eyeline.tex

\section*{Shifting the Eye-Line}

\begin{multicols}{2}

\noindent
At first glance, \gls{fenestra} might seem like a paradise.
A world without disease, hunger or war; all of its land lush with forests of every kind, each teeming with animals to hunt and fruit to pick.
Yet, families still swell and shrink, like European peasants of old.

With the abundance of food, many beasts of the forest grew to enormous sizes and appetites.
Instead of plagues and famines, the population of \gls{fenestra} is ravaged by \glspl{monster}.
\Glspl{griffin} swoop in from the sky, mouthdiggers burst from the ground, \glspl{crawler} drop from the canopies, \glspl{basilisk} shoot out from their dens, \glspl{woodspy} hide in plain sight, nowhere is truly safe.

To immerse yourself in this world, you must forget about our gentle Mother Nature.
\Gls{fenestra} eats its young.
On Earth, the humble, docile cow used to be the auroch -- a prehistoric beast with an large muscular frame and even larger horns.
We tamed it, bred the wild out of it, just like we tamed most of the land and everything on it.
On \gls{fenestra}, aurochs still roam.

Humans survive by carving out space for \glspl{village}, burning and slashing away the woods into a large clearing, with a walled settlement placed in the middle like a nipple.
With the wilderness continually trying to heal the festering wound that is civilisation, the \gls{village} must always hold the line.

Archers defend from inside the \gls{village} walls, while the \gls{guard} must remain, or in the \gls{village}'s \gls{broch}.
As the most downtrodden, poor, criminal, stupid, the \gls{guard} act as a first line of defence, a human shield.
They are tasked with maintaining the forest perimeter with fire, and slaying any beast that crosses the treeline.

But most importantly, the \gls{guard} must venture into wild, and mine it for essential resources -- mushrooms and herbs, auroch meat, \gls{basilisk} hide, \gls{griffin} wings, and so much more.

\begin{exampletext}
  A poor boy, taking odd jobs to get by, is scrubbing chamber pots.
  He is interrupted by a sharply-dressed man forcing a shovel in his hands.

  ``Time to dig a grave, errand boy!''

  The town has no dedicated grave-digger.
  Most people don't leave a corpse.
\end{exampletext}

\begin{exampletext}
  At small hours of the night, the local pub is still packed and loud.
  Over the crowd, an important debate led by two inebriated gentlemen is heard:

  ``\ldots can't
  see shit with a helmet on!
  By the time you see its tentacle, it's scooping out your face like a cantaloupe!''

  ``Aaaaand that's how you get an arrow to the face, bonehead!
  Don't come crying to \emph{me} when those bandits take your eye \emph{and} your horse!''

  ``Fuck the horse, fuck the money, fuck everything!
  You can't bribe a beast!''

  ``What money you going to bribe with?!
  You don't have a bucket to piss in.
  No wonder you have no helmet!
  Who would ambush a bum?''

  ``Yeah, they'll ambush \emph{you} instead cuz you can't see shit!''

  Fists start flying, and the pub breaks out in an all-out brawl.
  The helmet debate continues.
\end{exampletext}

\begin{exampletext}
  A new recruit arrives to the \gls{templeOfBeasts}, heavily pregnant.
  After enrollment, uniform, tour, and far too much paperwork, it's finally her turn to recieve a weapon from the \gls{guard} \gls{jotter}.

  The \gls{jotter} sighs, thinking ``we try to be gentlemen, really, despite our rotten reputation.
  As much as our ladies are just as nasty as the men, it just seems wrong to send an expecting mother outside the walls''.

  ``But then we gave them plenty of rest and comfy indoor busywork, and what did that get us?
  All boys on the field, and all the god-damn good-for-nothing lazy harlots all laughing and doing fuck-all, carrying little hellions in their bellies.''

  The \gls{jotter} feels his fury bubbling to the surface all over again.
  The little shits, who grew up to be the hardiest bastards in \gls{fenestra}, remain a thorn in his side to this day.

  The new recruit shuffles awkwardly on her swollen feet.

  ``Usually new recruits get short swords and bows.
  Here's a spear, you could use something to lean on while keeping guard.''

  Relief washes over her face, and the \gls{jotter}'s fury dissipates.
  Maybe he can afford gentlemanly behaviour after all.
\end{exampletext}

\begin{exampletext}
  Every shepherd loves their flock.
  And how could you not?
  Sheep are oh-so-soft and oh-so-dumb, following your every step, peering up at you with uthmost devotion.

  Perhaps it doesn't seem so from the outside, when you have to pick out a sheep to make lame.
  Most shepherds take no pleasure in the crippling, but even if they did, nothing can break a flock's single-minded adoration.
  In a sheep's eyes, you're their whole world, even as you break their limbs.

  After all, sheep spend hours, every day, grazing outside \pgls{village}'s walls.
  And sooner or later, something is bound to go wrong.
  Perhaps an archer's aim is off that day, or the shepherd was busy thinking of dinner, or the guard-child was dozing off.
  Before you know it, some hungry forest creature is careening towards the herd.
  The lame sheep is a sacrifice, an offering to the forest so others are left unharmed.
  It's for the good of the flock.
  A good shepherd takes care of their flock.

  Shepherds whisper these thoughts to themselves as they break a sheep's leg, to make a replacement cripple.
\end{exampletext}

\begin{exampletext}
  I've never looked at a beast and wondered what goes on inside its head.
  Like any other sane person, my thoughts are `\emph{run}' and `\emph{don't soil yourself}'.
  Then \pgls{griffin} decided to make its home in the outskirts closest to my cabin.
  I tried shooing it away by banging pots and pans, pelting it with rocks, siccing my dog Rolf on it, shooting it with arrows.
  And the damn creature would just sit there, unfazed.

  I even burned down its nest. And the damned thing just perched on the smoking tree trunk!

  There was not a slightest hint of upset from the \gls{griffin}, despite my best efforts.
  Nothing behind it eyes.
  It doesn't know past, it doesn't know future, it barely knows its alive, only thing it knows is `hunt'.

  I've seen it with my own eyes, a figure swooping down from the canopy, grabbing some unfortunate small animal with horrific accuracy, and disappearing back into the forest, all in a moment.

  Somehow I got used to all that, over time, and thought we achieved some kind of tentative neighbourly peace.
  Once Rolf stopped cowering every time we went out, we started going hunting again.

  In my foolishness, I imagined it took a liking to me.
  Instead of mimicking other forest dwellers, as \glspl{griffin} usually do, it immitated me -- sounds of me playing the flute, chopping wood, calling for Rolf.

  You can probably tell where this is going.
  My beloved Rolf is gone, down the damn bird's gullet.
  And as punishment for my hubris, the woods echo with Rolf's whimpers and cries every night.
  I think I will join Rolf soon.

\end{exampletext}

If \gls{fenestra} had a single lesson, it would be this;
despite \glspl{griffin}, stirges, \glspl{jotter}, and \glspl{woodspy}, despite myriad dangers, at the end of the day, the real monsters are the \emph{\glsentryplural{basilisk}}.

\end{multicols}