¶ The Hielan Coos
Draped in Tartan. Deafened by Bagpipes. Unified mostly by Accident.
¶ Overview
The Hielan Coos are distant cousins of the Minotairs — massive, shaggy, and perpetually wind-blown, even indoors. Native to the moon of Calad Bar, they live in scattered clans, divided roughly between shepherds, spacefaring vikings, and druids who believe the trees whisper in a thick accent.
Their society is built around a simple, time-honoured principle: no one tells a Coo what to do — not even other Coos. Especially not other Coos.
They are ruled by Kheldas — ancient, weatherproof women with voices like granite and forearms like quarried stone. A Khelda may be blind in one eye, missing three fingers, and held together with twine and spite, but she will still outrun you, outdrink you, and then explain exactly why your opinion is invalid. Each Khelda holds absolute power over her clan, mostly because no one is brave or daft enough to argue with her.
Except, of course, for Clan Morlough, whose leader is a man who calls himself "Chieftain". The rest of the clans find this hilarious. Not because men can't lead, but because this one insists on doing so while wearing a ceremonial codpiece, calling meetings "war councils", and drafting speeches in rhyming couplets. His own Khelda and wife reportedly lets him play at chieftainship "as long as he stays out of the wool shed".
¶ The Viking Coos
Their longships have been retrofitted for space travel, powered by stardust, rage, and "voluntary tribute". These ships roam the stars to go viking — a process that involves looting, drinking, and sometimes offering a cheese wheel as apology if the victim turns out to be bigger and stronger than expected.
One century ago, a space raiding party "accidentally" crashed a secret diplomatic summit between the Big Four, and upon realising the error, issued a formal apology written in sheep's blood and whisky on a sheep. Ever since, the Big Four have been allowed to keep "harmless little embassies" in the capital, where they can compete through diplomacy, bribery, and increasingly desperate soft power tactics.
This has not worked. The Coos remain stubbornly uncolonised.
¶ Friends of the Coos
The Hielan Coos are ferociously independent, but they're not isolationist. Quite the opposite. They will gladly welcome anyone who shares their deep, abiding mistrust of the Big Four — and they're not picky about background, species, or past sins.
Mercenaries, disgruntled diplomats, rogue engineers, divine heretics, sentient fungus — if you don't like the Four and you're willing to defend your neighbours with axe or spell, you'll find food, fire, and someone to argue with in Coos territory.
The only thing they ask for is loyalty to the land and an understanding that nobody's in charge — except maybe that terrifying granny in the stone chair.
¶ On the Matter of Membership (and Fermented Initiation)
The Hielan Coos once insisted only minotaurs could be proper clan members — on account of the horns, hooves, and an ancestral distrust of clipboards. That all changed when Grunkal Skullbelt, famed viking and ale enthusiast, was publicly out-quaffed by a serene little zen-gnome from the Forgotten Realms with the liver of a god and the calm of a mushroom.
Shamed but impressed, Grunkal declared the gnome an honorary Coo, and from that day forward, anyone — regardless of species — could join a Coo clan, provided they survived the Rite of Unbovined Kinship: a challenge involving copious amounts of ale, a heroic portion of haggis with whisky, and a bagpipe performance so bold it scares off at least three sheep.
Those who pass are awarded a horned helmet, a tartan in the clan colours, and the sacred, slightly disputed right to sleep in any clan house they can squeeze into — provided they don't mind sharing floor space with an angry goat, a snoring uncle, and someone's ceremonial hammer. Those who fail are still offered tea, a kind word, and another go next solstice — preferably after a bit more practice on the pipes.
¶ Clan Glenbraw
Loud in Argument. Louder in Bagpipes. Notorious vikings.
Slogan "Nae god, nae master, nae leash. Unless it's for the sheepdogs, ye ken?"
Motive: To live freely, raid tastefully, and never, ever become someone else's province.
Unofficial Mascot: A horned sheep in tartan glaring disapprovingly at a space diplomat.
¶ Overview
Clan Glenbraw stands as the ruling clan of Calad Bar, a force as unyielding as their booming bagpipes. Under the unofficial but iron-willed leadership of Khelda Braenna, they govern with a mix of stubborn tradition, sharp wit, and a surprising amount of woolly cunning. Though their past is riddled with chaos and clashes, Glenbraw's influence shapes the city's fate, their pipes still echoing above the rooftops as a reminder that power often speaks loudest.
¶ The Roaring Beginnings
Once upon a time, before Calad Bar was anything more than a very confused collection of sunken ships and disgruntled seabirds, there was Clan Glenbraw — a bunch of vikings who thought polite conversation was a contest to see who could shout the loudest, preferably while playing bagpipes so fiercely that even the nearby rocks begged for mercy. Their debates were less about words and more about volume, and their bagpipes? Well, they were the kind of thing that made grown goats weep and small children consider a career in hiding.
Glenbraw's idea of a good day involved sailing the wild seas of Calad Bar's planet, plundering their neighbours with the subtlety of a drunken sheep with a horn. It did not endear them to the other clans, who — after politely asking them to stop about thirteen times — decided it was time for a more forceful conversation. A conversation involving lots of boats, crashing waves, and a surprising number of flying axes.
¶ The Reef and the Reckoning
The clan's rite of passage was to sail through the infamous reef that now hosts Calad Bar itself — a treacherous maze of jagged rocks, sunken hulls, and the occasional disgruntled sea monster. Many Glenbraw warriors met spectacular ends here, often involving unexpected meetings with rock, water, or both. Not to be outdone, countless tourists from wildspace, utterly oblivious to local customs and the meaning of the word 'danger', also tried their luck. Their failures were, as a rule, both glorious and embarrassing, often simultaneously.
Eventually, the other clans declared war. The ensuing battle was less a war and more a chaotic aquatic ballet of shouting, stabbing, and naval mishaps. A particularly ambitious storm — or perhaps the angry ghost of a drowned bard — dragged many ships into the reef's hungry embrace. The reefs swallowed the warriors and their vessels alike, turning the battleground into a watery graveyard that even the most persistent pirates preferred to avoid.
After much sighing, groaning, and a great many bandaged shins, a truce was hammered out. Glenbraw was strictly forbidden from plundering any clans — no matter how tempting the "wee pillage" might seem on a slow Tuesday afternoon.
¶ From Raiders to Rulers
But Glenbraw being Glenbraw, they took their talents elsewhere — turning their eyes to unsuspecting wildspacers, who were far less organised and far more deliciously naive.
With their reputation restored and their coffers replenished, Clan Glenbraw rose to prominence, eventually becoming the ruling clan of the city Calad Bar. Their current Khelda, Braenna, though unofficial, rules with an iron hoof disguised beneath a velvet glove, wielding influence sharper than any sword and quieter than a well-aimed bagpipe drone.
The city may wobble, the clans may bicker, but Clan Glenbraw's pipes still roar above it all — a reminder that in Calad Bar, the loudest voice often holds the reins.