We are Kykr, not Fay
This article won the Words of Worldbuilding Challenge of February 2020! Thank you to ALL of you for your feedback and likes! <3
The court of High Fay king Tháaltanassar lay at the foot of Ayla's Peak, the mountain at the heart of the Winterweald. The glade was covered by a thin sheet of snow and the air was crisp. Small puffs formed with every breath from the assembled Fay. The king sat on his throne when Æþir, the Vindral representative, approached him from beyond the glade.
The King looked up and spoke. "You know why you have been summoned, Æþir. Speak!" he said and gestured to the snow-covered space in front of his throne.
"I have been summoned by you because you wish to stifle my people. Because you wish us not to expand. You have lent your ear to the Silfr and the trolls, but you have not heard us!"
The king's eyes flared.
"Careful, Æþir!" he cautioned. "Your people have bent metal to your will and are using it to bring blood and death to your fellow kin. I had hopes you might come to see the folly of your ways, but I see now that you are set on the path of destruction."
"My people are dying in the deep woods. Our men are devoured by the Silfr, the trolls steal our children, and you claim we have brought blood and death? Our mastery of metal is a desperate attempt to defend ourselves and our realm from the crimes of the others! Something you, dear king, advocate. Evolve and adapt, you say." Æþir, usually calm in demeanor, found himself raising his voice at the king.
A faint murmur of shocked and offended voices was heard from the gathered crowd as Tháaltanassar rose from his throne and walked to the end of the dais.
"Adapt and evolve through nature, not metal!" He snapped. "What your people have done is an abomination against nature as we know it and we will not stand for it."
"Then what, oh mighty king, would you have us do?" Æþir's words slithered through his gritted teeth, laced with sarcasm.
"ENOUGH!" the king bellowed. "Your people are henceforth banished from the realm of Ayla! Any Vindral caught in the Weald within ten passings of the sun will be put to death." He gestured to the end of the glade. "Go! And may you find life elsewhere. Your time here is forfeit."
Æþir clenched his teeth, his hand fingering the grip of his bronze blade. He came to his senses and bowed before the king. "As you wish, my lord."
And with these words, Æþir left the Court of the Inuelweri for the last time, to tell his people that they had been banished, that they were no longer Fay, but something else. Something outside, and against, the Fay. Æþir could barely stand to speak the language of the Inu and set a plan in motion in his mind to unify his people against all Fay. He knew that there were others in the world. Others who were not of the Fay, others that might help.
Æþir forsook the language of the Fay and began inventing new words to separate him and his people from the Fay. He declared that the Vindral were now "Kykr", which he described to them as a deep union against the evil Fay, meaning "One of us. Unity. Progress." As the Vindral fled across the Crimson Straits, they had already begun thinking of themselves as "Kykr", rather than Vindral or Fay.
In Atlága Vekja
Felþira þøkkragi birkagi hirums Þaltanassar lægir þum rotúmer kellagi Aylis, kella ann skín rojarégi. Klífe slamtre tynn milkinégi oll nifra eysr meæ. Þykar hvindur skeín hylli øndemang fýr þøkkar farði. Birke birkutrún honnums án sittr, Æþir, estra hvindralégi, han askúnr fýr burtun klife.
Birke skáþi ofr oll akbasr. "Þú vetur vassa þik stefre, Æþir. Akbasi!" honn taljar oll vægomr bos domr milkurin morkum birkutrún honnums.
"Ék stefre higun of þan honn folkún mínæ skorðum gjallarðum. Þan honn skorðum ússe eivingðum. Hfir bos silfún oll barkún øra honnums lentre, alak honn ússe eihlýðr."
Øgnún birkagi eldre.
"Arfi, Æþir!", honn talre. "Folke hvegums skiþ smédjaði oll inní brukr bos kinr þums døðr oll bloð íngr. Ék glistri þú ans skælfe væge þums, alak ék þú skælfe ór forstur."
"Folke miþ ann rojar mørkr døer. Drængar hfégums láf silfún raegar, kintún hfégums láf barkún eihafr, oll hfir trúr hfé døðr oll bloð íngr? Skiþ æktara hfégums ór ein ursok ússe oll sygra hfégums engír sklemte karðum! Hfir, birké miþ, nágut forslar. Utfekr oll anfasr, hfir talr." Æþir, uft hyri, næm þum birke gjelledre.
Fiskr sfok fýr þøkkrar mílnin hlýði, mins Þaltanassar fýr birkutrun honnums stiðre oll bos þrarne gangre.
"Utfekr oll anfasr skeín fea, eiskiþ!" birke skátre. "Dannr folke þums góre ór eifea oll hfé askerðum vittr!"
"Anders, birke hirums, hfir há ússe górðum?" órdar Æþirs smykre jinum tannúr honnums, sankr of spittr.
"SANKT!" birke gjelledre. "Desimer eksil fýr sygra Aylis folke thums ór! Et eín hvindral inr hfís dagar finr ann rojara hférðum død." Honn bos ature klifégi vægomre. "Førsvi! Ék dannr þú fæg andras finr hoffr. Tiðr hfigums ór aryfí."
Æþir tannúr honnums presre, hønde sin hjalte órebu skállagi ruredre. Honn eiskælle fardi. "Ønskra hfégums hændeðum, birke miþ."
Skeín órdar dere, Æþir felþira Inuelhfi eikomri enders, folke honnums ðém eskil ór halrðum. Ðém 'hfé eiþøkkr desimer eihférðum' halðrum. Naǵut þøkkra sklemti oll engír. Æþir vekje þøkkragi neste akbasr konni oll honn ann hirte honnums kúninger fortybredre bos folke honnums engír þøkkrún hylli einhittrðum. Honn sklemtar ann fea ór vetudre. Sklemtar dannr þøkkra eiklir, sklemtún dannr hjelprðum kunne.
Æþir øfergangi vekja þøkkragi oll nyi órdar rónre opkinre bos han oll folkún honnums fýr þøkkra dellr. Honn hvindral nu Kykr hfér førkúnre, filke honn bos ðégums førbundr engír þøkkra ulmo, "ein ússe tillhøer" bitydrer. "Einhetr." "Fremgingr."
Mins hvindralina aryfí Ymosar Rauko flygi, ðé likt Kykr kennedre, eiþøkkr af eihvindral.
From this day forward, the Vindral considered themselves separate from the Fay. They would no longer live in glades or seek shelter in the woods. Their entire identity became one of active separation from the old ways. They refined their metalworking skills, and once they came into contact with the illim of the Blood Coast, they learned of iron. The birth of the Kykr civilisation was at hand, and the modified language Æþir came up with became the lingua franca of the Kykr. He named it Ósleiðr, "Word of the Gods".