The Hidden
In glades where no city folk thread, and in the hidden dells amidst the forests, dwell the followers of ancient Hathalla, Irra and Ashera who follow in the religion of their forebears for countless generations, worshiping Hathalla the Sea, Irra the Forest, and Ashera the Mother. Here then are the pagan goddesses, the Daughters of Mona'Gladis, who is the World.
They hide, for to show their face to the world and be unmasked for their belief is to face death, at the hands of the Ordo Septagos, who hunts then with merciless virulence, or any number of the faithful of Ivan, the Angel of Vengeance. The laws of state and church throughout the Midlands similarly persecute the faceless, lash, brand or fine encouraging repentance. For those who refuse, it be the noose in the Southern Dukedoms, the heathen's prison in Concasse, or the burning stake in the Kingdom of Gilithas.
Thus do the followers of the Daughters of Mona'Gladis shy from the cities and kingdoms of the Midlands, keeping to themselves, hiding amongst the trees and foliage, and even occasionally encountering the mystical elves, who take pity on these people who yet hold true to the soil and leaf and wind and wave.
Theirs is a tale of hardship and survival, pitted against the armored armies of the east and west, and the murderous rage of the converts from Juyarwah.
As they tell it, Hathalla is the goddess of the wind and the waves, who feeds the fish and nourishes the whales, and sends the waters crashing against the shore. She is beauty and imperious danger, capable of holding ships in the gentlest of grasps, or smashing them to kindling with a toss of her head. Fear her, love her, hate her, worship her, she cares not, for she is Hathalla. She is the Wind. She is the Waves. She is the dolphin and shark and turtle and seal.
Yet if Hathalla is the Sea, so is Irra the giantess that bestrides her mother, the crops and grass and trees and weeds. She is the blooming flower, the twisting vine, the newly foaled doe and the snarling wolf. She is the grizzly, temperamental and fierce. She is the rabbit, swift and sure of foot. She is the dog, loyal and faithful. She is the speeding buck and the soaring eagle. She is growth, she is the genesis of spring and the wilting of winter. She is the hunting predator and the buzzing bee. She is the nectar and honey.
And of all three, none are more fair than Ashera the Mother, the Sister and the Wife. She is the mistress. She is childbirth. She is love. She is sex. She is lust and adoration and affection and adulation. She is fidelity. She is tenderness. She is the goddess of women. She is rebirth. She is beauty and cleverness. She is wisdom and serenity. She is your first love.
Yet in this world, there are no place for Mona'Gladis or her children, and every generation their number dwindles, forever fearful of the hideous wrath of the city-dwellers. Yet throughout the midlands, farmers still murmur hidden prayers to Irra. Hunters still carry tiny hidden charms. Fishermen and sailors invoke Hathalla in secret ritual. And mothers and midwives and daughters and whores yet induct each other into the faith of Ashera, hiding their thoughts from their fathers and sons and brothers.
We are the Hidden.
This is the age that we live in.
This is the age that we die.