Sceramanth
They came from the sea
They have looked upon this land and recognized it for what it truly is: an unredeemable cesspool of vengeance and filth.
Luon Cao Nyep, Kwongian explorer, 3685 AoG
S
ceramanths are known across Excilior, but depending upon the surrounding culture, they are viewed either as mythical beasts or as a cryptozoological species. Specifically, the inhabitants of the Leung Peninsula, and to a lesser extent, all Jontzu peoples, tend to believe in sceramanths as a cryptozoological species that is rarely encountered and is not "known" to have been seen for many centuries. Other cultures - especially those of Islemanoton and Islegantuan - are far more dismissive of the legend and tend to see them only as fairy tales. The first claimed sceramanth sighting occurred in Kwong and they are generally acknowledged as a Kwongian species/tale. However, scattered claims of sceramanth encounters have been recorded all across the western coasts of Isleprimoton.
Disappearance
Although there is always some travelling bard keen to spin a yarn about the sceramanths he supposedly encountered just recently, there is a key delineation between the thinly-veiled fairy tales that are still traded today, and the more "reputable" accounts that came centuries ago - many of them from individuals with academic credentials or social standing. Even amongst the societies of the Leung Peninsula - where the legend holds the greatest sway in public lore - there has not been a credible sceramanth account in nearly 500 years. Some contend that, since the tales have grown every-more-fanciful and the perceived public cache of claiming to have truly met the sceramanths has faded, there is no longer a promotional incentive to craft new sceramanth stories. But amongst the Jontzu, the common belief is that, for whatever reason, the always-ethereal sceramanths have simply disappeared. Many theories have been forwarded implying that the sceramanths are extinct - perhaps, killed off due to the polluting spread of casterway societies. Others contend they were wantonly hunted by hungry or fearful saltfoots - although this would seem to be a stretch, since no credible sceramanth corpse or skeleton has ever been produced, by anyone. Many Kwongians hold that the sceramanths will only return when humans have rid themselves of their violent and wasteful ways. Of course, none of these putative theories hold much sway with the broader casterway population that never really believed in the real existence of sceramanths in the first place.Summary
L
e Cong Binh is universally recognized as the first to discover and record the sceramanths. (For those who are more dismissive of the legend, they simply credit Le Cong as the creator or the author of the myth.) Le Cong's historical credence as a reliable historian and archivist probably ensured that the legend did not simply die with him. Indeed, over subsequent centuries, other "reliable" narrators have actually corroborated his accounts and added their own details to the legend. Even for those who roundly dismiss any historical basis for the sceramanths, Le Cong's writings are generally viewed as respectable (and verifiable) history.
Le Cong Binh
Le Cong was part of a long tradition of kelp herders living peacefully and quietly while plying their trade in the coastal port city of Fachaulong. His grandfather took him, every morning, to the shore where they boarded the family's outrigger and trolled the local depths, searching for kelp beds. In 2549 AoR, at age of 12, Le Cong recorded the following entry (edited here for brevity, and to make it more congruent with the Komon tongue):
First Encounter
My maan had battled the waves all day. The Aequin was far choppier than normal, blowing us many klicks farther down the coast than we had intended. As the winds grew bolder, I was ashamed to admit that I could do little to help him corral our modest outrigger, and I was resigned to my typical post on the bow while his aging muscles strained to keep us in sight of the shore. By the time that twilight was looming, it was apparent that we would have to make camp off the beach, and tack back up the coast tomorrow morn when the gales had passed.
We hadn't provisions for an overnight stay. Maan dutifully munched on some raw kelp as a means of maintaining his strength and quieting his belly before he hunkered down under the meager shelter of an envyrabush for some much-needed sleep. His last commands to me were to eat my greens, get some rest, and, whatever I did, I was not to start a fire.
But of course the sceramanths would only make themselves known to a child! Anyone else woulda slain'em, stuffed'em, mounted'em over the hearth, and spent the rest of their life bragging to all their buddies about the greatest fishing trip they'd ever had.The raw nettle weed in our hold was, by the most desperate of definitions, "edible", but I must admit that I have no love for the bitter weed and it has a tendency to irritate the tongue. He'd barely begun snoring before I began scouting the coastline for something more palatable. After nearly two hours of scavenging, I realized that my non-existent ranger training had gotten the better of me. I had hoped to capture some snapcrackers in the surf, or even to snag a handful of sweet fingerlings in the frothy tidal waters, but the still-present gale was pushing everything out to sea, and if there were edible bits to be found in the waves, I was apparently ill-equipped to find them. I finally realized that, other than the distasteful nettle weed, my only other supper option would seem to be the same envyrabushes under which he was now slumbering. Fortunately, the bushes were in season, and their branches were heavy with envyranotts. Unfortunately, their bland offerings are even more inedible than our kelp, unless the nuts are first boiled so that the tannins may be released and washed away. So I grabbed the small pot we keep in our outrigger (typically used to hold bait fish), and I set about finding the materials for a fire. My little campfire had been roaring for well over an hour. Envyranotts can be downright sickening if they're not boiled for an epic stretch. And although I was tired, and hungry, I wasn't in any particular hurry to fish them out of the brine. The waning winds were comforting. The sands were peaceful. And maan's snoring was the only other sign of life on the beach. Until they came out of the surf... Even now, with some days to collect my thoughts, it's difficult to explain exactly what happened next. It's even harder to write it in a way that doesn't make me sound like I'm certifiably insane. The surf started chopping in a manner I'd never witnessed before. The waves weren't just falling upon the shore. There was... something else. Something that was breaking their rhythm. And before I could properly classify the phenomenon, there were... creatures. Walking out of the waves. Slowly, methodically rising out of the ocean. Carefully making their way onto the shore. Strolling out of the Aequin like humble travelers plodding down a forest path. But these... these were no simple "travelers". These... "things" were something I'd never laid eyes on before. My first thought was that they were saltfoots, washed up on the leading edge of some shipwreck, desperately making their way to solid ground. But before I could even see what these creatures were, it was obvious to me that these were no shipwreck survivors. They weren't exhausted. They weren't clinging to life. They walked with all the confidence of a sovereign. And they walked straight toward me. Or maybe, toward my fire. It was impossible to tell. Stranger still, they were anything but human. There were a half dozen of them. Identical to my eyes. They walked on two legs, somewhat like men. But it was clear that their legs were shorter than ours - designed to be tucked behind the body as they swam. And they had two arms - somewhat similar to men. But those arms - and the rest of their bodies - were not cloaked in anything that we call "skin". They were coated in a green, iridescent sheen that glimmered in the faint light of the Sisters. Their heads were vaguely amphibious, with broad flat jaws that spanned the breadth of their faces. Their wide lidless eyes shone with a blue-ish light. Their backs sported a single, dark-green fin that ran from the base of their necks clear down to the tip of their tails. And those tails - broad, powerful, thrashing the waves behind them as they rose from the sea. I can't quite explain what happened next. It was clear that they were walking toward me. And as I write this, I can't fathom how I wasn't terrified. But I absolutely was not terrified. There is no logical reason why I should have stood my ground in the face of these unknown - and possibly malevolent - creatures. But somehow, for some reason, I had no sense of fear. My maan's voice rang out behind me. Something in the night had startled him. Or maybe he simply "felt" the presence of these strange creatures. Whatever the reason, he yelled out, "Le Cong! Run!" But I did not run. I had no desire to run. In fact, I felt compelled to stand utterly still. My only cognitive movement was to, without looking backward to him at all, raise a flat palm in his direction. I may not have been afraid - but I was definitely weary of what might happen if maan rushed to my side.
Monar Rashidar, Pishingian brewer, 2549 AoR
With trades like those I can confidently tell you that the sceramanths didn't go extinct. They just went out of business.The next hour can only be described as surreal. The six of them walked right up to me, only stopping a few meters in front of my face. They never ran, or bolted, or moved in any way that would raise alarm in me. They probably spent a good fifteen minutes just observing me. Occasionally, they tilted their heads, seemingly to view me from a different angle. I could not discern a "nose" on their faces, but at times I was under the impression that they were "smelling" me, or the beach, or the fire, or the air in general. They frequently exchanged glances amongst themselves, and some of these glances were accompanied by unidentifiable gestures of their scaly arms. But they made no sound. They did not speak. Nor did they make any attempt to generate sounds by way of hand or bodily motions. And while I never felt threatened, the bulk of the encounter left me feeling "trapped" - unable, or unwilling, to turn away, but helpless to know what I should do next. After a seemingly-endless period of awkward wonder, I finally became aware that these creatures were not entirely "naked". They donned nothing that would be traditionally defined as "clothing", but they all sported similar satchels. I could not make out their material, but they hung low on their frames from long straps and the satchels themselves seemed to be fashioned in an elegantly aquadynamic fashion - such that they would provide minimal resistance while travelling under the waves. I only became truly aware of this curious fact when one of them reached down and began rummaging through his pack. This inspired a new round of protest from my maan and he cried out again for me to retreat. I didn't realize until later that he feared they were seizing weapons. His cries did indeed startle the beasts. The lead creature stopped rummaging and they all peered toward him at the edge of the firelight. Once again, my subconscious response was simply to raise my flat palm toward him, signaling that I really wanted him to hold his tongue and remain still. When my maan's interruption was quelled, the lead being eventually returned to his business in the satchel. And in a few moments' time, he produced a brilliant necklace of materials that I have never witnessed - and which I still cannot identify. He produced the accoutrement, held it aloft before my face, and seemed to pause - as though he was waiting for something from me. As daft as it sounds, I must admit that I was clueless as to his intentions, or what to do next. I don't know how long we all stood there. Them staring at me. Me staring at them. All of us occasionally looking back at the necklace in the leader's hands. I finally came to my senses and started wondering if he was actually trying to give this thing to me. So I slowly extended my hand, expecting to take possession of the fanciful charm. But before I could grasp it, he gently pulled it back and motioned toward my neck. As he did, the others seemed to mimic his movements. Their countenance was an odd mixture of deference and urgency. I was painfully aware that they did not wish to startle me. But I was also aware that they didn't want to give me necklace. Rather, they wanted to trade their necklace for mine. As a family of painfully modest means, I can assure that my necklace was nothing to be particularly proud of. Nothing but a few stray bits of ebny that I'd managed to scavenge from the beach. Polished (poorly) by my own hands. And bound with string that I'd crafted when old naan was teaching me the ways of weaving. It was certainly paltry in comparison to the adornment in the leader's hand. But I finally became convinced that they indeed desired my necklace, and they wanted to trade it in kind for their own. It sounds silly to write it now, but I must say that I was initially reluctant. The necklace - my necklace - was crafted with my hands. I can't even definitively say what I would have done if my maan hadn't spoken up again. His voice was quiet, yet eager. He didn't want to startle them again, but carefully called out, "Give them your necklace, minnow!" When I finally removed my necklace and offered it in trade, the actual exchange was perhaps anticlimactic. I don't know exactly what I was expecting. But the simple transaction was swift and nondescript. What wasn't nondescript was the leader's hand. It brushed mine during the exchange and his touch is something I will never forget. I expected that shiny skin and the webbed fingers to be cold and clammy - like the Aequin herself. But it wasn't. He was warm. Gentle. Careful, even. It was something that was (obviously) inhuman. And yet, neither was there anything in his touch that felt inhuman. His was a hand full of dexterity, and patience, and (dare I say it?) goodwill.
Mynfred Panziger, Goddite merchant, 3082 AoG
If Le Cong's old maan'd been a bit quicker bout his wits, we might all know if barbecued sceramanth is a tasty treat.The exchange brought a palpable sense of relief from his colleagues. The fear and tension that had hung over this strange encounter washed away. They still said absolutely nothing, but they seemed very much pleased with this token gesture of commerce. For the next hour, all six of them took turns reaching into their own satchels and producing new trinkets for my perusal. For some time, I was at a loss, for we are poor and my shabby necklace was probably the most "valuable" item on my person. But over many awkward minutes I finally came to realize that they essentially wanted to give me their token treasures. Yet, in their ethos, it was apparently unacceptable to simply hand them over. So one-by-one, they would offer me something, I would desperately search my pockets for something - anything - of even the most trivial value to proffer in return. And every time I did so, the "trade" was swiftly consummated. When I could no longer find even the most useless item in trade, they seemed to understand that I was devoid of additional collateral - and they motioned to the outrigger. My heart leapt in my throat, for I was in no position to offer the family vessel - no matter what they might propose in return. So it was with great comfort (and confusion) that I eventually figured out that they didn't want the boat - they wanted some of our nettle weed. It was perhaps this gesture that made me realize that they really didn't want much of anything from me. For what need does a sea creature have of... seaweed??? Such a ridiculous trade is the equivalent of offering an oplander dirt. Or offering fresh air... to a bird. Nevertheless, they eagerly scooped handfuls of our near-worthless bounty into their satchels. And in return, they showered me with whatever remaining treasures appeared to be hiding in their bags. By the end of the swap meet, I was laden with all manner of spectacular jewels (and other magical bits from the ocean that I couldn't possibly expect to identify) - and their satchels bulged with piles of our pedestrian junk. Our "business" apparently concluded, the leader stepped toward me and gently placed his iridescent paw on my shoulder. I suppose I was hallucinating. It may be that the entire encounter had turned me lightheaded. But I swear that his warm gesture was accompanied by a look on his face - and on the faces of his colleagues - that I can only now describe as a "smile". With nary a sound, they turned, in unison, and slowly marched back to the sea. With their backs toward me, I could fully appreciate the long, powerful sway of their tails as they stepped ever deeper into the surf. After a few moments, they were waist deep in the Aequin. A few moments more, and there was nothing to be spied but the crests of their heads. And not long after that... they were gone. Long I stood in that exact spot. Watching the sea intently well after they could be seen no more. It's not that I necessarily wanted them to come back. But I could not find the strength nor the will to do anything but stand there - for hours into the night - and stare with wonder at the crashing surf. I kept expecting my maan to finally emerge from his thorny cover. But he never did. In fact, he didn't approach me at all for the rest of the night. When Syrus rose, he came onto the beach, nudged me from my post beside the remains of the long-dead fire, and led me back to the outrigger for the return trip home up the coast. He did not utter a word. Once we pushed off, we spent many hours tracking the coast northward, neither one of us making a sound. When our village was almost in-sight, I finally mustered the courage to break the silence. "What should I tell old naan?" I asked. He slowly shook his head and choked back an awkward chuckle. "Tell her nothing. Tell her everything. It makes no difference. She won't believe a word of it."
Cassio Pim Fraga, Sceraisian Sylvan Guard, 3700 AoG
Historical Basis
T
he case for sceramanths as real creatures is a source of endless debate, even amongst "formal" scholars like the cognoscenti. In the eastern continents of Islemanoton and Islegantuan, there are few who give the legend any credence as historical fact. Although even the most strident skeptics will admit that, like all supposed cryptozoological creatures, there is probably no way to definitively disprove their existence, they long ago stopped applying any serious academic rigor to the question of a potential sceramanth presence.
Scoff if you will. But I've pored over Le Cong's mundane accounts and I ask you: Where's the lie?
Bartikan Karacha, Shamonian roofer, 3732 AoG
Credibility
There is probably no way to definitively prove their existence, short of someone capturing one or presenting a well-preserved carcass. (And even to this day, "preservation" techniques on Excilior are, at best, somewhat primitive.) Believers always point first to the lengthy and fastidiously-detailed accounts of Le Cong Binh. He is generally acknowledged as creating the legend in the first place. And even his most ardent detractors concede that his writings are finely detailed and, other than his sceramanth accounts, they are known to be rooted in basic everyday facts. He wrote of villages, customs, technologies, flora, and fauna that are all acknowledged to be accurate betrayals of early Kwongian life. The only thing he ever documented that is questionable or deemed as "fantastical" in nature, are the sceramanths. Beyond his engaging and academically-rigorous observations, there are also numerous other accounts of sceramanths that emanate from "respectable" members of society and, presumably, individuals who did not have any obvious motivation to further a myth. Supposedly-reliable sightings have been recorded by ancient cognoscenti, respected merchants, high-ranking diplomats, and even monarchs. On the other hand, nearly all of these "reputable" accounts also come from citizens of Pishingia, Gongia, Siukingia, and of course, Kwong. In other words, all of the sceramanth "history" that is associated with credible sources still emanates from the nations of the Leung Peninsula, where it's commonly accepted that those peoples have a natural predilection to believe in (and even, to admire) the notion of the sceramanths as real creatures.
Hoaxes
Of course, a lack of proven historical evidence has not stopped countless charlatans from claiming that they have indeed captured a "sceramanth". The first clue that these claims are almost certainly fraudulent is the simple fact that the claimants are almost always charging admission to an eager public that is excited to finally gaze upon the mythical beasts. In some cases, these con men have even gone so far as to attempt selling the captured beast (sight unseen) to some eager collector or magistrate who would love to brag about owning tangible proof of the "real" sceramanths. Some of these specimens are as legendary as the sceramanths themselves - because they conveniently disappeared or were destroyed before any respectable scholar could investigate the evidence. Other "specimens" turned out to be nothing more than a hodgepodge of bones, scales, teeth and other detritus from other creatures that most certainly were not sceramanths. (In the most egregious examples, it's later been proven that the "evidence" didn't even original from a single animal - or from a single species.)
Glorified Fish
Some of the most tantalizing sceramanth claims have come from saltfoots who have dragged some amorphous and vaguely-identifiable carcass from the sea. Not all of these saltfoots-turned-showmen had nefarious purposes. For the Aequin Ocean is vast and most of it has never been traversed by casterway explorers, and even the most skeptical cognoscenti will freely admit that there are many species in the ocean depths that have never been identified - indeed, there are certainly some aquatic species that have never before been seen by human eyes. So whenever someone manages to catch or capture an unfamiliar critter while at sea, it's understandable that some of them jump to the incredulous conclusion that they have secured proof of the ethereal sceramanths. Of course, some of these "amazing" creatures are more incredulous than others, and many cases have been cited of excited saltfoots eagerly dragging their makeshift aquariums across the continent - only for learned individual to inform them that their "sceramanth" is really little more than... an exotic fish.
Leviaton Confusion
Given their status as "mysterious creatures that rise from the sea", it's perhaps inevitable that some have conflagrated them with leviatons. While this is a tempting (albeit, lazy) interpretation, it's somewhat understandable that the enigma of the sceramanths would occasionally become intertwined with leviatons. But such connections are easily dismissed by academics - even by those who hail from the Leung Peninsula, where the public fascination would seem to provide an incentive for those inclined to draw such conclusions. First, leviatons are no myth. They have been reliably recorded almost since the earliest days of Auld Cervia. And mariners of every ilk know all-too-well the destructive effect that leviatons have continually wrought upon casterway shipping. Second, the defining characteristic of all leviatons is their gargantuan scale. Yet, all of the most "respectable" sceramanth accounts describe them as being roughly human-sized. Some have described them as somewhat larger/taller than men. But none of the acknowledged accounts have ever claimed that they are anywhere near the size of a leviaton. Third, leviatons aren't so much a species as they are a class of animals. The extreme variation in leviaton biological traits (e.g., tentacles, horns, various appendages, no appendages at all, flippers, carapaces, etc.) have led absolutely no cognoscenti to ever claim that leviatons are a single, unified species, capable of reproducing amongst their various phenotypes. But the descriptions of the sceramanths' physical form are typically quite uniform (especially in Jontzu literature). If sceramanths indeed exist, they are almost-universally acknowledged to be bipedal aquatic creatures, with two arms, roughly human-sized, with tails, amphibious-looking heads, green iridescent skin, and long flowing tails.Spread
Explain to me again what you think about our "silly sceramanth fables" and I'll explain how I can better rearrange your crooked teeth.
Hymme Moulder, Tseunian jeweler, 3390 AoG
S
ince their original documentation in 2549 AoR, there are no cultures where there is simply no knowledge of the legend. But while sceramanth apocrypha dots the backstories of nearly all societies, the whole idea of the sceramanths is still widely thought of as a Jontzu phenomenon. Even amongst the Sontsu, who share many cultural similarities with the Jontzu people and claim many common ancestors, the sceramanth is still thought of as a Jontzu tale. In keeping with this perception, there is no ethnic group that incorporates the sceramanths into so much of their everyday mythos quite like the Jontzu.Cultural Reception
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ceremanths are always portrayed as being silent. More than any other detail, it is this trait that has perhaps driven their cultural significance in the public imagination. Some have written sceramanths as being silent merely because they are incapable of speech. But the Jontzu legends tend to assume that they are highly intelligent and perfectly capable of speech. In these accounts, it's generally assumed that they are silent because they choose to be so. Amongst the Jontzu, the belief is that they A) could speak human tongues, but don't care to, or that B) they are only capable of speaking their own language - a language that they do not wish to betray upon human ears. Regardless of the particular mythos at play, the fact that they supposedly possess speech but do not share such communication with humans feeds the narrative of the sceramanths as wise (and typically, judgmental) observers on the human condition. Many sceramanth legends paint them as woeful witnesses to the havoc that casterways have wrought upon their environment. In other tales, they serve as beacons who lay out breadcrumbs that ultimately aid the protagonists in their journey. But in such examples, they are rarely credited with simply showing the hero where to go or what to do. Rather, they are neutral observers who seem to have an interest in guiding land-dwellers, while still forcing their central characters to come to their own realizations and forge their own paths.
Inqoan Disdain
While sceramanths enjoy varying degrees of prominence in the mindshare of non-Jontzu societies, it's somewhat quizzical that the culture most associated with the sea - the Inqoans - tend to hold the sceramanth legend in outright disdain. Claims of sceramanth sightings are almost non-existent in Inqoan territories. And while the Inqoan are certainly aware of the broader sceramanth tales, they do not embrace them in their own literature. In the few instances where the Inqoan do incorporate the legend into their own tales, sceramanths are almost always depicted as a malevolent presence. When they do bother to speak of sceramanths, Inqoans typically portray them as either purposely undermining humanity, or as working in legion with the Inqoans' enemies (i.e., usually, the Elladorans).In Literature
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or those who are interested in the sceramanth legend as the basis for a "real" cryptozoological species (or for those who are simply keen to delve into the legend's apocryphal origins), the seminal text is the journal of Le Cong Binh. Le Cong kept a lifelong diary in which he documented no fewer than 30 different encounters with the sceramanths. Despite his humble life as a kelp herder, Le Cong was taught to read and write at a young age by his grandmother. He then leveraged this skill to keep fastidious notes about the sceramanths (in addition to countless other observations about 26th-century life in the insular society of the Kwongians). His diary is a critical piece of evidence for those who truly believe in the existence of sceramanths because, by the time of his death, Le Cong had compulsively filled dozens of tomes of "everyday life". And even the most skeptical cognoscenti have acknowledged that everything else in his journal constitutes simple, verifiable fact - fine-grained, corroborated details of everything that happened in-and-around his local region. True believers in the sceramanths' existence are quick to point out that Le Cong doesn't appear to have lied - nor even to have embellished - anything else about his life nor the minutiae of Kwongian traditions. So the thinking goes that, if Le Cong was so faithful in documenting all the other historical facts of his time, then so too must the sceramanths constitute a real phenomenon.
No more piercing words have ever been heard than the words that went unspoken that day between Wyen Hai and the sceramanths.
Epic of Wyen Hai, 2712 AoR
Epic of Wyen Hai
On a more fanciful note, the Epic of Wyen Hai is a classic piece of Siukingian literature that features sceramanths not just as scenery or plot devices, but as full-blown (silent) characters that serve to drive the central narrative of Wyen Hai. Although some in the east have dismissed the text as "just another fairy tale", the lengthy saga is often studied as a milestone of Jontzu literature. Many other cultures have similar sagas that are now recognized as having stemmed from the Epic of Wyen Hai (with the protagonist often swapped with a hero of local origin, and the sceramanths substituted for creatures that are "appropriate" for the regional legends). Aside from its extensive use of sceramanths, the epic is cited as the progenitor of the Jontzu style of writing that liberally alternates between "traditional" storytelling and rhythmic, repetitive chants that are designed to emphasis the central plots points while inducing a kind of hypnotic state in the audience.In Art
A
s a legend that eventually spread to all casterway cultures, it's not unheard of to find sceramanth representations in the art and literature of nearly all societies. Amongst non-Jontzu peoples, they are only referenced sparingly and are generally confined to fables and children's' tales. In this regard, foreign cultures frequently leverage sceramanths as simple boogeymen. But within Jontzu cultures - and especially, across the nation of Kwong - sceramanths hold a more central presence in many different art forms. Kwongian architecture is littered with statues of sceramanths, including large state buildings and wealthy estates. Alternate names for sceramanths are frequently found in the names of Kwongian villages, roads, and social orders. Sceramanths are also featured prominently in the formal literature of nations on the Leung Peninsula (not simply in fables or old wives' tales).
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