Going Downhill: The Pem-Pah, Part 1.

[In a remarkably short period of time, Roberick Bertrum Litte's already haphazard subscalanean office/dormitory has become even more disheveled. With no one to man the half-door to the utility closet during Litte's extended archaeology leave (all two days of it so far), its discount stationery and other discreet acquisitions have been ransacked by his usual customers. For the most part they haven't intended to disturb his personal effects, but when the wooden board nailed to the half-door was bumped into during an entry, the makeshift desk was nearly torn free, and all of its contents scattered across the minority of the floor which was not already taken up by shelves and a bed. While many papers have been looked over for "thesis seeds" by desperate freshmen, this sheaf of unpublished papers is the only one which has been read through with any amount of interest so far.]



"It is the well-known law both domestically and inter-communally that the possession of this volume of taboo metals and gemstones is strictly forbidden. You are fortunate I am not also charging you with intent to smuggle or sell."
- Ortej Tella, customs officer of Quibgyal Commune.

"N-Now tarry just a moment! Surely you know that the laws also state that a provision is made for the cultural folkways of all ethnic lowland-folk! And I'll have you know my grandmother was one quarter full-blooded Pem-Mih!"
- Junral Chyok, amateur peddler, clueless to the fact that Ortej was a matrilineal cousin of his.



It would be entirely remiss of me to suggest that the Pach-Pah community¹ is limited only to their ancestral mountains as well as a handful of border towns on the slopes to their north. Their ancient history was filled with pioneering folk, as well as those whose bravery and soaring imagination brought them down from the peaks of their birth. This led to the ethnogenisis of many inspired peoples who continue to exist in some capacity to this very day, not least of which among them being the Pem-Pah.

Pem-Pah is an exonym of highland origin, meaning "the people who went downhill to water". This is quite an apt description of the group's migration and eventual settlement along the southwestern coast. However, in everyday speech in their native dialect, the people known as the Pem-Pah refer to themselves simply as "the people". For the purpose of keeping the two groups distinct in my writing, I will continue to use the term Pem-Pah.

At some point in prehistory a group of people from the Pach-Pah Yul began to migrate away from the valleys and watered slopes of the mountain chain's interior, moving outward in successive waves toward the west and south. Eventually these waves of settlers pushed past the borders of the mountain range and the hills at its feet, into the lowlands and coastal regions bordering on the western sea. The highest concentration of people during these last settlement waves seemed to be in and around the Khaitom-po, a massive body of water fed by several rivers which has been described variously as a bay, estuary, or brackish-water lake.

As evidenced by the handful of digs which have been conducted outside of the Pach-Pah homeland, the ancestors of the modern Pem-Pah readily took to fishing here. This has inspired a cuisine vastly different from that of their cousin culture, as well as more than a few unique cultural points of view or folklore tropes. First the spear, and then the hooked line and net were used, after which developed the earliest boats and rafts known to the people in and around the mountain chain.

This is thanks in part to the relative abundance of wood found in the lowlands, compared to the scarce and carefully conserved pygmy forests of the mountains. Reedy grasses and palm trees unheard of in the highlands allowed for the construction of wooden vessels as well as buildings, alongside the tradition of stonework which--due to the Pem-Pah lack of involvement in the events leading up to the Collapse--was never forsaken. The settlers maintained their traditional forms of herding and weaving throughout, but also broadened and intensified their practice of agriculture to include and take advantage of the wider variety of crops which could not thrive in the mountains. Even jewelry which makes use of precious stones or metals continues to be made in Pem-Pah territory, much to the chagrin of those who were against the inclusion of Khaitom-po into the Communes with partial membership.

The people who would come to be known as the Pem-Pah proper are first mentioned in civil records from the imperial age of Pach-Pah Yul starting at about 400 years prior to the Collapse, and the death of the last Miqh Pach-Pah. These records are of trade and business transactions, suggesting that the Pem-Pah were already quite established as a culture and an economy, and that commerce and exchange between them and their upland neighbors was at least somewhat regular and normalized by that point. But because the Pem-Pah were not a part of the Pach-Pah empire and an effort was apparently never made to incorporate them, they do not often appear in official, imperial records. According to the reckoning of the Pem-Pah themselves, they were established no less than 1,200 years prior to the time of that exchange. This would make them contemporaries of the earliest incarnation of the empire, as well as the last of the pre-imperial petty-kingdoms. Little work has been done by uninvolved scholars on these old records however, owing to the extreme rarity of visits to the Pem'Pah homeland by outsiders.

This paucity of visitors is not from lack of effort or hospitality, however. Many travelers throughout the eras were known to have set off for the lands of the Khaitom-po, with few of them making it many leagues beyond the border markets.

By that point, they tend to either run screaming back home, or to collapse from need of urgent medical attention.



¹ I would also like to apologize to the Pach-Pah community for my varied and repeated mistakes in rendering its name. Being that Pach-Pah literally means "People of the Earth", it has been brought to my attention by thoughtful readers that all of my uses of the phrase "Pach-Pah people(s)" or the colloquialism "Pach-Pahs" have been erroneous and redundant. I will also make an effort to use the grammatically correct singular Pach-Mih, or simply mih² when appropriate.

² I would also like to point out to my uninitiated readers how mih is etymologically linked to--though very separate in meaning from--the old kingly title of Miqh. Mih is a person, while Miqh is a "great" person.

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.]

Looking Southward and Backward, Part 7.

We slow to a stop at another small hamlet to water the animals again. It is past noon now, and we've eaten a meager meal while bumping back and forth in our carts, and sipped drinks at calm or still moments. One of the porters, a graying man with a bald patch on top and ruddy skin, enters deeper into the town and apparently runs into friends or family. The sounds of exclamations and calls come from the firmly locked homes as they suddenly open up, and before long no fewer than four or five people are out in the cold talking to him while we stand around and stamp in a line along the road.

I can hear bits of their speech carrying along on the wind, but I cannot understand much of it. Ciudo explains that it seems to be a pidgin of lowland and hill-dweller tongues, but it changes its own grammatical rules so freely from speaker to speaker that he can scarcely tell us what is being discussed, other than that it is some sort of exchange. This bodes somewhat poorly for his ability to assist us with interpretation in the future, given how varied and patchwork the languages of the land can be beyond the institutionalized sterility of Deneroth. But in this instance we are already covered, and I will keep that concern to myself until it might be mollified.

Eventually we witness the outcome of this, or at least one of them. The various locals, family heads apparently, duck back into their homes at length while the ruddy man, now veritably pink in the cold wind, ambles a few steps closer to us as if to move forward on something he is still waiting on. Then the doors open again, and many more people than before exit. They bear bundled rags or sackcloth bags, none of them very large or heavy or filled, but quite a few being produced regardless. These are promptly handed over to the man, and then to the caravan as a whole. He seems quite pleased with himself, and his fellows, previously taciturn from waiting in the cold, seem willing to give him credit as well. Once farewells are taken care of, the sluggish animals are spurred on again, and we slowly wind our way through the hills once more, now beginning to turn due south, and soon southeast.

The cart stores are now just a little bit heavier with dried fish or salted pork, a cask or two of drink with negligible alcoholic content for on-the-job hours, and a handful of other minor conveniences to get us a few miles further.

And, a man.

Sarq was the first to notice him, just sitting in my shadow at the corner of the wagon where the half-erected cover was most tightly bunched up, providing a windbreak for us. Sarq jumped in surprise and alerted the others, and in a moment the vehicle ground to a halt, stalling the rear half of the caravan. I personally had to pick myself up off of the wooden floor and pretend like I had not cracked my elbow on the edge of a seat going down, while turning to address this tag-along whom no one had seen in the hamlet or with the group.

He chuckles, but in the interest of not escalating our confusion into ire and getting beaten by a half-dozen mule-keepers and grumpy students, he shifts down his seat, out of the shade, and lifts his face up to be seen clearly.

He is... scruffy, in one word. Unshaven, but not given to an actual beard yet either, to give several more. Black hair comes down to his shoulders, a slightly out-of-place tooth juts inward from his smile, his gnarled and pigment-stained fingers clutch a walking stick with an iron cap on one end, and his cloak half-conceals an abundance of small packs, pouches, pockets, and utilities hanging from or sewn into his woolen attire.

He is, as had been foretold, excruciatingly Elrusyo-like, and he reaches out to shake my hand even as he tells me to put down that poor, abused quill and stop scribbling like a Low-Court proceedings recorder.

Looking Southward and Backward, Part 6.

The dense concentrations of homes and workshops gradually diffuse now. The imperfect circle of cityscape draws inward and pinches along the causeway as the land suddenly slopes downward. Far to either side, the city continues for a short time, now up above our heads, but soon nothing but the clouds of smoke and the stunted outermost walls can be seen. The upper reaches of Deneroth continue to thrust up into the sky, of course. When one crosses through the First Gate, the world opens up. When one leaves the fringes of the False City, it expands. The vastness of the south-central Ersuunian Basin, ancestral homeland of the Esgodarrans, yawns before us. Its breath is cold and bitter, having few windbreaks along the flattened road, but the view of the land makes up for it, in my eyes at least.

To the east, the land slowly rises until the horizon is obscured from view, but we know that the elevation continues to climb that way until one reaches the uplands and river cascades which once formed the eastern borders of the old empire. It flattens out into a narrow corridor of steppe to the northeast somewhat behind us, and that way once offered one of the few dependable routes east which was not too close to the hill and riverside people to the south or the impenetrable forests of the Reossos which dominates much of the north. The Axebite lies somewhere thereabouts, and stretches as far east and west as any explorer on foot has ever cared to venture. While my own writing and that of others would make it seem as if Deneroth were the only city in all the land (with the begrudging exception of Nambar), several large towns do still dot this great northeastern frontier. Hard people who live hard lives, but undeniably kin to anyone who still tries to call themselves a Haraalian. I am remound of my desire to travel east someday and conduct research probing into the truth behind their tales of the wastelands even farther beyond, for I was lambasted by my colleagues (with some good reason) for my weakly-sourced compositions on the Fokari some time ago. Of course I am aware that even if I were to procure funding for such an adventure to meet distant people, my work would never see publication through the ITU. I know this from personal experience.

In any case, we are heading south- not east. Though the road does drift westward for a short while, giving our party a decent peripheral view of the gentler heights of the west. It's a far cry from the hyper-taiga of the Reossos, but the woodlands of the west have provided Deneroth with timber and firewood for centuries to come, and yet they seem far from depleted. Or at least, they seem to be from our point of view. Those who dwell in and around the hilly forests might find that their homeland is sorely lacking in 80-90% of its biomass, as one study slipped under the noses of the Department of Ecological Philosophies argues. Sharp-eyed Sarq claims that he can see people moving back and forth around the nearest pines. I would not be surprised if they are woodsmen making one last round in search of adequate firewood for the winter. It is said that the highest points in those hills cause a mild rainshadow for the west, explaining the relative dryness of the climate surrounding Nambar and its coast. I would dare to say that this is true, but that it is a rainshadow of the mind, and that it works the other way.

Closer to the roads, we begin to see small hamlets dotting the peripheries between landscapes. Our hired assistants and guides become chattier now, as they describe which village they or their family come from, or which one has the finest hidden orchards or fishing ponds. An argument over which has the prettiest women is now brewing, so I will turn my focus toward other things. Such as scanning the horizon for our next addition to the crew. We will be meeting up with an old correspondent of mine, though it is not entirely clear when, where, or for how long.

Hedge magicians tend to operate on a timescale like that.

Elrusyo is his name, and he has been one of my precious few sources for knowledge on the overt supernatural during my time in the ITU, given the longstanding bans on all things akin to conjuration. While this does not extend to the herblore which is his livelihood, passed down to him by a mother who'd reportedly wanted a daughter, the man has immersed himself extensively in the literature of all forms of magic. Of course if I were to ask him, he would remind me at length that they are all the same thing, in the end. I do still wonder how he's afforded even a quarter of the material he has referenced in our letters, however. Many traditions are quite unique to their parts of the world, yet leeches and caraway seeds can only earn a man so much. I have never met him in person, but I was told that I would have no difficulty in telling that it is him when he does finally make his appearance.

I pray that he won't be distinguishable by a pointed hat and staff, or some embarrassment of that sort.