Moot
| {{#if:The Holy Mootian Empire|The Holy Mootian Empire}} | |
 }}
| |
| Motto | |
| May the Water Never Boil}} | |
| Country Data | |
| Date | 3/3 DY}} |
| Defunct | 2/7 DY}} |
| Symbol | A Tirade
(Broccoli, far as we can tell)}} |
| Colors | Purpure & Vert}} |
| Capital | MOOT}} |
| Alignment | Chaotic}} |
| Government | Collective Republic}} |
| Racial Makeup | Yes}} |
| Leaders | |
| Random by Day}} | |
Country History
The rumors, history and hearsay contained within this document are a part of the ever-growing Mootian record. Like Moot, this document is constantly growing and evolving as new facts and falsehoods are unearthed and popularized.
View a list of Moot members here.
Before we were Moot
Eleven hundred years ago, the Curse of Greyface swept across the empire. Industry sagged and the economy floundered. Public displays of affection were prohibited by royal edict due to the severe distress and unrest they provoked amongst the cursed. Foremen lashed out at laborers, mothers mocked their children, long-faced militia shut down festivals and fun gatherings of all types. Birthdays and holidays were viewed as subversive, rabble-rousing distractions from subservience and complacency. Grim faces and stern complexions rapidly trampled leisure and love, freedom and nonsense. The serpentine arms of the bureaucracy choked the populace. Soon a dark age descended and gripped society in the jaws of The Vice of Conformity and Intolerance. Discrete gatherings began to form among a small minority who managed to dodge the Curse. Secret meetings convened in deserted places or on public grounds (frequently, under the guise of winter storm watches). As their simple acts of discord drew increased suspicion they withdrew into more and more remote and insular cells. Across the span of four hundred miserable years, the underground gatherings grew to consist of many interlinking secret cabals.
The Exodus
One day, while meandering along a road, stunning Goddess Eris met three bickering men gesticulating in all directions. Even through the shroud of their argument all three were so taken aback by Goddess’ beauty that their distress turned to silence as she approached..
"Pray tell, why the long faces?" she asked.
The men shrugged and shuffled as though they weren’t quite sure anymore. "I dunno, scurrilous cabbage raids carrying off our children…" offered one. Another merchant muttered something about "…the Curse…" Finally, the third suggested that he knew which way to go, but that he’d been second guessed so many times since they left town he was afraid to suggest a direction lest he lead the group into more doom and misfortune. The other men disagreed vehemently and they slipped back into the broiling argument from before.
"Ahem! But what difference does it make, little men, which road you travel?" Eris asked brightly. The men looked up, startled by her interruption.
Confused, one man said, "But it makes all the difference! If we go the wring way we could be attacked by thieves, or killed by cutthroats! Or perhaps we’ll wander into a town which lynches strangers for the pleasure of seeing them squirm. How could you suggest it does not matter?" The others looked for a moment as though they might agree, before turning the discussion back towards their argument from before.
Eris sighed and explained patiently that while, of course, there were many risks to traveling, they were in fact the same on any path. "Indeed, the landscape flavors your experiences, and you may find different challenges, but the course you take does not itself determine your fortune. If you are to be robbed, it will happen regardless of where you step. Besides, what gives value to your wealth? Have faith that all will go well, and smile on change as well as strangers. Soon you shall find that little in life is truly a threat, and if you greet each unexpected event as an opportunity rather than a danger you may live longer. In any event, you will certainly live happier and die no sooner for it." After these words, Eris reached into a dark and thorny bush, drawing out a handful of rich brown nuts. She handed a couple to each of the companions and wished them success in all their endeavors. "Here, munch these while you think on my words, and then lift your feet out of their ruts, and find an adventure! I hear that giants live to the South, there are great seas to the East and vast forests peopled by elves to the North. Each way is certainly different, but no doubt any destination would be more promising than this juncture in the road. Have you not had enough of this particular place?" So speaking, Eris slipped off the path altogether, meandering a ways into the wood before peeking from behind a tree to see what impact her words had had.
The men pondered as they ate the nuts, then flung the shells into the air. A sudden gust of wind blew them off their trajectory. Nodding to each other agreeably, they stood, brushed the dirt off their britches, and set off in the right direction.
Eris, satisfied, set off discreetly in their wake, watching her newly enlightened friends discover the pleasure of worry free living. Shortly, the band came upon a mid-sized town, overshadowed by passing clouds as well as the thick emptiness of the streets. The men chatted together as they passed between the gates, ignoring the baleful stares which greeted them from shop windows and the occasional passerby.
On their heels, Eris wended her way into town. She quickly observed the desolate streets and pinched faces looking slyly out of chained door cracks. Assessing the depth of Greyface’s Curse, she determined to help anyone who was not beyond recall. With Love in her heart and a spring in her step she pranced through the streets, yodeling and laughing and calling out to the people to get up off their butts and Live. Greyfaces shuttered their doors and locked their children into their root cellars. In her wake, cabalists flooded into the streets. Doors flew open, ripped from their hinges* by frenzied revelers** released at long last from society’s confines. As the sun set and the fires rose, the Great Celebration began. As the night wore on, a great number of the Greyfaces released themselves from their hiding places and joined in the fun, though too many remained inured to the gala event outside. Of the party itself many Tales are told but little is remembered.
Through 5 days and 5 knights, Eris encouraged the corps of the group to truly embrace and revel in the random nature of the universe. After 5 days the party began to move. Following the path of least resistance, the ecstatic eclectic exodus headed for the hills.
On the morn of the second day the luckiest knight rubbed his eyes and yawned. He asked The Prettiest One, "Where do you lead us?"
She replied " I do not lead, you follow. Where we are going, little man, is moot."
Moot Start
As time is relative, no-one knows how long they traveled, although we are fairly certain they arrived. Once they reached their journey’s end, the Discordian band began to fan out across the land. Settlement was easy under the inspired leadership of Saint Edgar the Eager Beaver who quickly befriended a local pile of hill giants. Entertained by St. Edgar and his lovely tail the giants shared their enormous foods The well-fed Mootians were fruitful and multiplied. Over time they developed amazingly sophisticated agricultural tools to cope with the gigantic produce indigenous to their land.
St. Edgar was renowned for his distorted wisdom (and his lovely tail). The most important Lessons he shared are that attitude is everything and that getting things done is always more productive than doing nothing. For many years after his uneventful demise he was regarded as Moot’s greatest leader. From time to time other Mootians stepped forward to lead their countrymen in one escapade or another. None of them managed to rival Edgar (or Eris, though she would protest) in success at leading the highly independent Mootian masses. Until recent years the people mostly did as they pleased and followed only their own standards. Now they still please themselves, but many follow the standard of Tirade. Historians can only begin to guess how Tirade acquired such a following: popular opinion supports the hypothesis, "it must be the nose."
Since the time of St. Edgar, Moot has evolved into the peculiar pseudo-governed state it now is. The Mootian system if government is best described as "dictatorship by consent." Saint Edgar’s tail is still on display in his mausoleum, though it would be a grave stretch at this point to call it "Lovely."
The Rudest Awakening
Many stories about early sightings of Tirade circulate throughout Moot. One of the oldest and best known tales dates back to the time when Mootians were of extremely irregular size. In the midst of this peculiar span of history a particular nearsighted young mystic laid the foundations of his claim to fame and set in motion a series of events which would define Moot’s future.
Malvie the Myopic Alchemist served as alchemist for the biggest Mootian during the years of extra shrinkage. While he never accomplished his lifelong goal of creating a compound which almost always shrank unevenly and rarely finished shrinking when you thought it would, and if it did stop at all it just might reverse the process in some spots, he did manage some other notable achievements. In particular, he chanced upon a compound which created a less brittle, more flexible type of steel which revolutionized the efficacy of Moot tools and weapons.
Another failed experiment (arguably more useful than his quest) resulted in the "Green Goo" on which we depend for all our waterproofing needs. The primary ingredient is known to be a particular type of treeant blood which is boiled into sea water and allowed to set on a bed of chocolate fudge. Once it congeals you can smear the purple slime onto any surface and it will become permanently waterproof.
Aside from the presumably practical applications, artists have found several spectacular ways to "work" with the material. The crowning masterpiece was an improvisational performance by Hysterius the Clown when he ran out into a rainstorm and threw a long jet of Green Goo into the cloudburst where it clung to the underside of the cloud, forming a huge basin which collected the torrent of rain for five hours. After this interval a strong updraft tipped the cloud Goo-side up and dumped the entire rainfall onto the Enchanted Broccoli Forest’s largest head. He bellowed violently, as only a startled and infuriated broccoli can, reared up off his stalk and flailed his florets. He raged and wailed for hours in the biggest tirade the county had ever seen in a broccoli of any type. Villagers fled as hamlets were trampled into the dirt and florets flew through the skies. This event has gone into the annals of time as the Rudest Awakening.
That morning, as dawn began to light the horizon, a small group of Mootians set out to calm Tirade’s frenzy. They followed the shaking earth into a clearing. There they spied Tirade, devouring a grove of treeants. He wheeled to face the Mootians, hearing their approach. Faced with certain doom, the Mootians sat down in the grass to think. Confused by this unexpected response, the Great Broccoli Tirade skipped a beat. The conferring Mootians immediately seized the beat and leapt into a desperately awkward one-step. (The precise maneuver and proper terrified chanting are now known only to the highest level Broccolitarian officials.) Flattered and rather taken aback by the arcane ritual, Tirade blessed the dancers with a mighty sneeze and thundered home to the Enchanted Broccoli Forest.
The waterproof cloud still passes through the region at odd times, and occasionally it even dumps a load. So far as the infamous Malvie is concerned, he did little else of interest because he was banished from his research tower due to his insistence on reading the Ancient Tome The Practical Alchemist.
Broccolitarianism
Inspired by Tirade’s energy and enthusiasm, as well as a need to protect their communities from his outbursts, a group of people began to serve Tirade with deep reverence. They speak of his teachings and do their utmost to keep him entertained. They defend his honor. They abstain from the consumption of broccoli. They maintain for His consumption a plentiful supply of cowed treeants and domesticated cabbages. They do their best to survive His occasional, inevitable, tantrums.
Thus began the Broccolitarians. Tirade and the Enchanted Broccoli Forest are largely responsible for the prosperity and well-being of Moot. Not all Mootian’s are Broccolitarians, but all Mootian armies bear the Tirade standard so that they may channel the violent energy of the Broccoli spirit. Broccoli, being the fiercest vegetable, bestows great bravery and power upon the humble warrior fools who rally beneath Tirade’s outstretched arms and nose. Hail Tirade, May the water never boil.