Zå had been sick for a very long time.  Her body was old and polluted.  She was dieing, and though Her children had known the truth for a very long time, still none dared admit it.  Nightly, They came to Her side, and tended to Her needs, and tried to ease Her pain.  They thrilled Her weakening mind with the old songs—songs She sang when Her children were newborn—and the first stories—stories about the creation of all that came before Her.

Mother Zå’s body was weak and saddened.  Her blood was poisoned with sickness, and infection and worms had spread throughout Her corrupt flesh.  The time of Her death grew closer.

Among the gods—the countless children of Zå—two were held the highest.  Shining Moar, personification of light and strength, leader and champion, and bitter Jostumal, jealous that His brother represented all that He lacked.

It was Zå’s good son, Moar, who one day found yet more new life upon Her body as He was bathing Her hands.  Their white bodies writhed in her wounds, helpless and blind, covered in their own filth and stunned by their own ignorance.  They bore no claws or teeth like the Anwar Clobyn.  Their skin was thin, their muscles weak.  The races that had grown first upon Zå victimized and tormented them.  The traellern consumed their bodies and drank their blood.  The alfs stole their water and sank their roots deep into their bones.  The ahrounoi tore them apart… and put them back together.  Yet, somehow, Moar found some nobility in their bare faces, fire in their spirits, and keen potential in their minds.

Grim Jostumal, the jealous outsider, was outraged by this new infection and picked the tiny bodies from Zå’s flesh, crushing them between His black-mailed fingers.  But before He could slay them all, Moar managed to save one.  This one creature, He named Taibhsear, the First Man, and hid him from the others within the deepest recesses of His mother’s body.

In quiet, Moar taught Taibhsear the mysteries of Mother Zå.  First He taught him knowledge of the universe, of fire and water and air and earth, of the planets and the stars and the winds that blow between them.  He whispered the dreams of the Moon and the Sun, of mana and the Great Void.  He taught the language of the anima within all things and how to compel them to do his bidding.  He taught of these things so Taibhsear may control them rather than be subject to them.

Then He taught the Man the language of the wild spirits and the means to summon and control them.  He taught him how to hear and see the currents of magic flowing between all things and how to pluck them like the strings of a vielle.

He taught Taibhsear how to honor the memory of Zå upon Her passing, how to tend to Her corpse and prevent Her flesh from succumbing to the other races populating it, and how to worship Her children and garner Their favors.  He taught him all of the old songs and the first stories, so they may be passed along to future generations.  Together, they became friends and bathed their hands in cream in the honored memory of Zå.

For centuries, Taibhsear walked the flesh of Zå, always exploring, always learning—sometimes warring with the other great Tribes, other times making peace—but always, he was alone.  One day, he appealed to Moar and asked for companionship.  He sought one who was like him.  One who did not run like the animals.  One who did not change with the seasons or breathe the soil as if it were air or live in darkness lest the touch of the sun turn them to stone.

Moar understood Taibhsear’s loneliness, but there was little He could do.  The power of Creation was not in His hands.  Once, Zå held that power, but now She is gone.  There was only one other left in the universe with such powers.  Moar told Taibhsear of Dræk-Gokh, the great Dragon of Life and mother of all the creatures that infested Zå.  With each egg She laid, new life was created—and as it cooled and its shell hardened, She whispered its Name, and that Name is held sacred and secret by all who are born to it—with each egg She laid, a new Tribe was born.  Taibhsear understood this, for he was the last of the Tribe of Man, and only he knew its Name.  Moar told Taibhsear, should he be able to acquire one of Dræk-Gokh’s eggs and return with it, perhaps his request could be fulfilled.

Promptly, Taibhsear left and journeyed long to Xume'r Sa-rk—the Unfinished Lands—where the body of Zå still throbbed and rocked with change.  There, at the center of that fertile chaos, he found the great blue coils of Dræk-Gokh, the Dragon of Life.  This was where all life upon Zå began—where Her fatal sickness began—and where all change, benign and malign, was born.  Taibhsear watched in awe as the great body writhed and twisted, and a new egg fell to join the others.

Taibhsear was standing before this scene, considering what he should do next and how he should obtain an egg, when a great voice bellowed, “Are you to claim your prize through thievery or through bravery and honor?”

Looking up, Taibhsear saw the terrible eyes of Dræk-Gokh staring down upon him.  “Honor and bravery,” he replied with all that he could muster.

“And what is it you seek?” the great dragon roared.

“One of Your eggs,” he replied, “so that everlasting Moar might make a companion for me.”

“With each egg that hatches,” Dræk-Gokh scoffed, “one great Tribe is born.  One of My eggs has already given birth to your kind.  Why should you deserve another?”

“All others that are like me have been killed,” Taibhsear answered sadly, “slain by the hand of Jostumal, and I am alone in the world.  When I die, the egg that spawned me will have been lost forever.  I ask only that You give my kind another chance.”

“All of your kind has died?” Dræk-Gokh asked in fury, “Then perhaps it was meant to be!  Change destroys as well as creates.  The young are swallowed up as easily as the old are nurtured.  It was by My hand that mother Zå was destroyed.  It is the way of things, and not even I can forestall Fate.  For Me to attempt it is foolhardy.  For you to request it is insulting.  If your kind is meant to die, Man, I shall not waste another egg on you.”

“No!” Taibhsear shouted, “My kind may be flawed, but all that I lack, my partner would possess, and for all that they lack, I shall possess.  Together, we shall be greater than our separate parts.  This I pledge to You!”

These wise words and many others were exchanged between the two, and Dræk-Gokh eventually consented.  Taibhsear returned with the dragon’s egg, and Moar was greatly joyous.  He stayed true to His promise to help Taibhsear and told the man to bury the egg in a field where pale asphodel grew.  Then he was to spill his seed upon the soil and whisper the name of his Tribe, so only he and his new companion would know it.

Eagerly, Taibhsear undertook the task.  He found the field and buried the egg.  He spilled his seed and let it mix with the earth, but when it came time to whisper the name, a black raven lighted upon a nearby tree.  It inquired as to Taibhsear’s purpose, and the Man admitted he was endeavoring to create for himself a companion.  All that was needed was for him to repeat the name of his Tribe.  The raven shrieked and ruffled its feathers.  “Who is to say,” it replied, “That this new companion is worthy of such a burden?  Far better it is that you wait and speak the word later.”

Taibhsear considered these words, for the raven was persuasive.  In the end, he agreed to wait and left the egg without saying the Name.

Upon Taibhsear’s return the next night, he found a new creature laying among the moonlight flowers.  She was like him in stature and disposition, but strangely different in form.  She was wise in some ways, foolish in others, strong and yet weak, stubborn and yet compliant.  She was the perfect match for the Man.  Thus was born Boria, the first woman and daughter of Taibhsear.  Her awareness and maturity were complete and perfect upon birth, and immediately, Taibhsear began teaching her all that Moar had taught him.  Together, they were happy for a very long time.

At this time, it was the habit of grim Jostumal to stalk Zå’s forests in search of new prey for His cruel games.  On some of these occasions, He would catch sight of a pale, beautiful figure dashing through the trees.  Each time, He would pursue it, but He could never overtake it.  One day on His hunts, He heard singing unlike anything He had heard before.  His cold heart nearly breaking at its beauty, He followed the song to a pool of Zå’s purest tears.  There, bathing in its waters, He saw Boria clearly for the first time.

The form of Taibhsear held no pleasure for Jostumal—Man was awkward and foolish, too apelike to be Fée, too cunning to be animal, too soft to be Anwar Clobyn—but this figure was strangely, delightfully different.  So alike Taibhsear, but so different in so many wonderful ways, in Jostumal’s twisted soul, emotions like desire, envy, greed, lust, and adoration struggled and mixed.  For the first time in His bleak existence, perhaps, He experienced love.

Hearing His sighs, Boria spied Jostumal and fled the pool, but it was too late.  The god’s heart was aflame, and He vowed by whatever means she would become His.

Naked and frightened, Boria fled to her home.  There, she found her father breaking bread with Moar.  The beneficent god was visiting to see how His offspring had fared thus far, and the two were laughing and embracing warmly and bathing each other’s hands in the finest cream.  But when Moar laid eyes on the blushing maid, His great heart shuddered, and all thoughts of conversation were lost.  Never could He imagine such a beautiful creature walking beneath the gods.  Such a maid should walk in the Heavens as a goddess and not scrounge in the dirt with the other parasites of Zå.

Hurridly, He completed His business with Taibhsear and left, but the image of the woman still lingered with Moar, even long after He had returned to the Jekhipe Ring.  There, He embraced His brooding brother Jostumal—for in the Ring, all past crimes and offenses were forgotten, and even one such as Jostumal was welcome—and called for lovi’nä ale and poteen and pi’bati nectar.  He called for dudu’m, maczo, venison, and beef.  He and Jostumal bathed Their hands in the richest smente’nä and shouted to the memory of Their departed mother, Zå.

“What cause can You have, dear brother,” Jostumal laughed, for He was in good humor too, “to raise so many toasts and bathe Our hands so many times?”

“How wise I was to spare the Man, Taibhsear!” Moar answered happily, “How fortunate I am to have saved his kind from Your menace!  How generous I was to help him produce offspring!  I have discovered a wondrous thing, brother, and it makes My heart complete!”

Jostumal drank from His brother’s cup and touched His forehead.  For once, the dark god was willing to hear His brother’s empty prattling.  Today, Jostumal was patient because He had good news as well.  He was eager to tell Moar of His sighting of Boria and of His love for her and His plans on how to win her.  “My heart fills with happiness for You, good Moar,” He said, “and I too have great tidings to tell.  Speak of Yours first, and then I will tell You mine!  And We shall both bathe our hands and drink to the name of Zå!”

“The man, Taibhsear, has produced a daughter,” Moar answered, “A creature whose beauty is worthy of the highest praise.  Her skin is of the purest white, her fingers and toes long and slender, her breasts firm and rounded, with teats like the palest rose, and long hair softer than the softest feather down.  She is swift and strong, with a mind that is quick and wise, and a tongue that can sing the sweetest songs or recount the saddest tales.  A fair match even for a god, I think!  I tell You, brother, come morning I shall go to the Man and request he give her to Me to be My consort.”

As the good god Moar spoke, Jostumal realized He was speaking of His love, and He felt His heart close and freeze with bitter jealousy.  Whatever dim spark had burned in His soul was slowly extinguished forever.  Even as He smiled and drank to His brother’s good fortune, He began His plans of treachery and murder.  Though the gods did not realize it then, at that moment, Their Jekhipe was broken forever.

“Now You have heard My news,” Moar finished, “So tell Me the good tidings You bring as well!”

Jostumal smiled at His brother, though bloody vengeance now raged in His heart.  “I am ashamed,” He admitted, “For what I had foreseen as auspicious, now pales in comparison to Your tidings.  I witnessed merely the stalking and killing of a hare by a ringcat, and it put Me into a pleasant mood.”

Jostumal embraced Moar and filled Their cups with the finest lovi’nä.  Clever was He, and He convinced Moar that He should be His emissary in dealing with Taibhsear.  Moar agreed immediately, for He knew that few others could convince the Man to relinquish his beautiful prize than the clever-tongued Jostumal.

Moar’s engagement gifts in hand, Jostumal journeyed alone to Taibhsear’s home.  There, the Man greeted Him graciously but cautiously, for he had not forgotten the god’s murderous tendencies.  Moar’s petition quickly forgotten, Jostumal presented the gifts as His own and pled to Taibhsear for Boria’s hand.  Jostumal’s words were clever and well spoken, but Taibhsear was far from convinced.  Jostumal’s habits were well known to the tribes of Zå, and they knew He held no love for any of their kind.  Taibhsear was not about to hand over his only daughter to such a creature, and he told Him said so.  Harsh words were exchanged, and Taibhsear defied the god.  Jostumal was enraged.  The air around Him burned, and thunder rocked the modest home.  With little thought, He struck the Man down in bloody murder.

Death as we know it did not yet exist, and Jostumal knew His crime would be revealed if Taibhsear’s spirit was not somehow appeased or silenced.  Gathering His darkest powers, He captured the Man’s soul and imprisoned it in the Whispering Realm, where all are merely shadows of reality, where Taibhsear could not interfere in His plans.  Three gates to our world stand in the Whispering Realm:  a gate of horn, a gate of ivory, and a gate of bone.  Taibhsear screamed into each, he screamed for his daughter, he screamed to Moar, but he knew not when or how his warnings would reach them.  His words could be heard but not understood, and none knew from whence they came or from whom.  He could watch all that occurred in our world as if from a great distance, but he could do nothing to stop it.

Moar was greatly saddened at the disappearance of Taibhsear.  Five times He sacrificed the best rams to His mother, Zå.  Five times She remained silent, for She knew to answer His questions, She must betray Her second son, Jostumal.  In time, Moar surrendered His search for Taibhsear and returned His attentions to wooing Boria.

The times following Taibhsear’s disappearance had been hard for Boria.  Without the strengths of her father, the Tribe of Man was once again incomplete and endangered.  To make matters worse, her Tribe’s name had been lost, for Taibhsear was the only one who had known it.  Anwar Clobyn howled at her door, hungry for the taste of her blood.  Alfs raided her crops.  Ahrounoi and traellern stalked her at every turn.  Shades haunted her with their songs and threatened to drive her mad.  All around her home, storms raged, and her walls shook.  Boria prayed for release, she prayed for her father’s return, she prayed for the return of the gentle god, Moar.

At that moment, the storms ceased, and there was a great pounding upon her door.  Boria leapt to her feet.  Could it be her father returning at last?  Could it be Moar to take her into His warm embrace?  Sadly, it was not to be.  Opening the door, she saw the menacing visage of Jostumal.  Long denied, His intent was to force Himself upon her.

Boria’s screams alerted Moar, who was arriving to woo the maid as well.  Enraged, He drove the interloper away, who in His haste, barely had time to take up His pants.  Afterwards, Moar attempted to soothe the woman, but after her rape, she was in no mind to hear His words of love, and Moar was forced to retreat as well.

And so it began, two brothers attempting to woo one woman.  Each doing only what He knows best to win her heart.  Each failing to provide what she needed most.  As Boria struggled to defend her food from a pack of wolves, Moar uttered flowery music and poetry.  As she laid shivering in the cold nights of her empty home, Jostumal shouted drunken threats at her window.  As she fought off raiding bands of alfs, she was in no mood to hear Moar’s attempt at logic and reason, and when Jostumal disguised Himself as Taibhsear, her fury was unmatched when she finally saw through the charms.

Moar and Jostumal were both near despair.  Both loved this woman, and yet both seemed incapable of winning her over.  Both realized they must present to her some great gift.

For His gift, Moar believed His only option was to make a great sacrifice and offer Boria something of Himself.  He traveled to the Unfinished Lands and appealed to Dræk-Gokh.  He told Her He sought a way to provide Boria with a gift beyond all others, a gift of undeniable love.  He wished to give up a piece of Himself as proof of that love.  Only Dræk-Gokh held the power and wisdom to do such things to a god, and She agreed on the condition that this race, this nameless, twice-birthed Tribe of Men would in part belong to Her as well.  It was a heavy price to pay, but passion for the woman burned in Moar’s heart, and at last, He consented.  The pact sealed, Dræk-Gokh burned Moar with Her terrible breath and drew in His soul almost unto His destruction, and then after much straining, she laid a new egg.  This one glowed with divine light, for it was sired partways from a god.  Its shining glory was a perfect match for the beauty of Boria, and Moar carried it away to His bride-to-be.

For His gift, jealous Jostumal pursued a different path.  Unwilling to give up anything of His own, He sought to steal a prize for the lady.  He recalled how she used to marvel upon the might of Moar, how she thrilled to the tales of battle and courage related by Taibhsear.  To His knowledge, Jostumal knew of no others stronger, braver, or greater in battle than the mighty Curaco, hardened warrior and peacemaker.  From His forges, all weapons are born, the implements of war, the enforcers of peace.  The Great Deceiver watched as Curaco worked the blazing rods in His furnace, be they silver, iron, water, stone, or others, and produced works of deadly art not seen before or since.  It is as the Smith turned away to gather a load of silver ore that Jostumal slipped in and stole a weapon.  It was a blade of purest, perfect iron, a barbed slayer of Fée.  Jostumal may have been a great thief, but not even He could escape with a sword unseen.  Mighty Curaco chased Him down and beat Him mercilessly.  Curaco ignored His screams as He brought His tongs down over and over across Jostumal’s shoulders.  When it was over, the stolen sword laid broken by the Trickster’s quivering body, such was the severity of the beating.  “Wrongly have You taken My property!” Curaco bellowed.  “And now, by Your crime, My property is destroyed as well!  Tell Me now, what is it You would have done with such a thing?”  “Infinite apologies,” moaned Jostumal, “I stole the bauble as a gift to win the heart of a mortal!”  Curaco raised the Trickster to His feet and thrust the pieces of iron into His hands.  “Then go,” He said, “and deliver these pieces to Your mortal.  They are useless to Me now, but even broken, they are a gift beyond all measure and worth to a mere mortal.  This You may do only on the condition that any offspring You produce shall revere and honor Me.”  Jostumal had little choice but to agree, and He took his gift, the broken sword, to Boria.

Jostumal and Moar arrived at Boria’s home at the same time.  Both pled their cases before her.  Both offered Their gifts.  Moar proffered His shining sphere of power, part His own soul, part Dræk-Gokh’s.  Jostumal proffered his broken, stolen sword, forged by the hand of Curaco, stolen by the hand of Jostumal.

Boria wept at the gifts, so honored she was.  And greatly torn she was too, for during the long courtship, clumsy as They were, both gods somehow managed to touch her heart.  The darkness of Jostumal fired her soul just as Moar’s light soothed it.  She found, she could not choose just one, and so she consented to wed both.  She bore children from each, and those children wed and bore others, and slowly the name-lost Tribe of Man grew.

Even as she became grandmother, and great grandmother, Boria watched over each child that was born, mindful of how tenuous Man’s existence is and how close her Tribe has come to being wiped out.  Into her Cauldron of Life, she melted Jostumal’s iron and mixed it with Moar’s divine essence.  Continually she stirs it, lest the two separate, for the iron and the light are like oil and water and will not stay joined.  From this cauldron, each child is given a sip upon conception.  Sometimes, she tires and the brew separates, and the portions she ladles out are uneven.  And so, though bloodlines of Moar and Jostumal are now well mixed, often there are those who take after their divine progenitors more than others:  Men of iron, and Men of stone.  Children of Jostumal and children of Moar.  Children of darkness and children of the light.  The Men of stone—the children of Moar—are what are now known as stone-summoners, sorcerers, caragus.  The Men of iron… well, you can guess who they are.

What is known is this:  All men—all members of the nameless Tribe of Man—are born with a little bit of both.  A little stone, a little iron.  A little light, a little darkness.  What is known is this:  Members of all Tribes—Fée, Ešhar, Mask—all things have a vulnerability.  Iron slays Fée, silver slays Darkblood.  But through Moar’s gift, humans have none.  What kills man will kill all other things, but not necessarily the other way around.

What became of these men and gods and women?

For His gift to us—for His gift to Boria—Moar a paid terrible price.  His gift came from His own being, His own soul.  Forever He is diminished and lesser than the other gods.  He can now only take rather than give.  Hence, He became the sad God of Death and Forgetfulness.

Despite the initial intensity of his love of Boria, Jostumal soon lost interest in her and returned to His old ways.  Eventually, He was cast out of the Circle of gods, but not before the damage was done.  What He once loved, now He hates and envies.  Now He waits, sulking in the lands of giants and ice, waiting for the gods to weaken, so He may exact his revenge upon Them and upon us.

Boria was born before the true death was known, and so she lives yet, ever stirring her cauldron, ever giving each Man child a taste.  She watches over all children and women—especially wives and lost children—and if harm comes to them, she makes sure their passing is quick and painless.

Taibhsear too never tasted the true death, and still he wanders the Whispering Realm, searching in vain for a means of escape.  Only he knows the true name of our race, and so that knowledge is lost forever—humankind has no name—we are to remain orphans, without family or legacy.  He still watches over us through his gates, however.  There are three gates in the Whispering Realm:  a gate of horn, a gate of ivory, and a gate of bone, and he calls to us in our dreams through those gates.  To know which gate he called through is to help you in the understanding of his message.  True dreams pass through the gate of horn.  False dreams though the gate of ivory.  Nightmares through the gate of bone.

By the lore of the Dëstör’erde, this is the origin of the stones of sorcerers, the iron that runs through the blood of men, the disappearance of the Tribe of Man’s name, as well as many other mysteries.

* * *

Quietly, Baldruus leans back against the wood of his bunk.  Closing his eyes, he sighs deeply.

Balen frowns and looks up to Guiromélans and asks, “Who are the men of iron?”

But the Raven has long since left.