Who are the Kaumenoi?
The terracotta scholars, and saviors of the Burnt World. Three revelatory excerpts from historical writings.
The Tragedy of the Kilned
From The Inner Realm, by Saint Humun-Ash, 3e.624 Imagine, if you will, an existence with sight but not touch, with thought but not feeling, and with motion but not life. This is how the Kilned experience the world. Most of us have seen these beings at one time or another, walking down the roads at night, lingering silent at the edges of gatherings, sometimes even in our own homes. They are the guests at the door whose journey is never over, who are so unlike us, but are nevertheless welcomed everywhere they go. They are noted for their peregrinations around our world, never more than two of them in one place at one time. Each has trod countless leagues of road on their endless search for knowledge. It is known that they can store within their minds the equivalent of many libraries, and share the knowledge within sparingly. Despite their reluctance to part with the information they have gathered through their travels, they are feted in many places when they pass through a village, receiving food, trinkets, and hospitality that they do not, in fact, need or appreciate. Although they fight (and fight well), they do so only out of self-preservation, never passion. I say to you truly: nobody knows where the Kilned (or "Kaumenoi" as they call themselves) come from, even if some scholars may claim otherwise. Although many suppositions have been made over the centuries, one mustn't let any such tales fool one into thinking that any of them represent established fact. The truth is that not even the Kilned themselves avow any knowledge of the matter, and their history, which spans long before our own, is too far removed for any mortal to know any more than they. They do seem to bear some manner of "maker's mark", like the signature on a portrait. These can be found as a raised imprint on the shells of the Kilned, usually in the space between where a mortal's shoulder blades would be. Some Kilned have been seen to recognize the same maker's mark on one another, and will express a sort of kinship in these instances. The identity of these makers remains a mystery, perhaps lost to the ages. Whoever created the Kilned did so with a touch of artistry, for no two look alike. Although they are all bound in shells of clay, and all bear a passing semblance to Humankind, the shapes of their faces, their general proportions, and their colors all vary to a staggering degree. It is as if an entire race each made their own personalized servant, only for the servants to outlive the masters. It must be pointed out that although, like living beings, the Kilned are animated by Blue Magic, theirs is a loose spark of anima bound within their clay shell and not suffused in living matter. Thusly, it is wrong to say that the Kilned are "alive". Although they look superficially like us, and although they move like us, their lack of true emotion is what sets them apart from us. They were made with the sole task of preserving the collected knowledge of our world and are incapable of seeking any meaning beyond this single directive. Although they are friends to Humankind, it must be remembered that this is more the sort of friendship that one shares with a household pet. One can feel fond for the Kilned, but only at a remove. I invite the faithful to contemplate these facts. Contemplate the fact that an ancient race mimicked the Gods by attempting to create their own form of life, but could not replicate life in all its breadth and vividness. Reflect on the fact that this race has now vanished from our world, and remember that, like the Kilned, all of us have our place in the great design.The Wisdom of the Burnt Ones
From Two Hundred Times I Lost: Memoirs of a Pugilist by Marmett Tonoa, 5e.1218 Whoever it was that said the Kilned don't have emotions was a lying motherfucker. They feel, alright, and they can be damned cheeky when it suits them. I was in Solemn-Shade by the foot of the Sackhills, twenty something and pissed off at the world. I'd been "laid off" (if you like) from my last job with the Hellfire Company and had just spent a night in the clink after a misunderstanding with the local guard captain (and his wife). I was getting acquainted with a puddle of rainwater and fighting off a lingering hangover when I saw one of the Kilned standing there by the roadside and watching me. The Burnt One was tall and slender, its body made of solid baked clay except for the places where its joints had to go. It was unclothed but for a simple pink poncho draped around its shoulders. I noticed that in the tassels at the end, some beads were braided, childlike. Half of its weight rested on a quarterstaff it held in one hand, and the slits it had in place for eyes on its unchanging face were unreadable. There was a faint flicker of blue light behind them. "What?" I snarled, trying and probably failing not to look like I was fighting a losing battle with the mud. I'd heard many times about how the Kilned could fight - but just this once, my sense of self-preservation was low enough for me to try to have a go. "Have a problem? Think there's something funny to see here?" It considered, at length. When it spoke, it came as a hollow ring from within the shell. "I sense that this is a rhetorical question," it said without any evident feeling. "You can gain nothing from provoking a fight with me, friend." I had staggered to my feet by this point and was flexing my muscles. I could still feel the bruises where the town guard had hit my arms and ribs yesterday, but I ignored them. Something about the cool and detached voice of the Burnt One had just triggered something in my mind, perhaps a fit of pique over the fact that it wasn't just as angry at the world as I was. I ran at it, taking a wide swing. I didn't even see it move. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground, the pain from a single blow to my solar plexus washing over me. The Burnt One was looking down at me. Its expression had not changed, for it had none, but I registered a hint of regret. "Please find more productive uses of your time, friend." It walked away. I was good to walk within a minute, but didn't stand for several more. Face burning with shame, I retreated to the nearest inn to lick my wounds. Two days later, I saw the Burnt One at the edge of town again. It was sitting on a log, motionless, seemingly gazing off into the woodland surrounding Solemn-Shade. I stared, before resolving to try something. I felt I still had a point to prove after last time's embarrassment. Noting how effortlessly it had seen and followed my oncoming attack last time, I resolved to sneak up behind and try to grapple it. Before my arms could round the clay body of the creature, I felt two feet shoot into my ribs, knocking the wind out of me. The Burnt One had somersaulted backwards off of the log and countered my attack, once again, before I could even register what had happened. It only became evident once I was on the ground again, and the Burnt One had righted itself, standing and looking upon me again. "I recognize you," it said. "You tried again. Why?" I've been advised by my publisher that my reply is unprintable. The Burnt One shook its head in response. "You're angry, but not at me. I would encourage you to meditate on the source of this anger, friend." It walked away, but its warnings fell on deaf ears. I was already plotting my next attempt. This had gone beyond having a point to prove. I felt that my honor and my skill as a duelist had been impinged - by a walking clay pot who couldn't even appreciate the joy of battle, no less! The indignity was too much, and so I retreated to plan again. On our next meeting, just outside of town, I caught the Burnt One watching birds. Fearless, I determined to approach from the front again. Both of its previous attacks had struck my midsection, suggesting to me that this thing's comfortable range of motion was fairly narrow. I looked at it, and it looked at me. I didn't let it get a word in before I was running at it. I feinted to the left, before abruptly kicking up a leg so that I fell into a crouch. My goal: to hit the Burnt One with a low leg sweep and then take advantage of its loss of balance. What I didn't expect was that my ruse would be seen through, and countered so easily. It simply lifted its leg out of the way, then kicked my calf, spraining my leg and knocking me on my ass again. I imagined a trace of disappointment in its hollow voice. "Please, you are wasting your energy. You must learn that there are some fights you cannot win." I spat. "There's no such thing as an unwinnable fight! I just need to keep trying something different. Then I'll get through that damned shell of yours!" The Burnt One considered the words, but sounded perplexed when it next spoke. "I see. This is what mortals call 'determination'. So you will not be swayed by words of reason." I threw a fistful of dirt at it. It looked at me, then started to walk away. "I will be back." That seemed to be that. As the minutes passed and I sat alone in the forest, I began to wonder what I was even doing here. However, I knew that if I didn't get a good hit on this Kilned, I'd never take myself seriously as a duelist again. My problem, I know, but at that age, one tends to try to make those everyone else's problem, too. When the Burnt One returned, it was without its quarterstaff. Did it really walk all the way out of the woods just to find a safe place for it? It seemed like it was willing to forego its walking stick and traditional weapon to meet me on more equal terms. I stood up, pained, and we began. We met in that clearing every day from then onward. The Burnt One would allow me to attack until physical exhaustion won out, then take me back to the town to recover. Aside from the guard captain, who came around to snarl at me now and then, the villagers kept their distance from me when I was haunting the tavern, utterly absorbed with the tricks I planned to pull the next day. Weeks passed. Slowly, after successive attempts, my reflexes were growing faster, my stance was getting better, and one bit at a time, I started to realize that I was being taught. On day twenty, we squared off for what would prove to be the final time. I was well rested, albeit sore from the previous day's work, and feeling confident. My sparring partner waited patiently, five paces ahead of me, as I started to circle. I closed with a leap, feeling my anima surging within me, filling my muscles with strength, and I followed its course instinctively. The Burnt One dodged my right hook and my left, its head weaving between my fists like thread in a needle's eye. It countered with three open-hand jabs toward my ribs, the first two of which I dodged. I took the last as a glancing blow, while moving to my opponent's left. My kick landed at its midsection, forcing it to skid through the dirt, just about staying upright. The fight wasn't over yet. The Burnt One had much greater practice with anima manipulation than my paltry week or two, and showed as much by putting up a strong guard with its arms and aiming a kick, glowing with blue light, at my midsection. I ducked beneath the kick, redirecting its force along the backs of my shoulders, and found my chance. Slipping up through its guard, I landed one hard punch on the Burnt One's face. There was an audible crack, and when my hand withdrew, I saw a fracture running through the clay where I had hit. The Burnt One fell out of its battle posture, now calm again. I could swear I detected satisfaction, but as for me, this moment of victory was tainted by a hint of regret. I didn't think I would hurt it. I didn't think you even could hurt it. What happens now? "Sorry," I said, feeling awkward. I was surprised when the Burnt One simply waved it off. "Think nothing of it, friend," it said, that form of address sounding sincere by this point. "I can be repaired. The consequences for me were never on my mind. All I wished was that you would learn the lesson I wished to impart." "What's that then?" I asked, sensing that it wasn't just talking about the pugilist tutoring. In its demeanor, somehow, it got across the impression of a smile. "That there's always someone stronger," it said, and then knocked me out with a single punch.The Sacrifice of the Kaumenoi
From The Mountain and I by Brother Apple Woad-Blue x 6.6, 5e.1074 "Where do you come from?" When I walk among mortals, no matter the nation, this is always the question I hear asked the most. I wonder what they would think if they knew that we ask ourselves this question just as often. It is not simply a matter of reluctance that prevents us from answering truthfully. Although we are famous for our powers of recall, there are certain voids and spaces where things have been blotted out. My earliest memories reveal nothing. I am standing in a dark space. My brothers surround me. Fire. Our hands, joined together. Nothing. And then, I was a hermit, wandering the roads in the far east, seeking the company of mortals. Darkness. Company. Fire. Hands, joined together. Nothing. I have contemplated these disjointed sensations many times. We all have. We do not dream, but each and every one of us shares the same visions. Most of us are not given over to idle speculation, but I am not like most of us. I will make some postulations. Darkness. The womb, if you like. No doubt the place or method of our birth, crafted by hands we can no longer remember. This is accompanied by a feeling of cool and clear purpose. I wonder if mortal babies would feel the same thing, if they had the same cognizance during the moment of their birth. Company. A feeling of oneness of all. The shared awareness of myself and my siblings. All of us are made unique, most probably at different times and places. Although we cannot touch each other's minds consciously, there is always a link. There were so many more of us then. Countless millions once stood. By the time my recollection becomes clear, we were reduced to thousands. Fire. The world falling apart, burnt. A great cataclysm, no doubt. Was it the same one that destroyed our creators? A new star in the sky, foreboding. This last image stands stark in my thoughts. Hands, joined together. All of us, thinking and acting as one, in one fantastic Moment, every one of the Kaumenoi thinking toward one collective goal. This Moment (for it surely deserves the proper noun) was, I feel, pivotal in the transitional events between the old world we were born into, and the new world over which the mortals now hold sway. And then nothing. An absence of memory, past which the memories of this new world take over. We feel a profound sense of loss surrounding this absence, perhaps even grief if you want to call it that. But nevertheless, an absence it is, and one that has never been filled. The reader will forgive me for making a few assumptions based on this sequence of memories. Our creators brought us into a world with millions of our kind, for some purpose which we cannot now divine. When a cataclysm came, we all of us joined together, no doubt making use of the anima that gives us life, and did something which rescued some remnants of the old world - ourselves included - and which erased our memories of what came before. Whatever happened, it is clear that it took a toll, for we are now so few in number. How many Kaumenoi burnt themselves out, sacrificing every bit of magic in their cores to do this? We will never know. Our time that we spend among mortals now may be a penance. Or perhaps we are merely continuing a stewardship which began long ago. I have always taken great joy in watching the mortal races grow and proliferate. It is easy to imagine that they, like us, are survivors of this ancient cataclysm, rescued during that Moment. If that's true, then I can feel content in a job well done.Notes and asides
The Kaumenoi have many names among the cultures of the Burnt World because they have wandered so long, and have been in contact with all of them. The names that one sees most commonly among the mortal races are "Kilned" and "Burnt Ones", both referring to their appearance of baked clay.
Saint Humun-Ash (3e.562 - 3e.636), or Harmon of Ash in the language of some, was a man, Humankind, from the city of Ash-far-Watha who lived about two thousand years before the present day. He wrote countless treatises on theology, ethics, and the natural and cultural world, and is acknowledged as a father and saint of the Wathist faith. His writings on the Kaumenoi reflect the biases common among Humankind in his time, and so he must be considered an "unreliable narrator".
Marmett Tonoa (5e.1136 - 5e.1237) was a woman, Humankind, of uncertain provenance, and a more recent historical figure. Dying at the ripe age of 101, she spent most of her life testing her skills as a pugilist against countless opponents. The Burnt One from this excerpt of her memoirs isn't even the strangest. She is credited as a pioneering influence in modern martial arts.
Brother Apple Woad-Blue x 6.6 is one of the relatively few Kaumenoi who have deemed it worth their time to record their thoughts in the written word rather than the infinitely complex tessellations of their techno-magical brains. It is still active in the present day and has spent most of its last few centuries exploring archaeological sites on the eastern continent. 6.6 has published several technical and philosophical volumes which, nevertheless, remain well known only at the regional level.
Comments