now.]

Updates, and More Excerpts from Hraela's Homework.

((Hello, Burrowers! I'm still alive, and I'll add some length to this smallish post by tacking a few things on here. Yes I've had a super slow month this month, but this month my slow month is somewhat more understandable than other months. Month month month.

... Anyway, I managed to graduate from my college earlier. As in, officially did the walk and received the piece of paper covered in Latin that I wouldn't think to be a degree except for the fact that it has my name on it and I sort of recognize the word "Baccalavrei".

In addition to freeing my mind from a lot of mental and emotional tethers, this changes how I'll be able to approach my blog for the foreseeable future. I won't be pumping out the level of content I did last year when I started the blog up in the dead of summer, since I'll actually be working this time around, but I will feel comfortable enough to do more, and hopefully do it better.

Additionally, I'm inching out of my electronic isolation by interacting with other blog-smiths.

Head on over to Unlawful Games to check out some cool new content created by TheLawfulNeutral, whom you might recognize from a few of the comment strings down here in the Burrow. Or literally any of the free advertising he's giving me on the larger internet. He recently decided to start up his own more OSR-oriented blog to house his menagerie of terrifying and creatively visceral ideas.

He doesn't have a huge library of posts yet, but that means you don't need to fear archive binge. If you still don't know where to start though, maybe try his monster conversion of the Longfolk from beyond my very own Axebitten Woods.

Now, let's see how our sneaky little giant fencing student is handling this whole ordination fiasco.))

Rough Draft Page 8

Useless.

Completely unintelligible, impenetrably obtuse(sp?), poorly-written garbage.

I've watched Litte scribbling like mad since before we departed on this journey. Is this all that he has produced since then?

I have reproduced an excerpt from his "writings" as well as I can above, and I write that meaning that I've done a fairly accurate job of repl. This is not the script of Ersuut, or any other language in the world that I've ever seen or heard of. And there are dozens of pages of this. Hundreds and hundreds of lines scrawled front-and-back across sheaves identical to but completely different from the above.

I honestly cannot believe that this is anything of substance. I begin to suspect that this man is actually deeply mentally unhinged, and the University was simply getting him out of their hair for a time while mercifully humoring his illusions of grandeur and countless other exen ecsen eccentricities. Fools that we are, we agreed to join him on his romp through his own imagination. I wonder if he even told the truth about there being a delegation waiting for us at our destination in the mountains.

But despite the fact that these pages are worthless for my original plan to practice field ordination, I believe I should continue to curate them, and copy them. There is just enough reuse and regularity between tortured curves and line segment snarls to give some vague sense of anti-logic to Litte's writing. Even the manner in which some characters transcend their lines of text to join with others seems somehow preder predetermined and deliberate. I can't say what the reversal of brush stroke direction in the last line means. Maybe he just adjusted the angle of the quill in his hand. This all leads me to admit that there is a (very) small chance that what is written here might actually say something to anyone else but he. It could be a code or a cipher, and if he is trying to hide something then my mission is even more important than I could have imagined. I must make a breakthrough on this before he does or says anything to damage or embarrass the University, or worse.

From the sounds of drunken rioting across the drinking hall from where I've hidden myself, I don't have a lot of time.

Looking Southward and Backward, Part 14.

"Rob. Robber. Bert. Oi. Staircase Man. Litte!"

A voice finally penetrates my concentration, and a slap on the back of the shoulder punctuates my writing with a very messy scrawl of ink across the page. I look up and back from my isolated corner of a table to see--to no surprise--that Elrusyo is standing over me with four clay mugs of something frothy and dark-colored in each of them. He sits down immediately next to me, and I must pull my parchments and papers up out of the way of a slosh of the odorous liquid which falls to greet the worn old wooden surface.

"Are you going to sit there writing about the carnal exploits of other men all night, or are you finally going to do something worth writing about for yourself? Eh?"

One finger thrusts across the room a ways, toward another table which is mostly populated by women- apparently off-duty locals and members of the family, if the garish and historically inaccurate winged helmets and metallic braziers in their possessions are any indication. Several cups have been emptied already, and their giggling at the male patrons seems to have shifted from career-mandated to genuine. I look back to Elrusyo to see if he is being absolutely serious or not. The half-waggle of an eyebrow and the earnest grin tell me that he is in deed being serious- and that he is already drunk, despite our being seated here for less than an hour.

I ask him what he has done with the wards under my protection, which only causes his smile to widen and deepen in jolliness.

"Stitch Boy and Reed-Neck are currently enjoying the finer points of an education in drinking culture. Haven't you been hearing them?"

A few seconds after this, there comes a clinking of drinking vessels louder and more emphatic than the rest from further down the hall, followed by a mangled pronunciation of one of the many Gertish toasts to good health.

"Poortz!"

Elrusyo smirks in satisfaction. I take in a deep breath and tensely ask where the rest are.

"The big girl didn't take a liking to any of that, so she got up and said she's looking for the brew-mistress to give her a piece of her mind on all of this. I came over here because you just so happen to be in the perfect spot from which to enjoy the show, and dodge any projectiles."

I make the smudge across the bottom of my last parchment even worse with a resulting forehead-thump of defeat. He gives me another pat on the back, less roughly this time.

"Drink up now, or it's going to be a long night. The boys and their horses will be ready an hour after dawn tomorrow. Did you lot really get them driving through the frost at sunrise this morning? Your campus is run by slavers."

Elrusyo slides one mug toward me despite my protests. But before I am able to both sympathize with his observation and point out that I  know better than anyone else the reality of the statement, something catches my eye.

Or rather, the complete lack of something.

In lifting up his mug in order to take a swig, Elrusyo's sleeve falls down along his arm somewhat. Across the inside of his wrist I see nothing but smooth, unblemished skin, interrupted only by a few spots where stitches have mostly been forced out entirely by new skin growth. I reach out to seize his arm, spilling more beer and evoking his protests in the process. Even as I question the directness of my own actions, I pull his sleeve down farther.

Sure enough, it is as if he never sustained a wound to the forearm.

He had been nursing a savage injury up until the very moment I had taken my eyes off of him earlier this afternoon. What could he have possibly done in the time between my sitting down and now?

I look up into his eyes in disbelief, looking for answers. Had he faked it? Was it all a ruse?

He plucks the twine from his skin, discards it, and tips his mug back once more. The glint from before remains in his eyes.

"Just drink up, Ber."

I stare down into the dark, foamy surface of my mug. The first sip feels like trying to swallow an entire loaf of seed bread.

Looking Southward and Backward, Part 11.

Sarq shakily accepted Elrusyo's hand, and the two shook vigorously for several seconds as the hedge-magician drew his self-injured arm back in under his cloak. He then shook hands with Hraela and Ciudo, and I was forced to oblige as well, and in the subsequent moments of celebration in which the rest of the caravan's nerves became somewhat more settled, another shot of drink went around.

Now, after sputtering fire for a second time this day, I am attempting to balance out the alcohol with water from a skin which simply insists upon dripping dangerously close to the fresh ink on my parchments. Seeing that there simply will be no stopping me, as I have come to accept in return with him, Elrusyo asks that I at least scribble something of value while I do. At the conclusion of the first day of this little travelogue, which we are already nearing, he states that he has a very important bit of history to initiate each of us into. Each of us save for Hraela, he makes a note of. She would already be very familiar with this, considering her family roots. This suggestion leaves her looking somewhat bemused. Ciudo and Sarq quietly worry that this is another child-burning celebration.

Elrusyo laughs, but does not say no.

I know what he has in mind, however. I had hoped that it would only be a brief stop for our caravan, but it is apparent that our attendants are itching to overnight at the very same place. I speak of course of the southernmost of all "authentic-styled" Gertish¹ alehouses in the domain claimed by the city-state of Deneroth; Janskurf's Severed Toe, also known as Janskurf's Place.

Janskurf, according to the legend emblazoned on a large wood-and-metal plaque displayed prominently upon the alehouse's roadside sign as well as one of the walls of its common room, was a Gertish hero from the lifetime of Haraal himself. He led a clan of Gertish tribesmen down from the northern coasts to fight for the emperor, and was involved in a famous battle with the classic villains and scapegoats of the empire, an army of Esgodarrans. This teeming horde of hill-people, however, was reportedly unique in that it was aided by a contingent of "treasonous mountain-slingers" commonly identified as either Pach-Pah soldiers from a splinter faction allied with the locals to their north, or as a mercenary group composed largely of individuals of mixed ethnic background.²

As the story goes, Janskurf led his people to a quick and decisive victory over his opponents, but when they feigned surrender, he was struck across the temple by a sling bullet and then chopped upon the foot while he was stunned. They still won the battle, but Janskurf lost his big toe. Hobbled for the rest of his life, Janskurf and some of his people settled the site of their victory and built a small town. When Janskurf died at the ripe old age of over two hundred years, the resentful Esgodarrans naturally invaded once more and tried to raze the town to the ground, but much to their horror his ghost rose up to defend the alehouse under which he had been buried. And so it still stands to this day.

Of course, there is no great battle between Esgodarrans and Gertish tribesmen on the southern border of what would become Deneroth in any historical record but what the establishment claims. Likewise, it is doubtful that a prominent man named Janskurf ever lived among the Gerts who allied with the Haraalians, or elsewhere for that matter, considering the fact that it is by all accounts a gibberish name only vaguely identifiable as "Gertish-enough" by an outsider with an eye for stereotypes. And as a matter of fact, the "traditional" beer and ale culture of the Gertish people is almost wholly a result of centuries of interactions with their southern neighbors- an emphatic consensus by indigenous groups and travelers to the low riverlands alike is that the "original" Gertish drink of choice is a spirit distilled from a wide variety of vegetation known to their homes. If the blindingly blonde wigs worn by many of the attendants of that establishment are any indication, the locals might not even care about the inaccuracies, if they do know.

Though I wish there were a gentler way of saying it, the Ivory Tower University's recent close examination of the alehouse and its history was completely accurate in saying that Janskurf's Severed Toe is little more than a culture-appropriating tourist trap geared to play off of the expectations and ignorances of traveling city-dwellers and University students alike.

I can see the land flattening out up ahead as we enter the broad section of heath in which the alehouse and attached caravansary are located. I should find a way to approach the subject with Hraela tactfully while there is still time, lest someone or something end up with a longsword driven through it this evening.



¹ Note that I have changed over from "Gertisch" to "Gertish" and will attempt to remain that way for the remainder of my journey. Confined to the University as I so often am, it is difficult to resist the hypercorrective pull of the -isch ending, which was made standard in all academic material some five generations ago by the short-lived yet deeply impactful Committee for Agreeable Exonyms. They hold no power over me here however, and so I shall endeavor to use the more common rendering of the adjective, in keeping with my hopes of making this work more approachable to people living beyond the vaunted walls of my home city.

² As will become apparent as we near this expedition's destination, our peoples are more than capable of intermingling, and many marriages or other productive pairings of the sort have occurred in the border regions between mountain and lowland over the centuries. Though mildly stigmatized in the north, these folk face relatively little discrimination from their southerly parentage. In particular, the descendants of former Pach-Pah noble families were quick to infuse their family lines with as much "new blood" as possible once the practice of enforced intra-familial marriage came crashing to an end. The safe assumption that someone two to three feet taller than oneself and born hundreds of miles away was probably not a relative became an important guideline for courtship in those lineages of diminishing status following the revolution(s).