The peoples

Three peoples.
No two agree.

Nobody agrees on what the peoples are. Everybody agrees on what they are not: not beasts, not costumes. Neighbours — with their own songs, their own grudges, their own coasts and cliffs. What they are is a question you'll be asked at three different fires, and answered three different ways.

Rah'nas

Came up from the water. Kept what the sea let them keep.

The drowned coast is theirs: stilt towns lashed to the bones of towers older than any song. They count wealth in nets, weather and grudges, and their smiles are honest — every one of those teeth means it.

Asked what they are: “Every answer has a price. That one isn't worth what you'd pay for it.”

The drowned coast at dusk: a spired stilt-hall over amber shallows, net-hung walkways, lamps coming on.
Their groundThe Drowned Coast

Concept sheets: female ↗ · male ↗

Rah'nas woman, full figure: grey scaled skin, red fin-crest, salvage harness and coral-studded shoulder guard.
Rah'nas man, full figure: broad grey-scaled frame in leather harness, fin crest raised, denticle skin catching the light.

Faces of the coast

An old Rah'nas woman under a knotted salt-cloth head wrap, her faded fin-crest rising above it: fine scale across one cheek, notched gill-scars down the neck, a half-smile of dark needle teeth, nets and mooring stakes behind her at dusk.
Net-mender, flood-lineThe oldest knots on the coast are hers.
A young Rah'nas man just surfaced in a drowned harbour, water running off grey-green scaled skin: a crest of red-tipped fin-spines, gill lines down the neck, a rope across one shoulder, and a wide grin of interlocking needle teeth.
Diver, second castFirst down, last up, still grinning.
A heavy, laughing Rah'nas fishwife at her gutting table, arms crossed in bloodied leather bracers: red fin-spine crest, gill-lines down a thick neck, grey denticle skin, a gap-toothed grin of pointed teeth, stilt houses and moored boats behind.
Fishwife, gutting tableNobody argues with her scales. Or her prices.
A young Rah'nas rope-hand at the waterline coiling a heavy line, red crest bristling: gill-lines fresh and unscarred, scale patterning down thin arms, flooded pilings and beached boats in the evening light behind.
Rope-hand, first castKnows every knot. Trusts about half of them.
A massive Rah'nas veteran at dusk, greying red-tipped crest and deep gill-striations, small under-teeth showing over his lip: a knife-hung bandolier across bare shoulders, salvage docks and hulls behind him in the last light.
Wall of the third castBeen under longer than most stay up.
A weary middle-aged Rah'nas lamplighter lit from below by the lamp she carries, tall red fin-spine crest laid back, gill-striations down a lined throat, grey scale patterning across her cheek and jaw; soot on her hands and a worn work apron.
Lamplighter, upper laneWalks it lit every night. Has never once said why.

Tigerian

Highland-born. The cold made them patient. Nothing else could.

They hold the high stone — walls above the cloud line, braziers answering each other across the passes. A Tigerian promise is slow to come and slower to break, and their banded fur is worn like a record of winters survived.

Asked what they are: “The record keeps what happened. It does not keep why. It is not argued with.”

Highland hold terraces above a sea of cloud, braziers burning, banners strung between poles.
Their groundThe Highland Holds

Concept sheets: female ↗ · male ↗

Tigerian woman, full figure: banded fur under scaled leather armour, tail low, stance set.
Tigerian man, full figure: heavy layered hide armour over tawny banded fur, gold clan tabard at the belt.

Faces of the holds

A Tigerian matriarch, dark banding across her face and bare forearms, white streaking her braided hair: a fur-mantled cloak pinned with a worn bronze disc, her gaze set past the frame, hold banners and an autumn valley behind her.
Matriarch of the gate-hallThree holds answer when she doesn't raise her voice.
A young Tigerian man in profile at dusk, banding on his cheeks and throat, hair tied back off his feline ears: a long iron fire-hook over one shoulder, wall braziers burning along the rampart behind him.
Brazier-keeper, night wallThe wall's fire, kept nightly.
A Tigerian huntress on a rampart at sunrise, bow over her shoulder: bold dark banding lying across her open face and bare arms, gold eyes looking off-frame, feline ears in loose wind-blown hair, banner towers and autumn forest below.
Huntress of the passThe pass counts her arrows. It has never counted a miss.
A Tigerian youth hefting an armful of split firewood through a hold lane: faint first banding on his face, striped forearms and tail, feline ears in dark hair, tiger-painted banners and woodsmoke behind.
Wood-carrier, gate laneEvery fire in the hold has eaten from his arms.
An old Tigerian gatekeeper seated against the iron-ringed gate door, hands stacked on a worn staff: heavy banding on a deeply lined face, gorget dulled by years, long grey-streaked hair past his ears, a brazier and banners at his back.
Keeper of the gate-hallThe door is iron. He is the lock.
A Tigerian banner-weaver at her loom-rail, one dye-stained hand drawing a thread high: banding across her face, feline ears through pinned dark hair, a bolt of woven banners over her arm, the hold wall warm behind her.
Banner-weaver, high terraceEvery hold banner on the pass has passed through her hands.

Zu'bat

Hears you long before it sees you. Smiles anyway.

Their cities hang inside sinkholes and ring like instruments — doors carved with ears, lanterns of amber resin, songs pitched for stone. A Zu'bat in lamplight looks fragile. The dark disagrees.

Asked what they are: “Before is a direction, not a place. The count starts where you stand.”

The warren: a vast carved cavern city, one blade of daylight falling from the surface opening, lanterns in the dark tiers.
Their groundThe Sinkhole Warrens

Concept sheets: female ↗ · male ↗

Zu'bat woman, full figure: dark practical gear, wing membrane folded along the forearms, tall ears alert.
Zu'bat man, full figure: lean build, red-membraned ears and forearm wings, salvage lantern at the hip.

Faces of the warrens

A Zu'bat woman mid-song, eyes closed and mouth open, great veined membrane ears spread wide: a dark pelt mask across her eyes and nose, lantern-light on her throat, warren tiers rising into the dark behind her.
Echo-singer, third tierShe sings the dark into shape.
An old Zu'bat man, deep-lined grey-mauve face with the dark eye-mask worn to mottling, tall notched membrane ears: a caged amber resin lantern on a staff at his shoulder, the lamplit warren cliffs behind him.
Lamp-warden, deep stairEvery lamp on his tier outlives the night.
A Zu'bat runner mid-stride on a rope bridge over the warren gulf, grinning: tall torn-edged membrane ears, dark pelt mask across the eyes, grey-mauve skin, a satchel strapped tight, lanterns burning in the dark tiers behind.
Span-runner, mid-gulfThe bridges bounce. She doesn't.
A young Zu'bat forgehand at his bench over a glowing worked blade: wide ridged membrane ears, hard-edged pelt mask, wing membrane folded along both forearms, leather apron, the lantern-lit warren falling away behind him.
Forgehand, second tierWorks metal by ear. The metal sings back.
An old Zu'bat moss-keeper combing a wall of glowing amber moss with a bone comb: scalloped torn membrane ears, pelt mask over deep-set eyes, wing membrane draped from her thin arms, lanterns and rope bridges in the dark beyond.
Moss-keeper, low galleriesThe moss grows where she tells it. Slowly. Politely.
An ancient Zu'bat listener seated with eyes closed, a tally-cloth of stroke-marks across his knees: one great torn membrane ear turned to the dark, pelt mask faded with age, beads and pendulum-weights at his neck, the warren's lanterns far below.
Listener, deep seatHe has heard the valley say things it denies saying.

Made by hand

What the fire is kept with

A net-mender's kit laid out on weathered planks: carved netting needles, a coiled pale line, a strip of leather.
The coastA net is knots and patience
A small loom holding a half-woven hold banner in rust, olive and bone stripes, the comb resting in the warp.
The holdsA banner is a year of evenings
A masked Zu'bat in a leather apron pouring hot amber resin into a lantern shell at a bridge-side bench.
The warrensA lamp is poured, not lit

The callings

Berserker. Witch. Hunter.

Three callings, open to every people. Whose hands they end up in is yours to decide.

More than that is not yet ours to tell.