KACAWKI

The Greenward Flourish & The Verdant Concord
A deeper accounting from the Roost of Zakaroth.
I. When the Green Was Truly Green
Before banners were burned and boots pressed grain into mud, the Greenward was not merely an alliance.
It was a rhythm.
Gravrin stone halls reinforced Kacawki barns.
Rakkari arcane lamps lit irrigation canals at dusk.
Furling healers walked field to field, blessing crops and broken ankles alike.
And the Kacawki?
They fed them all.
Not as servants.
As stewards.
The Greenward was built on shared labor, not conquest. It had councils beneath orchard canopies, festivals under wind-spun lanterns, and harvest feasts where every species contributed something different to the table.
No throne.
No crown.
Just balance.
And in that balance, names were made.
II. Figures of the Flourish
Halven Reedstep – The Stickwright of the North Fields
Halven was known across Zakaroth for crafting the finest hiking sticks in Pentara.
Not walking sticks.
Not canes.
Hiking sticks.
Balanced for long travel. Weighted just right at the base. Carved from river-seasoned hardwood, etched with subtle spiral grooves that improved grip in rain and snow.
Gravrin swore by them when traversing stone cliffs.
Furlings carried them into deep forest foraging paths.
Even Rakkari mages used them when surveying wild arcane zones.
Halven never claimed artistry.
He called it “good wood and good hands.”
They said he could tell the life story of a tree by the feel of its bark.
Berrick Lowcrow – The Quiet Laborer
Berrick never complained.
He never bragged.
He never even spoke much at all.
He rose before first caw, hauled grain, repaired fences, fixed wagons, cleaned coops, carried water.
If something needed doing, it was done.
If someone asked who did it, no one knew.
When Drakeward later demanded increased quotas under threat of The Pit, Berrick said nothing. He simply worked harder.
When others faltered, he steadied them.
They called him “Lowcrow” because his voice was quiet—
but his presence was thunder.
Hen Mother Yselle – Keeper of the Center Flame
Every chorus, when work was done and lanterns glowed warm, Yselle would sit in the village square.
Chicks gathered.
Gravrin farmers leaned on posts.
Furlings with herb-baskets paused their sorting.
Even Rakkari would pretend not to care while clearly listening.
Yselle read from old tales.
One favorite was The Tale of Two Wolves.
She told of Eugo and Virgo—
Chaos and Order within the mind.
Of feeding not only one wolf, but both.
Of balance.
Of self-rule.
It was said her voice could still the wind.
Later, those stories would become weapons sharper than blades.
III. The Breaking of the Green
When the Drakeward Sovereignty marched north, the Greenward did not dissolve immediately.
It resisted.
The Four-Score War was brutal. Fields burned. Stone cracked. Rakkari arcane batteries were overwhelmed by dragonfire-backed assaults.
When Greenward fell, it did not shatter loudly.
It split quietly.
And that quiet became dangerous.
IV. Birth of the Verdant Concord
The Kacawki who bent knee outwardly did so to survive.
But inwardly?
They remembered.
The Verdant Concord was formed not in a hall—but in a grain silo after midnight.
Farmers.
Healers.
Former Greenward scouts.
A few Gravrin loyalists who never fully submitted.
They decided on one thing:
If Drakeward demands control—
we deny them certainty.
V. Halven Reedstep’s Ruckus
Halven, the Stickwright.
He began small.
He supplied Drakeward patrol units with hiking staffs—standard issue for canyon traversals.
What Drakeward didn’t know:
Halven understood balance better than any smith.
Some sticks were weighted ever so slightly off-center.
Enough that during long marches across unstable terrain…
Drakeward soldiers slipped.
Fell.
Dropped supplies.
Snapped formation rhythm.
Small disruptions.
Over time.
Chaos in the canyons.
Eventually, suspicion rose.
Halven was accused of sabotage.
He did not deny it.
He did not defend himself.
He was sentenced to THE PIT.
But Halven was a craftsman.
He had measured the pit once before, long ago, while delivering lumber to Drakeward masons.
He knew the inner wall’s narrow imperfections.
When cast in, he did not scream.
He climbed.
Slowly.
Using a shard of broken hiking staff embedded in the stone wall.
He escaped.
Drakeward patrols hunted him through forest and field, firing Arcane Rifles into trees and sky.
Blue bolts scorched bark.
Branches shattered.
Halven was struck in the thigh.
He did not cry out.
He bit his own sleeve and waited.
When the patrol passed, he descended.
Limped.
And returned to the Concord.
From that day, he became legend:
The One Who Climbed out of THE PIT.
VI. Yselle’s Fire
Hen Mother Yselle did not pick up a blade.
She picked up a steering bar.
During Drakeward’s northern campaign against the Mantle of Pentara, supply lines ran heavy through former Greenward roads.
One dusk, Yselle harnessed a farm buggy.
Loaded it with grain sacks and lantern oil.
She drove straight into a Drakeward convoy line.
At first, they laughed.
A hen in a buggy?
Then she locked the axle.
Poured the oil.
Lit the flame.
And rammed the lead supply cart.
The explosion scattered wagons, ignited munitions, and delayed Drakeward reinforcement by three choruses.
She was never caught.
Some say she vanished into Furling forests.
Others say she simply returned to reading in another village under a different name.
But every time someone tells the Tale of Two Wolves now…
They remember she fed the wolf of resistance.
VII. The Roost That Refuses
The Verdant Concord does not fight openly.
They poison no wells.
They burn no fields.
They sabotage wagons.
Mislabel supply crates.
Redirect ore shipments.
Free prisoners.
Spread stories.
They believe empire collapses not from the sword—
But from a thousand withheld eggs.
And when the day comes that Drakeward weakens…
The Greenward will rise again.
Not with crowns.
With crops.
And when first caw rings across a free field once more—
It will not be a signal to kneel.
It will be a call to grow.