Among Buddhists there is a school of thought that we go through time with the same loose group of souls, people who in one life might be our lover; then our mother in the next; then maybe a beloved pet; or your murderer. You might not reunite with a particular soul for hundreds of years, but the kinship and closeness will always be there. These are, in the most literal sense, your soul-mates.
This is of course absolute garbage.
Near the front end of the ass end of nowhere, something is happening. Far from the cultural centers in the south, a little-known people of the distant northern seacoasts were busily building a civilization that would influence, and often terrify, the rest of the world for centuries to come.
When you're poor, you use everything. Nothing can be spared, nothing goes to waste and everything is accounted for. As your society grows, that changes. One hundred twenty-five years ago, Skakkr was a fishing village of 89 people, and even Rjupa the Intolerable had a place, albeit in a pigsty 700 yards from town. But as Skakkr grew, there started to be enough many that their needs outweighed the needs of the few, of whom there were also more.
With 750 people, Skakkr was now pushing the limits of how large a town could get. Between the sewage problem, the pasturage problem and the downtown sheep problem, tempers among these already-temperamental people were high.
Unlike the early days, there was now little room for undesirables. And you don't get more undesirable than a guy who may or may not have sunk his dad's boat.
