Episode 12
Travelling Light E012S01 Transcript
H.R. Owen
Hello friends, Hero here, popping in to tell you about the podcast whose trailer we're sharing this week. The Lucky Die (great title by the way) is a D&D actual play podcast that tells the story of a fantasy world whose gods are dying in an apocalypse-in-progress, and the four flawed heroes who hold this world's fate in their hands. Stay tuned to the end of the credits to hear more.
[Title music: rhythmic electronic folk.]
H.R. Owen
Travelling Light: Episode Twelve.
[The music fades out.]
The Traveller
Entry EN85007-4: A traditional speech performed during the committal phase of funerals in the k'Nassa tradition
Key words: death and mourning; funerary practices; k'Nassa; oral literature; Peteimos; philosophy and theology; poetry.
Notes:
I was walking through the woodland near Komi, enjoying the sound of rain on the leaves and strange birds calling to each other in the trees. Quite of a sudden, I broke out past the treeline, and found myself upon a high bank that rose on one side of a wide, white road. And upon the road, there came a funeral procession.
I stood blinking the rain from my eyes, wondering if it was more respectful to leave or to bear witness the procession as it passed. I decided at last upon the latter, and I pray I will be understood if it was not the thing to do.
The mourners passed in silence, save the scuff of their feet and the sweep of wet fabric. They walked in threes, shoulder to shoulder in a steady, imperfect synchronicity, not marching to a beat but keeping a slow, even pace with one another.
At the back of the procession came a person dressed differently than the rest. They wore a patterned robe and a hat unlike those I had seen on the local people. And behind them, a hover pad, skimming silently over the ground.
Upon it lay a body. An older person, I think, though I did not know their species so I may be mistaken. They lay as if in sleep, quite still, unheeding of the rain that fell upon their face.
When I got back to Komi, I stopped in at the Faded Star and asked Sancha, the tavern's proprietor, about what I had seen. I knew, of course, that it had been a funeral, but I wanted to know more of the people and their culture.
Sancha tugged at the ring in one of her ears and considered the question. “The woman at the back, was she taller than most? Chin stripes like mine, big baldy head?” [laughs lightly]
“She was tall,” I said, “but I could not see her head as she wore a hat.”
“Flat, round thing, yes? Bells on the rim? Mm. That'll be Flaria. She's the celebrant for the k'Nassa folk hereabouts.”
“k'Nassa? Uh, I don't know them. Is it a species, an ethnic group…?”
“A religion,” Sancha explained. “I'm a follower myself, though more through habit than faith. You'll find lodges all over the galaxy though. And they say there's no two k'Nassa funerals the same.
Around here, we mostly burn our dead. There's so many trees, you'll never want for firewood, and we are not so fond of the idea of burial. It strikes me as a squelchy, squeamish sort of thing. [shudder] But I don't judge.
And besides, k'Nassa funerals really might be anything, depending on the where and when and how of the death, or the wishes and personality of the one who's passed or the ones who mourn them. The only thing that stays the same is the Sanctification.”
She went on to tell me that, like most funerary rites, all the k'Nassa practices she knows include a point of committal – a movement of the body from the world of the living to the domain of the dead.
The body might move downwards into the ground, the crypt or to be submerged in water; it might move laterally, through the curtains to a cremator or the pressure vessel for alkaline hydrolysis; or it might move upwards, onto to a platform for sky-burial.
If the death has occurred aboard a ship at sail, jettison drones are used to carry the body into the nearest planetary or stellar atmosphere, where it will be incinerated by the friction of atmospheric entry.
The drone is necessary in microgravity, or else the jettisoned material has a tendency to orbit – and possibly impact – the craft from which it was sent. Not a pleasant thought, nor particularly dignified fate.
Across all these differences, only the Sanctification remains constant. It is a traditional speech made by the celebrant to mark this point of committal, and it would be considered very strange indeed for it to be absent from any k'Nassa funeral. These are the words as Sancha gave them:
“Our Lord and Lady, most high and most beloved, we commit our kindred to your hands. Creator and sustainer, eternal and unceasing, you who hold the world aloft while we dreamers pass like shadows.
We beg you, wake our kindred kindly and take them in your arms. Anoint their brow with scented oils and kiss their feet so they may walk softly in the peace of your garden while in the dreaming, we behold the echoes of their life.
All they did is yet done. All they said is yet said. All they taught is yet known. All they loved is yet loved.
So may it be for we who dream, that we may wake one day to the smiling countenances of our Lord and Lady. So may it be. So may it be.”
[The sound of the data stick whirring fades back in, cutting out when the data stick is removed with a click.]
The Traveller
7th Enu 850, continued
Our evening at the Faded Star was very enjoyable, if a little more rambunctious than I think any of us expected. Rather less pleasant was the morning after.
I woke somewhat later than my usual hour, and it took a while longer after that to summon the wherewithal to actually get up. I peeled myself free from the sheets that had tangled about me as I slept, and stumbled into the wash room.
I emerged feeling a little more lively and smelling a good deal less deathly, and wandered towards the refectory to see if I could find something that would not upset my stomach.
On the way to the lifts, however, I found the main entry hatch to the ship gaping open, with rather a commotion coming from outside. It was raining – of course – but I was curious, so stuck out my head to see what was going on.
Unlike the landing pads of larger towns and cities, the landing pad at Komi has no real infrastructure surrounding it. There is no refuelling station, no mechanics' workshop, no shops. The platform gives way to a circle of ragged, weedy grass, which gives way in turn to the surrounding woods.
It was on this strip of grass that I saw Annaliese, Aman and Duytren standing together under a cluster of umbrellas watching Wolph fight a pile of metal pipes.
“What in the light are you people doing?”
The others turned at the sound of my voice, and Annaliese swung her mobility chair round to call back, “Wolph's making us all breakfast. Would you like some?”
“I'm in my socks,” I said, and even from the hatch, I could see Annaliese was not impressed with this response. “Ugh. I'll be down in a minute.”
I was on my way back out, with a waterproof tunic thrown on for good measure, when I thought to knock on for Óli. They opened the door in a pretty silk dressing gown that I could imagine would look really quite glamorous under the right circumstances. These were not the right circumstances.
[laughing loudly] “You look like you feel even worse than me!” I said, quite unable to keep from laughing. Óli gave me a very baleful look, but I did not mind. “Wolph's making breakfast outside. Do want some?”
“What sort of breakfast?” they croaked.
“No idea,” I said. “Put your low class boots on and let's find out.”
We emerged from the Tola with Óli's dressing gown replaced with their travelling cloak and my pyjama bottoms shoved into the top of my boots. I called out again, and felt Óli hesitate when the others turned to shout their helloes.
But the promise of a cooked breakfast was not one they could resist, and we made our way across the grass to join the little gathering, feet slipping and squelching in the mud as we went.
The pipes, it transpired, were in fact part of a complicated outdoor cooking device of Wolph's own devising. It had a large circular dish at its centre with a grill atop it, with the pipes ostensibly controlling the fuel and air given to the flames.
I say 'ostensibly'. When we arrived, Wolph had managed to get the device lit – no mean feat in such weather – but had not yet put any food on to cook as the flames were approaching four foot in height and showed no sign of diminishing.
Duytren checked her timepiece. “Do you know, I'm beginning to think he isn't a trained camping chef after all.”
“We haven't a chef aboard,” said Aman. “That's why we have the cuisinier.”
“Cooking machine,” Wolph muttered darkly, clanging about with this valve and that. “No good! No grease! Morning after a night like last needs grease.”
This great proclamation was met with a rather doubtful silence and the sound of rain dripping from our hoods. Óli hugged their arms tighter about themselves and shuffled a little closer.
“I don't know what it says about him that he's trying this,” said Annaliese conversationally, “but I think it says more about us that we're letting him.”
“Ah, curiosity, isn't it,” said Duytren, as Wolph leapt back just in time to avoid a sudden flare of flames. “Can't help wanting to see what happens next.”
“We haven't a doctor aboard either. Only an automated medical suite.”
“Oh, he'll be fine. I've got some growth medium in the lab if he burns his eyebrows off.”
In the end though, we were being rather too hard on poor Wolph. Another ten minutes and barely singed, he had the cooking device under control and was slinging food onto the grill with careless confidence. The air filled with the smell of smoke and cooking, and I realised just how hungry I was.
The sausages were burnt, and the bread had caught some of the rain and gone soggy, and the tea was brewed so strong you could have stood a spoon up in it – and it was one of the finest meals I have ever eaten.
Annaliese sighed around a mouthful of charred dredge fruit, sucking the juice from one finger. “That… is marvellous.”
“You were right about the grease,” said Óli to Wolph. “I feel almost normal again.”
“Told you! Who needs fancy-pants quizziner!”
I had rather expected us all to drift off to our separate days after we had finished eating, but some convivial atmosphere prevented it. We instead spent the day in the common room.
Óli found something to read, tucking their long legs up underneath themselves on the plushly cushioned sofa we shared. I fell into talking with Doctor Duytren, a person with whom I have not spent very much time thus far in our journey.
We discussed her work as an anthropologist and my own small adventures in encountering cultures other than my own, and how excited I was to learn how differently they might see the world.
“Oh, there is not so much difference between them as all that,” she said, waving a hand.
“I am surprised to hear you say so. I should have thought your job rather depended on there being differences.”
“Ha! Not at all. I'm more interested in super structures – the organising ideas that apply to everyone. There is one thing with which all cultures are basically concerned about: power. Who has it, and who doesn't.
The ways we organise our family groups, our kinship systems, our languages, our clothing – it's all about power. Creating and conforming to hierarchies of power.”
“Even our clothing?” I said.
“Certainly,” said Duytren. “Why, you can tell a great deal about a person from their clothing. Isn't that right?”
This she addressed, rather unexpectedly, to Óli. Instead of answering her, they stood.
“I am going to make some tea,” they said to me. “Would you like some?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said, handing up my mug. “Doctor Duytren, would you, uh…?”
But Óli had already left.
I turned my attention back to Duytren's statement, feeling conscious of my pyjamas, and wondering what sort of power structures I was expressing or enabling in wearing them in public.
“Clothing and textiles are your particular interest, are they not?”
“They are,” said Duytren, clearly pleased that I had remembered. “I can lend you some texts to read if you like. They may be a bit academic for you but…”
“No, no, I would appreciate that! I’m always happy to learn.”
The rest of the day was uneventful, and I went to bed not very long after dinner, feeling every hour of sleep I had lost the night before.
I am feeling much better today, but my head is abuzz with the grand ideas behind Duytren's work. It is in such stark contrast to my own amateur fumblings.
She has the weight of theory and proper study behind her claims. All I can say is that I have seen this or that, and what it seems to me by the meagre light of my limited experience. It feels rather paltry in comparison.
But I am open to new ideas, always, and have never been better placed to learn from my travelling companions. Both Duytren and Tsabec are undertaking field work this week and have invited me along.
Duytren is visiting with a native community nearby while Tsabec is investigating some archaeological remains of interest to their research. Whichever I join, it will be a good chance for me learn from their expertise.
Until then, please enjoy the entries I have attached – one that I gathered today and another which I confess may have a slightly… inebriated air, recorded immediately after my return from the Faded Star. I will write again soon, and I love you all.
[Title music: rhythmic instrumental folk. It plays throughout the closing credits.]
H.R. Owen
Travelling Light was created by H.R. Owen and Matt McDyre, and is a Monstrous Productions podcast. This episode was written and performed by H.R. Owen.
This week’s entry to the archives was based on an idea by Toblerones, with accompanying artwork available on our social media accounts.
If you've got an idea for an archive entry, we want to hear it. You can send us anything from a one line prompt to a fully written entry through our website, by email, or on social media. For more information, see the show notes.
This episode includes an audience decision. Vote on whether the Traveller should join Duytren in her anthropology field work or Tsabec on their archaeological excursion by making a donation at ko-fi.com/monstrousproductions.
Supporters will also receive bonus artwork and additional content, and an invitation to the Monstrous Productions Discord server.
This podcast is distributed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. The theme tune is by Vinca.
[Fade to silence. The Lucky Die trailer begins – music playing throughout]
Volonda: You see, looking up from the ground, blood read clouds boiling across the sky.
Calinmourn: You did ask me to bring The Thunder [cruel laugh]
Squash: Daechin! Daechin! Help! I've got the Chalice, please!
Daechin: Well if they're following you, then I guess that takes care of a loose end for me.
Volonda: All of you feel the earth beneath you shake and crack and break
Lafian: I feel that I have failed both of you, and I am sorry for that.
Zaltanna: This has nothing to do with you being a bad leader.
Volonda: Do you want a count down? Oh I think I want a count down. Three
Rhal: I wanted to help.
Volonda: Two
Rhal: I always had good intentions.
Volonda: One
Rhal: I did not deserve to die.
Volonda: Now!
Neil: The Lucky Die podcast is a weekly, 5e Dungeons & Dragons actual play podcast. Join our adventure every Monday, wherever you download podcasts by searching for: The Lucky Die.
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