Chapter IV - Into the Hills

Drace is annoyed when Cithrel mentions Draern's presence in the woods; he could not fathom why they would give up that advantage.  Knowing, however, that Cithrel is essentially a genius, he considers the decision from numerous angles and concludes that if Draern was found after they had claimed to be a pair, it could severely undermine their safety.  When they enter the hut, Drace takes his indicated seat and seeing the dynamics at play, does not eat or drink until Cithrel does so.

Tecumseh wrote:

"Your man knows his place," she says at last in accented Trade Cant. Her tone is complimentary. "Most men come in here and yap yap yap yap." She makes a motion with her hand like the shadowpuppet of a yippy dog. "Barking orders, demanding this, insisting on that. They must usually be removed, often at spearpoint."

If she likes me, she would love Draern! The feeling might not be mutual however. He muses, features carefully schooled as he could not imagine this woman appreciating an ("unwarranted") expression of mirth coming from him. Instead, Drace remains silent and focuses on observing - keeping his eyes no higher than the chins of the other two in the hut if and when looking at them.

Tecumseh wrote:

The woman raises her tea to Cithrel before sipping. The mechanics of the cup and the mouth hole of the mask are a bit complicated and one wonders how the woman doesn't splash hot tea on her face. Practice, presumably.

Cithrel accepts the tea gratefully. They raise their cup in response when the chieftain does so. They take a moment to breathe in its aroma, then take a small sip and slosh it over their tongue. In every lifetime, they had enjoyed tea. Every region had its own recipes, its rituals. All of it was fascinating.

"Lovely..." Cithrel mutters, a slight smile spreading across their lips.

Tecumseh wrote:

"Your man knows his place," she says at last in accented Trade Cant. Her tone is complimentary. "Most men come in here and yap yap yap yap." She makes a motion with her hand like the shadowpuppet of a yippy dog. "Barking orders, demanding this, insisting on that. They must usually be removed, often at spearpoint."

Cithrel blushes. Their smile turns into a smirk. They didn't see Drace as 'their man', but the thought amused them.

As the chieftain expounds on men's annoying chatter, Cithrel's mind recalls their anthropology lectures. Theirs and others'. They bled into one another. Different Rectors, different schools of thought. This village was a rare thing. In most cultures, men were equal or even dominant. This woman must have dealt with more of latter.

Tecumseh wrote:

"I give thanks to The Goddess for your company. Come, tell me what you would trade for. If it is in my power, I will give it."

The Goddess. Interesting. Was their social structure reinforced with religious belief? Cithrel wonders what kind of Goddess these people worshipped. "I thank you for your warm welcome. We are honored. We seek information. I have come to this region of the world to explore it, map it, and bring what I learn back to my people. We are eternal students, curious about all things. I want to know about nearby points of interest, places with good vantage points, dangers to avoid... but also, about you and your people."

The questions were barely being held at bay. Had Cithrel's magic not been active, they would have been sweating profusely from the strain.

The rivalry in pleasantries continue, "We are honored" "No, you honor us" to a patience-straining degree.

In the end it is concluded that everyone is honored and everyone gives thanks to The Goddess for everyone else.

"We are honored to present you with the gift of our knowledge," your hostess says, "as I am sure you will honor us with your gifts in return."

The meaning of this is unclear and certainly not foreshadowing in any way.

"You will have lodging during your stay, as you study the area to your content. You may speak freely to the people, but - I warn you! - only the women. The men" - she spins a finger near her head in the universal sign of craziness - "have not been so blessed by The Goddess. They are prone to hysterics and great nonsense. They follow the cycles of the moon like badgers." She shakes her head and gives a noise that might be a laugh.

She rises and leads you out of the tent. The men outside have resumed their daylight duties. The woman raises her hands and shouts something in a language you don't understand. The men immediately prostrate themselves - cleaning is once again dropped, firewood is once again scattered, bubbling pots begin to boil over - as the masked men bow face down on the ground toward the masked woman.

Cithrel parses through the questions crowding their mind, seeking the most immediately necessary ones. They glance at Drace nervously, unsure they can keep the flow of words from escaping their lips. The man's calm demeanor provides a good anchor. Cithrel takes a deep breath and focuses.

"Very well, I will not speak to the men. Are my men allowed to socialize with yours, or should they avoid doing so as well? I see you all wear face coverings. Should we do so as well? Are there other behaviors we should refrain from in order to avoid offending you? They may seem evident to you, but in my experience, every culture has different rules and habits."

"For example, in the Duchy of Tian Gengxin, people must walk in order of hierarchical status, from most important to least. Whereas in Barony of Lim, walking behind someone is seen as a sign of deviousness and planned betrayal. But both are part of the same nation: Emed-Kist! Needless to say, when they are guests at the same banquet, things can get pretty awkward." Cithrel chuckles.

They suddenly stop as they realize they've been providing unrequested information. They smile sheepishly. "I'm sorry, I have a tendency to ramble. Please let me know immediately if you'd ever like me to stop. I will not be offended."

The woman claps. The men jump to their feet, pick up their belongings, and immediately resume their work previously in progress.

The woman seems to wave off Cithrel's concerns as she walks you through the village. It is not large and can be walked end-to-end in just a couple minutes.

"As guests, you will be treated like village elders. There is little wrong you can do. I tell you who to speak to - and who not to speak to - not due to etiquette but out of concern for your proper understanding so that you are not led astray in your thinking."

She leads you to a small hut that would be appropriate for two or three people. She points to it imperiously. Two men rush in and then, a moment later, escort out two young men who seem to be protesting their removal. But then the two young men see the woman, fall silent, and sheepishly retreat, resigned to their fates.

"This will be your habitation for as long as you wish. My men will accommodate your needs, including feeding and washing. You will want for nothing and you will have a captive audience for as long as you wish to ramble. Here! I will assemble the men so that they may benefit from your instruction."

She claps her hands imperiously, then barks out instructions. Once again laundry is dropped, firewood is spilled, and cooking pots are abandoned. The men hustle to you and then kneel in the dirt, their eyes downcast. They wait to receive Cithrel's wisdom. The woman looks pleased, or as pleased as someone can look via body language.

"Your only responsibility as guests is to accept our hospitality.

"There will be a feast tonight in your honor! If you wish to impress the village, you must eat a great deal. You may purge yourselves in the woods beforehand if you wish."

"I will tell Draern what has transpired. By your leave," Drace speaks more quietly than usual to create a semblance of deference that is marred only by a quick wink. He makes a point of waiting until Cithrel actually gives him some sign that could reasonably be construed as permission.

He walks back towards the woods without entering it and sits on a grassy patch.
"We have been welcomed. They consider Cithrel to be in charge. Will you be joining us?" Drace says after a time, assuming that Draern will have moved within earshot and that he would make his presence known if and when he was ready.  If he is wrong, it will have taken little effort and he would consider a different approach later on.

Cithrel watches with mounting dread as the men assemble before them. What should I say? I don't have a lecture prepared! I don't even know what basis we are working from! What sort of education do their men have? Can they read? Do they even have a written language?

Calm yourself! Use what you've learned so far. The men are responsible for manual, domestic labor. What can you teach them that will be of use to them?

Cithrel takes a deep breath. They nod at Drace, giving him leave to get Draerngromlaes, missing the mirth on the man's face as they grapple with the responsibility placed upon them.

They turn to the woman. "Thank you. Um... How should I address you? Do you have a name or title I can use?"

"I can teach your men an exercice routine that'll help them relax, improve their energy and help prevent injury. Would that be appropriate?"

"You may call me the Matriarch," the woman says airily.

"As for the men, you will find them strong in body but weak in mind. Something that illuminates their thinking, their understanding of the world, would be best.

"They often chafe at the roles the Goddess has placed upon them. Their weakness of spirit leads their minds astray. It is most lamentable."

The Matriarch shakes her head sadly.

"Perhaps offer them an educational tale from the Duchy of Tian Gengxin, or the Barony of Lim. One that instructs them how obedience frees their minds so that they are open vessels for the Goddess' teachings."

Cithrel looks at the men with pity. Obedience to the Rectors was strictly enforced at the Library, but students grew and learned and eventually could ascend to the role themselves. The young scholar doubts such a thing was possible for the men here, their lot in life dictated by the essential characteristic of their sex. They had yet to see any evidence that transitioning was possible in this rigid society.

However, they were guests in this place and had been graciously welcome. Fostering rebellion would most surely lead to their expulsion, if not worse.

"Very well. This tale is ancient, its origins lost to time, and can be found in slightly different variations all across the Gyre. It is called, the Parable of the Big Rock."

"Once there was a young farmer named Jack. He had received a piece of land from his parents on the outskirts of his village. On the border of that land was a very large rock. This rock rose straight up out of the ground, taller than a house and stretched the entire length of the property. On the other side of the rock was a town where a person of reasonable talent, who was willing to work hard, could find work which would allow them to see to their needs. Jack built himself a hut upon his land. The soil of the property was rich and he was able to grow food and flowers. He also found work in the village."

"Every day Jack would get up, travel to the town, and work hard. In his spare time, he would tend their gardens and yard, expanding them until they reached the edges their land, butting up against the rock. Jack began to resent the rock. “If this rock weren’t here, I could farm the land in that direction. Then I could have extra produce and flowers to sell in town” he would think as he worked in his garden. “If this rock weren’t here, I could see the town. I could see who was coming and be prepared in case they were coming to rob me”. “If this rock weren’t here, I wouldn’t have so much shade in my garden and my flowers and tomatoes would grow better”."

"As Jack’s resentments toward the rock grew, it seemed like the rock did also. Every day, Jack thought about how much he disliked the rock. Every day, the rock seemed to grow a little. Eventually, the rock was nearly the size of a mountain, and stretched a mile in both directions from where Jack’s house was. Jack hated the rock by now. It was making it harder to get to his job, and the shadows were shading out his crops. One day, his anger was so great, he kicked the rock as hard as he could in uncontrolled rage. He broke his big toe. The rock shuddered and grew."

"After his toe healed, Jack decided he had had enough and was going to destroy the rock. He took all his savings into the town and brought home a multitude of tools to break the rock apart. But for all his efforts, all he managed to do was break tiny chips off the rock, which landed in Jack’s gardens and began to grow like mushrooms into new rocks."

"Jack was devastated. He was worn out, had squandered his reserves and still had a limp from his broken big toe. He sat down on one of the new rocks, in the middle of his now-very-rocky garden. He thought about how much he hated the rock. He thought about all the bad things the rock had done to him. He thought about how rotten his life was, because of the rock."

"“I give up” he said to the rock. And one of the baby rocks disappeared. “You were here first”. *pop* another baby rock disappeared. “I don’t know why you are growing, but you have shown me I can’t get rid of you”. *Pop, pop, pop*; more of the little rocks that had spawned disappeared. Jack was so disheartened, he barely noticed. He sighed a deep, despondent sigh. He was tired and didn’t understand what was going on. Jack went into his house, made himself some supper and went to bed."

"In the morning, he went out to find that all of the baby rocks had disappeared except for the one he had been sitting on. A bit disoriented and kind of numb, he went to sit on the one remaining rock. It was actually quite a comfortable seat, and was under his favorite apple tree. He sat under the tree, drinking his tea, pondering his situation. For the first morning since he could remember in a long time, he didn’t feel hate toward the rock. It was just there. And, apparently, it was not going to go away. “OK” he said to the rock, speaking to it in a normal voice for the first time in months. “What are my options here?” He thought about moving, but he really liked his little house. He liked his job. And who would want the land shaded by this big rock? He had traded all he had saved trying to destroy the rock, and couldn’t afford to move, anyway."

"Jack decided, at least for the moment, that he would stay where he was and continue to travel around the rock every day to work in the village. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do in the long run, but he was sure he was done hating the rock. It took too much energy and didn’t do any good, anyway. He wasn’t certain, but he thought perhaps, for the first time in a long time, the big rock didn’t look bigger today than yesterday."

"Over the course of the next few months, Jack focused on what to do with the shady parts of his garden. With all that shade, he discovered he could grow truffles and delicious mushrooms. He began to notice how fit he was from walking the extra distance to work every day. Although the rock still blocked his view of town, Jack began to focus his attention in the other direction, toward the valley which was full of wildflowers this time of year. Jack discovered he had a reasonably good life, now that he wasn’t focused on the rock. Every morning, he drank a cup of tea and meditated on the smaller rock under his favorite apple tree."

"Little by little, the rock began to shrink, until it was nearly back to its original size. All the negative energy it had absorbed from Jack’s resentment and hate had changed it, so it would always be bigger than when Jack moved in, but it did shrink. People began to come from miles away to buy Jack’s truffles and mushrooms, which were rumored to be better than any in the land. Jack gained so much from trade, he was able to quit working in town, and no longer had to walk around the rock every day, although he still did frequently, for the exercise."

"Jack grew old in the shadow of the rock. He and the rock even became friends, of a sort. He continued to sit every morning on the little rock that had spawned from his attempt to destroy the big rock. In that peaceful place, it was Jack’s heart that grew a little every day, not the rock."

Cithrel pauses. They scan the assembled crowd with their eyes. "Thank you for your time. You may return to your duties. Please ponder the story's meaning as you work." In its most obvious interpretation, the story would be read as an admonition to accept what one could not change. That rage and hatred only hurt the one who felt it. That it grew their problems, rather than solved them.

Cithrel preferred to think about it in another way. That one could thrive even under poor conditions. That when one was outmatched, a clever mind could find a way to turn any situation to their advantage, if they kept a level head and avoided a direct confrontation. They secretly hope that at least some of the men would read it this way, which was why they hadn't reinforced the first interpretation by stating it.

The Matriarch returns to her duties, whatever those are, leaving Cithrel in charge of the men.

The men listen attentively. When the parable concludes, the don't get up when Cithrel dismisses them.

"Teacher," one of them says tentatively. Then, finding his bravery, he continues, "... so Jack was allowed to own land himself?"

The others mumble their collective curiosity at this point.

Another speaks up: "And he was able to work his land with no instructions from his betters?"

The others nod and murmur again.

"Jack was allowed to sit and just... think?" asks a third.

Another hum around the group.

"Jack could... sell his products? And keep the money himself?" A rather loud babble at this. "And eventually accumulate so much that he was able to stop working?" A veritable rumble!

Cithrel's eyes grow wide in horror. They had clearly underestimated the limits placed on the men's rights in this community.

Masterful job. Well done. I look forward to meeting your successor once the women of this town burn you at the stake.

Cithrel laughs nervously. "I, uh... am not sure I understand the questions. Jack was a woman. Did I use the wrong words? Trade Cant is such an unwieldy language... My apologies for the confusion."

The men grumble. Perhaps some of the simple-minded ones believe it, but Cithrel is pretty certain that the more clever ones see it as a cover-up: a woman defending the schemes of other women.

They rise and depart for their duties, finding no additional revolutionary fervor in Cithrel. Perhaps Cithrel could have raised an army at her command had only she given them the slimmest window of opportunity, the tiniest smattering of hope. After all, the Matriach seems awfully undefended...

Or perhaps not, but it was interesting to think about.

Without knowing with certainty whether Draern was within earshot, Drace decides to return to Cithrel. He stands outside the hut as Cithrel relays the parable, waiting for the lesson to end before entering so as not to distract from the telling. By the time Cithrel is trying to talk the men out of the cultural revolution being inadvertently fomented, the healer is reflecting on how not needing to breathe facilitates ones efforts in stifling laughter. He had never before witnessed such incomparable efficiency in obtaining an undesired effect. It was as if the scholar had not realized that they were walking a knife's edge until they had begun seeing the bloody footprints being left in their wake.  

Perhaps Cithrel has found a situation beyond the ken of their lives, he muses as the first of the men begin to leave the hut. If any of the men take note of Drace, he is sober faced and looking afar impassively.  Once they have all departed, he enters and returns to his seat behind Cithrel.   Having already had his laugh at their expense, the assassin feels more than capable of being gracious, and so sits in silence confident that the stillness was not likely to last.

When the woman walks out to meet his companions, Draern nocks an arrow and slowly takes aim. Suddenly he is back in the squad. Silently stalking through the woods, sometimes for days on end, for the perfect location and time, followed by long motionless stake outs, with the arrow at the ready waiting for that one precise moment, that one opportunity to snuff out the murderous, evil enemy. At least that was what they told him he was hunting. Any many of them had been just that, but were they all?
The arrow is pointed directly at the woman. One wrong move of hers and it will hurry to her demise. But then they all walk inside, it seems like they are not in danger by her.

Eventually he can see Drace emerging from the hut and walking towards the treeline. Draern is unsure were he is headed, but hurries in his direction to find out. As he gets closer he can still hear '... Cithrel in charge. Will you be joining us?'. Then Drace turns around and walks back. Uncertain what to make of the message, Draern stays where he is. Surely he cannot call after Drace. Instead he whispers to Rima "Wait here and watch Wolf. If anything happens, let me know. I will be back before nightfall." Then he steps out of the woods, his bow shouldered and follows Drace.

<<Late Afternoon - Day 14 - Early Spring - Village in the Hills - Wilderness>>

Draern finds himself 'welcomed' in the village, at least to the same degree that Drace is. Nobody seems to question his arrival or wonder why he wasn't with Cithrel and Drace initially.

Cithrel is able to observe the villagers to their heart's content for a couple hours. There is no obvious hierarchy among the men themselves; they all seem to occupy the same station. No man gives orders to any other man. They seem to cooperate with each other when the task demands it.

Inquiries about local vantage points or things outside the village are largely met with ignorance. It sounds like the men rarely leave the village and, when they do, it is to fetch water or do washing at a nearby creek.

As an outdoorsman, Draern pays attention to the animals. There isn't any domesticated livestock that he can see. No pigs or goats or chickens. Nor are there any stables for horses, nor any evidence of dung from any large mammals. The only thing he notices are a handful of dogs and a few cats. The cats are skittish and look like they have to earn their keep by mousing. The dogs seem older and weary.

Cithrel notes the absence of obvious children, at least outdoors. Perhaps there are some indoors somewhere. Statistically, a village of this size should have at least a dozen children under the age of puberty.

There are some opportunities for Drace to ply his trade, if he wishes. One man cuts himself while chopping up root vegetables. It's not a severe wound but he gasps and is bleeding. Another man scalds himself on a large, hot pot. He immediately thrusts his hand in cool water but the skin will almost certainly blister. Another man, apparently repairing the roof of a hut, slips and falls. He lands on his back and is slow to recover. He is having trouble walking. Another man goes to check on him, but seems to be wary, constantly looking around to see if anyone disapproves of his assistance.

Before healing the men, Drace approaches the Matriarch and confirms that she has no objections to him doing so.  "I did not want to assume that you would consent to the men receiving my care, but should you wish it, my skills could make quick work of their injuries.  My apologies if I ought not to be bringing this to you directly."

The Matriach waves airly at the Harmacist. She doesn't seem to look at him directly.

"As a guest, you can do no wrong, so you may do as you wish.

"But do consider the consequences of your actions."

Consequences?

"If these men are instantly healed, where are the consequences for their errors? How will they learn the appropriate caution so they do not cut themselves again, or burn themselves, or fall?

"There is a school of learning, and there is a school of experience. If you repair their bodies, have you robbed their minds?"

Her argument seems to center around the moral hazards of healing them, removing their incentives to guard against risk because they are protected from its consequences.

Dogma: ever present to shore up weak arguments constructed with a sequence of weak premises. The Matriarch had far too much to lose to be interested in critical reflection on the well-being, let alone the emancipation, of the village's men and Drace knew that he would not be able to change that posture in this moment, if ever.  

"Those who become negligent after being healed once will learn soon enough that the school of experience never lets out." With the Matriarch's blessing permission non-refusal Drace gives her a nod that is a touch more polite than simply perfunctory "Matriarch," and walks towards the men to wield his gifts.

Cithrel feels awful. The men in this community are little more than slaves. For a moment, they had opened their minds to the possibilities of freedom, only to shut it down. They spend some time observing the men work, taking notes about the seeming lack of hierarchy and the way they naturally organize for more complex tasks, hoping to distract themselves from their guilt.

The lack of children or other women is surprising to them. Perhaps there is another village for them? The children and women stay there and the men come here when they reach a certain age.

Cithrel decides to take advantage of the deference given to them and approaches one of the men as he finishes a task. "Excuse me, I have a question. Where are the other women and children?"

Drace conducts his healing and the treated men gasp.

"The Goddess has granted you with her gifts??" They look Drace up and down thoroughly to ensure that he is, indeed, a man.

"An Outsider," a woman says definitively, appearing at a doorway. Drace has not seen her before. She is in her 20s and is heavily pregnant, at least 8 moons along. She leans backward with her hand on her hip to brace the weight that's pulling her torso forward.

The men mumble something in their native language, their tone clearly apologetic. Something along the lines of, Yes, of course, Mistress, before they bow and immediately retreat.

The pregnant woman eyes Drace warily, skeptically, but doesn't say anything. She turns and returns to her hut.

Cithrel finds a man to ask her questions.

"The children who have not had their Masking Ceremony should not be seen in public, Teacher," the man answers, bowing lowly to Cithrel and avoiding even the merest hint of eye contact.

Before he can answer the question about the women, a shout goes up in the woods. There's a blaring of horns and a beating of drums, and what sounds like lusty singing. The men drop what they are doing and race to line the sides of the pathway leading into the village.

A procession of women arrives from the woods. They are all masked, clearly residents of the village. They stride purposefully, confidently, conquerors returning home. Spears and bows are the most common weapons, with wooden clubs hanging from their hips. Their masks are decorated with warpaint and their hands are dirty with blood. They carry with them the spoils of the day: gutted deer, hanging from poles between the shoulders of strong hunters, archers carrying two or three spring turkeys apiece, younger hunters carrying deceased ducks.

The women parade into town, singing boisterously. The women not carrying the harvest play their instruments loudly. The men bow in deference as they pass. Upon reaching the Matriarch's hut, the Matriarch comes out to inspect the hunt. Seemingly pleased with the results, she raises her hands and says something in their native language that sounds like a blessing. At that point some men rush forward to relieve the women of their spoils, which they immediately cart off to process further. Presumably this will be your feast for tonight. Other men rush forward with refreshments for the women, which they seize and immediately consume. Their eating and drinking is sloppy, with food and drink splashing all over their masks and their tunics.

Cithrel can see that most of the women are touched by magic. Upon further consideration, none of the men are.

Cithrel's questions about the Masking ceremony is interrupted by the sound of the horns. They make their way closer to the village entrance. As the women arrive, Cithrel starts scribbling furiously, trying to capture every detail of their entrance. In many ways, it is similar to the rituals of many hunter-gatherer societies, but with the gender roles reversed. The young scholar wonders if the Matriarch would 'shame the meat' if one of the younger women started getting too big for her britches.

Cithrel tilts their head as they notice the flow of magic touching the women, whereas it flows around the men. Why are so many women touched, while no men are? Is it simply a question of lack of training or are the men muted in some way? Perhaps the masking ceremony has something to do with it...

... or perhaps those with such talents are simply disposed of.

Cithrel shudders at the thought. So much potential lost to bigotry. Another layer to the systemic tragedy unfolding in this village.

It makes one wonder what circumstances led this people to adopt such customs. Were the women once held in bondage? Did their revolt lead to a reversal of fortunes and the repetition of the same mistakes that had led to it?

So many unanswered questions. Cithrel could spend years trying to unravel all of these mysteries.

Do not allow yourself to be distracted from your task. The Wilderness is vast. Mapping it is already a great undertaking and of much greater value than chronicling these folks' primitive ways.

You can find knowledge and wisdom in all sorts of places. You are ageless. Time is not something you must concern yourself with. Do not be too quick to squander this opportunity.

Cithrel sighs and pinches the bridge of their nose. They throw themselves back into their writing while the voices bicker in the back of their mind.

Once things begin to settle down, Cithrel approaches the huntresses and bows. "Greetings. I am Cithrel, a travelling scholar who has been welcomed by your Matriarch as a guest. I have come to learn and have many questions about your hunting strategies. May I trouble one of you to answer my inquiries?"

Tecumseh wrote:

The pregnant woman eyes Drace warily, skeptically, but doesn't say anything.

"I was the humble recipient of the attention of a revered elder.  She personally saw to my instruction and the development of my gifts. She is far wiser than I, and so I cannot say why she bothered to do so." He says with his usual lack of inflection, shaking his head solemnly for effect with his last words.  

The Healer then leaves the men, not waiting for anyone to respond or react.  He returns to his companions, arriving by Cithrel's side in time to see the procession. "I believe our presence to be detrimental to the status quo," he whispers to Cithrel, taking advantage of the fanfare to give cover to his words.

The woman questioned by Cithrel barks in laughter.

"Our strategy? The pointy end of the stick goes into the prey!" she bellows. The other women laugh and laugh with her.

Despite the frivolity, Cithrel gets the impression that - as a guest - questions will be entertained.

Another AKA wrote:

"I believe our presence to be detrimental to the status quo," he whispers to Cithrel, taking advantage of the fanfare to give cover to his words.

Cithrel nods. "That is undeniable. Dogma makes a poor foundation for a society." They sigh. "What effect our presence has remains to be seen." Cithrel smirks at Drace. "I will make sure to prepare spells that'll support a quick exit, just in case."

Tecumseh wrote:

The woman questioned by Cithrel barks in laughter.

"Our strategy? The pointy end of the stick goes into the prey!" she bellows. The other women laugh and laugh with her.

Despite the frivolity, Cithrel gets the impression that - as a guest - questions will be entertained.

Cithrel chuckles at the obvious jest. "Yes, I imagine it is more effective than the alternative."

"I was surprised to see a village without domesticated fowl or cattle. Is there really enough game in these woods to provide enough meat for your people? When you leave on a hunting trip, are you gone for multiple days or is a few hours sufficient? Do you hunt predators as well to ensure you have no competition for the prey? Do you hunt as a group, using beaters to flush out your prey for example, or does your group split up and hunt individually? If it's the latter, do you compete for kills?"

Cithrel has many more questions, but they figure five is a decent number to start with.

Cithrel receives answers to the questions, although it's clear that the women don't really revel in the process. They tolerate Cithrel but their attention is clearly elsewhere.

- Yes, there is enough game in the woods. There are fish in the creeks and rivers too.
- The women usually leave in the morning and are back later in the afternoon.
- They do not specifically hunt predators but will occasionally kill them if they interfere. The skins of wolves, coyotes, and cougars are valued.
- They hunt as a group. The young and the old flush the prey while the others coordinate to bring it down.
- There is no competition, only cooperation. The Goddess demands it.

<<Sunset - Day 14 - Early Spring - Village in the Hills - Wilderness>>

Preparations for the feast continue. The men do the cooking while the women do whatever they want. Mostly the women sit around and tell jokes, often at the expense of the males if their body language is any indication.

The men break down the deer, skinning them and butchering them into various cuts that are set to cook near the fire. The spring turkeys are plucked, gutted, and thrown into a stew pot. The ducks meet a similar fate. Root vegetables are chopped and added to the stew. While the women lounge about, the men work with haste. You get the sense that the feast preparations are above-and-beyond their normal duties, so this is extra work for them.

The feast is held in one of the longhouses that looks like it could house many families. Inside there are small partitions - not so much separate rooms - that divide the space, but in the middle there is a pit for a bonfire. Building such a large fire inside a wooden building seems unwise, but the ceilings are at least 12 feet tall and there are vents for the smoke.

As the guests of honor you are seated in front of the bonfire next to the Matriarch. The other women sit in a circle around the fire. When the feast begins, the men act as the waiters, bringing in the food and serving the women. Some of the younger women - girls, really, who are old enough to have had their masking ceremony - play music, but this appears to be because they want to rather than they are expected to. They play flutes and rattles and drums; occasionally one of the huntresses will get up and dance while the others clap and cheer.

The foods of the feast are rich and heavy on protein. The women prize meat and gobble it greedily. They rarely use utensils other than the occasional knife; they seem to prefer using their hands or just biting off large chunks. Similarly, they splash their face masks with their drinks, which are made out of some sort of fermented berry. They belch and laugh and generally make a mess of themselves. Even the Matriarch does this, to the point where it becomes obvious that doing so is the social convention, a.k.a. good manners.

Cithrel does their best to conform to the social expectations placed upon them. They eat copiously, but do their best to avoid the fermented fruit drink, preferring to keep their wits about them. Despite their best attempts, they quickly realize that they cannot keep up with the village women, and fall back on trying to look like they are.

Once the feast is comfortably under way, Cithrel leans closer to the Matriarch. "Are these feasts usual after successful hunts or is this one for our benefit? Other than partaking and enjoying myself, are there any expectations of me?"

The Matriarch is pretty tipsy and rather more boisterous than she was earlier in the day. The front of her clothing is absolutely covered in food and drink.

"For you, my dear!" she whoops, slapping Cithrel on the back affectionately but rather roughly.

"Have you eaten at all?!" she asks, throwing an arm around Cithrel and looking Cithrel's clothing up and down in an exaggerated fashion. Cithrel has to dodge getting clipped under the chin by the Matriarch's tall, wooden mask. "You don't look it!" She belches.

Cithrel's grandeur seems to be a bit of a faux pas.

As the women get more and more drunk, the men start to sneak bites of food for themselves. They are quick and subtle, like the tongue of a snake. Usually it's just a pinch here and there, procured with the utmost discretion and haste. They certainly don't splash themselves or make a mess.

Cithrel chuckles. "I have, I assure you," they say, gesturing to the discarded bones in their plate. "However, I have magic which keeps me clean. Allow me to demonstrate."

Cithrel fills their cup, holds it up above their head, and pours it on themselves. The liquid flows over them and onto the ground, leaving nary a stain on their clothes or person. "You see, where I come from, water is a scarce resource. My home is high up in the mountains. Our wells have to be very deep, we have a complex rain collection system, and we harvest ice and snow from nearby peaks. Still, most of our water is reserved for drinking and farming. Everyone who can is encouraged to learn to use magic to see to their hygiene."

The Matriarch looks at Cithrel somewhat skeptically, perhaps even suspiciously. She pokes a finger into Cithrel's chest with somewhat more force than is comfortable.

"When in the mountains, do as they do in the mountains." She pokes Cithrel again for emphasis. "When in valley, do as they do in the valley."

She belches unpleasantly, then returns to her drink.

Draern had spent the day mostly by himself aside from the crowds. The language reminded him of home which stirred up feelings of melancholy and alertness. The villagers did not sound like members of the Bulnáindra, so it was unlikely they were after him, nor did they sound like his former enemies, the tribe of the Thudgugrak, so he did not fear retaliation. But he was weary of their connection or affiliation.
During the feast, he finally loosens up, after a few cups of the fermented drink. Following the manners of his hosts comes natural to him, as he hasn't used let alone owned a fork in many years. As he sees one of the men sneak a bit of the meat a sudden realisation makes him say, "Aahh, wait, so the men are like servants? How come?"

"It is the will of the Goddess," one of the male servants whispers to Draern when he is sure that he is not being overheard by any of the women. He need not worry much: the women are laughing and feasting and playing music and generally making a lot of noise.

"The Goddess grants the women magic. Magic is power, power is control."

The background noise makes the man's tone ambiguous. It's unclear if he buys into this reasoning through his own sense of faith or if he is just making observations about the reality of the situation.

The man quickly eats some food, trusting Draern not to report him.

The village's culture and customs annoy Drace to no end and he would have refused to eat or drink in defiance, only the feast presented him with an opportunity.  Not having to breathe, he knew that he could eat and drink relentlessly, free of the risk of aspiration or suffocation. Rare, however, were the occasions where food was plenty and propriety of no concern, so that it could be put to the test

With the women in their cups and focused on their revelry, he takes a few minutes to eat with mindless abandon, slowing only to periodically gulp fermented berry and clear his airway of chunks of meat.  Before the growing but altogether pleasant sense of fullness could be tipped over into discomfort, he stops eating and allows himself some time to digest (and to consider novel applications of this gift).

<<Night - Day 14 - Early Spring - Village in the Hills - Wilderness>>

The feast concludes. The women are barely upright. Some flop down and snore in the middle of the longhouse. Others are carted off to their own huts, either leaning heavily on the men or outright carried there.

For all the women's vulnerability, the men don't seem to act against them. The men remain deferential and subservient, even when the women are fall-down drunk.

Once the women are away, the men then eat more openly as they clean the space. The pick up scraps of spilled food and tidy up the plates and gourds that the women scattered about. The men drink too, but much more modestly, certainly not enough to impair themselves. They remain alert and sober, and their masks stay in place.

"This way," one says, ushering you out of the longhouse and then back toward the hut that has been assigned for your use. A fire has been built ahead of time, warming the space. Animal skins have been laid out for your bedding. There's a jug of cool river water for you, plus bowls of water that have been warmed over the fire so that you may wash yourselves if you wish.

You are left alone to settle in, but after a while three men enter the hut. They are shirtless and their torsos have been lightly oiled. Their bodies are lean and muscular and, shining in the firelight, are attractive as such.

What are they hear for?

"Your pleasure, mistress," they tell Cithrel. Technically they might be here for Draern's and Drace's pleasure too, but if so they're not advertising that as openly.

Drace has had intimate knowledge of a variety of bodies in his relatively short life; as much through professional interest in physiology as from genuine enjoyment.  These young men were likely a delight to watch and to experience, but the social dynamics of the village put a damper on his interest. Reclining on some skins, Drace gives Cithrel a shark like smile,
"Yes Mistress, what is your pleasure?"

He is fairly certain that this assignation will be like no other for these young men Like as not, Cithrel will enlighten them as to the history of sex work.

Dissatisfied by the answer of the man regarding their role he inhales to start a reply, but comes short when finding the right words. The man already ushered on.
The rest of the evening Draern eats and drink plentiful. At the time Cithrels potential entertainment enters he already lies on his furs snoring loudly, sleeping off the wine.

Cithrel blushes. Though they had thoroughly explored their sexuality in past lives, they had very little experience in this one. Besides, disrobing could lead to some very uncomfortable conversations and the need for a quick exit. Gender meant very little to Cithrel and their people and so, when theirs had been assumed by the Matriarch, they had not seen the need to correct them. However, in this village, it was exceedingly important and deeply tied to one's biological sex. Cithrel suspected that explaining the socially constructed nature of gender and its difference from one's organs would not go over well.

Luckily, "pleasure" could mean a lot of different things. "Wonderful! Please have a seat," Cithrel says as they gesture to an empty spot on the skins. "I still have many questions and very little time, as we must soon depart. Let's start with this masking ceremony I keep hearing about. Could you please explain what it entails."

Cithrel spends the next few hours grilling the three men, extracting as much information as possible about this community's social structure, history, and religion, before dismissing the men from the hut.

Once alone with Drace and the sleeping Draern, Cithrel sighs and draw their knees in close to their face, curling up in a sitting position. Like this, they look very young and vulnerable. "I think we should leave tomorrow," they say in a voice barely above a whisper. "I have a feeling my 'bad manners' will not be tolerated for much longer."

Cithrel looks at Drace, their pleading eyes the only part of their face visible above their knees. Resignation, sadness and fear dance between their eyelids, the day's emotions briefly coming to the fore in this moment of relative safety.

The men are weary and are barely able to remain upright. They've been working all day at their routine tasks, then prepared for the feast, then cleaned up, then came here to satisfy Cithrel. It is clear they thought they would be done in 10 or 15 minutes. The combination of their fatigue and the warm fire threatens to overwhelm them.

But, still, they do their best. In their Trade Cant, they explain how the masking ceremony happens at puberty. The ritual is not described in great detail, although it is unclear if this is due to secrecy, or if they are too tired to share the minutae, or if their Trade Cant is not up to the task of describing religious and cultural ceremonies. Cithrel does learn that the masks are ordained by the Goddess, with the implication that they help 'flatten' society so that physical appearances do not contribute to social rank. The men are so accustomed to the masks that they do not think of them as comfortable or uncomfortable; the masks are simply how things are.

Cithrel does learn that there are children who have not been seen during their visit, plus their caretakers. From the conversation, she learns that the ratio of women to men is 60:40, both through the birth rate and due to improved survivability of female children (or, conversely, the lower survival rate of male children). Once the age of maturity is reach, lifespans are roughly equivalent, with the number of adult men succumbing to fatigue and poor health approximately equal to the number of adult women who befall some accident during their hunting or their excessive drinking.

The men are expected to do whatever any woman asks of them, but each man is 'assigned' to 1 or 2 women to be their primary attendant and domestic worker. Female children do not have any authority over men until their masking ceremony, at which point they become adults in the eyes of the tribe. After the ceremony, the boys begin their domestic duties while the girls begin their training in hunting and the martial arts, including their magical instruction. A man's responsibilities might decrease as he ages and becomes elderly, perhaps only supporting 1 woman instead of 2, while a woman's responsibilities shift away from hunting and toward rearing the next generation of children and instructing the recently masked.

Once the interrogation is complete, the men stagger off into the night, their head and necks bowed by the weight of their masks.

Draern wakes with a start, accompanied by a snort. He looks around as if looking at the room for the first time. When he sees Drace, awake as always, he grunts, rubs his head and says "This brew of theirs is no good. The last cup must have been spoiled...
But that aside. We must do something about this village. Treating the men like slaves is not right. I'm thinking, if we take out the Matriarch, the rule will crumble." Draern immediately reaches for the standard solution he was used to from his time in the ranks. Take out the leader and the opposing force will disband in disarray

"An assassination would not be effective. A successor would assume the mantle. The culture is too deeply embedded to be uprooted by a single death. I do not know how many deaths it would require."

While the line between assassination as a profession and as an excuse to do irreparable harm to others was not be perfectly defined, surely killing every living woman of age in this village would cross it. He ponders a moment under what conditions he would consider mass murder as an acceptable approach and then chides himself for wasting time. Such a thought experiment would not help them address the current situation.

"The men must liberate themselves."

Cithrel's sleep had been troubled. They tossed and turned all night as half-remembered memories of past conflicts were twisted by the strange logic of dreams into nightmares that felt all too real. They woke up repeatedly, finding Drace awake each time. There was something calming in the man's quiet, steady presence, like a guardian deity watching over them.

When Draern stirs awake, Cithrel soon follows. The elf stays lying down on their side, their back to the humans as they discuss the village's men's predicament.

"Drace is right," Cithrel says, feeling the need to chime in. They roll over and sit up, rubbing the sleep from their eyes with one hand while holding themselves up with their other.

"The situation here, it isn't the caprice of a tyrant. It's part of their religion, a pillar of their society."

"If violence is used to secure their freedom, they would have to rely on it to maintain the new order. If successful, it would most likely lead to the same situation as they have now, but with the gender roles reversed. You would treat the symptom, without curing the malady afflicting this village: inequality."

"If you want to help the men here, the best we can do is open their eyes to the fact that alternatives are possible, and teach them to advocate for themselves."

Draern has his doubts. Words alone will not break the women's grip over the men. But he accepts the intention of the two scholars and trusts their estimation of the local politics. Politics had never been anything for him and he is grateful for anybody telling him what to do in terms of political activity.
But he prefers to be ready. Doubtful that the women will be very supportive of their endeavours, he spends the next days away from the village preparing a path on which they could shake pursuers, should there be a need to.
He scout's the best way, past the abandoned lair away from the village, paying attention to it being accessible enough to follow it quickly, while also offering twists and corners where the path can quickly be hidden.
For this he binds bushes and branches in various places with strings or vines, so he and his companions can pass and quickly cut the rope, letting the bush or branch snap back into place and thus making the path less visible and the access to it more cumbersome.
Additionally he fells two trees, stripping the trunks of branches and hanging the resulting ram on strings. The makeshift ram is pulled up and fixed by strings, so it will swing down when the strings are cut or ripped.
Last he spends a day, digging a large hole and covering it with thin branches and leaves.
Finally he walks the path multiple times, making sure every is and stays in place, memorising the path and position of obstacles.

Cithrel spends the next few days doing what they do best: asking uncomfortable questions. They requisition some men to help as they go out to map out the village's surroundings. When away from the village, they ask them about their routine, reacting with surprise at their packed schedule, their lack of free time and agency, and the fact that no man in the village knows any magic that could help them with their tasks. They tell them stories about other lands, always putting women first, but with supportive male partners and companions who are forces in their own right. They seek to reproduce, intentionally this time, the effect they had with their story and they answer inquiries with more honesty.

When with the women, Cithrel seeks to learn more about the village's history, trying to suss out how and why their society became structured the way it is.

Drace takes a bit of time from his nightly routine of watching over his companions - interspersed with reading, making poisons, practicing his blade work, and sundry acts of pragmatic leisure - to take on some of the odd tasks are usally done by the village's men during twilight hours, allowing them greater rest.  He uses the time when the women are out hunting to tend to the men's wounds and ailments, teaching those among them who show interest or talent what he knows of mundane and arts-based healing.

All in all, he does his best to avoid being seen doing anything useful by the women except in Cithrel's company and by their leave.

<<Day and Night - Days 15 to 18 - Early Spring - Village in the Hills - Wilderness>>

Draern
Draern does his work. He has to pick a route out of town that nobody would take by accident, lest he snare some innocent worker. He picks a steep hillside for his traps, reasoning that the hillside has little to attract a worker or a casual hiker. Wolf and Rima will have no problem with it. Drace is a good runner who won't exhaust himself even climbing it at a full sprint. Getting Cithrel up it will be the primary challenge. Perhaps the elf should take Wolf, although Cithrel isn't much of a rider.

Drace
Drace works with the men, who find his help natural. Men help men, that's how it goes around here. They are reasonably knowledgeable in how to address common injuries, but of course Drace's approach is much faster and more complete. He does manage to show a teenager how to magically heal a cut on his finger. The young man gasps with surprise and immediately covers his mouth (or the hole in his mask that leads to his mouth). The teen looks around quickly to see if anyone has noticed. Drace can't help but think he's either given the boy the tools of his liberation or the knowledge that will doom him.

Cithrel
Cithrel has mixed success. Her stories generate wisps of smoke but no fire. The men are attentive and polite and even at times curious, but they've also been indoctrinated for a lifetime. They are no dullards: they ask insightful questions and occasionally give hints of revolutionary interest, but a few days is not enough to fan things into flames using roundabout parables.

The villagers' knowledge of history is purely oral - and thus woefully unacademic by Cithrel's standards - and bears all the hallmarks of indoctrination for both the men and the women. But Cithrel has a great deal of experience with this and is able to tease out some clues from their stories. The local religion reveres the Goddess, a.k.a. the Great Goddess or Goddess Mother, or some other combination of Greatness, Motherness, and Goddessness. The Goddess endows women with magic, and this magic is what enables women to dominate men. While men traditionally use physical might to control women, the magic of this village allows women to reverse those roles. Magic is either actively withheld from the men, or boys with magic are either culled or exiled. This is the will of the Goddess Mother or Mother Goddess.

It's not hard to see this in practice. The men are not starved - they must be fed if they are going to work as hard as they do - but they are kept lean and hungry. Most of the control is now mental or habitual, but women do not hesitate to lash the men even when the women are far outnumbered due to the hunting party being out on a foray. (The punishments are usually for clumsiness, or occasionally 'laziness', rather than for misbehavior.) The men mostly absorb the punishment stoically and continue on. The women also seem to think nothing of it, and continue on as well.

After of few days of effort, the group had very little to show for themselves. This didn't surprise Cithrel much. Societal change tended to be generational. Rulers could change quickly and violently, but a culture was not so easily reformed.

One night, once they are left to themselves, Cithrel bids them to sit together. "I have finished mapping the area and documenting this village's customs. I don't think there is much more for us to do here. I think we should move on."

Drace is impassive, nodding only when Cithrel says that they should move on.
"We have done what is possible through obliquity.  To what extent would you like our departure to openly support the men's emancipation?"  He looks at each of his companions in turn.

"We tried it your way, I told you it won't work. I say we slay the leader and thus give the men a chance to rebel in the following turmoil. If they chose not to, then they are beyond help.", the older man stares into the flames, scratching Rima behind the ear. It does not seem like he lusts for blood. That is just the solution he knows.

"What? No!" Cithrel exclaims as they jump to their feet. Belatedly, they realize they have probably been heard beyond the hut's walls. They listen for the sound of anyone nearby or coming to check on them. Once the coast is clear, they sheepishly sit back down.

"We can't go around killing people we disagree with. Besides, I've been learning about these people's culture and religion. Removing the leader will just see her replaced. It won't solve anything. We will sully our hands and make ourselves unwelcome in what is possibly the only settlement for miles."

Cithrel looks at Draerngromlaes. They do not see any eagerness there, just resigned determination. "I know you want to help the men of this village. That is commendable. Their lot is... regrettable, but they are not ready. They can barely fathom a man keeping the product of their labor. They cannot even dream of their emancipation. Even if given the opportunity, they will not rebel."