Ch'thyr'kahh R' Hirogen
Translated (Starfleet Standard [SFS]): Scroll of the Hirogen
Anules
Translated (SFS): Four
Gratta, He Who Governs All Things,
Had Spoken.
By the Creator's command,
Etutheria was to be cleansed of K'rta Beasts.
They would no longer roam the Wild.
They would no longer love.
They would no longer breed K'rtalings.
The Braves would no longer fight
For leadership of the pack, and
The Frails would no longer raise young
To suckle from their breasts.
As the Cruel Fates would have it,
One of the very creatures that had given life
To Remoor was to be hunted to extinction
By the Hirogen's unflinching hand.
'To save all creatures, I must destroy
Each and every K'rta beast
That lived and breathed throughout N'noka,'
He said, and
He felt the Garden of Etutheria tremble.
'It is not just,'
The Garden told Him.
'I agree,'
He told N'noka.
'I have been given no choice.'
'You can refuse to follow
The wish of Gratta,'
The Garden told Him.
Remoor knew differently.
In order to save all life,
He had to take life,
And the K'rta had been chosen
By He Who Governs.
'If I should fail?' Remoor wondered.
He prophesied that such disobedience,
Intended or accidental,
Would only anger the supreme, Gratta.
Stirred by the Cruel Fates,
He Who Governs would descend from the skies,
Twisting fire blazing in His wake.
Gratta, embodying both Good and Evil,
Would complete the vile deed,
The vile injustice against life,
Himself.
'If I should fail,
He Who Governs would take the lives
of more than the K'rta Beasts,'
Remoor said.
Should He err in his task, Remoor risked being deemed
'Unworthy of existence.'
All of Etutheria, the Hirogen included,
Would be cleansed as punishment
For his solitary weakness.
'Is it not a greater sacrifice
For life to be ended, if needlessly,
By a friend rather than by a foe
Taking the shape of a vengeful God?'
Remoor asked the Garden.
'For that question,
There is no answer,'
The Garden replied.
So it was, that Remoor, the Hirogen,
Set out upon His task.
With a heavy heart,
Remoor marched into the Wild,
Ignoring the cries of welcome
From all the beasts who called out to Him,
Their creation.
As He marched, He studied the ground.
Eventually, the Cruel Fates
Showed Him with a stone,
Sticking out of the ground,
Piercing soil as if to haunt and remind Him
of his task.
The stone sparkled in the sunlight,
Its leading edge rising nearly to a point.
He pointed at the rock.
'There,'
He said.
'There lies the symbol
Of my destiny.'
He touched the edge,
And its sharpness cut a layer of His hide.
'I shall call you Thunder,'
He said,
'For you will eventually strike.'
With His hands, He wrenched Thunder from the soil.
Once the stone was freed,
Remoor walked on,
Still ignoring the greetings from his brethren.
Nearby, He found a tall but weak Syrokk tree,
And, using His might, He tore
Two branches as thick as one of His arms
From the trunk.
Using great care, He tore the bark
Away slowly, into long thin strips.
Between the two branches, He placed
Thunder, and He wrapped the stripped wood
Around and around and around, like twine,
Locking the stone in place.
'Thunder,' He named the lance,
And His time had come to strike.
Translated (Starfleet Standard [SFS]): Scroll of the Hirogen
Anules
Translated (SFS): Four
Gratta, He Who Governs All Things,
Had Spoken.
By the Creator's command,
Etutheria was to be cleansed of K'rta Beasts.
They would no longer roam the Wild.
They would no longer love.
They would no longer breed K'rtalings.
The Braves would no longer fight
For leadership of the pack, and
The Frails would no longer raise young
To suckle from their breasts.
As the Cruel Fates would have it,
One of the very creatures that had given life
To Remoor was to be hunted to extinction
By the Hirogen's unflinching hand.
'To save all creatures, I must destroy
Each and every K'rta beast
That lived and breathed throughout N'noka,'
He said, and
He felt the Garden of Etutheria tremble.
'It is not just,'
The Garden told Him.
'I agree,'
He told N'noka.
'I have been given no choice.'
'You can refuse to follow
The wish of Gratta,'
The Garden told Him.
Remoor knew differently.
In order to save all life,
He had to take life,
And the K'rta had been chosen
By He Who Governs.
'If I should fail?' Remoor wondered.
He prophesied that such disobedience,
Intended or accidental,
Would only anger the supreme, Gratta.
Stirred by the Cruel Fates,
He Who Governs would descend from the skies,
Twisting fire blazing in His wake.
Gratta, embodying both Good and Evil,
Would complete the vile deed,
The vile injustice against life,
Himself.
'If I should fail,
He Who Governs would take the lives
of more than the K'rta Beasts,'
Remoor said.
Should He err in his task, Remoor risked being deemed
'Unworthy of existence.'
All of Etutheria, the Hirogen included,
Would be cleansed as punishment
For his solitary weakness.
'Is it not a greater sacrifice
For life to be ended, if needlessly,
By a friend rather than by a foe
Taking the shape of a vengeful God?'
Remoor asked the Garden.
'For that question,
There is no answer,'
The Garden replied.
So it was, that Remoor, the Hirogen,
Set out upon His task.
With a heavy heart,
Remoor marched into the Wild,
Ignoring the cries of welcome
From all the beasts who called out to Him,
Their creation.
As He marched, He studied the ground.
Eventually, the Cruel Fates
Showed Him with a stone,
Sticking out of the ground,
Piercing soil as if to haunt and remind Him
of his task.
The stone sparkled in the sunlight,
Its leading edge rising nearly to a point.
He pointed at the rock.
'There,'
He said.
'There lies the symbol
Of my destiny.'
He touched the edge,
And its sharpness cut a layer of His hide.
'I shall call you Thunder,'
He said,
'For you will eventually strike.'
With His hands, He wrenched Thunder from the soil.
Once the stone was freed,
Remoor walked on,
Still ignoring the greetings from his brethren.
Nearby, He found a tall but weak Syrokk tree,
And, using His might, He tore
Two branches as thick as one of His arms
From the trunk.
Using great care, He tore the bark
Away slowly, into long thin strips.
Between the two branches, He placed
Thunder, and He wrapped the stripped wood
Around and around and around, like twine,
Locking the stone in place.
'Thunder,' He named the lance,
And His time had come to strike.