Society

The categories below aim at giving a comprehensive picture of Ecbethians' social and religious structures.

Religion

The leading religion in Ecbeth originated from Casildon, and is called Jannadism. There are other, and at times opposing religions, but the calendar observed throughout the vast majority of Ecbeth comes from Jannadism.

Jannadism belief consists of pilgrimages and baths as close as possible to Jannadis, in order to receive gifts, advice and blessings from the thirteen gods.

Calendar

The Jannadist calendar is made up of thirteen months of 28 days, and a liminal period of 1-2 days a year called Aniculle (Godsdwell). The calendar year starts with the month of the moss Camou, at the very beginning of the spring. It ends with the month of the water Iqueux at the end of winter, before everyone locks themselves home for Godsdwell.

Each month is made up of four weeks of seven days, five of these days focused on working and the last two days for resting and honouring the gods of Jannadis.

Gods

The Jannadist religion worships thirteen gods, who are at the basis of their calendar. Each of these gods symbolises a natural occurrence on Jannadis, and is believed to be at the origin of said occurrences. The thirteen gods are revered and worshipped individually throughout the year, one during each month.

Qamu, God of Moss and growth.
Kunash, God of Frogs and travel.
Ajin, God of Insects and learning.
Tashin, God of Trees and communion.
Ashu, God of Mushrooms and spirits.
Miqo, God of Sun and war.
Inda, God of Thunder and grief.
Mutash, God of Mud and nature.
Nua, God of the Moon and fertility.
Nashtu, God of Bones and the afterlife.
Lundi, God of the Night and passion.
Zaatash, God of Iron and industry.
Iku, God of Water and death.

The myth of Iku and Nua

In the time before time, when the elements were yet young, there dwelt Iku, lord of the endless waters. From his liquid throne, he first beheld Nua, the radiant maiden of the night sky. Her silvered beauty pierced his heart like an arrow, and from that moment, his waters churned with desire.

Night after night, Iku watched as Nua drove her celestial chariot across the heavens, her light dancing upon his dark waters. His passion grew until it became a tempest within him, and he schemed to possess her. Cunningly, he sent forth his sweetest mists to caress her, whispering promises of eternal devotion until she descended from her celestial path.

When Nua drew close to his waters, Iku rose in a mighty surge, wrapping her in his fluid embrace. For twelve days and twelve nights, he held her captive. With each passing day, Nua bore him a child, each birth dimming her radiance like clouds passing before her face. Her immortal light grew faint.

On the twelfth day, when her light had dwindled to but a whisper of its former glory, Nua fled. She spoke to Iku of a celestial diamond, promising it would grant him the power to traverse the heavens alongside her. Released from his embrace, she soared upward, higher than ever, fleeing her captor's reach. Yet in her haste, she left behind her children in the depths. 

And so it is that each month, returning to glimpse the mortal world, Nua draws closer to the earth, her heart torn between longing and fear. She peers down at Iku’s realm, searching for her abandoned children, but dares not descend too low, lest she once again become entangled in her lover's possessive embrace.

Thus do we witness her eternal dance of approach and retreat, marking the passing of months by her waxing and waning courage, while below, Iku’s waters surge and recede in endless pursuit of his lost love.

The myth of Lundi and Kunash

Among the twelve divine children born of Nua and Iku’s tempestuous union, first came Lundi, Mistress of the Night. She drew her first breath in the deepest watch of darkness, when the world itself himself lay dormant. Her velvet robe coiled about her in the vast emptiness of her domain, cursed to be alone while her siblings lay asleep. 

For twelve nights she kept her solitary vigil, watching as each new sibling emerged from their mother's fading light, only to succumb to slumber's sweet call. Her solitude grew vast, until the last of her divine siblings drew breath: Kunash, who bore the form of a sacred frog touched by darkness.

Like kindred spirits blessed by the same stars, Lundi and Kunash found in each other what the cosmos had denied them—companionship in the realm of shadows. Together they danced upon the obsidian waters of Jannadis, their laughter echoing through centuries like wind through sacred caves. They might have continued thus for eternity, had not Fate's thread twisted anew.

For Kunash’s heart was seized by love when he beheld Sylda, an amphibian nymph, whose vitality rivaled that of dawn itself. As moth to a flame, he was drawn to her radiance, leaving Lundi to walk the night paths alone once more.

Consumed by jealousy, Lundi stalked her prey Sylda. In a moment of madness, she struck, devouring the nymph in one bite. Horrified by her own sinister heart, Lundi dove to the depths of a sacred well, deeper than the roots of Tashin itself, and remained buried in guilt.

It was there that Kunash found her, his heart heavy with grief for his vanished love. In an irony cruel as any crafted by the Fates, he beseeched the very architect of his loss to aid in his search. And so Lundi, carrying her dark secret like Inda bears the heavens, walked beside him in false fellowship, while Sylda's essence lay trapped within her belly.

Time worked its strange magic. Lundi’s memory of her crime faded like mist, yet Kunash’s devotion remained unyielding. And so it remains to this day—he wanders the twilight marshlands, calling endlessly for his lost Sylda, while Lundi drifts through lonely Night, carrying within herself the weight of a truth she no longer remembers.

The myth of Ajin

On the fifth day of Iku and Nua’s diving embrace, a single drop of dew fell upon a lotus blossom, and from their union came forth Ajin. So frail was his form, that even Fate herself nearly missed the thread of his existence. His flesh was as translucent as the finest silk from the East, his essence visible through skin like gossamer.

For seven days, while his divine siblings grew mighty and vivacious, Ajin cowered beneath his mother’s argentine wings, his voice no louder than a whisper and body no bigger than a sapling.

When Nua fled to the heavens, abandoning her children to claim their divine domains, Ajin was granted sovereignty over the smallest of Earth's creatures. To him fell the kingdom of the industrious ant, the wise bee, the cunning spider, and the humble worm. From his throne, carved from a single grain of sand, his mind grew strong and flourished.

In his sprouting wisdom, he crafted the first art of this Earth—Writing, a gift he hoped would elevate his minuscule companions to share in divine knowledge. Yet Ajin found his task futile. His subjects, blessed with intelligence but cursed with brevity of life, would age and perish before mastering even the simplest of his symbols.

Consumed by grief and solitude, he resolved to journey to the lightless depths of Iku’s realm. Surely his father, in his infinite power, could grant his subjects the few precious years needed to share in the wisdom of the cosmos. 

Ajin’s interminable journey ended in the darkest abyss, where he found Iku brooding in his cavernous hall. There, he prostrated himself supplicating, his tears mingling with the ancient waters. But Iku, unmoved as the eternal rocks, gazed upon his smallest child with eyes cold as death's breath.

"My son," spoke Iku, his voice resonating through the depths, "speak not of destiny. You have carved a purpose upon your life which serves no architect, for there are no Masters of our fate. Now go and die as you see fit."

And so Ajin departed his father's halls, his heart burdened by emptiness. He cursed the names of his divine parents, his siblings, and his own, for he had learned that even gods are bound by no greater purpose than that which they create, no higher than simple insects.

The myth of Miqo and Tashin

On the sixth day of creation, Miqo drew his first breath. His birth brought such agony to his mother Nua that her silvery light nearly faded from the cosmos. Iku, mad with grief and rage, struck his newborn son with such fury that darkness claimed the vision in Miqo’s left eye forever. The water god abandoned him in a cold cavern of his vast domain, turning his attention to Nua, whose immortal life flickered precariously between existence and void.

As Miqo huddled in shadow, nursing his wounds and his fear, the cries of another birth echoed through the watery halls. Again, Nua’s strength waned dangerously, pulling her into death’s deep embrace for a full day's turn. Iku's wrath rose like a tempest at this newest child—fragile Tashin, trembling like the first green shoot of spring. As Iku raised his mighty hand to strike, Miqo surged forward, blazing forth to shield his newborn brother. The flames of his protection seared Iku’s right hand, marking it with an eternal burn that glows beneath the waters even to this day.

The brothers fled through the depths and into the world above, hiding together in the shadows between realms. For countless seasons they trembled at every stirring of the waters, fearing their father's vengeance. Slowly, Tashin grew strong, his roots diving deep in the soft soil, his branches reaching toward his brother's light. Seeing his brother secure at last, Miqo knew the time had come to claim his rightful place in the heavens.

"I was born of flame and light," he told Tashin as their paths diverged. "From the sky, I shall watch over you always."

And so each dawn, Miqo would rise magnificent above the horizon, his wings tracing an arc across the heavens. He would dip low to greet his brother, reveling in Tashin’s growth, his heart soaring with the knowledge that his beloved sibling thrived beneath his nurturing gaze.

But as the wheel of seasons turned, a terrible transformation befell Tashin. His verdant glory suddenly blazed crimson and gold, as if Miqo’s own fire had caught within him. Then, to his horror, these burning leaves fell away, leaving Tashin naked and vulnerable against the encroaching cold. Believing his light had wounded his brother beyond healing, Miqo fled to the furthest reaches of the heavens, hiding his face in grief throughout the long winter, his tears falling as bitter rain.

What Miqo did not understand in his self-imposed exile, was the devastation his absence wrought. Without his warming touch, death's cold fingers grasped at every living thing. The nymphs of stream and forest wept as their domains withered. When finally he released himself from sorrow's slumber, he gazed down upon a world turned gray and lifeless. There stood Tashin, a skeleton of his former self, clinging to the last threads of his heart.

With a cry that shattered winter's grip, Miqo plunged from the heavens, his scaled wings carving a path through the frost. Wherever his light touched, life stirred anew. Flowers unfurled from their earthen beds, streams broke free of ice's chains, and as he embraced his brother with gentle warmth, sap once more surged through Tashin's limbs. Leaves burst forth like emerald flames, and the forest sighed with renewed vigor.

Thus was revealed the truth of their eternal bond—that Tashin must sleep through winter's chill to preserve his strength, and Miqo must temper his passion lest he burn what he most loves. Now, when you see the sun retreat as autumn deepens, know it is Miqo withdrawing in reverence of his brother's necessary slumber. He retreats to his lonely palace in the distant skies, passing the cold months in restless dreams, counting the days until spring when he may once more descend to awaken his beloved brother with the tender kiss of dawn.

This is why the sun's path arcs lower in winter skies and why its return in spring brings such jubilation to the world—for it is the eternal dance of two brothers, separated by their very natures, yet bound by a love that neither time nor the fury of gods can diminish.

The myth of Inda

One the final hour of the twelfth night, Inda drew her first breath amid the dying echoes of her mother's pain. She slipped from Nua’s womb onto Iku’s waiting knees as they both beheld her contort in agony, her silver ichor staining the waters around them. 

Not once did Nua gaze upon Inda before she deceived Iku and took her escape. She fled the watery depths, soaring high above the world, leaving her newborn daughter to the cold comfort of her father's grief.

Her siblings having already left to claim their domains in the world above, Inda grew alone in dark halls with a father consumed by betrayal. Iku, once mighty and terrible in his passion, now curled around his wounded heart like a dying serpent, his waters darkening with sorrow. Beside him remained Inda, learning the shape of absence, the phantom pain of a gone mother, the hollow echoes of invisible brothers and sisters.

In the sunless depths of her father's realm, she grew strong. Her body curved like a drawn bow, tension and power coiled within her slender form. When at last she fashioned wings from the mist and foam of her father's domain, she stood before Iku with eyes bright as polished stones.

"I will bring you justice, Father," she vowed. "I will make them know the pain they left behind."

Iku wept as she ascended, his plaintive calls following her like chains. "Return to me, my last treasure," he begged, as her wings carried her upward, inexorable as fate.

When Inda breached the surface of her father's realm, the shock of beauty struck her like a fist. The world above shimmered with colors her eyes had never known, vibrated with life her skin had never felt. Paradise stretched before her—a paradise her siblings had crafted while leaving her to darkness. Worse still, she saw the silver trail of her mother's light touching everything, blessing all but her.

Rage rose within her. Her body twisted in fury, her wings beating a rhythm of vengeance. The sky darkened around her, clouds gathering like warriors to her banner. From her essence sprang forth jagged spears of light, tearing through the heavens with sound that shook the foundations of the world.

It was then she beheld him—Miqo, brightest and most favoured of her brothers, he who had scarred their father's hand. He soared through the skies, his light touching the world with  an impossible tenderness, one she had never known.

With a cry that split the heavens, Inda hurled herself toward him, her furious thunder piercing through to him. Miqo turned to meet her charge, his flames rising to defend himself and the verdant world below where Tashin spread his leafy arms.

Their battle raged across the dome of the sky. Where her lightning struck, his fire countered. Where his flames advanced, her storms drove them back. Neither yielding, neither conquering—their strength equal in each and every way.

When at last exhaustion claimed them both, Inda retreated to the depths, her wings singed by her brother's fire. Miqo withdrew to the forest, his body hollowed by his sister's lightning strikes. Each vowed protection against the other, neither recognising the reflection of their own heart in their adversary's eyes.

And so it continues through the ages. When storm clouds gather suddenly in summer skies, know that Inda has risen once more from the depths, her heart still seeking vengeance for ancient wounds. As lightning flashes and thunder rolls, Miqo meets her charge, their eternal combat illuminating the heavens with terrible beauty. 

Us who witness their battle call it a storm, but those who listen closely can hear in the thunder's rumble and the fire of lightning the cry of a daughter and son, still calling out for the mother who left them both behind.

The myth of Qamu

Among all the divine children born of Iku and Nua, there was one whose birth passed unnoticed—Qamu. His coming into the world was so gentle that it drew no cry from his mother's lips. Such was the subtlety of his emergence that neither Nua nor Iku marked his arrival. Thus unnoticed, he bestowed a tender embrace upon his slumbering parents before departing the cavernous depths of his father's realm, seeking the warmth his nature craved.

His form was most peculiar among the siblings—a vast, slow-moving body like that of a tortoise stretched across the horizons, his back rising in twin gentle hills, his entire being cloaked in a verdant tapestry of moss and tender growth. Such was his patience that his movements escaped mortal perception, for he traversed the earth with the deliberate pace of mountains shifting over eons. Seasons waxed and waned as he journeyed, until at last he found a plain where he might rest his weary form.

There, beneath the endless sky, Qamu devoted himself to nurturing life. His mossy mantle became home to countless creatures—the swift hare, the industrious ant, the melodious thrush—all finding sanctuary in his gentle embrace. So abundant was the life he fostered, so lush the paradise he created, that the prairie bloomed with beauty rivaling heaven's own gardens.

It came to pass that a mortal man, weary from life's burdens, found himself drawn to this haven. Sensing a kindred spirit, Qamu welcomed him, enfolding the traveler between the twin hills of his back. Throughout the night, the moss god's essence flowed into the human, healing ancient wounds, renewing vitality, until dawn found the man transformed—stronger, more vibrant, his form refined by divine touch.

The mortal returned each night for a full cycle of seasons, lying upon Qamu's back beneath the watchful gaze of the stars. From their communion, children were born—beings neither fully divine nor mortal, who grew tall and strong, nourished by Qamu's boundless love. In his joy at finding such connection, Qamu failed to perceive the truth—that his essence was being drawn away, like water seeping into thirsty earth.

Slowly, the verdant tapestry of his being began to pale. The lushness of the prairie diminished, brilliance fading to dullness, as more and more of his divine nature transferred to his children, stretching their forms toward the heavens themselves. Yet so complete was his devotion that he perceived nothing amiss, even as his body withered like autumn leaves after frost's first kiss.

The mortal, lacking divine perception, could not comprehend the true nature of Qamu's fading. Where once he had seen abundance, now he perceived only lack. Confusion turned to suspicion, tenderness hardened to accusation. "You have turned your favours elsewhere," he charged, his words sharp as arrows. "You neglect our children, you deceive me with false promises."

Though wounded by this mistrust, Qamu struggled to preserve the harmony between them. He poured what little remained of his essence into maintaining the bonds of their family, but his diminished form could no longer sustain such division. Like a lyre string pulled too tight, something within him threatened to snap.

The final tragedy unfolded when the mortal returned one fateful eve, bearing not love but a torch of fire. Blinded by grief he could not understand, driven by fear he could not name, the human set flame to Qamu's weakened form. The fire spread across the once-lush prairie with an unstoppable hunger, reducing to ash what had once been Qamu’s precious garden.

The mortal never understood that the withering he witnessed was not abandonment but sacrifice—the willing dissolution of a divine being into the children of their union. He never understood that in Qamu's silent, patient love lay a power greater than Life, a generosity beyond even the greatest of the gods.

Thus did Qamu, gentlest of the divine children, pass from the world—not through violence like his siblings, nor through retreat like his mother, but through the most profound act of love: the giving of himself until nothing remained. They say that when the wind blows across certain prairies, carrying the scent of moss after rain, it is Qamu's spirit still reaching out to caress the world he loved too deeply for his own sake.

The first prophet

The Genesis of the Chosen One
In the time before the gods walked among us, there lived a child of the streets, abandoned and alone. An eagle, seeing this child, seized him in mighty talons, carrying him over the Poisoned Waters where no mortal dared venture.
In his struggle against fate, the child fell from the eagle's grasp into the sacred waters below. There in the depths dwelled Iku, First Among Gods and Master of Death, who saw in this child a vessel worthy of divine purpose. Through Iku's will, a Giant Toad emerged from the depths, bearing the child safely within its belly.
For years, the child dwelled within the Sacred Toad, which grew to monstrous size. Those who came to touch the creature were granted visions of times yet to come, and they knew divinity walked among them. They built a great temple to house this miracle.
The gods, seeing the child's worthiness, visited him in dreams and visions. Through divine intervention, his form was transformed, allowing him to bear the sacred bloodline. He was blessed with thirteen divine pregnancies, though Iku, being the God of Death, would never sire earthly children.
From his body came twelve children, each possessed by a god of Jannadis. These Sacred Offspring were born neither male nor female, but both, marked by blindness that allowed them to see beyond mortal sight. They dwell forever in the Temple of the Toad, sustained by the sacred waters that claimed their parent.

The law of succession

Each year, when the stars align for mating, pilgrims come from distant lands seeking the blessing of divine blood. Those deemed worthy may join with the Sacred Offspring, continuing the bloodline of the gods. As it was foretold, some gods' vessels draw more seekers than others, their influence waxing and waning like the tides of Iku's domain.
The Sacred Offspring must never leave their temple sanctuary, for they carry within them the essence of divinity itself. Daily they drink the Poisoned Waters, building their resistance to mortal frailties, as their parent did before them.
So begins the eternal cycle of Jannadis, born from the waters of death, sustained by the faith of the worthy, and continuing through the blood of the chosen.

The Children's temple

The twelve sacred offspring, otherwise known as the Children, are confined to a temple on the tallest mountain of Casildon. The temple consists of thirteen chambers, twelve of them inhabited by the Children and the last, central chamber being permanently void of tenant to represent Iku's lack of successor. Iku's empty chamber is considered the most holy place in the entire world, and is only accessible to the Children for their bath ritual, and to the servants who keep its water pure.

Each Children's chamber is locked with a sophisticated system which only opens with a Keeper key that shatters on impact. The only people given a Keeper key are carefully selected by the state each year as a reward for their heroic or patriotic acts in war. This ensures the Children are kept fully out of reach to the world, and they only come out of their chambers for their daily common bath in Iku's chamber at dusk. Otherwise, their only human interaction is with their servants who feed, bathe and protect them.

Selecting the Children

The Children must be born intersex, (hermaphrodite) as the legend goes. Finding and breeding intersex offspring is an exceptionally hard task, especially considering they are expected to reproduce themselves. Over time, the laws around selecting only intersex Children relaxed a little, but it is still considered the holiest occurrence when it happens, and a sign of a particularly prosper ea.

You can find out more about the process of selecting and breeding the Children on the Biology page.

Languages

The most commonly spoken language throughout Ecbeth is Casildish, coming from the country of Casildon. It takes its roots from Olde Jannadian, believed to be uttered by the gods of Jannadis. It has since been drastically simplified and modernised to become the Casildish that is spoken today throughout Ecbeth.

Arts & culture

Social structures