If you all cannot tell by now, the Dusk of Discordia staff is, well, twiddling our thumbs. We are waiting, as avidly as you are, for the craftbukkit 1.7 release. Our server is stalled, stagnant if you will, as we wait.
I don’t have much to release to you this holiday, unfortunately, but I definitely wanted to cook up something (haha, didn’t even mean to do that) for you all.
So, let me tell you a story of Red Hop, the traditional holiday for the mysterious and forlorn people of Discordia. I hope you all enjoy, and perhaps you’ll recognize some of these fantastical characters.
I always loved Red Hop. The food was delicious, you got to see family (even though Grammie Mckaulie smelt a bit funny… dad always said it was because she stoked her hearth by a stalk-tree grove over the frozen fields of Empathica), and it was… well… comforting. It was a moment with no work, no worry. No fear of the cow stealers, no worry of the sweeping fires, no horror of finding your neighbor lying in the woods; killed for the boots on their feet. Red Hop, with its steaming baked bird, its chewy and delicious vines and fruits, it’s carefully rolled firecrackers… it is… beyond description. Who, in their youth, could articulately describe those perfect moments that are so fleeting throughout life? Could anyone describe the elation and pure, utter joy one feels seeing a small, hastily wrapped firecracker go off; knowing that the bang wouldn’t bring the beggars or thieves upon them? Seeing and hearing those small cracks and cries of glee, seeing those delighted faces hovering in the liquid light of candles over the smoking table of meats and mushy vegetables… it could heal all aches, cure all pain. It was a harsh land, Discordia, and Red Hop… made it…
… I mean, you hated to admit it, you denounced the land you had been born into along with everyone else, yet sometimes – you felt happy.
Now, it’s impossible to tell you reader the happiness we all felt on those cold nights. Impossible. But just see this, see it well. My family huddled closely… some drunk on ale, some drunk on laughter and merriment. Pudding made out of deer hide sloshed from cup and jug, and the stories (some created by the ale itself) flew about. The air was thick with smoke, and pipes glowed and winked in the dusky living room. Wind slapped the walls and they moaned, almost in content, listening to the tales.
The holiday and its subsequent lavish night reached its climax, when my Grammie Mckaulie stood with her lyre and bellowing (and bleaching) told us all to raise our jugs, and cups, and plates, and shattered and chipped glasses. She began to sing and strum her lyre, and damn, it was horrible. But no one cared, of course. It was fun. I was singing too, some ridiculous song about the Pirate Red Bird and the First Red Hop Day, when I saw my Papa (married to Grammie Mckaulie, yet he doesn’t smell like her – which I still don’t understand) cock an ear and - with widening eyes - give a sharp whistle. No one seemed to notice, everyone was still singing about Red Bird and his beard tangled in his famed ivory cannon. Papa’s eyes were wild, and he looked as if he had sat on one of Aurther’s knives (my uncle, he had one big moustache, man oh man).
He, stumbling up, gripped his mug (small blue birds flew along its sides) and let loose a tremulous and horrifying scream.
‘’AAaaaaaohhhAAaaaaaaaoooooohhhhhhhAAaaaaaaaaAaaaoohhh!’’
It sounded like the groan and whine of trees. Jesus it was horrible. I could smell the ale on him from across the room. The room was silent, apart from the snore of Aurther in the corner of the room, his moustache blowing back and forth.
‘’The’re, ah, ah comin,’’ Papa gurgled, and collapsed.
There were a few nervous chuckles, but Grammie didn’t strum, and Aurther groaned in the corner. My aunt Rose leaned over and sniffed Papa and his mug.
‘’Aye, he’s been drinkin ah, cask full,’’ she said.
Grammie lowered her lyre and drunkenly weaved towards the wall. Betsy, my sister, began to cry but she was quickly muted. Grammie leaned her head against one of the many beams holding up the roof and closed her eyes. We all watched. The smells seemed to have grown even stronger. The meat. The vines. It was intoxicating, almost as bad as the ale.
‘’Papa’s right,’’ whispered Grammie.
My dad whipped around, taking in the silent multitude.
Aunt Rose took that time to utter a loud and rumbling burp. ‘’Bitch n’ ah, bzzzzzzz fish,’’ she moaned. Everyone began to jump up. They were still drunk and most went down with curses. My dad dragged himself with huge lurching steps to my uncle, and began to shake him.
‘’Aurther, Aurther…’’
Grammie set down her lyre and leaned behind one of the benches, pulling out a crossbow. She began to brandish it.
‘’Les go…’’ She paused burping. ‘’…gah and get em,’’
Aurther was up and ordering the family to sober up quick. He told everyone to get out the back and hide in the old gully. They were all pushing to get out. The maddening smells flared.
‘’Sammy,’’ said my uncle, reaching towards me through the growing exodus of people. ‘’C’mon!’’
I grabbed his hand, and pushing and shoving, moved through the streaming family. Leading me, he ran me back into the kitchen. Why he had to pick the kitchen, I’m not sure; the smells were even more intoxicating there. Grammie and dad were already in there. And well, would you look at that? Grammie had beaten me; she was tearing into the red bird, holding a drumstick in each hand.
I gestured at her in what I hoped wasn’t disgust. ‘’You bringin her?’’
Aurther frowned, but nodded.
‘’She’s a good shot, an, uh… she won’t give up tha crossbow,’’
‘’Ja, ja!’’ shouted Grammie merrily.
‘’Shhhhhhhhhh,’’ whispered my uncle franticly, grabbing her arm. She growled, having just begun to tear into one of her drumsticks.
‘’Let us go,’’ said Aurther to my dad, handing him one of his knives.
‘’Sammy, spot up topside,’’
I rushed to the ladder, it was rickety and hidden deep in the corner of the living room, and looked back longingly at the table. Red Hop, ruined. Jesus.
I heard muffled protests below and the door flew open.
‘’I know what tadoooooooo,’’ screeched Grammie. The light from the open door etched and gouged the fog.
‘’Okay, okay,’’ my dad muttered.
Grammie ran herself into the half-dead lawn and spun around.
‘’Lesssss go yah Scarlet Bastards!’’
Aurther and my dad walked out. Aurther looked up to me and twirled his fingers. I shook my head, and squinted into the fog.
With a whistle and sigh an arrow sprouted from the ground near Grammie. She laughed and spit at it.
‘’Yah guysss are horrible shots!’’
The fog shimmered, darkened, and emerged three men… stumbling just like Grammie. One walked into a bush and erupted in anger. He flicked out his knife, and getting down on his hands and knees, began to stab the poor shrub. They too were celebrating Red Hop. One blew on a jug and laughed at the mournful whine it produced. His crossbow swung back and forth on his back. The only one that seemed semi-coherent was the largest man. He was sturdy and swayed only slightly when the wind blew. He was clad in crimson armor, and the trademark scarlet paint ran down his face. White paint dripped beneath his eyes. Most of his hastily created mask was worn away around his chapped and tight lips. Ale ran down, there.
He swung his sword quite ungracefully from his scabbard, and nearly fell on his face as he walked toward Grammie. The fog seemed to cling to the red tumor lurching onto the dried and yellowed lawn. He turned and pointed at the fool blowing on the jug.
‘’Kerk, ya foockin grunt, get tha bow!’’
His voice was so strange; I could barely understand what he was telling the man, Kerk. Apart from the fact he was incredibly drunk (not as drunk as the others in his party), he had a rumbling and rolling accent. It changed fuckin to fooookin.
The man, Kerk, dropped his jug and cried out when it smashed at his feet. The other scarlet man digging up the lawn with his weapon began to laugh. Kerk swung the bow off his back and aimed it at the man.
‘’Shut up,’’ he said happily.
The crimson man screamed at Kerk to stop it and face the infidels, and told the other man, Cort, to get off his knees and stop being a fooookin idiot. The man, Cort, got to his feet and sneezed. He wiped his face with his knife.
‘’Apologizes, for my, uh…’’ He paused, thinking. ‘’…men, ja.’’
He swung his sword carelessly through the air.
‘’We jus wanted to wish yah a MERRY RED HOT!!’’ he screamed. He looked self-conscious for a moment. ‘’No, mean, I mean MERRY RED HOP!!!’’
He smiled his scarlet face contorting horribly as it floated in the fog.
‘’Now, kill em Kerk! I think I smell a bird in there,’’
‘’Yes, we’ll kill you all like last time,’’ said the man, Cort. A look of surprise crossed his face, and for one moment, I was scared of the scarlet man Cort. Intelligence and hatred glittered in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced with stupid malice.
‘’Ay mean, uh, ja, we gotta yah!’’
The crimson armored man looked irritated and swatted the poor Cort who fell into the grass moaning. The man turned from the writhing Cort to look at my dad and Aurther and the still swaying and spinning Grammie.
‘’He could ah be a good wareooor, but alas, he does thar,’’ he mocked pointing at Cort. ‘’He does that all tha time.’’
The man turned to Kerk. ‘’Kill now, Imma hungry.’’
Kerk leveled his bow and took aim, but before he could do anything, Grammie spun towards him.
‘’Yah right, scarlet booooyyy. You’re not crashin our Red Hop!’’
The crimson man in a rage, forgetting his comrade had the bow and could easily shoot the drunken elderly women, lowered his sword and rushed Grammie. She cackled and with a jerk shot an arrow into his exposed left arm. He screamed and went down with a clatter. The crimson armor brightened with the fresh blood flowing from the wound. Aurther and dad ran forward and the crimson man, realizing attacking drunk was probably not the wisest decision, crawled to his feet, and sprinted back to his men. He pummeled them back the way they had come, and grinned back at Aurther and dad.
‘’Scarlet will paint yah fields and ah foooreests with blood,’’ he laughed, in good cheer. The Scarlet Men were all around happy-go-lucky guys. Aurther whipped his knife at him, but the smudge of crimson and scarlet faded into the fog.
Grammie, not quite realizing they had won, shot bolt after bolt into the fog. ‘’Take dat, and take dat, and dat,’’ she’d shout. ''Watcha get for messin with da Mckaulie clan!''
Aurther and my dad grabbed her arms and managed to drag her back to the house. Before I began to crawl back to the flap, I heard my dad whispering. I stopped.
‘’What are they doin so far away from their camp?’’ he whispered. ‘’It’s ah, over the Timburg Riva, how’d they get this far?’’
Aurther shook his head. ‘’There movin farther into Discordia, and I fea-‘’
Dragging Grammie they walked underneath me and into the house. The door swung shut, and the light vanished. The fog continued to creep. My teeth chattered. I crawled back to the flap, skinning my elbows, and swung myself over the ladder. I could smell the meat and vine again. It smelt so good. The scarlet faces disappeared from my mind. It was Red Hop. I could hear the family moving back into the house below me, Grammie shouting drunken encouragements. I shook my head. Family. I lowered myself, and swung the flap down. The latch creaked, eerily.
I don’t have much to release to you this holiday, unfortunately, but I definitely wanted to cook up something (haha, didn’t even mean to do that) for you all.
So, let me tell you a story of Red Hop, the traditional holiday for the mysterious and forlorn people of Discordia. I hope you all enjoy, and perhaps you’ll recognize some of these fantastical characters.
~
I always loved Red Hop. The food was delicious, you got to see family (even though Grammie Mckaulie smelt a bit funny… dad always said it was because she stoked her hearth by a stalk-tree grove over the frozen fields of Empathica), and it was… well… comforting. It was a moment with no work, no worry. No fear of the cow stealers, no worry of the sweeping fires, no horror of finding your neighbor lying in the woods; killed for the boots on their feet. Red Hop, with its steaming baked bird, its chewy and delicious vines and fruits, it’s carefully rolled firecrackers… it is… beyond description. Who, in their youth, could articulately describe those perfect moments that are so fleeting throughout life? Could anyone describe the elation and pure, utter joy one feels seeing a small, hastily wrapped firecracker go off; knowing that the bang wouldn’t bring the beggars or thieves upon them? Seeing and hearing those small cracks and cries of glee, seeing those delighted faces hovering in the liquid light of candles over the smoking table of meats and mushy vegetables… it could heal all aches, cure all pain. It was a harsh land, Discordia, and Red Hop… made it…
… I mean, you hated to admit it, you denounced the land you had been born into along with everyone else, yet sometimes – you felt happy.
Now, it’s impossible to tell you reader the happiness we all felt on those cold nights. Impossible. But just see this, see it well. My family huddled closely… some drunk on ale, some drunk on laughter and merriment. Pudding made out of deer hide sloshed from cup and jug, and the stories (some created by the ale itself) flew about. The air was thick with smoke, and pipes glowed and winked in the dusky living room. Wind slapped the walls and they moaned, almost in content, listening to the tales.
The holiday and its subsequent lavish night reached its climax, when my Grammie Mckaulie stood with her lyre and bellowing (and bleaching) told us all to raise our jugs, and cups, and plates, and shattered and chipped glasses. She began to sing and strum her lyre, and damn, it was horrible. But no one cared, of course. It was fun. I was singing too, some ridiculous song about the Pirate Red Bird and the First Red Hop Day, when I saw my Papa (married to Grammie Mckaulie, yet he doesn’t smell like her – which I still don’t understand) cock an ear and - with widening eyes - give a sharp whistle. No one seemed to notice, everyone was still singing about Red Bird and his beard tangled in his famed ivory cannon. Papa’s eyes were wild, and he looked as if he had sat on one of Aurther’s knives (my uncle, he had one big moustache, man oh man).
He, stumbling up, gripped his mug (small blue birds flew along its sides) and let loose a tremulous and horrifying scream.
‘’AAaaaaaohhhAAaaaaaaaoooooohhhhhhhAAaaaaaaaaAaaaoohhh!’’
It sounded like the groan and whine of trees. Jesus it was horrible. I could smell the ale on him from across the room. The room was silent, apart from the snore of Aurther in the corner of the room, his moustache blowing back and forth.
‘’The’re, ah, ah comin,’’ Papa gurgled, and collapsed.
There were a few nervous chuckles, but Grammie didn’t strum, and Aurther groaned in the corner. My aunt Rose leaned over and sniffed Papa and his mug.
‘’Aye, he’s been drinkin ah, cask full,’’ she said.
Grammie lowered her lyre and drunkenly weaved towards the wall. Betsy, my sister, began to cry but she was quickly muted. Grammie leaned her head against one of the many beams holding up the roof and closed her eyes. We all watched. The smells seemed to have grown even stronger. The meat. The vines. It was intoxicating, almost as bad as the ale.
‘’Papa’s right,’’ whispered Grammie.
My dad whipped around, taking in the silent multitude.
Aunt Rose took that time to utter a loud and rumbling burp. ‘’Bitch n’ ah, bzzzzzzz fish,’’ she moaned. Everyone began to jump up. They were still drunk and most went down with curses. My dad dragged himself with huge lurching steps to my uncle, and began to shake him.
‘’Aurther, Aurther…’’
Grammie set down her lyre and leaned behind one of the benches, pulling out a crossbow. She began to brandish it.
‘’Les go…’’ She paused burping. ‘’…gah and get em,’’
Aurther was up and ordering the family to sober up quick. He told everyone to get out the back and hide in the old gully. They were all pushing to get out. The maddening smells flared.
‘’Sammy,’’ said my uncle, reaching towards me through the growing exodus of people. ‘’C’mon!’’
I grabbed his hand, and pushing and shoving, moved through the streaming family. Leading me, he ran me back into the kitchen. Why he had to pick the kitchen, I’m not sure; the smells were even more intoxicating there. Grammie and dad were already in there. And well, would you look at that? Grammie had beaten me; she was tearing into the red bird, holding a drumstick in each hand.
I gestured at her in what I hoped wasn’t disgust. ‘’You bringin her?’’
Aurther frowned, but nodded.
‘’She’s a good shot, an, uh… she won’t give up tha crossbow,’’
‘’Ja, ja!’’ shouted Grammie merrily.
‘’Shhhhhhhhhh,’’ whispered my uncle franticly, grabbing her arm. She growled, having just begun to tear into one of her drumsticks.
‘’Let us go,’’ said Aurther to my dad, handing him one of his knives.
‘’Sammy, spot up topside,’’
I rushed to the ladder, it was rickety and hidden deep in the corner of the living room, and looked back longingly at the table. Red Hop, ruined. Jesus.
The latch creaked and I winced. I closed my eyes and quickly let the flap fall open. It hit the roof with a dull finality. I levered myself up, the sweat on my arms quickly cooling. My teeth chattered, making metallic and sharp clicks. The sky was clouded over and the world was full of fog. Crawling, I reached the edge of the roof. The wind hollowed.I heard muffled protests below and the door flew open.
‘’I know what tadoooooooo,’’ screeched Grammie. The light from the open door etched and gouged the fog.
‘’Okay, okay,’’ my dad muttered.
Grammie ran herself into the half-dead lawn and spun around.
‘’Lesssss go yah Scarlet Bastards!’’
Aurther and my dad walked out. Aurther looked up to me and twirled his fingers. I shook my head, and squinted into the fog.
With a whistle and sigh an arrow sprouted from the ground near Grammie. She laughed and spit at it.
‘’Yah guysss are horrible shots!’’
The fog shimmered, darkened, and emerged three men… stumbling just like Grammie. One walked into a bush and erupted in anger. He flicked out his knife, and getting down on his hands and knees, began to stab the poor shrub. They too were celebrating Red Hop. One blew on a jug and laughed at the mournful whine it produced. His crossbow swung back and forth on his back. The only one that seemed semi-coherent was the largest man. He was sturdy and swayed only slightly when the wind blew. He was clad in crimson armor, and the trademark scarlet paint ran down his face. White paint dripped beneath his eyes. Most of his hastily created mask was worn away around his chapped and tight lips. Ale ran down, there.
He swung his sword quite ungracefully from his scabbard, and nearly fell on his face as he walked toward Grammie. The fog seemed to cling to the red tumor lurching onto the dried and yellowed lawn. He turned and pointed at the fool blowing on the jug.
‘’Kerk, ya foockin grunt, get tha bow!’’
His voice was so strange; I could barely understand what he was telling the man, Kerk. Apart from the fact he was incredibly drunk (not as drunk as the others in his party), he had a rumbling and rolling accent. It changed fuckin to fooookin.
The man, Kerk, dropped his jug and cried out when it smashed at his feet. The other scarlet man digging up the lawn with his weapon began to laugh. Kerk swung the bow off his back and aimed it at the man.
‘’Shut up,’’ he said happily.
The crimson man screamed at Kerk to stop it and face the infidels, and told the other man, Cort, to get off his knees and stop being a fooookin idiot. The man, Cort, got to his feet and sneezed. He wiped his face with his knife.
‘’Apologizes, for my, uh…’’ He paused, thinking. ‘’…men, ja.’’
He swung his sword carelessly through the air.
‘’We jus wanted to wish yah a MERRY RED HOT!!’’ he screamed. He looked self-conscious for a moment. ‘’No, mean, I mean MERRY RED HOP!!!’’
He smiled his scarlet face contorting horribly as it floated in the fog.
‘’Now, kill em Kerk! I think I smell a bird in there,’’
‘’Yes, we’ll kill you all like last time,’’ said the man, Cort. A look of surprise crossed his face, and for one moment, I was scared of the scarlet man Cort. Intelligence and hatred glittered in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced with stupid malice.
‘’Ay mean, uh, ja, we gotta yah!’’
The crimson armored man looked irritated and swatted the poor Cort who fell into the grass moaning. The man turned from the writhing Cort to look at my dad and Aurther and the still swaying and spinning Grammie.
‘’He could ah be a good wareooor, but alas, he does thar,’’ he mocked pointing at Cort. ‘’He does that all tha time.’’
The man turned to Kerk. ‘’Kill now, Imma hungry.’’
Kerk leveled his bow and took aim, but before he could do anything, Grammie spun towards him.
‘’Yah right, scarlet booooyyy. You’re not crashin our Red Hop!’’
The crimson man in a rage, forgetting his comrade had the bow and could easily shoot the drunken elderly women, lowered his sword and rushed Grammie. She cackled and with a jerk shot an arrow into his exposed left arm. He screamed and went down with a clatter. The crimson armor brightened with the fresh blood flowing from the wound. Aurther and dad ran forward and the crimson man, realizing attacking drunk was probably not the wisest decision, crawled to his feet, and sprinted back to his men. He pummeled them back the way they had come, and grinned back at Aurther and dad.
‘’Scarlet will paint yah fields and ah foooreests with blood,’’ he laughed, in good cheer. The Scarlet Men were all around happy-go-lucky guys. Aurther whipped his knife at him, but the smudge of crimson and scarlet faded into the fog.
Grammie, not quite realizing they had won, shot bolt after bolt into the fog. ‘’Take dat, and take dat, and dat,’’ she’d shout. ''Watcha get for messin with da Mckaulie clan!''
Aurther and my dad grabbed her arms and managed to drag her back to the house. Before I began to crawl back to the flap, I heard my dad whispering. I stopped.
‘’What are they doin so far away from their camp?’’ he whispered. ‘’It’s ah, over the Timburg Riva, how’d they get this far?’’
Aurther shook his head. ‘’There movin farther into Discordia, and I fea-‘’
Dragging Grammie they walked underneath me and into the house. The door swung shut, and the light vanished. The fog continued to creep. My teeth chattered. I crawled back to the flap, skinning my elbows, and swung myself over the ladder. I could smell the meat and vine again. It smelt so good. The scarlet faces disappeared from my mind. It was Red Hop. I could hear the family moving back into the house below me, Grammie shouting drunken encouragements. I shook my head. Family. I lowered myself, and swung the flap down. The latch creaked, eerily.
~
We ate what was left of the bird. Grammie had really had her way with it. It was delicious.For those of you who actually read through all of this, I salute you. I spent a better part of the day (when not eating, playing board games, watching T.V., fun with family etc. etc.) writing this. Hope you truly enjoyed it. It was fun to write, and theirs lots of hints on whats to come for Discordia within. On behalf of the entire DoD team, I wish you a Happy Thanksgiving! Have some gravy in my honor! And although I don't encourage it, get blasted in honor of Grammie!
