BROHLAX

Brohlax: The Current and the Calm
Codex of the Brohlorians — Tusk, Tide, and Table
“River stays. River shapes.”
I. The Jungle That Was
Before Scorrachai was sand, it was green.
Not green like hope.
Green like abundance.
Waterways cut through thick canopy. Mud was rich. Air was heavy. Life was slow and full.
The Brohlax remember it in scents and sounds.
The warmth of shallow rivers.
The hum of insects at dusk.
The soft churn of hooves in wet earth.
Then the light came.
Not sunrise. Not storm.
A flash.
And then heat.
And then nothing.
The rivers dried. The canopy burned. The sky did not apologize.
Some claimed sorcery.
Some claimed curse.
Some whispered of beings not of Pentara.
The Brohlax did not argue long.
They packed.
II. The River Lesson
Among their elders was one who sat each day at the river’s edge.
He would watch the current for hours without speaking.
When asked why, he answered:
“River never panics.”
When rocks fell into its path, it did not rage.
When banks collapsed, it did not curse the earth.
When sun dried its edges, it did not beg for rain.
It shifted.
It deepened.
It carved new path.
He said:
“If river flows, I flow.”
When Scorrachai vanished, he did not mourn loudly.
“The land has changed,” he said. “So we change.”
Thus was born the Brohlax creed:
Strength through patience.
Movement through obstacle.
Endurance through calm.
They did not see the scorching as cruelty.
They saw it as current.
III. South Into the Gloamhollow
They followed what little water remained.
South.
Into Myrr’Kael.
There they found jungle again—but wrong.
Heavier.
Darker.
Wet in ways that did not comfort.
This was the Gloamhollow Expanse.
Water that did not reflect sky.
Mud that swallowed sound.
Trees that leaned like listeners.
The Brohlax waded in anyway.
They were river-born.
They did not fear water.
They learned quickly that this water was not the same.
IV. The Meeting of Horn and Hide
Within the western reaches of Myrr’Kael, they encountered the Brohtaur.
Large. Horned. Suspicious.
The Brohlax stood ground. Calm. Immovable.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then one Brohlax offered roasted root.
One Brohtaur accepted.
Then came laughter.
Then came the shared hand clasp neither side could explain.
Both peoples had lost Scorrachai.
Both remembered green.
Both carried the same unanswered question.
So they did not compete.
They combined.
Thus rose the Brohlorians.
V. The Brohlorian Understanding
Where the Brohtaur speak of growth, the Brohlax speak of flow.
Paradise was not stolen.
Paradise moved.
And it carried them to each other.
“The river took the jungle,” they say,
“so we could find our reflection.”
They settled along the western coast of Myrr’Kael where sea breeze softened the swamp’s rot.
They built wide halls.
They built cooking pits large enough for ten families.
They built docks into marshwater for fishing at dusk.
Life returned to rhythm.
Slow. Strong. Full.
VI. When the Swamp Pushed Back
The Gloamhollow did not appreciate settlement.
Creatures rose from water at night.
Long-backed shapes with moss for skin.
Bone-crowned predators with eyes like drowned stars.
The Brohlax named them Umbravore.
They hunted warmth.
They despised lanterns.
Villages were tested.
The Brohlax did not flee.
They planted deeper.
They stood shoulder to shoulder with Brohtaur.
From this unity emerged the Hornbound Lodge—a guild not of pride, but of duty.
VII. The Hornbound Lodge
The Brohlax brought a different energy to the hunts.
Where Brohtaur charged,
Brohlax absorbed.
They waded into swamp water to draw Umbravore attention.
They held ground while horned brothers flanked.
They used their weight to anchor traps.
They struck not with haste—but with inevitability.
Many legends rose from these hunts:
The Night the River Turned Black.
The Colossus Beneath the Mangrove Spine.
The Stand of Three at Hollowbank.
Scars were worn without complaint.
Loss was acknowledged in silence.
Then the next patrol was formed.
River moves.
VIII. The Furling in the Marsh
During one patrol near the eastern reaches, a small figure burst from reeds.
Mud-streaked. Panicked. Alone.
Behind him came the roar of a swamp predator.
The Lodge intervened.
The beast fell.
The Furling lived.
His name was Tovren Reedhand.
He spoke of Gloomdew. Of a sky-tree named Vaelthyr. Of hawk-folk. Of promise and deception. Of escape.
The Brohlax listened without interruption.
When he finished, one elder said:
“River carried you here.”
They gave him food.
They gave him direction.
They did not chain him with obligation.
When he left, they did not follow.
The swamp still demanded attention.
And the river still moved.
IX. The Way of the Brohlax
The Brohlax believe in three truths:
Stand firm.
Flow forward.
Feed your people well.
They do not chase power.
They do not chase revenge.
They do not seek the sky.
They seek balance.
If paradise burns again tomorrow—
They will not panic.
They will wade.
They will settle.
They will flow.
Because river stays.
River shapes.
X. The Rise of the Brohseidon
One morning, the western sea did something strange.
It split.
Not by storm.
Not by quake.
By fin.
From beneath the horizon surged a shadow vast enough to swallow ships. Its back broke the surface first—metallic, ridged, shaped like the apex predator of forgotten oceans.
Then came the full reveal.
A colossal naval vessel carved in the likeness of a megalodon.
Iron-teeth bow.
Gleaming dorsal ridge.
Arcane turbines humming beneath salt and steel.
Its name was etched along its flank in bold script:
MEGABROHDON Brohthership
The beaches emptied.
Brohlax dropped fishing nets.
Brohtaur grabbed spears.
The Hornbound Lodge assembled in formation.
The vessel surfaced fully, sand trembling beneath its mass. A hatch opened along its dorsal spine.
Out stepped figures broad of shoulder and heavy of tooth.
Sharkfolk.
Scarred. Sun-bleached. Salt-worn.
And smiling.
The Brohlorians stood tense.
The newcomers approached without weapons drawn.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Wind moved between them.
Waves whispered.
Then one sharkfolk removed his helm and said:
“…Sup, broh?”
Silence.
A Brohtaur blinked.
A Brohlax exhaled.
Then one Brohlax stepped forward with roasted root in hand.
The sharkfolk accepted.
A Brohtaur offered fermented jungle brew.
The sharkfolk nodded approval.
Then came laughter.
Deep. Loud. From gut and gill alike.
Then came the clasp.
Not horn-to-hand.
Not hoof-to-fin.
But forearm to forearm.
Firm.
Unexplained.
Recognized.
They called themselves the Brohseidon Tideborn.
Descendants of a drowned citadel beneath the western tides—
a city shattered when a leviathan kraken rose from the abyss and crushed reef and stone in a single cataclysmic surge.
They too remembered home.
They too remembered laughter carried over water.
They too lost everything in one violent crash of tentacle and foam.
Thus—they built vessels.
They learned arcane marine craft.
They forged the MEGABROHDON Brohthership—a submarine capable of diving the abyss and breaching like a living beast.
For scores they roamed the coasts of Myrr’Kael, sensing something familiar inland.
Now they had found it.
Not enemies.
Not rivals.
Brohthers.
The Brohlorian Accord expanded that day.
Horn.
Hide.
Fin.
The alliance was immediate.
Where Brohtaur struck.
Where Brohlax anchored.
Brohseidon surged.
They brought naval artillery.
Deep-sea arcane cannons.
Tidecraft tactics.
Underwater scouting.
The Hornbound Lodge evolved.
Now there were tide-patrols along coastlines.
Joint marsh-sea operations.
Amphibious strike formations against Umbravore dens.
The Brohlorian army grew.
Stronger.
Louder.
Chiller.
The Brohseidon brought new philosophy too:
“Deep water teaches pressure.”
“Surface is loud. Depth is truth.”
“Breathe steady. Bite clean.”
They honored the river.
They respected the horn.
They added the tide.
And so upon the western coast of Myrr’Kael stands a triune strength:
Brohtaur — Growth through force.
Brohlax — Flow through patience.
Brohseidon — Depth through pressure.
Three peoples.
One memory of green—and blue.
One loss.
One brotherhood.
When the swamp darkens, they answer.
When the sea rises, they adapt.
When the night howls, the beaches glow with firelight and laughter.
Because paradise was not taken.
It was scattered.
And the Brohlorians found it again—
In each other.
XI. When the Bog Called for Horn and Hide
Peace in Myrr’Kael is never permanent. It is borrowed.
The Groglings of the central bog had long endured the pressure of the Southern Concord—Crocren cunning and Drizzak brutality pressing northward in steady, calculated expansion. At first it was skirmishes along reed lines. Then burned huts. Then full war-bands.
When the Southern Concord began claiming marshland by force, their intent became clear:
The bog was not enough.
The coast would be next.
And the coast belonged to the Brohlorians.
One dusk, as the western sky burned amber, a delegation of Groglings emerged from the reedbanks of Brohlorian territory. No weapons raised. No threats spoken.
Their Chief stepped forward, mud-streaked and steady.
“They are not stopping with us,” he said.
“When our land falls, yours will follow.”
The Hornbound Lodge listened.
The Rootwater Circles listened.
The Brohtaur did not need many words. Force understood force. If conquest was allowed to stand in the marsh, it would one day knock upon their coast.
The Brohlax required even fewer. They had built something rare in Myrr’Kael—community without domination. They would not see it swallowed by expansionist ambition.
The Brohlorians acted.
Brohtaur war-bands marched inland, horns wrapped in iron bands, forming disciplined wedges designed to break Drizzak shield lines. Where Drizzak strength met Brohtaur charge, the earth itself seemed to recoil.
Brohlax followed close—shielded formations, steady advance, anchoring Grogling flanks that had grown thin from seasons of attrition. Their presence turned retreat into resilience.
The Groglings adapted instantly. Guerrilla strikes synchronized with Brohtaur pushes. Ambushes timed to Brohlax stabilization. Swamp knowledge fused with coastal discipline.
When the Southern Concord realized the west had joined the fight, it was too late.
The Brohlorians were not defending marsh alone.
They were defending balance.
The war shifted.
And from that season forward, a simple understanding endured between coast and bog:
If one falls, the other answers.
Not out of charity.
Not out of obligation.
But because paradise had once been taken from them.
And they would not watch it taken again.