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jackhkeynes · 8 months ago

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Can you give an overview of your conworld and language for new people?

Absolutely! :D

The World

The setting I write in (hereafter "Boralverse") is an alternate history of Earth. The original difference from our own history (hereafter "IRL") is the existence of the island of Borland (Istr Boral) between Great Britain and Denmark, inspired by the IRL existence of Doggerland.

The human pre-classical history of Borland can be summarised as:

With sea level rise about 8k years ago, Borland was cut off from the continent and from Britain (this is when Doggerland was submerged IRL); some Stone Age people remain. They leave some monuments—burial mounds, the Çadrosc labyrinth—and were farmers, but they had no writing or ironworking.

The Celts arrive in Borland shortly before they settle Britain in the second millennium BCE, taking up iron tools and establishing many tribal groups. Due to some later migration from Britain to Borland, they speak a language (Borland Celtic) which is most closely related to Proto-Brythonic.

I assume that as far as possible the history of the rest of the world is indistinguishable from the IRL history up to this point. I continue to do so while the Romans invade and settle Borland shortly after Britain, despite conceding to credulity and allowing a few classical references:

...in Ptolemy's description of the Pritannoi we can understand he referred to the Insular Kelts of Ireland, Britain and Borland as a whole... ...contrasting Hadrian's policies in Britain and in Borland is vital for understanding their different fates in the post-Classical age...

where I admit that the Roman Empire having an entire additional province should probably have some observable effects.

Once the Western Roman Empire collapses, I start properly diverging Boralverse history from IRL history. This begins with a different pattern of Anglo-Saxon migration; the two petty kingdoms of Angland and Southbar arise in western Borland, while the settlement of England proceeds slightly slower than IRL.

Historical divergence spreads through western Europe over the next few centuries, and by 1000 CE things are beginning to go off the rails all across Eurasia and North Africa. I leave the history of the Americas the same until Old World contact (via Basque fishermen stumbling across Newfoundland in 1470 CE), and likewise with Australia.

The map below shows Europe in 1120, during the Second Tetrarchy Period. At this time, Europe was unusually centralised, with four great empires: the First Drengot Empire (red), the German Empire (brown), the Second Roman Empire (purple) and the Single Caliphate (green).

In the modern era, my hope is that the Boralverse world feels fractally uncanny; at every scale something is unexpectedly different, from political borders and languages to fashion and pop culture references.

For clarity, I employ an inconsistent Translation Convention when writing from a Boralverse perspective, mostly using IRL English but peppering in calques of Boralverse English jargon for flavour, such as threshold force "nuclear power" or jalick "garment socially equivalent to a tuxedo".

The Language

The original motivation for this alternate history setting is Borlish (Borallesc), the Romance language spoken on Borland.

It picked up a few Borland Celtic loanwords from the existing population at the time of the conquest (macquar ~ Welsh magu "raise, rear"; vrug ~ Welsh grug "heather"), but was much more influenced through the first millennium by Anglo-Saxon settlement and then Norse conquest during the Viking Age. The following is an example of late Old Borlish (ca. 1240):

…sovravnt il deft nostre saȝntaðesem eð atavalesem n iȝ atrevre golfhavn seȝ hamar dont y verb divin ismetre ac povre paian. peðiv soul ez font istovent por vn nov cliȝs d istroienz istablir… …uphold our most sacred and ancient duty to let Gulfhaven be the centre from which we will send the Word of God to pagan lands. We ask only for the necessary funds for a new teachinghouse…

The Modern Borlish language has undergone spelling standardisation (most recently deprecated some irregular spellings in 1870), and contains many more Latin and Greek loanwords, along with borrowings from languages across the world.

Y stal zajadau dy marcað nogtorn accis par lamp fumer eð y lun fragnt de mar receven cos equal party a domn pescour pevr jarras e fenogl gostant tan eð eç nobr robað n'ornament fluibond ant queldin raut frigsað ne papir cerous. The night market's various stalls lit by smoky lamps and the sea-shattered moon welcomed flocks of fishwives sampling paprika and fennel as well as notables in flowing finery carrying stir-fried suppers in wax papers.

In terms of sound changes and grammatical developments, the major points include:

Intervocalic lenition /p t k b d g/ > /v ð j ∅ ∅ ∅/: catēna > caðen "chain", dēbēre > deïr "must".

The use of ç (and c before e i y) for /ts/, and the use of g in coda to represent /j/. Along with some vowel shifts, this leads to things like cigl /tsajl/ "darling".

Total loss of final consonants in multisyllable words, including -s, which leads to:

Collapse of noun declension, including number; Borlish does not mark number on nouns, and if it wants to it uses demonstratives or simply relies of verb agreement: l'oc scuir pasc, l'ec scuir pascn "this boy eats, these boys eat".

#conlang #boral #conlanging #boralverse #alternate history #conworld #writing #moist-duckling

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chaoskirin · 5 years ago

Text

Title: Prince Rating: PG-13 Word Count: 2546 Summary: Many denizens of Erit go through their whole lives without seeing a harpy prince...

Content warning: Discussion of arranged marriages/discussion of non-consensual sex.

---

Eyoir remembered little about his youth, except that he was somehow important to the nest. A golden child, they called him--for his brilliant white-gold feathers, of course--a harpy prince who would sire daughters of status and sons of intrigue.

He did stand out among the other chicks, as their feathers were a much darker yellow. And although his status caused the watchers to shower him with gifts and attention, his nestmates never begrudged him. All girls, they were regularly told that if they appealed to Eyoir, they might be with him, whatever that meant. It sounded like a grand prize, so the young hens didn't complain.

Meanwhile, Eyoir had everything he wanted. Playmates, treasures, the attention of the matriarch and her matrons. When he was old enough, he received his own room, away from the girls, in a suite with the rest of the princes.

He never knew what happened to his nestmates. The older princes told him that they went out into the world--to politic, to run the aerie, to wage wars and protect their homes. Princes didn't do such things, he was told. Their job was to exist. And sometimes, one of the older hens would appear and stay in one of the princes' rooms for a while with the door closed. These occasional visitors would bring gifts for the little ones--especially Eyoir--then leave forever.

One day, he learned that his suite was called a Sylgig--a gathering of princes. When he asked what that meant, his older kin side-eyed each other with uncomfortable scowls before one finally said, "I suppose you're old enough to know."

There were two kinds of harpies, the older princes explained. The hens, who went out into the world and did things--

"What things?" Eyoir asked.

All sorts of things, it turned out. Everything, technically. They led the aerie. They brokered treaties with other aeries. They maintained diplomatic relations with the other species on the planet (called Erit, if the Oldermost Prince remembered right). They traded, they made things, they built great cities and they could fly all day if they wanted, in a sky warmed by a beautiful golden sun.

"And why are we here? Here in this Sylgig?"

It took a while for the princes to explain the differences between male and female harpies to the young fledgling, though he listened with rapt attention. They were different from each other, and the two different kinds of harpies could make eggs if they got together, which was very important. But here, in the Southbar Aerie, there were almost forty hens to every prince. And so the princes were kept safe.

One of the younger princes said something about being captive, which Eyoir didn't understand. He felt safe and comfortable and did not feel captive at all. When he said as much, the other princes looked at him as if they were very sad.

He began to cry because if everyone else was sad, he ought to be sad, too, so the Oldermost declared the conversation over.

When he reached his ninth cycle, he learned he'd be visiting a clawful of matrons from the Northbar Aerie. At first, Eyoir thought nothing of it, though he'd never left the Sylgig before. He imagined the rest of the world was much like his nest--safe, warm, though a bit boring--and felt little anxiety at the prospect of leaving it.

On the chosen day, he caught his first glimpse of the sky, and he felt fear.

He wasn't scared in the usual way; he didn't want to run and hide within the draping feathers of the older princes as he sometimes did in the face of New Things. He also didn't experience the gleeful surprise he felt when his younger peers would chase and jump out at him in play.

But this sky... it encompassed him. It stretched farther than he could see and then continued for even longer than he could imagine. Eyoir knew this to be true without asking the hens, because he felt it in his very heart. The terror of the cerulean expanse exhilarated him and left him in awe.

Then, the hens shuffled him into an enclosed car and he learned the discomfiting sense of claustrophobia.

He thought of nothing but the sky for the rest of the day. Now he understood flight and how free it must feel to soar among the white puffy things high above the ground. He asked the hens what they were, and one of them gently told him they were clouds. He asked if he could fly to them, and she told him his wings would never be strong enough. He asked how the car flew, then, if it had no wings at all, and she told him it just did, and that he should stop asking questions.

When they reached Northbar, his handlers guided him into a huge hall with high windows and sheer draperies of all colors. His own matriarch stood there, next to another important-looking hen. They both smiled at him as he approached. He asked, "can I look at the clouds again?"

"Eyoir, this is Senda, the matriarch of Northbar," his matriarch said, ignoring his question. "Do you know what that means?"

"Of course he does, Aycrest," Senda said. "And I'm very pleased."

He was paraded before a few other hens, though he didn't remember their names. They were Senda's daughters, though, and wore pretty baubles and beads, even on their wings. Eyoir asked if they could fly with all those things tangled in their feathers, and the oldest one laughed and told him of course not. But the daughters of the matriarch had no need to fly.

Other words were thrown about, like breeding and trade. Would Eyoir's golden feathers breed true? Hopefully. And if not this generation, surely in the next, as things sometimes occurred. And then if not, Aycrest's daughters would see to amending the treaty.

So it was settled. Aycrest insisted that this wouldn't happen until he was at least fourteen seasons. Eyoir tried to ask what she meant, but his hens dragged him away from the two matriarchs and back out to the car. He was too preoccupied with looking for the clouds to care much, anyway.

His ache for the sky diminished over time, though he asked about it often enough that the hens installed a window in his room. It didn't open, so he couldn't feel the cool breeze, but at least he could look out into the city and imagine how it ran. He saw strange symbols at times, on signs and occasionally on a stray bit of paper. The Oldermost told him those were letters, and that hens used them to communicate.

Each one of the other princes knew some of the sounds the letters made. In his boredom, Eyoir put them together and taught himself how to read. One of the watcher hens learned this one day as he idly sounded out the words on her care list.

The other princes warned him that the hens would be angry if they knew, but this watcher found it adorable, and brought him books to read thereafter.

As he read, he learned. Erit was bigger than he ever imagined, with dozens of landmasses called "continents" and more countries than anyone could ever really count. And so many different kinds of people lived in these places, all so unique and beautiful, that he wanted to meet every single one. He would touch their soft hair and tell them what a wonder it was!

Learning made the world less scary. He tried to teach the other princes, even the one who said they were captives so many seasons ago. Some of them showed passing interest, but they didn't understand because they couldn't read it for themselves.

So Eyoir taught them how to read.

Then they understood.

Something transpired one night, though Eyoir slept through most of it. When he woke, some of the older princes were gone, and one was quite worse for wear. His feathers were matted and broken, and dyed a strange brownish color the others called blood. Eyoir realized this prince was injured, though it took him a moment to understand as he had only read about such things.

With his knowledge, Eyoir formed bandages out of old blankets and bound his wounds. The prince, who was just barely older than Eyoir, said he helped the others escape, but he was captured.

The Oldermost was killed.

The injured prince fell asleep, so Eyoir went to stare out his window at the stars. He loved stars, though they only came out at night. Before he could read, he used to connect them like little dots and make pictures from them, only to discover that astronomers had done the same thing thousands of years prior.

When the prince awoke, he was feverish. Infection could cause the body temperature to rise and for cuts to puff out and become angry-red, and that was something Eyoir had read about, too. But the hens didn't come to help, and everyone feared the injured prince would die.

Eyoir feared the hens were letting them see this on purpose.

But he had books, some of which provided instructions to create salves and medicines out of mold. He left his food next to the heat of his window for several days, urging the growth of what he hoped would be vestrinx, all while the prince continued to deteriorate from infection.

As soon as the green-grey mold appeared, he scraped some into a bowl and begged the god of healing for her guidance. He was unacquainted with Faoliia, but he hoped she'd see him and answer his call.

"Please," he begged.

He'd mixed food and drink before, sometimes out of boredom and sometimes to create exciting new flavors. But Eyoir had never seen any of his recipes turn bright red before. And in the back of his mind, he heard her voice, like the song of an angel. It said "This time." and nothing else. He knew then that his medicine would heal the young prince.

It took time to wake him up. "Girgee," Eyoir said. "You have to drink this." The other princes sat him up as Eyoir coaxed the red draught past his lips. it took well over an hour, but the medicine slowly disappeared.

In the morning, his wounds were gone and he seemed weak, but well. Hungry, Girgee ate his own morning meal, then many of the other princes shared theirs, as well. By mid-day, he could sit up on his own.

"Eyoir," he said. "Thank you. But you must know--Faoliia appeared to me as I dreamed and told me that you belong to her now."

Eyoir already knew this, so he said "yes." It seemed a trifling price to pay to save his friend, though, so he would enter the healing god's service gladly. Unsure of how he could serve her while captive in the Sylgig, he trusted her to show him the way.

The hens reappeared a full span later. They took Eyoir's books in their rage.

Every so often, a new prince would appear within the suite, barely verbal and carefree. Eyoir hesitated to tell them the reality of their situation, but if they asked questions, he would not lie to them. He hoped one day they would never have to ask those questions again.

In time, he came to understand the treaty struck with the Northbar Aerie, so in his fourteenth season, the hens had to restrain him in order to transport him. For the first time, he felt the haze of a sedative. When he awoke, he did so at the feet of Senda's daughters.

"Are you finally awake?" she asked.

Eyoir found himself unbound, but sluggish.

The hen leaned over him, her yellow eyes meeting his with curiosity. "I am Sendiri," she said. "And we have little time."

"You will not bed me," Eyoir snarled. He struggled to get his legs beneath him, but the effort proved futile. "I will fight as I can, and you will be scarred when we are done."

"You misunderstand," Sendiri said. Her curtains fluttered; the breeze carried the pheromone scent of a prince. The Oldermost perched in the window.

"They said you were dead," Eyoir managed. Then he realized how terrible their morale was after they learned of their oldest prince's demise. A lie, designed to keep them in line.

"We must leave now," the Oldermost said.

"Can you carry him?" Sendiri asked.

"He is young enough, and my wings are strong enough. I will have help at the border."

Sendiri nodded. "Then go."

They went, under the cover of night, under the sparkling stars. The Oldermost carried him on silent feathers through Northbar, past the walls, and out over a huge expanse of black ink that could have only been the ocean. They came to roost on an island, made almost invisible by seaspray smashing against the rocks.

Others waited for them, taking Eyoir into their warm claws and guiding him to the fire, where he slept the last of the sedative away.

They had allies, Eyoir found out when he woke. He met his first banshee under the morning light, who injected a stinging cocktail into the great vein of his neck. Over the course of several hours, his feathers, his skin, and even his scales turned from bright gold to pale green.

"This will mask his scent for several days," the banshee said. "We'll be able to smuggle him across the ocean."

"Where?" the Oldermost asked.

"North, to Kyrnis."

And then the old harpy took Eyoir's face in his hands, and smiled a tearful goodbye. "Remember, you are my son, and I love you."

---

"You're still green," Ptery said, gently combing their claws through Craglin's feathers. "And your name--"

"Craglin is a hen's name," he said. "Eyoir means son of the light."

Ptery buried their face in Craglin's chest feathers, inhaling their deep cinnamon-vanilla-spice scent. They were glad for that maleness, as there was something about a prince's pheromones one couldn't find anywhere else. A comfort. A reminder of peace and serenity. "Do you think they would ever come looking for you?"

"Every aerie on peaceful terms with Southbar would know of the reward for my return," Craglin said. "It's impossible to know who to trust. But I'm safe, as long as..."

He trailed off.

Ptery didn't intrude on his thoughts until he chuckled, rolling over to play with their crest. "Ah," he said. "Maybe I'm scared for no reason."

"Maybe," Ptery agreed, but they didn't know much about the southern harpies. Craglin may very well have been in danger of being spirited away. "And Faoliia. You've been in her service..."

"Since I arrived. Her temple was my home. Maybe she intended for me to find you and set you on the right path."

His teeth gently caught Ptery's jawline; they giggled as he rolled them over. "I don't know what kind of path this is," Ptery said. "But I'm sure I like it."

Craglin pulled the covers over them both, and they enjoyed each others' bodies one last time before the sunrise.

#the bestiary #fantasy #modern fantasy #harpy #wings #monster #myth #mythology #sci-fi #mythological creature #ck's art #ck's original art #ck writes

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