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pijawki-project · 13 days ago

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Messengers and the Messenger Agency

>> Compiled (and commented) by Emil, Scholar of Gamayun, Disciple of the Minister of Knowledge.

Ah, the Messengers — perhaps one of the most elegant yet unsettling institutions in operation within the continent of Prawia. Their reach spans from the sun kissed lands of Zoyra to the abyssal sees, and their efficiency was fined tuned to such a degree that it even inspires awe from me.

The Messengers operate under a semi-independent agency technically under the dominion of the Morzana bastion and royalty, through describing it as merely a governmental wing would be laughably reductive at best. In fact, they operate outside the Morzana governmental structures and function as a neutral body, detached from political and religious squabbles. This is mostly due to the person at the Agency's head, arch-necromancer of unspeakable skill and prestige. Equal, in influence and notoriety, to any royal house. Her name is best left unrecorded for… practical reasons, those being the danger of her knocking on the ministry's doors in the middle of the night in order to claim my corpse.

Despite (or perhaps because of) their grim nature, messengers have become the standard method for communication across Prawia. They deliver letters and small parcels with unmatched reliability. Even I use one, though not directly from the Agency.

Why are Messengers so Successful?

Their effectiveness lies in the obvious: as bloodless undead, messengers are utterly immune to the effects of Madness—that chaotic affliction which tears through the minds of the living when crossing certain cursed territories. Likewise, they hold no allure for the beasts or the rabid, who crave blood and flesh, not dried sinew and embalmed bone.

Another stroke of brilliance is their “neutrality”. Standard messengers are utterly harmless—intentionally so. They carry no weapons and possess no combat abilities. Many have no heads, and those that do often lack mouths or eyes, making them quite literally speechless. This mutilation, grotesque as it sounds, helps them pass unnoticed through cities regardless of political alignment. A mute, faceless courier inspires far less suspicion than a heavily-armed one.

Costs are minimal. In fact, for most working-class citizens, the expense is largely symbolic. The Agency gains very little profit from the standard courier services—an intentional decision to ensure widespread usage and trust.

The Agency’s true sources of profit are twofold:

The Corpses. Nations across the continent (even those that loathe Morzana) send fresh bodies to the Agency, ensuring a steady supply of new messengers. This curious alliance is perhaps the most functional collaboration between Pijawki(gods) that the continent has ever seen.

The Elite. High-value clients pay handsomely in magical goods, rare materials, and favors.

#Worldbuilding #Emil's Notes #pijawkiproject

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pijawki-project · 2 months ago

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Field Notes on Prawia, the Blood Mother

1453, January 14th

Dearest Minister, I write to you today with great excitement, my hands trembling as I commit my findings to paper. The hours have slipped away as I consolidate my notes. I believed you when you told me that Prawia, the earth beneath our feet, is a living god—but believing and seeing are two entirely different things.

I must admit—Before you took me under your wing, Minister, I was a fool. How could I have ever doubted that Prawia is a god? What else could explain the lakes of blood coursing beneath the surface? How can one claim that veins as thick as rivers exist simply for existence’s sake, like the sky or the stars? The skeptics argue that this blood is no different from water, that it is merely another natural element. But how can they compare it to mundane substances when it holds such immense divine properties? Only a fool would fail to see it. But I somewhat understand their aversion to believing the truth, because gods can only live if they are supplied with sacrifice and worship, yet Prawia’s religious influence does not extend beyond a handful of tiny cults. People do not even know of her true name, just referring to her as Prawia or the Blood Mother as they lack a better way to call her.

I too held such a doubt in the back of my mind until I was met face to face with reality.

Now, let me recount my findings. It all began three years ago during a knowledge exchange with the Disciples of Prone, when I found myself locked in debate with a fellow scholar over Prawia’s nature. The fool uttered a question that, despite its simplicity, gave me pause: “If Prawia is truly a living being, where is her flesh?” A fair point, I admit, as we categorize the living from the dead by their beating, fleshy insides.

But rather than concede, I took his foolish words as inspiration—why argue with that idiot if I can simply prove him wrong? Why not dig deep enough to find out if there is flesh or not? It's rather a simple thing really, and I'm a bit ashamed I did not think of such a logical way of bringing an end to this argument earlier.

With this revelation in mind, I sought out a nearby Church and, with the right persuasion (coin, of course), secured a labor force of enslaved criminals. I ordered them to dig straight away; my curiosity could not wait another second. They worked tirelessly, day and night, many collapsing from exhaustion. Normally, I would have had sympathy for them and allowed more rest, but these fellows fell out of reach of my pity—such is the fate of fools who forsake law, morality, and knowledge.

It took eleven months of digging ordinary dirt until we struck something unusual.

The soil turned deep red, reeking of iron. Oddly enough, while the layers above were dry and compact, this new earth was wet, seeping like an open wound. But the most disturbing revelation was its lethal nature—contact with bare skin resulted in instantaneous death. No sound. No struggle. No visible change. One simply ceased “being.” Exposure to Prawia’s blood is known to induce madness, but this… this was something far worse. Stranger still, once brought to the surface, this soil would melt into a black substance before crystallizing into a blackish red crystal. I have sent a sample of this crystal to you, Minister, though my own tests reveal only that it bears a resemblance to iron.

Undeterred, I paused only to procure protective equipment for my men before ordering the excavation to continue. Breathing grew difficult as oxygen waned, and the earth, soft and treacherous, caved in upon itself time and time again but that was not going to stop me. We devised new methods of reinforcing our tunnels, but fear had begun to fester among the workers, slowing their progress. Though I found their cowardice an annoyance, I could not deny that I too felt the weight of dread pressing upon me. Yet my instincts urged me forward—I knew I was on the verge of something great.

And then, we reached it.

A miner’s pickaxe shattered a thin layer beneath us, revealing a pale, glimmering substance. At first, we assumed it to be a mineral formation, but we quickly realized—it was everywhere. A vast layer of tightly woven strands, interlaced like the silk of a cocoon. Each strand was brittle, reminiscent of eggshells. But its properties… were monstrous. We brought some mice down to test its potency and… as soon as the mice came into proximity with the white material, they simply… exploded. When brought to the surface, its potency diminished, though it still claimed the lives of any creature that ventured too close without proper protection. We also had some workers die because of it a few weeks, even months later. The autopsies revealed that despite thick protection, their internal organs had been reduced to paste. How they remained alive even moments after exposure then is a mystery in itself. Concerned something happened to me as well, a doctor friend cut me open and examined my innards—but, not to boast, I am likely powerful enough to have resisted the worst effects. Foolish as it may sound, I feel almost honored to have survived.

Despite the danger, this layer proved the easiest to mine—thin, fragile, stable. But when we pierced through it, disaster struck.

A silent calamity erupted through the shaft. Every single worker—above and below—fell to their knees in silent death, before their bodies disintegrated into bloody puddles. I alone remained unaffected, my will and magic shielding me from death.

With my workforce obliterated, I faced a dilemma. More laborers would only meet the same fate, and I had no plans to seek out a professional workforce as I did not want to put actual innocents on the line for my research. Thus, I had no choice but to seek out him: Garnet, a crimson-armored fool whose mind is ruled by only hunger and fists. His intelligence is so questionable that sometimes I wonder if he is even literate.

Upon my call, he came as usual, seeking to cure his boredom with my “silly projects.” He did not hesitate to agree when I told him we needed to dig, not even asking what horrors lay beneath that caused him to be called in the first place. He just grabbed a pickaxe and asked me when we were getting started. As much as I know his nature, it exasperates me every time I am met face-to-face with it. The gods really have blessed this fool quite a bit for him to have survived to this day with such a simple outlook on life.

Before we went down, of course, I took a few weeks off to enhance our protective gear. And this is incredibly important to mention, but seeing that fool put layers of clothes and protective gear ON TOP of his armor is the stupidest thing I have seen this decade.

More protected than ever, together, we descended once more. And there, beneath it all, we found the final layer—a smooth, pitch-black expanse, glossy like obsidian yet with a deep red shimmer. It was almost like coagulated blood and it looked oddly similar to how the red soil looked when it crystallized. If touched lightly, it flowed like liquid. If struck, it shattered but retained its shape. I would have loved to study it with you, Minister, but its mere exposure had already claimed countless lives above ground, so I dared not bring it to the surface.

And below that—I beheld the truth. That foolish disciple of Prone was an idiot as I suspected.

Flesh. Pulsating. Alive. Prawia was a living entity, without a shadow of a doubt. As awe-inspiring as it was to lay my eyes on it, being in its sheer presence hurt. Even my foolish companion, mighty as he is, faltered beneath its oppressive aura. I think it was the first time I've seen him grimace like that.

Pain was nothing in the face of my curiosity, however. I reached out with my staff, driven by an insatiable need to see if the flesh would react to touch—but before I could make contact, that idiot seized me, dragging me away. I would never forget how fast that battle junkie ran, even collapsing the shaft in his wake as if to try to slow the progress of — something— behind us.

Only once we reached the surface did I realize—my outstretched arm was twisted beyond recognition, its bones seemingly erased. My arm resembled more of a twisted blood bag than the appendage of a living creature. Yet I felt nothing. My sense of pain and touch were gone, it was as if I was thrown into the void. My hearing had vanished as well, and even now, as I write this, it has yet to fully return. Only now do I understand—the workers never realized their insides were liquefying because merely being in Prawia presence stole their senses away. A mercy, in hindsight.

My companion fared no better than me— his prized armor, forged by the world's mightiest smiths, was shattered into smithereens. His limbs were reduced to nothing more than knots of skin and blood. When I went to further check his condition, he was unresponsive as well. The only sign of him being alive being his pupils dilating and focusing, as if trying to remain conscious despite his terrible situation.

After he recovered to the point of speaking, I learned that he took the brunt of what he describes as merely a “confused gaze” of the entity below us. He said he clearly felt no ill intent behind what we experienced, leaving me to question what would have happened if there was any. For us two, especially Garnet, who has the power to rival some gods, to be taken down by a mere “gaze”… how powerful must Prawia be?

But the most fascinating revelation? Prawia can change in response to our actions.

Please be light on the scolding when I get Back, Minister, but I went for another round of digging. I thought that foolish friend of mine would abstain as he was still licking his injuries, but came along as well so I did not need to procure a new workforce. But, we did not get very far. The black layer just above the flesh had risen up almost in response to our previous digging, stopping us from going into even the top red soil layer. It may be a stretch, but I almost felt annoyance from Prawia by such an action, it felt akin to a person shutting a window so flies do not get into the house anymore.

And, it seemed to have also come to the conclusion that this layer was too brittle before, and strengthened it to the point that it was pretty much indestructible. My foolish companion could not breach it, and if he cannot, then truly, nothing can.

May Gamayun’s knowledge be all-consuming. —Signed, your dearest student.

#Worldbuilding #Emil's Notes

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