"Come, one and all!" Seolta moved slowly through the crowded streets, arms outstretched to draw in any who would hear. "The K'darin clan of the K'taran gypsies born out of the great M'Shar people have come to your town to share stories and songs that will woo, excite, and amaze! Follow me!"
Like ants to an apple core, the people shift at his voice. They trail behind him as his hawking turns into song. He leads them all to a large courtyard typically reserved for public executions and punishments. The blood stained stage at the center is decked in multi-colored ribbon and branches full of autumn-hued leaves to ward off any gruesome association. Seolta's song melds into the larger tune that rises from the men and women playing their instruments upon the stage. The cheerful, beckoning melody calls the crowd onward, making their feet dance with every step. Once all are gathered close, Seolta takes his place before the players. The music rises to a sweeping crescendo, then falls to silence.
The crowd stands in awestruck anticipation. The gypsy shows are known far and wide as a thing not to be missed.The Great Seolta allows the silence to settle. He offers a gentle smile and lifts his hands to softly pat at the air.
"Sit, my friends. Take your places upon the grass and I will tell you a tale of sorrow and death... of tragedy and triumph. Open your ears, and your hearts, to a story... a true tale from the history of the M'Shar... The Account of the Great Divide!" Each person settles in quietly as Seolta's dark haired daughter brings out his chair. He perches upon the edge of the seat, and adjusts his waistcoat. His eyes grow sharp as he looks to the far horizon.
"Once, very long ago, our world, Froa, was a place of peace. Then, the Destruction came and brought in war, famine, sickness, and darkness to the hearts of men. Much was lost. The M'Shar people withdrew to the Wastelands of the west to gather beneath the protection of the holy Sagart priesthood there. This was their only hope of protection for, as you all know, the M'Shar follow the Way and cannot fight under any circumstances. The idea was good, in theory, yet the Sagart were fighting their own battles. Many of the elders, along with their dragons, had disappeared and a new threat, the Dragonlords, had arisen to tax their resources even further." The crowd collectively gasps at the mention of the Dragonlords. Several superstitiously cross their chests with the first three fingers of their left hand to ward off evil. Seolta nods and lowers his eyes in empathy before continuing.
"Aye. It was a hard, cold time. And it was in those days that Niress, a young M'Shar herdsman, lived. His family lived in the lush, green land at the eastern feet of the Oburun Mountains along the border here in Coremanda. They resisted the call to the Wastelands because Niress' father worried there would not be enough grazing land for his shadar herd. He held out as long as could be born, but the time had come, and the family began their journey.
Niress' father, mother, little sister, and their white flocked herd traveled the length of the land, skirting the river as they made their way to the wide bridge that leads into Hamarea. They didn't realize that in so doing, they had gained the attention of a raiding party of a Baerlonian tribe. In the dark of night, two of the raiders crossed the river by boat, crept along the shore and into Niress' camp. The shadar were carried off first.
Three at a time, they ferried the gentle beasts across the water until none were left. This would have been enough to feed their tribe for many years, and likely an act that would have gone unpunished. However, one of the raiders had a much darker purpose to his coming. He wanted a bride. Niress' sister, Neela, had lived only nine years by that time, yet his desire was upon her. The evil-hearted raider stole into the family tent and took the girl.
The next morning, the family awoke to their greatest sorrow. The mother and father clung to each other and wailed their pain to Uan's throne, begging for strength and restoration. Niress did not wail. His heart boiled an unquenchable anger that spurred him to action. He tracked the raiders down to the shore. Across the wide water, he saw their boat, but no sign of them. He had never swam before, but, in his rage, he flung himself into the river and flailed with all his might until he made it to the other side. His body sore and weary from the effort, he pulled himself up to rest in the shadow of the boat. It was then that he heard the whimpering.
His sister's little body lay broken and bloody within the hull. She had been left for dead. He crawled in beside her and held her to him. She curled into him like a frightened lamb and told him, with her last breaths, of what they had done to her. He vowed to avenge her abuse and death. He honored her with a funeral pyre and then, weaponless, set out to fulfill his quest.
The raiders made camp within a copse of trees in the valley a short distance from the river. They never had a thought that the peaceful M'Shar would seek revenge, so, as night fell, they drank and reveled in the victory of the raid and the bit of fun they had at the girl's expense. They laughed at her brave refusal of their advances and her pleading cries for them to stop. She would not have made for a good bride, but at least she had been some entertainment. Niress, crouched behind a tree at the edge of their camp and waited.
One by one, the drunken raiders fell asleep and Niress crept out of the shadows. Using one of their own long knives, he kills each one in turn, slitting their throats as if they were shadar to be slaughtered. Then, to warn off any retribution, he hung them from the trees by their feet and made the mark of the M'Shar upon the skin of their stomachs.
Niress returned to his family with the boat Neela died in. He told his father of all that happened and gave the boat to him. Fear, anger, and shame mingled in the older man and he could make no clear decision. He carried the boat on his back and led the way to the Wastelands without a word. Niress' mother begged and pleaded with her husband, but he would not speak. She clung to her son and kissed his face and thanked him, but she feared the repercussions of his going against the Way.
Eventually, the broken family arrived at the gate into the Wastelands. Niress' father called the elders of the clans to meeting and held his son out before him as he told the tale. Niress was given a choice. Admit that his actions were wrong and do penance, or the exile of living death would be upon him as one who departed from the Way.
Niress recalled his sister's face and stood tall amid the people. His voice was unwavering as he spoke the words. 'Consider me as the dead, if you must. I avenged my sister out of love for her and I would do the same again. We live in dangerous times and some one must be willing to protect the M'Shar when the Sagart cannot. I will be that someone... for Neela... for you all, even if I must stand alone!'
With that, the M'Shar stood and turned their backs toward the young man. His mother wailed in sorrow, but was led away. He entered, alone into exile. Yet, he did not leave the Wastelands. In memory of his sister's sacrifice, he took up the boat his father had carried, made a long bow from its wood, and sat vigil at the gate for any that would come to cause harm to the M'Shar within. In the years that followed, many joined his cause, accepting the exile and turning from the Way to protect or avenge their people. In time, the M'Shar of the Way named themselves the Tuatha M'Shar, or true M'Shar, to more completely separate themselves from the warrior sect that grew daily. The separation still exists to this day."
