hex_m_hell

There was, at that time, in the Hinterland, a quite strict tradition by which a chieftain may be selected to rule the Federation of Fifty. In the early days the great house would be packed with delegates. The council of elders would choose from among the people of the federation those they felt most suited to rule, and delegates would choose from among them.

Now, it was known, that some people of the Fifty could not send delegates. There was much argument over who may be a delegate, about who may be selected. Some, speaking in whispers, said that only nobles were ever chosen to compete. They said that it was blood, not skill, that gained one access to the houses of the elders.

But the elders were deft and chose with skill. Though many grew to see it later, they had not seen it in those early days.

But over time, the houses of the elders grew senile and foolish. They grew too feeble to hide their intentions, and delegates grew weary. It is by this way that the great fool, Dothur the Orange, bringer of misery, was chosen.

He was unskilled at all things, and unwise in all matters. Some elders thought that this would make him easy to control. Perhaps he was, but he brought chaos and ruin on the land. The people prayed for his death, and some plotted it.

One day a man, full of rage, jumped at Dothur and cut off his ear. Guards killed the man, but Dothur knew he had to do something more to protect himself.

In the Valley of Shadows there is a ring of stones. When the sun is still low, a mist flows through the valley. On evenings when this mist stays until it greets the moon, the ring in the moonlight mist opens the veil between the world. Through this veil, one may call things in from the other side.

It is here that Dothur, to save his throne, called on the Snatchers offering the blood of the man who attacked him. He made a deal, sealed also with his own blood, that they may feed on the people of the Fifty. So long as they were fed, the Snatchers would remain on this side. They would share with him of the life they stole. So long as they remained, he could not die. So long as he lived, he believed, he would rule.

The first sacrifices were easy. The Fifty, over generations, had brought great ruin on their neighbors. They would raid and sew fields with salt, so that people would flee villages on their borders into the land of the Fifty. Once inside, they could be made slaves. Though the practice was forbidden by law, few had questioned it. The children born to slaves of the Fifty were free if born on land within the Federation.

So it was through the right of chieftain's corvée that Dothur began to order slaves into the night, that the Snatchers may take them and feast. But these slaves tilled fields, cared for sheep and cattle, and processed fish and grain. As bellies grew empty, people began to question what was happening. Dothar made another deal that the Snatchers should poison the minds of the people against this, for a price.

Then was spread among the people that the free children of slaves had brought this pestilence, that they should become slaves to cover the lost work. But through corvée, once more, many freemen were sent to the Snatchers to pay both the original and the new debt.

Some spoke against this, saying that the ancient code was being ignored, that none born free within the Federation may be held in service without pay, but for the one moon corvée in every six. But the magic of the Snatchers was still fresh with blood, and those who spoke were captured. They were accused of being escaped slaves, even those who could trace their blood-line to the land before the Federation was formed.

The Snatchers came in the night for so many, and yet always hungered for more. The pestilence grew, as did the anger of the people. Dothur ordered pens to be built on the outskirts of the town to be filled with adult descendants of slaves, as many as five generations back, but even then few were left to fill them. When he demanded the children into the pens, some of the people grew furious. Dothur's soldiers filled the pens with children, but people of the villages came out to watch them through the night.

It was on one such night that the Snatchers began to take these guards. For those who saw this, the spell was broken, and their eyes could not again be closed. More came to guard, more were taken, both children and guards. The Snatchers struggled against the guards, and hungered. As they hungered, their magic weakened.

All magic takes balance. But what is the balance of maintaining power against a growing resistance? It takes growing force. Each life stolen touches another, grows resistance further, and calls for more life in return. The Snatchers must be feed, they must feed Dothur, and so there can never be a lasting balance. This magic is as a wave, building and curling, growing tall and monstrous, even as it prepares to crash and recede back to the sea.

With open eyes, villagers flooded to the houses of the elders. They demanded Dothur be removed. Though there were many ways by which the elders could do so, they claimed they could not. Their minds had grown weak as a vision of sagging skin on fragile bones, threatening to buckle at the slightest breeze.

Many insisted that the elders must fix this, that it was the only way. Some elders spoke out, saying that Dothar had brought a curse on the land. But even as their words were pointed, their actions were dull.

Others saw the folly relying on the elders. Instead, they gathered together may of the peoples who lived on Federation land, and shared together the deep and ancient magic that each had to bring. Through this they came to learn about the deal with the Snatchers, to learn that the elders had grown weak enough that they themselves been poised this magic, and they saw a course of action.

In the night they came together to the great house with spears in hand. They made their case to the guards who stood watch, and ran through those who resisted. None bothered wake Dothar, though some tried. There weren't enough soldiers who cared to pass on the message so it died quickly. Most guards joined the people's push inside the house.

In the inner hold of the great hall, within the walls that protected the great house, Dothar woke to hands. He thrashed and kicked, but was bound to a great pole and carried to the wicked forest. There he was left, bound, and his belly slit open. As night fell, the wolves came and ripped at his flesh. But the Snatchers kept their word, so he did not die. For 47 days writhed in agony as he slowly grew back his organs, muscle, and skin. For 47 nights, wolves returned, again and again, to feast on his flesh.

So they held their promise, until the mist came again to meet the moon in the Valley of Shadows at the ring of stones. Then they slipped back through the veil between worlds once more, to await the next fool who would make a deal with them.