Swa cwæð Se Wæccend
So spoke The Watcher,
Hwon stregde hine wid sōþ modesfin.
Who counsels he through honest thought.
Hwon stéor wid ungereclic ingeþóht,
And guides with unruly conscience,
Ádwæsced þá blōd of Fæderencynn
To staunch the blood of kith and kin.
The Sanctons find no joy in frivolity, they say. They are a highly rational people; far more so than their superstitious cousins out of Brenlynd and Hôdlynd. A rational mind is what is needed, you understand, to live as they do. For they hold an unwavering belief that they live in fierce and eternal competition with the natural world. A world they name ‘Yeoldomōd’— or ‘grandmother’— who they believe sends great titans their way in treacherous guises; floods, blizzards, earthquakes and storms. To test their mettle, they say.
It is of little surprise that they believe such. For the Isle of Sanctia is— if the stories are to be believed —cursed by the faerfolk. For ancient elves once called those shimmering mountains their home. Long, long ago, hidden within the vaults of pre-history. And its said that it was Sancton, and Sancton alone that retook those sacred mountains from invading elfkin; soon after the Great Betrayal. Taking the mountains, the Isle and even the secret of the faerfolk’s Silversteel for their own.
But the well of elven memory runs deep. And wounded pride they remember most of all.
It is said that they conjured great storms from the dark tempests east and west; compelling the winds to howl, the clouds to roar and the rain to fall. And fall. And fall.
You see, it rains ten months of the year on Sanctus, and it snows the other two. With the yellow light of the sun painted pale and grey by the ceaseless dark clouds that blot the Sancton sky.
They have a firm belief in a— how to phrase it— a sort of omniscient light. The sun being his ever-watchful eye. This light is held sacred by the Sanctons, who name it ‘Se Wæccend’ or ‘The Watcher’, and while under his gaze one must act accordingly… And if the word ‘accordingly’ seems vague to you, then I agree. But the Sanctons do not waste their time with unnecessary words if the meaning is already plain to them.
Yes, to a Sancton, the ‘correct way’ to act is thought to be obvious. For The Watcher sends his counsel on the tailwinds of thought and conscience, to be felt by all those his light falls upon. And if you should be so arrogant as to ignore this counsel… you are condemned. One way or the other. To death. To starve. To freeze. It matters not. You are ‘Sancton’ no longer, and the clan, the tribe, the family, whatever you wish to call them… turn their backs on the condemned individual. With neither exception nor leniency.
And even should none know of such arrogance. Such crimes. There is no escaping judgement, in the Sancton’s eyes. It is believed the perpetrator, if guilty they are, will, by spurn of will and conscience create a living hell for themselves. This is echoed in the guttural creed they are always heard sharing with one another.
Nænig hwyrftweg Wæccen.
None escape His Watch.
As threatening as it might sound. To the Sanctons, it is seen as a great comfort. And if ‘he’; this Watcher, is no more than the collective morality of our own consciences… then of course none escape it. There is wisdom in it, I think.
Honest guilt strives toward redemption.
While silent guilt by silent force
Wills hands to take, mouths to lie,
Nights to wake and dreams to die.
Silent hells of ones own making.
They forge their own damnation.
A translation. One of my own, in fact. I added a few twirls and rhymes where I could. Do remember, they much prefer practicality over beauty. Rendering Sancton poetry a little rugged in its native form.
They are hard workers, and erect solid holdfasts. Motte and Bailey structures of stone and wood, with strong foundations that reach far, far underground to better protect themselves from the cruel winds and storms that buffet the isle. It is customary that every floor above ground, is mirrored below, creating squat, steadfast towers that look to be half buried in stone.
They do not boast grand settlements, to say the least. Their people are dotted about the isle in small hunting communities, and very rarely do they farm the land, despite their soil being perfect agriculturally. They plant orchards of apples, and they gather berries and nuts, and they tend livestock when they can get them. Some communities keep a few heads of cattle, and some few goats and sheep. There are native boar on the isle, but the Sancton’s prefer the hunt, and as far as I can tell, have never attempted to domesticate the beasts. They also hunt the native red deer, and snare rabbits in the lowlands and snow hares in the mountains. And the lakes and rivers are filled with fresh water trout, pike and salmon.
A diet so rich in meat and fish make their children hearty and healthy. With strong bones, good teeth, hair and nails. While us eastern folk grow soft and round with our love of bread and cheese, while our teeth go brown and crooked through our love of honey and fruits. A Sancton’s smile (If you are lucky enough to spot one) is the envy of all noble lords and ladies in the Eastern Kingdom.
On their physical description, I shall say this. Sanctons look as all of the Nordic races look. Bearded. Wild, almost. But Sanctons tend towards blondness; ranging from straw and russet to gold and silver. And they favour growing it long; indeed, some never cut their hair at all, giving their women extravagant, long braids of spun flax or gold. Interwoven with griffon feathers and octagonal charms of onyx, silver and ruby. Their menfolk do the same, with the added ferocity of those great golden beards and untamed eyebrows.
They are a fair skinned people, pale and often gaunt, with some verging close to ghostly. For the sun’s rays can barely permeate through the grey haze and thunderous rain clouds that drift day and night across their inhospitable landscape.
They are a stocky people. Rarely do their menfolk grow much past five and a half feet, though there is great resilience to them. They have strong bearings, thick wrists and wide shoulders.
The men are avid hunters and trappers. And fine warriors too, especially when the mountains join them in the fray. Few peoples I’ve encountered— and I have encountered many —know their country better that the Sanctons. Shrugging off chills and snows that would freeze the hearts of any of us outlanders. They walk more comfortably upon inclines than level ground, the bridges of their feet cramp and blister if they travel open roads for too long. And the fear of falling never slows their proceeding footstep.
And all of this without the aid of horses or mules. For no such species live on Sanctus.
Alone the Sanctons conquer terrain and storm weather that would fell any unwary traveller.
Well, not alone, of course.
For the true wonder of the Sancton clans is their seemingly miraculous affinity with the taming, handling and mounting of— what us natural philosophers name —‘Dalkys’Griphys’. Or Griffons, in common parlance. The Sanctons name them ‘gefrýnd’— which, quite sweetly (And quite uncharacteristically), means ‘friend’.
The ancient bond between griffon and rider goes far, far back into the culture’s first kindling. The stories tell of a much adored hero; Gefryndír, the first Griffon Rider, who sought— back when the magic beasts of the world were gifted with speech and cunning —a treaty between Sancton and Griffon, to better fight against their common enemies. Elves. Continentals. And the wrath of Yeoldomōdor herself.
Whether the stories are to be believed or not matters little, for their voiceless bond exists to this day. For all to see. And I believe the Sancton people know more of their history than we natural philosophers could ever guess at.
The griffons supply much to the Sancton people. In the winter months their natural warmth is used to blanket whole families, nestling into feather and wing, to better shield them from snow and wind. Their golden, iridescent feathers cloak them against more chillsome gales. Their mighty claws tip their spears and arrows. Their thick hides are tanned and sewn to make armour that is both warm and flexible.
For indeed, the Sanctons are fair smiths and craftsmen. Not solely do they work with hide, wood and stone… often they work with metal. They have not yet mastered tempering steel, or even linking iron chains to make mail. Metalwork is the sole province of weapon-smiths and jewellers. Forging swords, axes and spears. As well as rings, charms and bracelets. All of fine make; if not a little rudimentary in design. For, remember, they favour practicality above most else.
Now the charms they make are of great interest to me. For I, at first, believed their choice of octagons to be nothing more than a favoured aesthetic. But nothing is without its purpose in the clans of Sanctus. Octagons— in fact the number eight in general — is of specific theological importance to them. As is the eye the often decorates the centre.
The individual is the eye, you see. And the octagon around it represents eight divine shields that must ward against the eight foulest corruptions.
Avarice. Despair. Envy. Apathy. Pride. Deceit. Wrath and Desire.
You will recognise them, I think. For these ‘accursed acts’ are echoed throughout the world through various religions and faiths. Namely; the old Elven Pantheon. Which strikes me as rather ironic; for the Sanctons bare a strong and unwavering hatred for the faerfolk. And I’d dare not make such a comparison within their hearing.
But indeed, the Sanctons, despite their ancient enmity, share much in-common with elvenkind. Their belief in an immortal spirit that lives beyond and outside of our flesh and bone, for example. Their affinity with beast and weather. Their skill with hunting and tracking. Their love of jewels and metalwork.
Especially the art of smithing Silversteel. A precious and ancient secret known only to elves.
Well, elves and Sanctons.
Yes, the Sancton’s favoured material is ‘Seolfurstel’ or ‘silversteel’. The rare and beautiful metal that lies solely in the veins of the Silver Mountains on Sanctus. A material they have gained a particularly sacred affinity for since procuring it’s secret from ancient elves. The secret, they say, was taken… as though by force. But given what I know of the magical practices of elvenkind… I doubt such a precious craft could be extracted with swords and threats alone.
Sancton blacksmiths hold much influence, but none more so than those who smith in silver. Gaining the the title of ‘Seolfursmiþ’ or ‘Siversmith’. You may start to question by honesty when I say this, but the ancient elven smiths also bore such a title: ‘Llaw’arian’, in the Elderfaen tongue.
Our closest translation: Silversmith.
It is my belief —and it is a belief that has alienated me from the Sancton clans I’ve spoken to —is that elf and Sancton once knew a long and prosperous peace. Where these skills; tracking, taming, crafting, smithing and acting in accordance to ones own conscience was taught and learnt amicably.
But Sancton folk live and breath their rational traditions. And it has become tradition to despise the faerfolk. And because they are such a practical people… this hatred must be for good reason, in their minds.
And thus the cycle of stubbornness and pride infects even those who think themselves true sons of rationality.
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