The Mountain Commonly Called the 'Ivran Temple'

Let Sleeping Ogres Lie

An illustration from Episode Eight: Ravenglast, a script for my proposed series, The Wizard, the Prince, the Warrior, and His Son. Hakul and Lem try to kidnap Kwee.

Mora Madra, Mama Mia!

MORA MADRA

The very old pages of ‘Ortha Lore’ mention the Fathers and Mothers of the Races. Mog Gammoth’s spouse is called Mora, and there is little more mentioned about her. I now feel I can say some more about Mora.

The odd fact is that, in Ortha, there are few written legends about her, not because of her insignificance, but because of her importance, and her living closeness in Morg lives. While Mog Gammoth is ‘everybody’s grampa’ (which is more or less the translation of ‘gammoth’), Mora’s full name and title is Mora Madra (which is closer in meaning to ‘mommy’ than the simply biological term ‘mother’).

Morgish reverence for Mora is an open secret, but seldom discussed. While kings (elected executives) among Morgs and the humbler office of witnesses are obvious stand-ins for Mog himself, they are mere underlings or substitutes and liable to criticism. Any and every Morgess who conceives shares directly in the ‘office’ and aura of Mora and has the title ‘Madra’. Mog Gammoth is seen as somewhat remote, if all-seeing; Mora is there, in some sense, in every mother.

This has led to a code or tradition among the Madra, more strictly enforced than any written law. It is only really understood by them. It concerns not only a kind of ‘pecking order’ and its rules, but also a balance between personal ambition for your family and the good of the realm. Whoever is the public face of the family, the Madra is the true head. In effect, the Madras of all the families are an unofficial but most effective Senate. Each Madra, of course, values her own family most highly, and will try to apply the rules to them as favorably as possible.

Among male Morgs, their ignorance of the precise parameters of this code has led to an excess of caution and counter-reaction. If worried that what they are doing might offend the Madras, they will stop, think, and proceed very cautiously before doing so, or try to lie about or hide such actions entirely. No Morg will insult another’s Madra, partially because that is to insult Mora and all Madras, even his own, and partially because it is a deadly insult that requires blood. No one will judge another who is following the dictates of his Madra.

Mora Madra herself shares somewhat in the nature of Orathil (Mother Ortha/Earth), but specifically and much more personally for the Morgish race. Orathil is the strict balance of nature, ‘red in tooth and claw’, mother of Ogres as well as Morgs, of storms and harvest. Mora is Mommy, standing between you and a rather stern grandmother, occasionally sneaking you a secret cookie. May she bless us all.

As They Say in Ortha: Part Two

Ortha-Graphy Part One: As They Say in Ortha

Ortha Docs: #2930!

Going Back to Ortha

BACK TO ORTHA [A la Paul Simon]

 

I’m going down to Ortha

Gonna hang with Roth and Korm

Gonna drink me some Loraleid

And be chillin’ with my Morgs

Gonna walk through Morg City

Take in a tavern or two

See the Library at Tronduhan

As we’re walkin’ through the school.

Yeah, I’m going back to Ortha.

Back to Ortha.

 

Dunwolf will do his magic

Or Koppa if he’s not there

We’ll check out the Domain of Doors

and maybe Drang’s old lair

There in Ortha.

There in Ortha.

Might visit Master Belmok

Or King Thron in his prime

Maybe old Mog himself

Depending on the time

When I go to Ortha.

Go to Ortha.

 

[Chorus] I’m going down to Ortha

To hang with Roth and Korm

Gonna drink some Loraleid

And be chillin’ with my Morgs

Back in Ortha.

Back in Ortha.

 

The Wolf-shades and the Ogres,

The Woses and the rest,

The Ghamen and the Ivra,

I’ll give ‘em all my best

When I visit Ortha.

I visit Ortha.

If there’s a way, I’m on my way

I shall not hesitate

To take the paths past sun and moon

To that land that we create

That we call Ortha

We call Ortha

 

[Chorus] I’m going down to Ortha

Gonna hang with Roth and Korm

Gonna drink me some Loraleid

And be chillin’ with my Morgs

There in Ortha.

Yeah, going back to Ortha.

Have a time in Ortha.

Meet you there in Ortha.

See you back in Ortha …

I published this here before, but now I've got this peachy-keen new pitcher to go with it, and the tune John used Suno to make for it is going through my head.

Aftermath: One of the Tales of the Morgs

AFTERMATH

 

     It was a late – a very late – autumn day.  The great chamber at the heart of the New Royal School lay closed and stuffy; no-one had been in or out for two weeks. The only moving things there had been the climbing and declining rays of sunlight across the walls and the shuffle of spiders now and then in the high corners of the room.

An abrupt clanking of the doorhandle broke the silence, setting echoes that seemed to startle and stir the innumerable shelves of books and papers and set them rustling with the inrush of air as the door creaked open. A Morgish muzzle poked cautiously into the room, followed by a black beard bristling nervously beneath. There was a loud, inhaling sniff.

     “H … Hello?” A voice quavered hesitantly into the echoing chamber.

It was followed the next instant by a squawk as its gangly owner was pushed stumbling into the room. Almost immediately behind him came a stern, matronly Morgess, her plain shift the mellow yellow color of the staff proctors. She crossed her arms impatiently as the Morg caught his balance, then adjusted his green tunic, brow wrinkling.

“Was that absolutely necessary, Ena?” he grumbled.

“What, you were waiting for an answer, Master Grax?” she said flatly. “We’ve got too much work to do clearing this place out without wasting time.”

“Well, you never know,” the Morg said vaguely. He cut his cut his eyes around the room. “After all, history is full of stories … lingering presences, you know … it doesn’t hurt to be respectful ...”

He shivered.

“Don’t you feel something?”

The stolid Morgess shrugged.

“He wasn’t the head of my department. Just the Grand Master of the School.”

Grax’s jaw flopped open.

“But he was Korm!” he protested. “The greatest scholar of his generation, if not in all the history of Forlan! Student of Belmok! He discovered the treasure of the Lost City of the Moon! Almost the last of the Goldfire Questers!”

Ena shrugged again and raised an eyebrow.

“As I recall, he had them looking in the wrong place to begin with, which almost led to their deaths,” she said, her voice dry.

“Well, nobody’s perfect.” Grax looked around and tangled his claws through his stringy beard. “Honestly, though, can’t you feel something … personal in the air?”

“Of course,” Ena said briskly. She stepped over to the grand desk that was the centerpiece of the office. Grax followed in her wake. “My old Madra explained it to me before I even became a proctor and started the job. My uncle had passed away and I thought his room was haunted. She told me it was like this.”

She pulled out the chair and sat down by the desk and began examining the objects that cluttered the top, straightening papers and books.

“The most essential part of a person is the spirit or mind, and very close to it is the body, which picks up and discards material as it goes along.”

“Well, that seems pretty obvious.”

“Right. If we didn’t have bodies, there’s no way we’d know anybody else has a mind. When the spirit that gave the body form is gone, the body collapses into mere material … but that material is how we knew the spirit was there.”

Grax snorted. “What does that have to do with … well, hauntings?”

“There’s a third circle of existence that most people don’t think about, and that’s the influence a person had on things while they were alive.”

Ena finished straightening the desktop and stood up, eying the room critically as she moved toward the bed.

“You mean like their legacy, their influence on history?” Grax moved over and sat down himself. Now that Ena had broken the ice, as it were, he found himself filled with awe to be sitting at the great Morg’s desk. He ran a reverent claw slowly along the edge.

“It’s even more personal than that.” The old Morgess went over to the bulky wardrobe next to the bed, swung open the door, and looked over the contents. Her nose wrinkled at the stale smell.

“The things a person collects … the things that only he uses … they’re like the armor a twister slug leaves behind when it changes. The bug is gone elsewhere, but there’s a hollow shell where he used to be, in the shape of what he was.” She shut the wardrobe. “Eventually it collapses or something else takes up residence.”

Grax’s eyes widened.

“I don’t think it’s quite respectful to speak of Master Korm as a slug. He was a great person.” His claws were wandering over the desk drawers with an eagerness of their own, feeling the knobs in anticipation. “Who knows what great legacy he’s left behind for other scholars to find? Who knows …?”

Almost unconsciously he pulled a drawer open. Surprised at his action, he looked down, stopping in mid-sentence. He went still.

After a moment he cleared his throat.

“Why do you suppose,” he asked shakily. “That anyone would save a drawerful of nail-clippings?”

“What?” Ena barked, hastening to his side. She stared down into the drawer.

“Ugh. Well, that’s going into the fire, for starters.”  

Grax shook his head.

“That’s just … odd.”

“Well, they do say it never pays to look too deeply into the great ones’ lives. You’ll find they all raise their flap to poo.”

“I suppose so.” He wrinkled his muzzle. “I suppose we’d better buckle down to work. The next High Master will be wanting to move in soon.”

“That’s so.” Ena looked around with an assessing eye. “Looks like more work for you than me. How many boxes do you think you’ll need?”

The other Morg around helplessly at the shelves bulging with books and papers.

“About twenty?” he ventured.

“Let’s make it thirty. It’s always better to have too many than not enough.” She walked over to the bed – a rather simple and narrow piece of furniture, Grax thought, for the legendary hero – and began stripping the bedclothes, folding them neatly at the foot. “By the way, any idea who the new High Master will be?”

“I only know it won’t be me.” He sighed. “There are a few candidates of course, but none stand out. How can you replace someone like Korm?”

“And yet he will be. No-one’s irreplaceable. Like my madra said when the old King died, you can stick your hand in a bucket of water and take it out again, and the hole that’s left is equal to the absence in society what’s felt when even a great one passes.”

“That seems rather cynical,” the other sniffed. He pulled a scroll out of his pocket and began perusing the list written there.

“But practical. Life, as they say, goes on.” She turned from her work. “What’s that, then?”

“A list of bequests and whatnot,” Grax said distractedly, eyes running over the scroll. “Some special gifts of books to various persons and places.”

His lips moved mumbling quietly, then he looked up in dismay at the overcrowded shelves around them.

“How the hell am I supposed to pick them out here? It’s like looking for particular stalks in a field of wheat!”

“Oh, be quiet!” Ena flipped the last folds of the sheets and turned her attention to the wardrobe. “Big as the chore is, bit by bit it gets done, don’t it? That’s what we say downstairs.” She opened the door. “Huh. Not a lot of clothes for a Master. And pretty shabby, too.”

“Vanity was not one of his weaknesses.” Grax sniffed. “Not like some Masters I know.” He walked over to a nearby shelf, turned a corner to the back, and began scanning the books there.

Ena grinned.

“I bet I could name a few you’re thinking of.” She wrinkled her nose. “I think these can all go on the scrap pile. They buried him in his best, I suppose.”

“Yes, of course,” Grax said absently, as his eyes flickered over the titles. He muttered, reading them to himself as he bent close to see. Suddenly he stopped and gasped in astonishment. “What the --,” he began slowly, brow furrowed, anger in his voice.

“What? What?” The old Morgess came hurrying over gleefully to join him. She thought she heard scandal in his voice and was eager for a little spice on this dull job.

She turned the corner and found Grax leafing through a volume, an appalled expression on his muzzle.

“What is it?” she asked excitedly. “Our revered Grand Master been secretly reading some fiery romances?”

“No, look at this! Just look!” He pointed one shaking claw at a blue seal on the book’s spine. “This is from the Great Library! No-one is supposed to remove this! No-one!”

Ena shrugged.

“Surely the Grand Master could …”

“No-one!”

Ena shrugged again.

“Well, one book …”

“No, look!” Grax waved his arms angrily. “Look! Shelves upon shelves of them. There must be almost two hundred books here!”

Ena whistled long and low out of the sides of her muzzle, eyes wide.

“Oh, he has been a naughty boy!” she chortled. “Well, all sins must out, they say.”

Grax covered his eyes and rocked his head, moaning softly, before straightening up and tugging his beard in sudden resolution.

“Well, this one mustn’t. It would be bad for morale, and even worse for discipline. Just think what would happen if it got around that Korm … Korm, of all people, was a … a … a book thief!” He spat the words out. “Next thing you know our shelves would be bare, with the students using his example as an excuse.” He wrinkled his brow. “But how to get them back in the library without anyone knowing?”

“Simple enough,” Ena said breezily. “I’ll just bring an empty cleaning cart over tonight, load them up with some rags on top, and wheel it over to the archives. Sprinkle ‘em around on the tables here and there and let the librarians sort ‘em out. Believe me, nobody notices cleaners going around.”

“You’d do that for me?” The other Morg relaxed visibly. “That would be very helpful.”

“Never you mind.” The old lady patted him on the shoulder. “My job here is pretty light. Never knowed a Master of any grade to be so monk-like in his living. His personables are hardly worth giving to the School’s thrift store. But all this …” She indicated the stuffed shelves around them. “I don’t envy you and your assistants going through all this.”

Grax barked shortly.

“Oh, it’s like sorting out a dragon’s hoard for us. A pleasant task, once the guardian’s out of the way.”

Ena looked dubious.

“Well, if you say so.” She looked around. “Well, I guess the first once-over’s done. I’ll go get some carts for the lugging and by tomorrow ‘twill all be clear for you scholar-squirrels to gather your nuts. Best meet me back here in an hour so you can direct me about them books.”

“Yes, yes, I have a few things to attend to right quick, then I’ll be back.” They moved to the door, where Grax paused and looked around with a little shiver. “I don’t think I’d fancy waiting here all alone until then.”

“Don’t let it bother you none,” Ena grinned. “In my experience, dead folks is the least dangerous kind.”

The door shut firmly, and the key clicked in the lock. The echoing footsteps died away and all was silent for a while. After a while, a voice for those who could hear spoke up apologetically.

“Oh, dear. I really did mean to return those books … sometime, you know. There just never seemed to be a good time.”

“In the last one hundred years, you mean?” The other voice was gruff, but noncommittal.

“Well …”

The other voice changed its tone.

“Have you seen enough? Are you ready to go now?”

“I was just wondering how …”

“No, it is enough.” The other voice was firm but sounded a little exasperated. “It’s always the same with you scholar types, curious about what happens next. Well, what happens next is there’s work to be done elsewhere.”

The first voice began to fade away, interest in its tone.

“I thought it was going to be some kind of rest …”

The second voice sounded amused as it too faded.

“Where we’re going, work and rest don’t have separate meanings. Perhaps the closest word here in this world is play.”

“Well, that does sound interesting …”

And then they were gone, and there was only silence in the hollow dusty chamber.

 

Finished First Draft 9:49 PM

7/10/2021

I might have published this here before, but I couldn't find it in a cursory search. Anyway, it certainly didn't have an AI-generated illustration with it. So that's new, at least.

Illustrated Edition

Samuel and Samantha meet their Aunt Jocasta (from the story of the same name on this blog).

The 'Swamp Ape,' from Daisy Bellamy's story And Then There Was the Time (ditto).

And from Ortha and the land of Forlan, the Harvest Pilgim, a fantastic figure of fun who appears at the Autumn Festival, a sort of in-world combo of Santa Claus and Trick-or-Treats.

Ravenglast, Hometown of Koppa

 

Noj and Yam, Ghamen Elders

Ogress Guarding a Clutch

Sigh. Ogres do not have mammary glands; they are not mammals. A fact I could not convince the AI of. Apparently, it thinks that if something is female, it must have boobs of some sort. The distinguishing characteristic of an Ogress, is, of course, "a type of scaly crest on their heads, analogous to hair in other races. When it is down, it even somewhat resembles hair. It is raised in anger or to display superiority." An individual Ogress lays four or five eggs. They are then collected into clutches of about thirty that one female will guard until they hatch. Only about 1 in 10 Ogres is female.

Update!

"He's Not Such a Bad Little Imp, After All"

Ketta cares for Kwee; that must really be some crunchy old cheese.

It's Gotta Happen SOMEtime Or Other

Another (Imaginary) Country Heard From

Roth and Hannu, Morg City's favorite power couple.

Breklir:

Barda:

Zin:

Rotha and Hannu are from The Peculiar Wooing of General Roth (which see on this blog). Breklir, Barda, and Zin are all characters in my proposed series, The Wizard the Prince, the Warrior, and His Son. And now, for a bit of whimsy, A. I. Al unexpectedly pops into Ortha:

Shutting the Door: Illustrations

Illustrations for Shutting the Door, a short story published here on NOT. The Young Dunwolf; Barek in a rare moment of candor with his visor up; Dunwolf and Barek in the Domain of Doors in front of the iron door to Thoravil; John Kraft confronts Dunwolf with a moral choice; one of the Tekkel, a race of eldritch abominations Barek is trying to recruit to his cause.

Doomed, Doomed, Doomed

Poor Koppa and Melniar. The romantic element in Goldfire. He was Human and she was a Wose, nothing more incompatible there physically than between, say an Elf and a Man in Middle-earth, or a Human and a Vulcan. The big problem was that Koppa's magic would preserve him alive for hundreds of years, aging only slowly, until long after Melniar had grown old and passed away. In the end, I think, they decided to part and follow their own avocations to spare themselves inevitable heartbreak, though that decision was heartbreaking in itself. But it was chosen, rather than simply fated, and to that extent it was more bearable. 

 In fact we had a little imagined scenario where, in a modern-style hospital, an incredibly old man lies dying; he opens up his eyes to see the full moon outside his window. He murmurs, "Melniar. Oh, Melniar ..." and quietly dies. The moon was always Melniar's particular devotion.

Glump

I don't feel like doing ANYTHING today, 'either vicious or virtuous,' and that includes creative. Luckily I had done this paltry handful of animations last night. Also, I am plagued with the vague feeling I'm forgetting some birthday or anniversary. Checked my notes, but they are hopelessly out of date.

Anyway, the younger Belmok and Thron, and the older Melniar.

Getting a Move On

I tend to want to animate quieter but more personally revealing moments. I had to explain to the AI that the skeleton was not alive and couldn't react. And it kept wanting to make Raksil more feminine; of course, it is neither male or female. Though there are a lot of 'feminime' markers there.

Museum Piece

Master Belmok and Korm examine an Ogre skeleton. A scene from the short story Korm's Master, published here on NOT.