“That was the mistake of our forebears—believing they were one, not just with Lor and the Weaving, but with all of its peoples. They were wrong. The humans and the centaurs taught us this lesson well. Them, and those evil bull-men … The salkai nation, our way of life, was shattered. One by one, our homes were taken.”—Ekita Swiftfoot, The Wardens of Lor Book 3
The salkai who remember whisper an ancient tale, a legend that tells of how the Mother created the world …
After weaving the oceans of Lor, their great currents, the seas and all of their creatures, the Mother stepped ashore. There, She continued Her journey, dreaming and weaving the world into being, creating the earth and sky.
The Mother’s love and joy for Her creations knew no bounds. She dreamed of Her children, Her plants, Her animals. And in Her radiance, Her children grew.
The salkai, the mer, and the kak’ru were the most blessed of the Mother’s children, the peoples She tasked with being the caretakers of the world. To the mer, She entrusted Lor’s oceans. The kak’ru were given custody over the sky.
The salkai, She made guardians of the land and its creatures.
For millennia, the world of Lor lived and flourished in harmony. In the days before the Unraveling, the salkai stretched from the forests of Dhazanda to the deserts of Caberland. They dwelt in prospering nations. Yet they did not build cities. They hunted with deep respect for the living world and the Weaving, and their place among them. They were great warriors who did not make war. The salkai were at one with the land, at one with its creatures. At one with the Weaving and the Mother.
Then the Sky Stone fell from the stars and the Unraveling struck Lor.
A thousand years of darkness followed. And in that darkness, a great and ravenous hunger emerged. Desperation corrupted the hearts of mortals. Evil festered and malevolent ambition thrived. Brutal kingdoms sought to expand their dominance. Vicious clans preyed on the weak and destitute. Most dangerous of all were the wild sorcerers, those who sought to draw on the chaotic forces of the Unraveling to expand their power.
Across forest, mountain, and river plain, the salkai were driven from their lands. Many were slaughtered, others forced into slavery. Some resisted.
In the highlands of the Farawood Forest, the woodland salkai made their stand against the troll lord, N’kanandwa, and his hordes. All across Lor, there were salkai who resisted invaders of every kind. Sorcerous warlords and their minions, humans, ogres, fauns, and nahgra.
And there were salkai who fled. The legendary warriors of the Featherwind tribe withdrew into the depths of the Desert of Wandering Dreams, seldom to be heard from again.
Now, there are few salkai who remember the ancient ways and their sacred covenant with the Mother. Most do what they need just to survive, blending into the world of man. A world that views the salkai as primitive, a lost people with no nation or Endless One. The salkai have become outsiders in the Five Realms, working as servants or deckhands or hired rogues. Those with quicker tempers are usually branded as criminals.
For the salkai who remember the old ways, their hearts bleed with despair. Yet there is another legend whose whispers have rippled through the ages. A legend that, one day, the salkai will thrive again, and their ancient wisdom will flourish and heal the world.
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