The Barley Eaters

Those that survived the collapse of their village often go by many names: the Strugglers, the Fallen, or—most commonly—they are referred to as the Corpse Eaters.

Yet though they are often known under the same denomination, the reasons for their state and the ways they survive are as numerous as the heads of corn in a field.

One such fallen tribe, though shrouded in mystery, is known as the Barley Eaters.

In a valley not far from the borders of the Serpent King’s realm resides their village—or at least what is left of it.

Once it was a powerful elven prince’s domain, his tall tower straddling the top of an all-but-inaccessible hill.

In those days, the borders of the Central Kingdom extended further than they do now, and this mighty prince had somehow angered the Serpent King. The King decreed that whosoever among his satraps brought him the prince in chains would receive the prince’s beautiful daughter as bride and inherit his fiefdom.

A coalition of surrounding satraps was formed, and they marched against the mighty tower on the hill. Though they put it under siege, they could not storm it—so powerful was its position. For years the siege dragged on, and great woe befell all parties.

Eventually, the coalition sent a herald, who declared that if the prince offered up his daughter as a bride to one of their members, they would end the siege and arbitrate his case before the King’s court.

As he and his forces were greatly diminished, the prince accepted the terms, but with one condition: his daughter should choose for herself whom among them to marry—for she was much spoiled by her father.

The ceremony was arranged to take place outside the gates, between both forces.

A splendid procession departed from the safety of the walls: the father in front, the daughter veiled in bridal finery, and a retinue of what remained of the levy.

The satraps, eager to be chosen, waited in their most splendid attire. But no decision came.

Instead, both parties were met with the slamming shut of the village gates behind them. And atop the wall stood the prince’s daughter, dressed for war.

No mere satrap, she declared, was worthy of her beauty. Until they brought the King or one of his sons, the gates would remain shut.

Enraged, the satraps seized her father. The veiled bride, it was revealed, had only been two chambermaids—one sitting on the other’s shoulders.

The satraps ordered the chambermaids and levy roasted in front of the walls, but to no avail. Even as they dined on their flesh, the daughter did not wince.

Then they proceeded to slowly skin her father alive before her. No matter how he screamed or pleaded, her demeanor remained unchanged.

Eventually, they removed his heart and nailed his flayed skin to the gate, swearing the same fate would befall her.

Still, the siege dragged on, and yet the promised bride persisted.

Even as the outer wall fell and she, along with the remnants of her people, were holed up in the tower, her demand for a worthy groom stood.

But when the tower was finally breached and the satraps stormed in, they could not find her. She had vanished without a trace.

Under interrogation, her starving subjects claimed she had descended into the bowels of the hill through a hidden entrance.

The satraps tore the village down in search of this entrance. Eventually, they found it: a dark hole in the wall.

The parties sent down never returned.

Fear spread through the ranks. Even the satraps grew unsettled. Yet after all their efforts, they dared not abandon their prize so easily.

They decided that the youngest among them would lead a party into the depths. If he found her, she would be his bride.

As the light from their torches disappeared into the blackness, the hours grew long.

Suddenly, yelps and panic were heard. The young satrap returned alone—disheveled, drenched in blood, and full of fear.

Panicked, he screamed that the offspring of the chthonic demon Unuru dwelled below. Without stopping, he fled and disappeared into the wild.

The men, never having seen an elf lose all composure, grew terrified.

Then, from the darkness came a sound—as if a thousand spearpoints tapped on the stone. Panic erupted.

The army fled headlong. Even the satraps were abandoned, forced to make their own way down the hill. Their sick and wounded were left behind, stranded in the camp outside the wall. Only the poor, famished villagers remained to see what would come.

Out from the black hole emerged a great centipede with a terrible hiss, lit by the flickering oil lamps that still burned.

Among the villagers was an old crone who had served the lady her entire (albeit short) human life. To the villagers, she proclaimed:

“I knew her best. That creature is no beast, but a gift from Unuru, sent as thanks for our lady’s sacrifice. She willingly descended into the underworld to spare us from slavery beneath the satraps. But nothing comes without a price. The guardian demands offerings—or she will feed on us instead.”

So they gathered the abandoned sick and wounded from the satraps’ army and forced them down the pit, one by one.

Week after week, sacrifices were made. Eventually, they ran out.

New victims had to be sought.

They began venturing from the ruined mount at night, haunting nearby settlements, stealing away anyone caught alone. Traders en route to the Holy Capital were stalked.

Often, they would use the most beautiful girl from their tribe as bait—luring poor young merchants from their camps, only for the village men to descend upon them.

Over time, they rebuilt among the ruins of the tower. A great longhouse rose, and at its center sat the matriarch—her fat legs spread wide above the black pit into which the sacrifices were cast.

From this tribe emerged a tradition: a woman would always lead as chambermaid of their now-divine princess.

To them, their elven lady had—like the Lord of Lords—sacrificed herself for her people, entering the dark womb of the earth and emerging transformed into the Great Mother, the giant centipede within the heart of the hill.

She was their protector. They were her servants. As it had always been.

Over time, the chambermaids learned to communicate with their guardian—through ointments made from the centipede’s eggs and strange chirping sounds.

Once a year, on the day of the princess’s disappearance, the chambermaid leads a group of women down into the pit. There, they form a line—buckets in hand—and carry out the bountiful mulch gifted by the Great Mother and her brood.

This sacred compost is spread across the fields—and golden barley grows. A gift from their mother’s subterranean womb. A living symbol of the grand cycle of life.

For their sacred role, the chambermaid and her women eat first. The larger she grows, the more pleased the Great Mother is believed to be.

And so the villagers are always eager to send their men out to hunt more of the wicked satraps’ descendants—to feed their voracious matron.

Such a threat have the Barley Eaters become that even the Hierophant of the Grand Temple in Hurriaä has launched multiple crusades against them. But each has been repulsed—by villagers, by the Great Mother, and by her brood.

And now, so well-nurtured have the Great Mother’s children become that their numbers swell.

Once every generation, the chambermaid selects one of her girls to lead an exodus—taking as much barley as they can carry, and a few eggs from their guardian, to nurture a new matriarch.

When they find some abandoned ruins to claim as home, a new guardian will awaken.

And thus, they know:

Their Great Mother watches over her own.