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Clan HjartaSeiðr

The VeilTongues is a County in the Duchy of The Conclave of Aritaur under protection of the Jarl Duchess Aleerayn lead by the Major Clan HjartaSeiðr.

The capital of The VeilTongues is a peaceful secluded city called The Thicket in the distant woods surrounded by, and melding into the forest itself. It is hard to tell where the city begins and the woods end. Saplings, bushes, and wild beasts people the streets and the space between buildings as densely as the people themselves. The VeilTongues is in truth the name of the people, who refer to themselves as Tongues, rather than the name of the town itself.

Our Place in this World Edit

The Tongues believe that the natural world is sacred and should be revered as the great teacher of Mann. As such, they put the majority of their resources into the exploration of the natural sciences. Research and time is primarily spent in astronomy, herbalism, apothecary, medicine, farming, breeding of animals and crops, befriending and taming wild beasts, and building the most breathtaking woodworks any man has ever seen. It is well known that if you wish the beauty in manufactured items to look as if it had been plucked from nature, hire a Tongues craftsman.

However, the Tongues also houses fierce warriors that believe in the protection of the lands in which they reside. Working the land, and using it’s resources are acceptable, but strip mining or deforestation is a killable offense. The Tongues warriors fight with blade, and body, and poison, learning the deadliest of killing acts from nature, and only striking out, as nature does, in defense.

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Lore Edit

Based in their mythos, the Tongues believe that places have a feeling, a scent, a color, and a vibration, but not a name. Naming is a human invention that is only necessary for other humans, the Tongues rarely speak each other’s names as the presence of the people they are with is enough to understand who that person is. As such, names are typically only used in the presence of outsiders, and even the names given may not be the Tongue’s true name. Names are never given to the young as only the young can name themselves once they gain a soul upon coming of age, names are also never given to animal companions.

The VeilTongues was formed when the last magic in their old kingdom failed, and all those with magic in their blood went insane. The clan at the time, known as the Grearden, rejected the madness of the failed enchanters and cut the tongues from all that had gone mad with the loss of their magic. The master naturalist at the time, DaTorak HjartaSeiðr, believed that magic had been stripped from humanity because they had lost their way; they revered human magical ability above the magic of the natural world. Bolstering the people around him they rose up and banded together in a promise to gather the knowledge of nature and the world around them and to revere the magic of the land as the truest form of magic.

Histories Edit

Recent History Edit

How The VeilTongues and Clan HjartaSeiðr came to Vornair Edit

The current leader of The VeilTongues, D'Tarian HjartaSeiðr, was once a Baron of the great Kingdom of Blackheart, in the Duchy of Darkholm. He thrived as a master apothecary, friend to the Duke Ages of Avalon, and Professor at the Academy of Agravaine. However recent events forced the Baron to leave Blackheart taking refuge in Vornair.

The Dire, an ancient sec of deep woods wolves, smelled change and destruction in the wind. They spoke with the High Tongue and demanded that they remove themselves from the Kingdom immediately and find a new home. The concept of leaving his home tore the Elder apart emotionally and he lost all hope, but heading the words of the wise Dire Queen, D'Tarian began a long trek out of Blackheart and into the open arms of Vornair.

Upon their arrival in Vornair the Tongues were greeted by High Queen Asami Rhyne and the Lofi Jarl Duchess Aleerayn Aritaur. The Lofi and The High Tongue D'Tarian hit it off instantly and became close friends. The entirety of The VeilTongues found their home in The Conclave of Aritaur where D'Tarian was raised to the title of Count, and the The VeilTongues grew from a small village into a thriving County, at it's center the forested city of The Thicket.

Destruction of the Old Village Edit

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Late into the night, an evening of a new moon, when the sky's light is drown in overcast; wolves prowl through the village square.

A solitary leffit scarmbles up the side of a building, scurrying along the edge of a roof, watching in silence

A group of six wolves the size of horses roam in a circle around the village center, angry and looking for blood. The windows are all dark except for a single lantern sitting on a windowsill in a solitary house.

A distant howl echos and the wolves all repeat the bemoaned scream into the sky and set off towards the road leading to the capital.

The single lantern rocks as if a wind is blowing it, it tilts off the windowsill and into the house, moments later flames lick up at the rooftops. Soon the house is ablaze. The town rests silent except the rage of the flames. The lone leffit scrambles across the roof, away from the flames, finding her way to the ground. Bounding through the grass, she puts distance between herself and the burning city, turning to watch the flames. The flames engulf the house and jumps to houses next to it ignoring the trees spotting the village.

Soon the entire village is alight. everyone from distant Agravaine can see the burning.

Construction of the The Thicket Edit

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A large grove of trees sits apart, a tall old growth copse with beastly trees, trunks as thick as a shed, and height reaching up to the skies, peering up it seems as if the trees are tickling the underbelly of the clouds. Around the copse is a valley meadow, the meadow expands out 100 years a in each direction before disappearing into a dense forest.

Within the grove a sound alien to the woods, that of hammers on nails, a wood-saws indicates that construction has begun. However not a single behemoth of a tree from within the copse has been harmed. The houses and lodge are constructed in such a fashion that they marry the small grove. The village and copse are becoming one, a living breathing harmony of Mann and wilderness. The Tongues, the people of this village busy themselves with laughter and hard work, never showing the tracks of long travel, or regaining on their faces. In the center of the copse, there is a snap pool fed by a steam that travels from one end of the meadow to the other. At the edge of this pool sits a massive wolf the size of a horse. The wolf sits frozen and still, her eyes carefully inspecting the construction going up around her. At her side stands a white haired man, in deep green robes of finest wool, the smell of the deep forest seems to cling to him more than it does to the trees cascading overhead. The VeilTongues have found their new home, and the man and the Queen of the Dire stand in deep conversation. These are all good things, this is a good new and beautiful start.

The Ancient Past Edit

The Founding of the House of HjartaSeiðr and The Veil Tongue Edit

“I cannot see!” screamed the High Enchantress tearing the veil from her eyes. “My vision, my art. Where have they gone? Where have I gone…” the screams became once more a silent mumble and sob. The woman’s dark eyes pooled with blood and dripped crimson onto her white dress and fingers. The binding around her wrists were soaked in deep crusted brown blood, and she wept openly.

The villagers darted quickly across the square trying not to notice the Enchantress. Rumors had been coming in for months about the burning of Magic. A vast majority of the towns people were gathered to hear the words of the elders. Villages all around spoke about the insanity of their enchanters, touch healers, chanters, mages, sorcerers and the like. All menn of magic had burnt out and were lost.

The Enchantress had lost her sanity two fortnight ago and the screaming had diminished the spirit of the once proud townsfolk to ghosts of their previous selves. Even the elders looked dismayed, all except the naturalist DaTorak HjartaSeiðr, his head was held high. Despite being the youngest of the elders, he seemed the only left with spirit and certainty of self. DaTorak stepped forward, “People of the Veil, the calamity is real, magic has been wrenched from the world of Mann, it’s influence can no longer guide us and give us light. We must come out of this and stand as a people, we must not…”

A wicked scream erupted from the Enchantress, “You fools, you empty creatures, you may never exist without us, the world will burned without out magical sight, you are lost you are…” The gurgling stopped as DaTorak stepped forward knife in hand, gripping the Enchantress by the chin, pulls out her tongue. In a smooth motion DaTorak slashes the bright pink muscle from the woman's mouth. The dark woman falls to the floor thrashing about, blind and dumb, gurgles issue forth from her mouth and a pink froth envelops her face, dripping down to the ground.

“The time of magic has moved past us” bellows DaTorak, “now is the time of spirit and hope. We must stand strong, and use our wits, if one day magic returns to us our minds must be sharp enough to gather it once more into our brilliance. Until that time, out tongues shall remain veiled and our mystical knowledge will be help close. To each Mann, we on the council charge you with the discovery of the deeper quieter magic of nature. Foster the knowledge this world has for you, and do not hold to the magics of the past. The soul of Mann is magic enough!”

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