January 22, 2011
Levhirsk, Vyhor
Instead of dancing the morning sun dared to melt the clouds as a sign of its awesome power. Still, it could not burn the ice from the highest mountain peaks, or shake snow sheets from atop humble village homes. What lights the day will not always conquer that which thrives in darkness, a simple and completely raw truth, which dominates these lands.
Their equipment was prepared, and God willing they prayed, so were the two Vyhoric Climbers. The Mountaineers flared their nostrils in the frigid rocky mountain air and dug holes with their boots in to flat untouched snow. Every one of their meager fees had already been paid, donated by a sect of Christian Missionaries they themselves had never heard of. Some one hundred Vyhoric Villagers had come to see these foreigners depart, mostly women and children who were viewing foreign men for the first time in their lives. They splayed red flags and cast drops of whiskey diluted Ibex blood over the snow these Oelarian walked on. It was an atmosphere which shocked the locals. For some reason the introduction of new faces had broken the long chain of misery winter was mercilessly inflicting upon them.
With this influx of excitement a select few had taken up the responsibility of clearing out the layers of trash in the streets, but they had begun their task too late, and not thought to bring ice picks to recover the garbage frozen in to the ground. Clad in bright colors they mostly were, styles worn in the West a decade or more ago, yet they wore their cultural hand-me downs with genuine pride. Where the rest of Miedzymorze had developed distinct flavors, Vyhor had only its natural environment, and the small marvels of "V-Solutions" that kept old trucks running, and the outdated architecture of despair from crumbling to the ground.
The last year had been difficult on the small economy of Levhirsk, now visitors from the Miedzymorzan cities had to choose between putting food on their childrens plates, or showing them the precious natural treasures of Sangemuntenia. A steady and implacable voice from the Village Mayor urged the people to roar on, encouraging his people to rouse spirits higher then they had been in quite some time. For a few moments at least the people were not thinking about the hunger they would not dare speaking of, a wonderful and blissful distraction this was. Just as the small band of mouintaneers reached the edge of civilization, where nature stared boldly to meet them, a flock of children cleared the Levhirsk Village Monument of snow to reveal a Motto: "MAY COURAGE TRIUMPH", and the carved grimace of a mountaineer looking back over his shoulder towards oblivion. Again the Mayor orchestrated a final thunder of cheers, directing them with tattered wool gloves which exposed his bare flesh from small rips and tears.
"This is where we call home . ." Venyamin, the expedition leader, said with a calm scratchy voice, ". . and that was where we keep our women and children!". Methodically he drew out a crumpled box of matches and a sun-cured tobacco cigar while he was speaking, inhaling only on his left foot, and exhaling on his right. He was a man of little superstition but great and unshakable habit. While improvisation did not scare him, he certainly preferred to think of his adventures as feats of living instead of feats of survival.
Olive, gray, or stained white, his clothing was not so much a hand me down from foreign lands as much as they were proven articles identical to those worn in the devastating Midland Hunger Wars. In his minds eye he could imagine himself in the most modern of expeditionary gear, the bright orange and blues he was supposed to wear for safety, but even this wandering mind always returned to the task at hand, the harsh reality which shot slow streaks of gray down his once jet black beard.
No one was advertising this short journey as safe, or even intelligent, but the sky was mostly clear and no word for precipitation had been passed for the immediate future. They planned to return no later then 1800, or at least before darkness reclaimed its throne. Venyamin knew the route well, and intended to show the Oelarians sights which could never be duplicated in this land or anywhere else, the perfect artistic expression of falling snow, ageless rock, and towering pines. A chuckle and a snort was all he was willing to express now, though that was probably the extent Venyamin was capable of giving, as whispering winds and the cracking shifts of trees replaced the subsided hoots ans shouts of Levhirsk, a village which traces its roots to a strange but enchanting myth of a lost Swan and wandering Man seeking solitude. No member of this group could still be categorized or trivialized as separate races or religions, they were fellow travelers in the wide world of nature, gulping down the elixir of grand experience and unwavering courage.
Levhirsk, Vyhor
Instead of dancing the morning sun dared to melt the clouds as a sign of its awesome power. Still, it could not burn the ice from the highest mountain peaks, or shake snow sheets from atop humble village homes. What lights the day will not always conquer that which thrives in darkness, a simple and completely raw truth, which dominates these lands.
Their equipment was prepared, and God willing they prayed, so were the two Vyhoric Climbers. The Mountaineers flared their nostrils in the frigid rocky mountain air and dug holes with their boots in to flat untouched snow. Every one of their meager fees had already been paid, donated by a sect of Christian Missionaries they themselves had never heard of. Some one hundred Vyhoric Villagers had come to see these foreigners depart, mostly women and children who were viewing foreign men for the first time in their lives. They splayed red flags and cast drops of whiskey diluted Ibex blood over the snow these Oelarian walked on. It was an atmosphere which shocked the locals. For some reason the introduction of new faces had broken the long chain of misery winter was mercilessly inflicting upon them.
With this influx of excitement a select few had taken up the responsibility of clearing out the layers of trash in the streets, but they had begun their task too late, and not thought to bring ice picks to recover the garbage frozen in to the ground. Clad in bright colors they mostly were, styles worn in the West a decade or more ago, yet they wore their cultural hand-me downs with genuine pride. Where the rest of Miedzymorze had developed distinct flavors, Vyhor had only its natural environment, and the small marvels of "V-Solutions" that kept old trucks running, and the outdated architecture of despair from crumbling to the ground.
The last year had been difficult on the small economy of Levhirsk, now visitors from the Miedzymorzan cities had to choose between putting food on their childrens plates, or showing them the precious natural treasures of Sangemuntenia. A steady and implacable voice from the Village Mayor urged the people to roar on, encouraging his people to rouse spirits higher then they had been in quite some time. For a few moments at least the people were not thinking about the hunger they would not dare speaking of, a wonderful and blissful distraction this was. Just as the small band of mouintaneers reached the edge of civilization, where nature stared boldly to meet them, a flock of children cleared the Levhirsk Village Monument of snow to reveal a Motto: "MAY COURAGE TRIUMPH", and the carved grimace of a mountaineer looking back over his shoulder towards oblivion. Again the Mayor orchestrated a final thunder of cheers, directing them with tattered wool gloves which exposed his bare flesh from small rips and tears.
"This is where we call home . ." Venyamin, the expedition leader, said with a calm scratchy voice, ". . and that was where we keep our women and children!". Methodically he drew out a crumpled box of matches and a sun-cured tobacco cigar while he was speaking, inhaling only on his left foot, and exhaling on his right. He was a man of little superstition but great and unshakable habit. While improvisation did not scare him, he certainly preferred to think of his adventures as feats of living instead of feats of survival.
Olive, gray, or stained white, his clothing was not so much a hand me down from foreign lands as much as they were proven articles identical to those worn in the devastating Midland Hunger Wars. In his minds eye he could imagine himself in the most modern of expeditionary gear, the bright orange and blues he was supposed to wear for safety, but even this wandering mind always returned to the task at hand, the harsh reality which shot slow streaks of gray down his once jet black beard.
No one was advertising this short journey as safe, or even intelligent, but the sky was mostly clear and no word for precipitation had been passed for the immediate future. They planned to return no later then 1800, or at least before darkness reclaimed its throne. Venyamin knew the route well, and intended to show the Oelarians sights which could never be duplicated in this land or anywhere else, the perfect artistic expression of falling snow, ageless rock, and towering pines. A chuckle and a snort was all he was willing to express now, though that was probably the extent Venyamin was capable of giving, as whispering winds and the cracking shifts of trees replaced the subsided hoots ans shouts of Levhirsk, a village which traces its roots to a strange but enchanting myth of a lost Swan and wandering Man seeking solitude. No member of this group could still be categorized or trivialized as separate races or religions, they were fellow travelers in the wide world of nature, gulping down the elixir of grand experience and unwavering courage.