Traveler's Guide to the Northern Steppes
Traveler's Guide to the Northern Steppes is an Official GemStone IV Document, and it is protected from editing.
A Traveler's Guide to the Northern Steppes
THE JOURNAL OF CAELINDRA ALANDYR
Entry 1: From Gilded Cage to Open Sky
I write this not with the hurried anxiety of a runaway, but with the measured breath of a soul finally catching its pace. The ink here feels heavy, earthen, a world away from the shimmering and gilded pigments favored by the cities of the Elven Nations.
I am Caelindra Alandyr, though few outside the formal circles of Ta'Loenthra ever bothered with the full length of it; to most, I was simply Caelya. My memories are a tapestry woven with the sound of tuning instruments, the smell of greasepaint, and the sight of endless, elegant architecture. For two centuries, cobbled avenues, gas lamps, and the elaborate prosceniums of theaters were my only horizons. Even when my troupe traveled, it was a blur of confined spaces. We were perpetually sealed within the echoing cabins of our airships, rehearsing until exhaustion, never truly witnessing the vast, majestic world passing beneath our mechanical wings. The endless sky was merely a backdrop, never a home, and its hues were lost on me.
That life shattered beyond the Lake of Shadowed Sorrow. I won't write of the tragedy, not yet; the memory is still too sharp, too immediate. All that matters is that my troupe is gone, the funds vanished, and I found myself utterly alone in that terrible, common Inn. It had been my last refuge before making a desperate choice. For the first time, I was forced out from beneath the lampposts and the eaves, my heart heavy and the song gone from my lips.
My destination was Ta'Arednai, the great eastern city, a place I had only ever seen sketched on maps. I believed a new city meant a new life. But what I discovered when I stepped fully onto the open earth was a revelation: Nature is a far, far better artist than we elves.
The journey east has been a humbling, painful education. Instead of the tight, ordered forests I knew, I found the Shirelands for, despite my pedigree and education, I was never good with geography and had headed north instead of due east. These vast, rolling hills are carpeted in endless grass and dotted with ancient, silent stones. The sky here is overwhelming. It presses down and lifts the spirit simultaneously, swallowing the echoes of my old sorrows. I walked for a month, battered by the wind, trading my pride for stale bread, until I found myself in a small Malghavan shire. [1] They did not care for my elven pedigree or my reputation as a celebrated entertainer. They simply saw a cold, hungry woman. I offered them the songs of Memailly, the old tales I'd learned. I even taught some of the newer songs of Ta'Loenthra to the wide-eyed children of the clan.
In that simple act, I gained everything I’d lost. The children's bright curiosity, the easy companionship of the adults, and their powerful, simple sense of community were an antidote to the poisonous loneliness that had seeped in after my troupe was gone. This felt more real than any applause. I abandoned my journey to Ta'Arednai, finding myself tethered by an unexpected, powerful hope.
Just today, the Mhoragian cousins of the shire arrived, passing through on their yearly migration across the Steppes. [2] They are a sturdy, traveling people, and they, perhaps at the urgings of those I'd been staying with, recognized something deep inside me. As a result, I have traded the spotlight for the sun, and the velvet stage curtain for the limitless horizon. They offered me safe passage, a place within their moving world.
And they offered me transport. An enormous, shaggy muskox, solid as a boulder, with a kind, placid gaze. The Mhoragian clanswoman keeps calling him Shayshaytur. [3]
I have accepted. The woman who hated walking and spent her life confined to airships will now ride Shayshaytur across the Northern Steppes. The road is uncertain, but it is vast, beautiful, and utterly free.
I have found my road, and it moves at Shayshaytur's pace.
Entry 2: The Pace of the Steppe and the Spice of Life
I am desperately trying not to look like a porcelain doll balanced precariously atop a moving mountain.
Shayshaytur. He does not hurry, he does not trot. He advances with the inevitability of a glacier, each enormous, deliberate step causing a gentle, rolling sway that threatens to send me tumbling to the ground. The sight of me lumbering along is made even more ridiculous by the contrast with the Mhoragian people. They zip past on smaller, faster beasts. Their mounts are the sturdy yaks, nimble roltons, and the occasional breathtakingly sure-footed ibex. While they herd the great muskoxen, they certainly do not use these gentle giants for daily transport. Shayshaytur is impossibly large and slow, and I realize now that this beast must have been chosen for me specifically as a mount that requires no speed or finesse, only persistence.
My tutor is a patient, sun-browned clanswoman named Kharru who mostly smiles at my clumsy attempts to dismount without collapsing.
Our journey currently cuts through the vast, open farmlands of the Malghavan. From my vantage point high atop Shayshaytur, the landscape is stunning. It is not the wild, untamed nature I first encountered, but a cultivated beauty. The fields, viewed from above, truly look like an enormous quilt woven in varying shades of green and yellow, all stitched together beneath the massive, ever-present blue sky.
I have begun to learn the rhythm of the clan, and it is a strange, yet satisfying, kind of quiet. The days are filled with the silent focus of travel. The clanspeople speak sparingly, communicating mostly through nods and practiced gestures, conserving energy and attention for the road.
Then, at night, the silence breaks. It reminds me a little of my college days in Ta'Loenthra, where we spent the daylight hours mired in focused study, only to converge over tea at dusk, opening up into quite a chatter, as if we hadn't seen each other all day. Here, the convergence is over fires, and the tea is a different type of thing entirely: a rich, salty milk tea.[4]
Milk itself is incredibly prevalent in this traveling society, which is something I, an elf accustomed to lighter, clear spirits and water, had never even considered. It is life here, churned and preserved in myriad ways.
The early fare of the road was fashioned mostly from things they traded from the Malghavan before leaving their cousins' shire: fresh fruits, fresh vegetables, and delicious, overstuffed pastries. These early, sanmakhar-like meals were robust but familiar.[5]
But as the days in the grasslands expanded and the herds pushed on, the foods became more purely Mhoragian in nature. The flavors shifted from sweet produce to deep, savory sustenance. I am now accustomed to bowls of wild cabbage soup, pickled mushrooms, and some kind of dried milk curdle[6] that can be added to all manner of foods.
And then there is xatmak.[7] It is a Northern Steppes staple, air-dried meat hardened into a stiff stick that is crushed into protein-rich flakes. I was taught to pop a pinch into my mouth and slowly masticate it; it is not pleasant immediately, but it provides tremendous energy.
What truly altered my senses, however, were the spices. My taste buds, used to the subtle, fragrant notes of elven cooking, were suddenly enlivened with spices that almost left me weak at first. My early sweats, as I was told by Kharru, were amusing to my hosts, but I have quickly grown fond of the sensation. These spaces add a level of flavor to my food I’d never before experienced-a vibrant, burning counterpoint to the clean, cold air.
I am an elf from the city, but I am learning to crave the spice of the Steppe. My old life fades a little further with every mile Shayshaytur steadily covers.
Entry 3: The Gathering, the Hunters, and the Feast
The movement of the Steppe is usually linear in its quietude, a steady progress of Shayshaytur and the herds, always moving forward. Today, the movement was a convergence. We saw it on the horizon first: a sea of white dotted with flashes of vibrant color. As we approached the crest of a low rise, the full scope of the gathering became clear. Hundreds of gers in bright white, many edged with bold patterns in red, yellow, and blue, were pitched in a massive circle. The sight was startlingly organized and beautiful. And from every direction of the vast plain, I could see other families, other herds, converging like streams meeting a wide river. This, I learned, is the great mid-summer gathering of the plainsfolk, a chance for the many nomadic clans to trade, share news, and simply be together. The air was thick with excitement, especially among the children, who dashed between the legs of the yaks and roltons with pure, unbridled joy.
It was here that I first encountered the Eagle-Owl Hunters.[8] I am still unclear on their original history, but Kharru told me they were once fierce warriors dedicated to protecting the plains. Now, they seem to be the Mhoragian equivalent of a travel performance troupe, and a magnificent one at that. There were perhaps fifteen clanswoman and men, and each performed with one or two of their majestic, golden eagle-owls. The avians are clearly kin to them, not just trained animals. The tasks they perform are varied, ranging from breathtaking aerial hunts to intricate maneuvers that are used to help herd the farthest edges of the herds. To see such power and grace without the stiff pretense of a theater was truly humbling. I felt a twinge of my old life, but here, the performance felt honest, essential, and free.
And then, the food. I have been eating the practical, spiced fare of the road for days, but this gathering is a proper festival.
I was invited to sit with Kharru’s family for a truly magnificent, stone-roasted affair. The centerpiece was a whole, roasted marmot suffused with scallions and other plant-derived herbs. It was rich, smoky, and utterly unlike the delicate, spiced game I was used to in Ta'Loenthra.
The bread was a revelation. I ate large quantities of what I must simply call scallion pancakes [9], though the Mhoragian name is something far more evocative. It is, without question, the best bread I have ever had in my entire life: light, savory, and perfectly crisp. We decorated it with a thick yak milk butter seasoned heavily with coriander and cumin.
Then came the dumplings. Every variety you could imagine! Goat meat dumplings, packed herb dumplings, and even some small, sweet ones. They were all steamed with salted water, and we had hundreds of dipping sauces to choose from, ranging from sweetly preserved berries to intensely savory pastes.
The side dishes were a riot of color and flavor. Mushrooms of every variety were introduced amid fresh cabbage, tart sorrel, wild onion, dandelion, wild carrots, and wild asparagus. There was a particular, wonderful, crunchy vegetable side dish [10] that perfectly cut the richness of the marmot.
I am exhausted, satisfied, and more integrated into this strange, wonderful, Truefolk world than I thought possible a few days ago. The quiet kindness of Kharru, the magnificent flight of the owls, the slow, rolling gait of Shayshaytur, all of it, is slowly healing the wounds left by the stage lights of the Elven Nations.
Entry 4: Burnished Hues and the Lake
The grasslands have surrendered their brilliant greens to the change of season. The plains are now a mosaic of copper and gold, burnished hues that stretch endlessly toward the horizon. Even the wind, when it whips past Shayshaytur's thick wool, carries a colder, sharper promise.
We are moving with purpose now. Kharru tells me our journey is aimed toward Lake Khesta 'Dahl in the Saens Valaire, where the clan will attend the Festival of the White Star in Halan Lea, a Brughan village. The thought of a settled village feels strange after weeks under the open sky, but the promise of a festival excites me. It reminds me that even in this harsh, beautiful world, there is still room for ceremony and art.
The days have started to grow noticeably shorter, but the nights have extended into a magnificent pageantry I never knew existed. Perhaps it is the unique clarity of the high northern air, or simply my newly attentive gaze, but the dark sky is not empty here. The stars are so densely packed they form a "lake of lamplight" overhead, and some nights, ribbons of color in shades of green, violet, and pale yellow dance and shimmer along the mountain tops in a slow, ethereal ballet. It is the most breathtaking performance I have ever witnessed; no stage lighting in Ta'Loenthra could ever rival the artistry of the world at this latitude.
With the coming chill, the Mhoragians have seamlessly added new foods to their diet. We have begun eating a thick, savory porridge [12] every morning and evening, designed, Kharru explained, to keep the body warm from the inside. It is heavy, rich, and utterly unlike the sweet gruels I used to take in the city. The children are tasked with collecting the primary ingredient daily, a plains grain that is now abundant in the drying fields.
We also broke the pattern of continuous travel last week when the clan stopped at a strange, solitary, and massive ger.[13] This structure, slightly larger and far more permanent-looking than our traveling homes, turned out to be a communal storehouse. We spent a full week here performing general maintenance. Everything from fixing a leak in the roof, oiling harnesses and leather, but most importantly, changing our gear. Light bedding was replaced with thick wool blankets, and my thin traveling tunics were exchanged for heavy, hide-lined coats pulled from a stall marked with Kharru's family name. Though we were the only group using it, I could feel the presence of others who had passed through only weeks before, their lingering scents of musk and oil filling the air.
This life demands constant preparation. It is the antithesis of the ephemeral world of the stage, but it is deeply satisfying. Every task, from grinding grain for porridge to oiling leather, is a direct, necessary step toward survival. I am not simply performing a role; I am living a purpose.
Entry 5: Halan Lea - The Taste of Water and Wood
The grasslands finally gave way, transitioning through low, rolling scrubland until we descended into the Saens Valaire, a protected valley. We are now settled in Halan Lea, the village belonging to the Brughan. [14]
The shift in environment is dramatic. The very air is heavier, scented with lake water and pine instead of muskox and dried earth. The Brughan gers are built of sturdy timber and stone floors, a comforting solidity that stands in stark contrast to the pure nomadic life.
The village felt immediately welcoming, largely due to the Brughan's consideration toward the visiting Mhoragian families. My astonishment came when I realized the Mhoragian families were set up with a special ger inside the village itself. Kharru’s family had a specific ger arranged for their use that was larger than our traveling one, and most startlingly, built upon a permanent, stone floor covered over with wooden planks. It retained the familiar shape and warmth of our home on the Steppes, but it was anchored. It feels like being housed in a stationary, rooted tent.
The food has changed entirely. The spices here are stronger, more concentrated, suggesting a cuisine that relies less on the sheer volume of ingredients and more on their flavor punch. We've been introduced to noodles that are fat, wide ribbons, and they add a completely new texture to a diet previously dominated by coarse grains and ground meat.
And the fish! I had entirely forgotten how much I missed fish, but this is different. I was used to the delicate, briny taste of coastal fish in Ta'Loenthra, whereas these are freshwater varieties from the lake, rich and earthy.
The bread is reminiscent of Shusluun Talh, which I adore, but here it is baked into thick, coin-shaped wide rounds [15] and used to scoop up the sauces. These sauces are, really, the star of every meal we've had. They are more like purees, thick and laden with flavor and aggressive spices, often substantial enough to be a meal on their own. They are built around local tubers like squash, potatoes, and leeks.
We have also seen a welcome return of fresh produce. Being closer to a small forest, the berries and currants are plentiful. I even went out with the children one day to help collect them; their small, quick hands were far more efficient than mine. As we worked, I taught them an old, melodic song about fruit I’d learned as a child. It was the first time I'd truly sung since leaving the Shirelands, and it felt like a small, quiet offering to my new life.
And then there is the yellow butter [16]. It is nothing like the yak milk butter we use on the Steppes. It is highly prized, and its flavor is sharp and tangy.
It is strange to be surrounded by the permanence of stone and wood again, yet I feel no yearning for the gilded halls of my past. I am content, preparing for the festival, and enjoying these new, bold flavors.
Entry 6: Village Life
Today was the morning I woke to the scent of woodsmoke mixed with the scent of warming iron instead of the open grass. Life in Halan Lea moves at a gentler pace than the shifting Steppe yet is no less industrious. The Brughan rise early, and their quiet efficiency seems to ripple outward through the village like a soft drumbeat. By the time the sun cleared the treeline, I found myself drawn into their rhythm.
Kharru spent the morning helping her cousins smoke slabs of lake fish, while I joined a group of Brughan women in cleaning and slicing piles of bright orange squash. The steadiness of the work felt grounding, and the laughter was low and easy, free of spirit. The small kitchens within these permanent gers were quickly filled with the aroma of roasting spices. It felt strange to be useful without the urgency of travel pressing in from all sides.
In the afternoon, the Brughan hosted a small exchange of gifts, as an early gesture of goodwill before the larger Festival of the White Star begins. I did not expect to receive anything, but the village elder approached me with a soft smile and placed a folded garment in my hands. It was a short, cropped jacket of civet fur, dyed a rich cobalt blue and embroidered with sprays of sea buckthorn flowers and berries. The work was exquisite. The elder explained that its warmth and light weight made it perfect for long days near the lake, where the wind has a habit of cutting sideways through the clothing. I wore it immediately and felt enveloped in its comfort.
Later in the evening, Kharru and two young Brughan children insisted I follow them to a small workspace near the northern edge of the village. Resting upon a stump in the center of the space was my second gift, a beautifully made ujang[17]. The soft fur was pale with darker tips, and the triple flaps were lined in thicker, wind-resistant wool. The children demonstrated how the ear flaps could be tied snuggly beneath the chin or buttoned to the crown for milder days. The neck flap was long enough to shelter the collarbone, too. They were delighted by my wide-eyed amazement, and their laughter filled the space as they helped me adjust the fit.
As night fell, I walked back to our borrowed ger with my arms full and my heart unexpectedly heavy in a pleasant way. The Mhoragian children burst into applause at the sight of my new attire, which made me flush in amusement. The simplicity of the moment felt like a quiet balm for my soul. I learned today that a village does not need towering spires or gilded halls to feel like a place worth belonging to. It only needs people willing to share the warmth.
The air is colder tonight, heavy with the scent of pine, the lake mist, and the distant spices of roasting meat. I sit here in my new jacket, the ujang resting beside me on my bedding, and I feel steadier than I have since the day I left the Lake of Sorrows. Perhaps this is what it means to be held by a community, even one not of your own. I am beginning to understand why the clans return here every year, no matter how far they roam.
Tomorrow, preparations for the Festival of the White Star[18] begin in earnest. I think I may even be ready to sing again.
Footnotes
- The term "Mhoragian cousins" used by the Malghavan clan does not imply a biological relation. Among the halflings, who refer to themselves as the Truefolk, all members of the race are considered family, and the term "cousin" is a common acknowledgment of this kinship.
- The Malghavan people are known for their established settlements or shires in the fertile zones, whereas the Mhoragians are primarily nomadic clans that migrate seasonally with their herds across the open steppes, often following long-established familial routes. My original place of landing was called Olaanu Braig, or "Red Grasses." (I suspect that the word for "grass," olaan, may have stemmed from the name of the Arkati Oleani.)
- The clanswoman kept calling my mount "Shayshaytur," and I, being incredibly naive about nomadic life, assumed this was his proper name. It wasn't. I only understood months later, after hearing the herdsmen shouting commands, that "Shayshaytur" is actually a common Mhoragian instruction that means, "Slow, slow, mosey." They didn't name him; they were gently instructing the largest animal they had to accommodate the most inexperienced rider they'd ever encountered. It was a quiet, subtle kindness.
- Milk: In Ta'Loenthra, milk is reserved for infants or for very specific pastries or perhaps a splash in tea. Here, it is the basis for much of their liquid diet. It is drunk warm, cold, and often heavily salted for mineral content, reflecting the needs of a physically demanding, nomadic life.
- Sanmakhar-like: I have learned that the name for the Mhoragian savory pastry is sanmakhar. Unlike the sweet, flaky tarts favored by some halfling cultures in the west, the sanmakhar uses a coarse, sturdy wheat dough, packed with meat or paste, sealed, fried, and then baked. It's meant to be robust enough to eat one-handed while traveling. The ones we received from the Malghavan were a slightly richer, settled version of this ancient staple.
- Dried Milk Curdle: It took me a while to find out what this was, but the small, hard flakes of dried milk are called duktuk. They crush it into soups or chew it for a quick, tart energy boost.
- Xatmak: This air-dried meat is the backbone of the Mhoragian diet. It is made by air-drying long strips of meat inside their gers until they are stiff sticks, which can then be crushed into long-lasting flakes. The flakes are essential for protein, either eaten by the pinch or used to reconstitute flavor and sustenance in stews.
- Midsummer Gathering: The halflings call their midsummer festival kaaman uda gehan bur (literally, "light is most long" or "Longest Light"), which is an appropriate name for a solstice festivity. During this festival, children reenact ancient cavalry battles with the use of "ponies" made from wooden sticks and carved heads, and halfling families lavish attention on painting and decorating their ponies. When the sun finally sets, bonfires are lit to keep the dark at bay. Unwed young halfling women are charged as "sunkeepers," whose job it is to defend the bonfires through the night. It is said that a potential suitor brave enough to steal a brand from a sunkeeper's fire also earns a kiss from said sunkeeper.
- The Eagle-Owl Hunters: The members of this unique society are proud, sturdy men and women. They are childless, devoting their lives entirely to their craft and their avian partners. Their mounts are swift, and their movements are untethered from the needs of young children or slow herds, allowing them to rove the old paths of the plains year-round. They are truly formidable, to say the least.
- Scallion Pancakes: The best bread I've ever eaten was a scallion pancake. It was savory, flaky, and fried. The Mhoragians have a special name for this festival treat. It is called Shusluun Talh (Plains Stone Bread). The best place to make it is here near the well, where large, smooth stones encircle the space. These sites are the only permanent feature left after the gers are packed up. Beneath those stones are ancient, fire-blackened basins where the pancakes are roasted over hot coals. The Mhoragians use the same method at these established well sites all across the plains.
- Crunchy Vegetable Dish: A delicious, highly seasoned mix of plains vegetables, served cold. I must find out the proper Mhoragian name for this side dish. (need a name for this)
- Savory Porridge: This autumnal porridge is a staple designed for warmth. The porridge is generally white, though chives and scallions are added for flavor and color when available. The halflings call it punng, the word sitting in the back of their throat. It is made from a reddish plains grass harvested in the fall, which is when it is sweetest. The grain is stored in airy sacks (reminiscent of cheesecloth) to dry. The grain is then ground at night and added to rich, meaty broth, often flavored with xatmak. The importance of punng is so great to Mhoragian society that they call the grass itself seteg-punng, which translates literally to "punng flower."
- Communal Storehouse Ger: This is a vital permanent structure along the clan migration routes. It serves as a shared hub for families to exchange seasonal gear, storing light bedding and clothing while retrieving heavier, cold weather items. The interior is divided into marked stalls, indicating individual family ownership of the stored items.
- Ger: These are the large, round structures of the halflings who live in the plains and the valley. They are felt-wrapped and have conical tops.
- Brughan Clan: The Brughan are another clan of Truefolk (halflings) who have largely adopted a more settled, agrarian lifestyle centered in the Saens Valaire (a valley).
- Coin-shaped wide rounds: This is the local bread of the Brughans, who simply call it zus moggo (which literally means "fat coin"). Unlike the Mhoragian shusluun talh, this bread is baked into fat, thick, disc shapes, ideal for tearing and using to mop up the rich, hearty sauces that are so central to the Brughan diet.
- Yellow Butter: Called aduk sar (literally "yellow butter"), this highly prized staple of the Brughan diet is distinct from the yak milk butter of the Steppes. It is made from the milk of crowned goats, which are recognizable due to their unusual crown-like arrangement of horns. Aduk sar has a sharp, tangy flavor that stems from its long fermentation process
- Ujang: Among both Mhoragian and Brughan peoples, the ujang ("oo-jahng") is a traditional cold-season hat designed for harsh weather in the northern steppes and valleys. It is made of thick fur and shaped with three protective flaps, one for the neck and two for the ears. The flaps can be secured upward by fastening them to a button on the crown or tied beneath the chin during winter winds. A second layer of fur is sewn to the front of the hat, referred to as the "visor" or "forehead flap," even though it cannot be lowered like the other flaps. Ujang are commonly exchanged as practical gifts between families and travelers, reflecting hospitality and the desire to ensure a guest's safe passage through the colder months.
- Festival of the White Star: This festival (Natum abn Tsan Sagan, or "Festival of the White Star") marks an important point in the year for Steppes halflings. Winter in the Steppes can be exceptionally cruel, and the arrival in the skies of the star Caeliabol signifies that the shortest days of the year are soon to end and the march to the warmth of summer has begun. Caeliabol, the White Stag Star, is the brightest light in The Paladin, a constellation visible from Eorgaen 8 to Eorgaen 22. Although Steppes halflings mark the festival wherever they winter, the largest and most elaborate observances take place around Lake Khesta'dahl and in the Brughan village of Halan Lea, where the waters mirror the star. Young halflings craft crowns of antlers from wood and shed horn, and often paint them white and adorn them with bits of polished metal or glass. Elders select the maker of the most pleasing crown as the "Stag of Light," (buk abn kaaman) who leads the village's procession down to the lake shore. Star-catchers, or anajin-abn-tsan, will dive into the ice cold like in the darkest hours, hoping to catch rays of starlight to bring back to the Stag of Light. In reality, the goal is to snatch a handful of phosphorescent waterthyme native to the lake, which glows bright white for a time when first exposed to air. Around midnight on the central night of the festival, there is a rite called the Star-Silence (tsiimaga abn tsan, or "silence of star"). Drums stop, songs fade, and children are hushed. The Star-Silence is a time to remember those who will not see the coming year. It is especially fortuitous to see Caeliabol's reflection during the Star-Silence, and ill tidings if the night is cloudy or Caeliabol is otherwise obscured. Some soothsayers take things a step further, saying that if a wind ripples the lake and breaks the star's reflection, it is a sign that the year ahead will bring tumult and change, while if the water remains smooth, it portends a calm and quiet year ahead. Oaths spoken under Caeliabol are believed to be some of the most binding that a halfling can make.
Language of the Northern Steppes
I've made some notes on the terms and phrases that I was able to learn while traveling with the Mhoragians through the Northern Steppes, I hope they are helpful to others.
abn: of. Used between two nouns or a noun and a descriptor.
natum abn tsan sagan: "festival of star white."
uda: is.
tsan sagan uda: "the star is white."
bur: most, very, exceedingly. Intensifier placed before an adjective.
bur gehan: "longest."
bur moggo: "very fat."
da: and, also.
tsan sagan da tsan braig: "white stars and red stars."
na: question marker. Placed at the end of a sentence.
tsan sagan uda na?: "Is the star white?"
COLOR & DESCRIPTIVE TERMS
sagan: white. Color.
sar: yellow. Color.
braig: red. Color.
temur: blue. Color.
hangir: green. Color.
duruk: black. Color.
khoren: brown. Color.
gehan: long. Both in terms of time and distance.
shay: slow. A measure of speed.
tsimaagi: silence.
NATURE
tsan: star.
tsan sagan: white star. Shorthand for the star Caeilabol.
buk: stag, great deer.
tsan buk: "star-stag," a poetic title for Caeliabol.
seteg: flower.
seteg braig: "red flower."
hulin: wind.
saens: valley, hollow.
Saens Valaire: "quiet valley," important location in the Horse War.
valaire: calm, sheltered.
kaaman: light. Noun.
talh: steppeland. Used as a proper noun for the Steppes.
TIME AND FESTIVALS
natum: festival
Natum abn Tsan Sagan: "Festival of the White Star."
hmong: month.
gava: winter.
zudai: storm. Typically a snowstorm.
MOVEMENT, TRAVEL, AND PACE
tur: to amble, to mosey.
shay tur: "slowly mosey," gentle, unhurried travel.
gehan-tur: a migration or a distant travel. Literally "long-journey."
kharu: to lead, to guide a herd or group
mugran: path, road. Especially those worn by herds and caravan lines.
PEOPLE & KINSHIP
Amar: folk, people. Also, an endonym for Truefolk; halflings.
amar-bur: great folk. Elders or particularly respected leaders.
karun: cousin, kin. Generic term of address among halflings.
Karun, shusluun uda?: "Cousin, is there bread?"
morgai: family, clan. Typically referring to one's family but also used to refer to the four primary halfling cultures.
morgai-oguur: familial fire. Traditionally, a bonfire tended by members of a single family unit, literally "family-fire."
elgai: elder, old one. A title of respect.
tugen: child.
tugen-buk: stag-child. A child born under the White Star, thought lucky.
FOOD & DAILY LIFE
shusluun: bread.
shusluun tahl: Steppes bread eaten by Mhoragian halflings.
moggo: fat, large.
zus: coin. Typically silver.
zus moggo: A type of thick round bread common among Brughan halflings.
duktuk: dried milk flakes. Eaten as a snack or added to soups.
aduk: butter.
aduk sar: "yellow butter," a prized, sharp-tasting Brughan butter.
xatmak: air-dried meat. Stiff sticks crushed into flakes, staple protein on the Steppes.
sanmakhar: travel pastry. Coarse dough packed with meat or paste; fried, then baked.
tsugra: stew; thick soup. Often with root vegetables and grains.
garan: porridge, grain mash.
punng: grass porridge. Distinct from garan, a porridge made from a red grass called seteg-punng.
shusluun-moggo: tarts. Literally, "fat-bread." Gently demeaning term for Paradis tarts.
RITUAL AND ART
kaaman-buk: light-stag. Ceremonial role during the Festival of the White Star.
tsan-bur: great star. Often referring to a guiding star, such as Caeilabol.
selet: song.
selet-amar: people-songs. Ritual songs sung of halfling history.
khuren: luck, good fortune.
USEFUL PHRASES
Natum abn Tsan Sagan: "Festival of the White Star."
Garan abn hulin: "porridge of wind." A joking term for thin rations.
Buk kaaman uda: "The stag is bright." A ritual greeting during the Festival of the White Star.
Karun, shay tur!: "Cousin, go slowly!" Colloquially, "calm down."
OOC Information/Notes
- Created by GM Thandiwe, December 2025
- Additions and Edits by GM Auchand
- Language Additions by GM Auchand and GM Xynwen
- Ujang created by GM Casil