The Campaign Builder's Guild

It is impossible to catalogue every language that exists on the wheel, and I will make no attempt here.  The ones I present to you are those whose many phrases, concepts or linguistic artefacts have broad influence or recurrence across the world (either presently or in antiquity); whose principal speakers hold significant sway over the world's politics; or those with particular relevance to the Dwé and to Sotor.

As a brief preface, it is worth mentioning that the majority of languages that have ever been spoken on the wheel are now extinct, and have left very few traces on modern ones.  Only a small percent among all that have existed had anything approaching quantifiable syntax, while most were simply incomprehensible to the animal brain (Quorum and the phrene-pattern of the blastocyst come to mind as extreme examples).  Of the former, only Vertigens, the language of the proto-cephalopods (ammonites), persists into the present age.

The trouble with oceanic languages is that they are particularly prone to mutation.  Ideas transmit quickly (albeit unreliably) beneath the waves, and except in the uncommon instances of grand conquest it is difficult for any region to develop a distinct linguistic identity.  However, uniquely among the sea-peoples their languages have elements known to all members by instinct, and it is these that I will describe here.

The Cosmic Void
The fundaments of cephalopod language are inseparable from their nature as oceanic creatures.  They spend their lives in darkness, relying greatly upon senses humans do not even possess in order to define their world, and for the most part their lives are solitary ones.  Their sense of personal identity is therefore ambiguous: rather than identifying a 'self' they merely separate persistent experiences from those of a more transient sort, so that things they 'taste' or 'see' are as much a facet of them as their 'thoughts' or 'pains', only more irregular in their presence.  Even other perceived organisms can be integrated as ancillary elements of that identity.

Consequently, all cephalopods have an instinctive belief in the triviality of space and time.  Their perceptions of objects, distance, emotions, even hindsight and foreknowledge, are somewhat abstract and nonlocal, and their language reflects that.

Common Thought
The exception to the above is in communication with other creatures of their own species.  Cephalopods respond passionately to the very presence of another member of their kind, and first encounters inevitably result in new alliances, aggressive exclusion or bloodshed.  They are incapable of disinterest.  For companion creatures, any statement made by one will immediately become a 'thought' of the other; not necessarily believed, but a sustained feature within their consciousness nonetheless.  Pleasures, hatreds and fears percolate through groups, binding their perceptions and cementing their allegiances.  Ideological ties bind stronger than genealogies.

This should not be confused with a hive mind, though it is similar.  Rather, each member comes to understand its companions' own thoughts so clearly that they respond to each other intuitively.  On the largest scales, whole seas have teemed with millions of creatures so attuned, neither an expansionist collective nor a group of autonomous individuals, but an indeterminate force fuelled by a million passions and filled with unknowable intent.

On the other hand, cephalopods have a very limited notion of biological family.  They rarely live to see the hatching of their offspring, and reproduction is therefore seen as something of a death-ritual, a preparation for rebirth.  They have no concept of parenthood or siblings.  It is anathema to them that anything other than an idea can be transmitted across history.

Method
There are three principal elements to cephalopod communication: the patterns of luminescence on their hides, the rich and varied cocktail of their chemical glands, and the caresses of their many arms.  Each of these elements contributes to a given statement, with complex statements requiring more intricate and nuanced combinations.  The most basic and common phrases usually entail a brief flaring of the photophores on the creature's head (as distinguished from its mantle) in a simple geometric shape.

Chemical signals provide an undertone or context for a statement.  This can be compared to human posture, expressions and gesticulations.  There have been several instances of groups designing purely chemical languages that are virtually indecipherable to the ignorant; as they have no written script (the last one fading to obscurity with the 'death' of the ammonites) this is their only means of communicating in absence.

The tapping, twining and stroking of limbs modulates the cadence and tenor of phrases and phrase elements, communicating irony, pathos, wistfulness, and many things with no human comparison.  Physical contact is essential for truly 'philosophical' communication, so world changing ideas are often conveyed one intimate conversation at a time.

The simplest '" and most offensive '" statement one cephalopod can make toward another is to shoot a jet of ink in its face.  This is usually considered an act of war.

Key Elements
The following luminescent patterns are a few among the dozen or-so common to most cephalopods (the darklings have no photophores and use an entirely different language).  These allow rudimentary communication among them even without a common learned language, but learned phrases and concepts are essential for higher communication.

Circle
'This thing here'.  Two concentric circles indicate 'me'.  Combining a circle and a brief caress with one arm indicates 'you', but this is very personal, similar to a term of endearment for a lover.  A circle radiating outward means 'everything'.  A shrinking circle means emptiness or death.

Triangle
Pointing toward the mantle, this means intellect.  Pointing toward the arms it means action, hunger, or immorality, depending on the shape's dimensions.  Flashing a mantled triangle then circle suggests 'the prevailing opinion' (meaning any number of things, depending on context), while presenting them simultaneously means 'my thought'.  An armed triangle followed by a circle means 'the current event', 'this place', or 'something's not right here'.

Square
'The thing before me'.  Simultaneous with a circle, it means 'the thing before us'.  One square within another means 'you'.  A radiating square means 'all that I see'.  A square then a mantled triangle means 'the thing I perceive which is not real', and usually implies a dream or strongly held desire.

Wavy Line
Horizontal lines suggest expectations or rhythms.  They are essential components in 'resurrection', 'persistent force' and the currents of the sea itself.  Vertical lines mean 'the light from above', or greater things influencing lesser things.

The first difficulty in recognising the speech of the abrogah is knowing when they are speaking at all.  Their homes are wind-worried mountains, where the air itself is alive and frenzied.  They agitate the wind with the barbs of their mile-wide wings; somewhere amid that cacophony is their own music, but no creature save one of their kind can tell the difference.

This is not their only means of communication.  They do have mouths, like nests of silvery worms, that are capable of nuanced and elegant speech, but such speech is reserved for those rare moments when two abrogah meet face to face, and can whisper together in the gloom of their caves.

Like cephalopods, bahnhayr languages are highly mutable.  However, this is mitigated by their habitats being generally limited to the oceanic shelf, which constrains the mobility of their populations.  There are three broad categories of bahnhayr languages, and these correspond to broad regions of the Yeth, Urdndot and Bahnrdot coasts.

Pelagic-Tenor
Dominating the seas of southern and central Bahnrdot, the Argosy tribes are the most prolific.  As the name suggests, their languages tend to utilise the middle vocal register.

Shoal
When some tribes of the Argosy moved north along the Urdndot shelf, they destabilised the local ecosystem and forced human settlements inland and westward.  Over time, their languages developed into Shoal, a music which has come to be known as a dark harbinger in the folklore of Ebr'yeth.  It is notable as including the loudest and lowest bahnhayr languages.  It is a common exclamation of sailors in Urdndot that in summer the waters howl at the sky.

Abyssal
The Abyssal tribes are unique among the bahnhayr in that newly matured members venture into deeper waters in order to explore, to confront Ityetchyé, to encounter others of their own kind, and to mate.  In this time, they form temporary tribes with original dialects and philosophies.  When they return home their new wisdom will strengthen their people; the females especially so, for they will soon birth new members of the tribe.  It is arguable that this practice makes the Abyssal tribes the only bahnhayr nation, or even empire: it takes a great deal of trust and goodwill to share one's genetic legacy with strangers.

Abyssal languages have the highest register.  This may have something to do with their relationship with the Ityetchyé, whose own communication is almost purely ultrasonic.

Method
Bahnhayr communication is complex and musical, composed of tones ranging between sub- and ultrasonic, although very few dialects are known to make extensive use of more than forty percent of that range.  If the manner of their 'speech' was made comprehensible to human beings, we'd likely be driven mad by its circuitousness: only matters of great import are ever stated outright, while everything else is delivered through a precise and involved process of call and response.

Fanfare
This is the introductory phrase and consists of a series of low bellows interspersed with shorter, higher trilling.  Within this framework, there is significant room for individuation: in the Shoal, for instance, the fanfare usually begins with a single sustained note followed by a few chirps, then another, higher note; abyssal fanfares, by contrast, carry a more modulated tune, with the chirps setting the pace early (see below).  Pelagic-tenor fanfares display considerable variation.

The fanfare can be devoid of content, serving more as an advertisement or searching call ('is anyone there?') than a meaningful statement.

Contra
The response to the fanfare can be as simple as a repetition, leading to something akin to an exchange of 'hellos'.  This implies friendliness, or at least presages a peaceable conversation.  Alternatively, the contra can establish a sort of counterpoint, the nature of which will influence the mood of the conversation.  Challenging the key or rhythm of the fanfare can suggest antagonism, caution or disagreement, while maintaining it expresses interest.

First Pace
The pace establishes the psychological overtones of the Subject (see below), and usually maintains the tone of the fanfare unless the singer needs to respond to any opposition within the contra.  As previously mentioned, the pace in abyssal languages is often set in the fanfare.  This indicates an assumption on the part of the initiator that the responder has no cause for disagreement; other languages are considerably less presumptuous, and adopting this format in the Argosy can be a significant faux pas.

NOTE: the function of the fanfare/contra/first pace (collective called the preface), in addition to producing an overall theme, is to define the status of the participants.  The quality and complexity of one's song suggests age and experience, and a significant imbalance in the skill of the singers results in an exchange more akin to an interrogation or exposition than a conversation.

Subject
It is difficult to parse the main body of bahnhayr conversation, as they very rarely make syntactically complete statements.  Instead, they sing an element, then the respondent will produce a clarifier, which is often an element they consider relevant to the subject or a request for more information.  Whilst one speaks, the other maintains a tonal harmony (preserving the pace) or modulates it in order to guide the conversation.  The language therefore appears tangential, filled with anecdotes and subtopics.  The subject is periodically restated, not unlike a chorus, with alterations reflecting the general course of the song.

Tonality
The speed, rhythm, and pattern of modulation define the general mood of a conversation, but actual concepts are communicated through specific notes and combinations of clicks, chirps and whistles. The key is not significant, but key changes do hold meaning.  Harmony and dissonance, diminution, augmentation and inversion all complement and redefine the exchange.

The sangeilil ceased to speak long ago.  All that remains of their words are the ancient, eroded talking stones, which they struck in forgotten days to carry their thoughts across the Derelict Sea.  Now they sit, colossal, patient and pensive, awaiting the next move of their natural enemy, the Phenestre.

[ooc][/ooc]

Dystopia update, HELL YES!

Rather than heap my usual fanboyish praise I'll try and muster something approaching constructive criticism...

More on cephalopods is always cool.  I'm wondering how if at all human/cephalopod transliteration is generally accomplished or rendered?  Can cephalopods understand spoken languages?  How opaque exactly is the cepaholpod language to humans/humanoids (for example, could a learned human grasp up to 80% of the meaning conveyed with a certain loss of nuances and tone, or more like only a shred or surface level of meaning, perhaps more like 10%?)?

For the banhayr, while I get a feel for the languages, I can't imagine what they really sound like.  You tell us their registers/tones but little about the actually morphology of the language.  It sounds musical, although you also mention howls.  Are there discrete words or merely sequences of wordless notes whose rhythms, pitches, tempos etc give them meaning?  Are there sentences or do clauses/memes/thoughts bleed into one another seamlessly, sort of sung-stream-of-consciousness?

On the talking stones: I get the feeling the stones don't have actual sonic voices.  Or do they?  The snippet is tantalizing but doesn't really tell us very much.

I really like the blurring of music and language.  As always looking forward to more.

There's a more on bahnhayr.

Quote from: steerpikeDystopia update, HELL YES!

More on cephalopods is always cool.[/quote]I'm wondering how if at all human/cephalopod transliteration is generally accomplished or rendered?[/quote]Can cephalopods understand spoken languages?[/quote]How opaque exactly is the cepaholpod language to humans/humanoids (for example, could a learned human grasp up to 80% of the meaning conveyed with a certain loss of nuances and tone, or more like only a shred or surface level of meaning, perhaps more like 10%?)?[/quote]On the talking stones: I get the feeling the stones don't have actual sonic voices. Or do they?[/quote]No.  They don't.

Oh, I guess I just assumed it was Dystopia because of the squids.  It's cool,  anyway.

Dystopia has been vivisected and dismembered (as has Panglossia).  All the healthy organs have been transplanted.

Well, glad to see the cephalopods survived the cull, in one form or another.