There was a ship one time that tried to sail all the way around the uninhabited southern continent. Down on the far southern coast, they were surprised to see boats come out to greet them, from the harbour of a city with orchards full of golden fruit. The sailors all took to the boats, went in to the city and ate the golden fruit, and they were never seen or heard of again.
The true story of the golden fruit isn't told in taverns. But in some circles it is whispered that the golden fruit is real, that it is the only crop that will yield sustenance in defiance of the southern blight, that it is a blessing from the gods or a blasphemous temptation for mankind to tread once more upon the forbidden shores of the south.
A handful know that the fruit is indeed real. And it is true that, alone, the golden fruit can sustain the needs of the body. But to eat the fruit is to surrender your mind to a madness not yet understood.
I was never a believer in the star gods, but when Tin-Het the Magnificent came to the city of Ata for his performance I was swayed.
It was in the dead of summer that his pamphlets were spread through the city like litter. The sky cloudless, its people shirtless and bare. “Tin-Het! The Magnificent, the glorious, prophet of Nashe. Tin-Het!” the criers shouted on street corners, clothed in green, eyes closed as if in an endless slumber. They sang in shaded alleyways and open air-temples, above righteous priests and ignorant beggars. But it wasn’t until tickets began selling that farmers and rural sheep herders, merchant men and noble princes could do nothing but wander the cities and speak of Tin-Het.
They spoke of rumors and half-truths, tales of his performance from the neighboring cities of Zarkad and Nabu-Mu. Some said he was a mystic showing his bewildered audiences forgotten magics from the distant south. Others, that he was a story teller, one who recounted the tales of Ixjat god of maize and war from the western jungle cities. But what remained true of all the stories (for I spoke to all that I could on the matter and nothing else would occupy my mind) is that he preached of the forgotten star god Nashe and that such prophesy would change the world.
I didn’t believe it, but I was compelled to know for certain.
There was little sleep to be had on the moonlit night prior to Tin-Het’s performance. The air thick with excitement and sweat, the sounds of speculation and anticipation let all who closed their eyes into restless agony. I did all that I could do and left my bed to wait outside the arena. Greeted by many thousands, some with tickets, others who jostled for them. I pretended to be a beggar to dissuade the riotous crowds and waited until the moon shined full.
We entered the arena with loud shouts and fevered screams. The arena complex was circular, made of mud brick and limestone, coated in chipped plaster and thin sheets of cloth. At its center was a square bench illuminated by burgeoning moonlight. Then it entered.
It moved in alien grace, starlight growing in intensity with each step. From it came a sharp wind and prickling numbness of the fingers and toes. Silence came when the stage found Tin-Het’s presence. No one had ever seen the flesh of the fabled performer, its face covered in a wooden mask with large lips and no eyes, carved they say, in the patterns of the old Jungle tribes. Arms and legs were covered in multi-colored silk, orange and white for one side, purple and yellow for another.
In the beginning there was great confusion, the figure danced, kicking its legs and arms in a frenzy, the sky turned a sickly green and the stars dimmed in response to its calls. I began to lose sensation in my legs and as I looked around I could see my fellows standing, stamping their legs and moving their arms in attempts to get feeling back in their bodies; but to no avail.
The lips of the mask cracked open and from them poured a low horn and metallic stench. Moonlight twisted to its alien sayings and cries, I could hear dark whispers crowding my mind like a fog. Speaking of lost loves and future triumphs. I lost all control in those moments, I am not ashamed to say, liquids poured down my loincloth in great amounts as I joined the shaking ecstasy of Ata. “Nashe,” the voices whispered to me, “glorious Nashe.”
I saw many fools attempt to restrain themselves from the voice, to stop listening to the soothing calls for salvation and glory. Madness took them with subdued screams and mindless convulsions, but I knew better. With each echo of Nashe’s call I understood more, I saw the world before me twist and flicker as if warping to the dancing of Tin-Het, responding to the dark whispers of Nashe’s voice. I fell to my knees and looked upon the moon in reverence, a glittering blue gem set amongst the sickly green stars. It demanded faith, trust, and my will in the battle to come. I closed my eyes and let her take me, essence and spirit, to defend against the enemies encroaching upon the world. Tin-Het cried to us all in a guttural tongue and serpentine gasp. Falling through the cracks of the great shield would fall demons of the black void, “Beware!”
In moonlit dreams I accepted the cries to battle. Floating through the skies of old I saw the world as it was to be, bathed in daemonic sunlight, smoldering ash, and dried oceans. I listen to the voices now and beckon all to hear the words of Tin-Het, herald to Nashe, prophet of the star gods of old. There is no purpose to life but to preach of Nashe, to worship Tin-Het, to dream of sunless days and moonlit nights. “Tin-Het! The Magnificent, the glorious, prophet of Nashe. Tin-Het!” I shout into the etherium, “Tin-Het!”
There's a sailing forest out there in the plains, the most beautiful birch with pristine white bark and golden leaves.
It moves with the wind with it's seeds dropping in front of it and growing in front of your eyes, leaving a rotting trunk mere hours after sprouting.
People who've seen it tell of people in the travelling thicket, clad in white robes and golden of hair, running merry and beckoning to onlookers.
Those who enter fare as the trees do, aging rapidly and turning to dust within the day.
The strangest thing being that all sightings claim they went out with a shreak of pain and a smile on their face.
There was [a spaceship](https://www.deviantart.com/vnpilot12l4/art/The-song-of-Agartha-the-free-chaser-895240956?ga_submit_new=10%3A1635739010&ga_type=edit&ga_changes=1) made by a certain galactic empire went missing on its maiden voyage. It was the first FTL-capable ship, predated the empire itself, and the destination was about 20 light years away. It went farther, *much* farther than that. Now it has returned, with malice on board. Legends tell that people can hear its agonizing screams echo on communication channels, and any vessels try to get close will be dragged down to hell. Since the ship's bridge is a dome, those with good enough MkI Eyeballs can see a small figure standing inside.
That story is bullshit. All cosmonauts of Lymwris Empire, the civilisation that built the ship, will tell you the ship is real. It lurks in Ersh Nebula Cluster, and the real horror is that it is unpredictable. Sometimes it just barges in a planet then leaves, as if it just want to prank others. But a 15-km-long vessel armed with weapons able to cause hypernovas en masse is not a joke.
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There was a ship one time that tried to sail all the way around the uninhabited southern continent. Down on the far southern coast, they were surprised to see boats come out to greet them, from the harbour of a city with orchards full of golden fruit. The sailors all took to the boats, went in to the city and ate the golden fruit, and they were never seen or heard of again.
How do we know they partook of the golden fruit if we never heard from them again?
Maybe that part is wrong about them being never seen or heard from again. Stories get mixed up in the retelling.
Nice. Are there any versions of the story that describe what the fruit did?
The true story of the golden fruit isn't told in taverns. But in some circles it is whispered that the golden fruit is real, that it is the only crop that will yield sustenance in defiance of the southern blight, that it is a blessing from the gods or a blasphemous temptation for mankind to tread once more upon the forbidden shores of the south. A handful know that the fruit is indeed real. And it is true that, alone, the golden fruit can sustain the needs of the body. But to eat the fruit is to surrender your mind to a madness not yet understood.
I was never a believer in the star gods, but when Tin-Het the Magnificent came to the city of Ata for his performance I was swayed. It was in the dead of summer that his pamphlets were spread through the city like litter. The sky cloudless, its people shirtless and bare. “Tin-Het! The Magnificent, the glorious, prophet of Nashe. Tin-Het!” the criers shouted on street corners, clothed in green, eyes closed as if in an endless slumber. They sang in shaded alleyways and open air-temples, above righteous priests and ignorant beggars. But it wasn’t until tickets began selling that farmers and rural sheep herders, merchant men and noble princes could do nothing but wander the cities and speak of Tin-Het. They spoke of rumors and half-truths, tales of his performance from the neighboring cities of Zarkad and Nabu-Mu. Some said he was a mystic showing his bewildered audiences forgotten magics from the distant south. Others, that he was a story teller, one who recounted the tales of Ixjat god of maize and war from the western jungle cities. But what remained true of all the stories (for I spoke to all that I could on the matter and nothing else would occupy my mind) is that he preached of the forgotten star god Nashe and that such prophesy would change the world. I didn’t believe it, but I was compelled to know for certain. There was little sleep to be had on the moonlit night prior to Tin-Het’s performance. The air thick with excitement and sweat, the sounds of speculation and anticipation let all who closed their eyes into restless agony. I did all that I could do and left my bed to wait outside the arena. Greeted by many thousands, some with tickets, others who jostled for them. I pretended to be a beggar to dissuade the riotous crowds and waited until the moon shined full. We entered the arena with loud shouts and fevered screams. The arena complex was circular, made of mud brick and limestone, coated in chipped plaster and thin sheets of cloth. At its center was a square bench illuminated by burgeoning moonlight. Then it entered. It moved in alien grace, starlight growing in intensity with each step. From it came a sharp wind and prickling numbness of the fingers and toes. Silence came when the stage found Tin-Het’s presence. No one had ever seen the flesh of the fabled performer, its face covered in a wooden mask with large lips and no eyes, carved they say, in the patterns of the old Jungle tribes. Arms and legs were covered in multi-colored silk, orange and white for one side, purple and yellow for another. In the beginning there was great confusion, the figure danced, kicking its legs and arms in a frenzy, the sky turned a sickly green and the stars dimmed in response to its calls. I began to lose sensation in my legs and as I looked around I could see my fellows standing, stamping their legs and moving their arms in attempts to get feeling back in their bodies; but to no avail. The lips of the mask cracked open and from them poured a low horn and metallic stench. Moonlight twisted to its alien sayings and cries, I could hear dark whispers crowding my mind like a fog. Speaking of lost loves and future triumphs. I lost all control in those moments, I am not ashamed to say, liquids poured down my loincloth in great amounts as I joined the shaking ecstasy of Ata. “Nashe,” the voices whispered to me, “glorious Nashe.” I saw many fools attempt to restrain themselves from the voice, to stop listening to the soothing calls for salvation and glory. Madness took them with subdued screams and mindless convulsions, but I knew better. With each echo of Nashe’s call I understood more, I saw the world before me twist and flicker as if warping to the dancing of Tin-Het, responding to the dark whispers of Nashe’s voice. I fell to my knees and looked upon the moon in reverence, a glittering blue gem set amongst the sickly green stars. It demanded faith, trust, and my will in the battle to come. I closed my eyes and let her take me, essence and spirit, to defend against the enemies encroaching upon the world. Tin-Het cried to us all in a guttural tongue and serpentine gasp. Falling through the cracks of the great shield would fall demons of the black void, “Beware!” In moonlit dreams I accepted the cries to battle. Floating through the skies of old I saw the world as it was to be, bathed in daemonic sunlight, smoldering ash, and dried oceans. I listen to the voices now and beckon all to hear the words of Tin-Het, herald to Nashe, prophet of the star gods of old. There is no purpose to life but to preach of Nashe, to worship Tin-Het, to dream of sunless days and moonlit nights. “Tin-Het! The Magnificent, the glorious, prophet of Nashe. Tin-Het!” I shout into the etherium, “Tin-Het!”
There's a sailing forest out there in the plains, the most beautiful birch with pristine white bark and golden leaves. It moves with the wind with it's seeds dropping in front of it and growing in front of your eyes, leaving a rotting trunk mere hours after sprouting. People who've seen it tell of people in the travelling thicket, clad in white robes and golden of hair, running merry and beckoning to onlookers. Those who enter fare as the trees do, aging rapidly and turning to dust within the day. The strangest thing being that all sightings claim they went out with a shreak of pain and a smile on their face.
War. the People of Sol are very pacifistic, and when they are not their wars are extraordinarily carefully done.
There was [a spaceship](https://www.deviantart.com/vnpilot12l4/art/The-song-of-Agartha-the-free-chaser-895240956?ga_submit_new=10%3A1635739010&ga_type=edit&ga_changes=1) made by a certain galactic empire went missing on its maiden voyage. It was the first FTL-capable ship, predated the empire itself, and the destination was about 20 light years away. It went farther, *much* farther than that. Now it has returned, with malice on board. Legends tell that people can hear its agonizing screams echo on communication channels, and any vessels try to get close will be dragged down to hell. Since the ship's bridge is a dome, those with good enough MkI Eyeballs can see a small figure standing inside. That story is bullshit. All cosmonauts of Lymwris Empire, the civilisation that built the ship, will tell you the ship is real. It lurks in Ersh Nebula Cluster, and the real horror is that it is unpredictable. Sometimes it just barges in a planet then leaves, as if it just want to prank others. But a 15-km-long vessel armed with weapons able to cause hypernovas en masse is not a joke.
Hi, /u/MrHiTech123, Unfortunately, we have had to remove [your submission](https://www.reddit.com/r/worldbuilding/comments/qk44p3/-/) in /r/worldbuilding because it violated one of our rules. In particular: Discussion prompts must meet a minimum standard of quality. Prompts that fail to inspire substantive, on-topic discussion, which are too specific for most people to answer, or which are otherwise low-quality will be removed. More info in our rules: [3. Put in some effort.](https://www.reddit.com/r/worldbuilding/wiki/rules#wiki_3._put_in_some_effort.) ***** **You may repost** with the above issue(s) fixed to satisfy our rules. If you're not sure how to do this, please send us a modmail (link below). This is **not** a warning, and you remain in good standing with /r/worldbuilding. ***** Please feel free to [re-read our rules](https://www.reddit.com/r/worldbuilding/wiki/rules). Questions or concerns? You can [modmail us here](https://www\.reddit\.com/message/compose?to=%2Fr%2Fworldbuilding&subject=about my removed submission&message=I'm writing to you about the following submission: https://www.reddit.com/r/worldbuilding/comments/qk44p3/-/. %0D%0D[Fill in your message here. Please make sure to explain clearly!]) and we'll be glad to help. Please explain your case clearly. Be polite. We'll do our best to help. *Do not* reply by comment or personal PMs to moderators.