Dulkanen

"Papa, what's a doofcannon?"
"Dulkanen, sweetheart, they're the hillfolk, just like your uncle Tymi."

— A father and his daughter

The Hills are Alive

Across valleys, rivers, and under hills, are the hillfolk. They are the rhythm of the rolling earth, the pulse of stone and loam beneath an open sky. Where others see mere mounds of slopes, the Dulkanen see stories - etched into the bones of the land by time's unyielding hand. They are a people shaped by wind and weather, by the quiet, insistent voices of the hills whispering of patience, endurance, and growth.
Unlike their deep-dwelling kin, the Dulkanen are a people of horizons. Their homes are carved into the hillsides, not to conquer them, but to nestle within them as if the land itself invited them in. Their architecture is a marriage of ingenuity and respect: tiered terraces, homes that peek out from the earth like curious children, their roofs alive with wildflowers and moss. Paths wind between them, worn smooth by generations of boots and bare feet, connecting each home like veins in a living thing.
The Dulkanen are farmers, yes, but not the kind you might expect. They coax life from the rocky soil with a stubbornness that rivals the rocks themselves. Fields of hardy grains ripple in the wind like golden seas, punctuated by gnarled trees heavy with fruit. They tend peculiar gardens of herbs and roots, plants with names that taste of earth and mystery: "moonroot", "hillspine", and "whisperweed". They brew ales that taste of the hills, meads infused with sunlight and shadow, and spirits so strong they could wrestle a dragon into submission.

With the Sound of Peace

But the Dulkanen's connection to the hills runs deeper than the plow and the seed. They speak of the hills as if they are alive, and perhaps they are. To the Dulkanen, every stone is a keeper of secrets, every breeze a messenger. The hills, to them, are not merely a backdrop to life but a vital part of their story. They tell of ancient paths hidden in the folds of the land, of echoes that carry whispers from long-forgotten times, and of the way the earth seems to hold its breath when great change is near. This sense of connection guides their steps and shapes their lives, imbuing their every action with purpose and respect for the land they call home.
The Dulkanen themselves are a study in contrasts. Their skin carries the sun's kiss, bronzed and freckled from a life spent under the open sky. Their hair is the colour of the earth's fire, from the pale gold of sunlight on sandstone to the deep red of molten lava, often woven into intricate braids. They wear leather and linen, practical and tough, but their clothes are adorned with stone beads, small carvings, and embroider that tells the stories of their clans.
For all their rugged practicality, the Dulkanen are not without their mysteries. They have a knack for finding the hidden paths, the secret ways through the hills. They can move through rocky terrain as if the earth itself bends to guide them. And then there's their magic - a subtle, grounded thing, like the hum of the earth before it quakes. They can "stonebind", infusing small objects with a touch of power: a stone that warms the hands in winter, a pebble that hums when danger approaches, a charm that wards off ill intent.

Filled with Love & Quiet

The Dulkanen are fiercely protective of their land, but they are also open-handed in their hospitality. Guests are welcomed with food and drink, tales by the fire, and a place to rest. But woe to those who come with ill intent. The Dulkanen know their hills as they know the lines of their own hands, and they fight as the hills do - with patience, cunning, and unrelenting force. Guerilla warfare is an art form to them, each ambush and retreat a dance performed to the rhythm of the land.
Their faith, too, is tied to the earth and its cycles. They honour the Rockborn, who they say sculpted the first hills with hands of unyielding stone. But they also revere the Turner, ensuring the land's cycles of rest and renewal. Festivals mark the turning of the seasons, filled with song, dance, and the kind of laughter that echoes off the hills and lingers in the valleys.
They are not just dwellers of the hills; they are the spirit of the hills made flesh. They endure, they grow, and they thrive; a testament to the quiet power of the land and the indomitable will of those who call it home.