Fountain of Youth

[Unstream]

Positions Open!

 

INTRODUCTION:

 

Most people don't believe in the fountain of youth. They say it's just a legend - a myth and a hope made by foolish men. But I believe it exists. Or maybe existed would be a more proper term. I believe the water of the fountain of youth is diluted in the water here at the Great Lakes. Why do I believe that? Well, they say every legend has a grain of truth to it...some more than others. See, my ancestors found the fountain of youth when they first arrived here as settlers, though they were forced to destroy it to keep it from unworthy hands. Are you interested? Well, the story begins in the early 1500s...

 

Setting:

Around when people first started arriving in the New World; east coast of the future United States and Canada.

 

GUIDELINES:

 

~ All rules here apply.

~ No God-modding.

~ Be literate.

~ Any text outside of the story should be in double parentheses: ((example))

~ Don't control anybody else's characters.

~ Keep in mind the setting and time period! (Rather important for this RP).

~ Limit of three characters. I will be flexible with this rule if I see it fit, but try to limit the number of characters you actively play as in order to prevent confusion. Note: Death of a character will free up a character space for you.

~ Characters should fall into two primary categories: Native American or Colonist (you can choose nationality/tribe if you want). This does not have to be the case for all characters though. Contact me through PM if you wish to do something different.

~ And remember, we need antagonists too!

 

~ Most importantly, have fun!

 

APPLICATION FORMS:

 

Name:

Age:

Gender:

Character Category (Native American, Colonist, or Other):

Nationality/Tribe (optional):

Appearance:

Personality:

Other Miscellaneous Information:

 

MEMBERS:

 

(I will post my application after someone else posts theirs. Y'know, just so it looks neater ;))

[antiaircraft]

I guess I'll be the first to apply for this one. xD I came up with a character faster than I expected.

 

Name: Darwin (more commonly known as "The Grim Reaper" or simply as "Death")

Age: As old as life itself

Gender: Male (this is a matter of debate, but Darwin's never paid much attention to sexism)

Character Category (Native American, Colonist, or Other): Other

Nationality/Tribe (optional): Laws of Nature

 

Appearance:

Contrary to his skeletal appearance in popular culture, Darwin usually appears as a plain-looking young man, a little skinny and unusually pale, but otherwise quite normal. He wears a navy blue undershirt with black trousers, covered by a black or dark brown coat, and complemented by a large felt hat (similar to an Akubra). He has a warm, inviting face which always bears a slight friendly smile.

 

Personality:

Imbued with the mysterious powers woven into the very fabric of space, time, life, and creation, Darwin's mind is full of dark genius. Shrewd and subtle, brilliant and cunning, he is capable of devising wicked schemes that even the most devious of evil's manifold children could not hope to match. Possessing a soul burdened and twisted by his thankless, unforgiving, eternal task of bringing lives to an end, he does not fail to meet the image of a tenacious, malevolent being that is the classic personification of Death formed in the minds of mankind's artists. Or rather, he would not fail to meet this image, were it not for two things: he is A. a kind, easily amused, rather friendly, all-around nice guy and B. a complete and utter lazy idiot.

 

Other Miscellaneous Information:

Some people believe that it is Death who causes people to die - this is untrue. The duty of Death (or rather, the duty of a Death) is not to kill people. He simply ensures that (whatever it is that brings a fortunate or not-so-fortunate soul's existence to an end) upon dying, each and every person is conducted appropriately from their body to their next destination. As such, punctuality and professionalism are indispensable hallmarks of Death's occupation.

 

Darwin has, without a doubt, the worst record of any Death that has ever existed (and ever will exist) in this universe. He's sloppy, perpetually late, often forgets where he's going, and generally ends up dragging poor departed souls all over the place as he attempts to figure out where he's supposed to put them. The only consolation is that he's actually fairly good company for the aforementioned souls - he knows plenty of good (and bad) jokes and is always interested in what they have to say. Naturally, this goes very little towards impressing his superiors, and The Powers That Be have actually fired Darwin on four separate occasions in the distant past. Each time, they've had to give him his job back as his replacements have either gone mad or outright quit. Ours is a messy world, and it needs a messy Death - anything else just doesn't fit.

 

Despite his laziness, Darwin is still occasionally curious enough to meddle in human affairs. He actually had a hand in the original creation of the Fountain of Youth, in the hopes that it would reduce his workload. Unfortunately, any benefits that it might have had for him were offset by the resulting hordes of people squabbling over it and killing each other. He has since lost interest.

 

One thing that Darwin has never lost interest in, however, is the deep, harmonic laws that govern the universe he's been assigned to. In places where he's manifested himself, he's generally known as a tinkering scientist, and he spends almost all of his free time (as well as most of his non-free time) poking around to see what he can learn. Physics is his main field of interest, and he's well versed in its governing principles, as well as the latest scientific developments achieved by human physicists. Several centuries down the line, he will eventually prod humanity towards several great leaps in the field of Theoretical Physics (spearheaded by the likes of Albert Einstein) so that he doesn't have to do the thinking himself.

 

Darwin's latest innovation in the pursuit of greater work efficiency is a new queuing technique which he has dubbed 'batch processing' (i.e. procrastination).

[Midtime]

((This is looking relatively interesting. I'll have to polish my knowledge of American history and the Arthurian legendarium. Also, the plural of parenthesis is parentheses.))

 

Name: Myrddin Emrys (IPA:mərðɪn emrɨs), often called Merlin Ambrosius; titled the Bard of Camelot; also Ambrose (Anglicised Ambrosius), and once upon a time the Immortal, which is the meaning of Emrys/Ambrosius.

Age: Of much debate in the courts of historic literature.

Gender: Male.

Character category: Native American by birth.

Nationality/Tribe: By now, British to all intents and purposes.

 

Appearance: Now that there's no-one to be discomfited by his shape-shifting, Myrddin prefers to take the shape of a white fox (six foot tall at the shoulder) or a young, fair boy wearing a coat of snake-skin. He can, however, alter this as suits his need and whim.

 

Personality: Having said farewell to all those who knew him long ago, having seen the end of all the stories he manipulated save one, Myrddin has slept peacefully in his tower of stone beneath the grass for as long as he could hope for, and for a long time he has been lost in a dream: that the hallowed ground of Britain was divided again by strife, that even now a carrier of fate and fortune has set out for lands unknown and unexplored, as he watched in his mind. He's not so very pleased with the fact that this happens to be true, and even less so that the borders between the two worlds that he hoped to guard are once again being breached - that the seeds of a legend of immortality and eternal happiness have been sown once again in the fertile soil of man's greedy heart. He comes across, therefore, as distracted, irritable and antisocial, though still reasonable where it counts; it's just a phase, really.

 

((There is another reason that he's so irritable, but that doesn't come into the story so much.))

 

Other miscellaneous information: Myrddin has for a very long time been the one who has kept man and magic safely apart. Wizards and witches, enchanters, fortune-tellers, spellweavers; such roles among humanity are almost exclusively nonexistent, and those that remain have always been false. The true practitioners know that magic is not to be used - it is a force and an entity all of its own, and utterly alien to man; they are those that know the importance of the balance, and they hold the image of power because they know how to treat with and control both the arcane and the mundane. One cannot wield magic without being seized by it and utterly changed.

 

But Myrddin was always one of both worlds to start with; and he is not alone. Some wield authority over magic, because they themselves are magical. None, yet, can match the true power of the spirits - the fey fox-o'-nine-tails, the guardian naiads and dryads, the little people of the elves, or the mysterious inhabitants of the Isle of Avalon-upon-Faerie, in might of magic.

 

Merlin triumphs over those because he has the power of man, too, with him - Viviane, his fellow storyteller; the hope of Logres; and the once and future King of the Round Table. Trust, hope, courage, devotion - he knows how to inspire all of these, and bring light to empty eyes.

[Unstream]

((Don't worry, things don't have to be completely historically accurate :P))

 

Name: Alan Price

Age: 27

Gender: Male

Character Category: Colonist

Nationality/Tribe: Scottish (British)

 

Appearance: Rather normal in build, but on the shorter side. Standing at 5'8", he wasn't the tallest person, and many towered over him. He has short dark brown hair and tends to stay in uniform.

 

Personality: Well-respected by his men and respects only those who he thinks deserves respect. He generally keeps to himself, preferring to take action than to talk. He can think quickly, but often overlooks small but crucial details. He's skeptical when it comes to magic and the supernatural, and was never a big fan of religion. More than anything, he hates losing his men, and will do just about anything to keep as many as possible alive, even at the cost of the battle.

 

Other Miscellaneous Information: Having fought in the War of the League of Cambrai, Alan holds the position of Lieutenant in the British army. Known as one of the nation's best sharpshooters, it is rumored that he could hit a butterfly at 150 yards (he did, but it was only an accident). After retired from the army, Alan took on last commission from his king: to take some troops and some settlers and establish a port in the New World. Arriving only shortly before winter did and having been raided by a few Natives (a treaty was formed with another tribe through an "an-enemy-of-my-enemy-is-my-friend" relationship that later stopped the raids), the colonists barely survived the winter, and only with the assistance of the aforementioned Native American tribe. Since then, the colony began forming a stronger relationship with the tribe and both learned a little something from the other.

[̊ ˉˉ ̊]

Name: Klaushush

Age: 27

Gender: Male

Character Category: Colonist

Nationality/Tribe (optional): Character comes from Terra Mariana

Appearance: 7'3 (about 2.2 meters) tall. Bald. Grey eyes. Wears clothes he made from hemp & leather.

Personality: Very introverted. Not much else is known at this point, due to his lack of human contact.

Other Miscellaneous Information: Mode body temperature of 308K (35C, 95F) Was a mute until the age of 12. Mother died during childbirth. At the age of 10, while traveling with his father, they were attacked by bandits; father died, Klaushush left for dead. Klaushush survived on his own by foraging & stealing. He eventually made his way to a port. At the port, he snuck onto a ship to steal some food from its stores, but his timing was bad, because the ship was about to leave for North America. The ship ended up in what is now Canada. Now, at the age of 16, Klaushush traveled through the wilderness until he ended up at what is now know as Crooked Lake (Northern Michigan) He lived there as a hermit for close to a decade.

[livvy]

((This looks fun. I'll have to watch and see how it progresses, and decide whether I think it's at all possible to keep up with such good RPers I know we have here. ^_^))

[Unstream]

Alan walked through the forest, 8 muskets over his shoulder, each with a razor sharp bayonet attached at the end. Whistling an old childhood tune, he headed towards the neighboring Native American village as he did every month. It was part of the agreement - the Native Americans gave furs and food in exchange for guns, and together they fought off any raids from other tribes. What had been a alliance formed out of necessity became a bond that formed a close relationship between the colony and the tribe. Both became dependent on each other, the natives helping the colonists survive and the colonists giving the natives territorial dominance. The natives also picked up English pretty quickly too, which was fortunate and eased the flow of communication between the two groups.

 

The atmosphere was bustling with the sound of chatter and children playing various games. Boys and girls ran through the village, chasing each other or a ball. Men sat around campfires and women could be seen standing by their tents. Alan always enjoyed the environment here - it seemed to be more relaxed and comfortable than the city. He strolled down the main path, simply enjoying the walk, and neared the main tent where the elder resided (although, unfortunately outsiders were never allowed to meet the elder). At the entrance stood Akecheta, a native whose name translates to something along the lines of "fierce warrior". He was a natural leader with a strong build - broad shoulder and over 6'4" in height - and a good friend of Alan too.

 

"Here're the guns for this month, Akecheta," Alan said with a prominent Scottish accent, laying the guns down at the native's feet. Before Akecheta even replied, a native carrying a waterskin ran up to Akecheta, whispering something in his ear. Strangely, the native spoke English, which implied that he was an outsider, and Alan picked up a few words (some natives used English when communicating with other natives with a different language mainly because the settlers had forced the language on many of them). Akecheta nodded, and the man with the waterskin ran inside the tent.

 

"Sorry about that," Akacheta apologized. "It was an emergency, but it is nothing you need to worry about. Anyway, thank you for the weapons. We will be sending your furs and food to your village shortly."

 

Alan nodded, and the two men waved goodbye as he headed off into the woods back towards his colony. And although he wasn't worried about the incident with the man and the waterskin, he was definitely curious. Why? Because he was almost sure the man had whispered something about a "fountain of youth."

[antiaircraft]

In an isolated cabin concealed deep within the forbidding forests of Northern America, a dark presence stirred. Then it groaned, rolled over, and tumbled out of bed.

 

"Ow." the presence complained to nobody in particular, struggling to untangle itself from a mass of thick blankets. After several seconds of futile twisting, it muttered, "Oh, this is hopeless." shimmered slightly, and then mysteriously slipped through the blankets and unfolded into a standing position. After a yawn and some stretching, it shuffled away from the bed, leaving the blankets lying in a woollen mess on the floor. A second later, the presence paused.

 

"All right," Darwin conceded plaintively to himself, "I'll make the bed now so I don't have to bother with it later." He turned around, picked up the blankets, and dumped them in a giant heap on the bed. "There, all done."

 

His conscience momentarily satisfied, Darwin proceeded towards a large sack lying on a nearby table that contained his food supplies. Also scattered across the table was a mountain of open books and papers covered in diagrams, calculations, and messily scribbled hypotheses (as well as some very large ink blotches). Fishing around with both hands in the sack and the disorganised mountain, he somehow managed to pull out a loaf of bread and a clean knife, and promptly began absently hacking away at the knife with the bread. A minute later, he realised what he was doing and switched to cutting the bread.

 

Somewhere in the distance, a soldier died, screaming in pain as a scorching hot ball of lead smashed its way through his abdomen.

 

Darwin dropped the knife, cut his finger, and swore.

 

He was used to feeling millions of souls fading away every minute of the day, but some of the more violent deaths still jolted him more than he would have liked. And speaking of souls, he really should go and clear out the next batch of the departed - they were piling up dangerously high. If anyone noticed the irregularity, he could get in serious trouble.

 

His mind made up, Darwin went to make himself some coffee and go back to bed.

[Midtime]

The old man slept in his tower invisible, his tower of stone.

 

He slept, and he saw.

 

He saw this very tower's completion; he saw the last stone laid by invisible hands. He saw the one who had built it alone: Viviane, daughter of my heart.

 

He watched as she stood on the very top of the tower, swaying despite its sturdiness, gazing at the forest and the grass below. It was time for her to go, he knew, to continue his work.

 

Instead, she spoke. These words were spoken for their own sake, not to be heard; they were in the old language of the land, the language that the old man had taught to her. "It is finished," she said, "and I am finished. I have no heart to go on."

 

And obliging, as if those words had made her wish take shape, the wind plucked her from the tower and cast her to the bottom.

 

No! cried the old man, and even in sleep his words had power. The tower shook; cracks appeared in the solid rock, while below the ground melted and flowed, swallowing the foundations as a bed of quicksand swallows a lump of metal; and then it was gone.

 

The old man thought, I shall sleep here forever, then; no-one in this land has the power to wake me.

 

He could sleep, but he could not stop the dreams. He dreamt the truth; and for so long he had counted it a curse, then a blessing, now a curse again. He heard the King proclaiming, "Now is the hour of the glory of Logres!" - and he saw the grail pass over the round table. Do not follow it! he cried out in his silence; it will never be yours! You will be ruined.

 

He saw an unearthly image: that every knight who had sat at that table lay on the battlefield, each one slain by another. He saw the King, lying in his own blood, and the folk of Avalon gathering around, whispering to him in his weakness as they had in his life: "Return it to the Lady of the Lake, lest she demand your soul."

 

What have you done, Mordred? Stop them!

 

He saw the Lady steal both the sword and the soul of the King, and take them through the lake, into the Isle of Avalon in the Sky of Faerie. All is lost, he mourned; give me my peace as well.

 

And the last story ended, and the old man slept, for there were none in the world who could wake him.

[̊ ˉˉ ̊]

The sun was rising in the sky. As the temperature rises, Klaushush awakens inside his small mudbrick house. After a quick meal of some elderberries, he decides to go on a walk to the lake to refill his canteen.

 

Now with a full canteen, Klaushush sits under a tree by the lake, and watches the wildlife. He has always wondered why there seem to be so many animals around here. Klaushush looks up and notices the sun is now in the middle of the sky, time to check his fish traps.

 

Klaushush's first trap was empty, but the second & third each had seven fish in them. He put the fish in a basket to bring back to his mudbrick house to make into his supper.

 

His belly full, Klaushush decides to take a nap.

[Midtime]

It is a dream and a fantasy, the old man thought; for dreams pass, and all things pass, and who was he to tell the difference?

 

- but it was more than a dream, of course, and soon a voice called to him, impossibly, soothingly, like the long-silent song of the sirens, luring him through the musty, befouled depths of his millennial slumber; yet this was no song, but a single word - spoken by that inhuman, melodious, hypnotic voice; it was utterly, unnervingly irreconcilable with any of the many peoples and tales with which he had met.

 

Feebly struggling was not his way; so he gave in, and the voice called his name, shaping the syllables out of alien pitches, until it seemed hardly his own at all. He opened his eyes, and did not need to rise, for he had fallen asleep upon his staff, and crooked and aged though it might be, it had not rotted here, where the darkling dust lay inches thick on the invisible floor of his dull tower of dead stone.

 

Except that it was not invisible - as he looked up he saw a flash of brilliant white, and the last of nine lusciously furred tails vanishing into the cracked wall. "Who are you to wake me?" he wheezed, striking the ground with his staff.

 

The creature did not halt; but he heard that faint, beautiful voice say, "One not of this world, and a messenger of many." And there was a bright, chuckling yip that receded into the stone, like the ghost of a court jester's smile.

 

He asked no more questions; where he should go and what he should do were clearer to him than the knowledge that it was springtime in Britannia. He struck the staff against the ground once again, this time uttering a word in the speech of the land - it was a word of power when he spoke it, and boomed against the stone walls like the roar of a furnace. The tower of stone began to move.

 

The earth heaved, and then erupted as with a mighty vengeance, the tower of stone exploding out of the ground of the meadow, raining apocalyptic terror on the few game that grazed there. As they fled, it rose into the sky, majestic and frightening.

 

Its sturdiness was long gone; it swayed, and then crumpled outwards. There was an avalanche of rubble from the sky, and then nothing.

 

The old man stood, unmoved, in the centre of the destruction. "Viviane," he said. How had he grown so attached to one girl? - as if she had been his own heart; as if it begged him not to leave, lest he never come back.

 

No. It would not do. It would not do! He, the Bard, could not have such folly weighing down his mind. He must be ready.

 

And so, without hesitation, Myrddin Emrys - Immortal Merlin - cast off the guise of the old man; he wove a new glamour, out of all that was around him. He took the trills of birdsong and the scent of fresh grass, the plethoric colour of the new bloom, everything up to and down to the life of the most delicate serpent twisting in the dirt; it was a transfixing sight, though he would let no-one see it.

 

And the form that emerged at last was that of a young boy, fair perhaps beyond imagining, blonde-haired and light-skinned; he wore a snakeskin robe, with caramel-and-brown curves at once accenting and obscuring his presence, flowing as he moved; about his shoulders was a strange shawl, a pure white garment entirely of woven fox-fur, and as light as smoke.

 

He smiled, and looked to the West with fathomless, all-seeing eyes. "It is time to return," he declared, "to the land wherein the Goodfount lies, to the land of my birthplace - to the people that cast my mother out and called me cursed!"

 

Myrddin folded himself into the air, and let the wind carry him to where the next story, he knew, would begin.

 

Behind him he left the concentric ruin of a grand tower, which buried the crushed, mangled body of a foolish old man.

[antiaircraft]

It was, of course, inevitable that Darwin would eventually have to get at least some work done. So once the sun was high in the sky, he once again got out of bed (more gracefully this time), packed a morsel to eat, and headed out to perform his duties. Guiding millions of departed souls in their next steps was no easy task: each soul had to be handled individually, with the utmost attention to detail. Darwin's absent-mindedness only served to further compound the time taken to get the job done, so clearing the latest batch was an arduous task that took weeks to complete. However, it was Death on the job after all - the aforementioned weeks took barely an instant to pass.

 

It was as he was escorting the last of his charges (34 year old male Native American, natural causes) that Darwin felt it. There was something odd in the air of eastern America.

 

Something's boiling on the horizon here, Darwin sighed. More work for me of course. I'd better stick around so I can get it out of the way.

[Midtime]

The wind unfolded with the sound of rustling feathers, and Myrddin stepped out onto a bed of dead leaves and pine-needles. A cooling breeze held steady, rustling the foliage; it was the same here, one might think, as it had been when he had left.

 

But no; he tasted the wind here. He fingered a dewdrop that had formed on the grass. Cold they were, cold and dead - the air and the water, and to him the grass had lost its colour.

 

"They have departed forever," whispered Myrddin to himself, "and where do they stay? - for they were driven out. Driven out!"

 

He tore out the heartless grass, and stalked away, scattering it about him.

 

In time he came to a stream, which wandered where it had not before. He bent down and scooped up a handful of its water, to gaze into its depths.

 

Just as it carries silt and gravel and floating leaves and twigs, the flow of water brings grains of memory down its length, stories from times further up and places farther away; to Myrddin, who knew the art, it told many of those stories, and upon a better time it would have told him where it was going. Now, though it was never as clear as it had been before, he made out many images, as if the last fragments of the water's soul had left him a final message in the strange reflections and patterns he saw.

 

It was not enough. He looked up, and obligingly the trees almost parted, letting through a single shaft of sun, which fell on the water, casting rippling patterns on his hand.

 

Midew?

 

"Giizisoog," said Myrddin.

 

For a brief moment then, words were abandoned; Myrddin's eyes fluttered as an outpouring of rage blazed through his soul. The water boiled in an instant and vanished.

 

So that is how it is, he thought, and stood. Around the Great Lakes they shall be found.

[antiaircraft]

((I see you've been hard at work researching the associated mythology Jasper. :P ))

[Midtime]

((I've tried... The Midewiwin is just one of three religious societies in one of twenty-five North American tribes. If I'm even going to make a pretence of historical accuracy, I have my work cut out for me; the Midewiwin is rather secretive, and to properly investigate certain parts of the religion I would probably need to pass the initiation and become a midew...

 

I'm only using Wikipedia right now; anyone who knows a more concise or coherent source of any sort of information on native Americans is more than welcome to mention it. Exact information on dress would be very appreciated.))

 

Myrddin followed the stream south-west, now and again finding breaks in the forest, always slightly down-hill. It passed by the carcasses of dead trunks and on occasion a wandering deer or a lone wolf; each time Myrddin had only to make a sound and they would flee. Birds fell silent at his approach, and small creatures scampered away through the grass. They fear me, to whom they once gathered freely as if around a fount of water. They know no better.

 

How they have fallen.

 

Myrddin crushed a spider beneath his foot. I know who is responsible! Well does the Giizisoog regret his deed, and well do I regret my own.

 

He came across it at last, when the stream found a clearing in the forest; a midewigaam, domed and with its entrances to the east and west, as tradition dictated.. As he approached the structure a man ducked out of it and, noticing him, called out. "Who are you?" The words were spoken in English; the man must have thought him an outsider. Truly, I am closer to the land than you are.

 

((This makes it likely that they are part of the same village as was subjugated by the settlers that Price is associated with. I'm quite sure not all the colonists spoke English. Your decision, Will. :P))

 

Myrddin did not pause; he strode down with indifferent speed until he was about four feet from the medicine man. In Omàmiwininìmowin, he said, "I think you know who I am." He stared directly into the medicine man's eyes, and let him see what was within.

 

The man fell to his knees. Pitiful, Myrddin thought. The better of your ancestors knew me to be less than least among the manitòk.

 

In speech, he told him, "Send the news, then, that I have returned; I, whom you called Matwau, the Undying." He smiled. "Take this," he added, unwrapping his shawl from around his shoulders, "and place it on the blanket of the midewigaan. If you are midew, it shall not harm you."

 

The midewinini accepted it without hesitation, and nearly ran back to the midewigaan; at this time, he would not be alone. Myrddin watched motionless as he went inside. He knew the man had done as he had told when twin gouts of flame exploded out of the lodge and devoured the whole of it.

 

"None shall know that I have returned," he said to the land as he strode down to the ashes, "who have not kept the midewiwin."

 

He paused only to take up his shawl and wrap it around himself again, the ends trailing ghostly in the breeze; then he walked onwards, following the stream.

[antiaircraft]

((I think you're going to have to include a quick glossary in your posts Jasper. :P *runs to Wikipedia*))

[Midtime]

((It may be inaccurate... surprising as it may be, I don't know Anicinàpemowin (also called Omàmiwininìmowin; the primary language of the Algonquin, the most north-eastern people of the Anishinaabeg). I've chosen the Algonquin as the people Myrddin first meets because he arrives northeast of the Great Lakes, which are in the north-east area of North America and more or less indicate the area inhabited by the Anishinaabe tribe. The Algonquin take up the most north-eastern area of Anishinaabeg territory, and conveniently are almost entirely practitioners of the Midewiwin, the Grand Medicine Society, which I've found most convenient to research into. The Anishinaabeg in general do practice the Midewiwin, but not entirely; and due to heavy persecution by settlers, the other two societies went into hiding long ago, and very little is known about them even now. Myrddin was born to the Algonquin.

 

As for the glossary:

 

Giizisoog - Sun Spirit, mentioned in the Midewiwin founding tale as a spirit (strictly, manidoo) who incarnated to impart the midewiwin to mankind to protect them from sickness by order of the Gichi Manidoo (roughly, 'Great Spirit'). He was aided by a talking bear; in my alteration, this was Myrddin. I'm not sure if the word is meant to be capitalised, but it is a proper noun, from giizis for 'sun' and the prefix (?) soog.

 

gichi - lit. great, cognitively associated with concepts of exceeding enormity and grandeur. Lake Superior is called 'Gichigami' by the native Americans, meaning simply 'great lake'.

 

manitòk, manitou, manidoo, other variations - In its simplest form, designates a 'spirit', a supernatural entity of nature; it can also refer to the intrinsic and universal element of life, and balance of that element, that is central to the animistic native American religions, which believe that it pervades all things, even machines. In my alteration, the manidoog left America long ago for plot-related reasons.

 

Matwau - an Algonquian name meaning 'adversary'.

 

mide - a close cognate of terms such as 'mystery', 'mysterious', 'sanctimonious', 'sacred', 'spiritual' and 'ceremonial'. It seems to be used both as a noun and an adjective, so that's how I will use it; I will impose on it, for lack of better understanding for now, the impression of 'holiness or sanctimony to the manitou', transcending the association with one religious society. Many of the following words are obviously derived from it.

 

midew - originally, one who practices the Midewiwin. I impose on it the same shift of meaning as on mide. A male practitioner is called a midewinini, and a female practitioner a midewikwe.

 

midewiwin - lit. 'the state of being in/of mide'. Also the name of what is otherwise termed the Grand Medicine Society.

 

midewigaan, mide-wiigiwaam, midewigamig - lit. 'mide lodge', 'mide wigwam' and 'mide structure' respectively ('wigwam' is derived from the native American term). The first is neutral; the second indicates that the lodge is relatively small, while the third indicates that it is quite large. Ceremonial structures in the Midewiwin, in which midew gather; I'm still searching for some light to be shed on its precise purpose, but much ceremony is apparently involved in the nuances of its design. I may have to correct my posts if any new information comes to light. :D

 

Omàmiwininìmowin - derived from Omàmiwinini, a name of the Algonquian people, and mowin, apparently meaning 'tongue, language'. A more 'specific' name than Anicinàpemowin.

 

More entries likely to come.

 

Oh, and the incident that Myrddin just caused is meant to alert both Darwin (several midewininig died) and possibly Alan's group. This should in theory lead to a meeting, and Myrddin isn't about to avoid one. Don't worry, he's not extraordinarily dangerous, despite appearances.))

[antiaircraft]

Darwin materialised lazily next to a quiet, tinkling stream. He continued materialising lazily for several seconds, until an acrid smell prompted him to reluctantly jerk himself fully into reality. He sniffed the air tentatively. Yes, the smell was definitely there. And it was definitely acrid. He sighed. Where there's smoke, there's fire, and humans in proximity to fire tended to acquire the unfortunate trait of being dead - even the careful ones eventually.

 

Pausing only to sip a little water from the stream, build an impromptu bed out of a convenient pile of dead leaves, and nap for a quarter of an hour, Darwin proceeded towards the burnt remains of the lodge without hesitation. What he found was not a very pleasant sight. It was especially... charred, even by human standards. And the souls inside weren't in the best of shape either. Nevertheless, he helped them up and out, making idle chit chat in the comforting way that most professional Deaths do.

 

Just as he was about to proceed with the next leg of the journey, Darwin abruptly stopped and turned back. He sniffed the air once more.

 

Yes, that smell was indeed unusually acrid...

[Midtime]

On his way down to the lakes, Myrddin paused to an acute sense of disquiet.

 

It was not the first time he had snuffed out lives; but it was certainly nothing he was accustomed to. He knew that the life of a creature was all the more valuable for its brevity. He had faced that knowledge down before; once for the story, twice for his heart's sake. Never before, though, had he felt the acute rage that had directed his decision this time.

 

Still, it was not his heart that troubled him now, not after its recent renewal. What did he feel? - it was a tugging at his own soul, something eerie and looming, a fearful force that made the threads of mide thrum.

 

He had felt that call before. He feared it, if without due cause. It had granted him all the time he had asked for; and more, surely?

 

Gathering his shawl tighter, Myrddin quickened his pace as he approached the village of the Algonquin.

 

((Will, ⊙▃⊙, this would be a good time for you to post. :P))